Page 15

Much to her relief, Ophelia had managed to avoid Prestwick since fleeing him in the orangery. Her mood was almost brighter than the sun shining beyond the mullioned windows as she passed them in the hall, her box of paints tucked neatly under her arm. She was feeling quite confident in her ability to resist him as she made her way to the library for an afternoon of portrait painting. Ophelia had merely been too worn down by the shock of Prestwick’s presence at the house party and the frequency with which they had crossed paths. But she had worked diligently to restore her composure, and she had managed to succeed.

Dinner had passed the night before with the convenient accompaniment of the pleasant fellow who had filled her breakfast plate. She had done everything in her power not to look in Prestwick’s direction. With great effort, she had forced herself not to think about how perilously near she had come to learning what it would feel like to have that sinful mouth of his on hers. To know how he kissed, what he tasted like.

All things which she must never—could never—ever know.

After the evening meal, she had retired early, relieved at the respite she would be afforded from her fellow revelers whilst most of them had paired off to play at cards or other wagers. As a woman who had nothing she could afford to lose, gambling held the appeal of sand in her eye. She’d suffered a fitful sleep peppered with dreams of a determined masked highwayman who had been handsome and dark-haired, with storm-tossed eyes that had devoured her.

Luncheon had been uneventful. Most of the men in the gathering had adjourned for a shooting party, giving her several hours of reprieve. And now, the appointed hour for painting portraits was at hand. She couldn’t recall when she had last been able to devote time to the simple and beloved pleasure of putting brush to canvas and bringing an image to life.

The loveliest thing about this afternoon’s entertainment was that one of the new friends she had made, Theodora, a garrulous woman who was quite pleasant, had volunteered to arrange the diversion, meaning that Ophelia hadn’t had to do a thing other than take part.

“You are so busy managing this house party, my dear,” her new friend had reasoned. “Do allow me to take some burdens from you.”

And since Prestwick was no doubt off with the gentlemen, riding and shooting and doing whatever else it was that men did when they were alone, she would have peace. She wouldn’t even have to worry about the possibility of crossing paths with him again until well after dinner.

Relief trickled through her.

Relief that died the moment she crossed the threshold to the library and discovered the crush within the room. She knew portrait painting had stirred the interest of a few of the women at luncheon, but she hadn’t expected every single one in attendance to flock to the library like migrating geese.

But they had. Ladies filled almost every available patch of Axminster and certainly each chair or settee. They were tittering, the air in the room laden with excitement.

That was her first warning.

Ophelia rose on her toes to swing an encompassing look around the library, trying to find Theodora and failing. Women fanned themselves and laughed, smiling shyly.

That was when she saw it.

Or rather, saw him.

And the realization hit Ophelia that portrait painting was not simple, ordinary portrait painting. Rather, it was…

Naked portrait painting.

But not just of any variety. Because of course not. That would be too easy. Too sensible and proper for the wicked country house party and all its jaded denizens. If it had been any other man posing as the model for their artistic endeavors this afternoon, she might have remained stoic and unmoved.

No, indeed, the model who had apparently offered himself for the task was none other than the same man who had been haunting her every thought since his arrival at Wingfield Hall.

The Duke of Prestwick was wearing nary a stitch, save his mask, and he was seated in the midst of the library like a king on a dais. The air rushed from her lungs, and the cacophonous sound of what seemed to be every woman in the house party talking at once was momentarily drowned out by the furious thudding of her heart.

He was glorious.

That was her first, fully coherent thought, his body perfectly sculpted with muscle and sinew, with undeniable strength and leonine grace. He looked at once capable of the tenderest of touches and tearing a man apart with his bare hands.

She flopped back down to her flattened feet, and most of him was swallowed up by the sea of women between them. They were all looking at him. Devouring him with their hungry stares the same way she was. And why shouldn’t they? Prestwick was a beautiful man with the powerful shoulders and upper arms of a rower and the lean trunk and thick thighs of a horseman.

They were seeing what he should have reserved for a lover. Not for her, she reminded herself sharply. That could never be. But for someone else. His wife, when he married one day. The urge struck her to seize a blanket from somewhere and throw it over his ridiculously broad shoulders.

“Excuse me, ladies,” came a familiar voice. “Oh, dear me, please do let me by. Thank you. Just a bit to the left, if you don’t mind. If you’ll move your easel…”

Theodora appeared at last, parting the sea of ladies who had gathered to paint Prestwick’s nude portrait. She was beaming beneath her red silk mask, clearly unaware of the riot of emotions coursing through Ophelia.

“If it isn’t our lovely hostess,” Theodora exclaimed. “I was beginning to fear you weren’t joining us, darling, and I do think you will enjoy this surprise.”

Surprise, indeed.

Ophelia pinned a false smile to her lips for the benefit of her new friend and anyone else who may have pried their eyes away from Prestwick long enough to see. “Quite a…popular surprise, it would seem.”

Theodora’s grin deepened. “Well, of course it is. Have you seen him, darling?”