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“It wasn’t my intention to bring you to Cupid,” she countered, striving to keep her voice light.

The feat was nearly impossible. Nothing about this sensual man or this forbidden moment was blithe.

“Are you certain?” He brought her hand to his lips for a slow kiss that was somehow chaste and deeply sensual all at once. “How disappointing.”

His lips were hot and silken, brushing over her skin in a tantalizing caress. Now she was the one who needed to sit, lest she expire or her knees surrendered. Oh, what danger she was in. Ophelia had always admired Prestwick—and far more than she ought to have done as a married woman seven years his senior. More than she should now as well, even though she was a widow. They had first met eight years earlier. He’d been every bit as fascinating and handsome then, but he had yet to grow into his frame. Now, his strong body revealed the promise that had been evident then. He had broad shoulders, lean hips, long legs, and a muscled physique that was no doubt the result of the athletic prowess which he was as well-known for as his conquests.

“We should sit,” she said, finding her voice. “I have a suspicion you shall recover after a small rest.”

He released her hand, his gaze inscrutable as it lingered on her lips. “I cannot shake the feeling I shall never recover, my lady. But if you insist, I am humbly at your command.”

At her command.

Oh, the things she could do with such heady power.

But she sat instead, leaving a demure distance on the stone bench between herself and where she presumed Prestwick might sit. Except, he didn’t sit on the opposite end. Instead, he folded his impressive height and sat dizzyingly close. Near enough that his strong horseman’s thigh pressed into hers through the layers of her evening gown and petticoats. Near enough that his scent didn’t just hold her in its thrall, but wrapped itself around her. She kept her face carefully averted toward the rosebushes, an infinitely safer place to look.

But they were in such thrilling proximity that their elbows brushed, and his breath was a warm curtain of air falling at her temple when he next spoke. “Only tell me what it is that you want me to do, my lady, and I shall do it.”

Ophelia shivered as a rush so potent and strong rolled down her spine that it was all she could do to keep from gasping aloud. No man had ever said something so brazen to her.

“I have no notion what you’re asking of me,” she confessed, her voice shaky as giddy desire overtook her.

“Look at me, my lady.”

She finally did what he asked, turning back to find him watching her through eyes that blazed with sensual fire. His jaw was a strong slash, his lips sculpted with firm determination. His beauty was devastating enough to eclipse the mask. If she didn’t know otherwise, Ophelia would think it impossible that removing it would render him even more glorious to look upon than he already was.

Yes, she looked.

And looked.

And then looked some more.

He leaned forward, their noses almost brushing, and said three words she would never forget.

“I am yours.”

The confession was terrifying to make, but the moment the words fled his lips, Apollo felt a rush of potent relief at their utterance. A feeling of complete peace washed through the empty caverns of his heart and chest. It was as if the clouds had parted to reveal the sun in all its blazing brilliance.

Eight years was a bloody long time.

Seven years of watching Ophelia with that rotter who had never deserved her, first as her betrothed and then, later, her husband. Nearly one year of allowing her the proper period of mourning. Not out of respect for Corbett, but out of respect for Ophelia and her children.

He was damned glad to see her out of widow’s weeds. The golden gown she wore this evening complemented her fiery hair, her gray-green eyes that were the color of the sea on a misty morning, and the dusting of freckles on her skin. The mask she wore to shield her identity mattered not one whit. He would have recognized her at once, even if he hadn’t already learned of her presence at Wingfield Hall.

That discovery had been a happy accident indeed, one for which he could thank his older sister Aphrodite, whom, whilst not a widow, was a self-avowed spinster. She was also the sole dear friend Ophelia trusted enough to confide in. Unfortunately for Ophelia, however, Ro couldn’t keep secrets from him, no matter how hard she tried.

His dear sister had no notion that Apollo harbored such a maddening tendre for her friend. She thought him a hapless rogue who shagged his way through London without thought. But some masks were not fashioned of silk.

There was one reason he was here, and she was seated next to him on the bench.

But Ophelia remained silent, her lush lips parted, staring at him with something akin to shock even though her silk mask shielded part of her countenance from his perusal. Perhaps he had been too forward. She was a widow, but that didn’t mean she was experienced.

Ro had said Ophelia hadn’t been in love with her husband—and thank Christ for that, since Corbett was as interesting as a blade of grass and a wastrel—but she had largely kept to herself and her children this last year.

He should have proceeded in a slower, less blunt fashion.

What a careless dolt he was.