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The mask had emboldened her. Granted her a freedom she had never imagined could be hers. And though it was temporary, it was hers. Just as the Duke of Prestwick was, at least in this fanciful moment, the humid air pulsing with possibility around them, rain dancing from the heavens as if even the sky above were intent upon mischief.

“What else would you have me doing, my lady?” he asked. “I am yours to command.”

Here was where she ought to regain her wisdom, remember who she was and who he was, and why this would never work. Here was where she made her escape before things between them progressed further than either of them could imagine.

But the problem with what she should do and what she could do was that they were two entirely different things.

“Kiss me again,” she whispered.

And before she could feel her cheeks heat up over her own shocking lack of restraint, his mouth sealed over hers. He growled somewhere deep in his chest, a prowling jungle cat reveling in his conquest, staking his claim. She felt the reverberation beneath her questing fingertips as they ventured from his arms to trace the delineation of powerful muscle in his chest. His tongue was in her mouth, bold and hot and seeking.

He sank his fingers into her hair next, leaving her coiffure hopelessly ruined. Pins tinkled to the floor. As he kissed her, she felt coils come undone, raining heavy and long down her back. He made another pleased sound and began sifting through the strands, undoing her braids and the knot that had held them all in place.

Ophelia was suddenly unbearably hot. It was warm in the orangery, and she was wearing far too many layers. So was he. She released her hold on him to pull away the cumbersome wool of his coat, sending it to the floor along with her pins.

Then she started on the buttons of his shirt. Because at any moment, the rain could cease and her sanity would return, and then this moment between them would be at an end. There wasn’t time to waste.

To her dismay, he broke the kiss again, straightening, his breath gratifyingly ragged. He reached for the silk keeping all her secrets in place.

“We should dispense with these bloody masks.”

Ophelia’s breath lodged in her throat.

“No,” she blurted, staying him with an urgent grasp on his wrist. “They must stay in place.”

He hesitated, and she read the warring emotions in his gaze. Somehow, his hat had been swept away without her conscious of its removal, and his wet hair was ebony, too long, and falling over his brow.

“Later,” he agreed at last, sounding reluctant.

Then his hands claimed her waist, and he guided her backward until her bottom connected with something. He kissed her again, hard and fast, and swept an object to the floor. The sound of a pot crashing and cracking into bits gave her a start.

“What was that?” she mumbled against his mouth, reluctant to tear her lips away completely.

“Nothing of import,” he murmured back, and then lifted her.

Lifted her!

Her mind could narrowly comprehend he was strong enough to heft her up as if she were a baby bird being scooped and placed back in her nest where she belonged.

Lifted her onto the table so that she was seated where whatever had met its early demise on the tiled floor had so recently been. Her feet dangled as she tipped her head toward the wall of windows behind her.

“What are you doing? I’ll break the table.”

“What I’ve been wanting to do,” he said, dropping to his knees. “Never mind the table.”

“But the tile,” she protested. “The broken pot. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I would kneel in a field of broken glass for you, and it would not stop me.”

He was an angel and a devil at once, soaked to the skin, still wearing his black mask, his eyes bluer than any blue she’d ever beheld. His chest rose and fell heavily, as if he struggled to maintain his breath. She knew the feeling. Ophelia could scarcely breathe, and it had nothing to do with her corset.

Around them, greenery was lush and vibrant. But he was all she saw. Handsome, rakish Prestwick, on his knees in the orangery, his big hands moving to the hem of her skirts and petticoats.

She had no notion of what he could possibly have in mind. Did he intend to inspect her boots? If so, he would find them several years old, a poor match to the silk gown she wore. Or perhaps to admire her legs? Corbett had never done anything more than pay his husbandly visits in the dark hush of night. He had certainly never sought to view any part of her during the day, let alone in the midst of an orangery where anyone could come upon them and easily view them through the glass walls.

And yet, this was Prestwick. She trusted him. If he wanted her to sit on this table whilst he lifted her skirts to her knees, she would do it.

With one hand, he raised layers of silk and cotton, revealing her ankles first, then her calves, with a reverence that should have been reserved for some priceless jewel or a rare piece of art. Instead, it was Ophelia herself whom he caressed with his other hand, running a hot palm over her mended stockings. First her right, then her left.