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“Flattery is unnecessary when the truth is plain to see,” he countered. “You are a beautiful woman.”

The air turned heavy and hot. It was obvious Prestwick didn’t know who she was. And why would he? This wicked house party was the last place Ophelia could afford to be discovered. But it was precisely her inability to afford much of anything, save the bare necessities, that had brought her here.

She wasn’t here at Wingfield Hall to dally with anyone. To flirt. Certainly not to allow herself to be seduced. The stern reminder was pointed as a sliver, digging into her tender skin.

Ophelia straightened her spine and turned her attention back to the sunset hovering over the gardens. “I commend you, sir. However, I recognize a practiced response from an experienced rake when I hear one.”

That was a lie, quite naturally. She had precious little cause to speak with anyone other than her domestics and her children these days, with the occasional, officious visit from Lord Timothy. Her brother-in-law was many things, most of which were quite unpleasant, but a rake was not among them.

Prestwick clapped a hand over his heart in dramatic fashion. “I am wounded, my lady.”

Oh, he did know how to charm.

She bit her lip to contain her smile at his theatrics. “And why should you be wounded, sir?”

“That you believe I cannot recognize a beautiful woman when I see one, of course. I fear I may perish from such a painful blow.”

A chuckle stole from her. “Pray don’t succumb. As this is my first time playing hostess, it would be quite damaging to my reputation were one of our guests to meet an untimely demise on the first day of the house party.”

“I fear the wound is a mortal one, my lady,” he continued. “Only lead me to a garden bench where I may expire in peace.”

“I know of no such bench.”

His eyes had closed in the course of his antics, but they fluttered open now to sear her with their brilliance. “I do believe there is one just ’round the bend, dear lady.”

“This is not your first visit to Wingfield Hall, then,” she observed wryly, not sure why the knowledge should sting.

Of course he had been here before. He was Prestwick. He was virile and wild and beautiful.

And young—she must not forget that.

Unencumbered by a wife or children too.

“Only take me to the bench, and I shall answer all your queries as I die,” he said, staggering backward for emphasis.

The scoundrel. He was neatly guiding her to a place where they would be unobserved by others. Where they would be sheltered by the hedges of the maze. She knew she ought to deny him, but she was too amused to do so.

She liked being with him. Speaking with him. Laughing with him. The freedom to do so was as intoxicating as his presence was.

“Do you have the strength to make the journey?” she asked, sending an arch look in his direction.

“I may require your hand for support,” Prestwick offered slyly.

And Ophelia instantly saw the error she had made. But she extended her hand for the duke anyway, not wanting to show how very affected she was by him. The moment their fingers entwined, she lost her valiant fight. The fit of his bare palm against hers and the heat skipping up her arm were nothing short of electric. The breath fled from her lungs. Awareness jolted through her. Heat landed everywhere, as if she were fashioned of fire—her breasts, her belly, the apex of her thighs.

Their gazes clashed, molten heat igniting in his. She wondered what he saw in hers. For a few heartbeats, they did nothing other than stare at each other, as if they were statues carved in stone. She knew without asking that he had felt it too, the raw, real attraction burning hotly between them.

But then she forced herself to remember why she was here and summoned a cool smile to her lips. “Come along, then.”

As if she were stronger and taller, Prestwick allowed himself to be led by her down the garden path. She didn’t even know precisely where she was going. She had yet to explore the labyrinth of boxwood hedges. Fortunately, they hadn’t far to go. A convenient turn presented them with a stone bench that was presided over by a statue of a winged Cupid, his bow at the ready, his gaze averted as if he examined the horizon for a person to strike.

“Dangerous little chap,” Prestwick quipped. “Best to avoid him altogether.”

She slanted a glance over her shoulder at him. “Considering he is fashioned of stone, I do believe we shall be safe from his arrow.”

He grinned, flexing his fingers to give her hand a gentle squeeze. “But you ensnared me the moment I saw you in the drawing room.”

Her breath caught again. She hadn’t thought he had even taken notice of her presence. But he must have, if the speed with which he had joined her was any indication.