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“Oh.” The confusion left her countenance, like a sky brightening suddenly after the rain. “I didn’t recall telling you. Yes, I am.”
“And you’ve children?” he pressed, although he already knew the answer.
She had a lad and a girl, Reggie and Catherine.
“A son and a daughter,” she confirmed, sniffling. “I do miss them dreadfully. This is the longest I have ever been away from them since they were babes.”
Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and he could have kicked himself in the arse for bringing up her children. Ophelia was an excellent mother, not the sort to abandon them to nursemaids and governesses and gad about society like some he had known, women for whom children were a marital duty rather than a joy.
“Of course you do,” he told her, reaching into his coat for a handkerchief and offering it to her. “I’m sorry, my lady. It wasn’t my intention to make you sad.”
She accepted his offering and dabbed at her eyes. “No, the fault is mine. I didn’t intend to turn into a watering pot. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, my lady.” He resumed guiding her down the hall to the door he knew was hers. “A mother’s love for her children is unlike any other.”
“I would do anything for them.”
The vehemence in her tone humbled him.
She sniffled again and dabbed at her nose. God, she was bloody adorable. Something inside his chest seized. She had never looked more vulnerable than she did now, stray curls having come free of the confines of her coiffure to frame her face, her pupils wide, the tip of her nose pink. She lacked her customary polish, the walls she ordinarily kept around herself lowered in full.
And in the absence of that, she was utterly magnificent. He wished he could untie her mask and remove it so that he could see her without the unnecessary encumbrance.
“They are very fortunate to have you as their mother,” Apollo told her, meaning every word.
“How sweet you are to say that.” She gave him a smile that was tinged with sadness. “I try to be the best mother to them I can be. Sometimes, I fear I fall hopelessly short.”
“I fail to see how you possibly could.”
These were not mere platitudes he was feeding her. He wasn’t seeking to flatter her for the sake of his seduction campaign. Rather, his assertions were genuine. He had seen her with her children on a number of occasions, for she had often accompanied Ro to his country seat. And now, at last, he was free to tell her everything he had been secreting inside himself so, so deep.
They stopped as one at her door, and to her credit, she neither swayed nor hiccupped. Perhaps the heavy subject matter—her children—had diminished some of the wine clouding her mind.
“Here we are, my lady,” he said softly. “I must bid you good evening.”
“Must you?” she asked, an intensity entering her eyes that had been absent earlier. “But what if I don’t wish for you to?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
She reached for the door and tugged his hand. “Please stay, if only for a bit.”
It was an invitation that he would have committed any sin to receive. But he couldn’t accept it. Not when she was in such an inebriated state. There would be no question of what they were doing when the time came, nor would there be any regret afterward.
“I don’t dare,” he denied.
But Ophelia wasn’t listening. The wine took the reins firmly in hand once more, and she tugged him over the threshold. He was taller and far stronger; he could have avoided her efforts with ease. He should have stayed firm and remained in the hall where he belonged. But he allowed her to pull him into her room and close the door behind them.
“You do dare.” She held his handkerchief to her nose and inhaled deeply, her eyes fluttering closed. “It smells like you.”
His heart thudded hard, but he somehow maintained his composure. “Naturally, it would. It was in my pocket after all.”
Her eyes opened, her gaze colliding with his.
“I’m going to keep it,” she announced and then promptly stuffed it down the front of her bodice, between her breasts.
He watched it disappear, bemused.
Oh, to be that blasted handkerchief right now.
