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There was nothing he wanted more in the world than to reach for the fastening holding her skirts in place, to rip open the laces of her corset and tear away her petticoats and chemise, to pull off her drawers and then remove her stockings with his teeth. But he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that. Because she had been drinking too much wine and she wasn’t herself and he would sooner die than know she regretted anything that happened between them.

“Another night,” he told her gently.

She shook her head. “It must be tonight.”

He kissed her cheek and straightened, not taking her lips one of the most difficult things he had ever done. “It cannot be, sweet lady.”

“I won’t have the courage tomorrow,” she blurted.

It was as he had feared. He was the reason she had drunk so much wine. He hated the thought. She needn’t fear he would refuse her. Could she not see how desperately consumed he was by her? She was all he wanted, all he needed.

“You don’t need wine for courage, sweet. You are brave enough on your own.”

Her lip quivered. “But I’m not.”

“You are,” he insisted. “And when I make love to you, I want there to be no question of what and who you want. I want there to be nothing but the two of us and the mindless pleasure we will give each other. I want to take my time. To worship you as you deserve. I’m going to kiss you from head to toe. I want the taste of you on my lips, your scent on my face. I want everything you have to give and things you don’t yet know exist.”

By the time he finished his impassioned speech, he was trembling from suppressed need. But these were words he had to say, words it was imperative for her to hear. Because he had every intention of taking Ophelia to bed. And when he did, he wasn’t letting her go.

She stared at him, lips parted, eyes glazed.

He had shocked her with his plain speaking. But he didn’t regret it. What he felt for her wasn’t polite and proper. It was wild and messy and scandalous.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, and then he reached for the bellpull at last, giving it a harsh tug.

“I…I don’t think…” Her words trailed away.

Wine and desire were rendering her befuddled. He knew the feeling, even if he wasn’t inebriated.

“Then don’t think. Just promise me you won’t forget how you felt tonight when it is tomorrow.”

He risked one more kiss on her cheek before he left. Closing the door and walking away from her felt as if he were leaving behind a part of himself.

CHAPTER 10

Ophelia woke to a pounding head, a dry mouth, a bilious stomach, and embarrassment so acute she could practically taste it along with the flavor of the wine she had so liberally consumed the night before.

Memories flashed through her mind, pieces at first, like the shards of a vase that had been broken and would never properly be reassembled. She had collided with Prestwick in the drawing room. He had escorted her to her room. And then she had demanded he play her lady’s maid.

The hiccups!

She rolled over in her bed and burrowed her face into her pillow. Perhaps if she remained thus long enough, the house party would come to an end and she could return to her children and forget she had ever asked the Duke of Prestwick to unhook her bodice whilst thoroughly in her cups.

Ophelia groaned. Her temples throbbed.

He had refused her. How utterly humiliating. She had thrown herself at him, and he had denied her.

She was never drinking another drop of wine in her life. She was not even certain if she could extricate herself from this chamber. Was the chamber still spinning?

She rolled over, grateful the room was yet enrobed in shadows instead of brilliant morning sunlight, and blinked her eyes open.

Not spinning.

Small mercies.

The Duke of Prestwick didn’t want her. The knowledge was almost unbearable. What had she been thinking, propositioning him? And after he had been to the gardens with the gloriously beautiful Mrs. Gilpin, at that.

Mortifying. How utterly, despairingly mortifying.