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Ophelia wasn’t sure she could bear it. Prestwick was in good humor. This sort of thing perhaps happened to him often. But to her, it was a small death. What must he think of her? She had been weak, so weak, to give in to her urges. And if he ever were to tell anyone about what had transpired between the two of them, it would be nothing short of ruinous for her.

“I won’t cease talking, curse you,” he growled.

Her dratted hands didn’t muffle his deep voice sufficiently. She could still hear every word, even before his hands took her wrists in twin, gentle clasps and he pried her palms away.

“You may as well take off your mask, love,” he said softly, his eyes slowly taking in her face, lingering on her lips. “I know what you’re hiding beneath it.”

It was petty, but the urge to defy him rose. She wanted to keep her mask in place, even though she had managed to hide nothing with it. He had seen her. He knew it was her. And he had pursued her anyway.

Now that her initial horror had given way, she didn’t know what to do with that information, how to make sense of it. He had always seemed so very polite in her presence. Distracted, almost. She’d never suspected even a hint of interest. But then, she had been married for most of their acquaintance. What would he have done?

In the end, it was his suggestion she was hiding that made the decision for her.

“I’m not hiding,” she announced, before untying her mask and removing it as well.

Somehow, this made her feel more exposed to him than she already was. Irrational, she knew, for Prestwick—Apollo—was more than aware of her appearance. But what if he noted the fine lines around her eyes? What if the lack of mystery served to dull his ardor?

She shouldn’t care.

She didn’t care.

Oh, who was she fooling? She very much cared. She cared about everything where this man was concerned.

“Why can you not speak of what’s happened between us?” he asked her with painstaking tenderness now, showing that side of him that was deeper than the rakish charmer, the side she couldn’t resist.

“Because,” she said stubbornly, refusing to elaborate.

“Ophelia.”

Her name on his lips felt like a caress. It was equal parts torture and wondrous to hear him say her name at last. And then he touched her cheek, tenderly, reverently, in a way no man had ever touched her, and it felt as if something inside her came loose and shattered like glass.

“Stop,” she begged him, even though he was doing nothing, save being himself.

Beautiful, rakish Apollo Isdale, Duke of Prestwick. Young and virile, walking through life unopposed, every woman in London falling at his feet, including the beautiful Mrs. Gilpin and Theodora and each lady who had sketched his nude portrait.

Including Ophelia herself. The realization made her ears burn.

“Tell me something,” he said slowly, his countenance turning serious. “Did you know it was me?”

There was only one response she could possibly have. Anything else would give her away entirely, and she suddenly understood that she could remove her mask and face him, but she could not bear for him to believe she had shamelessly pursued him, knowing he was Aphrodite’s brother.

It felt wrong. It felt shameful. It felt far too personal, a fact she must guard at all costs.

“Of course not,” Ophelia lied.

His jaw tightened, and a grim look overtook his countenance, one she instantly wished she could erase. “Ah,” he said coolly.

The lone-word response rattled her more than the realization he’d known it was her did. It wasn’t possible that she had somehow hurt his feelings, was it? Surely not.

“You had on a mask,” she added miserably. “How was I to have known?”

The falsehoods settled heavily on her heart. She would have known it was Apollo if she had been blindfolded. She would have sensed him, felt him, smelled his decadent scent. He was a secret written on her heart, a yearning that had never been meant to come to fruition. But he didn’t need to know any of that. This was about her own self-preservation.

“Indeed, how were you to have known?” he asked, his voice pensive.

And then he tugged at the counterpane with such sudden force that he whisked it from her body, leaving her lying there in nothing but the sheet.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, feeling naked, even though she was covered to her neck.