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Stan couldn’t bring himself to care two damns.

Ophelia hadn’t bristled and become all prickly like she usually did in his presence. Was the way to her heart as simple as feeding her? If so, tomorrow, Stan would send her chocolates and sweetmeats. Or candied almonds, marzipan, and Cook’s most excellent lemon curd.

Finishing his second manriklo, he studied Ophelia’s face. Her pale green and light blue ensemble complimented her hazel eyes and ivory skin. She radiated contentment and joy. This was the most relaxed she’d ever been around him.

“This is nice.” Giving a satisfied sigh, Ophelia tucked her hands behind her back and curved her full mouth upward. A breeze flirted with the ends of her bonnet’s sky-blue ribbons and a honey-colored curl near her ear.

“I like it when you smile, Ophelia.”

She looked up at him through her thick lashes.

Not in a coquettish manner, but with genuine consideration.

“I do so much of the time, Your Grace.”

“Not at me.”

A flicker of something undefinable flashed within her eyes, and Ophelia turned her gaze away. “It’s not intentional, Your Grace.”

The magic of the moment vanished, blown away like thistledown in a gale.

Stan inwardly cursed himself for being a thousand kinds of a fool. He and Ophelia had been getting on famously, and then he had to ruin the moment by making it too personal. She’d taken offense at his remark. The Dangerous Duke might’ve continued along the previous track, but Stanford Bancroft was a more sensitive man.

“I know it’s not, Ophelia.”

Stan’s tongue was dry from the two flatbreads. Or was it from sticking his entire foot in his mouth?

“I’ll get us something to drink,” he said, keeping his tone deliberately light and casual.

“I would be grateful.” Ophelia’s eyes lit with appreciation. In the trees’ shade, they appeared more blue than hazel.

Today she wasn’t holding a grudge, it seemed.

Pushing away from the oak’s trunk, Ophelia brushed a few crumbs from her spencer. After stepping over a gnarled root that twisted across the ground, she wandered to the other side of the large tree. Actually, two oaks had grown together, creating a massive tree about six feet wide that separated about twelve feet up.

From overhead, the perturbed bird insistently called an alarm.

Placing a hand over her eyes, Ophelia peered upward.

Stan searched the area nearby for a drink of some sort.

A pair of young women were ladling an amber liquid into mugs about forty feet away. The beverage was popular. The women couldn’t keep up with the demand, mostly from young bucks and Roma men.

“I’ll be just a minute, Ophelia,” Stan said. “Don’t wander too far.”

He could see her from the clearing, and no one else had sought refuge under that particular stand. It wasn’t as if she were alone with all of these people wandering about anyway. Still, it wouldn’t do to tempt fate.

“I won’t.” She gave a little waggle of her fingers and continued to search the upper branches. “I hear you,” she murmured. “Where are you? What kind of bird are you? A noisy one, but then your home has been invaded, hasn’t it? I’m sorry. The Roma will leave in a few weeks, and you’ll have your quiet home back.”

Grinning at her inane conversation with an invisible bird, Stan strode the few feet to the beverage stand. The women were serving a frothy ale. No wonder the brew was so popular. Shifting his feet impatiently, he waited his turn, and after tipping the gypsies and promising to return the mugs, he pivoted to return to Ophelia.

Where was she?

Her blue and green gown shouldn’t blend in with the trunks and shadows. Unfortunately, she was no longer visible through the trees.

Quickening his stride, he hurried forward, the ale sloshing onto his hands in his haste.

Entering the trees’ cool shade, he called her name. “Ophelia?”

The blasted bird screamed louder. Only, it wasn’t a bird at all, but an outraged squirrel sitting on a branch and twitching its bushy tail. Its tiny black eyes were riveted on something in the distance.

Ophelia?

Bloody, bloody hell.

And she wasn’t alone. A muscular gypsy had a hand over her mouth and was dragging her, struggling and thrashing, farther into the woodlands.

Her wide, terrified gaze sought Stan’s.

“Help me.” She silently pleaded.