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Not for her, thank you very much.

Such a union was nothing more than a business arrangement for expediency’s sake. Impersonal and mercenary. Unlike most women, marriage wasn’t the end-all desire for Ophelia. She wanted more out of life, despite the limited opportunities afforded women in 1810.

She dared a swift perusal of the ballroom as the minuet’s steps took her in a wide circle.

Her heart gave an unpleasant leap of surprise when her gaze collided with the Duke of Asherford’s vivid blue eyes from across the room. All masculine grace and confidence, arms folded, he leaned a muscled shoulder nonchalantly against one of the doorframes leading onto the terrace. Likely to catch a hint of what meager breeze there might be out of doors.

The overcrowded ballroom was stifling. The air reeked of perfume, sweat, and wax from hundreds of beeswax candles. For the first time, Ophelia rued her choice of costume. Her gown was sweltering, and a trickle of sweat meandered down her spine.

Asherford’s mouth moved up into a lazy, roguish smile before she finished her rotation, and their eye contact was broken. A few stanzas later, Ophelia gave a silent thanks that the painstaking dance had finally come to an end. Her grateful toes tingled in appreciation as well.

“Thank you, Mr. Hornbrook.”

Ophelia curtsied and, declining to look in Asherford’s direction, made straight for the ladies’ retiring room. Her nerves were taut as bowstrings, and it peeved her that the duke had any effect on her.

I refuse to let him upset me further.

The retiring room boasted a balcony that overlooked the gardens. Since Ophelia couldn’t wander the grounds unchaperoned, she intended to cool off on the quaint gallery. She might even remove her gown and run a damp cloth over her skin. Once she’d regained her equanimity, she’d seek out her twin sister Gabriella, the Duchess of Pennington, or one of her many friends in attendance.

Sophronie Slater and Rayne Wellbrook knew why Ophelia was so vexed with the duke, and they would act as buffers should he continue to seek her out this evening. He would not steal her fun tonight. If the duke became too bothersome, she’d ask her brother-in-law, Maxwell Bronson, Duke of Pennington, to intervene on her behalf. Things weren’t so dire that she needed Maxwell’s intervention yet, however.

Asherford might be troublesome, but he was a gentleman. Ophelia had no concerns for her safety.

As she wended her way swiftly through the milling crowd, she fought the urge to look behind her. Her nape prickled, and a shiver scuttled across her shoulders and down her arms. Positive that the Duke of Asherford watched her progress, she quickened her pace. Above all, Asherford must not catch her alone again as he had at the Wickerfields’.

She’d vow he’d orchestrated that chance rendezvous.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Of its own accord, her upper lip tilted up slightly into a sneer before she schooled her mouth into a pleasant line. Ladies did not sneer or scowl. She was well-practiced in tempering tart retorts and painting a benign mien upon her features when turmoil cavorted about inside her head.

Thank goodness no one knew what went on in her mind. They’d be shocked and appalled. Gabriella was the high-spirited, outspoken sister. Ophelia was the well-mannered, docile twin.

Or so everyone mistakenly believed.

Her rancor toward the Duke of Asherford hadn’t eased these past weeks. How could it when he continually showed up at events she attended? Much like rubbing salt into a wound, he pursued her with a doggedness that might have been admirable if his attentions weren’t so unwelcome.

The duke hadn’t even bothered to cushion his insulting proposal with compliments or a degree of finesse. His words rang in her ears just as loudly and offensively as if he’d spoken them but minutes before and not three weeks ago.

“Miss Breckensole, I have decided we should wed. You are of satisfactory lineage, and from my observation of you these past weeks, I have concluded your temperament and decorum are adequate. I require a wife and heir. I am confident we would suit sufficiently.”

Satisfactory lineage. Temperament and decorum are adequate. Suit sufficiently.

I require an heir? An heir?

Oh, of all the unmitigated gall.

Her reply had been concise.

“No, Your Grace.”

Her comportment had been polite and reserved, revealing nothing of the dervish spinning inside her.

Until he persisted in listing how qualified she was for such an honor.

Dumping her glass of lemonade on his suit had quite squelched his protestations.

Now waving her black lace fan rapidly to cool her heated face, Ophelia tucked her chin and indulged in a gleeful chuckle as she reached the last riser and turned to the left toward the retiring room.