Page 27

She smiled up at him, somewhat dazed.

This Stanford, Duke of Asherford, was quite nice. Quite nice indeed.

At the door, he turned and swept a disdainful glance over Candace and Ann Marie, who still stood in chagrined shock.

“Lest you are tempted to spread gossip or defame my bride further, heed my warning. Do. Not.” He slashed his dark eyebrows together in the manner that had made him infamous.

Both girls swallowed audibly.

Stanford pressed on mercilessly. “The repercussions would be dire for you both and any hopes you entertain of continuing in Society.”

Drawing near until their shoulders bumped, Candace and Ann Marie clasped hands. Terror etched their features, and if Ophelia had been feeling charitable, she might’ve felt pity for them.

She wasn’t feeling the least charitable, but neither did she revel at their fear.

They’d brought Stanford’s wrath upon themselves, and now they could deal with the consequences.

“I proposed to Ophelia weeks ago.”

He bathed Ophelia with such an adoring glance, she regretted the look was a farce for Candace’s and Ann Marie’s benefit.

“I consider it the greatest honor of my life that she has consented to be my bride,” Stanford said with conviction. “I shan’t take kindly to any further aspersions on her character. I shall consider it a personal insult. Do I make myself clear?”

Eyes round and unblinking, the women nodded.

“Excellent.”

He slipped an arm around Ophelia’s waist as if laying claim to her. The heat of his arm branded her. Even while her mind pondered why she didn’t object, her body melded closer to his.

Stanford opened the door. “Come, my love.”

At that moment, Ophelia almost believed he meant the words.