Chapter Six

That evening, Ophelia stood on the terrace of Lady Newby’s ball, feeling listless. She’d only attended to lend support to Maryann. After last night’s debacle, her name and Nicolas St. Ives were on the tongues of everyone. All her other sinful wallflower friends—Fanny, Charlotte, and Emma—were in attendance to rally around her, if necessary. Except Maryann had not shown.

Good for you, Maryann.

No doubt the throng expected her to be here, appearing meek and apologetic or more desperate to be enfolded back into their good graces. Ophelia grinned, loving the idea of her friend being so rebellious.

“Lord Montrose and Mr. Devlin Byrne.”

Ophelia jolted, spilling a bit of the champagne on her gloves. “Drat,” she muttered, very cognizant of the sudden fluttering low in her belly.

Had Devlin Byrne really just been announced, or had she simply thought of the man so much that she’d imagined it? Trying to see over the heads of the throng was no small feat. Glancing about to see the best pathway to walk close to the receiving line, she paused. More than one guest wore an expression of horrified amazement. A few ladies appeared tickled pink, and several gentlemen’s shoulders had stiffened.

She knew he titillated some in society because of his staggering wealth and having more than a hint of danger around him. In the expression of many ladies, she now saw fascinated awareness.

Suddenly he was there, standing with Rhys Tremayne, Viscount Montrose. The two men were dashingly handsome and very much out of place in a ballroom setting. Ophelia did not understand it, but they seemed…dangerous. He really dared to appear at a ball uninvited. Ophelia had never seen the man in such a setting before, and he fitted oddly yet also perfectly.

Do not let your imagination lead you astray tonight, she silently chided herself, unable to stop staring at Devlin. He was dressed in unrelenting black, including his shirt and silk waistcoat. The only splash of color was a dark red neckcloth at his throat. An expression of chilling insouciance settled on his face as he surveyed the ladies and gentlemen in their fineries.

Viscount Montrose said something to him, and after Devlin nodded once, the viscount walked toward Lord Livingston. Devlin stood there alone, and no one approached him. Yet he did not appear uncertain as he idly scanned the faces in the ballroom.

Who was he searching for?

His face was an unreadable mask as his gaze skipped from face to face as though taking the measure of each person who stared at him. Others dismissed his presence as if he were a speck that was not worth their attention. Many looked nervous. They were familiar with him, possibly having done business with the man. But what was clear to Ophelia was that they did not like him in their domain.

“I cannot credit that Lady Newby would dare invite him!” a hushed whisper said.

“Perhaps the countess had little choice in the matter. I’ve heard a tidbit that her son owes an alarming amount of money to the Asylum.”

“Never say!” another voice gasped dramatically. “He blackmailed her for an invitation? He is clearly not a gentleman.”

Ophelia was quite aware those who owned that appellation thought of him as nothing more than a mongrel trying to climb the ranks and insert himself in a place he could never belong. Unexpectedly, his gaze touched upon her, moved on, then swung back to her almost immediately, stillness setting into every line of his body.

There…I’ve found you, his stare seemed to say.

A powerful force seized her throat, robbing Ophelia of breath.

Dance with me.

Did he hope for her to dance with him here? Good heavens! She had truly thought he would have required a private setting similar to when she had sung for him. He was outrageous if he thought she would accept him so publicly.

To society, she was a lady of propriety and reputation and all other sorts of perfect nonsense that did not reflect the true heart of her. Ophelia understood that their reputations mattered a great deal to her family. There had been no scandal attached to their names going back two generations. Or so her father liked to brag.

In all her interactions, Ophelia was careful to maintain the proper polite civilities and not be too familiar or flirtatious with a gentleman. Dancing publicly with a man like Devlin, to her parents’ minds, was the beginning of a scandal that might taint their family’s name for years.

Yet as he drifted closer she did not turn away and cut him. This is Niall.

Ophelia returned his stare, painfully aware of her suspended breath and the erratic beat of her heart. Someone came up beside her, and a quick glance revealed it to be Fanny, garbed in a most becoming gown of green and black organza.

Flicking open her fan, she placed it artfully above her mouth. “Are you aware there is a man over there staring at you?” Fanny asked, outrage filling her voice. “I hurried to your side to save you, for you were returning his stare just as foolishly! I admit he is very handsome, but do have a care for your reputation.”

Ophelia did not have the will to laugh. “That man is Devlin Byrne.”

Fanny’s head snapped in his direction before she brought her gaze back to Ophelia. “He is still staring at you. The man has no decency! Why is he looking at you so?”

“I believe I owe him a dance.”

Fanny made a choking noise, but her eyes gleamed with curious delight. “I see. Will you dance with him here?” she asked deftly behind her fan. “It will start a scandal. I fear many in this room know who he is. Do you see how they are looking? And the gentlemen are deliberately ignoring his presence. No one has greeted him, Ophelia.”

Fanny sounded suitably mortified on his behalf.

“I do not think he will approach me without an intro—” Suddenly, Ophelia’s thoughts crashed and shattered into a thousand pieces.

“He is coming over!” Fanny waved her fan with agitated vigor. “Good God, is he not aware of the etiquette?”

“I do not think it is us he is… Oh, dear!”

Devlin cut a direct swath to her, his long strides graceful, owning in every languid step the confidence of a man uncaring of what others thought of him, a man also fully aware of his power and how to wield that influence. It alarmed her that she found him so uniquely compelling. Ophelia’s fingers tightened around the champagne glass.

Lifting the flute of champagne to her mouth, she emptied the contents in a long swallow as he arrived at their side. As if he were a magician or a dark conjurer, all the senses in her body awoke. Ophelia was acutely conscious of the shock of excitement that shimmered through her at being this close to him. She could feel the eyes of several guests on her shoulders, crawling over her skin like a swarm of ants…the kind that bit and devoured.

“Lady Ophelia,” he said, bowing most charmingly, the corner of his mouth tugging into a daring half smile. “Will you honor me with the upcoming dance?”

Something hot and uncomfortable shivered low in her belly. The night she sang for him, most of his features had still been cast in shadows. It was only now, under the brightness of hundreds of candles, that she saw the scars. He had a cut above his left eyebrow, a thin scar on his cheek, and a deeper one under his chin. Yet, oddly, those little imperfections only gave him a more handsome, rakish, and unquestionably dangerous air.

Ophelia had not granted anyone a dance for two seasons. Her name had made the scandal sheets for it, and matrons had given her frowns of severe disapproval. But after being out since she was eighteen, dancing had become a routine she had not cared to indulge in anymore. Instead, she had preferred to stand on the sidelines with her other wallflower friends and laugh and chat through the night.

To permit Devlin Byrne to dance with her now was courting scandal.

He straightened from his bow, and in his eyes, she spied the dare. With a jolt, she realized he had come fully prepared for her to deny him. He was aware that no lady in attendance would ever risk her reputation by dancing with him.

“I thought you would prefer a private setting,” she said softly, carefully eyeing him.

“Do you want to be alone with me?”

“No.” She cleared her throat. “I merely thought our next meeting would have been like the first…private.”

“I will arrange it.”

“You are already here,” she said quickly, not trusting that sudden spark in his eyes.

She snuck a glance at Fanny, who was busy looking anywhere but at them. The flush on her cheeks suggested their whispered conversation was not hidden from her.

The orchestra struck up a waltz while it seemed as if everyone in the ballroom held their breaths. An awfully intense sensation twisted low in her stomach, Ophelia’s heart pounded, and her breathing turned rapid as a sense of unalterable consequences beat at her—but she did not turn away from him. She dipped into a curtsy and lifted her hand to his. A few gasps reached her ears, but she looked nowhere except at him.

Shock flashed in his eyes for the briefest moment before his expression became inscrutable.

They walked out to the dance floor.

“Your fingers are trembling,” he murmured, the cadence of his voice ragged and a bit uneven.

Their gazes collided, and for the briefest moment, the intensity of his expression frightened her. Ophelia swallowed, and then she became aware of it…and more.

“So are yours,” she whispered.

He rested a strong, powerful arm about her waist and swept her into a world of pure delight. A quick ripple of laughter escaped her as he spun her in a graceful twirl, caught her about the shoulders, slid their elbows together, and moved across the span of the ballroom with pulsing energy and something unexpected sparking between them. Those keenly watching noted her laugh—the lack of proper decorum, the intimacy it suggested. Speculation gleamed in several eyes. In the periphery of her gaze, she saw a young gentleman furiously scribbling on a piece of paper after observing them. There was no doubt the man was a reporter and this dance would be splashed in several scandal sheets tomorrow.

“You dance beautifully,” she said, staring up at him.

“After your lessons in the cottage, I had another good tutor.”

“Who?”

“Jane Ashely.”

Ophelia’s heart twisted unexpectedly. “The widow of Sir Archibald Ashely?”

She was familiar with the lady, having seen her about town and at a few balls. They had never spoken before, but Ophelia recalled that she had a remarkable stature, was beautiful, and had a lovely smile.

“Yes.”

“Why did she agree to teach you?”

“I asked her.”

A mere request, with no money offered. It suggested an intimacy that robbed her of breath for the feelings it roused within Ophelia’s breast. They clawed up from her belly, ugly and uncertain. Was this jealousy? The notion so startled her that she missed a step, but he was quick and graceful in spinning and drawing her back to his side, so the keenest observer would have missed her faux pas.

“Why did you learn?”

He wasn’t the typical gentleman about town who was invested in knowing the dance styles for when they ventured into wooing a lady on the marriage mart.

“For this moment.”

The words were simple and without any deep inflection, but his eyes gleamed with hidden knowledge.

“And what moment is that?”

“To dance with you, Fifi.”

Do not call me that, she wanted to say, not liking how it made her feel. Shy and so uncertain about the dip in her heart, the wild flutters in her belly as if birds were trapped there. Ridiculous, of course. What did she have to be shy and flustered about?

His rough murmur pierced her like a well-aimed arrow. “What nonsense,” she said, searching his expression. “You could not have known we would meet again, that you would ask me to dance, and that I would say yes.”

“I could not have known it, but I hoped to meet you again, so I plotted for it.”

Plotted. Such a diabolical word. For a breathless moment, she could only stare at him, recalling his promise in the cottage years ago. “Did you learn all the dances I prattled on about?”

“And a few more.”

The memory of how excited she had been in describing the many dances she had to learn for attending balls rose in her thoughts. Niall had been more…aghast when she had begged him to be her pupil. A clear image formed of them, he with his dirt-streaked face spinning her around in that small cottage until she grew so dizzy they had taken a tumble. How they had laughed and laughed, as if falling to the floor was the best thing that could have happened.

The memory lingered in the air like smoke; the remembered joy curled around her heart and stroked it with tendrils of emotions. Something she couldn’t identify, something she couldn’t understand.

Wait for me…

The memory of that desperate plea cut her deep. “You make little sense to me,” she whispered, rattled.

He made no reply but spun her in another graceful glide. It truly felt wonderful dancing again, and suddenly she was glad it was with him. That curiosity she had tried to bury stirred. “Where do you call home when you are in London? I am assuming you have a place here?”

“I have a private room at the Asylum.”

“I’ll certainly not visit you there.”

His curious, emerald eyes blazed with a cold, penetrating intelligence. “You plan to call upon me, Fifi?”

“I cannot foretell the future,” she replied flippantly, though flutters went off in her belly. “I do like to be armed with information. What if I need to see you one day? However do I reach you?”

Something unfathomable flashed in his eyes, and his fingers imperceptibly tightened on her gloved hands. “Grosvenor Square,” he said gruffly. “I recently purchased a townhouse there.”

“What number?”

Twirling her deftly, he leaned close and inhaled deeply before saying, “Thirty-six.”

“I see. Are your sisters here in town?”

“No.”

“If I recall correctly, Sara should now be about one and twenty, and Gwenn nineteen. Are they affianced or married?”

He slanted her a curious glance. “I am surprised you recall so much about them.”

“I remember our conversations.”

“And I was so certain you had forgotten about me the instant the door closed. I am corrected.”

Ophelia stared at him, bemused by the shadows that touched in his eyes just now. Forgotten him? “I would be a liar if I say you remained in my thoughts all these years. But I did not forget you, Nia…Devlin,” she said softly. “I never forgot that you saved me…that you were my friend. Since we’ve met again, each night I close my eyes I see our time at the cottage.”

The dance ended, and a pang of disappointment filled her. She had barely had a chance to converse with him. He led her back to Fanny, who watched their arrival with uncensored inquisitiveness. Devlin bowed to Fanny, then to Ophelia, and melted away in the crowd.

“Is he leaving?” Fanny gasped.

“It appears so,” Ophelia replied drily.

“The man is outrageous. Does he not know what will be said about how he came, only danced with you, and then left?”

“I doubt he knows how ridiculous our society can be or the sort of rumors they will assign to his actions.”

Ophelia saw the Earl of Langdon making his way through the crowd in her direction. Swallowing her groan, she looked for an avenue of escape. He would want to dance with her, possibly even make a demand as to why she refused him twice since the season but danced with a man with a questionable reputation.

“I am going to leave early, Fanny,” Ophelia said.

“You do look a little pale,” her friend said with a worried frown. “You should go. I will seek out Emma and Charlotte. They are by the refreshment line.”

They briefly hugged, and Ophelia hurried from the ballroom, breathing a relieved sigh when she noted the connecting hallway was empty of any guests. A hand grasped her elbows. Her heart slamming into her throat, Ophelia whirled around. “Devlin, I thought you had left!”

“Not yet. Follow me.”

Without awaiting her reply, he tugged her down the long hallway, and she looked around frantically to ensure they were alone. “I am not Lady Starlight here,” she said. “We have to be careful, and where are you taking me?”

“Dancing.”

“Where, in this cluttered library?” she muttered when he led her through a room that had all sorts of artifacts on the ground, sofas, and desk. She had heard that Lady Newby’s husband was some sort of collector.

“Outside.”

Ophelia looked toward the wide-open windows and hurried over. “You mean for us to climb through?”

“Yes. Did I not teach you this at the cottage?”

She pinched his arm, and he mock growled, startling a low laugh from her.

“I am a lady. We do not sneak through windows into dark gardens with men we barely know!” Yet she was so awfully tempted.

“I am wounded, Fifi,” he drawled. “Are we not friends about to become forbidden—”

She hurriedly slapped her hand over his mouth, acutely aware she stared at him with wide eyes. “Do not say it,” she whispered. “You are unspeakably outrageous!”

Forbidden lovers.

God, he made her want things she should not think about. Not now. Perhaps never.

Perhaps she was more like Sally Martin than Ophelia had anticipated, reckless in her desires. She closed her eyes against the errant thought. Devlin’s mouth moved beneath her palm, and his teeth nipped her gloves. She lowered her hand, not trusting the ache twisting through her belly. It was an ache of want for the very forbidden things he hinted at.

Knowledge gleamed in his eyes, one that hinted of mockery and an awareness that she did not understand. The silence grew hushed and thick.

“Let’s go, Fifi,” he said, swinging a leg over the sill and climbing over.

She did not hesitate to follow him, and he gently placed a hand around her waist from outside and tugged her through. This back part of the garden was dark, and even with the half-moon, she could not decipher Devlin’s expression. Ophelia was reckless being like this with him, yet she did not flee from his presence.

He drew her deeper into the alcove.

“I feel as if you are kidnapping me.”

“Your feet are happily skipping along.”

Ophelia choked on her reply, for he was no longer holding on to her hands, and she was following him through the darkness.

“Do not lose courage now,” he chided. “Will you dance with me, Fifi?”

When had he moved to stand behind her? His hand rested on her hip, and she gripped the skirts of her gown until her fingers ached. Ophelia could hear her own heartbeat and the sounds of the night, and she was extraordinarily aware of his hand, strong and warm, on her back. Of the darkness of the back gardens. Of the scents of rose and jasmine on the night. Of her heartbeat and her tongue. Of the strength of his arm beneath her gloved fingers. That he had stolen her from the hallway like a wicked thief in the night, and she had recklessly gone with him.

She turned in the cage of his embrace, setting her hands on his shoulders. This was how it should have been. A dance from her with him, private and alone.

“When I questioned why we danced publicly, it was not a suggestion to do this,” she whispered.

He tugged her to him, so scandalously close a gasp of denial rose in her throat.

“Upon reflection, your suggestion had merit.”

It felt natural to dip with him, to allow him to lead her in the gentle but somehow sensual and provocative movements of the waltz. They danced for several minutes, the strains of the violins spilling out into the night air for their music, but somehow it was also to a tune of their own making. A song of temptation, perhaps. He evoked feelings within her that no one else had ever stirred, and ones she had never dreamed of feeling. This felt too soon…too perilous.

Then, on a long, shaken breath, she asked, “Niall…what do you want from me?”

He thrust his fingers into her upswept hair, tilted her face to his, and dragged her against his body. “This,” he muttered harshly. “I want this.”

How she wished his expression were visible to her. Ophelia could feel the waft of air so close to her mouth, and she inhaled the mingling of their breaths. He held her there against his body, her face upturned, his mouth precariously close to hers, until the uncertainty and hunger built in equal measure. Until she reached up with shaking fingers to see how close his mouth was to hers.

It is right there.

She closed her eyes on a silent gasp. Ophelia placed her fingers in the space between their mouths, and he bit them—the pain running through her fingers felt…haunting. Dear God in heaven.

A slow, languorous ache rolled through Ophelia, settling in that secret place between her thighs. A part of her she had not known existed awakened, the greedy desire clenching low in her belly. It frightened her, the newness of this feeling. The unexpectedness of it. She stepped back, almost stumbling in her haste. He caught her against him, and a whimper lodged in her throat at the touch of his powerful body against hers, the scent of his warm masculinity.

Forbidden lovers.

Ophelia wrenched from his arms, whirled around, and walked away. She half expected him to pursue her, but he did not. Hurrying back toward the path, she stopped when a soft moan, then a feminine laugh reached her ears.

“How naughty you are, Henry,” a breathless voice whispered. “But we must return inside!”

She swallowed a groan of frustration. Lovers were on the path before her, blocking her discreet return to the ball. A low murmur of a gentleman followed, but she could not discern his reply. There were more rustling sounds and what sounded like a panicked gasp.

“Henry! Stop. You are ruining my gown.”

There was more rustling and frantic panting. Ophelia’s face flamed, and she glanced back at the darkened pathway behind her. To return to Devlin would be to surrender to a temptation she did not understand. He did not fit into her life, and even if he was a slice of wickedness, she would not dare make him her whole.

“Stop, please!”

Ophelia turned back to the lovers’ voices.

“Henry, please stop. I do not want this!” the lady sobbed, sounding frightened. “Henry!”

Ophelia hurtled toward them, anger and a dash of fright surging through her veins. Under the pale moonlight, she barely discerned a tussling couple in the grass. She could not identify them, but the man was atop the lady, who struggled and sobbed.

“I believe the lady told you to stop, Henry,” Ophelia said coolly, clenching her fists at her sides. “It is not the mark of a gentleman to ignore a lady’s wish, but that of a blackguard!”

The man jerked, pushing to his feet and spinning around. The sobbing lady tried to stand, and Ophelia hurried over to help her. To Ophelia’s great alarm, the man grabbed Ophelia by the shoulders and dragged her back. She slapped his hand, and when he reached for her again, she balled her fist and slammed it toward his mouth. It landed on his chin, and pain shot up her arm.

Ophelia cried out and recoiled.

He reached for her, anger contorting his features. “You damn interfering—”

The man’s word choked away as an arm came around his throat and dragged him toward the darkened pathway. Devlin! An odd fright tore through Ophelia’s heart. She whirled to the lady, who stood there trembling so badly her teeth chattered.

“We will need to go inside and discreetly tidy up,” Ophelia said, wincing at the pain in her fingers and wrists. “Your hair needs to be re-pinned, and your dress checked for any tear.”

“Jemma,” someone frantically whispered in the distance. “Jemma, are you out here?”

Suddenly, Ophelia knew it to be Lady Jemma Darlington, a reigning beauty and society darling of the season, and Ophelia knew who had been courting her these last few weeks. The bloody, spoiled, bacon-brained blackguard!

“I must go. My sister looks for me,” Jemma said, wiping at her tears. “Please do not…please…”

“You may be assured of my discretion,” Ophelia said gently. “Should you think about it, I am also out here in the dark gardens without a chaperone. Both our reputations would be damaged if I spoke about this encounter.”

Lady Jemma thought for a minute, then nodded. “Thank you.”

“I would also urge you to end all associations with that…gentleman.”

Jemma’s lower lip trembled, and another sob came from her. “I feel after this I will be forced to marry him.”

“Do you want to?”

“He was…he was very frightening just now. I cannot…” Her shoulders shook under the weight of her silent sobs.

“I doubt he will inform anyone about his dishonorable and callous behavior. You must tell your father or brother so they might defend your honor.”

“No! Should my father know of this…he will surely insist I marry him. Please do not say anything.”

“You have my word,” Ophelia said, hating that Lady Jemma was right. Her father would indeed force her to marry the bounder who acted in such a disagreeable manner. Because that was what any lady would want after being frightened witless: to endure the rest of her life with a man who owned a clear disregard for her wishes and sensibilities.

“I must go,” Jemma muttered when her name sounded once more. Skirting around Ophelia, Jemma hurried toward her sister’s voice.

Ophelia gripped the skirts of her gown and ran toward where the bounder had been dragged. Only a few paces in, she stopped. A spark of red in the dark drew her attention. It was Devlin, and he was smoking a cheroot.

“What have you done with him?” she asked, making her way over to that beacon.

The scent of something tangy wafted on the air.

“He is trussed up and awaiting me.”

What did that mean? Muffled sounds came from a corner a few feet from her, and she gathered that the blackguard was somewhere close by. Ophelia grabbed Devlin’s arm and tugged him away to another section of the gardens so they could not be overheard.

“I believe that gentleman you have trussed up and gagged is Lord Henry Forsythe. He is…he is a duke’s son,” she said, wincing at her apologetic tone.

“One who is ill-mannered and a brute and was about to strike you,” Devlin said, his tone mild and bored.

Yet something about it had that black fright sweeping over her once more.

He took her hand in his and tugged the glove off, lifting her hand close to his face for inspection. But, unfortunately, the half-moon barely provided any light, so she did not understand what he searched for.

“You ran to that lady’s aid without any thought of your reputation.”

“Is that censure I hear?”

“Yes. You are not allowed to put yourself in harm’s way.”

“Yet here I am with you outside in the dark, quite beyond the bounds of propriety with a man referred to by many as shrewdly ruthless.”

Of course, he chose to ignore that pithy reply. She scowled at him, knowing he could not see her.

“Next time you are in such a situation, you wait and assess the surroundings to see how they could help you, instead of hurtling into the fray. If he had hit you, he would have lost his hand. Duke’s son or not.”

Ophelia believed the implacable promise in his tone, and it frightened her. “Do not speak so! You are not a peer…should you hit a gentleman, you can be…you can be sent to prison for it.”

His low chuckle was mocking. “Worried about me?”

“Unspeakably so,” she whispered, knowing the powers of lords within society. The laws were made by them, for them. “Will you un-truss him?”

“After I have given him a small lesson on how to treat the treasures we are given.”

“Dev—”

His finger on her lips cut off her words.

“I’ll not kill him, and this duke’s son who would attack women without any fear of consequences will return home intact. I promise you, however, he will always remember tonight’s lesson.”

“You are outrageous,” she hissed, gripping his jacket, then with a soft cry releasing him to shake her hand.

“And you are hurt,” he said, gently rubbing her knuckles.

She dropped her forehead on his chest, inhaling deeply. He glided his fingers over hers, searching and gently probing. The feel of his bare skin against hers was shocking. All at once she was aflame. When had he taken off his gloves? “Devlin?”

“Hmm?”

“I must return inside immediately.”

He ran his fingers carefully over each of her fingers, down to her wrist, the callus tip of his fingers evoking a most rousing sensation.

“This one is swollen.” With a tender brush of his lips, he kissed that finger.

Oh…Lord.

Ophelia caught her lower lip between her teeth and bit hard, hoping the small sting would center her. He turned her hand palm up and placed a warm, open-mouthed kiss to the center. Then, with provoking deliberateness, he kissed the pulse at her wrist.

“I have it on the highest authority that kissing wounds better does not work,” she muttered, thoroughly cross with her reaction.

“Your voice is trembling, Fifi.”

Ophelia’s heart began a rapid hammering. Her cheeks burned, and she was grateful for the darkness. It was not only her voice that shook, but it also felt like tiny tremors were exploding throughout her body. Fireworks. And he seemed entirely unmoved. The utter wretchedness of that awareness brought a tight ache to her throat. Was it that she wanted him to be just as affected by their closeness?

He touched a spot, and she flinched, saving her from coming up with a response.

“Here?” he murmured, tenderly pressing.

“Yes.”

“It is not broken or sprained.”

“How can you tell?”

“I am familiar with broken bones.”

How bland his tone was, yet it hinted at hidden pain. “Yours?”

“Yes.”

She was aghast. “How?”

“I worked in a fighting pit for a few years, and there were other circumstances.”

She couldn’t imagine what he meant. “What other circumstances?”

He stilled. “I will tell you another time.”

His calloused thumb rested against her wrist, sending another wave of heat through her.

“Your heart is beating rather fast, Fifi, and you are trembling.”

Ophelia closed her eyes against a wave of embarrassment. “I’m not quite sure what has come over me. It must be the night’s air.”

Tugging her fingers from his, she stepped away from his closeness. Suddenly she felt like she could breathe again without filling her body with impossible cravings. She did not bid him good night or warn him again from hurting a duke’s son. Ophelia simply had to get away.

So she left without looking behind, painfully conscious of the feel of his stare against her shoulders. Every instinct warned her that Devlin Byrne was not a man she should become entangled with in any form. The boy she had met back then and liked so much no longer existed. There was no justifiable reason to maintain a connection with him.

None.

Yet her heart did not want to listen to reason, for it danced and skipped in anticipation of when she might see him again.