Epilogue #2
Apollo Isdale, Duke of Prestwick, isn’t just a notorious rake who has left a trail of broken hearts scattered in his wake over London.
He’s also the wickedly handsome brother of Ophelia’s dearest friend, seven years her junior, and entirely wrong for her.
Engaging in a dalliance with the charming, reckless Apollo is a gamble she can’t afford.
Apollo has long harbored a tendre for his sister’s forbidden friend from afar.
When fate brings the lush widow into his arms, he has no intention of letting her go.
Courting ruin has never been so tempting, but the resulting scandal has the potential to cost them both everything.
With a powerful enemy determined to tear them apart, Apollo must prove he’s a risk worth taking for the only woman who holds the key to his jaded heart.
Chapter One
Ophelia was overset.
Not just because this was the first occasion upon which she had left her beloved children at home under the care of their governess for an entire week and she missed them dreadfully.
Not just because she was about to play hostess to a secret club about which she knew fretfully little other than that it was a scandalous society devoted to hedonism in all its carnal forms.
But because she hadn’t overseen the invitations and acceptances to the seven-day house party that was about to unfold at the home of the Wicked Dukes Society, Wingfield Hall.
That intricate, time-consuming task had belonged to her friend Aphrodite.
And that was why Ophelia hadn’t known that Aphrodite’s brother would be in attendance.
Apollo Isdale.
Insatiable rake, raffish rapscallion, most beautiful man in London, collector of broken hearts, irresistible seducer, and one eleventh Duke of Prestwick.
A man she should never notice. Forbidden to her. Seven years younger. Infinitely unsuitable. Entirely scandalous and wholly delicious.
Not that Ophelia could afford to notice that.
Or the way his black hair fell in tousled waves that perpetually looked as if a lover had just threaded her fingers through them. Likely because they had.
Or how tremendously tall he was, with broad shoulders and a muscled form that left no room for doubt that the Duke of Prestwick was undeniably, potently male.
Or the way he strutted into the room with the confidence of a man who was accustomed to commanding all the attention within it, smug arrogance personified. Earned, she supposed, twisting her lips as she watched him moving about their fellow revelers now.
Thank heavens for her mask. He would never suspect she was hiding behind the comforting anonymity of the silk. No one would.
Because the Marchioness of Corbett was above reproach.
She didn’t attend sinful house parties designed to be vulgar romps for all members involved, complete with naughty charades, bacchanals, orgies, and nude swimming sessions in a grotto.
And those were the sinful events of which she was aware.
Lord knew what else the members had planned.
For a brief, wild instant, Ophelia imagined Apollo bereft of the elegant blacks and whites he had donned for dinner. What would he look like naked, his sleek, powerful body plowing through the silvery water of the grotto?
She frowned as she fanned herself, overheated.
What are you thinking, Ophelia? That was an unwise thought best banished.
She was too old, too wise, too staid for such ridiculous entertainments.
She didn’t dally with men, familiar or otherwise, and certainly not with notorious rakes who were so much younger than she was.
Besides, it wasn’t as if Apollo—who had all the loveliest ladies of London falling at his gorgeous feet—would notice her, let alone desire her.
He is your friend’s brother, she reminded herself sternly.
Aphrodite would have been appalled at her interest. Which was why it was imperative that no one should ever know she was attracted to him. Not her friend, and most certainly not the towering godlike man who was presently charming another lady on the other side of the drawing room.
Lucky lady in red.
No, no, no, Ophelia. What was she thinking? Blessed angels, was it the wine she had consumed to soothe her nerves wreaking havoc upon her unsuspecting faculties?
Likely.
Ophelia took a deep, calming breath and forced herself to turn away from the tableau before her.
The club members were all engaged in conversation.
A particularly amorous pair of guests was kissing in a shadowy corner.
No one had need of her presently. The founding leaders of the club had been clear when she had taken on her role. She was not required to participate.
She needed to take some garden air. To calm herself. This was going to be a desperately long week if Ophelia couldn’t employ the cold control for which she was known. She was the Widow of Ice for a reason.
Taking care to avoid the couples and keep to the periphery of the drawing room, she made her way to the French doors leading to gravel paths and immaculately cultivated gardens beyond.
She didn’t want to be forced into a tête-à-tête with a licentious lord or a prying lady.
The more she kept to herself here, the easier it would be to maintain her carefully wrought facade.
She passed through the doors, drinking in the night air and scent of roses in bloom and fresh earth. It had recently rained, and her hems would be damp, but she didn’t mind. At least she might have a few moments to gather herself before she had to return and lead the guests to dinner.
“In the mood for company?”
Ophelia gasped at the deep, mellifluous voice and whirled about, shocked to discover Apollo standing on the path, the fading sunlight bathing him in a golden, ethereal glow, as if he had been stolen from the heavens and brought low among the mortals.
“I was taking the air,” she forced out sternly. “Alone.”
Unfortunately, he didn’t heed her warning. Apollo just grinned, his smile showing off twin dimples that were sure to set the pulses of all his conquests racing, displaying even, white teeth.
“I hope you don’t mind if I take it as well. With you.”
Her heart was pounding so ferociously, she wondered if he could hear it.
Surely he didn’t know who she was.