Chapter Seven
Ophelia’s heart skittered like a young colt in her chest. For just a moment she pretended he was asking if she would be willing to fulfill such a request, and she allowed herself to imagine what being his wife and the mother of his children might be like.
Despite being a rather odd gentleman with hermit-like tendencies, he was kind, chivalrous, and despite how he described himself, she found him exceedingly handsome.
She studied him, letting the full scene of them being here in this room as a family play out in her mind.
The smiles and laughter and light, once the curtains were drawn back, was blissful.
She imagined herself being supremely happy.
She imagined he was happy, too. And she would finally have all that she had longed for: a real family of her own.
For once, she would have been chosen. Not like at the orphanage where she had been left and found wanting by the families that came week after week.
Not like when she was an infant abandoned by a father who had never cared to claim her as his own.
Finally, she would be enough.
Her cheeks flushed at what that moment would be like once it happened for real and not merely in her imagination.
She smiled at him and looked down at her lap.
If he had been asking her to fulfill such a contract, she would have merely inquired where she needed to sign and leapt headlong into her new life. But of course, he wasn’t.
Fool.
That was indeed not what he was asking her, and she would do well to remember such.
She would also do well to remember she needed to make a name for herself as a matchmaker.
Taking on a business was a serious matter and she needed to think like a proprietor, not a foolish girl with dreams of finding a handsome prince to rescue her.
This was a chance for her to rescue herself.
Now, how did one navigate a generous monetary offer with a ridiculous timeline from a man who could launch her name and business into Society?
With care.
Hattie’s words resonated in her mind.
She stared down at the raised ridge from the purple glass–beaded friendship bracelet that hid beneath her glove. She traced a finger over it for comfort as she often did. Such a timeline was well and good for business ventures but in matters of love?
Truth with tact, Trudy’s voice reminded her.
Ophelia smiled. Both of her friends were right in this case. She knew exactly what to say. She lifted her head and met the Viscount’s impatient gaze.
‘While I appreciate your eagerness for a match and for the future family you desire, my lord,’ she began, ‘I do not believe love can be rushed in such a fashion. I do not know if I can agree to meet such an extreme timeline. I could agree to try, but what you ask for is rather a tall order, even for a viscount.’
‘Because of the scarring?’ he replied, his face blank.
She shook her head. ‘No, not at all. Your wound is not as dire as you believe. I think it gives you an air of mystery that some women would find rather intriguing, if I may say so.’
His features softened, revealing his surprise.
She had meant it sincerely, though. He was fiercely attractive despite the thin, raised white and pink line that puckered the skin of his face just below his eye and along his cheek.
She could see where it disappeared down his neck beyond his cravat, and she wondered if it continued along his shoulder and back, as well.
‘May I ask how it happened?’ she dared, nodding to his scarring. His willingness to engage in her questions would help her to know if he trusted her and if she had a chance of succeeding in her task.
The softness of a moment ago disappeared and hardness resurfaced, his lips compressing into a flat line of silence.
Despite how she loved to talk, she had a keen gift for waiting.
And in those moments of waiting, she watched, for a person often spoke loudest when they said nothing at all.
He shifted in the sofa, his fingertips running over the smooth fabric of a cushion, and looked away.
He stared past her toward the curtained window as if he could not decide whether to say anything at all or nothing.
Finally, his fingers stilled, and he flicked his gaze back to her.
His eyes were dark and troubled. ‘The battles prior to the War of 1812 in the Americas,’ he offered and almost smiled.
‘I was quite arrogant then. I believed I could go there, fight, lead men to victory and return as a hero. I was a fool, and this,’ he said pointing to his scar, ‘is one of the reminders I carry of my hubris.’
She wanted to ask what other reminders he carried, but a soft voice inside her told her to wait, and so she would. Her intuition about such things was never wrong. He would tell her more when he was ready. The fact he had offered anything at all was promising.
She held her breath, hoping he might add more, but he didn’t.
‘Anything else you’d like to share with me about your requests for a match?
’ she dared ask. She knew she might have pushed too far, but she wanted to know if that was all that drove his timeline or match specifications. He frowned and shook his head.
‘I find your questions rather vexing, Miss Granger,’ he replied. ‘Are they necessary for finding me a match?’
‘Yes,’ she replied truthfully, ‘otherwise I would not ask.’
He sighed and nodded. ‘Very well. I find beautiful women such as yourself rather difficult to trust and rely on. That is why I would prefer a homely bride. Is that direct enough for you?’ The sharp edge to his voice cut her rather more than she cared to admit, despite his hidden compliment to her looks.
She swallowed and nodded. She dared one more step.
‘Then why engage my services at all?’
‘I haven’t yet.’
Her stomach dropped. Drat. Perhaps she had dared far too much. She bit her lip.
He leaned forward in his chair and studied her before he spoke again.
His impatience and irritation prompted a wild darkness in his gaze and set a slight sneer to his otherwise pleasant-looking mouth.
‘I need to fulfill a promise long overdue, and that is all you need to know. Can you agree to these terms and find me a bride, Miss Granger, or shall I look elsewhere?’
Ophelia lifted her chin, met his gaze, and lied.
‘Yes, my lord. I can.’
The woman was a horrid liar. The way her lips trembled as she agreed to his ridiculous proposal to find him a bride revealed as much, but he found himself pretending he had not noted it.
Truth be told, he wanted to see how she would even go about such a challenging task.
He hadn’t been so intrigued by a woman in quite some time, and he couldn’t figure out the odd mixture of confidence, beauty and uncertainty that lurked beneath her porcelain skin and fine features.
All he knew was that for the first time in a long time he was excited for something to begin.
To his surprise, that meant he was eager to find a bride.
Diana would have laughed aloud. He probably would have joined her. He cast the thought aside, and said with certainty, ‘Now that we are working together, Miss Granger, where shall we begin?’
‘A calendar,’ she replied with certainty.
‘A calendar?’ he asked. Of all the things he had expected her to reply, that had not been one of them.
‘Yes,’ she answered simply. ‘Since you have a rather specific time frame, I think we should plan backwards from your end goal.’
He nodded. ‘I shall ask my butler, Yates, and see if we have a calendar about the house. I am out of practice at using one. I do not plan many social engagements.’ He stood and smoothed out his waistcoat.
‘As of today, my lord, that will be changing.’ She smiled at him.
He ignored the uneasiness her statement created in him, left the parlour, found Yates and inquired about a calendar, but none were located. Lucas rather liked not having a calendar. The idea of planned commitments made his pulse increase. His skin itched, and he scratched his palms.
But this was the future he wanted, and he had to dare begin. He went to his study, gathered the supplies needed and returned to the parlour with a long piece of parchment, an ink pot and a quill. ‘We do not have a calendar at hand, but I can make one.’
‘Oh?’ she replied, her brow lifting.
‘Leave it to me,’ he offered, settling in at a card table for more room.
He smoothed out the parchment, anchored it down with the ink pot as well as a few other trinkets nearby and set to work.
The familiar movements settled him more than anything else could.
For finally, after months and years of struggle, he was creating something that felt like art.
It didn’t matter that it was merely a calendar.
The ease and fluidity of Lord Worthing’s strokes with the quill as he guided the ink across the parchment revealed his skill.
As the flourishes turned into boxes and decorative scrolls along with numbers and words, the amusement Ophelia initially felt at his creating a calendar from scratch transformed into wonder.
‘You are incredibly skilled, my lord. Are you an artist?’ she asked.
For the first time since he began, the movements of his quill faltered.
He paused and looked up. There was a sadness in the depths of his eyes she hadn’t expected.
‘I used to be,’ he said quietly before glancing away and returning to finish off the remaining numbers to mark the days left in September as well as those in October to serve as their thirty days.
Well, her thirty days of employment, anyway.
‘Can one lose their artistry? Surely, if you were once an artist, you still are.’
He gave a sarcastic chuckle. ‘If you have something to inspire you to create. But I have…nothing.’
She didn’t know how to respond, but he had moved on from her inquiry. He turned to reveal the finished calendar to her. ‘Will this do?’ he asked.
‘It will more than do, my lord. It is quite beautiful. Thank you,’ she said, peering over his shoulder at the completed work.
And she meant it. The tiny floral flourishes that edged the corners of the calendar were lovely, and the script was inspired with unexpected turns and swirls.
‘It is almost too pretty to write on,’ she teased.
He shook his head. ‘Well, according to you we must in order to begin this endeavor of yours.’
She stared at it.
‘So?’ he prompted. ‘What is our first step?’
She blanked and froze. The man thought her able and ready to fill it out now?
She shook her head and smiled at him as the clock struck the hour.
‘While I am moved by your belief in me, I must first spend a little time thinking upon our strategy, especially with such a rigid time frame. But I shall take it with me, add items to it, and we can meet again on Monday. That will give me two days to consider all the possibilities.’
His shoulders drooped. She wasn’t sure if they did so in relief or disappointment, but it didn’t really matter.
She could not formulate a plan on the spot.
Too many ideas competed for space in her mind, and there were only a handful of opportunities for true gatherings that would occur in the span of a month.
Hattie had explained as much to her and Trudy before Ophelia had left with Daphne this morning to visit the Viscount.
She would go back to Westchester Manor, ask Hattie about all the upcoming balls and events, and hatch out a plan from there.
Lady Buchanan rose from her chair in the far corner of the parlour and approached. ‘I am afraid we must return to the manor, Lord Worthing.’
‘So soon?’ he asked.
‘Yes. We have another appointment later this afternoon.’
Ophelia looked at the clock whose hands were neatly settled upon the twelve and smiled at her chaperone.
Even though they had no formal appointment, they had agreed she would stay until noon and then depart whether she had secured his employment or not, and Daphne had not forgotten.
Her interruption was perfect. Ophelia did not wish to explain to the Viscount why she could not begin filling in his calendar on the spot.
It was not good form to admit to your first client that you had absolutely no idea where to start, now, was it?
He nodded. After sprinkling sand over the calendar he had made and blowing off the excess to ensure the ink had set properly, the Viscount rolled it up, tied it with a black ribbon and held it out to Ophelia. ‘I look forward to our meeting on Monday. Shall I send for you as I did today?’
‘Yes,’ Daphne replied. ‘We shall both look forward to our next visit, my lord.’
‘I am eager to see how your plan will unfold, Miss Granger,’ he said.
‘As am I,’ Ophelia said, accepting the calendar from him.
Her fingers skimmed along his own in a whispering touch that, even through her gloves, sent a small trill of warning through her.
She needed to be careful around him. With every encounter he became more interesting and the last thing she needed was to find her first client anything but a step to launch her business further.