Chapter One #2
They had not been introduced. He no more recognized her than she did him.
He was not the broad-shouldered handsome man she’d seen across the gallery at the opera and thought might be Lynch’s music-loving friend.
No, this one was tall and thin. Not scrawny, but singularly thin, with a beaked nose and eyes that were set a little too close.
His clothing was fine, but he appeared hurriedly dressed.
His black hair was disheveled, and he was in need of a shave.
Not at all the way a soiree attendee should appear, let alone its host. Whereas she was exquisitely put together in a new Parisian gown that showed a bit more bosom than she’d ever shown in New York and wished she wasn’t showing now.
Not that he was leering. His puzzled eyes had not left her face.
“I believe you know my brother-in-law. The Earl of Lynchford.” It was all she could think to say.
He sauntered in, sliding his hands into his pockets.
“Yes, of course, Lynch. Your resemblance to Dessie, um,” he corrected himself, “Lady Lynchford, is quite evident.”
It felt strange to be compared to her younger sister, rather than the other way around.
Yes, Dessie was a stunner: shining pale-golden tresses, flawless skin, expressive brown eyes, dazzling smile.
Yet Ophelia, similarly featured, had always been held to be prettier.
Probably because Dessie’s figure was slender and boyish, while her own was…
not. She decided it must, of course, be meant as a compliment. “Thank you.”
He still looked confused. “I’m afraid I have to ask. Why are you breaking out of my house?”
“I don’t think I should be here.”
“Well, no. But I do have a door. Presumably you came in through it.”
“I mistrusted my ability to find it.”
He stared at her a moment longer. “One or possibly both of us is making no sense.” Half-smiling, he gazed past her to the window. “Please tell me Lynch and Dessie are hiding behind the draperies.”
“No, of course not. They are at Lady Walpole’s poetry reading.”
“Ah, poor sods.” He turned up his palms. The amusement in his face faded to skepticism. Perhaps annoyance. “Then I am stumped. Why are you here?”
She was beginning to feel angry. This was not her fault.
“For the musicale! To hear Mr. Cameron. I was invited!”
His eyebrows rose. Then he said, soft-voiced, ironic, “That is tomorrow.”
Of course it was. A wash of heat spread over her. Ophelia closed her eyes and leaned against the blessedly cool window. What had she done? He could be forgiven for imagining a grasping American heiress was trying to land herself a title in a despicable fashion.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “Don’t faint.”
She heard the pad-pad of his feet on the carpet, moving closer. Opening her eyes, she said, “I’m not going to faint.” She tossed her head and muttered, “If I fainted every time I made a cake of myself, I would spend half my life on the floor.”
“Come now,” he chided, stopping a few feet in front of her. “It’s an honest mistake. I’ve told my secretary again and again, his fives and sixes are indistinguishable.” She swore he was catching back a laugh.
At least it was kind of him to suppress it.
She pulled the card from her reticule and looked it over, then held it up to show him.
“Yes, so he spelled the words out.” How could she have been so stupid?
She’d seen Elias Cameron’s name and everything else had blurred.
“This is entirely my fault. I do beg your pardon. If you’d be so good as to have your butler show me to the door—”
“Henson said Lynch’s carriage has gone.”
“It will be back.”
His eyes slid over her, assessing, but in a practical way, not a lascivious one.
“Not shortly, I wouldn’t imagine. And you’ll have caught your death of a cold.
” Scratching his chin, he said, “There’s a solution to this.
Let’s have a think.” He paced, obviously as aware as she was of the implications.
Ladies did not pay unchaperoned evening calls at gentlemen’s homes.
“You haven’t been here long enough to…I suppose I could send you back in my coach. ”
“With the ducal crest? How inconspicuous.” She locked her knees. She wasn’t going to faint, but she might just fall down anyway.
“Well, you came here in Lynch’s carriage. That’s hardly incognito.”
“I thought there would be a party.” Such a hideously weak excuse, he would have to believe it. “It was not his landau. I don’t think this one was marked.”
“Would you like to sit down? You say you aren’t going to faint—”
“I’m not!” Her corset pinched. “But I will sit down.”
As she came out from behind the piano, he moved toward her, then took her arm to guide her to a chair. She wore long evening gloves, but his hands were bare. He had very neat hands. Very warm hands. She felt gooseflesh rise on the back of her arms.
She sat. He took a chair across from her and studied her as if she were an oddity at a circus.
“You are Dessie’s older sister.” He stated it as a fact, yet sounded unconvinced.
“I don’t suppose my age is any of your business.” Dessie had reached the ripe age of twenty-one before she’d met Lynch. Ophelia was a decrepit twenty-four.
He shrugged off her complaint. “It isn’t as if I could have guessed by looking. Dessie has spoken of you. I expected something different.”
Dessie would only have said nice things, so Ophelia took that as a veiled insult. “‘Different’ is hardly a flattering assessment.”
“You don’t want to get me started. I am known to be a world-class flatterer.” He steepled his fingers and scowled.
“What—”
“I said don’t get me started.” He rose to his feet and took three steps away. “This is disastrous. I can’t think of a plan. All I know is Lynch is likely to knock my teeth out when he learns you were here. When everyone learns you were here.”
“It isn’t your fault.”
He muttered, “Punishment for past crimes.”
Past crimes?
“Wait!” he cried, spinning back toward her. “Did you say you came to hear Eli?”
“Mr. Cameron? Oh, yes!” For a moment, her enthusiasm returned. “You see, I’ve heard him before, faintly, through the flooring.”
“Through the flooring?” A crease formed in the middle of his brow.
“It was years ago. At my father’s friend’s house. I was supposed to be sleeping. Oh! But he was magnificent. I’ve always hoped…well, I could not have missed your musicale for the world.”
“Your eagerness is duly noted.” He gave a slight nod. A nod indicating her person. “He’ll be impressed. That, um, that color suits you.”
Her neck and face warmed. She heard the words he didn’t quite say.
She supposed she was overdressed for the occasion, too eager, but it wasn’t to impress Mr. Cameron.
Or maybe it was. She should never have listened to Dessie.
Or the Parisian dressmaker. Both of whom had encouraged her to—no, insisted she must—improve upon her previous dowdy style.
It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t have the courage to return for the soiree tomorrow night, no matter what she wore. Not even to hear Mr. Cameron play. Likely, her reputation would be in tatters by sunset tomorrow. She’d have to flee back to New York…
“All right, Miss Delancey.” He interrupted her distressing ruminations. “I’ve thought of something. Eli is upstairs in my study, nursing a brandy.” He pulled his hand through his hair. “Probably his third by now, wondering where the hell, pardon me, where I’ve gone.”
“He’s here?” The air in the room grew thinner.
“Of course, he’s here. For one more week. Then he’s off to Prussia or some such godforsaken place.”
“My goodness.” She bit her knuckle. She was practically alone in the same house as Eli Cameron. Now she might faint.
“I’ll fetch Foster—”
“Foster?”
“My brother. Half-brother. He’s a good sort. I’ll bring him down with Eli. Eli can put on a little impromptu concert. Call it practice.”
“I don’t see how that is going to help.”
“Foster is twelve. Trust me. There is no more effective a chaperone than a twelve-year-old boy.” He grimaced.
“I suppose I’ll have to rouse my valet. I can’t go to the Walpole’s dressed like this.
” He rubbed a hand across his stubbled cheeks and added absently, “Though a little dishevelment would not be amiss.”
“You’re going to the poetry reading?”
“To bring Lynch and your sister back. Rather, they will bring me back. No one else needs to know you were here.” His eyes clouded. “Except I’m not sure Lynch will believe this was not somehow my fault. This is all rather farfetched. Will Dessie believe you?”
Ophelia lowered her head into her hands.
The last thing Dessie needed was a scandal dropped on her doorstep.
“That I misread an invitation meant for the three of us, hid it from them, and sneaked out to a party on my own, on the wrong evening?” She groaned.
“She’ll believe it. Lynch too. Why wouldn’t he believe you? ”
“Perhaps because my first words to Dessie were ‘please tell me you have a sister.’”
She glanced up, startled, then smiled weakly at his straight face. “Oh, you are joking.”
“Yes, I am hilarious. I’ll go fetch Eli and Foster.
” He stepped briskly toward the door, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t stand near the piano while he plays.
Don’t fawn over him. And, for God’s sake, don’t let Foster leave the room.
Eli’s had brandy.” Shaking his head, he said, “I’ll see how quickly I can politely extricate Lynch and Dessie from Lady Walpole’s.
” She heard him snort as he exited the room, “Politely? Good God. That’ll never work.