Chapter Three #2
Ophelia hesitated. Then confessed. “Of course not.” Her childish dreams of the Elias Cameron, promising young musician heard through the floorboards, were silly.
The reality was less romantic. And still silly.
“It’s that, astounded by my talent, not my décolletage, he will sweep me off on tour with him.
” Dessie’s eyes went too wide. “Wildest dream, remember? Fairy tale. I’m not saying it could happen.
” If Elias Cameron were to sweep her away, it would be to have another ornament in his collection.
And she would still be loath to perform before strangers.
“I’m not good enough to play professionally.
I guess my greatest wish is that I was.”
*
Now this, Ophelia thought, was what a high society soiree should look like.
There was a line of carriages in the drive.
The butler stood at the front entrance while guests filed through the door.
Just inside, a small army of servants carted away hats and wraps.
And, in the entry hall, the Duke of Trentham greeted a sampling of the ton.
He looked different tonight. Ophelia’s memory, and her embarrassment, had exaggerated the hook of his nose. Of course, he’d shaved; that helped. And his attire was not vaguely rumpled as it had been last night. He had that inaccessible peer-of-the-realm look. Lynch could do it too, but not as well.
A lady stood beside Trentham, his hostess. She, too, was tall and slender. She was older, with strands of gray in her hair, and, despite the smile on her face, her close-set eyes looked a little sad.
Ophelia was impressed by the way Lynch made introductions as though she and the duke had never met before; then Trentham introduced her to his sister, Lady Townes.
It was all very formal. Very well acted.
It was even a little annoying, seeing as how he looked past her to his next guest even before Lynch ushered them along.
The chandeliers were brightly lit tonight. The hallways were crowded and most of the doors were open, displaying charming rooms filled with things that appeared both staid and ornate. And old. In one, men had gathered to smoke cigars.
Lynch leaned close to his wife’s ear. “Darling, there’s Lord Jemson.”
“Go on,” she said, pressing his arm.
He gave her an apologetic smile and disappeared into the haze.
“I hate when he does that.” She grimaced.
“Politicking at social events?”
“What?” Dessie looked startled, then she smirked. “No. Calls me ‘darling.’ It’s so…” She pushed her tongue against her teeth as if working out a piece of gristle. “Treacly.”
Across the hall, sandwiches and dainty sweets had been set upon a long candlelit table. A sideboard in the same room held row upon row of champagne flutes. Ophelia nodded that way. “Are we allowed?”
“Champagne?” Dessie’s nose wrinkled. “Yes. But if you take one, the biddies will start counting.”
“I was only going to have one.”
“But you see, it will be very good champagne. And the evening is young.”
Ophelia took hold of her sister’s arm. “Why don’t we share a glass? Confuse the poor creatures with fractions?”
“Oh, I like that!” Dessie giggled and pulled her into the room.
The champagne was extraordinary: fresh and tingly with the lightest bite on the tongue.
The duke didn’t stint on his entertainments, the show-off.
Ophelia wondered how many marble ancestors would soon find themselves auctioned off.
Not that she felt any inclination to rescue him from financial ruin with her dowry.
He didn’t have to put on so extravagant a display.
It was lovely to link arms with Dessie and tour the room.
Like old times, except that Dessie knew nearly everyone and Ophelia knew no one.
The Englishmen eyed them appraisingly—Ophelia more so than Dessie, probably because she was a new face and not married to one of them—while pretending they were doing nothing of the sort.
The English ladies were polite to a fault but not warm.
Dessie responded in kind. Ophelia found herself doing the same. Play-acting.
When her sister returned to the table for a sweet and to divest herself of the empty glass, Ophelia was drawn into a nonsensical conversation with Lady Mary, the petite, pretty, very young daughter of someone whose name Ophelia missed hearing, who claimed she would be embarking in a few weeks upon a three-month American tour.
Miss Delancey simply must tell her all the sights she must see.
Of course, her main goal was to talk to an Indian!
But she’d heard there were no longer any Indians in New York. Where must she go?
“Um…Arizona Territory?” Ophelia guessed. The poor girl shouldn’t wear those blonde ringlets so tight. They were pinching her brain.
“I will! And I’ve heard that I must see New Orleans. And San Francisco. Is that true?”
“Yes?” Ophelia answered, then bit her lip to keep from grinning. In three months? Had Lady Mary no concept of American geography? No, of course she didn’t.
A voice at her shoulder said, “You shouldn’t miss Canada, either. If you are braving the crossing, there is a café in Montreal that serves the most delicate scones.”
“Oh! Your Grace!” Lady Mary blushed. “Thank you. I will.”
“If you’ll excuse us, I’m afraid I must borrow Miss Delancey for a moment.”
Trentham put his hand to her elbow and steered her away. Tonight, his hands were ensconced in soft, black kidskin gloves, but his touch still warmed her. She wondered how hot his hands would feel, skin to skin. Which was not something she should be wondering.
“That conversation made my head hurt,” he murmured. “I wonder what the devil she meant by ‘I will.’”
“Have you really been to Montreal?”
He glanced down at her. “Yes. And I can still feel those scones melting on my tongue. But I didn’t seek you out to trade travelogues.”
Ophelia beamed at him.
His eyes widened. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just I’m pleased to meet you again, rather than that man at the door.”
A hint of humor played about his mouth. “You mean ‘the duke?’”
“It is as if everyone here is acting a role. Even Dessie.”
“All the world’s a stage. But how do you know that stuffy duke is not my true self?”
“And ‘lovable toff’ is your act?”
“Lovable? I—” He halted, the corners of his lips turning down, as though he didn’t know how to respond.
“Toff. Nob,” she attempted, but she didn’t know the cant well enough to say what she meant.
And now, for pity’s sake, she must be blushing.
Her sister never got herself into these situations; why did she?
Thank goodness, Dessie was approaching, balancing three tiny sandwiches on a napkin and, in her other hand, another flute of champagne.
“Have a sip, Robin,” Dessie said, nodding at the glass. “One-third and one-half. Can’t do that quickly in their heads.”
“Pardon?”
“Fractions,” Ophelia said. “Five-sixths. Still acceptable.” To answer his raised eyebrow, she explained, “We are counting champagnes.”
“I see.” His eyebrow came down; his expression went blank. She doubted he saw.
Dessie giggled and handed them each a sandwich. “So what were you two discussing so furtively? Hmm?”
“Your sister was trying to find the one-word Briticism to describe me.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Dessie said. “Rakehell.”
Ophelia gasped, but Trentham merely tut-tutted. “Someone has lost count of her champagnes.”
“No, no, I haven’t. I’m sorry. But that was too easy.” Dessie burst into the delicious fit of giggles that excused her everything. It almost made Ophelia weep. She would miss her sister so much.
Trentham appeared indifferent. “Go pester Lynch, now, will you, dear? I have been trying to ask your sister a simple question, and I’ve ended up going to Canada and back.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Dessie made a flawless curtsy and backed away, as though she had just been presented to the queen.
Ophelia turned her attention back to the duke. “What question?”
“Will you or will you not play a duet with Eli tonight?”
“Where is Mr. Cameron? I haven’t seen him.”
“Nor will you. He’s engaged in his usual pre-performance ritual: fortifying his courage with a tall Blue Ruin.
He will not emerge until it is time. But he asked me if he might call you up to accompany him on a duet, Fantasiestück.
He says you know it. I said certainly, but he insisted I clear it with you first.”
“Did he?” Ophelia felt her heart melt. “How very kind of him.”
“Kind?”
“If he asked me in front of everyone, I might as well say yes and spare everyone the silly back-and-forth.”
“The false modesty?”
“It isn’t false.” She shuddered, imagining. “I truly, truly, do not wish to play tonight.”
“But why not? You are very talented. Eli would not have asked otherwise. He’s quite vain, you know, and wouldn’t want his performance tarnished.”
“Call it stage fright.”
He looked at her a long moment. “All right. I will ‘call it’ that. But you must not disappear when the performance is over. Eli wants to speak with you.”
“I’ll have to ask Lynch—”
“I’ll talk to him. You just…well, wait. Please.”
“What else do you think I would do? Jump out your window?”
He smiled. A little light sparked in his eyes that had to be real. “I’d better go. We’ll be starting in a few moments, and I promised Eli that I’d let him know your answer.”