Chapter Nine
Given that the Fates had decided to curse her with clumsiness, Ophelia had had ample opportunity to learn one lesson well: recuperation could not be rushed.
Fortunately, the sprain was not as bad as it first seemed.
After nearly a fortnight of sitting, she’d now been hobbling about with a cane for the past few days.
This morning, she tossed it aside. She could walk unaided, though with some residual achiness.
She would be in fine dancing form on time for… it.
Why was it, she mused, that she heard forbidding music whenever she thought the words: Barringtons’ ball?
Would Trentham attend? It seemed he must, unless the Barringtons’ home was one where he was not received.
She didn’t dare ask Dessie. They’d avoided speaking his name since he’d paid that awkward visit ten days ago.
Yes, Ophelia sighed, she was counting them.
And Dessie had been right, scolding her for receiving Trentham alone.
But Dessie needed her rest. And decorum was such a nuisance!
Yet, as if he’d meant to prove the necessity of a chaperone, Trentham had behaved badly.
Sitting so close. Taking hold of her hand like that.
At least it had answered the question of how warm his touch would be without gloves.
Answer: very. Of course, he’d previously held her stockinged foot in his hands, a rather more shocking breach of propriety, but there had been nothing sensual in that—she’d been in acute pain.
Whereas tickling her palm had been intentionally wicked.
And it had felt wickedly marvelous, sending a thrill up her arm and down to her core.
The problem was, she liked him. He made her laugh. His banter challenged her. She enjoyed his company. So it was unfortunate that she also found him so appealing. That was how ill-suited ladies and gentlemen got themselves into predicaments. That appeal.
And even if Dessie’s warning of something wrong proved to be as substantive as a fever dream, Ophelia recognized she and Trentham were ill-suited. She didn’t want to be a duchess. Trentham had no need of her dowry. A match between them served no practical purpose.
Even so, she would likely end up asking him if he would attend—here came those minor chords—the Barringtons’ ball, because he would be coming to supper tonight.
Dessie had finally put together a small dinner party.
Twelve people. Mostly married couples. Trentham was bringing his sister, Lady Townes, and also Mr. Cameron to even the numbers.
Dessie was uncharacteristically nervous.
They might both be old hats at playing hostess at New York society events, but this was the Countess of Lynchford’s first formal dinner party—not only a social function but a political one—and it had to be perfect.
Ophelia was nervous too. Dessie had practically handed her dossiers on the guests and made her memorize which topics would be safe and which were out of bounds.
Ophelia had about resolved to keep silent, or only ask people about their pets.
She didn’t tease Dessie, though, because earlier in the day, she’d found her sister in tears.
Dessie would not admit to anything being wrong.
She said she just felt like crying. Which was absurd.
One could smack Dessie in the face with a board and it would not occur to her to cry.
This was all too hard. She wished they were children back in New York, over-acting scenes from old plays. She wasn’t homesick but rather timesick, if there was such a thing.
Here, now, Dessie was married to an earl, having children of her own, and weeping for no reason. Dessie needed Ophelia and yet, found her to be a potential embarrassment. And Ophelia could not stop thinking about a man she shouldn’t be giving any thought to at all.
*
It was not a difficult dinner. Dessie had paid as much careful attention to the seating arrangements as she had to the menu.
Ophelia was placed between two married gentlemen, one old and one young, equally polite, and equally dull.
They asked her questions about American things and then discoursed upon why British things were better.
It was very simple to nod and smile and ignore.
Dessie sat diagonally across from her, close enough that they could catch snatches of each other’s conversations. Dessie would have nothing to fault her for.
In fact, the only embarrassing gaffe belonged to Dessie.
She had Trentham on her far side. Ophelia couldn’t hear him, though he likely could hear Lord Wrotham holding forth beside her about the horrors of American spirits, because he’d caught her eye a couple of times and smiled as if he knew what she was thinking.
A stuffed pastry was served. Dessie cut into hers and it was too hot; gravy spurted out with the steam like lava from a volcano.
At the same moment, Trentham had reached for his wine glass.
Dessie gasped, but Trentham merely blotted his sleeve with his napkin, then set it back in his lap without interrupting his conversation with Lady Perkins on his right.
He might tease Dessie for the rest of their lives for ruining his jacket, but he affected not to notice tonight. Ophelia loved him for it.
Not loved him, loved him, just loved him. She was not that flighty to fall in love with a man she’d known, slightly, for less than a month. But she did admire a few things about him, his gracious aplomb being one.
At the end of the meal, Lynch invited the men to the cardroom for cigars and brandy. Dessie said the ladies would retire to the parlor.
“But Lord Lynchford, how disappointing!” tittered Lady Wrotham from the far end of the table, her hand possessively squeezing Mr. Cameron’s arm. “Surely we are going to the music room to listen to a performance!”
He made a slight ‘at your service’ bow.
Ophelia’s heart didn’t need this much bruising.
Mr. Cameron was not his usual ebullient self.
His eyes looked bleary and the skin beneath his nose was reddened and rough.
No matter that the man adored showing off, surely he preferred to do it on his own terms. Not when he was sick with a lingering head cold.
But he was a “scholarship boy,” dining with members of the ton.
He must be used to singing for his supper, and Lady Wrotham clearly expected it of him.
Dessie drew herself up, arching her brow as haughtily as if she’d been born a countess. Or an Astor. “The piano is quite out of tune.”
Lynch said, in a more mollifying tone, “Another time, perhaps.”
Trentham jumped in with: “Melvin, Lynch is overly impressed, in my opinion, with his latest brandy acquisition. I say too much cherry. We need your vote.”
Lord Melvin chuckled. “Lynch is always asking for my vote. This one, I will assuredly give him. Your palate is untrustworthy, Trentham. You claimed my Croizet B. Léon had too much pear.”
Lady Townes linked her arm through Lady Wrotham’s and drew her away toward the parlor.
The moment passed. Everything was fine. And Ophelia smiled because she also loved her sister and her brother-in-law.
*
The ladies settled, skirts and bustles and all, into pretty chairs and gossipy conversation. One had been to the same theater performance that Ophelia had seen prior to her incapacitation. Another had read the same novel and was equally shocked to discover Lady Thistlethwaite’s culpability.
They chatted easily, changing seats and groups from time to time as politeness dictated. Eventually, they fell to catching up on each other’s children. Ophelia relaxed, knowing she needed merely smile, sigh, or occasionally chuckle.
But then Lady Townes signaled for her to join her near the fire.
There was no reason to fear Trentham’s sister.
The woman was very personable. Dignified.
Clearly, she had been brought up in the rarefied air of a ducal estate.
Handsome rather than pretty, she looked a little older than Ophelia guessed she should be.
Nevertheless, there was something intimidating about her.
Ophelia screwed her courage for the tête-à-tête.
“How are you finding London, Miss Delancey?”
“Well, I was finding it delightful until my accident. But I am mended now, so—”
“Accident?”
Oh, no. She’d assumed the story had reached Trentham’s sister’s ears. She didn’t know whether to be furious with him for putting her in this position or pleased by his discretion.
“It was a ridiculous mishap. I, well, you see, I tripped over a windowsill and fell out.” Her face burned. That was more detail than needed, or else not enough.
“Oh, my.” Lady Townes bit her lip. “I hope you weren’t badly hurt.”
Ophelia put on a bright smile. “Hardly. It was a ground floor window.”
“I see.” Then Lady Townes snorted and covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“You may laugh.” She rambled a bit desperately. “Trentham did.”
“Robin was there? I should have guessed.”
She shouldn’t have mentioned Trentham. “But I’m wrong, Lady Townes. Only Dessie laughed. Your brother did not. Rather, he helped me up and dusted me off.”
“Of course, he did.”
That sounded worse somehow. “Though he probably laughed later.”
“I’m sure.” Now the humor in her eyes lit her whole face. She may not have gotten along with Trentham’s mother, but it was obvious that she adored him. “You were at Robin’s musicale, weren’t you? Of course you were. With Lynch and Lady Lynchford?”
“Yes. I am a strong admirer of Mr. Cameron.”
“Aren’t we all?” She tilted her head toward Dessie, her amusement fading. “Your sister is…impressive.”
“I think so.”
“Not easily cowed. She will need that. Her husband has put her in a difficult spot. Of course, he’s in a worse one.”
“How so?” She frowned. This might not be an appropriate conversation.
Lady Townes looked surprised. “As pertains to his stance on women’s property rights.”
Definitely not appropriate.
Ophelia understood the problem. Naturally, she and Dessie had discussed it.
Lynch was fighting for married women to be able to keep and control their own inheritances and incomes, not surrender it all to their husbands, as was the law of the land.
And yet, he was a peer in desperate need of funds, who had married an American heiress.
It looked bad. But Ophelia certainly wasn’t about to discuss the legal wrangling that had gone into Dessie’s marriage settlement.
It wasn’t anyone’s business but their own.
She blinked and stalled. “I don’t follow British politics very closely.”
Lady Townes squinted skeptically. “Not even Lynch’s?
He’s working with a committee to pass a bill that will give married women more rights.
” She sighed. “But I’m afraid it will be voted down.
It is not in the interests of those who vote.
I’m grateful to Lynch, at any rate, for holding such forward-thinking convictions. ”
Ophelia nodded. Oddly, Lady Townes had not mentioned Trentham’s views on the matter. And, come to think of it, neither had Dessie.
“Listen to us.” Lady Townes laughed softly. “The men are no doubt in there arguing about brandy and racehorses while we discuss politics.”
“Is your brother—” She stopped. This surely counted as a conversation she was not supposed to have.
“Is he what?”
“One of Lynch’s supporters. I know they are good friends, but…” She tried to phrase it inoffensively. “He does not seem politically minded. Not that I would have reason to think that. I certainly have never tried discussing politics with him.”
“That is complicated. I have no doubt he believes as Lynch does on this issue, but Robin and Lynch are in different parties, and there is an expectation that he will follow the political leanings of our father. Which were decidedly conservative. He has…old connections. Old obligations. Men whom he cannot afford to disappoint. So he keeps his own counsel.”
“That sounds…” Cowardly. “That does not sound very brave.”
“Maybe not. But it is not as simple as bravery. If the vote is as skewed as we expect it to be, there is no point in Robin supporting Lynch. They both know that. And if Lynch is wildly successful,” she smiled weakly, “well, then, he will not need Robin’s vote.”
“If it is close?”
Lady Townes pressed her lips tight and shook her head.
“I expect he will vote his conscience. But for his sake, I hope he will not. I’m sorry.
I should not have wandered down this path.
Now, I must go ask Lady Wrotham how Binny is doing.
I hope you and your sister will have tea with me sometime.
I am going to be in London a few weeks longer than I thought. ”
“That would be lovely,” she answered. “And I should see if Lady Melvin would like to borrow Caldwell’s Secret when I’m finished with it.”
Lady Townes moved away, but Ophelia took a moment to collect her thoughts.
Trentham would not vocally support his good friend in a cause he also believed in? She would not have thought him to be so spineless.
Perhaps she did not admire him quite so much after all.