Chapter Thirteen
Three days after the ball, Ophelia was still bedeviled. Why had Trentham been deliberately offensive? And how was she supposed to recover her equilibrium without recourse to music? She couldn’t play the out-of-tune piano. And she would not play the harp. She couldn’t even bear to look at it.
If she could bring herself to hate Trentham, she would hate him for that. For robbing her of her best source of solace. But she couldn’t hate him. The pain in his voice when he’d admitted he didn’t know himself betrayed a hurt far worse than what she’d felt when he insulted her down to her bones.
There had been no cause for it! Their mutual flirtation, even adding in the library kiss that she would have missed if she’d blinked, had not amounted to much.
They both could have stepped back and remained cordial.
Remained friends, even. It would have made much more sense for him to allow her a little huff at the ball, absent himself for a week, and then return as jolly as ever but with a bit of distance.
Distance, because now that he was courting Lady Elizabeth, it would no longer be seemly to engage in even a harmless bit of flirtation.
She would have liked to remain friends with that Duke of Trentham.
But the duke who had leered at her bosom and implied a much more intimate association with her lips than he’d experienced, how was she to remain friendly with that?
He had meant to wound her. The question was why?
She couldn’t try to puzzle it out with Dessie.
It would be difficult to complain of the explicit bosom leering without backing up to explain that there had previously been hand caressing and kiss stealing.
She didn’t know why she had withheld those details from her sister when they’d occurred.
Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to hear Dessie’s warnings again.
Or she was afraid Dessie might let slip to Lynch what had happened—and what a mess that would cause!
Or, perhaps it was because she hadn’t wanted to treat this particular flirtation lightly.
She had liked Trentham. Quite a bit, she had liked him.
The more fool she.
Fortunately, she needn’t dwell on the man.
Distractions abounded. She’d been for carriage rides with two different gentlemen on sequential afternoons—though she’d already forgotten their names.
She attended a play one evening with Dessie and Lynch, a comedy so poor it made Dessie cry.
And Lady Melvin had just left, after paying a call to return Caldwell’s Secret and to lend Ophelia another book by the same author.
Ophelia hadn’t come across Trentham, thank goodness, on any of the outings, but Lady Melvin had been quick to share that His Grace’s carriage had been spotted in the Barringtons’ drive yesterday.
“And isn’t that simply delightful? To see a wayward man reformed?
” Dessie changed the subject abruptly, though whether that was to spare Ophelia the gushing gossip or to keep Lady Melvin from “stirring the pot,” she didn’t know.
Wayward man?
But that was something else to consider.
If the Wormsley-Barrington courtship became the focal point of the Season, would talk of his scandalous past be revived?
Would she learn his secret? Would it reinforce her conviction that keeping her distance from him was for the best?
Intrigued though she was, she decided such curiosity should not be indulged.
After all, it shouldn’t matter one whit to her what he had done.
Once Lady Melvin had departed, Ophelia and Dessie settled in the parlor with more tea. After agreeing how much they liked the woman, despite her gossipy nature, Dessie’s good humor slipped away. She began fidgeting cagily.
“Did I miss something?” Ophelia asked.
Dessie glanced at her, then quickly away. “No. No, but I have something awkward to tell you.”
“Go on.”
“I had a card this morning from Lady Elizabeth. She asks us to tea tomorrow.”
Ophelia stiffened, then said what she must. “We will go, naturally.”
“We don’t have to.”
“Of course, we have to.” She felt a catch in her throat. “Lady Elizabeth will likely be Trentham’s wife. I imagine you’ll be thrown into her company frequently. Besides, you can’t say ‘no’ to a Barrington.”
*
Ophelia had anticipated a staid but well-attended affair.
Instead, she and Dessie were the only invitees.
The ladies’ sitting room was large and ornate, with fleur-de-lis-papered walls dotted with gold-framed paintings, and shelves and tables containing so many figurines, statuettes, vases, and bowls, that Ophelia could not say what color or theme predominated.
Lady Elizabeth was the complete opposite. In a decidedly unfussy dark blue walking dress, her hair pulled back into a loose chignon, unselfconsciously bespectacled, the girl might not be pretty, but she looked perfectly self-composed.
They sipped their tea and ate teacakes while Lady Elizabeth asked questions about America, especially New York. After they had described the mansions, shops, theaters, green spaces, and museums, Lady Elizabeth sighed. “It sounds wonderful. Magical.”
Dessie didn’t quite manage to catch back a laugh. “You live in London!”
“Yes.” A blush spilled across her cheeks. “But London’s attractions have grown stale.”
Ophelia was torn between a snicker and a huff of offense—offense on Trentham’s behalf. The discussion moved on to Lynch and his political crusade.
“You wouldn’t believe the number of men who claim the sanctity of the home will be destroyed if women are allowed to control the money they earn or have a say in what to do with property they bring into a marriage.
” Dessie deepened her voice to mimic a man.
“There can be but one ruler in the household: the husband!”
Lady Elizabeth’s gaze fell, and she exhaled softly as though resigned. The discussion made Ophelia uncomfortable. Didn’t Dessie remember explaining that Lady Elizabeth had nothing to bring into a marriage but her bloodline?
Nevertheless, Lady Elizabeth responded, “Lord Lynchford is doing important work. Even my father admits that, although he insists any amendment should only apply to the lower orders. Those brutes drink away their wives’ hard-earned pay and beat them without remorse.
The law should protect those women, but the wives of gentlemen need no such protection.
” She paused. “I suspect that is untrue. The men who most adamantly insist their wives need no protection are likely the worst offenders.”
An insightful observation. It made Ophelia wonder if Lady Elizabeth was worried about Trentham. It almost made her want to reassure the girl. But then, what did she really know about the duke?
Conversation became more general and superficial.
Lady Elizabeth knew everyone, but had nothing mean or negative to say about anyone.
Which Ophelia appreciated: it made it unlikely she would turn around and say nasty things about Dessie.
The longer they talked, the more Ophelia had to concede that she liked her.
At last, Dessie said that they should go. Lynch would be home for dinner, so she should be too. Ophelia and Lady Elizabeth teased her about the man ruling the roost, but that was absurd enough that they all three laughed.
“Would you like to go riding tomorrow morning?” Lady Elizabeth asked as they rose. “I usually go out early, before the crowds appear.”
“I would love to!” Ophelia exclaimed. They had their own stable in New York, but she hadn’t ridden since coming abroad. She was so keen on the chance that she forgot, briefly, Dessie’s situation.
“I—I’m afraid I can’t,” Dessie said, one hand sliding to her abdomen. “I mean, I am not so very fond of riding. But Ophelia, you should go. Lynch will see you mounted.”
Lady Elizabeth’s face fell for a moment; then she turned to Ophelia expectantly.
Ophelia wondered how awkward the outing might be without Dessie. Less awkward than changing her mind abruptly and offering a weak excuse. So she said, “Where should we meet? And what time?”
*
Ophelia regretted wearing her new riding habit, a dark green velvet outfit with a matched pelisse. It felt ostentatious. Lady Elizabeth wore a faded brown habit that hung loosely about her hips, as if she might not have been the original owner.
At least Lady Elizabeth’s horse was a beauty, with a tawny coat and gentle eyes.
The Barringtons were not in such straits that she could not keep her mare.
The gelding Lynch had provided for Ophelia was a dun with a white snip on its muzzle, pretty but rather plodding.
She suspected he mistrusted her ability to ride anything more spirited.
In his defense, she had twisted her ankle falling out a window.
They rode side-by-side at a modest pace, down one of the grassy, tree-lined paths in Green Park. Ophelia could see where it got its name. It was greener and more florally fragrant than even Central Park in New York.
At Lady Elizabeth’s suggestion, they slowed further so they could converse.
They talked about nothing for a while. It was clear to Ophelia that her new friend was circling around something she wished to discuss.
Just as she was about to ask if anything was bothering her, Lady Elizabeth blurted, “This is terribly unseemly, I know, but I need some advice and have no one to ask.”
“Advice? From me?” She flattened one hand against her chest in surprise and protest.
“I need to know how to—to properly reject a proposal. I’ve never had one, you see, but I’m sure you have. Probably many.” The girl’s neck and cheeks reddened as her composure deserted her. “I fear I might…that is, several people have suggested…”
“The Duke of Trentham?”
“Yes.” She nodded, so obviously miserable that Ophelia could not feel resentful.
Rather, her heart thump-thumped. “I was under the impression that it was a sought-after match by both parties.” She was the wrong person to tell Lady Elizabeth how to reject the duke.
“I know I should be grateful to him. And he should be grateful to me, I suppose. My parents are thrilled, while last year they would not have had him in our home!” She shuddered. “I don’t mean to say he’s an unpleasant man. He isn’t. But he’s so old.”
“Old?”
“He must be thirty. Or near so.”
The problem was not that Trentham was old. It was that Lady Elizabeth was so young. But Ophelia did not have the heart to point that out.
“He’s very cynical, I think,” Lady Elizabeth continued. “Which I am not. I’m not foolish enough to yearn for a love match. But a marriage should be based on mutual respect, not mutual pity.”
Mutual pity? What possible reason could Lady Elizabeth have to pity Trentham?
Still, it was true that Ophelia had refused a couple of proposals.
So, she parroted what her “Aunt” Grace, her mother’s dearest friend, had taught her.
“Rejections should be swift, kind, and unequivocal. If you mean no, say no.” But then, her situation was different from Lady Elizabeth’s.
“Are your parents insistent that you accept him?”
“Not insistent. Worse. They are hopeful. They think it will solve everything. And they’ll be mortified by my ingratitude.
” She bowed her head and Ophelia worried the girl might start to sob.
“I wish he wouldn’t court me! I know he doesn’t want to.
He looks positively squeamish when he comes to call. ”
Ophelia couldn’t imagine Trentham squeamish about anything.
“I’m sorry.” Lady Elizabeth raised her chin, then faced Ophelia. The sheen of tears in her eyes was heartbreaking. “I have been disingenuous. You see, I can’t say no to Trentham. But I’d hoped he might be persuaded to give up his pursuit.”
“Persuaded?”
“If, perhaps, Lord Lynchford would convince him to do so.”
“Lynch?” Why would he… “Oh.” Her chest tightened. “You’d like Dessie to talk to him. That’s why you—”
“No! Well, at first, yes. I did invite you to tea to ask the favor, but I couldn’t bring myself to be so mercenary. Not after spending time with you. I do want us to be friends. Truly. But if Trentham and I are wed, we will both be unhappy. He must see that as well as I do.”
Did he? Why was he pursuing her if they were so unsuited?
“I suppose I could ask Dessie to talk to Lynch.” Would Dessie think she was being self-serving? Was she?
“I would be so grateful. But it would have to be our secret. If my parents were to find out, if His Grace found out the request came from me, it would be worse than if I were simply to tell him no.”
Dessie would keep no secrets from her husband.
And Ophelia wasn’t sure Lynch could be relied upon to not tell his best friend that it was a scheme.
It might possibly come down to Trentham knowing he’d been preemptively rejected and keeping quiet about it.
He should; it would be quite a blow to his pride. But—
“Oh!” She had a sudden thought. “Everyone expects him to ask for you, don’t they?”
“Everyone who matters.”
“What will they say if he doesn’t?”
“That he is a terrible rogue.” Lady Elizabeth lowered her eyes, and sounded remorseful, but then her voice thinned and rose higher. “But he is. Everyone says he is. This will only confirm it. A leopard can’t change its spots.”
Ophelia wanted to protest, but how could she? After the advantage he’d taken in Lynch’s library? And the insult he’d delivered at the ball?
Disappointment weighed down like a millstone on her chest. Why try to convince herself he was something he was not? She couldn’t deny what it appeared everyone knew. He was a terrible rogue.