Chapter Fifteen #3
After the guests had left, Ophelia slipped off to her bed chamber, smiling.
How different life looked now, compared to a mere few hours earlier, when she’d been coated with filth and brooding over Trentham.
She hadn’t touched an instrument since before the Barringtons’ ball, so she was embarrassingly out of practice.
During their initial duet, Mr. Cameron kept shooting her scowls, and she worried he might be regretting agreeing to tutor her.
But by the end of the evening, with her fingers limbered up, he was nodding approval as she played.
Lying down on her bed, she hugged herself as if holding on tightly might help contain her excitement.
She had once told Dessie that her wildest dream was to run off on tour with Elias Cameron.
But that thought hadn’t thrilled her—not like this—because it was pure fantasy.
This was real. He was going to mentor her.
She would get better. Much better. She could feel it.
She could feel, too, the unspoken agreement between them.
He was not going to play the naughty music master, a role that demeaned him.
And she would not expect him to flirt, or feel miffed when he did not.
She imagined it must be tiresome for a man of his talent to be admired more for his good looks—and it sounded as though he often had to use his good looks if he wanted to be employed.
They wouldn’t play those games. It would be about the music. Nothing but the music.
A breeze rustled over her, and she sat up, absently patting the bed.
It had taut sheets, soft blankets, and a feather mattress.
The bed linens were pale yellow. The rest of the décor was all yellow and light blue, all sweetly pleasant and welcoming.
The colors were her favorite shades. How silly that she hadn’t taken notice of that before.
Dessie had made this room for her. To entice her to stay?
She giggled, thinking of the lengths her sister would go to in order to keep her in London. The baby was a stroke of genius!
In the lamplight, she could see the curtains fluttering, so she rose to go close the windows. In early May, it was still chilly at night.
As she walked toward the window, her door creaked open and Dessie bustled in. She shut the door and leaned back against it, her hands behind her. A memory of her quivering chin came back to Ophelia in a rush.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” Dessie echoed, then straightened and huffed. “Nothing’s wrong. Did you not see it? He’s jealous!” A smile broke over her face. “It’s perfect!”
Confused, Ophelia asked, “Who is jealous?”
“Robin, you ninny! Robin is.”
“Of what?” He’d been ill-natured at dinner’s end, and hadn’t seemed softened by the impromptu musicale, but…
“Of you and Mr. Cameron.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know!” Dessie skipped to Ophelia’s bed, then flopped down upon it.
“But he is. He was nasty about Mr. Cameron’s supposed reputation, and then was out of sorts the rest of the night.
Surely you saw that. Either he doesn’t like the idea of Mr. Cameron with you, or the idea of you with Mr. Cameron. ”
Ophelia’s lips twitched at Dessie’s logic. “Just because he was being crotchety doesn’t mean he’s jealous. What right does he have? He’s courting Lady Elizabeth.”
“That’s a mistake and they both know it. And you didn’t see the way he was watching you and Mr. Cameron at the piano. He looked like this.” Dessie stiffened her whole body, narrowed her eyes, and put a grimacing smile on her face.
Ophelia studied her. “That’s annoyance and trying to hide it. Not jealousy.”
Her eyes rolled heavenward. “And what do you think annoyed him?”
“Probably all my wrong notes.” He was a musician himself. He’d hear what the others wouldn’t have. Besides, what had Trentham said earlier? Eli was too far beneath his touch to inspire jealousy. No, he’d said resentment, not jealousy. But it meant the same thing.
Dessie popped up from the bed and pinned Ophelia with a determined stare. “We have to do something.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You and Robin. Now stop,” she commanded before Ophelia could protest. “I’m not saying there is a you-and-Robin, though that would be wonderful. Don’t you see? It would make Daddy look like a prophet.”
“Dessie—”
“I know. I know. Fairy tales. Castles in the air. But it isn’t impossible.”
“You cannot matchmake between me and Trentham!” She couldn’t believe they could argue about this. “You are the one who warned me about him. And you were right!” The words spilled out. “Dessie, he tried kissing me in your library!”
Dessie’s eyes widened. “What? When?”
“At your last dinner party.”
Dessie sat—sank—back down, blinking, her mouth working oddly, until she said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know.” She felt awful. Both for telling Dessie and for not telling her sooner. “I suppose I was embarrassed. It wasn’t even really a kiss. I don’t think he meant anything by it. Maybe he felt he was supposed to be naughty. Like Mr. Cameron.”
“He kissed you too?” Dessie looked horrified.
“No! No, and he won’t.”
“He’d better not. This is awful, Ophelia. It’s like Othello and Cassio.”
“Except that it’s nothing at all like that.” She sniffed. “Could you see Trentham in a murderous rage over a lady?” She waited for the of course not that didn’t come.
Finally, in a low tone, Dessie said, “Do you care for him? Be honest. I’ll know if you’re not.”
“A little,” she whispered, admitting what Dessie already knew.
“Then we have to act quickly.”