Chapter Thirty-Four
Seated beside Trentham in the back of his snug, well-sprung barouche, Ophelia felt safe. Even cosseted. But she was damp, tired, sore, and smelled of bilgewater.
Before setting off, Trentham had directed his coachman from Lannington to take them to Crawley Arms, where he’d purchased a pan of hot coals to put in a brazier at her feet, as well as a small glass of brandy to take the taste of the harbor out of her mouth.
She would have been touched by his solicitousness, except that his care felt impersonal, as if he were taking charge out of ducal responsibility, nothing more.
The proprietor had certainly jumped to be of service when he learned he was answering to a duke.
Trentham had also obtained three heavy blankets, one each for Ophelia, Dessie, and himself.
Then he’d assigned their seats. Dessie was given the rear-facing bench, alone, to avoid getting wet, while he and Ophelia sat in back, dripping and squishing, but under the roof, out of the wind.
He tucked Ophelia’s blanket around her, then spread his own over them both.
“How long until we reach your estate?” Ophelia asked. She was anxious to get to Lannington to clean herself up and sleep, but more, she was curious to see it because it was Trentham’s ancestral home. A person was shaped by his childhood experiences, and a home would be part of it.
“Three-quarters of an hour.” Trentham leaned back with a slight groan and shut his eyes.
Half-framed by the slanted glow of the carriage lamps, he looked worn out.
Heroic, yet worn out. She was glad just to be with him, but in the aftermath, with heightened emotions dimmed, she wasn’t sure if he was glad to be with her.
Dessie was grinning to herself. Ophelia nearly asked her what was amusing, but lost interest before she could speak.
She relaxed back into the seat cushion and closed her eyes also.
It had been too long a day. A few moments later, she felt the blanket edge that was tucked under her hip begin to loosen.
Then Trentham’s hand slipped under it. Slowly.
Seeking. She slid her own hand down and caught him.
Apparently, it was only her hand that he sought, because he gripped it firmly.
She peeked at him from beneath nearly-lowered lids, hoping Dessie wasn’t the wiser.
All the while, his face didn’t change and the rest of his body didn’t move.
She clamped her lips together to keep from breaking into a smile.
They were misbehaving again. And she was keeping far too many secrets from her sister.
“Robin?” Dessie said. Ophelia’s breath caught.
“Hmmm?” he murmured.
“You should know Daddy was impressed.” She spoke in a singsong fashion. “He called you ‘a fine fellow’.”
Trentham began easing his hand away, but Ophelia held on tightly. He grunted, half opening his eyes. “Poor judge of character, is he?”
Dessie shook her head. “No, he’s the best. And Lynch said, back there on the wharf, that the old Robin would have responded to a bag thrown at his head by smashing Hayworth’s face, then tossing him overboard. He was practically giddy when you jumped in instead.”
“Lynch doesn’t get giddy. Moreover, I might have drowned.”
“I said practically giddy.”
He was quiet another moment, a hint of a smile curving his lips.
Then he said, “If I’d known you’d be so quick to toss your sister a lifebuoy, Dessie, rest assured I would have taken the time to throw Hayworth in.
” Trentham shifted position and closed his eyes again.
“Please hold any further admiration of my person until we get to Lannington. I can’t stay awake, and I’d hate to miss it. ”
*
They traveled silently—Trentham dead to the world, yet still holding Ophelia’s hand, and Ophelia sliding in and out of a semi-dream state. Dessie had curled up on her bench, under her blanket, snoring softly and intermittently.
Trentham startled Ophelia by straightening up and letting go of her.
“We’re here.” He cleared his throat and ran his hand through his hair. It was affecting, waking up beside him. For a moment, there was something innocently unguarded in the softness of his jaw and his heavy-lidded eyes. She wondered if he had been dreaming. And, if so, what about?
They entered the grounds through a large iron gate, the only opening within sight in a massive stacked-stone wall.
Moonlight shone down on an expansive, manicured lawn.
The packed-dirt drive was lined by English Oaks.
The path turned to the left, revealing a noisily spurting fountain and silent pool, behind which rose a country home that would turn the Schermerhorns green with envy.
Built of a pale-colored stone, rising four stories tall, it was more palace than house.
Large windows stretched across the front on all levels.
Ophelia tried and failed to count them—she kept losing her place.
“Good heavens, Trentham!”
He slid a glance toward her. “Impressed or appalled?”
“I—I’m not sure.” This was not simply wealth. It was majesty. It was tradition and timelessness and—and responsibility. If this was what had shaped him, she understood the haughty duke. It was a good deal harder to understand where the lovable toff came from.
As the carriage rolled up to the entrance, the front door opened and half a dozen footmen tumbled out, carrying lanterns.
They followed a stout, older man who was walking with stiff dignity.
He directed one of the footmen to lower the barouche’s step.
Trentham threw off his blanket and climbed down.
“Ah, Jeffers. Good.” He glanced about. “How did you manage all this? You can’t possibly have been expecting me.”
“We have been for about ten minutes, Your Grace. Mr. Potts arrived on horseback with a message from Mr. March.” Through the open carriage door, Ophelia studied the footmen who were waiting for instruction.
One’s jacket appeared to be buttoned up crookedly.
Two were yawning. Jeffers asked, “Shall we have your bags brought in?”
“No bags this time, I’m afraid. A bit of an incident in Southampton. We’ll only be here the night. I’ve brought the Countess of Lynchford and her sister. If Mrs. Pettigrew would prepare two chambers for them, the blue and green rooms, in addition to mine—”
“Two?” Dessie said, rising from her seat and moving to the carriage step. “There are only a few hours left in the night, Your Grace. Don’t go to so much fuss. I think one for Ophelia and me to share will suffice.”
“Two,” Trentham repeated. “I have been reliably informed the countess snores. And Miss Delancey needs her sleep after that dunking.”
Dessie sputtered a protest, but only to defend herself against accusations of snoring. Ophelia wondered if they were actually tussling over how strictly Dessie would be allowed to play chaperone. Then she scolded herself for imagining such a thing.
Trentham gave his arm to Dessie and helped her descend.
“Miss Delancey?” He peered into the carriage. “How are you faring?” He extended his hand.
“Well enough, under the circumstances.” Her clothes were still damp, and muscles she didn’t even know she had were stiff. She peeled off her blanket and dropped it, then took his hand to allow him to guide her down.
“Jeffers, have Cook warm something up for us. A soup or stew or whatever is about. And keep a bowl warmed for my tiger, who will be arriving soon with Mr. March. Have two hot baths drawn, for Miss Delancey and myself.” He paused, pinching his bottom lip.
“And ask Mrs. Pettigrew to locate some night-wear for the ladies. There must be something in Felicity’s room or in storage.
And Miss Delancey’s clothing will need to be cleaned and pressed for our return to London tomorrow. ”
“What about yours?” Ophelia asked.
“I have a wardrobeful here.” He grimaced. “I should start wearing disposable clothing.”
Dessie giggled. “Only around Ophelia.”
That sounded somehow lewd.
“Let’s go to the kitchen first,” Trentham said. “I can’t remember the last time I ate.”
*
Ophelia knew she should be sleeping. Her hunger had been sated with a hearty lamb stew.
She’d soaked away her soreness and the harbor’s stench in a hot bath perfumed with rose oil—where she’d been relieved to see that the bruise on her shoulder was not too unsightly and not as large as she’d feared.
There wasn’t a proper ladies’ maid in the house, but a chambermaid had plaited her hair and carted away her dirtied clothes.
Now, Ophelia lay in a quiet, dark room, in a comfortable bed, wearing a soft, white cotton nightdress.
It was snug across her bosom and, when she had been standing, it dragged on the floor.
Had it been Felicity’s? It didn’t matter whose. She was fortunate to have it.
She should be sleeping, but she was wide awake. This was Trentham’s house. His bedchamber was just four doors down the hall. And Dessie was three doors away from her in the opposite direction. He had insisted they have separate bedrooms. He must have intentions to come to her.
She’d been certain of it, but now, she was not so sure.
In preparation for his knock, she’d agonized over whether to allow him entrance. She’d finally decided that no, she must not. But there was no point to her virtuous resolve if he didn’t plan to challenge it.
Trentham cared for her; of that much, she was sure. In the kitchen, while eating their makeshift supper, she kept catching his eyes upon her, his expression intense but unreadable. And he’d held her hand in the carriage. For pity’s sake—he’d jumped into the sea to save her!
But he wasn’t here now.
She crumpled her coverlet with both hands, frustrated. Could she have misinterpreted his intention? After all, they had never finished their argument. With a pause in the excitement, perhaps he’d recalled that he’d been angry with her.
He’d been very angry.
She exhaled with a whoosh and sat back up. Why had he insisted upon a separate chamber for Dessie if he didn’t mean to come to her? Or was she being ridiculous, putting so much weight on that? This palace was enormous. Why on earth should she and Dessie share a room?
Was it possible he’d fallen asleep?
She kicked off her coverlet and rose from the bed. This was maddening. Her thoughts were dancing all over the place. He either loved her or he didn’t. There was one quick way to find out.
On tiptoes, carefully lifting the hem of her nightdress off the floor so she wouldn’t trip over it and give herself away, she exited her chamber and crept down the dark hallway. Light seeped from under Trentham’s door. He must be awake. Or else afraid of the dark.
She knocked quietly.
“Come.” His voice was low, almost inaudible.
Ophelia’s heart beat fast enough to make her light-headed. This was not something she should be doing. She would end up either humiliated or ruined. Nevertheless, she opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it quickly.
The room was lit by a single lamp on the mantel.
Trentham stood by a tall window, looking out.
His hair was mussed and damp, and he wore only a banyan.
She could see his calves and bare feet! A dizzying wave of longing swept over her, along with a magnetic pull that brought her three steps closer.
Until he turned from the window. She caught a glimpse of the top of his chest, with a mat of dark hair, before he clutched the edges of the banyan together and belted it tighter.
His eyes were like saucers, and she was certain hers were as large as dinner plates.
“Good God,” he swore, then seemed to wrench his gaze from her to turn back to the window.
“Trentham—”
“I thought you were Jeffers with another asinine question. You need to leave.”
“We have to talk.”
He snorted. “Not at three in the morning. ‘Talk’ is the last thing on my mind.”
“I half expected you to come to me,” she admitted.
Without facing her, he said in a cold, flat tone, “I more than half intended to.”
“Well then?” He didn’t answer, so she pressed. “Talk to me. Look at me.”
“Miss Delancey,” she heard the wince in his voice, “that nightdress is more revealing than I suspect you realize.”
“Oh!” she gasped, then glanced down. She hadn’t realized. Although covering her from toes to neck, the fabric was thin. Not translucent—she would have noticed that—but snug about her breasts, and without her corset or layers of underskirts…
“Yes, ‘oh.’ And you cannot have failed to note that I am not prepared to receive callers.”
“No, but…” She raised her eyes. His banyan was as revealing as her nightdress.
She had never before been tempted to imagine a man naked, but now couldn’t help it.
An odd tension rippled through her body and scrambled her wits.
What would it be like to touch him? To stroke that silk?
She clenched her hands into fists. “Are you—are you still angry with me?”
He made an impatient noise, a tsk of his tongue. “Not with you. I’m angry with myself. For being the kind of man that led you to think—”
“I don’t!”
“But you did.” He pressed his head against the windowpane. “And if I had gone to your room tonight, it would prove that I am that kind of man. That I still cannot control my passions.”
But he hadn’t come to her room. She’d come to his.
“Get out, Miss Delancey. I’m not a stone. You are minutes away from ravishment.”
Dessie and Lynch hadn’t waited for marriage. They had decided together… “You aren’t ravishing me if I am willing.”
“Don’t!” He sounded anguished. “Please. Go.”
So it was to be humiliation, not ruin. She went.