Chapter 2 #2
She spotted her friend almost immediately near one of the tall windows overlooking the gardens. Candlelight shimmered across the pale silk of Isabella’s gown, and the moment her gaze found Ophelia, her entire face brightened.
The sight brought an answering smile to Ophelia’s lips.
There it was again.
That happiness.
It seemed to have settled permanently into Isabella these past months, softening her natural shyness and lending a warmth to her expression that had not been there before. Even from across the ballroom, Ophelia could see it.
“You look beautiful,” Isabella declared the moment Ophelia reached her.
Ophelia laughed. “You are a terrible liar.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Isabella only smiled.
Amused, Ophelia took both of her friend’s hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Congratulations.”
The word came out more softly than she had intended.
For a moment, Isabella’s smile faltered, and Ophelia caught a glimpse of the nerves lurking beneath all that happiness.
The reality of an approaching marriage, of leaving behind one life and stepping into another, would have been daunting for anyone. For Isabella, who worried over everything and disliked disappointing anyone, Ophelia suspected it felt positively overwhelming.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Ophelia squeezed her hands again. “I am very happy for you.”
And she meant it. Entirely.
Even if a small part of her still found it difficult to believe that the shy girl she had spent half her childhood reading novels beside was preparing to become a marchioness one day.
Color touched Isabella’s cheeks. Before she could reply, her gaze drifted elsewhere.
The movement was slight enough that most people would likely have missed it.
Ophelia did not.
Following her gaze, she found Nicholas standing near the edge of a conversation circle.
Society might know him simply as Mr. Hartwell, heir to the Marquess of Blackthorne, but at the moment, he looked very much like a man trapped by an elderly gentleman determined to explain something at considerable length.
“Ah.”
The blush deepened. “You see?” Isabella murmured.
“I see everything.”
“You do not.”
“I do.”
The moment Nicholas’s attention shifted and found Isabella, something in his expression softened.
The change was slight and lasted scarcely a second, yet it was impossible to mistake.
There it was again. That quiet certainty Isabella seemed determined to pretend did not exist.
Whatever doubts Isabella might still entertain, Nicholas gave no sign of sharing them.
Ophelia felt her smile return. Perhaps love really did exist outside novels after all.
“Stop smiling like that,” Isabella muttered.
“I haven’t said a word.”
“You are thinking very loudly.”
Ophelia laughed. “I simply like seeing you happy.”
The blush deepened.
Fortunately for Isabella, Nicholas chose that moment to excuse himself from his conversation and begin making his way across the ballroom.
He was not alone.
Another gentleman walked beside him, one Ophelia did not recognize.
He was difficult not to notice. Taller than Nicholas and broader through the shoulders, he moved with the easy confidence of a man entirely unaware that half the ballroom seemed to be watching him.
Candlelight caught in fair hair as he listened to something Nicholas was saying, a trace of amusement softening features that might otherwise have appeared severe.
Several ladies nearby appeared to follow his progress across the room.
The gentleman, however, seemed considerably less interested in the attention than the attention was in him.
Ophelia understood the appeal.
He was, objectively speaking, a very handsome man.
For a moment, she studied him, trying unsuccessfully to place him. She could not remember having seen him before, which seemed strange. A gentleman like that ought to have left some impression.
Nicholas said something. The stranger answered.
Whatever the response was, it earned a brief laugh from Nicholas and a look of long-suffering patience from his companion.
Interesting.
“Come,” Isabella said suddenly, drawing her attention away. “You must tell me everything I’ve missed.”
Ophelia allowed Isabella to draw her back into conversation before the gentlemen reached them.
Within minutes, Ophelia found herself thinking about him no longer.
There were far more interesting subjects to discuss.
The wedding. The guest list. Isabella’s nervousness, which she continued to deny despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. The house she would eventually share with Nicholas. The future that seemed to be approaching with alarming speed.
For a time, Ophelia almost forgot herself as well.
Almost.
The ballroom remained bright with candlelight and conversation.
Music drifted from the musicians’ gallery overhead while couples moved across the polished floor in carefully practiced patterns.
Footmen circulated with trays of champagne and refreshments, and every now and then a burst of laughter rose above the steady murmur of voices.
It should have been easy to lose herself in it.
Instead, she gradually became aware of the familiar sensation of being observed.
Not openly.
No one was rude enough for that.
Yet every so often she caught a glance lingering a moment too long. A conversation would falter as she passed. Somewhere behind her, a voice would lower just enough to become inaudible.
Nothing she could object to. Nothing she could even properly identify. Only the quiet understanding that she occupied an uncertain place within the room.
Close enough to belong.
Not quite important enough to matter. The realization stung more than she liked to admit.
By the time Edmund appeared beside her nearly an hour later, she was beginning to understand why so many people developed a taste for excessive champagne.
“You look as though you’re contemplating murder.”
Ophelia accepted the glass he offered her. “I am contemplating leaving.”
“An equally sensible choice.”
She laughed despite herself.
Edmund smiled, apparently pleased to have rescued her from her thoughts, and nudged her shoulder lightly.
The sharp ripping sound that followed seemed unnaturally loud.
Both of them froze.
Slowly, very slowly, Ophelia lowered her gaze. “Oh no.”
Edmund followed her line of sight.
His expression collapsed into horror. “Ophelia.”
“I know.”
“Please tell me that wasn’t your dress.”
“It was absolutely my dress.”
For one dreadful moment, neither of them spoke.
Around them, the ballroom continued as though nothing had happened. The orchestra played. Guests laughed. Somewhere nearby, a gentleman began applauding the conclusion of a dance.
Then Edmund closed his eyes. “People are already looking.”
Ophelia stared at him. “Thank you. That is an extraordinarily helpful contribution.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Edmund.”
“Go fix it.”
She looked down again. The seam at her side had given way just enough to be noticeable. Not catastrophic. Not yet.
Given her luck, however, it would undoubtedly become catastrophic within the next five minutes.
“Go fix it where?”
Before Edmund could answer, Isabella appeared. “What happened?”
“I fear my gown has given up the struggle.”
One glance at the seam was enough.
“Oh!” Isabella lowered her voice and stepped closer. “I believe there are sewing supplies in the library. One of the desk drawers, if I remember correctly.”
“Are you certain?”
“Not entirely.”
“Wonderful.”
“Fairly certain?”
Edmund pointed toward the doorway. “Good enough. Go.”
Ophelia sighed. “I do enjoy plans that rely entirely upon optimism.”
“Your alternatives are limited.”
“That has become increasingly clear.”
Gathering her skirts, Ophelia glanced once more at the offending seam before squaring her shoulders.
“Very well. I shall place my dignity entirely in Isabella’s confidence.”
Edmund’s grin returned immediately. “Your dignity is already beyond saving.”
Ophelia glared at him.
The expression accomplished absolutely nothing. “Helpful as ever.”
“I do my best.”
“Your best is deeply concerning.”
Ignoring his laughter, she turned and headed for the library.
At worst, she would spend ten minutes repairing a seam and return before anyone noticed her absence. It seemed a perfectly reasonable plan.
Unfortunately, it was the sort of plan that rarely survived contact with reality.