Amanda StoNeS
Historical Regency Romance Author
Marryinga ReluctantLady
First Chapters
Chapter One
The embroidered napkin by Ophelia’s plate became, in her mind, the handkerchief of a knight, abandoned as he fled some enchanted castle. She was lost in her imagination, her thoughts weaving verses in the style of an epic poem, when her mother’s voice broke through her concentration.
“…And we should be on Lady Epworth’s list for her ball, this year. Your father worked hard to ensure it.”
Ophelia felt her heart sink as her imagined world, and the beautiful poem she’d been crafting, evaporated with the interruption. She winced at the pain of it and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind one ear, a habit when she was experiencing any uncomfortable emotion. She wore it in a loose chignon, the latest fashion, as befitted the daughter of the wealthiest baronet in London.
“That’s good, Mother,” Ophelia murmured. She didn’t show frustration or distress, but she felt both. Fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth was the only indicator of her emotional state.
“It is,” her mother replied, not noticing her daughter’s discomfort. “It is indeed. And of course, we’ll need to go to the Assembly, as all the other members of high society will be doing.” Her voice was brisk.
“Yes, Mama.” Ophelia replied. She was staring at the table, tense and waiting for her mother to remind her of her duty to the household—to meet eligible men. When no reminder came—maybe because she’d already received one yesterday—she lifted her gaze, choosing to focus on the window and the gray clouds there, the first clouds of real spring rain. She could hear her mother continuing about Lady Epworth and her ball, and how important it was to attend, but she didn’t want to know. She couldn’t let herself listen.
If I listen to that, I’ll be too miserable to enjoy the morning.
Ophelia loved springtime. At the country estate, with the garden in full bloom and her horse ready for short rides about the countryside, she was extremely happy. She could set off with just a groom for company, pausing to compose poetry in remote locations, her nose full of the scent of grass and rain and elderflower. Here, in London, she hated springtime. In London, the Season proper, as her mother would say, began in springtime.
And she hated the Season.
One problem with being the daughter of the wealthiest baron in London was having to attend all the important social gatherings—and it was amazing how many of them were important. The one thing her parents craved above everything was to advance in society even further. And that meant Ophelia had to make a grand match. A titled gentleman—a marquess at least—was what they sought for her. It made her feel like a piece of porcelain from Cathay—costly and pretty, but with no will or wants of its own. It was not a feeling that gave her a sense of being valued.
“…And of course, your new gowns will need to be fetched this morning, Ophelia. Ophelia! Are you listening?”
Her father’s voice, abrupt and hard, cut through Ophelia’s thoughts. She stared up at him. Eyes as blue as her own stared back. He looked angry and she felt her throat tighten.
“Sorry, Father,” she managed to say. She never called him anything but “Father”. Mama was usually “Mother”, too. She wouldn’t have been pleased by anything less formal.
“Very well,” he replied crossly. “Your gowns will arrive today. And I suppose you’d like to go and buy lace and other things to decorate bonnets and handkerchiefs?” His voice was softer, placating. He looked at her expectantly.
Ophelia tilted her head. No, she wouldn’t like that. She would like to spend the day at home, preferably in the drawing room, curled up with a book, and then she’d like to sit at her desk and look out of the window and compose a poem about the spring rain sweeping London. That was how she would have liked to spend her day.
“Maybe later, Father,” she managed to say. She didn’t want to be rude.
Her father, though she barely knew him because he was always busy managing the family finances, was generous. He bought the latest fabrics and lace for her gowns, and she supposed she should be pleased about that. She found it was hard to accept generosity when she didn’t really feel like he cared for her, or even knew her. He didn’t even care what colors she might prefer—it was all bought for her according to the latest fashions.
“Later, eh?” Father looked at her with a frown. “Are you well, daughter? You seem a little quiet.”
“I’m not feeling well, no, Father,” she replied, seizing on the opportunity his words afforded. She lifted the napkin, dabbing her lips where she’d managed to drink a little of her tea. “If I could be excused, I’d like to retire to my room.” She pushed back her chair.
Across the table from her, Mother raised a brow. Her elegantly styled hair was golden-blonde, a shade or two darker than Ophelia’s, and her brows were perfectly arched. Her lips, artlessly unrouged, were the same fine shape as Ophelia’s. She was a beautiful woman, and Ophelia had to admire that, and her style, even while she found her profoundly confusing sometimes.
“Are you sure, Ophelia?” Mother asked, sounding concerned. “Best to lie down now, then. You don’t want to be feeling poorly for the ball tonight. You’ve not eaten breakfast!”
“Tonight! Mama!” Ophelia stared at her in shock.
“Yes. Lady Haredale. Didn’t I tell you? She invited us to a small, private ball.”
“No, Mama,” Ophelia stammered. She had thought she’d have just one day to prepare herself for the Season.
“I feel sure I must have told you,” Mother replied, confused. “You must be feeling very poorly if you don’t remember. Go and lie down right away. I’ll send my maid, Mrs. Stretton, up to you with a tea if you’d like?” She was frowning, brows lowered in concern.
“No. Thank you,” Ophelia replied swiftly. “I’m sure I’ll be quite well if I just lie down for an hour or two.” She heard the tightness in her voice, the confusion and hurt there.
“We’ll see you in the dining-room for luncheon, daughter,” her father said lightly. He didn’t sound too concerned.
Ophelia pushed back her chair and hurried from the room.
When she reached her chamber, she shut the door and sat down on the chair by her dressing-table. She was shocked.
They can’t expect me to go to a ball tonight.
She looked around the room. Everything was neat—Lily, her maid, had been in while she was downstairs and made the bed, taking her nightgown out to air. She felt her heart twist in fondness at the thought. Lily took care of all those things for her, but that wasn’t why she liked Lily. She cared for her because she was someone to talk to, the only person she felt at ease with in the house.
She took a breath, trying to find calm. She stared into the looking-glass. Two big, pale blue eyes stared back at her. Her cheekbones, high like her mother’s, topped pale, fine-skinned cheeks. Her lips were well-formed and generous, a pale peach-pink, and her nose was a slim line, just like Mama’s. She stared into her own eyes. They looked as empty as she felt.
She went to the window, wishing she might see something that would lift her spirits, or maybe remind her of the beautiful poem she’d been thinking of earlier. Her bedroom was on the western side of the house, sunny and warm in the afternoon. Down below she could see a section of the garden—the London townhouse had a small garden, just ten or so yards of lawn with a border of roses and a fountain. Men hurried down the street beside it, top hats on, coats drawn close against the rain. A woman on the other side of the road was clad in an enveloping cape and a bonnet, hurrying with her maid towards a tea-house. Ophelia felt an ache in her heart.
Mayhap everyone down there is hurrying off to somewhere by choice. Mayhap it’s just me who has to do what I’m told.
She let out a breath, an idea coming to her. All her parents wanted was for her to go to the ball. That didn’t mean that she couldn’t do as she wished for the rest of the morning.
She felt her spirits lift and went to her little desk in the corner of the room, fetching her most treasured possession, which was her leather-bound notebook where she wrote her poetry. She slipped it into the pink drawstring purse that matched her pink-patterned day-dress and pulled the bell-rope in the corner of the room, summoning her maid. Her mind was busy already, crafting a poem.
If only I could get a hold of a volume of Coleridge.
The book collection at the London townhouse was quite large, but it was nothing compared to the book collection at the country estate in Walden. There, she had access to all manner of books to find inspiration for her own work, while there were only a few here in London. But in the nearest circulating library—one owned by a Mr. Clifford—she could hope to borrow the things she needed.
She was just fetching her cloak out of the wardrobe when Lily appeared. Lily’s pixie-like face lit up in a grin, black curls escaping from her cloth bonnet.
“Miss Worthington!” she greeted her. “What can I do for you? Are you feeling well?” Her brow creased in concern, her grin fading as she realized it was the time Ophelia would usually eat breakfast.
“I’m quite well,” Ophelia told her swiftly. She didn’t want to worry Lily, who would be sure to rush for the physician if she thought anything was discomforting her. “I just wished to go to the library. Mr. Clifford’s library. Will you accompany me?”
“Of course, milady!” Lily sounded delighted. “I’ll fetch my cloak directly and meet you at the door. Which bonnet should I fetch for you?”
“The one with the pink ribbons, please,” Ophelia replied. She glanced down at her dress, which was white, with a pattern of tiny pink flowers on the muslin. She would need her cream-colored boots to match.
“Of course, milady. Straight away.”
Ophelia thanked her for the bonnet, then paused to tie it on, slipping her feet into her leather outdoor boots. She hastened down the hallway, light-footed, and met Lily at the front door, hurrying past Mr. Crane, the butler.
“Tell Father I’ve gone to the library, please, Mr. Crane,” she requested swiftly, before hurrying out of the door to where Lily waited for her.
In the street, she breathed deeply. It was just starting to rain, the faintest spots of it touching the stone road. The smell of wet earth and loam was like perfume. It was the smell of freedom.
Laughing, then shrieking as the rain started to pelt them, Lily and she hurried down the street together, gasping for breath. The road smelled wet, the pavement theirs as everyone fled indoors because of the downpour. They reached Mr. Clifford’s Library in ten minutes and paused, panting, in the doorway. Ophelia laughed breathlessly, then stood up, aware that someone might see her there. She was the daughter of Baron Walden; she had to look dignified.
“Shall we go in?” she asked Lily, who was still gasping for breath.
“Yes, Miss Worthington.”
Ophelia grinned at Lily, who smiled back.
“Let’s hurry out of the rain, milady.”
They walked hastily into the library.
The smell hit Ophelia first—the scent of ink and paper. She breathed deeply. She loved the scent of books. She looked around. The space was warm, and quite small, about the size of the drawing room at home. The little library was lined with shelves, and all sorts of books were crowded onto them. The principle was simple—for a yearly subscription, members could attend the library whenever it was open, and borrow what books they wished, or sit and read them in the room itself. Comfortable chairs were dotted about the space for that purpose, and a fire burned in one corner, providing warmth. Ophelia looked around. She’d been in here a few times—Father paid a yearly subscription to the place, for which she was grateful. He didn’t necessarily approve of her using it, since it was packed with novels that he would have considered a waste of time, but he’d also never stopped her.
She reached the shelf she was looking for and paused. A woman was standing there, her back turned. She had golden hair with a hint of red in it, and she was a little shorter than Ophelia herself.
“Alice?” she breathed.
The woman turned around. She was wearing a pink dress too; entirely pink, decorated with a darker pink band at the waist. When she saw Ophelia, she let out a shriek, then clapped a hand to her mouth, blushing red.
“Ophelia!” she grinned. “Why! It’s you. I didn’t know you were going to be here this morning. I came in with Mrs. Plowden.” She gestured to an older woman in black livery, who stood at the other end of the room. A man in a top-hat shot a dark look at them, holding a finger to his lips. Alice smiled.
“Sorry,” she mouthed back, exaggeratedly.
Ophelia chuckled. She was so glad to see her friend. Alice was always unconventional and seeing her lightened her spirits.
“I didn’t know I was going to come here either,” Ophelia admitted. “How lovely to see you,” she added, taking her friend’s hands in her own. She looked into her friend’s greenish eyes and felt her heart soar. She had missed her. Alice Thomson—Lady Alice, as was her proper title—was the daughter of an extremely wealthy earl, and the two girls had met at a house party at the Walden estate when they were just ten. Now, ten years later, they were like sisters.
“Have you read the latest Byron?” Alice asked her. They were walking towards the poetry shelves. Ophelia made a face.
“I love Byron,” she admitted. “But I don’t like reading when I’m writing. It displeases me.”
Alice chuckled. “I understand.” She grinned. “I daresay his verses do become entwined in your thoughts.”
“Terribly much, they do,” Ophelia agreed, feeling her soul lift at how readily Alice understood. Alice loved reading too, though she didn’t write. Alice’s chosen outlets were tapestry and painting. Ophelia loved her work and wished that she could learn to paint, too, but her parents wouldn’t allow it. They said painting was a silly pastime for a woman and that it wasn’t seemly.
Looking at her friend, Ophelia felt as though she could finally allow some of her anger at her parents to seep through. In her own house, with them there, it felt hard to be rebellious. Here, she felt some of that anger flare up.
“I suppose you’ll be going to the Assembly tomorrow?” Alice asked, her expression amused and a little sad. Alice’s father was high in political circles, and Alice had to attend every party and impress people, like Ophelia.
“I’m going to a ball today,” she murmured.
“What? Today?” Alice declared volubly, then held her hand to her lips and whispered an apology as she remembered where she was. Ophelia loved how free and expressive she was. She’d never had that punished out of her, it seemed. Her own mother was quite flamboyant and didn’t care overly much what society thought. Ophelia’s parents were the exact opposite and she hated it.
“Yes, today,” Ophelia answered softly. “Lady Haredale’s ball. Mama managed to get us invited.” She made a rueful face.
“I imagine it’ll be full of the Bon Ton,” Alice said with a knowing grin.
“I’m sure it will.” Ophelia felt her heart twist. She felt nauseous at the thought and a little sad, too. She would much rather be sitting with Alice or Lily, reading a silly romance novel and giggling.
“Well, then,” Alice said, seeing Ophelia’s sorrowful face. “Since you don’t want to read Byron, let’s have a look at what else is here.” She gestured at the shelf in front of them. “I was reading a fascinating book last week. It was something about the history of sea-travel. I know, I know…that sounds awfully tiresome. But I assure you, it was most interesting.” She gestured to the shelf over her head.
Ophelia allowed her gaze to move down the row of books. As it did, she spotted something on a shelf two rows overhead with the poetry books. It was a leather-bound book with embossed writing in gold-leaf on the spine and, though she was too far away to make it out clearly, she recognized the look of it. They had exactly the same edition at home. She wandered over to fetch it.
As she reached for it, a man walked into her.
“Oh!” Ophelia shrieked at the impact. He had almost knocked her over. She grabbed onto the shelf, one hand flying up to her mouth, trying to stifle the yell.
“What in…” The man began, his voice angry. He looked down at Ophelia and she saw the expression change to one of shock. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, madam.” He held out a hand as though to steady her. “Did I hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” Ophelia said, with just a touch of anger. He had almost made her fall over and he’d also scared her by shouting so loudly. “And you can call me “miss”,” she added crossly. “Not madam.” She wanted to add “The Honorable Miss Worthington” to that, which was her full title, but she decided against it. Whoever this was, the less he knew of her the better. She instantly disliked him for his loud shout and apparent carelessness.
“Oh.” He blinked. He had a long, thin face, with high cheekbones and a nose that was ever so slightly hooked. His eyes had big lids and were just bracketed with the merest trace of crow’s feet. His hair was black. It was his eyes, though, that struck her. They were green, the same pale gray green as mossy stones, and she felt drawn into them at once. There was something magical about them. “I apologise.” His voice was low and resonant.
“I should think so.”
The man—she had no idea what his name was—blinked again in surprise. He had thin lips, and there was something hard about the set of them. He looked stern and she decided, enticing eyes or not, she truly didn’t like him; her first impression hadn’t been wrong. He couldn’t have been much older than her—she was twenty, and she guessed him to be around twenty-five. He acted much older. She turned around, looking pointedly at the shelf again.
He could at least ask to get the book off the shelf for me…If he’s really sorry, and not just saying it, I would accept that from him.
She stood on tiptoe, trying to get to it. She was not short, but he was far taller—he was at least six feet tall.
“Are you sure you’re unhurt, miss?” he asked.
She turned around, fixing him with a stare. “I’m fine,” she repeated. “Thank you for asking. I’m just trying to get that book there.” She turned again and tried to get the book overhead.
He cleared his throat. “I must ask you to accept my apologies,” he said smoothly. His face was unreadable.
“That’s all very well,” she said formally. “I just want to get my book and forget about the incident.”
“And I must be off. My carriage is waiting.” He turned around and hurried out and Ophelia stared after him.
“What on Earth happened?” Alice whispered from behind her, interrupting her reverie.
“I don’t know, I must admit,” Ophelia whispered back.
“Who was that?” Alice chuckled. “I must know…I think I’ve seen him before!” She was grinning, her blue eyes sparkling.
“I don’t know who it was, or what he was about,” Ophelia said lightly, trying not to look shocked. “But he was most rude. I hope not to see him in here again.”
She turned around and looked at the books quickly. She could hear her friend chuckling away, speculating about the man, murmuring that he was quite fine-looking, if in a severe way. Ophelia sighed.
She didn’t want to gossip or speculate. She wanted to read books and write poetry. That was all. And she would only have a few hours to do that before she had to hurry to prepare for the first seasonal ball.
Chapter Two
Owen stood on the pavement outside the library and drew in a deep breath. Around him, people walked briskly, carriages raced by, and vendors pushing handcarts yelled to advertise their wares. It was a normal London morning, all rush and chaos, but he couldn’t seem to focus. All he could see was the blue eyes, shocked and offended, that had stared up at him just a few seconds ago.
That woman had impacted him like nothing had in weeks.
He leaned back against the plastered building and made himself look down the street, trying to find focus again. It was a cobbled street, and the pavement was paved with stone, the railing of the fence across from him wrought iron. A peddler with a handcart yelled loudly as he bowled past on the pavement, making Owen jump. His mind was elsewhere, with the beautiful woman in the library he’d just clearly offended.
He recalled her neat face with its wide mouth and those huge blue eyes. She was easily the most beautiful woman he’d seen in a long time, and he had just been rude to her.
He swore under his breath. It shouldn’t matter. Nothing should matter. Papa was dead. Grantham was dead. Nothing else mattered to him.
He pushed himself away from the building and stalked down the street. There was a coach waiting for him, he hadn’t made that up to get away faster, but it was a paid Hackney coach and not his own. He fumbled in his coat pocket.
“Ivystone Manor, please,” he told the driver. The driver raised a brow.
“Of course, my lord,” he answered, seeming surprised at the address. Owen made a small, sorrowful face as he clambered into the coach. If the driver knew Ivystone, then he also knew that nobody ever called there. The place was ruinous. Owen didn’t know what to do about it.
The coach set out, rattling down the street. Owen gazed out at the mass of black-dressed men and women in cloaks huddled under an awning. It was raining again, and the streets were emptying swiftly. He stared out at the people. Some of them were laughing and his heart twisted. He’d forgotten how to laugh.
Papa. Grantham. A curse on you both for dying.
He swallowed hard, a bitterness in his mouth. He had been shocked for months, too numb to feel. Now, a year later, sometimes when he was alone, rage came to him. He hated his father for dying, hated Grantham for dying and for leaving Owen, the younger brother, who was never meant to inherit anything, to take up the earldom without help.
The coach rolled on through the streets, passing out through a gate and then rumbling onward down the road. The houses became poorer as they traveled onward and then, after a gap of green leaves, became richer again as they moved out of London and hit the first of the countryside estates. They rolled past stone-built manors in vast gardens and woodlands. They passed a stone wall he recognized, a sign that they were close to Ivystone. They rounded a corner and the coach slowed, moving toward the drive. Owen stared out, looking at the place, trying to see it objectively like a visitor might.
The first thing one noticed about the property was that the trees grew low and wild, since nobody had trimmed them in years. The hedge was overgrown and rank. The drive was gravel-covered, and the lawn was long and ranker still. Leaves were piled up here and there, as there was only one gardener for the whole estate and he barely had the time to trim the hedges before the wind blew all the leaves back to where they’d been before.
Owen looked around as they rolled up to the house and felt his energy draining. He couldn’t look at all of that and not feel exhausted. He didn’t know where to start fixing it, or how to. And he couldn’t afford to do it, even if he had a plan to begin.
“Thank you,” he called to the coach-driver politely. He walked past swiftly, not looking to see what the driver was thinking. Ivystone was doubtless the most dilapidated manor he’d ever seen. Owen felt his heart ache.
I would do something about it if I could.
He opened the door and strode in, pausing to take off his boots. The entrance-way was marble-tiled, and should have looked grand, but the trees had grown such that the sunlight was blocked out, making the whole house dark and eerie.
He barely noticed it. His thoughts had returned to London and the trip of the morning. The woman’s face haunted him as he walked to his room. He’d managed to scare her, and he didn’t understand how or why. Had he become so uncouth, so withdrawn, that he’d forgotten his manners? The thought scared him. He was the Earl of Ivystone, and he needed to have some dignity.
Papa, he thought silently as he stared into the looking-glass, what should I do?
His own face looked back. Thinner than his father’s, with green eyes and a long nose, he reckoned he looked like his late mother. He had seen a portrait of her in the gallery, though it had been his butler, Mr. Crane, who’d shown him. Mr. Crane had said that it was the only portrait his lordship the earl allowed to be in the house. Nobody went into the west wing now. It had been hers, containing her apartments, and was one place in the house that was justifiably falling apart. Since her death, Papa had closed it up, unable to bear looking at it without being lost in his grief.
The rest of the manor house, Owen thought with a twist of pain in his stomach, was falling apart through nobody’s fault but his own.
That was not quite true. The house had been falling apart for years. The money had been lost in his grandfather’s day when shares Grandfather had chosen to invest in, mostly rope and silk, had suffered. All of Grandfather’s money had been lost.
That was twenty years ago, though, when Owen was just a little boy. He couldn’t even have understood what was going on at the time. He understood now, and it didn’t make any difference…he still couldn’t fix the debts.
“Damn all of it,” Owen swore as he strode to the study.
He sat down at the desk and opened the household accounts. Mr. Barrow, the steward, had kept the accounts for Owen’s entire life. He was used to his neat, spidery writing, and he deciphered it easily. He swallowed hard at the totals the man had filled in for the month.
“It’s not possible.”
Owen was just one man of modest taste, and he supported a household staff of six: Mr. and Mrs. Crane, Mr. Barrow, two maids and a gardener. No other earl had such a tiny staff, but still, somehow, the money was going out steadily every month at a rate that alarmed him.
It was the debts, Owen thought miserably. Even before Papa passed, Ivystone had been beset with creditors. Papa had built on new rooms, spent lavishly, and furnished the place, not realizing that he didn’t have the money for the renovations—he’d thought Grandfather’s money was safe.
“I hate this place,” Owen whispered, teeth clenched.
It was through trying to fix the debts that Papa and Grantham had died. They’d been on a mission to France to try and invest in French wine when the ship sank. Owen hated Ivystone even more because of it. Without the debts, without Ivystone, his only parent and his big brother—who was his only real friend besides Leonard—would be here. The place had taken his dignity, his wealth and the life of all those he cared about. Sometimes he thought he’d do better to abandon it and run to Ireland where Uncle Gerald might take him in, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon the place when Papa and Grantham had died to try and save it.
They had died to save this place, and he hated it because of it.
He looked up from the books at a noise outside. He cleared his throat, recognizing that someone was knocking. Perhaps it was Mr. Crane. He could bring some coal for the fire—it was freezing in the room.
“Come in,” he called softly.
“My lord?” Barrow greeted him carefully, opening the door a crack. His thin face was cautious, and Owen swallowed hard.
“Yes?” Owen demanded. He had hoped to see Mr. Crane, his butler, not the steward, who only ever seemed to tell him about his debt and how they struggled.
“Are you occupied, my lord?” Barrow asked politely.
“Yes, Barrow, just a bit” Owen said, regretting the ironic reply the instant he said it. It wasn’t seemly to joke with the servants or the steward, even a bitter sort of joke. “Is there something from Mr. Stannard?” He was their London solicitor. Owen had hoped he could help them resolve some of the debt, but so far, after almost a year of attempts, it seemed there was no way to tread around it.
“No, my lord,” Mr. Barrow said smoothly. “I have the accounts from Mrs. Crane for the household. And a letter, my lord.” He held it out. It was in an envelope without a seal, and Owen guessed it was from a business, with another sum he’d have to pay someday.
“Put it there,” he answered, trying not to let any anger show. “I’ll read it later.”
“My lord, the creditors come daily,” Mr. Barrow said tightly.
“I know. I know,” Owen replied angrily. He tried to keep his voice level. “I will read it later, Barrow. Thank you,” he added, as he took the book up again, trying to focus on it.
“Yes, my lord,” Barrow murmured, and stepped through into the hallway.
As the door shut, Owen let out a sigh. He didn’t like Barrow. He never had, much, though he had to admit that the fellow worked tirelessly. There was something superior in his eyes when he looked at Owen, even though his manner was always quiet and polite. He bit his lip, shivering. He stood to stoke the fire, his gaze moving to a portrait of Papa and Grantham.
“I wish you were here,” he said, unsure if he was sad or angry. His father and Grandham stared out at him, Papa’s brown eyes focused on the horizon, Grantham’s gray ones amused as if he was watching the painter with just a touch of humor. Owen felt pain stab through his heart. Grantham was always like that—quiet, but amused by everything.
Owen stoked the fire, sorrowful and angry.
“Damn these creditors,” he swore. “I don’t know what to do.”
He spoke aloud, as though his father or Grantham were there. Grantham’s face swam in his thoughts. He hadn’t seen him clearly in his mind for months. His face was long and square, squarer than Owen’s, and his eyes were gray. He had the same dark hair. It seemed as though Grantham was right there in front of him, and that brought him a sense of peace. Grantham had always had good advice. He felt as though his brother was there, advising him and as he felt that peace flood through him, he heard another knock at the door.
“Come in,” he called briskly.
“My lord.” It was Mr. Crane, his butler. His strong, longish face bore a smile, but his brow was creased and his cheerful manner seemed somewhat subdued. “I am sorry for the interruption. May I disturb you?” He stayed where he was in the hallway, looking in hesitantly.
“Of course, Mr. Crane. Come in, please,” Owen insisted. He felt better seeing him: He’d always liked Mr. Crane. He was older than Owen by at least a decade, and trustworthy.
“A coach just drew up outside, my lord.”
“Did you see a badge on it?” Owen inquired. He hardly ever got visitors. He felt a tingle of curiosity, something he had not felt for months.
“It was decorated with the Haredale insignia, my lord.”
“Oh.” Owen felt his spirits lift even further. Lady Haredale was his aunt, his late father’s sister, and one of the few people in the world with whom he could truly talk. “I’ll come down directly.”
He paused at the looking glass in the hallway by the stairs, checking his appearance. He looked a little disheveled, his dark gray jacket rain-dampened, his hair in disarray, He ran a hand through it swiftly, then walked downstairs. In the hallway, he was met by a tall woman with long auburn hair streaked with gray. She wore a dark brown gown, elegant and refined, and her long, slender face was serious. She was his father’s elder sister, and he could see the resemblance to Papa in her dark eyes and that solemn expression.
“Aunt,” he greeted her, inclining his head politely as he took her hand fondly. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you, nephew. And you.” She smiled up at him, but her gaze was worried, a line creasing her forehead. “It’s good to see you at home.”
“I’m surprised by your visit. Do I owe this honour to something?” he asked as they walked up the stairs together. His aunt laughed, a bright, happy sound in the dark corridor.
“Oh, Owen.” She chuckled. “Honour, indeed. I just wanted to come and see you to check how you are faring.”
Owen swallowed hard. He could see the concern in her gaze, and he was touched.
“I’m fine, Aunt,” he said at once. “A little busy, is all.” He paused, feeling his heart twist. How could he say that? His pain was ongoing, his grief too big for words.
“I can see that’s not quite so,” she said gently, taking his arm comfortingly. “But I understand that you don’t want to talk about it. I wanted to talk of other matters. Like the party this evening.”
“Party?” Owen stared at her, then his head cleared as he remembered her annual ball. His light mood turned to a sort of fear.
“Aunt…I’m not ready to go. I can’t just…” he trailed off, looking around. His chest felt tight, heart thumping swiftly and fists tense. He couldn’t find words to tell her what he meant—he couldn’t find it in himself to laugh and dance and act as though he was carefree when the death of his entire family, the only members of it he’d ever known, left his heart as empty and desolate as a starless sky.
“Owen…sitting here suffering isn’t going to make any difference. I’m in mourning, too,” she said gently, gazing down at the somber dark brown dress she wore. “And I know you don’t want to come out and dance. But maybe it’s not actually a bad thing. Maybe, when you’re doing it, you’ll forget that sorrow. Just for a moment.” Her voice was soft, and he could hear her care.
She gazed up at him and Owen looked down.
“It’s hard, Aunt,” he murmured. He had been able to look emotionless and cold in front of the staff for weeks. But here, with his aunt’s caring and her wise words, he found it hard to hold back the emotions that haunted him.
“I know,” she murmured gently. “But riding a horse was hard when you did it first.” She grinned at him. “I remember when you first rode round the lawns at Ivystone. I was so proud! I was watching from the big terrace. How you grinned when you came back to the front of the house. How I cheered!” She giggled, her smile wide, her eyes sparkly but also a little sad as she recalled that long-ago time.
“I recall it too.” He had to smile. Aunt Julia had shrieked and clapped and that had made him so terribly shy. He had been six years old, and he’d felt nervous but so very proud. His father had cheered him too, his dark eyes crinkling in the corners.
Suddenly, his throat was tight with tears, and he had to look away.
“Sorry, Aunt,” he said tightly. “I should go and refresh myself. Excuse me a moment.”
“No need to rush, young fellow,” his aunt replied in a soft tone, looking around. They had reached the drawing room, and she went to stand by the fire. “I’ll ring for tea while I wait.”
“Thank you, Aunt.”
Aunt Julia rang the bell and Owen hurried into an anteroom, taking out his handkerchief and pressing it to the tears that threatened to fall. He stifled his sobs and his fingers were twisting the cloth as if he was trying to strangle it. He stuffed it back into his pocket. He couldn’t let himself cry now. He didn’t want to feel ashamed.
He felt another tear trickle down his cheek, and then decided that he wasn’t ashamed to cry here, in a dark antechamber, with nobody to see him except perhaps the shade of his lost loved ones. It felt good to cry. It was right to mourn. It had felt wrong to act as though they didn’t exist, as though their death was meaningless.
Once he had cried, he felt drained, his head aching, but he felt better, too. It was the first time he’d really cried. When he’d heard the news he’d sobbed, but it hadn’t been like this. This was tears of mourning, tears for his own sorrow. He wiped his face clean with the handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket again, then walked slowly to the drawing room. Aunt was sitting at the low table, a pot of tea and two cups in front of her. She looked up at him as he came in.
“Do try the Madeira cake. My cook can’t do better.”
Owen grinned. He felt a wash of affection for his aunt, who was one of the only people he would have felt comfortable with knowing he’d cried. She could surely see it—his face was damp, his eyes too—and she was ignoring the fact. He felt grateful for that.
“Thank you, Aunt. Our housekeeper is excellent. One of the few good staff we have,” he added, voice still tight. “I wish I could pay her accordingly.” He ran a hand through his hair. His worry, like his grief was hard to hide from someone trustworthy.
“You know, nephew,” his aunt said as he sat down. Her gaze held his, firm and strong. “Heiresses do exist, you know. And dowries. You could make a marriage to secure some wealth. It is something to think of.”
“Aunt!” Owen stared at her, jaw gaping. “No! I wouldn’t do that.” His stomach twisted painfully. He didn’t agree with such things, though he knew they happened. It was common practice in the nobility and gentry, but he was firmly against it. That was no reason to choose someone. His Papa had loved his mother—he saw that love in the lines at the corner of Papa’s eyes, the white in his temples. He had wed for love, and Owen would do no less. He couldn’t think of trapping a woman in a loveless world.
“It’s worth thinking about, is all I mean.” She poured him some tea, gazing over at him with real fondness.
Owen looked down. He didn’t want to be angry with her, but the idea she suggested had really shocked him. He hadn’t expected it. He focused on his tea, stirring in some sugar—even though he didn’t much like sugar in the tea—and drinking it. When she changed the subject to the weather, he let her change it.
He talked pleasantly with her until she excused herself, and he walked her to her coach, standing on the terrace as the carriage rolled through the gates and onto the main road.
Inside, in the hallway, he stared out of the window onto the terrace under its leaves and dust. He felt his heart ache painfully. What his aunt said was right. He could choose to find a wealthy heiress or a woman with a large dowry. In many ways, it would solve so many problems. But it would be so wrong.
I’ll have to wait and see, he told himself, frowning. What he was waiting to see, he didn’t know. He just knew that this was an idea he wasn’t going to accept straightaway. He would wait and see and attend the ball tonight, and maybe an answer would make itself known.
Chapter Three
“Lily. Please, not that strong,” Ophelia protested sharply. Her maid was tightening her stays, and Ophelia felt like she couldn’t breathe. She felt Lily relax the strings slightly and was instantly more at ease.
“Sorry, milady,” Lilly said gently. “I got a bit carried away—I’m sorry. I reckon I’m distracted.”
“Don’t worry,” Ophelia replied caringly. She could hear Lily was tense too. It was her own mood, she thought darkly, that was affecting her. Ever since the morning, Ophelia had been restless and disquieted. She hadn’t been able to sit at anything for longer than an hour and, though she’d walked around the garden and tried to sew in the drawing room, she couldn’t settle at anything.
Her parents had troubled her, it was true, but it was him. The rude man had troubled her.
She couldn’t say exactly why, but ever since he’d bumped into her in the library, the uncouth man had been in her thoughts. Maybe it was his abrupt, dismissive speech and the way he’d bumped into her and then excused himself without making a real apology that had bothered her a great deal. She couldn’t stop thinking about his face, either, or those green eyes that stared into hers.
He annoyed me intensely.
It was annoyance, only annoyance that she felt. It wasn’t that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen and perhaps one of the more interesting, too. No, he was rude and uncouth and that was all.
She glanced at herself in the mirror as Lily stepped back. She was wearing a white gown, the sleeves puffs of gauzy fabric, the waist high, the muslin decorated with brilliants that shimmered when she moved. The seamstress, Mrs. Headley, had worked on it tirelessly for two weeks, fitting it and re-fitting, and making it just right. She looked down as she swirled, watching the light play over the fabric where it hung from a high waist.
“You look lovely, milady,” Lily murmured.
“Thank you, Lily,” Ophelia said softly. She swallowed hard. Lily’s compliment made her feel even more uncomfortable. She didn’t feel any kind of excitement, and her maid’s attempt to cheer her just highlighted how empty she felt.
She looked up at her reflection. Her blonde hair was arranged in an elaborate chignon, the front section left loose to fall in ringlets about her face. Her heart-shaped face looked pretty enough, her peach lips bright against her pale skin, her blue eyes emphasized by the white gown. She wished she could look happier—her gaze was bleak somehow.
“The coach must be waiting. I’ll fetch your evening cloak, milady.”
“Thank you, Lily,” she repeated, going to the door.
She didn’t want to upset Mother and Father. Already, since breakfast, they’d been distant, and it made the day even more uncomfortable. “Go and retire early,” she told Lily from the doorway. “I’ll undress myself, when I get home,” she added softly. She hated the idea of Lily sitting in her chamber, aching to sleep but unable to let herself until Ophelia came back after so many hours in town.
“No, milady! Of course, I’ll be here to help you with your hair. It’s no trouble.” Lily was insistent, her expression almost cross.
Ophelia smiled. “I would appreciate it, Lily,” she said honestly. It would be nice to know that Lily would be waiting for her. She could tell her about the ball and that would make it fun, at least.
She set off down the hallway.
“There you are!” her mother declared as Ophelia hurried down the hallway with her white silk cloak over her gown. Her mother’s eyes widened as she saw her. “Look at you! Your father is just getting dressed. We’ll go down to the coach. I can’t wait to be there!”
Ophelia swallowed hard. Her mother sounded excited, and she wished she could share the sentiment. She followed her mother—who wore a beautiful coffee-colored gown in velvet, intensely-colored and elegant—to the coach. It was cold outside still and she shivered and drew her cloak about her, glad of its warmth.
“Ah! There you are, Evelyn!” Father greeted Mama as he walked to the coach. “Ophelia. There you are. Fine! Fine. Mr. Watson?” he called the driver. “Let us prompt the coach into motion.”
Father clambered up into the coach to join them. He sounded pleased, genuinely enthusiastic. Ophelia felt her frown deepen—how could anyone be enthusiastic about one of these parties? She looked down at her hands, confused and unsettled, and the driver lifted the reins and then they were heading off.
“I anticipate a grand evening,” Mama said as the coach rolled down to the street. Ophelia looked out of the window. She didn’t. She was sure she was going to have a miserable evening—she didn’t want to go to the ball, and she would know nobody there.
“A good set of people will be there, I am sure,” her father agreed. “Titled people; people of influence.”
Ophelia felt her stomach twist. Did they always have to focus on the other people? On meeting influential acquaintances who could make them yet more wealthy, more well-connected? It made no sense.
We’re already one of the wealthier families in London, she wanted to shout. It didn’t matter. At least, it didn’t to her. The pain in her heart increased at the thought that all she wanted—all she really wanted—was somewhere with a cozy drawing room where she could write poetry.
She looked out of the window as the coach rattled on. Men and women were walking down the pavement, the women in evening cloaks like her, the men in long greatcoats and top hats. There were more people waiting outside the theater, while others walked hastily towards a coffee-house. London was alive and busy under the blue dusk sky. It was the time that the streets were the busiest with people going out for the evening.
Her gaze widened as they moved through a new part of town. Their townhouse was in Kensington, while they were moving up through Pall Mall. She stared out at the stone-faced houses and the wide streets. Coaches moved here and there, taking ladies and gentlemen from one address to the next. Youths with torches waited for it to get darker so that they could help guests to their carriages in the darkened street. Coachmen spoke with innkeepers and a man swept the pavement. It was a typical scene, and she wished she didn’t feel so nauseous.
“Here we are,” her father said as the coach rolled on further, drawing up near a house with an elaborate set of stairs. “This is Haredale House.”
“It seems very well-kept,” Mama commented as she stepped back for Father to alight, then took his hand to climb from the coach. She stepped out elegantly, seeming barely to move, just to drift out of the carriage. Ophelia followed, feeling awkward as her ankle twisted when she touched the ground. She said nothing of the sudden, sharp pain and walked with her parents up towards the elegant house.
As they walked up to the building, she tipped her head back, staring up at the dusk-blue sky. Stars were there, bright and silver, making the brilliants of her dress seem dull and silly.
I wish I could write about them.
She didn’t have a pencil and paper with her, and nobody would understand why she was so sad about that as well.
They were nearing the top of the steps, her thin-soled dancing shoes soundless on the white stone. Torches burned in brackets by the entrance, gold and bright, and a footman stood there, dressed in burgundy-red and white livery, taking cloaks and coats for the guests.
“Thank you,” Ophelia murmured as she handed him her cloak. Servants were human—it was obvious to her, even if her parents didn’t want her to treat them like they were. She insisted on doing it anyway.
She walked on into the entrance-way.
The heat hit her as she walked in. Compared to the early springtime chill in the outside air, the air inside the manor was stiflingly warm. She drew a deep breath, smelling the scents of champagne and pomade. Around her, the rise and fall of talk was loud, the delicate sound of laughter weaving through it only making her feel agitated.
Please, she prayed silently, let this not be too awful.
She looked ahead, focusing on her father and mother, who were already walking through the hall. They had stopped and were chatting with a tall woman whose auburn hair was pulled up into an elaborate bun, hidden with a widow’s veil.
“Good evening, Lady Haredale,” Father greeted the woman, who wore a dark blue dress that was elegant and restrained, like Mama’s.
“Good evening, Lord Walden,” she greeted him politely. “Good evening, Lady Walden. And this must be Miss Ophelia Worthington!” she added warmly, addressing Ophelia. “Grand to meet you.” She smiled at Ophelia, who looked back, feeling awkward. She had been miles away in her thoughts, wishing she was outside, and for a second, she didn’t know what to say. She’d never met Lady Haredale before, she was quite sure of it, and she was surprised at the lady’s apparent pleasure in seeing her here.
“Um…charmed, my lady,” she managed, and bobbed a swift curtsey. She straightened up, cheeks hot, and glanced sideways to see if her mother was angry, but she was talking with Lady Haredale, sounding as though she had known her for years. She also had never met her.
“A fine evening. Very fine! So grand, to host a ball in early spring.”
“It is very grand,” Lady Haredale murmured, and Ophelia blinked, thinking that in those shrewd dark eyes she saw something a little like amusement. It was only an instant, though, and she looked again, seeing nothing besides a polite and courteous smile. It must have been her imagination.
Mama said something else—Ophelia wasn’t really listening, she was gazing around the vast ballroom, trying to spot anyone she knew. Then they moved past Lady Haredale and on down the stairs into the ballroom.
“It’s so hot,” Mama murmured.
“Very hot,” Father agreed.
Ophelia looked around, craning her neck to see over the people. She was not particularly tall, just average height, and it was hard to see over so many people who stood around talking and drinking. Her father was tall, and he looked across the room and she heard him clear his throat.
“There’s a table over there for refreshments, Evelyn,” he said to Mama, indicating somewhere towards the frontmost corner with a nod of his head. “I shall go and fetch you ladies some champagne.”
“Thank you, Father,” Ophelia murmured. She wanted to say that she’d much prefer lemonade, that champagne went to her head and made her feel unsteady, and she didn’t like it, but she knew Father wouldn’t listen. She watched him walk briskly off. She stood with Mama, trying to think of something to say.
The hall was brightly lit, and she blinked as she looked around. Hundreds of candles in dozens of crystal chandeliers lit the place from their position high above. She craned her neck, staring up at them. She could see perhaps eight chandeliers in all, decked with uncountable candles each—and they were four-hour candles, she noted gloomily. That meant the ball would last four hours, ending when the candles started to burn out. Four hours here with nobody she knew, dancing with people she didn’t know either, trying to act as though it was a pleasant diversion.
“Ah! Lady Epdale,” her mother greeted an older woman with curly hair under a small lace veil. “How grand to see you. And you, Lord Epdale. How is the hunting this year?”
“Thin pickings, my lady. Very thin pickings.”
Ophelia looked away, straining her neck as she looked around to see if Alice was there. She hadn’t said she was coming, but there was always a chance that any high-society event would include her. The only thing that would make this ball pleasant was if her friend were to attend it. She felt her heart thump and she paused to ask Mama if she might slip off and look for someone to talk to, but then Father wandered over with the drinks.
“Here you are, my dear,” he murmured, passing a tall glass to Mama.
“Thank you, dear,” Mama murmured back.
“And here you are, sweet,” he said to Ophelia, passing her a glass just like it. He barely looked at her, though his voice sounded affectionate.
“Thank you, Papa.”
Ophelia accepted her drink but didn’t sip it. She stood there for what felt like an age while her parents talked to the lord and lady they had just spotted. Lord Epdale changed the topic, mercifully, from hunting to gardening, and then he was talking about the renovations to the Epdale estate at length. Ophelia loved gardens, and the topic was at least interesting, but she ached to slip off, her feet feeling as though they were going to catch alight with impatience if she stood still a second more.
“Lady Walden? Lord Walden?” a voice interrupted the talk.
Ophelia looked over, recognizing it distantly. It was Lady Haredale, and she was coming to join them, which meant that she must have already greeted all the guests, Ophelia realized with some surprise. She’d been so distracted with all the talk that she hadn’t noticed time passing. The musicians were tuning up in the corner, which meant the dancing was soon to start. They must have been standing there for half an hour.
“Lady Haredale?” Father greeted her guardedly as if he, too, were surprised by her sudden appearance.
“Lord Walden,” Lady Haredale repeated firmly. “Might I interrupt you a moment? I have someone I want you to meet. Would you follow me? And bring Miss Worthington, too, of course. That’s very important.”
Ophelia felt a tingle spread across her skin, and her stomach twisted queasily. She wanted to meet someone new—and moving away from Lord Epdale would be most comfortable—but she suspected this was some plot her parents had concocted to introduce a new suitor, except that they looked as confused as she felt. That gave her a flutter of concern.
Who are we going to meet? She asked herself, her palms tingling.
They all walked through the crowded room with Lady Haredale. Ophelia’s feet were silent on the marble tiles, the ceiling soaring high overhead with its molded cornices and white paint. They stopped at the refreshments table, near a man. His back was to them, and he was tall, with broad shoulders, and was wearing a black jacket and black trousers, which in itself was strange, given that the other men in the room were mostly in brighter colors and favored knee-breeches. Ophelia felt inquisitive in spite of her fear.
“Nephew?” Lady Haredale called softly. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Yes, Aunt?” the man replied, and turned around. Ophelia stopped breathing.
It was him. The man she had met in the library.