Page 1 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
Chapter 1
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. Shecouldn’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.
