Page 23 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
Poetry was her world, and she had always dreamt of finding someone as romantic as she was. She had dreamed of falling for someone, not being threatened and persuaded into spending an eternity with someone she didn’t even like.
She lay there, staring up at the ceiling. A wild plan began to form—she'd run away, take a Hackney coach to Alice’s home, and beg them to help her to flee to the countryside. She’d find refuge in a convent out there in the hills somewhere and become a nun. That would be better than the fate her parents had planned for her.
She rolled over, considering it. As she did so, she found herself imagining a future. Images came into her mind seemingly without her conscious effort. An elderly woman in an enveloping robe appeared there, the close-fitting cap of the cloister over her hair. She was a poet, but she was sad. And lonely. In another image, a woman stood in a garden. She was playing hide-and-seek with a little child. The child grinned up at her; blue eyes sparkling. They were bright and happy, and they stole her heart.
At least in this life, I have a chance at that.
She swallowed hard. Marriage, no matter how horrible, had the chance of bringing children. She could face it, however odious it might be, for that.
For nothing else.
Maybe she should be brave. And at least he wasn’t hideous too. Just cold and distant. Maybe they could ignore each other most of the time. Maybe she’d be able to manage to live contentedly.
It’s not what I’m getting that bothers me,she thought at last, as she sniffed, starting to be able to cry. It was all the thingsshe wasn’t getting that bothered her—the knight in shining armor of her dreams, the playful dances and romance.
She rolled over. Perhaps she was being foolish. Maybe she should just try and make the best of it. After all, as Alice always said, one had to find the blessings in disguise.
“I can’t see any,” Ophelia whispered.
She sat up, going to wash her face in the bowl on the nightstand. She felt as though she was moving through fog, everything slow, and she was suddenly so, so weary.
It’s shock,she told herself slowly. She’d been in a horse-riding accident once when she was very little, falling off when the horse reared up suddenly, and the shock had done the same thing to her then. She’d been very tired and gone almost instantly to sleep.
She lay down on the bed, stifling a yawn. She really was very tired. Her mind sought relief in sleep where it could not in waking, and soon she was curled up on the bed, her mind drifting slowly into the realms beyond wakefulness and into deep sleep.
Chapter 9
Owen stared out of the window in the drawing room, his shoulders feeling stiff in a tight-fitting jacket of navy velvet. He rolled them backwards, trying to ease the feeling, and ease, too, the discomfort that nagged in his mind. His lace cravat felt tight, and he tried to loosen it.
I must be crazy to be doing this.
He let out a slow breath. He wished hewascrazy, but he had no such reason to excuse himself. He was sane, and he had chosen this for rational reasons—too rational, with nothing of emotion.
It was no choice, choosing between losing everything and doing the only thing he could do to save it.
He walked down to the door and out into the hallway.
He was doing the only thing he could, and he had to remind himself of that.
Mr. Crane had organized a coach to take him to London, where the wedding would be held in the private chapel of the baron’s acquaintance. Owen walked down the stairs slowly, thoughts drifting as though he slept. Leonard had promised to be there. Aunt Julia couldn’t be there in time—she was taking an outing in the countryside—but she had promised to come to the house within the next few days. He was alone.
“You have to do this.”
He wished that his elder brother Grantham were here. He would have talked sense into him. But then Grantham had died saving Ivystone, so why should he not, likewise, suffer to save it?
He pushed away the thought. It wasn’t helping.
In the hallway, Mr. Crane passed him his top-hat and freshly polished boots.
“My lord, you create quite a splendid impression in that coat, if I may say so.” Mr. Crane’s voice was caring.
“Thank you,” Owen said, accepting the compliment. He slipped on his boots and set the top-hat, also navy-blue, on his head. “I’ll see you this evening. Thank you for organising the rooms.” Mr. Crane, had taken it on himself to organize the household for the countess. Barrow wasn’t there. He seemed to be too busy meeting with creditors in town to do any work. Owen felt his stomach twist sourly at the thought as he walked down the stairs.
“Hallbrooke House, my lord?” the driver asked Owen, confirming where they were meant to be going.
“Yes,” he agreed, feeling an ache in his stomach. “That’s right.”
“Very good, my lord.”
