Page 37 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“Is it hard?” she asked softly. It sounded rather easy. Knocking balls into holes didn’t seem all that difficult. It seemed like a strange thing to do for hours at a time.
He chuckled. “It can be. Depends on what you’re trying to do. Sometimes it’s easy enough, and sometimes it’s quite hard. Like this...” He bent down and started arranging the balls on the table. Ophelia frowned, watching him. He lined the balls up into a triangular shape and then leaned forward, holding the cue. Shefelt her heart thud faster, though she couldn’t have said why, as he moved his lithe body in a swift movement and the clicking sound of a cue striking followed the motion.
“Perdition take it,” he said, grinning, as the balls darted around the table. She only heard one fall into a hole. “That didn’t work very well.” He ran a hand across his hair, a gesture she’d seen him make before.
“May I try?” she asked softly. It was difficult to get the words out and she blushed, heat rising in her cheeks. Had she really just asked to play a man’s game? She looked around, half-expecting someone to have overheard and condemn her.
Owen stared at her. “Of course,” he said instantly. “If you want to. I mean, it didn’t seem like something you’d like. Come here. I’ll line up a shot for you.”
“Yes, please do,” Ophelia murmured. She stood where he was standing, and she watched as he lined the balls up. Her heart thudded and her palms felt sticky as she waited for him to tell her what to do next.
“Now,” Owen said gently. “You take the cue, like this.” He reached for her hands and positioned them on the stick. Ophelia felt her heart stop. His touch on her skin was sending shivers through her body and she found it hard to breathe properly. He stood behind her, the warmth of his chest tangible through the thin fabric of her gown.
She let him help her to stand properly, and then he stepped back a little.
“Now, you need to bend forward, like I did...not quite...here you go,” he said softly, resting a hand on her shoulder. The palm of his hand was warm. His touch was firm. Ophelia stopped breathing.
“Yes,” she managed to whisper.
“Good. Now, your target is the white ball, there. See if you can hit it and make it hit the red ball that’s lined up in themiddle. Then, if you hit it fast enough, it should slide into that hole there.”
“Very well,” Ophelia answered. She couldn’t think. His instructions were clear, and yet they weren’t the foremost thing in her mind. His closeness took up all the room in her thoughts, and the feeling of his hand where it had rested on her shoulder. The impression of it felt warm there, as though his touch was still there.
She drew the cue back, pressed it forward, and shot.
“No,” she giggled, as the white ball skimmed past the red one that she’d intended to hit and shot into the corner. She saw him grin and then they were both laughing as she straightened up, and he went to fetch the white ball again.
“You probably did better than I did the first time I tried that,” Owen told her, his grin turned down at the edges in self-deprecation. “Grantham and I practiced for hours...” he trailed off and his gaze clouded.
“Was he your friend?” she asked softly. She could see from the pain in his gaze that Grantham had been someone very important to him. Owen shook his head. His eyes were damp and he looked into the corner of the room.
“No,” he whispered softly. “No. He was my brother. My...my elder brother.” He stopped talking and Ophelia heard him sob. She stood where she was. She didn’t want to stare at him, sensing that he wouldn’t normally show anyone his grief. She looked into the fireplace, letting him sob quietly for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, when he didn’t speak for another moment. “You must have loved him a great deal.”
“I...” Owen swallowed hard. “Whew. Sorry.” He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief, wiping his cheek. “This is the first time I’m crying for him.”
Ophelia said nothing, just let Owen cry. Tears ran silently down his cheeks and then he went and sat down on the divan.She followed him, kneeling on the floor.
“I haven’t cried for him in almost a year,” Owen confided as they sat there. “He...he passed away almost a year ago. In France. They were sailing to Calais and a storm struck. His ship ran into a rock. Papa was with him. He drowned too.”
Ophelia stared at Owen silently. She tried to imagine it. She had no siblings, and she didn’t feel particularly close to her father. It was hard to imagine what it would be like to lose him...he seemed like the one thing in the world that was certain. Owen sniffed again and she rested her hand on his gently.
He looked down at her fingers where they rested against his hand. Very gently, he placed his hand over hers. She felt her chest tighten and she could barely breathe.
He squeezed her fingers, holding her hand gently in his. Her heart was thudding so loudly it seemed louder than the clock that hung on the wall by the window. They sat there silently, the only noise in the room coming from the fireplace.
“I haven’t spoken to anyone about this,” Owen told her in a soft voice. “Not Aunt Julia, not anybody. You’re the only person I could grieve in front of.”
Ophelia looked into his eyes, feeling her heart glow. She gazed at him, and he held her gaze. She felt as though those green eyes were drawing her in, drowning her in their mossy dark depths.
“I am pleased,” she said softly.
“You might be an awful billiards player,” he said with a grin. “At least for now, but I am so glad you came up here.”
“Me, too,” she said with a chuckle. She saw him take a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe away the tears and she sensed that he felt embarrassed about his confession. Her heart was thudding now, and she smiled, feeling glad that he’d said it even though she knew he felt awkward. He stood up and she stood up too.
“You must be hungry,” he said gently. “It’s almost eight o’ clock.”
