Page 38 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“I didn’t notice,” she admitted.
He grinned. “Well, that means you’re already so hungry you don’t notice you’re hungry anymore. And that’s serious. Come on...let’s go downstairs. I’m sure Mrs. Crane has managed to concoct something terrific for dinner.”
Ophelia laughed and Owen laughed too, and they walked into the hallway. She found she was looking forward to dinner and to their planned evening in the drawing room later on.
Chapter 14
The scent of a delicious roast wafted through from the dining-room and Owen sucked in a breath as he followed Ophelia upstairs. His stomach felt contentedly full of dinner, but he could barely even recall what had been on the table. His eyes had barely left her face.
Her green dress brought out the startling blue of her eyes, her hairstyle emphasizing her delicate features. She was so lovely that his entire body flushed with warmth when he looked at her.
Now, he walked a little behind her as they slipped upstairs. It was late—Crane had already extinguished the few lamps that they left burning. Ophelia, moving in the darkened hallway, was a soft silhouette, smelling faintly of jasmine. Owen took another breath, feeling an ache of longing tightening within him. He had thought, during the billiards game, that he might lose control of himself altogether. Her closeness, the scent of her in his nose, the feeling of her skin and the silk dress she wore under his hands as she stepped into place...it had all overwhelmed him. It was like drowning in a sea of honey.
“Do we have something to light the lamps?” she whispered as they walked into the drawing room. It was completely dark, the only light from the fireplace, where the embers were lit. Owen smiled.
“I have a flint and striker there in the desk...we’ll have to find it in the dark, though.”
He heard Ophelia giggle. The sound made him ache with longing. He made his way carefully to the desk.
“It’s here...” he slid a hand into the drawer that he somehow managed to locate, and felt about, feeling for the tinderbox. Hisfingers brushed against a metallic object, and he drew it out.
“I found a lamp,” Ophelia said from close by. He turned to find her standing beside him, one of the porcelain lamps in her hands. She must have managed to reach the fireplace and lifted one of them down. He smiled.
“Thank you. If you could put it on the desk, I’ll light it.”
“Good.”
They were both chuckling as Owen fumbled with the tinderbox, trying to open it in the dark, and managed to locate the flint and striker. He lit the lamp, the spark bright in the dark, and stared into her eyes. Lit with the lamp, her skin glowed goldenly, her hair bright about her face. He drew a breath and, before he could stop himself, he lifted his hand and tucked a stray curl behind her ear.
Ophelia drew in her breath in a gasp. Owen swallowed hard. He thought he’d scared her, but the look in her blue eyes didn’t seem to be fear. He let his hand move swiftly to his side.
“We should find a poetry book,” he suggested, through a tight throat. He looked around. “There’s not much to choose from up here, I’m afraid. Perhaps there’s just one anthology on the shelf there by the window.” He indicated the corner closest to them, where one bookshelf stood by itself. Ophelia turned, her gentle motion making the lamplight shift and sway.
“I’ll fetch it.”
“Thank you,” he murmured in reply.
Owen remained standing, letting her choose where to sit. He imagined curling up with her on the chaise-longue, but perhaps that would be a step too far, considering how she’d tensed when he touched her cheek. He waited to see what she did.
“Can you bring the lamp?” she called from the bookshelf.
“Of course.” Owen walked briskly to her side, careful not to let the lamp go out. He held it aloft, watching the light shimmer on her soft skin. The dress left her long neck bare down almostto the top of her shoulders and he made himself look away.
If he didn’t look away, he’d lose control altogether and kiss her right there.
She reached down and got a book out of the shelf, turning around with a big smile. “It’s this one, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He took the book from her hands, studying the gold lettering on the leather cover. “It’s this one.”
She took the book and settled herself in one of the chintz covered chairs. Owen sat across from her. He put the lamp on the table so she could see to read. She opened the book, running her finger down the index. He watched as her brow creased and then relaxed as she grinned triumphantly.
“Ah! Here. I hoped this would be in here. It’s a sonnet by Milton.”
“I’d be pleased to hear it,” Owen replied. He felt a little curious. “I don’t know enough of Milton’s work.”
“I’m not so partial to “Paradise Lost”,” Ophelia said, wrinkling her nose. “But I like some of his sonnets. And this is a particularly nice one.” She cleared her throat and without further comment, began to read.
“When I consider how my light is spent...”
