Page 40 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
She was leaning back on the chaise-longue, the poetry book held up so that she could read it in the indistinct light. He felt his grin deepen and he paused.
“What is it?” she prompted him gently.
“I was wondering if you’d like to have a picnic tomorrow, at lunchtime,” Owen asked. The words tumbled out in a rush. He felt almost too nervous to ask, but when he had, he felt his chest flood with joy as her eyes lit up.
“Owen! Why, I’d love that,” Ophelia breathed. “I love picnics. I could never have them with my family in town, but they’re one of my most favourite things.” She was grinning, her eyes bright, and Owen felt joy wash through him.
“Very well, then,” he said, feeling a big grin stretch across his face. “I’ll send word to Mrs. Crane to prepare us a picnic for luncheon tomorrow.”
Ophelia clapped in delight and seeing her joy—so childlike and sincere—Owen felt springtime tiptoe into his heart, and hecould barely wait for tomorrow.
Chapter 15
The sun shone brightly through the thin lace curtains and Ophelia, feeling its warmth on her skin, slipped out of bed. She was smiling as she wrapped herself in her silk nightrobe and pulled the bell-rope to summon Miss Cranford.
The previous evening flooded through her mind as she opened her wardrobe to choose a gown. Images filled her thoughts: Owen sitting so close to her. Owen’s smile as she read, his gaze admiring. His lips hovering close to her cheek as he leaned forward after their brief talk. She felt warmth spread through her body and her lips lifted in a smile.
He seemed interested in her and the thought made her heart race.
She was still grinning as Miss Cranford arrived.
“Good day, milady,” Miss Cranford greeted her warmly. “What will you wear today?”
“I want to wear this,” Ophelia said, passing her a red day-gown. The wardrobe of married women was usually stocked with darker colors, and the red gown was one of the few dresses she owned that seemed fitting. There had been so little preparation that she didn’t have any gowns except those she’d always worn, which were mostly pastel shades or white.
“Very good, milady,” Miss Cranford replied. “And your hair? A chignon like I did yesterday?”
“I defer all those decisions to you,” Ophelia said, grinning. “You have a way with hairstyling.”
“Thank you, milady!” Miss Cranford exclaimed, going pink. “You’re so kind.”
“It’s true,” Ophelia told her gently, going to her nightstand. She reached for her hairbrush. Miss Cranford would style herhair as soon as she was dressed.
Once she had put on a petticoat and gown, Miss Cranford buttoned it up for her—the buttons were impossible to reach for herself—and settled down to do her hair.
And it can be something simple...after all, a picnic is very informal...delightfully so,she thought with a grin. It was one of the things she loved most about picnics—a chance to relax the formality she’d been raised with. That, and the chance to be in nature, made them truly wonderful experiences.
“That’s a fine dress, milady,” Miss Cranford told her. “Your eyes sparkle in that.”
“Thank you, Miss Cranford,” Ophelia replied warmly, feeling a flood of joy wash through her.
When she was dressed, she wandered downstairs to the breakfast room. It was warm, with sunshine pouring in through the big French windows. The room was old-fashioned—she had noticed that parts of the manor were very modern, while parts had not been refurbished in at least a generation. Ophelia loved it. The little room was extremely comfortable, and its situation on the southeastern side of the house meant it was flooded with bright morning sunshine.
She glanced at the table as she sat down. Owen had evidently breakfasted already—there was a teacup at his place, and the newspaper lay neatly at one side of the table. She had become accustomed to him meeting early with his solicitor or other people who managed the finances. She settled down in her chair and buttered a slice of toast, adding orange-flavored marmalade. As she chewed contemplatively on the delicious, sweet toast, her thoughts wandered to the previous evening.
Owen was a ready student, it seemed, and that amazed her—she'd never met anyone who was willing to learn about poetry from her. Even Alice had been reluctant to listen to her opinions and she chuckled. Alice wouldn’t believe it if she told her theearl listened to her when she discussed poems, and besides, she didn’t want to tell. Each second of their time was so precious and she wanted to hoard the memories, to keep them for herself.
She smiled to herself, feeling distracted and a little confused. Owen had changed so much just lately. He’d gone from disinterested, to shy, and then to something that she couldn’t name, but which certainly didn’t seem disinterested. She felt heat flood her cheeks at the memory of how he’d almost kissed her. It was confusing and beautiful and strange.
She felt a little sad that there was nobody she could confide in. A sister would have been grand—someone who she could share all her confusing feelings with, who could reassure her and explain why Owen had changed so suddenly. Lily had been in some ways like a sister, but she was miles away in London with no way of getting here. Alice was like a sister, too, and mayhap she’d visit soon, but here at Ivystone she had nobody to confide in and she felt the lack.
“My lady?” Mr. Crane’s voice interrupted.
Ophelia looked up, almost spilling her tea in surprise. Mr. Crane was in the doorway, his hands clasped in front of him in an awkward gesture.
“Yes? What is it?” she asked, feeling her heart thud nervously.
“My lady, sorry to disturb. Lady Haredale is here, and his lordship is visiting the tenants. Might I inform her that she can speak with you?”
