Page 13 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“Me, too.”
They both laughed. Ophelia slipped her arm through her friend’s arm, and they made their way towards the refreshments table.
“Lemonade, please,” Alice asked the footman who was pouring drinks.
“A lemonade for me too, please,” Ophelia requested, taking it from him and sipping it thankfully. The drink was cool as well-water, the taste sour and sweet at once.
She gulped another mouthful, feeling better.
“I saw you on the dance floor,” Alice commented, dark eyes sparkling. “Who wasthatgentleman?” Her voice was lively and curious.
“Earl of Ivystone. I think.” She frowned. Lady Haredale had introduced them, but she barely remembered what he was called. He was the man from the library, and she’d been so shocked to see him that she barely recalled what his name was.
“No!” Alice laughed. “An earl, no less. Oh-ho!”
“Alice,please.” Ophelia shot her a look but now she was giggling as well. She couldn’t help it. Her friend was smiling and suddenly it wasn’t so bad anymore. It was just funny.
Relief flooded her slowly, the pain and shame of earlier steadily dissolving. They stood silently, looking out over the ballroom. The sound of conversation was loud around them, forty people talking and laughing making a surprising amount of noise. The heat was oppressive, too, the glow from the candles making her eyes hurt.
“I was talking to an army captain earlier,” Alice said lightly. “But an earl! Now! There’s something intriguing.”
“Alice!” Ophelia chuckled. Her friend was teasing, she knew that. They both disliked the preoccupation with titles—Alice's family was less insistent on them than her own was, Ophelia had to admit. Lord Wharton, her father, seemed content if Alice liked someone, even an army captain.
“Well, he is.” Alice giggled. “The earl, I mean. Tall, too.”
“Yes, he is,” Ophelia said, laughing. “And this man? The military one?” She changed the subject hastily.
“Red-haired,” Alice said, touching her own curls. Ophelia laughed.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, according to the latest wisdom, redheads are unpredictable. Are we so?”
Ophelia giggled. They both felt comforted by one another’s ridicule of society.
“You’re not unpredictable. You’re very trustworthy.”
“Thank you,” Alice said, pretending relief. “I say the same myself.”
They both laughed.
Around them, the ball continued, with a polonaise playing and people moving about on the dance floor. Ophelia looked over at the table, and the peculiar fresco behind it. She felt hercheeks heat. She hadn’t managed very well there, either. He’d been so formal, so distant, as they discussed the painting. Maybe he was still angry with her about the library incident.
Maybe that was it.
She felt a little comforted. Maybe his strange standoffishness was just because of that, and so it needn’t bother her. He was just one man—earl or not—and here were a dozen others. She gazed across the room and saw a tall man with chestnut hair who was looking at Alice.
“The captain, perhaps?”
“No, that’s not the captain. I don’t know him,” Alice replied, glancing over at the man. “But he’s tall. And not bad, if I can see well enough to be a judge from here.” Her voice sounded suddenly interested, head tilted to one side as she studied him with evident interest.
“Alice!” Ophelia giggled, her cheeks burning at her friend’s cheeky opinion.
“Well, he is. And he’s watching, too.” She looked away, pretending she hadn’t seen, patting her hair into place with a careless hand. Ophelia wanted to chuckle.
She turned to the refreshments table again, thinking it might be sensible to have one of the little jam tarts—she hadn’t eaten breakfast, nor at luncheon either. Her stomach was twisting painfully, and she selected one that might have been raspberry—her favorite—and bit into it.
“Lady Alice. Pleased to meet you,” she heard her friend saying, and she saw the man had come over.
