Page 22 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
Ophelia stood where she was, rooted to the spot. Father went over to the window, and Ophelia followed him, heart thudding.
“Now, daughter,” her father began. “I think you can guess what I have to say.”
Ophelia shook her head. “No,” she said honestly. This was just too confusing. How could she possibly know?
“Why! No need to be shy, daughter. It’s great news!” A big grin lit his strong, square features.
“It is?” Ophelia frowned. She was entirely baffled. What might she have done that her father would know of, but not herself?
“Yes! It is! You’re to be a countess.”
“What?” Ophelia cried, disbelief and horror gripping her body. She felt as though she was falling and reached out, groping blindly for something solid. The world was suddenly senseless and disarrayed and she needed something to hold onto.
“Yes. Yes.” He sounded almost impatient. “The Earl of Ivystone was here this morning. He asked for your hand. I think the wedding should take place next week, if we manage to organize a special license to make it early, which shouldn’t be hard.” His tone was bright—he sounded delighted, like an investment he’d made had given him tenfold returns in a day. “Isn’t that grand! You may rejoice, daughter. It’s wonderful news. And I congratulate you.” He smiled at her warmly. “It’s very good news indeed.”
“What? Father. Please!” Ophelia felt her head spin and her grip tightened on the back of the chair she’d grasped, struggling to hold onto something that made sense in the world. “Father...tell me again. The Earl of Ivystone...?” She couldn’t have heard that correctly. It couldn’t be the man she’d met in the library. He’d danced with her once! How was it possible that he’d asked for her hand? It made no sense.
Besides, she didn’t like him. He was distant and cold and disinterested. She didn’t like him, and she had certainly made no good impression on him—she must have made a terrible impression, since she stood on his foot. This didn’t make any sense.
She stood where she was, trying to think through the confusion that filled her.
“Yes,” her father repeated, as if raising his voice would make her understand. “The Earl of Ilverham. He asked for your hand. This morning,” her father repeated; patient, as though he was explaining it to someone particularly slow to understand.
“The Earl of Ivystone. That man. Asked you...” Ophelia repeated. He had asked her father! He’d gone straight to her father, and he hadn’t even asked her. That was not how it should have been. He should have asked her first.
“Yes. That’s what I said.” Her father didn’t sound patient anymore...his usual annoyance was there, brisk in his voice. “And so, you have a week to prepare. We’ll have to organize a gown. That’s something, eh?”
Ophelia gaped at him. He really thought she’d be excited? He thought the promise of getting dressed up was more important to her than how she was going to spend the rest of her days? She stepped over to the door. Her back was stiffly tense.
“No hurry...your mother can organise it. The seamstress is coming soon, eh? She can tell her then.”
“Father...no.” Ophelia straightened her spine, trying to find words. She gazed at her father, and she realized that, just as when she was a little girl, he was a stranger. She didn’t know him. He didn’t know her, and she couldn’t explain anything to him. It was as if she was trying to explain it to a fellow she’d just met in the street—she had no clue of where to begin.
“No?” He inquired. “Well, you can tell her yourself, of course. But your mother has theGazettewith all the latest styles, so maybe she’s better placed...”
“No, Father!” Ophelia cried out. “No. It’snot the dress. It’s the notion of it! I can’t wed someone I don’t know. Someone I met once, at a party. It’s unthinkable. And you accepted. Without even asking me. Without telling me!” She felt a tear run down her cheek, a tear of fear and anger. Anger because of how wrong it was, scared because she was confronting her father,who she barely knew, but who she’d feared her entire life.
“Now, stop this,” her father said briskly, as if she was fussing over not getting a bun at the market. “I thought you’d be pleased. You’re going to be a countess! Think of that. A carriage, an estate, servants...and a title. You’ll have more than I do.” He grinned at her, as if he was offering her something wonderful. Ophelia felt her heart twist painfully.
“You don’t understand at all.”
She turned around and walked out of the room.
“Daughter...daughter?” Her father shouted after her as she turned and walked up the hallway, but she didn’t turn around and she didn’t stop walking. She reached the staircase and started off at a run. Taking the stairs swiftly, she raced to her room and shut the door, locking it behind her, then threw herself onto her bed. She lay there, winded by the sudden impact, gasping.
“No.”
It was the only thought in her head, the only word that came to her. No.
They couldn’t do this to her. They couldn’t expect her to do this. It was insane. She couldn’t marry someone she’d met once at a party, with whom she’d exchanged ten words and danced once! It was mad.
She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She looked around, but didn’t see anything, not really. Her mind had stopped working and all she could do was lie there and stare up at the white-plastered ceiling.
Father didn’t understand.
He really thought that a title would mean to her what it meant to him, that worldly possessions meant to her what they meant to him. Yes, it was nice to be comfortable. But things of the mind and heart...those were worth so much more. The dew on the rose-petals had more value than in all the titles in theCourt.
Titles can’t lift the spirits or make you smile. Titles can’t inspire you.
