Page 28 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“Oh! Come in,” Ophelia said hastily, standing up from the bed.
The door opened and a woman’s face appeared in the gap. She was perhaps ten years older than herself, Ophelia guessed, with brown hair and a roundish face, and her eyes were friendly. She bobbed her head in greeting.
“Milady! I’m Miss Cranford. I’m to be your lady’s maid.” She wet her lips nervously. Ophelia wondered if she’d ever been a ladies’ maid before. She smiled, trying to reassure her.
“That’s good,” she said warmly. “I’m pleased to meet you. Might you fetch me a pitcher of water?” she asked, glancing at the nightstand, where the bowl and pitcher were both empty.
“Oh! Of course, milady!” Miss Cranford blushed redly, as though she’d made some terrible oversight. Ophelia wanted to reassure her, but she felt too exhausted. She went and sat down on the bed again.
Just four hours until dinnertime.
She swallowed hard. She didn’t know how she was going to bear it. At least at dinner her parents, Alice and Lord Alford, who’d been at the wedding, were going to be there too. Not that having dinner with her parents was a pleasant thought, but at least she knew them. Speaking to the earl was so much harder. She knew nothing about him. She was supposed to go and see him in the drawing room. She shivered at the thought.
“Milady?” Miss Cranford was at the door. “Water, milady. And your cases are on their way up. I’ll come and unpack them as soon as you wish.”
“Thank you.” Ophelia swallowed hard. Now was the ideal moment to go up to the drawing room. She felt her stomach tie itself in a knot at the thought. “I’m going to go out shortly. You may unpack then.”
“Oh!” A big grin spread across her face. “Thank you kindly, milady.”
Ophelia made herself smile back politely, and as soon as she had gone, she rinsed her face in the water and checked her reflection hastily. Taking another deep breath and saying a silent inward prayer for courage, she went out into the hallway.
The hallway was silent, the trees outside making it dark and eerie seeming. The floor creaked under her feet. Outside, the wind rustled the branches and was still. Ophelia shivered, then took another deep breath and tiptoed down the corridor, looking for a door somewhere that showed a chink of light. The hallway was dark, the lamps unlit, the clouds that had gathered outside making it as dark as dusk despite being afternoon. She reached an open door where lamps were lit and paused, then walked haltingly into the room.
It smelled a little dusty, and the light from the windows was obscured by the tall, shadowing trees, but the room itself was beautifully furnished, the furnishings modern and gracious;spindle-legged chairs at a round table and fine chintz covered wingbacks around the fireplace. A tall clock of expensive-looking wood stood in one corner and the hearthrug was silk. It was the drawing room, she guessed, as a big round table occupied one side of the room near the window, bookshelves lining the walls. Chintz covered chairs were arranged near the fire, a chaise-longue beside one wall. It would be a grand place to sit and read.
She glanced around, but she couldn’t see anybody.
“Miss? Sorry. Ophelia?”
“Oh!” Her hand went to her lips, startled, as someone called her. She turned towards the voice, which had come from a dark corner near a bookshelf. She spotted the earl standing there. The firelight shone on his dark hair and his green eyes were wide. With the firelight highlighting the contours of his face, he looked quite handsome. Her heart thudded and, if she hadn’t been absolutely sure it was impossible, she would have said he looked afraid too.
“Sorry I startled you,” he said softly, walking forward. “This is quite a dark room and it’s hard to see properly.”
“Yes. Yes, I didn’t see you there,” Ophelia murmured. She still felt shaken. She looked down at her hands, which rested against the white silk of her gown. She hadn’t changed out of her wedding clothes yet. She glanced at him. He wasn’t wearing the jacket, his shirtsleeves and an embroidered waistcoat showing, but other than that he was wearing the same clothes too. She recognized the lace-edged cravat. She gazed up at him, her eyes holding his. He looked down, shyly.
“I’ll ring for some tea, if you like,” he offered, glancing across the room to the bell-rope. “And maybe you’d like to look around. We have a pianoforte, but nobody’s played it for years. Not since...” he trailed off and Ophelia frowned. “Not since Mama.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Ophelia looked around the room and felt her heart twist. Itwas dusty and ill-kept as though nobody had used it for years and she realized that she hadn’t stopped to think about his family. His parents had clearly both passed away, but she had no idea how recently, or if he had any siblings. She looked out of the window, feeling overwhelmed. She knew absolutely nothing about him and the enormity of that hit her like a stone crashing down a hillside. She took in a gulp of breath.
“It was a long time ago. Please, feel free to use the pianoforte,” Owen continued, interrupting her thoughts. “And anything else in here that takes your fancy,” he added, walking back hastily from the bell-rope. “We have embroidery-things somewhere, I’m quite sure if it, and if we don’t, then there’s all manner of things one can procure in London.” He flashed her a nervous smile and Ophelia felt herself frown. He really was nervous; she couldn’t deny it to herself. But it made no sense.
Why be nervous of her?
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I don’t sew or play the pianoforte. Not much, anyway.”
“Oh!” Owen’s eyes widened in surprise, as if he’d never heard of a lady who didn’t do either. Ophelia felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Well, then!” He smiled and she was surprised that the smile made his eyes look quite friendly. “What pastimes do you like, then?”
Ophelia took a deep breath and hesitated. Should she tell him? He was staring at her with an expectant smile, and she could see no unkindness there.
“I write poetry,” she answered softly. Her voice was little more than a whisper.
“Oh?” Owen exclaimed, and she tensed, expecting him to laugh or mock, but then he continued. “Oh! Well! That’s fascinating! Utterly fascinating. I love poetry.” He grinned at her; eyes warm.
“You do?” Ophelia felt something in her chest unknot; sometension she hadn’t been aware of. She breathed out in a rush.
“Yes! Absolutely. I can’t read enough of it. It’s something for the soul. Nothing else quite touches one like poetry.” He sounded excited, but then he slowed down, reddening, and brushed a hand through his dark hair. She wondered if he did that when he felt anxious.
