Page 2 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
They can’t expect me to go to a ball tonight.
She looked around the room. Everything was neat—Lily, her maid, had been in while she was downstairs and made the bed, taking her nightgown out to air. She felt her heart twist in fondness at the thought. Lily took care of all those things for her, but that wasn’t why she liked Lily. She cared for her because she was someone to talk to, the only person she felt at ease with in the house.
She took a breath, trying to find calm. She stared into the looking-glass. Two big, pale blue eyes stared back at her. Her cheekbones, high like her mother’s, topped pale, fine-skinned cheeks. Her lips were well-formed and generous, a pale peach-pink, and her nose was a slim line, just like Mama’s. She stared into her own eyes. They looked as empty as she felt.
She went to the window, wishing she might see something that would lift her spirits, or maybe remind her of the beautifulpoem she’d been thinking of earlier. Her bedroom was on the western side of the house, sunny and warm in the afternoon. Down below she could see a section of the garden—the London townhouse had a small garden, just ten or so yards of lawn with a border of roses and a fountain. Men hurried down the street beside it, top hats on, coats drawn close against the rain. A woman on the other side of the road was clad in an enveloping cape and a bonnet, hurrying with her maid towards a tea-house. Ophelia felt an ache in her heart.
Mayhap everyone down there is hurrying off to somewhere by choice. Mayhap it’s just me who has to do what I’m told.
She let out a breath, an idea coming to her. All her parents wanted was for her to go to the ball. That didn’t mean that she couldn’t do as she wished for the rest of the morning.
She felt her spirits lift and went to her little desk in the corner of the room, fetching her most treasured possession, which was her leather-bound notebook where she wrote her poetry. She slipped it into the pink drawstring purse that matched her pink-patterned day-dress and pulled the bell-rope in the corner of the room, summoning her maid. Her mind was busy already, crafting a poem.
If only I could get a hold of a volume of Coleridge.
The book collection at the London townhouse was quite large, but it was nothing compared to the book collection at the country estate in Walden. There, she had access to all manner of books to find inspiration for her own work, while there were only a few here in London. But in the nearest circulating library—one owned by a Mr. Clifford—she could hope to borrow the things she needed.
She was just fetching her cloak out of the wardrobe when Lily appeared. Lily’s pixie-like face lit up in a grin, black curls escaping from her cloth bonnet.
“Miss Worthington!” she greeted her. “What can I do foryou? Are you feeling well?” Her brow creased in concern, her grin fading as she realized it was the time Ophelia would usually eat breakfast.
“I’m quite well,” Ophelia told her swiftly. She didn’t want to worry Lily, who would be sure to rush for the physician if she thought anything was discomforting her. “I just wished to go to the library. Mr. Clifford’s library. Will you accompany me?”
“Of course, milady!” Lily sounded delighted. “I’ll fetch my cloak directly and meet you at the door. Which bonnet should I fetch for you?”
“The one with the pink ribbons, please,” Ophelia replied. She glanced down at her dress, which was white, with a pattern of tiny pink flowers on the muslin. She would need her cream-colored boots to match.
“Of course, milady. Straight away.”
Ophelia thanked her for the bonnet, then paused to tie it on, slipping her feet into her leather outdoor boots. She hastened down the hallway, light-footed, and met Lily at the front door, hurrying past Mr. Crane, the butler.
“Tell Father I’ve gone to the library, please, Mr. Crane,” she requested swiftly, before hurrying out of the door to where Lily waited for her.
In the street, she breathed deeply. It was just starting to rain, the faintest spots of it touching the stone road. The smell of wet earth and loam was like perfume. It was the smell of freedom.
Laughing, then shrieking as the rain started to pelt them, Lily and she hurried down the street together, gasping for breath. The road smelled wet, the pavement theirs as everyone fled indoors because of the downpour. They reached Mr. Clifford’s Library in ten minutes and paused, panting, in the doorway. Ophelia laughed breathlessly, then stood up, awarethat someone might see her there. She was the daughter of Baron Walden; she had to look dignified.
“Shall we go in?” she asked Lily, who was still gasping for breath.
“Yes, Miss Worthington.”
Ophelia grinned at Lily, who smiled back.
“Let’s hurry out of the rain, milady.”
They walked hastily into the library.
The smell hit Ophelia first—the scent of ink and paper. She breathed deeply. She loved the scent of books. She looked around. The space was warm, and quite small, about the size of the drawing room at home. The little library was lined with shelves, and all sorts of books were crowded onto them. The principle was simple—for a yearly subscription, members could attend the library whenever it was open, and borrow what books they wished, or sit and read them in the room itself. Comfortable chairs were dotted about the space for that purpose, and a fire burned in one corner, providing warmth. Ophelia looked around. She’d been in here a few times—Father paid a yearly subscription to the place, for which she was grateful. He didn’t necessarily approve of her using it, since it was packed with novels that he would have considered a waste of time, but he’d also never stopped her.
She reached the shelf she was looking for and paused. A woman was standing there, her back turned. She had golden hair with a hint of red in it, and she was a little shorter than Ophelia herself.
“Alice?” she breathed.
The woman turned around. She was wearing a pink dress too; entirely pink, decorated with a darker pink band at the waist. When she saw Ophelia, she let out a shriek, then clapped a hand to her mouth, blushing red.
“Ophelia!” she grinned. “Why! It’s you. I didn’t know youwere going to be here this morning. I came in with Mrs. Plowden.” She gestured to an older woman in black livery, who stood at the other end of the room. A man in a top-hat shot a dark look at them, holding a finger to his lips. Alice smiled.
“Sorry,” she mouthed back, exaggeratedly.
