Page 39 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
Her voice was soft and lilting, and she read the poem extremely well. His schoolmaster, Mr. Braeley, had not read poems nearly so well, with as much expression and sensitivity as Ophelia showed. She had a deep appreciation for poetry; he could sense that just from the way she read aloud.
“That was beautiful,” he murmured when she had read the sonnet.
“Thank you.” Ophelia smiled. “I like it too. As I said, I’m not always that partial to Milton. But he does explore interesting themes.”
“Which ones?” Owen asked curiously.
“Well, almost all his works address good and evil, and the struggle between them,” she explained at once. “Myself, I think he makes evil a little too powerful and glamorous.” She chuckled, but it was a mocking sound, not a happy one.
“Mayhap,” Owen agreed. He’d been made to read most of the English classics with his schoolmaster, but he didn’t recall thinking much about them.
“Certainly,” Ophelia continued intensely. “Evil is not glamorous. It’s just, well...evil.” She looked down, seeming sad.
“I agree,” Owen replied. “There is much in this world, even in London, that strikes me as evil.”
“Yes! The poor are downtrodden and exploited, and that is certainly evil,” Ophelia responded at once. Her tone was passionate. “We all participate in that evil, sadly. And it is not glamorous at all. Children dying of hunger is not glamorous.” She was close to tears, and Owen reached for her hand.
“It’s all well, Ophelia,” he told her gently. “It is not our lot to change that. There will always be the poor among us.” His heart twisted. He himself was far from rich, but he did own his house and could employ servants and buy food. He bewailed his lot and had never really thought about the poor. But she, who had been raised rich, without ever having to think of debt or need, thought more about it than he did.
“Yes. There will always be poor people,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that, given the chance, we should not help them.” She drew in a breath. Owen could see tears on her cheeks, glistening in the firelight. He reached for his handkerchief and, very tenderly, wiped the teardrops away. His finger brushed against her satiny cheek.
Ophelia stiffened, tense. Owen drew in a breath, moving his hand, but again she didn’t seem afraid, and he leaned back slowly. They sat silently for a moment or two.
“I just wish I could do something to help,” she stated after aminute.
Owen smiled. “Perhaps you will one day,” he said slowly. “But for now,” he added, recalling something. “I am extremely grateful for your help...my housekeeper informs me that you have contrived a way to save two pounds a week on household spending.”
Ophelia raised a brow. “She told you about it?” She looked amused.
He grinned. “She did. She informed me I probably wouldn’t like it, and then went on to tell me it involves the procuring of livestock. I have to admit I was amazed.”
“She told you?”
Ophelia started laughing and Owen started to laugh too. He looked at her in the firelight, her lovely face tipped back, her lips lifted at the corners. His heart twisted with so much joy that it was almost painful.
“Well,” he told her slowly when they had stopped laughing. “Please help Mrs. Crane as often as you would like. I am grateful for your assistance, as is she. You may have free rein of the budget.”
“You would let me do that?” she breathed.
“Of course.”
“You trust me?” Ophelia asked, her voice high-pitched with unsureness.
Of course, I do.” Owen smiled into her eyes. “I trust you with all I have.”
They stared at each other. In that moment, Owen leaned forwards and his lips hovered close to her cheek. He ached to press them to her skin, imagining it as soft as velvet, as warm as firelight. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her, to hold her warm, soft presence close. But as he was about to touch her skin with his lips he heard footsteps in the hallway, hurrying away, and he sat up, startled.
“Barrow?” he called out. “Is that you?”
Ophelia looked scared, but Owen rested a hand gently on her arm to reassure her.
“It’s all well,” he said softly. “It was just Barrow, I’m sure. He was probably coming in to inform me about something. He’s terribly efficient when it comes to saving every cent of our candle and lamp budget.” He chuckled, relieved to be able to talk about something lighthearted—it took his mind off her closeness and how very much he wanted her.
She giggled. “Well, that’s no bad thing. I haven’t considered how to save money on candles. Just on food.”
Owen smiled, feeling amazed. “And remarkably, too,” he told her gently. His mind drifted from the topic of the kitchen to breakfast tomorrow, and he tilted his head, as an idea formed. “Ophelia?”
“Mm?”
