Page 50 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“Of course, Owen,” Ophelia agreed immediately. “I would be pleased to help. Would you like me to look now, or later?” She looked up at him thoughtfully.
“As early as possible,” Owen answered hastily. “But first, I want to show you something. It’ll take a minute or two. Will you come with me?”
“Of course,” she answered at once.
Owen felt his heart thump as he led her downstairs. He was aware of her behind him, the scent of her wafting down the hallway to his nose, the sound of her light footsteps in his ears. He knew she was there, the green dress she wore falling in a softline from a high waist, the skirt swaying with her motion. He drew in a breath and continued, then stopped as he reached the westerly door.
“Here. What I want to show you is in here.” He took the key from his pocket. He had been in there just a few days ago but bringing her here made it seem different and he saw it from a new perspective.
He opened the door and walked in, holding it back so she could enter also. He looked around. The door led into the parlor of his mother’s private apartment. The space was luxurious with silks and satins, white flocked silk wallpaper softening the walls, the drapes made of fine velvet and the chairs covered in patterned chintz. He walked over the parquet, the oriental rug by the fireplace softening the sound of his walking.
“This was my mother’s apartment,” he said, clearing his throat. “I want you to use it. Her poetry books are here,” he added, gesturing to the bookshelf by the wall. His mother’s private collection had housed more poetry books than the rest of the house put together. He’d been thinking about this for a few days, but now it felt right.
“Owen,” she whispered. “You can’t mean it.”
“I do,” Owen said at once, and he knew it was right as he said it. “Mama would have liked you to use it. You might like to use it as your writing-room?” he inquired, heart thudding. “It’s less noisy than anywhere else in the house. And the view on the garden is quite inspiring.” He looked out of the big French door. It looked out onto the rose-garden. The roses were tall and straggled towards the sunlight, but they were filled with blossoms. He drew in a deep breath.
He felt nervous...after all, there was no reason to assume Ophelia would like it or take the offer as it was meant. She stared at him.
“Owen. Owen!”
Without warning, she ran at him, and he felt her arms wrap him tight. He laughed and she laughed and looked up into his eyes and then she must have realized what she’d done, because she stepped back, her gaze wide.
“I just...I just...” she stopped speaking and he saw tears flood her eyes. He felt shocked, thinking he might have upset her, but then she looked up at him. “Owen. It’s wonderful. It’s the best...best thing.” She laughed, tears flowing. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe you’d want me to have this.” She swallowed, feeling overcome. “Somewhere to do my work. Somewhere for poetry.”
He stared at her, surprised. “But, of course, Ophelia,” he said at once. “Of course, I want that. Your poetry means a lot to me. Of course, I want you to have somewhere to be able to work on it.”
“That means more to me than I can say. Nobody ever...” she trailed off. “Thank you, Owen.” She reached out a hand and he took it, pressing it to his lips. She was sobbing and he took out his handkerchief and gently pressed it to her cheek. She stared up at him. In the silence, with her eyes so wide, with the warmth of her cheek under his hand, it was impossible not to lean forward to press his lips to her own. He shut his eyes, struggling not to gasp as his lips found hers. They were satin, soft like petals, and he pressed his lips to her and drew her close, holding her to him as firmly as he could without fearing to hurt her.
“Owen...” she murmured.
Her eyes were open when he opened his and she was staring up at him, but the expression was not fear, more like confusion or bemusement. He wanted to chuckle.
She feels just as I do.
“So,” he said softly. “Shall we go back upstairs? There are ledgers to check.”
She giggled. “If you say so.”
He made a face, lip downturned. “We have to,” he said,pretending a reluctance he didn’t feel. He wanted her to check the ledgers, wanted her to help him and to spend time with her while she did it.
“If we have to,” she said, giggling as they walked into the hallway, “then I suppose we should get started now.”
Owen chuckled. Then he frowned. He could have sworn he heard footsteps in the hallway.
It was always a little dark in that corridor—there weren’t many windows, in fact it didn’t include more than two small ones. He couldn’t see clearly, but he could have sworn that someone had been out there listening.
He shivered, then pushed the thought away.
Don’t be ridiculous,he told himself firmly. It was probably just Mr. Crane, checking if there were burglars. The staff had been told to ensure that the west wing was unoccupied, lest burglars enter at the windows furthest from the house.
He pushed the thought away and they reached the stairs, walking up into the bright, airy upper hallway to the drawing room, and then, when Ophelia was seated, he went to fetch the ledgers.
“I’ll be back in a moment.”
He hurried up the hallway, his soul soaring. He couldn’t recall anything besides her lips on his, the sensation still present, as if his nerves had sparked at the touch. He smiled as he rushed into the study, then grabbed the books, and walked briskly downstairs to the drawing room. He had a lot to do. And he couldn’t wait to start because Ophelia was waiting for him.
Chapter 18
