Page 7 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
Inside, in the hallway, he stared out of the window onto the terrace under its leaves and dust. He felt his heart ache painfully. What his aunt said was right. He could choose to find a wealthy heiress or a woman with a large dowry. In many ways, it would solve so many problems. But it would be so wrong.
I’ll have to wait and see,he told himself, frowning. What he was waiting to see, he didn’t know. He just knew that this was an idea he wasn’t going to accept straightaway. He would wait and see and attend the ball tonight, and maybe an answer would make itself known.
Chapter 3
“Lily. Please, not that strong,” Ophelia protested sharply. Her maid was tightening her stays, and Ophelia felt like she couldn’t breathe. She felt Lily relax the strings slightly and was instantly more at ease.
“Sorry, milady,” Lilly said gently. “I got a bit carried away—I'm sorry. I reckon I’m distracted.”
“Don’t worry,” Ophelia replied caringly. She could hear Lily was tense too. It was her own mood, she thought darkly, that was affecting her. Ever since the morning, Ophelia had been restless and disquieted. She hadn’t been able to sit at anything for longer than an hour and, though she’d walked around the garden and tried to sew in the drawing room, she couldn’t settle at anything.
Her parents had troubled her, it was true, but it was him. The rude man had troubled her.
She couldn’t say exactly why, but ever since he’d bumped into her in the library, the uncouth man had been in her thoughts. Maybe it was his abrupt, dismissive speech and the way he’d bumped into her and then excused himself without making a real apology that had bothered her a great deal. She couldn’t stop thinking about his face, either, or those green eyes that stared into hers.
He annoyed me intensely.
It was annoyance, only annoyance that she felt. It wasn’t that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen and perhaps one of the more interesting, too. No, he was rude and uncouth and that was all.
She glanced at herself in the mirror as Lily stepped back. She was wearing a white gown, the sleeves puffs of gauzy fabric, the waist high, the muslin decorated with brilliants that shimmeredwhen she moved. The seamstress, Mrs. Headley, had worked on it tirelessly for two weeks, fitting it and re-fitting, and making it just right. She looked down as she swirled, watching the light play over the fabric where it hung from a high waist.
“You look lovely, milady,” Lily murmured.
“Thank you, Lily,” Ophelia said softly. She swallowed hard. Lily’s compliment made her feel even more uncomfortable. She didn’t feel any kind of excitement, and her maid’s attempt to cheer her just highlighted how empty she felt.
She looked up at her reflection. Her blonde hair was arranged in an elaborate chignon, the front section left loose to fall in ringlets about her face. Her heart-shaped face looked pretty enough, her peach lips bright against her pale skin, her blue eyes emphasized by the white gown. She wished she could look happier—her gaze was bleak somehow.
“The coach must be waiting. I’ll fetch your evening cloak, milady.”
“Thank you, Lily,” she repeated, going to the door.
She didn’t want to upset Mother and Father. Already, since breakfast, they’d been distant, and it made the day even more uncomfortable. “Go and retire early,” she told Lily from the doorway. “I’ll undress myself, when I get home,” she added softly. She hated the idea of Lily sitting in her chamber, aching to sleep but unable to let herself until Ophelia came back after so many hours in town.
“No, milady! Of course, I’ll be here to help you with your hair. It’s no trouble.” Lily was insistent, her expression almost cross.
Ophelia smiled. “I would appreciate it, Lily,” she said honestly. It would be nice to know that Lily would be waiting for her. She could tell her about the ball and that would make it fun, at least.
She set off down the hallway.
“There you are!” her mother declared as Ophelia hurried down the hallway with her white silk cloak over her gown. Her mother’s eyes widened as she saw her. “Look at you! Your father is just getting dressed. We’ll go down to the coach. I can’t wait to be there!”
Ophelia swallowed hard. Her mother sounded excited, and she wished she could share the sentiment. She followed her mother—who wore a beautiful coffee-colored gown in velvet, intensely-colored and elegant—to the coach. It was cold outside still and she shivered and drew her cloak about her, glad of its warmth.
“Ah! There you are, Evelyn!” Father greeted Mama as he walked to the coach. “Ophelia. There you are. Fine! Fine. Mr. Watson?” he called the driver. “Let us prompt the coach into motion.”
Father clambered up into the coach to join them. He sounded pleased, genuinely enthusiastic. Ophelia felt her frown deepen—how could anyone be enthusiastic about one of these parties? She looked down at her hands, confused and unsettled, and the driver lifted the reins and then they were heading off.
“I anticipate a grand evening,” Mama said as the coach rolled down to the street. Ophelia looked out of the window. She didn’t. She was sure she was going to have a miserable evening—she didn’t want to go to the ball, and she would know nobody there.
“A good set of people will be there, I am sure,” her father agreed. “Titled people; people of influence.”
Ophelia felt her stomach twist. Did they always have to focus on the other people? On meeting influential acquaintances who could make them yet more wealthy, more well-connected? It made no sense.
We’re already one of the wealthier families in London,she wanted to shout. It didn’t matter. At least, it didn’t to her. Thepain in her heart increased at the thought that all she wanted—all she really wanted—was somewhere with a cozy drawing room where she could write poetry.
She looked out of the window as the coach rattled on. Men and women were walking down the pavement, the women in evening cloaks like her, the men in long greatcoats and top hats. There were more people waiting outside the theater, while others walked hastily towards a coffee-house. London was alive and busy under the blue dusk sky. It was the time that the streets were the busiest with people going out for the evening.
Her gaze widened as they moved through a new part of town. Their townhouse was in Kensington, while they were moving up through Pall Mall. She stared out at the stone-faced houses and the wide streets. Coaches moved here and there, taking ladies and gentlemen from one address to the next. Youths with torches waited for it to get darker so that they could help guests to their carriages in the darkened street. Coachmen spoke with innkeepers and a man swept the pavement. It was a typical scene, and she wished she didn’t feel so nauseous.
