by Joyce Alec
His heart still pounding furiously, Peter folded up the note again, determined not to allow it to penetrate his heart and mind. This was nothing more than a foolish prank. Surely someone had thought it would be a jolly good laugh to see him so upset and frustrated. Most likely, the door would soon be opened to reveal one or two of Peter’s companions, either laughing or irritated that Peter had not given in to their pretense in any way whatsoever. It could not be real.
As he was about to put the letter down, Peter’s breath suddenly caught as his eyes found something small that had been resting at the bottom of the box. Peter had not seen it before when he had taken out the letter, but he saw the truth of it now, feeling his heart hammering furiously as he lifted it from the box. It was a small ring with a gold band and a small, square-cut emerald that rested on top. This was the ring that his brother wore on the last finger of his left hand. Edward had always done so, ever since he had been given it by their father. It was something of a family heirloom, although Peter had never once felt any jealousy over the fact that Edward had been given it instead of himself. His hand trembled as he lifted it high, looking to see if the ring was real, but something within him told him that it was so. This was Edward’s ring—which meant that this note had to be given more weight than Peter had first thought.
His hand trembled as he grasped the note again, unfolding it with one hand and letting his gaze run down the page. Miss Grey? What did she have to do with all of this? They had courted in the first few weeks of the Season, for he had found her fairly pleasant with sharp, green eyes that had caught his attention whenever they lingered on him, but there had been nothing more substantial than that. He had found her a little too loudly spoken, with a harshness and bluntness about her conversation that he had disliked. She was also very intelligent and seemed to care a great deal about extending her knowledge in almost every subject instead of improving her painting or her needlework. Having not expected this from a young lady such as Miss Grey, Peter had chosen to step back from her and had felt relief in doing so. Why were they being pushed together now? Why did this unknown stranger wish for them to be not only courting but wed? If he married Miss Grey, then would his brother be safe? Would he be able to see him again? And just what would he do if Miss Grey refused to accept his court again?
Panic was rising up within him and Peter dropped his head down low between his knees, the box clattering to the floor as he held the note and the ring in one hand. Closing his eyes tightly, he forced another breath as he tried to find a way to calm himself. To lose his composure now would not do, for it would only make his situation a good deal worse.
Letting out another long, slow breath, Peter opened his eyes and lifted his head, ready to try and find a way forward.
And then, he saw it.
The door.
It was now wide open, having been unlocked by someone he had not seen, someone he had not heard. All he had to do now was leave the room and his freedom would be returned to him.
On unsteady feet, Peter began to make his way to the door, feeling sweat trickle down his spine. His stomach was twisting this way and that, his nerves stretched taut. Who was behind all this? And what, exactly, did they want?
2
“Really, Ophelia, must you behave with such a lack of decorum?”
Ophelia closed her eyes tightly and let out a slow breath in an attempt to keep her composure. “I said nothing offensive, Aunt.”
Lady Sharrow made a small, unbelieving noise in the back of her throat, her stiff back an indication that she was not at all pleased with what Ophelia had chosen to say in front of Lord Rutledge. Ophelia said nothing more, choosing instead to reach for and eat a small honey cake that remained on the table in front of her. She had no regard for Lord Rutledge and when he had stated, quite clearly, that all young ladies were, in his opinion, to be considered in much the same way as he might consider a good breeding mare, Ophelia had been unable to prevent herself from speaking her mind in a most indelicate manner. Of course, Lady Sharrow, who had been sitting to Ophelia’s right, had stiffened at once as Ophelia had begun to speak, her sharp, brown eyes flashing in Ophelia’s direction in an attempt to prevent her from continuing, but it had done no good. Ophelia had told Lord Rutledge that, as far as she was concerned, gentlemen who believed such things should be pushed as far outside of society as possible, for to consider and to treat young ladies in such a manner showed a lack of intelligence—and that, of course, was not at all a desirable trait. She had seen the way Lord Rutledge’s expression had grown dark, his jaw set firm as he realized what she was implying and, of course, he had quickly taken his leave thereafter.
Ophelia had been glad to see him go, thinking that his manner and his speech were both entirely unlikeable. Lady Sharrow, however, was still despairing over Ophelia entirely, which came as very little surprise.
“You shall have no other gentlemen in London willing to so much as look at you again, Ophelia!” Lady Sharrow exclaimed, turning from the window to regard her niece again. “I am doing my very best for you, child, can you not see that?”
Ophelia, who knew very well that her aunt was, in her own way, doing all she could to ensure that Ophelia was settled and married soon, tried to show some sort of appreciation. “I know you are, Aunt, but surely you cannot think that I would care for anyone so prestigiously boring and so entirely loathsome?” She held her aunt’s gaze and saw, with relief, the slight loosening of her aunt’s shoulders and the way she sighed heavily as she came to sit by Ophelia again.
“I suppose that even I must admit that Lord Rutledge was both loathsome and lacking in intelligence,” Lady Sharrow said slowly, not looking at Ophelia but rather allowing her gaze to travel around the room. “It is just that I am seeking to do what your own mother would have wished me to do, Ophelia.”
Ophelia’s heart lurched at the mention of her late mother, who had passed some six years ago when Ophelia had been only a child. Her father, Viscount Harrington, had gone to the continent two years later in an attempt to escape from his lingering sorrow and grief but had left Ophelia in the care of Lady Sharrow, his sister. She had not seen her father since, even though he wrote faithfully each and every month.
“I know my father is grateful for your care and consideration,” Ophelia said quietly, seeing Lady Sharrow sigh heavily. “And I know that he will not hold it against either yourself or Lord Sharrow if my uncle chooses not to return to London next Season.”
Lady Sharrow sat up straight, her eyes widening. “Good gracious, Ophelia! Do not say that you have given up all hope already? We have the remainder of this Season to find you another gentleman to court you and, thereafter, the little Season.”
Ophelia’s heart began to sink to her toes. “I do not mind if I remain a spinster, Aunt. I am quite certain my father would not care particularly also.”
“In that, you are quite mistaken,” Lady Sharrow replied with alacrity. “Your father writes to Lord Sharrow very frequently, reminding him that your only aim in life should be to marry—and to marry well.”
Ophelia swallowed hard, aware that her father had never mentioned such a thing to her in his letters but realizing that it was, clearly, her father’s intention for her to marry. It was somewhat frustrating, being told that she ought to do this or that by the gentleman she had not laid eyes on in years, but Ophelia knew that it was what she ought to be considering with almost every day that passed. Despite this, the thought of marrying someone such as Lord Rutledge—for there were a good many like him within the beau monde—made her heart sore. She could not tie herself to a fool such as that. No, it was quite impossible.
“I think I shall take a short walk, Aunt,” Ophelia said, getting to her feet and hoping that this would bring an end to their conversation. “If you will permit me?”
Lady Sharrow waved a hand and shook her head. “If you have no other expected calls?”
Ophelia hid a smile and kept her expression entirely blank. “No, I do not
believe that I have, Aunt.” She heard her aunt sigh heavily, her displeasure evident, but Ophelia did not allow it to rile her. She was not like every other young lady of the ton was and therefore, she knew, did not make things particularly easy for her aunt. It could not be helped, however, for Ophelia was not about to tie herself to an idiotic and lackluster gentleman simply because it would bring her aunt some sort of relief and gladness.
“Then ensure that you take Mary with you,” Lady Sharrow stated, referring to one of the maids. “Unless you wish to take the carriage?”
Ophelia shook her head. “No, I do not think I will require it. It is a fine day and I think I may stroll to the bookshop before I return home.”
“Mayhap you will meet someone within who might finally capture your attention,” her aunt murmured, sounding somewhat despondent. “For surely it must be intelligent gentlemen who visit bookshops, must it not?”
Ophelia did not reply, hearing the trace of irony in her aunt’s voice and choosing not to respond to it. Slipping out of the room, she hurried to prepare herself so that she might escape the confines of the house for a time.
The bookshop was quiet, just as Ophelia had expected. The hustle and bustle of the London street faded, the quietness of the shop bringing a peace to Ophelia’s heart. This place had been her refuge, from the very first time she had come to London some three years ago. Back then, she had been as equally determined not to allow her heart and mind to be captured by some charming gentleman who held no true regard for her as she was now, much to her aunt’s chagrin. As she had made her way through the London Season, as she had returned to it again and again, Ophelia had found her determination fixed. She could not marry someone such as Lord Rutledge, who clearly cared very little and thought even less of the fair sex. Nor could she consider someone as dull and as staid as Lord Marchmont.
Ophelia did wonder if she would ever be able to find a gentleman suitable for her, silently thinking that mayhap her hopes and expectations were a trifle too high, but then again, she did not think that she could bear anything else. To have Lord Rutledge as a husband would be to live a life of being constantly pushed aside, pushed down. Her thoughts and considerations would never be given anything more than a fleeting thought, for she would be considered nothing more than a decoration on his arm. A shudder ran through her. No, indeed. She would be a spinster—and a content one at that—before she married someone such as that.
“Miss Grey.”
She jumped violently, one hand pressed to her heart as she turned around to look into the face of Lord Marchmont. He was gazing at her steadily, something flickering in his dark brown eyes that she could not quite make out.
“Lord Marchmont,” she gasped, trying to regain her sense of balance again. “Good gracious, you quite startled me.”
He did not smile, his square jaw set and his lips in a thin line. Ophelia grew uncomfortable under his strong gaze, feeling herself fill with concern over his sudden, awkward appearance. A glance over her shoulder told her that her maid was standing close by, although not close enough to overhear Ophelia’s conversation. At least, in that, she was ensuring her reputation remained unstained.
“Lord Marchmont,” she said again, looking up at him and seeing how he raked one hand through his thick, dark curls that twined together into one thick mass that poured over his forehead. “Were you looking for something in particular?” She gestured to the books that lay on either side of them and made to turn back, only to see him take a step closer.
“Miss Grey, I have made a dreadful mistake.”
Her mouth fell open and, with an effort, Ophelia closed it tightly again, feeling waves of shock run over her.
“I should never have brought our courtship to an end.”
“It was… not of a particularly long duration,” Ophelia replied carefully, knowing that she was not at all inclined towards the gentleman. “We courted for a fortnight, Lord Marchmont, and in that time, I am certain that we both realized that our courtship was to come to an end. I am not the sort of young lady you wished to marry; I am certain of it.” She frowned, seeing the way he instantly shook his head and feeling herself grow deeply unsettled within her heart. Lord Marchmont did not want to marry her and she had seen the relief in his gaze as he had told her that their courtship was to end—so why now was he telling her quite the opposite?
“Miss Grey, I must know if you will consider me again.” Lord Marchmont took a step closer to her, sending a twinge of fear into Ophelia’s heart. “Truly, I was mistaken in letting you go from my side. I must have you rejoin me.”
“I do not think it can be, Lord Marchmont,” Ophelia replied slowly, trying to understand the gentleman’s motivations. “We are not at all suited and I do not think that I—”
“That is where you are quite mistaken, Miss Grey,” Lord Marchmont interrupted, his loud voice gaining him a dark look from the shopkeeper. “I did not make the effort I should have done the first time we courted. It will be vastly different this time, I assure you.”
Ophelia stared up into Lord Marchmont’s face, seeing nothing but desperation in his gaze and wondering at it. Why was he so urgently seeking her courtship again? Had something occurred?
“You are shocked by my urgency, I can tell,” Lord Marchmont continued when she said nothing. “I do apologize, Miss Grey, but when a gentleman realizes that he has made a mistake, what else can he do other than attempt to rectify it just as soon as possible?”
The eagerness in his voice and the gentle widening of his eyes gave Ophelia pause. He did seem to be genuine in all that he said, although why he had suddenly had such a change of heart, she could not understand. There had not been any flare of interest between them, nothing that would give Lord Marchmont cause to regret separating from her. What had occurred to make him so desperate to have her by his side?
“Have you found some sort of edict?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she studied him carefully in order to watch for his response. “Have you discovered that you must marry by a certain time in order to prevent the rest of your fortune being given to some poor relative or some such thing?”
Lord Marchmont’s eyes flared wide and, for a moment, he hesitated. Ophelia’s suspicions rose, suddenly believing that Lord Marchmont was not being entirely truthful with her.
“I am saddened that you would consider such a thing,” he said glumly, turning his head away from her as though he were deeply sorrowful. “The truth is as I have stated, Miss Grey. I have come to realize that I was much too hasty in bringing our courtship to an end.”
“It was only some days ago, Lord Marchmont,” Ophelia stated before he could say anything further. “It seems a remarkably short time for you to have considered such a thing and thereafter convinced yourself that you have made a mistake.”
Lord Marchmont looked back at her steadily, his gaze fixed entirely upon hers. “That may be so, Miss Grey, but mayhap you have not considered that matters of the heart can often prick one’s conscience so deeply and so quickly that it is utterly impossible to ignore them.”
This made Ophelia pause, seeing the look in Lord Marchmont’s eyes and finding herself almost eager to believe him. To trust that he truly did feel something genuine for her, something that she had not been able to discover with any other gentleman of her acquaintance in these last few years. Her thoughts of remaining a spinster began to die away, the truth of her desires and hopes coming to the fore with such a forcefulness that Ophelia was forced to catch her breath.
“I can see that I have not been able to convince you, Miss Grey,” Lord Marchmont murmured, as the door to the bookshop opened and voices began to drift towards them, breaking the quiet that had surrounded the two of them for some moments. “But I shall do all I can to prove myself to you. Do not be under any illusions that I have given up, Miss Grey.” He bowed his head, taking a moment before looking back into her face as though afraid of what he would see there. “I shall pursue you until you know the truth with such a cer
tainty that it cannot be denied.”
Ophelia tried to say something clever, tried to tell him that she would not accept such a thing from him for she did not believe that he was telling her the truth in all its entirety, but found that neither her mind nor her mouth would work in the way she expected. The shock and surprise of seeing Lord Marchmont again, of hearing such strong words from him and the future that he had suddenly rolled out for her to regard, brought her such astonishment that, for some minutes, she was robbed of sense and speech. All Ophelia could do was watch him walk away, seeing his strong back and broad shoulders as he marched towards the front of the shop. The door was pulled open and, in a few moments, Lord Marchmont was gone from her presence, leaving her in a state of disarray as she attempted to gather her fragmented thoughts together.
“Oh, Miss Grey!”
Unfortunately, it seemed Ophelia was not to be granted the time she needed to draw her composure back completely, to set aside Lord Marchmont’s words and regain her strength all over again. Instead, she was forced to bury her own feelings and give her attention to one Miss Louisa Smallwood.
“Miss Smallwood,” Ophelia said, her voice cracking with emotion which she covered by coughing and then apologizing profusely. Thankfully, Miss Smallwood did not seem to mind in the least, her expression almost joyful as she smiled back at Ophelia.
“It is very good to see you again, Miss Grey,” Miss Smallwood said, her eyes bright as she smiled at Ophelia. “It has been some time since we last talked, has it not?”
“I believe it was the last Season,” Ophelia replied, her mind beginning to settle as she pushed Lord Marchmont from her mind. “It has been a while, you are quite correct, but it is good to be back in London, is it not?”
