The Aristocrat's Charade: Regency Romance (Brides of London)

by Joyce Alec

  “But what if I do not wish to accept them?” Ophelia asked, wishing that Lord Marchmont had simply done as she had hoped and begun to pursue Miss Smallwood instead. After all, last evening, she had stepped away and hidden herself so that Lord Marchmont would not be able to find her, and had seen him dance again with Miss Smallwood instead. It had been something of a triumph, she had considered, never once imagining that he would come to chase after her here.

  Lady Sharrow blew out an exasperated breath. “Then you are being quite ridiculous, my dear girl,” she stated firmly. “You have a gentleman who is affable, genteel, and quite able to give you a respectable life for the rest of your days. Might I ask why you would turn away from such a man?” And, so saying, Lady Sharrow turned to the footman and instructed him to send Lord Marchmont to them at once, without so much as consulting Ophelia as to what she wished to do.

  “Aunt, I do not desire to—”

  “You shall do as you are told, Ophelia,” Lady Sharrow stated, with a good deal more authority in her voice than Ophelia had ever heard before. “You may have convinced yourself that being a spinster is precisely what you wish for yourself, but I will not have it!” She drew herself up tall, her head lifting slightly as she gazed upon Ophelia. “Or do you wish me to fall into despair all over again?”

  Ophelia held back a groan and looked at her aunt, aware of what she was meant to say. “No, of course I do not wish that, Aunt,” she murmured, her tension rising with every moment as she waited for Lord Marchmont to arrive. “I shall do as you ask, of course.”

  Lady Sharrow appeared to be appeased by Ophelia’s response, for she gave Ophelia a curt nod and then turned away, walking swiftly to her chair before gesturing for Ophelia to rise to her feet in preparation. Ophelia did so at once, leaving her book to one side and smoothing her gown with anxious fingers. She did not want to speak with Lord Marchmont and had thought she had made that more than clear, but apparently Lord Marchmont was quite determined.

  The door opened and Ophelia felt anxiety surge through her, making her catch her breath. Just why was Lord Marchmont so insistent?

  “Lady Sharrow.” Lord Marchmont walked in and immediately bowed to Ophelia’s aunt, whom he had been introduced to some weeks ago at the beginning of the Season. “Thank you for allowing me to call upon you both without prior notice.” He turned towards Ophelia and bowed again, his eyes not lingering on her for more than a moment. “Miss Grey.”

  “Lord Marchmont,” Ophelia murmured, seeing out of the corner of her eye just how delighted her aunt appeared to be by the presence of the gentleman in the house. “I am very glad to see you again. It has been too long.”

  Ophelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes, for it had been less than a week since Lord Marchmont had last called upon them both. “Please,” she murmured, gesturing to a seat. “Be seated, Lord Marchmont. I am surprised that you called.”

  “Ophelia!” Lady Sharrow hissed, but Ophelia ignored her completely, knowing that her aunt would berate her later for her blunt way of speaking, as she had always done before.

  “I thought that I had made myself more than clear, Lord Marchmont,” she continued, not so much as glancing at her aunt. “Are you here to attempt to encourage me back towards our courtship?”

  There was a long moment of silence and Ophelia could feel the tension rising within the room. Lady Sharrow was blinking rapidly, her lips moving but with nothing coming out from her mouth. Lord Marchmont was staring back at Ophelia with a rather blank expression, his color rising a little. Ophelia arched one eyebrow, her question hanging in the air between them. She was not about to change her character despite what her aunt wished and certainly not even if it brought Lord Marchmont a deep sense of embarrassment. She wanted to know the truth.

  “You are within my heart, Miss Grey.”

  She blinked. This was not at all what she had expected to hear.

  “I confess that I am a man unused to sharing matters of the heart and certainly even more unused to experiencing the emotions that your very presence has flung into my soul. I will admit that I was a little afraid of what I was feeling and so decided to step away from you. That was a grievous wrong, Miss Grey.”

  Beside her, Ophelia’s aunt gasped softly at this declaration, but Ophelia was not at all convinced. Lord Marchmont was looking back at her steadily, yes, but there had been no passion within his speech. His expression had appeared somewhat stoic, his eyes holding no emotion whatsoever. The tone of his voice had remained unchanged, as though he were merely describing something of little value in the hope that she might find it interesting. This was why she had been relieved when he had brought their courtship to an end, for she considered him to be rather dull and certainly without any sort of passion for, apparently, anything in this world. He kept his opinions to himself without often feeling the need to share them, whilst she was more than willing to express almost anything and everything she felt. They were entirely mismatched and Ophelia was quite certain that Lord Marchmont had not only felt but also understood that when he had first spoken to her some days ago. Could he truly have had such a change of heart in only a few days?

  “I am truly touched by such a declaration,” she replied carefully, seeing something flicker in his eyes. “But yet, I must confess that my own heart has not changed as regards the relief and the… the gladness that I felt when you spoke to me some days ago, Lord Marchmont.”

  “That is enough, Ophelia.”

  Much to Ophelia’s astonishment, her aunt rose to her feet, her skirts sweeping about her.

  “Lord Marchmont, you must forgive my niece. She was, in fact, rather sorrowful over the ending of your courtship and has now allowed that sadness to affect her opinion of you. I shall not have it, Ophelia.” She turned her sharp gaze onto Ophelia, whose mouth had fallen open in astonishment. “No, I shall not have it. You will accept Lord Marchmont’s courtship, Ophelia, without question. You shall not hold his previous behavior against him, for that would be greatly unfair. I know that you were sorrowful over the ending of this courtship once before but you need not worry that it shall happen again.”

  “Indeed, Miss Grey, I have no intention of bringing any such thing to a close again,” Lord Marchmont said, with a firmness that had been absent from his words before this moment. “I will state henceforth that my intentions are singular and will not easily be deterred.”

  Ophelia could barely breathe, feeling her world begin to spin around her as she looked to her aunt and saw the pinched look on her face. Lord Marchmont was saying things that Ophelia could not quite understand, and she was beginning to realize that the man meant to propose to her should their courtship go well. It was, of course, something that most young ladies expected when they first began courting a gentleman, but to hear it spoken so from his lips rendered it almost impossible for her to reply succinctly. She had no wish to be courted by Lord Marchmont and certainly did not want to marry him, but for whatever reason, her aunt had shown a firmness of character that Ophelia had not seen before and had overruled any decision Ophelia might have made.

  “Why do you not call tomorrow afternoon, Lord Marchmont?” Lady Sharrow said kindly, as Ophelia struggled to find something to say. “I know that my niece would be glad of your company. As you can see, she is a little overcome at the present moment.”

  “I am quite all right,” Ophelia managed to say, pushing herself out of her chair and trying to stand tall, glaring at her aunt who did not so much as blink in response. “I think, Lord Marchmont, that I—”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.” Lord Marchmont rose suddenly, cutting off Ophelia’s speech and bowing low in front of them both. “A walk in the park, perhaps? I recall just how much you enjoy a summer afternoon.” He smiled but it appeared to be somewhat strained and there was no sense of gladness or joy in his eyes. “Good afternoon, Miss Grey. I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow.” He turned to her aunt. “And thank you, Lady Sharrow.”

  Lady Sharrow practically fell
into a curtsy, her limbs soft and flowing as though she had achieved something of greatness and was now almost weak with relief over her victory. “Thank you for calling, Lord Marchmont.”

  It took Ophelia some minutes to regain herself once Lord Marchmont had quit the room. She was staring at the closed door, trying to work out what had occurred whilst her aunt smiled softly to herself as she sat down in her chair and waited for the late tea tray to arrive.

  Ophelia blinked furiously, trying to decide what to say and what to do. She had somehow managed to find herself in a situation where she did not have any sort of control, for her aunt had wrested that from her and stated that she would accept Lord Marchmont’s courtship all over again, even though she did not wish to.

  “Aunt,” she began, turning around slowly to face her aunt. “You know that I do not wish to be courted by Lord Marchmont. Why, then, did you accept him with such force that I had no other choice but to agree?”

  Her aunt arched a thin brow. “Because you are stubborn, Ophelia.”

  “But I am permitted to make my own path!” Ophelia exclaimed, as the first dart of anger lanced through her. “I do not care for Lord Marchmont.”

  “And yet, he cares for you, as ridiculous as that might seem,” her aunt replied swiftly. “You should not turn from that, Ophelia. It is very rare to find a gentleman who truly has an affection for you.”

  Ophelia shook her head, refusing to believe that what Lord Marchmont had said was true. “I doubt that he believes a single word he said.”

  “Then why say it?” Lady Sharrow asked, as the door opened to reveal the maid and the tea tray. The maid looked with wide eyes at Lady Sharrow as she set the tray down, obviously fearing that she would be blamed for being late, but Lady Sharrow said nothing, her attention still fixed on Ophelia. The maid escaped without notice, leaving Ophelia to try and come up with a response to her aunt’s question.

  “I do not know,” she was forced to admit, hating the triumphant smile that spread across Lady Sharrow’s face. “But I cannot believe that a gentleman’s heart can change so very quickly.”

  Lady Sharrow shrugged and then indicated that Ophelia should pour the tea. “You shall allow him to court you regardless, Ophelia.”

  “I do not care for—”

  “I do not want to hear another word about what you feel, Ophelia,” Lady Sharrow interrupted sharply. “You may have convinced yourself that being a spinster is quite a wonderful life with a good deal to merit it. But I can tell you that it is not so.” Her lips tightened and she shook her head sharply. “One of my dearest friends ended up so and she has struggled every day of her life. She has no home to call her own, very little money, and so must rely on the goodness and kindness of her family. It does not matter how independent she wishes to be nor how honest her speech, for if she has no independent means, then she must scrape by in any way she can. Consider that, Ophelia. Consider whether you truly believe that life to be one that you seek out for yourself, when you could have marriage to a decent, upstanding gentleman who seems to care enough for you to beg for a second chance.”

  For the first time in a good long while, Ophelia found herself unable to say even a single word in response. Her aunt had forced her to reconsider matters in a new light, for whilst she had never chased after spinsterhood, Ophelia had always thought that it could not be as poor a life as she had heard. Now, however, she slowly began to realize that even if she had a sharp wit and a determination to live as she chose, if she had no money or fortune to claim as her own—or if she only had very little to live on—then she would have to do as her aunt had said and beg for others’ kindness. She had no sisters or brothers who might open up their homes to her and whilst her father was kind enough, neither he nor her aunt and uncle would be present in this world forever. What would she do then?

  “You will consider Lord Marchmont, Ophelia.”

  The words were gentler now, as though her aunt had realized just how difficult it was for Ophelia to not only hear but to accept this from her.

  “It is the wisest thing you can do.”

  Giving herself a slight shake, Ophelia lifted her gaze from where it had been resting on the floor and settled it back on her aunt. Reaching to pour the tea, she felt a deep uncertainty rise up within her but pushed it back from her heart. She would remain strong and unbending and would not accept Lord Marchmont simply because both he and her aunt thought it best.

  “I will accept his court but that does not mean I will then go on to accept any proposal he might make thereafter,” she stated firmly, seeing her aunt’s smile begin to fade. “I must decide for myself, Aunt. I understand the warnings that you have laid on my shoulders and for that, I am grateful, but that does not mean that I will simply then decide to become Lady Marchmont.” Finishing pouring the tea, she added a dash of milk to both cups before looking up at her aunt again. “As I have said, I will accept his courtship, but I certainly will not make up my mind on my future. I am still thoroughly convinced that Lord Marchmont and I do not suit and certainly would not rub along well, which would make for a rather strained existence.”

  Besides which, Ophelia said to herself, I am not at all certain that Lord Marchmont truly does care for me in the manner which he has stated. I am inclined to think that there is something more to his urgent desire to begin our courtship again, although I cannot imagine what it might be.

  Lady Sharrow sighed heavily and, with a slight shake of her head, reached for her teacup. “It is better than refusing him completely, I suppose. Very well, Ophelia. But do consider what I have said.”

  “I shall, Aunt,” Ophelia agreed, sitting back in her chair with her cup of tea and wondering whether she would ever be able to discern the real reason that Lord Marchmont was eager for their courtship to continue, or if she would find that he continued to speak untruths to her. Unsettled, she closed her eyes tightly and drew in a long breath, letting it out slowly in order to calm herself a little further. Nothing was determined. It was not as though, in walking with Lord Marchmont tomorrow, she would be giving the entirety of her life to him.

  Why then, did it feel as though she were about to deliberately step into a vast, yawning chasm, which would never let her go?

  5

  Peter bit his lip hard as he sealed what was now the third letter to his brother, knowing that he was behaving in an almost frantic manner but finding that he could do nothing about it. The first letter to Edward had been sent to the continent, where Peter had thought him to be. The second had been sent to Peter’s own estate, in the hope that Edward might have returned there should he have come back to England, and the third was now being sent to the docks, just in case Edward’s ship had only just returned or was due to come in.

  Peter did not know what else to do. He had to discover the whereabouts of his brother. The note had stated quite clearly that Edward would bear the consequences of Peter’s inaction as regarded Miss Grey, which meant that surely the letter-writer would know where Edward was. The presence of Edward’s ring confirmed it, did it not? Peter did not think that he could still be on the continent if the threat was to mean something, but given that letters took a good deal of time to reach there and even longer for Peter to receive a response, Peter knew that he could not take any chances. He had to do what the note stated and, thus far at least, it seemed to be going rather well.

  That was all thanks to Lady Sharrow, of course, who had been most insistent that her reluctant niece accept his offer of courtship earlier that day. The lies that he had told Miss Grey had come easily enough to his lips, although he had not been at all convinced that Miss Grey had believed him. The look in her eyes had told him that she was not certain that he spoke genuinely to her, even though Lady Sharrow believed every word. Why Lady Sharrow had been so insistent that Miss Grey accept him, he was not sure, but he was truly grateful that she had done so. Mayhap it was simply because Miss Grey was not the sort of young lady who had a good many gentlemen seeking to court her—which w
as, most likely, due to her sharp tongue and blunt way of speaking. It was not something that he found he appreciated either, for her brusque honesty had a habit of bringing such a color to his cheeks and a shame to his heart that he disliked it intensely. It was as though she wanted to see into the depths of his heart, wanted to know the truth in all of its entirety—but, of course now, he could not give her even a modicum of that. He had to keep the truth a secret from her.

  Sighing heavily, he rang the bell, rose from his seat, and prepared to depart the house. He had not been in White’s in some time and mayhap it was a wise idea to make his way there so that he could, at least for a few moments, forget about his struggles. It was not as though he cared for another, not as if he had to bring an axe down on the connection between himself and another young lady whom he had fallen in love with. There was no one else who had captured his heart. It remained solely his, not entwined with another and certainly not with even a flicker of a feeling towards another.

  “Take this letter,” he murmured as his butler came into the room. “I shall be out for the remainder of the evening.”

  The butler lifted one eyebrow. “I did not know you had an invitation to an event, my lord. If you wish me to prepare the carriage or send for your valet, I—”

  “No, no,” Peter muttered, waving the butler away. “I have no engagements. You need not call for the carriage. I shall either walk or hail a hackney.”

  The butler, satisfied that the staff had not failed their master in any way, retreated from the room and left Peter to his own thoughts.

  It did not take long for Peter to remove himself from the house, hurrying along the street as though the growing darkness were chasing after him, snapping at his heels. He felt his heart beat furiously, his mind clouded with dark thoughts and anxieties that would not escape him. He did not want to court Miss Grey. She was loud and brash, with a sharp tongue and a quick wit that, to his mind, did not behoove her in any way. A young lady ought not to concern herself with matters of the state, and yet Miss Grey had a great interest in such things. A young lady ought to talk quietly, listen carefully, and give her opinions only when asked. Miss Grey did none of those things.