At the front steps of the manor, he found the odious vicar waiting to greet him. The damn man rushed right up to his carriage door, too.
“Your grace,” Mr. Stephen Drayton exclaimed with a condescending smile that never failed to irritate Harry. “I’m sorry to have missed you in the village. Welcome home and may I be the first to offer my congratulations.”
“Drayton,” he said shortly. The last thing he needed today was a pompous windbag darkening his doorstep. “Make an appointment with my secretary for later in the week.”
“Actually, it was Mrs. Shaw I came to see.”
Harry frowned severely. Drayton had just assaulted Ophelia with a Sunday sermon and should have no further business monopolizing her attention today. He held out his arm to her, to prevent her from having to agree to stay. “Mrs. Shaw has duties to attend to. You’ll have to come back another time.”
Next decade would suite Harry perfectly well. Ophelia could never say no to anyone. Drayton was always wailing about his orphans or some other lost cause. And then Ophelia would tell him about it, and by the end of the discussion, Harry’s purse would be lighter.
Harry was relieved when Ophelia apologized to the vicar, and he subtly urged her toward the door to Sherringford with as much haste as possible for her. She did have business inside, but it had nothing to do with the management of the house. Harry dismissed Drayton from his mind, as well as with a wave of his hand, and drew her inside.
Harry’s time in London hadn’t been an entire waste. He’d made a few purchases—all of them for Ophelia.
When she saw the crates and boxes piled up on the floor in the great hall, she gasped in distress. “Oh, no. You made purchases for her?”
“Good God, no. These are for you,” he promised, pacing around the pile. Seeing his purchases all stacked in one place made him realize he might have gone a too far with his spending on Ophelia though he regretted nothing. He hoped she would not attempt to refuse his gifts too strenuously.
“Mine? But it’s not my birthday for another month.”
He dismissed her words with a flick of his hand. “I’ve not the desire to return to Town again for some time, so this will have to do you for the birthday and Christmas gifts as well.”
Harry had had ample time to become acquainted with the limited scope of Ophelia’s possessions during her long confinement and her subsequent move to Sherringford. There were a great many things a lady needed, though Ophelia had never asked for any of them in all the time she’d been under his roof. He was tired of seeing her in the same plain gowns she’d worn since her accident. The severe black of mourning had been recently replaced with decidedly unpretty gowns she’d already owned. The gowns his cousin had provided had clearly cost but a few shillings, when it should have been pounds spent instead.
So, Harry had taken it upon himself to compile a long list and send his London housekeeper—who seemed to his eye to be of similar proportions and height—out on a spending spree on Ophelia’s behalf. He was well pleased with the results.
Modest jewels as well as undergarments had been discreetly purchased by him. It was a bit torturous to imagine Ophelia wearing his silk chemise about Stapleton, under his very nose, but if he couldn’t have her, he would still treat her to the very best his money could buy. There were also bolts of fabrics and laces, gloves and hats for her to choose from. Ready-made gowns for both daywear and evening entertainments.
She’d started going out a bit before he’d gone to London, and it seemed to him then that other people were good for keeping her spirits up…except for the vicar, of course. Harry would never approve of him, though Ophelia was more tolerant.
There were enough bits and bobs from several haberdashery shops to keep her well amused at her sewing when the colder months descended upon them and she couldn’t venture out.
He edged away. “Give away what you don’t want.”
“I couldn’t do that.” She sighed heavily. “Oh, my dear duke, what a fool she was to refuse you. You’ve been too generous.”
Ophelia moved toward him suddenly, and stopped very close. She stretched up toward his face with her lips puckered. Harry was a fair bit taller than her and, despite the awkwardness, leaned his cheek down to her. “It was nothing.”
Her lips were soft on his skin, and they lingered while the scent of her perfume assaulted his starved senses.
He loved her so very much, and he was grateful for any excuse to spoil her.
“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, but thank you for thinking of me when you must have had so much else on your mind.”
Yes. He’d been lavishing attention on the wrong woman, when the one he wanted he’d left behind. Had Ophelia really been lonely without him? Looking at her now, he couldn’t quite believe Nashes claim. “We’ll talk again tomorrow,” he promised as he edged toward the door again.
Her soft smile nearly undid him. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Chapter 3
“My goodness, his grace must have opened his pocketbook wide to pay for all this,” the senior downstairs maid, Gertie Fritz, exclaimed loudly.
Ophelia agreed, and was a little embarrassed by all the riches that had been carelessly heaped upon her. They were in her sitting room the next morning, the only space large enough to contain all of the duke’s gifts, while the maids were helping her find places to fit the duke’s unexpected largess. She was even more stunned by the many and varied items than when she’d first seen it all lumped together in crates in the front hall yesterday. He must have spent a fortune on her, and she’d certainly never expected him to. “I don’t think I’ll need anything else new for the next ten years,” she murmured.
“Maybe only seven.” Lilly Watson, another maid, grinned. “Even with only one foot, shoes will wear out the way you try to run around the grounds.”
Ophelia chuckled. She wanted to be the way she’d once been—agile and graceful. Full of energy and life. That was harder now with a wooden foot, but not impossible.
Gertie held up one of the bolts of fine silk cloth against her body and turned to show Ophelia. The color was glorious. Dark pink shot through with black. “Now that’s a truly remarkable color,” she noted.
“It’ll make a lovely evening gown,” Gertie assured her. “If only we had a London seamstress to do it justice.”
Ophelia would have to employ the local seamstress and hope for the best. She was rubbish at making any clothes that fit well for herself. “Well, there’ll be no balls at Sherringford for perhaps another year now, I expect.”
“Not unless his grace finds another bride from among the local nobility. If he does marry one of them, and the nuptials are held here, you could wear this for the wedding party.”
Montrose had to marry. There was no way he could avoid it. He needed an heir of his own and a wife in his bed to get one. She tried not to think of that aspect of him being married too often. “You assume I’d be invited to any wedding,” she said as she admired a new shawl.
“Of course, you will attend,” Gertie chided. “How could you not? His grace depends upon you. Do you really think he would have bought you all these luxurious fabrics if he hadn’t wanted to see you finely dressed in them?”
She hadn’t been wanted in London this season to meet Montrose’s intended bride. Maybe if she’d been there in London, things would have turned out differently for him. She might have helped smooth his way.
Or would the lady have run screaming from her disability?
That was Ophelia’s greatest fear—that her amputated limb would horrify his new wife and set her apart. People who looked different were shunned by the healthy. She’d known that even before her carriage accident.
Maybe that was why Montrose hadn’t taken her to London with him. He’d not want people staring or talking about her injury when the spotlight should, of course, be firmly placed on the new Duchess of Montrose.
Ophelia sighed. “At first, I wondered if all of this was meant for
his bride. The one who cried off.”
“Well, this certainly could not be,” Gertie exclaimed, holding up a new boot, made of tan leather and stitched with gold thread. She already had several that strapped around her upper calf to hold them in place. The duke seemed committed to finding just the right one for her.
Ophelia rushed to see the new boot. She hefted it in her hand and turned it over. “Similar but very much lighter, I think.”
“Perhaps you won’t tire so quickly.”
“That would be nice,” Ophelia murmured and set it aside. She’d try it out later and see what adjustments must be made for a comfortable fit.
“If he said all this were for you, then I’d believe him. Our duke does not mince words or spend his coin unwisely.”
“I know that is true.” She smiled quickly. For some things, Montrose’s wallet was clenched tighter than a drum. Yet, for other causes, Ophelia could appeal to his generosity if she phrased her requests a certain way. He was, at least, always willing to listen to her opinion even if he did not always agree with it.
“Look at this. Silk!” Gertie exclaimed as she held up a delicate white chemise and wiggled it in the air at Ophelia. “The duke has exceptionally good taste in undergarments.”
Blushing now, Ophelia quickly snatched the chemise away from Gertie. She neatly folded the item to place with a number of other undergarments he’d given her. “I’m sure he had a servant make those purchases.”
Her late husband’s cousin was a confusing man to Ophelia. Experience had proved that Montrose did nothing as expected. He was frequently moody, irritable with the staff, and he never explained himself to anyone, least of all her. She’d tried to become his confidant, to make herself useful instead of the burden she was, and had been rebuffed many times. Now, he’d done all this. How could he be so kind and generous but always seem uncomfortable when she tried to thank him?
The woman who’d cried off from marrying him was undoubtedly a fool. She had missed her chance to live a comfortable life with the Duke of Montrose.
“Ooh, there he is, back from his morning ride,” Lilly exclaimed, staring out the window.
Gertie rushed to join her.
The maids sighed in such a way that made their admiration plain. Montrose might have a temper, but the sight of him striding about the estate, all brooding good looks and windswept from a ride, tended to send the female servants into a bit of a swoon. Ophelia understood his appeal, even as she tried to discourage the others from talking about him that way around her.
Secretly, she enjoyed the view, too. Montrose cut quite a handsome figure. His deep gruff voice put wicked thoughts in her head that she could only relieve at night alone in the bed he’d given her.
Ophelia joined them at the window in time to watch the duke dismount some distance away. Yes, he had a truly remarkable presence. He was a hard man to ignore. His movements were smooth and capable, his stride unhurried as he led his horse toward the stable and when he disappeared, she sighed too. “He’s in a good mood,” she observed.
The maids turned from the window as well with another round of heavy sighs. “Thank heavens for that. When we learned he’d returned from London empty-handed, we feared we’d have to tiptoe around him for weeks.”
“He’s every right to be angry,” Ophelia chided.
“Oh, we agree, but it’s always awkward when he storms about the place. Nothing pleases him.”
Every servant at Sherringford knew to scatter when Montrose was in a bad mood. Even Ophelia had considered it once or twice. But since her husband’s death, Montrose was the only close family she really had. There were other cousins, but they lived far away and were also dependent on Montrose’s generosity.
Montrose made her life easier to bear in so many ways, and the least she could do was make an attempt to soothe his temper if she could.
He’d taken her in, made sure she had the necessities of life, and more now, but never shown any sign of wanting to confide in her about his concerns. She lived on pins and needles that he’d grow tired of offering his charity to a nearly useless woman, and send her away from the home she’d grown to love.
Her only choice for a settled life might be to accept Mr. Drayton’s offer of marriage, even if she already knew she could never love the man.
Ophelia picked up a hat, one with a wide brim. It was too big for her head but charming. Although she hated to do it, she set it aside with the other things that didn’t fit her.
Gertie snatched up the hat immediately and tried it on. “It doesn’t fit me, either.”
It fit Lilly to perfection, though.
“You may have that,” Ophelia murmured, hoping Montrose really wouldn’t mind seeing it on another woman’s head in the future.
She dug a little more into the pile and pulled out a small square box. Inside was a delicate gold timepiece attached to a pin and chain. It was exquisite and costly, and she loved it on sight.
She set down the new timepiece and fumbled for her husband’s old timepiece that she carried concealed in her pocket. She’d bought it for her husband for their first anniversary. She had scrimped and saved enough to buy the very best she could afford.
At the time of their accident, Paul Shaw had been consulting this pocket watch. He had been in a hurry to get to where they were going by a certain time.
When she put Paul’s watch beside Montrose’s, it looked decidedly shabby, but it held so many memories Most happy but some bittersweet. She hesitated for a moment…and then affixed the new watch to her gown with its shiny pin and chain.
Paul was gone.
She packed Paul’s timepiece away in a drawer, where the past ought to remain. She had to think of the future now.
“That’s lovely,” Gertie murmured, coming up to stand beside her and admire her gift.
“It is.” Ophelia checked the time. “Practical, too. You two can return to your usual duties now.”
“Very good, Mrs. Shaw.” The pair curtsied and hurried away.
Ophelia lingered beside the fabrics. In truth, they were much too elegant for the country, unless the duke entertained more often. She ran her fingers over the silks, enjoying the rare luxury. She’d never had a silk gown made for her before. Her husband’s pocketbook hadn’t allowed for too many frivolous indulgences.
She held a length of fabric up to her body and limped to the mirror.
She arranged the folds into a pleasing shape but wished she could have a more experienced modiste to advise her how it might be made into a gown suitable for the evening. Something that would please Montrose to see her in, too.
She ran her hand down her body again, imagining him touching her body while she wore a beautiful gown made from silk. A blush warmed her cheeks as her fingers brushed perilously close to her mons. She jerked her fingers away and started folding the fabric into a neat bundle. Too many times her mind wandered to the intimacies best satisfied in the bedchamber and lately included Montrose lavishing her with affection.
It was torture thinking of him that way yet she could not seem to stop.
“Do you like that color best of all?” Montrose asked suddenly.
Ophelia blushed crimson as she noticed the duke reflected in the mirror. He was hovering at the doorway to her bedchamber, rumpled and windblown from his ride. A surge of lust hit her hard and she glanced at the fabric quickly to hide her eyes in case he noticed. Not that he ever had before. She swallowed her nervousness and smiled at him. “I’ve never seen a fabric of this exact shade before. It’s beautiful. Thank you again.”
He nodded. “I forgot to mention yesterday that I’ve engaged a London modiste to come to Sherringford to meet with you. Madam du Clair and her assistant will stay for a month to fashion you an entirely new wardrobe.”
Ophelia gaped.
He shrugged. “Can’t have those silks butchered by an inexperienced local hand.”
“Thank you.”
He shrugged her thanks away immediately. “I’ve asked f
or tea to be delivered to your sitting room for both of us. Do join me when you have a moment.”
And then he was gone. Disappearing from Ophelia’s bedchamber door before she could even frame an answer. She should really thank him again for all he’d done for her in the last year or so. He was a good man but very hard to get to know.
Ophelia hurried after him, smoothing a hand over her hair along the way. She had to face facts. Montrose had been let down by another woman and was in pain.
When she entered the sitting room, Montrose stood with his back to her at a window. His posture was stiff again, and the energy in the room made her skin prickle with alarm. He was not over his disappointment, and she so wanted to help him see that there was still hope he could make the match he wanted.
But she would have to tread carefully when she offered any advice. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “I saw what you did this morning to the duchess’ chambers in preparation for my marriage.”
A few more pillows on the chair and settee, a change of painting hung upon the walls, and a thorough dusting wasn’t a lot but it was all she’d felt confident she could alter without consulting him first. “I didn’t have your permission, and now—”
“I’m not upset. It was very kind of you to think of it really, considering. Beautifully done. I just wanted to say thank you for your efforts.”
“You’re very welcome.” Perhaps her small attention to sprucing up the duchess’ apartment went a little way to repay him for all he’d done for her after all. She limped to a chair. “Please, won’t you sit, your grace.”
He strode to her, and she tried not to gulp as her insides clenched. Not with nerves, however, but with anticipation for being alone with him and perhaps the touch of his hand on her elbow. “You’re wearing your new timepiece,” he murmured.
She put her hand over it. “It is utterly charming. Just the thing I needed.”
His Perfect Bride Page 3
