“I’m glad.” He sank into a chair set slightly to the side of hers with another weary sigh as he stretched out his long legs.
“You sound tired. Did you not sleep well last night, your grace?”
“Well enough.”
He was probably still stewing over that woman—the one who’d disappointed him. The tea tray had already been delivered, so she poured tea for them both, and would have offered the duke his cup, except he reached for it first.
“Did you have a pleasant morning ride?”
“I did.”
“It looks like a glorious day to be outside.”
“There are clouds on the far horizon,” he grumbled.
Despite his tone, she smiled. She saw more of him on rainy days. “Then I’d best stroll the garden closest to the manor before the rain arrives. Would you care to join me?”
He seemed to pause but then shook his head. “Unfortunately, I have work that requires my attention.” Montrose drew in a heavy breath, his eyes lowered to his cup. “I suppose you still want to know what went on in London.”
Montrose was a proud man, and she understood that he was very upset about the woman who’d rejected him. “I only want to understand,” Ophelia murmured, lowering her eyes to her cup, too. “I don’t know why any lady would pass up the chance to be your duchess. She should have been honored.”
“Oh, she was honored to accept the title,” he admitted in a bitter tone. “She just didn’t want the man who comes with it.”
Ophelia glanced up, hating to hear him sound so cast down. “Nonsense.”
He was quiet for a long time. “She said she expected to be courted. She imagined I would try to make her fall in love with me before we wed. When I did not achieve those lofty goals, she ended it.”
Ophelia was astonished by his candor but glad for it too. “She expected a lot on such a short acquaintance. She should have known falling in love isn’t always a lightning bolt. Most often, affectionate feelings grow over time.”
“She wasn’t willing to wait. She wanted what you had with my cousin. She wanted to be swept off her feet.”
“She was a fool then. To think you could not do that for her was to do you an injustice.”
“I was just as impatient,” he conceded.
“Perhaps so, but it’s the way many matches are made in society, isn’t it?” She waited to see his nod before she continued. “If she had given you more time, she’d have all the proof she needed of your good heart and generosity. Why, you’ve done more for me than you ever needed to. I would have sung your praises had I ever met her.”
When he looked away, Ophelia assumed she’d embarrassed him with her praise. He did not like to hear the truth of his own good nature. He was a little gruff around the edges at times. Often, if she was completely honest about it. He did not chatter or charm. Not ever. But once a lady accepted the limitation in his manner, she learned to look for the little things, the unexpected kindnesses he did so well. He had approved many adjustments at Sherringford to accommodate her limited mobility. He’d even given up several rooms so Ophelia never had to attempt the stairs to go to bed each night.
“I only did for you what Paul would have expected.”
She did not believe that. Paul had told her at the start of their marriage never to expect anything good to come from her connection to the Duke of Montrose. Paul had done his cousin a vast disservice, in her opinion. “You have been very good to me, and I’m sure the right lady will fall for you. You just have to give people a chance to get to know you like I have.”
He looked her way. “Her actions have humiliated me.”
“I know, but you can rise above the disappointment,” she promised him. She understood all the things he was not telling her in his current state of distress. The Duke of Montrose and her husband had been vastly different creatures. Where her late husband had been outgoing, Montrose was reserved—almost seeming cold at times. That reserve, mistaken for disinterest and rudeness, tended to set many against him.
People said Montrose didn’t care about anyone. Ophelia knew better. He cared more than he wanted to reveal.
But Montrose was not above acting out in spite against an adversary. His father had raised him to distrust others, especially those in his own family and he was ambitious. Her husband had told her stories of Montrose that had made her wary of him when they’d first met. Yet since she’d come to live at Sherringford, since the accident, she’d never feared Montrose would turn on her.
For all that gruff nastiness in his past, she found him a remarkable steady companion. Given her unique perspective and place in his household, she had no doubt Montrose took the comfort of his family very seriously. He just didn’t like anyone to assume he would rescue them from their own follies every single time they made a mess of their lives.
Ophelia was firmly of the belief that the woman Montrose eventually married would undoubtedly come to feel very loved.
The duke would simply have to start his search for a wife all over again next season. In the meantime, perhaps, there was a way she could help him understand that when it came to matters of the heart, patience was imperative. He should still have faith there was someone meant for him. He just hadn’t met her yet.
“I’d be happy to lend any assistance you might need, so you are better prepared to woo a bride when the next opportunity presents itself.”
His scowled dark enough to crack the earth. “What makes you think I want to go through that hell again?”
Ophelia wasn’t the least bit afraid of his scowls by now. “You have a duty to marry, and you know it. I am sure, given time and the right circumstances, you will easily find the perfect bride. Your duchess is just waiting to be swept off her feet somewhere. Besides, you’d never let your cousin inherit Sherringford for the lack of a son.”
His face darkened even more.
She charged on. “Exactly my point. So, you will need a new bride…and perhaps a little practice with the ladies.”
He frowned. “Practice at what? I’m hardly an innocent.”
Ophelia blushed. She had, of course, heard of Montrose’s sexual escapades from Paul, too. Some of them had been quite scandalous tales. Montrose was an attractive man and quite sure to be pursued by ladies in search of a lover or protector. But he needed a wife, the right lady, to marry and give him an heir. Although it would be somewhat forward to discuss a man’s past love affairs, when dealing with Montrose it might be wise to be just as blunt. “And I’m a married woman with a broad mind. You should seduce me.”
His face slowly turned an alarming shade of purple.
She stretched forward to clutch his hand. “Montrose? Are you all right?”
He suddenly shook his head. “I don’t think I heard that right. Did you just suggest I could seduce you?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—” She shook her head and laughed to hide her slip of the tongue. “I did not mean you would actually seduce me, but practice how you could with the right woman, so she’d see how easy it would be to fall in love with you.” She forced another laugh, but it was too much to expect Montrose to laugh along with her.
Ophelia clearer her throat. Montrose needed someone who could amuse him better than she ever did. Ophelia would make him see that one day soon. If she pushed at him to open up a little more each day, surely he’d discover where he went wrong last time.
“Women like powerful men who will whisper sweet seductions. But they also like men who were not afraid to go out of their way to look a little smitten, too.” He seemed about to protest but she held up her hand. “Now, I can understand your dislike of my suggestion. You are a very private man, I know. I promise what we talk about will go no further than my ears alone. Practice courting me, here in private, and I’m sure that you’ll have the kind of wife you want in no time at all.”
He studied her a long moment. “Do you think so?”
She nodded enthusiastically because he’d not said no out of hand. “Oh, absolute
ly. One week with me, and you’ll feel like a new man, ready to face the marriage market again.”
And then he would leave again, embark on another search and perhaps be successful a second time. The thought depressed her.
“What if it doesn’t work? What if I really am unlovable?”
“Oh, Montrose. That’s simply not true.” Montrose was entirely too lovable in her opinion. Sitting alone with him now, she felt herself drawn to him in so many inappropriate ways. But the needs of Sherringford and the family came first. She could not retract her offer. “By the end of the week, you and I will know each other far better than we presently do, and you will discover all is not lost.”
His gaze narrowed on her. “I should like to know you better before I marry.”
Ophelia tried not to feel sad. A wife would forever come between them. She had always known she would lose what little of his attention she had when he married.
Ophelia stole a glance at him only to find him watching her with a question in his remarkable green eyes. Her heart started to thud hard in her chest as the moment stretched. Yes, she had wanted to know the duke much better, too, for so long but had never had a good reason to try to coax him into that sort of conversation. Now she had the perfect excuse to discover what his long silences and hard stares really meant. Knowing him better would help her prepare him for another courtship. She lifted her chin. “I should like that.”
Chapter 4
Harry perched on the edge of a delicate gilded chair in the east drawing room, late the next evening, far away from the prying eyes and ears of his servants, hoping the damn thing would not break before Ophelia released him.
Across from him, his late cousin’s wife talked nonstop about the things he might say to impress a woman.
Although it might not seem that way to anyone else, every syllable she uttered filled Harry with contentment…and tortured him, too. Harry’s cousin had married well but hadn’t had the funds to look after Ophelia in the style she’d deserved, in his opinion. Paul’s death had allowed Harry to step into the role he’d wanted since the moment he had met Ophelia—and fallen hard.
“I agree,” he murmured at the right time.
Ophelia smiled, encouragingly, “And?”
Oh, hell. More words were expected. Harry had promised to let her tutor him how to woo a wife, little knowing how painful it would be. He’d always wanted her with an ache that had never gone away, and pretending to say nice things meant for another seemed incredibly pointless.
He should not crave the company of his late cousin’s wife this way, and he’d tried to put his longing for her aside some time ago. The accident—his cousin’s fault—had brought them together again.
But each time he saw Ophelia, it was like the first time they’d met. She rendered him nearly speechless without trying.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he was a fool. Ophelia obviously had no idea how he felt about her. And he’d not the subtlety to hint at it. She thought him a generous family member, a benevolent benefactor, offering the charity of his support as he did with other dependent relations.
He hadn’t been charitable; he’d been utterly selfish. Keeping Ophelia secluded under his roof so he might know where she was at all times served him more than her. He allowed her to fulfill the duties of the lady of the house because it kept her from dwelling—on her loss of both husband and her missing foot.
Not that Harry cared that she walked with a limp, or continually attempted to hide her impairment from his view. He understood her physical limitations very well by now. He had ordered his servants to keep watch over her at all times—no matter what she said to the contrary.
“I quite agree. The rose vines on the east of the house do need cutting back. I’ll have the gardener attend to it at once.”
He didn’t care about the rose vines. They could smother the house for all he cared. What mattered was that Ophelia was happy and doing well. He still had nightmares over how close he’d come to losing her.
Of course, he’d never actually had Ophelia, which was half his problem. He couldn’t stop wanting her. He’d gone so far as to flee to London to find a bride so he could avoid ruining everything between them. The damn woman he’d chosen to be his duchess had changed her mind, giving him his marching orders quite rudely, too, at nearly the last moment.
Now he was back, and faced with the worst sort of torture and temptation he’d ever endured.
Seeing Ophelia walking to the carriage with the vicar had put him in a right state, and then the damn fool had tripped her up just so he could pull her close! He’d love nothing more than to send Drayton packing from that living and to put an old man with a wife in his place. Drayton influenced Ophelia far too much for Harry’s comfort. But he was thankful the mincing old fool could have less a chance to win this woman’s affection than Harry did.
Ophelia could never love either of them. Neither one of them were anything at all like the gregarious cousin she’d married and lost. Paul Shaw, with his infectious laugh, high spirits, and love of adventure, had undoubtedly been the center of her world.
The number of times she’d called out for Paul during her fevers had made him heartsore.
“I had a letter from Mr. Shaw this afternoon,” she announced suddenly.
Harry narrowed his eyes. One male living cousin could be found in Brighton, and he was a constant source of annoyance for Harry. “What did Nigel ask for this time?”
“Oh, nothing. Mr. Shaw wrote to say he has married.”
Harry rocked back on two legs of his chair, forgetting his manners and his present company. “Shaw couldn’t possibly be married?”
“Indeed, he is. To the former Miss Whitcombe, also of Brighton.”
An ominous creak had Harry carefully righting his chair before it collapsed beneath him. “She must be barking mad to take him on.”
Ophelia clucked her tongue in disapproval of his criticism. He bit his tongue over saying more against his cousin or the woman.
“Miss Whitcombe is lovely, sweet, and kind, quite intelligent.”
“Intelligent? At least one of them can claim to have that distinction,” he mused out loud. Nigel drove him to distraction. He’d been forever getting into one scrape after another when he was younger that, after he’d inherited, had cost Harry money or time to sort out. Harry had sent him to live at a Brighton property he owned, so Nigel might finally learn to fend for himself or perish in the attempt.
The latter had not happened so far. Ophelia had become his champion.
He looked at Ophelia closely now. She was obviously all for the match. “You have met her?”
“Oh, yes. Paul took me to Brighton the first year we were married, and that’s where I first met Mr. Shaw, and also Miss Whitcombe, too. We had dinner with her parents and brother, and they are quite a worthy connection for the Duke of Montrose’s relation.” She cast a quick peek at him, and a gentle smile curved her lips. “I noticed even then that he favored her. I am surprised it took him so long to propose, but then again, we are discussing Nigel Shaw. I suppose her father might not have thought him clever enough to support a wife, despite his connection to you.”
So had Harry. “Cousin Nigel has yet to inform me that he’s married.”
“I’m sure he will.” She looked slightly uncomfortable. “Perhaps his letter is still waiting to be opened.”
Nigel had probably not written to him yet. He was likely expecting Ophelia to soften Harry up to the idea before he wrote to ask for additional funds. Both Mr. Shaw in Brighton, and Mrs. James, a female relation living in Wales, had written to Ophelia regularly since her arrival at Sherringford. They liked Ophelia more than they did him, even if he supported them all quite generously.
Harry liked Ophelia the best, too.
He crossed one leg over the other, striving to appear comfortable, at ease. In truth, he was starting to become aroused due to their prolonged proximity. Ophelia always had an effect on his libido. Usually he
kept their conversations as brief as possible, so he didn’t start undressing her in his mind—and then, God forbid, with his hands.
If he offended her by revealing his interest, he might drive her away. That was the last thing he ever wanted to do.
“Your grace,” she called.
Harry lifted his attention to her face, chagrined his thoughts had strayed to the impossible pleasure of being intimate with her in any way. His cock twitched when she licked her lips.
He couldn’t stay any longer. “Forgive me, I must go and search for that letter.”
Her smile was quick, encouraging. “Of course, we can begin again tomorrow. Perhaps at ten o’clock. Here again.”
He nodded and stood, quickly turning away before she could notice the thickening at his groin. He could bear another hour here tomorrow if he had to. An hour and no more than that, then he would have to flee. Anything to make her feel her opinion was valued.
She seemed quite keen to see him married to someone else, so he would oblige her eventually.
But not straight away. Not this year. Harry would endure these lessons Ophelia insisted he needed. He probably did need them, really. Women tended to find his manners quite lacking, and his conversation too short.
She called out to him before he reached the door. “The best marriages start with mutual appreciation and desire. Montrose, it was never just your fault that she didn’t love you back.”
Harry studied the door latch. Ophelia was kind to say that, but she was wrong. He was to blame. Who could love him if Harry secretly loved another? He appreciated and desired Ophelia, but he was all wrong for her. They were very different. She so light and loving. Him dark and unable to tolerate his own emotions.
Ophelia would never admire him the way she had her late husband. He did not have any luck when it came to the ladies. He’d not the looks, the easy charm that women were drawn to.
He hid his disappointment behind a version of the truth that he could freely admit now. “No, and I didn’t love her, either. She was pretty, as much as the next woman, I suppose, and she had a large dowry.”
His Perfect Bride Page 4
