“I promise, the right woman will find her way to you.”
Since in his mind he’d already found the woman he wanted, Harry simply nodded and let himself out into the dark hall.
This side of the manor had been set aside for Ophelia’s personal use. She’d redecorated it with her own needs in mind. Soft, well-padded chairs, footstools and pillows, and no rugs on the floor to trip her up. Even with the bare floors, it was cozier than anywhere else in the mansion, even in the dark. Ophelia spent most of her time here, running his household very capably with the help of his staff.
He stayed far away, choosing to avoid her for the sake of his sanity, and he latched onto any excuse to spend most of his days on the estate grounds.
The mansion was quiet at this time of night, and his footsteps echoed through the unused rooms. He’d once liked the quiet—the peace of living alone. Everything had changed though when he’d brought Ophelia back with him, still to recover. She’d made him feel lonely when they were apart for any length of time. He’d never met anyone with her courage or determination, and as much as he was drawn to her, he did everything he could to keep a distance.
She regularly made him question his actions, his decisions and opinions. And already, in one day since his return, he’d come to see why he should be grateful to have been jilted.
He would never have been happy with Miss Hayes as his wife.
He was on the brink of entering his study when a footman appeared. “A message has come from Mr. Nash, your grace. I placed it in the center of your desk.”
He nodded and strode to his study. The contents were short and to the point. The Johnsons had thrown down their tools and run away from their punishment, leaving their sister behind, alone and unprotected. Nash and his wife had taken the girl in for the night, but something would have to be done for her welfare tomorrow.
Nash suggested the girl might prove a good companion for the future Duchess of Montrose, a governess for their future children. Miss Johnson was much too young to fulfill either role yet.
Ophelia had taken an interest in the girl already. She’d want to have a say in the girl’s future, and might just like to have him educate the girl to take on such a position at Sherringford.
He had no objection to that, as long as she was less troublesome than her older brothers.
Ophelia would visit the Nashes alone tomorrow, unless Harry made it plain that he intended to go along, too. The vicar could be there also. He imagined them standing close together in the dark, and Drayton offering to escort Ophelia home.
He lifted his head, determined that not happen. He’d accompany her to the Nashes and remain to keep the old fool at a distance.
Had Maggie Nash written to Ophelia, too?
Most likely, but he didn’t recall seeing a letter for her in the footman’s hand just now.
Harry penned a note to Mr. Nash, promising to call late tomorrow, and to bring Ophelia with him, and sent the footman off with it.
Deciding to inform Ophelia about helping the Johnson girl, Harry headed for Ophelia’s rooms again. It was late now but Harry easily found his way through the dark house.
The door to the east drawing room was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open.
He should have knocked.
Ophelia was lying on her back across the settee with her skirts hitched above her knees. She mustn’t have realized the door was not properly shut, because if she had, Ophelia wouldn’t be doing what she was currently doing.
She was pleasuring herself.
Very vigorously, too.
Harry couldn’t breathe, though he found the wits to step back into the dark hall.
But he remembered everything.
Ophelia’s eyes were closed as her fingers rubbed through her cunny and then dipped deep inside her sex. Moisture had glistened on her fingertips as she resumed pleasuring herself with astonishing abandon.
He put his hand on the doorknob and gripped it hard…and glanced inside one last time before he intended to close it.
“Harry,” she whispered as her back arched. “Please!”
Ophelia had never used his first name, or nickname, that he ever recalled. But he’d also never heard her mention anyone else by that name, either.
Was she thinking of him?
Harry found he couldn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Ophelia’s beautifully contorted face. Her pink lips parted to sigh and moan, and her fingers remained on her clit as she said his name over and over again. Her cheeks were delightfully flushed, and his cock swelled beyond his control.
This was the real Ophelia, not the poised and polite widow he’d thought he’d come to know.
Ophelia thrashed. Her legs, even the one missing a foot, dug under the end pillows as her hips suddenly arched high into the air, and then she collapsed. She climaxed very quietly, her hand pressing hard across her mouth, muffling any sound.
She became very still, her eyes fixed on the ceiling above her. She lowered her hand slowly and licked her lips. When she struggled into an upright position, Harry drew back out of sight, but he was curious to know what she would do or say next.
He peeked from the shadows. Ophelia had leaned forward and put her hands over her face, but he heard her words very clearly.
“What am I doing, dreaming of him again?”
Again?
Harry could not stop the smile that burst over his face.
She’d thought of him, more than once, fantasied about him making love to her.
But she was ashamed by it…
Yet so was he, sometimes, when he thought of her, too.
Buoyed by the first hope he’d ever allowed himself to feel about Ophelia, he wiped his emotions from his face and squared his shoulders. If he thought of her, and she thought of him, they might finally get somewhere.
Together.
He glanced through the door again to find her sitting precisely as he’d left her the first time. Composed and perfectly ladylike. But he’d seen her another way now…and he would not rest until he did so again.
He knocked and stepped into the room.
Ophelia yelped. “Montrose! Oh, you scared me!”
Even though she seemed entirely composed, her specially made boot for her missing foot lie some distance away still. He picked it up on his way into the room. The news about the Johnson family could wait until tomorrow. He could see no sign of a letter.
“I am very sorry to disturb you,” he murmured. “I had a thought. Instead of meeting here, would you like to visit the lake with me tomorrow?”
“The lake? Is something wrong there?”
“No. Nothing is wrong,” Harry said very quickly, scrambling for an innocuous reason to take her so far away from everyone. He never had before, so she would think it unusual. If he took her away from Sherringford early enough, the discussion of the fate of the Johnson girl could wait until later that afternoon. “Perhaps we could conduct your next lesson there, where no one can hear us.”
“We do need to cover walking conversation,” she mused, obviously seeing nothing amiss with his request.
“Excellent,” he said quickly before she could change her mind. “We’ll leave early, say nine o’clock?”
“Very well,” Ophelia agreed, and then seemed uncertain as she glanced around. “May I have that back?”
He looked at the wooden foot in his hand and shook his head. The prosthetic had pained her to put back on in the early days of her recovery. Especially in the evenings, she’d once said. She hadn’t complained of pain since his return, but she often went to bed earlier than him. “I’ll help you to bed, if you’d like.”
He might like to join her there too, now, but he cautioned himself not to rush. He didn’t have the best luck when it came to his love life, and Ophelia was the one woman he couldn’t fail with.
He moved forward and scooped her up into his arms even as she made a sound of denial. She didn’t protest too hard, though, and he hoped he knew why. Harr
y had toted Ophelia about while she’d been gravely ill, lifting her up when bedding had needed to be changed while she recovered. Helping her in and out of carriages and inns on the way home. His strength had been beneficial to her when she’d been too weary or weak to move herself.
Unfortunately, he’d forgotten how torturous it had been for him to hold her so close.
He carried her through the room, inhaling her perfume and the underlying scent of her arousal on the air.
The bedchamber door was ajar, and he bumped it open with his toe and carried her in. There wasn’t a servant in sight, and he stood in the center of the room, holding her for a moment close to his chest, undecided about whether he could ever release her.
“The stool by the bed,” she suggested quietly.
Glad of direction, Harry turned for it and gently lowered her down. As he released her, he allowed his fingers to slowly stroke down her spine…and to brush the back of her thighs, too.
Ophelia was a soft, delicate woman.
And he wanted her in the worst way.
He stepped back, turning away. “I’ll send our cousin in Brighton a wedding gift tomorrow. Is fifty pounds enough?”
“More than sufficient, Montrose. That is a very kind thing to do,” she called out to his back.
Tomorrow, he’d throw himself into learning how to woo a wife. Ophelia would be the unwitting instructor to her own future in that role. He wouldn’t rest until she called him Harry to his face. He wouldn’t be satisfied until she admitted she might love him back.
Chapter 5
Ophelia hung on to the side of the little cart, still amazed that Montrose had chosen to take her with him on a morning outing. Usually, he poured over journals and accounts from morning till luncheon. After a second daily ride, he issued instructions for those who worked for him until long after she went to bed. That he was not working, or somewhere about the estate on horseback, was unprecedented. He had a routine that he strictly adhered to. One she had learned to live by and even found comforting.
But he’d presented himself with his customary no-nonsense manner in the hall at precisely nine o’clock. He’d placed her in the open carriage himself and drove off from the manor without a single servant accompanying them.
She wasn’t sure what had prompted this sudden change in his routine, but she was glad. Montrose worked far too much, in her opinion. He needed to lighten up a little.
Ophelia wouldn’t question his reasons for being with her today for fear that he’d change his mind about taking her lessons. She thought she’d made significant progress in getting his agreement. He’s lost that defensive edge to his tone when he spoke about London.
And it was pleasant to be more or less alone with him, so far from the hushed atmosphere of their typical days and any lingering servants. Not that their outing was any different really than any other. Montrose was silent as they drove along. But his thigh pressed continuously against hers in the close confines, making her painfully aware that he was male…and that she found him attractive.
Thankfully, that was an awkwardness only she felt. Feelings and longings she’d been incapable of turning aside continued. Making love again was a frequent fantasy of hers. But Montrose would never consider taking her to his bed. He didn’t think of her that way. To him, she was Paul’s widow, grief-stricken till the end of her days, most likely. But she was not grieving any longer. She’d put aside her mourning and wanted to resume a full life. That included intimacy with a passionate gentleman.
When the lake came into view, Montrose surprised her by turning the horse in the wrong direction, heading past it to another distant lake she’d only heard spoken of. The track led through a stand of tall trees and was obviously far less used, because she began to be tossed about a little more than she cared for.
Montrose shot out his hand across her front to steady her and stop her pitching forward, and then he grasped her by the legs, pulling her hard against his side, capably managing the horse one-handed and her with the other. Ophelia began to grow aroused as Montrose held her and they shifted together with the rocking of the carriage. Mortified, she squeezed her thighs a little tighter, hoping she would not embarrass herself by moaning aloud.
The carriage reached a particularly dense growth beside the track, and she stretched out one hand to brush aside the closest branches.
“Be careful,” Montrose murmured, and his fingers tightened on her even more. “It closes in for a while yet.”
True to his word, the trees closed in, and she had to wriggle even closer to Montrose to avoid the scratch of branches against her face, close enough to rest her cheek against his shoulder. She breathed the scent of Montrose deep into her lungs and clung to his arm for safety.
For a moment, she remembered what it was like to be married. Touch, intimacy, and a sense of belonging had been hers at any time, and she missed that.
Finally, they stopped, and as Ophelia sat upright, she dragged her thoughts away from her own longings to look about in amazement. She’d never been to this precise spot before. The view was so beautiful, her breath caught.
Ancient willows dotted the fringe of a nearby lake, their long branches trailing to the ground and into the water. The grass was long, thick, as if no cattle had roamed here for some time.
Montrose dismounted, leading the horse and cart to a nearby tree and hitching it there. He turned back to her, his eyes softer than she’d ever seen them before.
He came to her side. “Wait there a moment while I set up our spot.”
She twisted to watch him at work, charging up and down the slight incline carrying a chair and an obviously heavy basket. She marveled at his careful placement of a blanket, the low chair, and the picnic basket beside a weeping willow, so they were not just all lumped together. Nothing seemed to have been left to chance.
He returned, his gaze speculative as he walked toward her. Today he wore his customary buff trousers, white shirt, and waistcoat that matched his dark blue coat. Even though there seemed to be nothing different about him, she was more aware of him than she ought to be. Montrose had admirable proportions, and when he lifted her from the carriage as if she weighed nothing, she couldn’t help but sigh out loud that his arms were wrapped about her once again.
Montrose scowled. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting in the sun for so long. Forgive me. You’ll be more comfortable in the shade.”
Ophelia blushed, glad he’d misunderstood the reason behind her sigh. “I was happy to wait, but I should have helped you.”
“It’s my outing,” he insisted as he set her down on the low chair and then shrugged out of his coat. He settled on the blanket beside her, stretching out his long legs as he took in the view of the nearby lake.
There was not a soul to be seen. No signs at all of human structures even. Just a bird wheeling overhead and the soft caress of a warm breeze across her cheek. “I had no idea this part of the estate was so beautiful.”
“Have you not been here before?” At the shake of her head, he scowled again. “I should have thought to bring you here long before now.”
“You have more important concerns than entertaining me.”
“I cannot think of one.”
“It was worth the wait,” she promised. Her stomach rumbled, and Ophelia gestured to the basket. “May I?”
“Certainly.” He moved it a little closer, too, and flipped open the top.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. There was a huge iced cake placed right at the very top. The duke’s favorite, in fact. She lifted it out. “I believe this must be for you, your grace.”
His lips twitched as he took it from her and set it down between them. “I thought I heard somewhere that you were partial to cake, too.”
“I am, but that is a very large cake,” she countered.
“You can never have too much of a good thing.”
His words made her smile. She happened to agree with that statement. Montrose would not need very many lessons from her if t
his was how he arranged a picnic only she was to attend. She found his attention to detail charming and could not understand how he’d failed to win that other lady’s heart in London.
“Now, what else has Cook packed for us?” she asked. Ophelia unpacked everything, her mouth watering in anticipation of the dishes arrayed between them. Fresh strawberries and currents and salad greens, boiled eggs and cucumbers, sausage, and even pigeon.
Montrose’s cook had sent a feast for at least a dozen, rather than two. “Are we expecting anyone else to join us?”
“I didn’t invite anyone. Why?”
“If we ate all this, we might never move from this spot again.”
“I’m not planning to move for a good long while.” He glanced her way, and then his gaze traveled down her body. He pursed his lips a moment. “Few come this far out, so if you want, you could make yourself more comfortable. Remove your boot if you like, too. Feel the wind in your hair. No one will see you but me.”
Ophelia was going to refuse until she saw that Montrose was taking his own advice. He began to remove his boots, then loosened his neckcloth as well and rolled up his sleeves.
Ophelia tried not to stare at his newly exposed neck. The last time she’d glimpsed him so undressed was at the height of her illness. His coat, waistcoat, and cravat had been shed. He’d just been a tired man in a crumpled linen shirt, squeezing her hand as she’d suffered and cried.
She remembered he had dark hair on his chest and very muscular arms. She’d secretly hoped she might see him again that way.
A little embarrassed by her train of thoughts, she looked down at her legs. She wasn’t embarrassed that Montrose might see her short leg; it just wasn’t necessarily something a lady should do in front of someone she wasn’t married to. It was just her leg, though. Not her whole body, which would indeed be scandalous.
She reached for her foot and untied the laces around her ankle. “Do you come here often?”
“Since my father died, yes.”
Since the day the responsibilities for the vast estate had become his burden to bear. Poor man. She knew how everyone depended on him.
His Perfect Bride Page 5
