Later that night, after Arthur had been tucked into bed, Ophelia sat down by the fire to do some mending. She knew her time would likely be better spent in drafting a letter to her husband apprising him of her arrival and explaining what she was doing here—and begging him to meet with her. But thoughts of the inevitable confrontation that loomed between them made it easy to put the task off a little while longer. Surely, it could at least wait until morning. Besides, it really wouldn’t do to allow Arthur to show up at Dario’s door in clothes that were threadbare.
The faint electromagnetic charge running through her circuitry caused the needle to cling ever-so-slightly to her fingers. It had been the case all her life of course and, as such, was not the kind of thing she tended to notice. Tonight, in this place, it drew her attention.
Her sewing done, she put her things away then sat for a few moments, just staring at her hand, flexing and straightening her fingers. It looked so normal, so ordinary, so very human. She even had fingerprints. Her father had been particularly proud of that. If only he had not been quite so proud of all his accomplishments, so eager to share his genius with the world. How might her life have been different if that had been the case?
Or if, perhaps, he’d been only a little less concerned with ending the bloody conflict between the States, and a little more sensitive to the precariousness of her position—not that she hadn’t understood, and even shared his concerns. If the Union had prevailed, perhaps she’d be more confident now in her position as a free woman, and less desperate to secure her husband’s support.
She’d seen how the bloodshed and loss of life had preyed upon her father’s mind and she could hardly fault him for wishing to do whatever was necessary to bring it to a speedier conclusion, but his conviction that he alone knew best how to accomplish this mission, smacked of hubris. Was building his own army of automatons really the only possible answer? Even if it was, could he not have found someone else—anyone other than her husband—to appeal to for the funds necessary to accomplish his goal?
Oh, if only he’d thought things through, if only he’d held his tongue when Dario turned down his request, expressing doubt about the feasibility of such a plan. If only…
Ah, but what was the point in wishing things had been different? What was done, was done. She just wished she could erase the memory of Dario’s face the last time she’d seen him. So cold. So angry. So very different from how he was used to looking at her. The way he’d looked at her the night they first met…
“Miss Winter. Your servant, ma’am.” The tall stranger bowed low over her hand…and then boldly held it trapped between both his own. His eyes roved over her features, bringing a blush rising to her cheeks, until she hardly knew where to look.
“Mr. Leonides. What a very lovely name. Is it Spanish?”
“Yes. Lovely,” Dario had repeated, still staring at her like a man in a fugue.
Ophelia blinked in surprise. “I-I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“What?” Dario stirred. “Oh! Spanish. Yes. Originally. Did you visit Spain? I’m sorry, your father did say you’d been touring the continent, did he not? But you’re home again now, and…and planning to stay, I hope?”
“I am,” Ophelia said, unable to keep from smiling at the man. “Although, sadly, I must confess, my travels did not take me as far as Spain.” She’d gone many other places, however, and met many people. It was odd to think she had to come home again to be received with this level of admiration. Or that this man, from the far western reaches of her own continent, should seem more strange, more exotic, more altogether charming than anyone she’d ever met.
And that had been just at the beginning! The Dario she’d met that first night was awkward and diffident, barely able to string two words together without stumbling over them, and still he captivated her attention. The Dario she came to know during the next few weeks was a far, far different creature: confident, passionate, insistent and tender by turns.
His smiles and jokes delighted her. His kisses all but melted her. She was drawn to him like an iron filing to a lodestone, helpless to resist his appeal. When he was there, she had eyes for no one else. When he was gone, her thoughts sailed off in pursuit. It was the greatest relief when he asked for her hand because, by that time, she could no longer even imagine a life that did not revolve around him.
Chapter Two
“Say that again.” Dario Leonides glared at his valet, who had just finished shaving him. He could not have heard the man correctly. Or, if he had… No. She wouldn’t, would she? It had to be an error, a baseless rumor, a mistake.
His servant, used to Dario’s temper, continued to go about his duties unperturbed. “I merely mentioned, sir, that it appears Mrs. Leonides is back in Santa Fe. I have it on good authority she was seen checking in at La Fonda last evening.”
“Bloody hell.” Dario hurriedly wiped his face on the proffered towel, then surged to his feet. Ophelia. She was the last woman… The last person… No, damn it, she was the last thing he wanted to have to think about right now. He stalked to the window but the frozen, snow-dusted landscape brought him no comfort. If anything, it served as a stark reminder of all he’d lost, of all that Ophelia had stolen from him.
She’d taken his name, his heart, his future—everything he’d had of value. And now? What could have brought her back here now? What could she possibly want to take from him this time?
He’d been a fool when Ophelia first entered his life. A young, impetuous fool with a passion for science, and wealth enough to invest in any scheme that caught his interest, such as the bold, borderline-preposterous claims a certain Dr. Charles Winter had been making.
Professor Winter, as Charles preferred to be called, was undeniably brilliant, but some of the ideas he proposed seemed too fantastical to be believed. Dario had been hesitant initially, and naturally so, about committing so much of his money to what could very well prove to be mere flights of fancy. Then he met the inventor’s daughter, newly home from Europe, and all his doubts and scruples, along with most of his common sense it now appeared, had fallen by the wayside.
Ophelia was beautiful, talented, cultured, refined. She was fascinating, enchanting and utterly adorable. She was, in short, everything Dario had ever hoped for in a wife. She had only one flaw that Dario was aware of, and that was her lineage or lack thereof. If only she’d been the product of her parents’ marriage, if only she’d been born to the professor’s wife, rather than his late mistress, his parents would have welcomed her with open arms.
The Leonides were a proud family, one who could trace their history back for well over two hundred years. By contrast, Ophelia had almost no family at all. She had no relatives that she knew of on her mother’s side; on her father’s side there were only a handful of half-siblings who refused to even acknowledge her.
Did he really intend to marry a bastard, his parents had demanded. Was this soiled heritage the one he wished to hand down to his own children? But the more time Dario spent in Ophelia’s company, the less he cared about these other matters, even if their importance had been drummed into his head since birth. Let his brothers and sisters marry for the prestige or the money it would bring them, or to advance the family’s social standing. He had enough heritage for both of them, or so he’d boldly declared, blinded by his passion. He would marry for love or not at all. And so he had.
But that was before he’d learned the truth about who—or rather, what—it was he’d married. And that was before he’d had to pay the price for his reckless impulsiveness, before he’d had to stand by and watch as his family was taken from him, lost to one senseless tragedy after another. Two of his brothers had died in battle, victims of the almost constant skirmishes along the border with Mexico. Another, the eldest, and their country’s president, was lost when a tornado touched down unexpectedly on ranch lands he’d been inspecting along with a small group of foreign diplomats. Dario’s youngest sister, the baby of the family, had been little more
than a child when she was taken by small pox. Most recently, his remaining sisters, along with their children and both his parents, had succumbed to complications brought on by influenza.
Suddenly, rumors of a family “curse” seemed to buzz in the air around him whenever Dario left his estate. Suddenly, the future of the entire Leonides clan appeared to rest with him, and with the wife he’d chosen for what he now realized were all the wrong reasons. A wife who could never give him a child to carry on the family name. A wife who was not even fully human.
Not that he’d wanted to believe that, or ever would have imagined it to be possible without overwhelming proof. Even now, he found it hard to reconcile the reality with the Lia he’d known and loved. Even now, the memories of their time together, of the love he thought they’d shared, had the power to torment him.
He remembered their first night as husband and wife; how Lia had come to his bed, so shy and eager, blushing beneath his gaze. He remembered the shudders that ran through her body as he touched her, her soft gasps of surprise, the way she finally came undone for him, crying out in pleasure as he held her, as he buried himself within her, as he made them one.
He remembered the first night he brought her here, to his home, just weeks into their marriage; how she stood by his side in the entry hall, hesitant as a doe, glancing around, taking everything in. “What a beautiful house,” she’d said, smiling radiantly, even as she leaned against him, exhausted from their travels. “I’m so happy to finally be home.”
And he remembered, too, how his housekeeper had taken charge at that point, bustling Ophelia away and favoring him with a look that could only be called a scowl…
“I believe Mrs. Harrison is concerned that your lady not overtire herself due to the possibility she may be increasing,” his valet had suggested later that evening in response to Dario’s complaints. “That is to say, in case she were to find herself in a family way.”
It took Dario several minutes to figure out what the man was trying to say—or trying not to say, as Dario saw it. Ophelia, with child? Already? Could it be? Why, up until that instant, he hadn’t even considered the matter!
Pride swelled within him as he thought of it, along with an almost inexpressible joy. If it was a girl, perhaps they could call her Arabella, after his sister who had died so young. If it was a boy, tradition insisted he be given his grandfather’s name, Arturo. Dario smiled as he imagined introducing his father to his namesake…
Of course, as it turned out, that had been nothing more than a very pleasant fantasy. He supposed the same could be said about his marriage; naught but a dream, a chimera founded on lies, a cruel hoax crafted to deceive him…
“Get me my coat,” he said now to his valet, ignoring the man’s surprise. “And send word to the stables to have my horse saddled. I’m going into town.”
Whatever new scheme Ophelia was cooking up, he wanted no part in it. He would find her and see her packing if it was the last thing he did.
Chapter Three
Ophelia was in one of the hotel’s smaller salons when Dario found her. She was seated at a writing desk, nibbling on the end of a pen and looking pensive. She didn’t hear him enter, so he cleared his throat to get her attention.
“Dario!” Her face turned pale and she got quickly to her feet. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t… That is, I didn’t think to see you so soon.”
“Madam.” Dario dipped his head slightly, offering nothing more than the barest minimum of respect that manners would allow and refusing to address her in the same overly familiar fashion in which she addressed him. “I trust you’ll do me the courtesy of explaining just exactly what it is you think you’re doing here?”
“Yes, of-of course.” Her color returning, Ophelia gestured at the desk behind her. “As it happens, I was just now in the process of writing to you on that very subject.”
Dario waited, saying nothing, wishing now that he’d curbed his impatience and stayed home, rather than rushing here to confront her. She was even more beautiful than he’d remembered. Perhaps it was the faint blush that warmed her cheeks, or the golden curls escaping her coiffure. He thought her face a little thinner, a little more drawn than it had been eight years ago, but that only made her violet eyes appear larger and more gemlike than ever. He ached to touch her, to hold her, to taste her lips—just one more time.
Coming face to face with her like this was far more difficult than he’d anticipated.
Ophelia indicated the small sofa near the fireplace. “Shall we sit down?”
“Why? I see no earthly reason this interview should take long enough to warrant our sitting through it.”
Ophelia sighed. “That’s as may be, but…oh, very well. As you wish.” She paused and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t quite know where to start.”
Dario gritted his teeth. “The beginning would be the logical place, I should think.”
“And where might that be, I wonder?” Ophelia’s eyes sparkled angrily. She straightened her back and met his gaze head on. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it or not, but my father passed on a few months back.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Dario answered, refusing to be moved by news of yet another death. He should be inured to it by now. Besides, he’d lost Charles as a friend years ago—and mourned him at the time. He’d no need to mourn him again now. “My condolences to you.”
“Thank you. But…well, as a result, you see, I find myself turned out of my home and all but destitute.”
“Are you saying your father made no provision for your future?” Dario protested. “You can hardly expect me to believe that!”
“Indeed, he did. I never meant to suggest otherwise. As you might imagine, it was his intention to leave me very well off. His bequest to me was most generous. Unfortunately, his children—his other children, I should say—bear no great love for me and so are refusing to honor his wishes in this regard. They have cut me off completely. I left Pennsylvania with little more than the clothes on my back and such small funds as I was able to scrape together by selling off some personal items—jewelry and such that I’d had from my mother.”
“I’m sorry. But surely you must have someone who can advise you on how to proceed. A lawyer perhaps?”
“Do you think so?” Ophelia’s laugh was brittle. “And what advice do you imagine a lawyer will give me? You know very well I do not dare dispute their claims. There’s no way I can prove to anyone’s satisfaction that I am my father’s natural daughter. And, were I to even try, I’d run the risk of having certain…inconvenient facts…about my background coming to light. I’m sure you’ll understand my extreme reluctance to the idea of exposing myself in such a manner.”
“Yes.” Dario wished he could keep the sneer from his lips, but it was impossible. “Believe me, I am well acquainted with your love of circumspection.”
“You make it sound as though it was something I do for my own enjoyment.”
“Isn’t it?” Anxious to get them back on topic, Dario hurried on. “In any case, you still haven’t explained what you’re doing here.”
Ophelia sighed and turned away to stare out the window. Dario followed her gaze, not unduly surprised to see that a light snow had begun to fall. It had been threatening to do so all morning. All the more reason to conclude this business as quickly as possible and be on his way back home.
“It seems I have no one else to turn to,” Ophelia said at last. Her voice was quiet and bleak. “Where else was I to go? And…after all, you are still my husband.”
“A mere technicality.”
“You never filed for divorce.”
“My religion denies me that option, as you might recall.”
Her shoulders drooped. “I see. I had hoped there might be another reason for it.”
“What reason could there be?”
“I thought…perhaps…it meant that you were as reluctant as I to call an end to our union.”
“Then you thought w
rong,” Dario insisted. “I feel no such reluctance and I fear you have wasted your time in coming here. I will advance you the money you need for a return trip—or to settle somewhere else, if you prefer it. But that’s all I’m prepared to do for you. I urge you seriously, Madam, to re-consider hiring an attorney to advise you.”
“Oh, please stop calling me that.” Ophelia’s quiet tone failed to hide the shaking of her voice. “You didn’t used to be so cold. Besides, there is still another matter we need discuss.”
“Is there? I can’t imagine what that might be.”
To Dario’s surprise, Ophelia huffed out a small laugh. A wry smile curved her mouth. “No. No, I’m quite certain you can’t imagine what I have to tell you. You can’t even hazard a guess, can you?”
“I don’t understand.”
This time, when Ophelia’s eyes met his there was a determined light burning within them. “As it happens, Dario, part of why I came here was to inform you that you have a son, as well as to discuss with you your part in securing his future.”
Dario stared. For a moment, he felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. He shook his head, unable to make sense of the words she spoke. “A…a son?”
“Yes. His name is Arthur, and he is just over seven years old. I suppose I should have told you about him sooner, but to be honest I was afraid of how you might react to the news. Your behavior, when last I saw you, left me with little hope that you’d be pleased.”
“No!” Three strides took him across the room. He grabbed her roughly by the arms and shook her. “Enough of this, Lia. No more lies! You forget, I know what you are. Your father made quite sure of that. He showed me his plans for your…for your construction. The drawings he made of your development, the diagrams, the…the…”
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