by Alec, Joyce
Peter turned on his heel and made his way from the room, feeling a good deal brighter than when he had first seen both young ladies looking back at him with anger and confusion in their eyes. The relief that came with knowing that Miss Grey not only knew the truth but was now willing to aid him in this very difficult situation coursed through him as he walked from the house. There was a gentleness and a kindness to her that he had not seen before and the strength of her character had, for the first time, brought him a good deal of gladness. Had she not had such strength, then she might have turned away from him and left him to deal with the consequences that would follow.
“Thank you, Miss Grey,” he murmured to himself, putting his hat back on his head and allowing his gaze to reach up to the windows of the townhouse as though he might see her there. “You have done more for me than you know.” So saying, Peter turned, drew in a long breath, and then continued down the London street, finding that he was suddenly looking forward to seeing Miss Grey again come the morrow.
8
Walking into the ballroom, Ophelia settled her shoulders and lifted her chin a notch, feeling an uncharacteristic sense of nervousness wash over her. It could not be that the guests and, therefore, all of the London ton were soon to know that she was being courted yet again, by Lord Marchmont, surely? She had no need to feel anxious over such a thing as that, for it meant nothing and she was well aware of that. Once they discovered the truth behind whoever was pushing Lord Marchmont towards her, then their courtship could come to an end again and she would be free to pursue whatever—or whoever—she wished.
Swallowing hard, Ophelia tried not to allow her anxiety to show, wondering if her aunt was aware of it at all. Throwing her a sidelong glance, she saw that Lady Sharrow was much too busy looking out across the crowd for some of her own acquaintances to notice anything else. That came as something of a relief.
“Now, you will be courteous and attentive, will you not, Ophelia?” Lady Sharrow asked as they walked together through the crowd in search of some familiar faces. “You will not allow your tongue to speak without at least thinking about what you are to say?”
Ophelia felt herself blush, which was, again, most unlike her. It was as though what she had said to Lord Marchmont when they had walked through the park had brought her a sudden sense of awareness over her own failings. Normally, she would have simply sighed inwardly and promised her aunt that yes, she would be courteous and careful, whilst having no intention of doing anything of the sort. However, on this occasion, Ophelia felt ashamed that her aunt had been required to point such a thing out, as though she expected Ophelia to embarrass herself by speaking with blunt honesty.
“I shall be very careful, Aunt,” she promised as Lady Sharrow gave her a sharp look. “And I am sorry that you have such concern for me.”
Lady Sharrow’s brows lifted in surprise and for some moments, it looked as though she wanted to speak but could find nothing to say. Ophelia said nothing either, waiting for Lady Sharrow to either give her another warning about her behavior or state that she fully expected Ophelia to fail regardless. However, Lady Sharrow said no such thing, resting one hand on Ophelia’s arm.
“You quite surprise me, Ophelia,” she murmured, her expression growing a trifle concerned. “You have never spoken with such understanding and apparent regret before. Is something the matter?”
Ophelia shook her head. “No, there is not.”
“Then I must hope that this is to do entirely with the company of Lord Marchmont,” Lady Sharrow commented with a sudden gleam in her eye. “You did not tell me how your time was with him yesterday afternoon. I know he called upon you.”
“He did,” Ophelia replied, not wanting her aunt to know even a modicum of what had passed between herself and Lord Marchmont. “Miss Smallwood was present also, as you know.”
Lady Sharrow let go of Ophelia’s arm and gave her an encouraging smile.
“He was pleasant enough,” Ophelia admitted, seeing her aunt’s expression brighten. “I have said that we shall continue our courtship for the time being, although I can make you no promises that there shall be anything thereafter, Aunt.”
A broad smile settled on Lady Sharrow’s features. “But that is quite wonderful, Ophelia,” she said, letting go of Ophelia’s arm. “It is more than you have ever allowed a gentleman to do before and I am truly glad that you have seen sense and permitted him to court you again.”
Ophelia closed her eyes briefly, wishing that she could make her aunt understand. “I have not promised that it will continue to matrimony, Aunt,” she said plainly, knowing that, should she and Lord Marchmont find the perpetrator, there would be no need for their charade to continue. “Please ensure that you remember this whenever you speak of our courtship to another.”
Lady Sharrow nodded and waved a hand, which told Ophelia that she was no longer really listening but was, instead, already imagining the wedding that Ophelia might have once she became Lady Marchmont. A stab of pain lanced Ophelia’s heart. She did not want to upset her aunt, especially when she had done so much for her, but Ophelia was not about to marry Lord Marchmont simply to save her aunt some pain.
But what if you grow close to him?
She threw the question aside at once, not allowing herself to even consider it, for she had to simply ensure that she thought of Lord Marchmont as an acquaintance and nothing more. She had always thought him dull and staid, but now that he was entangled in some sort of mystery, Ophelia found him a good deal more interesting. Would their intimacy increase to the point that she would find herself enjoying his company? Would they share so much that it would become difficult for her to pull herself away from him when the time came? Swallowing hard, Ophelia tried to thrust these concerns aside, but found that they seemed to stick to her, entangling her heart as she looked all about her for the very gentleman that was currently on her mind.
With a start, Ophelia recalled how she had brushed aside his hair to look at the injury he had sustained. Miss Smallwood had commented on her behavior once Lord Marchmont had left and Ophelia had laughed and brushed off the comment at once, even though she knew that it had been entirely brazen and certainly not what she ought to have done. And yet, she had needed to know with certainty whether or not Lord Marchmont was telling the truth and that had seemed the easiest way to do it. What she had not expected was to feel such an extraordinary blow to her heart as she had threaded her fingers through his hair. A shock had leapt through her fingers and run up her arms, making her catch her breath. She had never been so close and certainly had not been so intimate with a gentleman in such a way before, but had done her best to cover her reaction completely from both Lord Marchmont and Miss Smallwood. She had done rather well to hide it from even herself, given that she had only thought of it at this very moment.
“Miss Grey, good evening.”
The sound of his voice made her heart lurch in her chest, heat creeping up her spine as she turned to face him. It was, of course, simply because she had been thinking of him in such an intimate fashion that she had felt such a strong reaction, she told herself, curtsying quickly to cover all that she felt.
“Good evening, Lord Marchmont,” she replied, surprised to see the easy smile on his face that she had not often seen before. His whole expression was alight, his dark brown eyes fixed on hers and holding her gaze tightly. Was he truly that pleased to see her?
“Oh, Lord Marchmont, good evening!”
Beside her, Lady Sharrow curtsied quickly, as Lord Marchmont bowed in her direction.
“Good evening, Lady Sharrow.”
Ophelia hid a smile, seeing the twinkle in Lord Marchmont’s eyes as he took in her aunt’s demeanor. Lady Sharrow was practically gushing with delight upon seeing him again, as though she were the one being courted.
“I am very glad to see you again, Lord Marchmont,” Lady Sharrow began, pushing Ophelia forward slightly. “Are you dancing this evening? We have only just arrived and Ophelia’s dance c
ard has not yet been touched!”
Ophelia blushed furiously at this, aware that her aunt was pushing her forward still further, obviously wanting Lord Marchmont to make his interest in Ophelia completely apparent.
“I was hoping to secure at least one dance with you, Miss Grey,” Lord Marchmont replied with a soft smile in her direction. “That is, if you will allow me.”
“I would be glad to,” she replied, holding out her dance card and seeing her aunt’s broad smile as Lord Marchmont took it carefully. “You may secure two, if you wish.”
Lord Marchmont glanced at her from under his brows as he looked down at her dance card, a peculiar smile on his face. Was it because he knew that she was doing this simply to play her part? Or was he truly glad that he was able to continue their courtship in such a fashion?
“Two, then,” he replied, writing his initials down. “And one being the supper dance, I think.” Looking back at her, he let her dance card go. “And the first, the waltz.”
She could not explain it, but for some reason, the way he said those words brought a slight fluttering to her heart. Managing to smile at him, Ophelia tried her best to remain almost nonchalant, turning to her aunt with a practiced air of refinement.
“That is most kind of Lord Marchmont, is it not, Aunt?” she said with a slight tip of her head. “I must hope that I find other gentlemen to secure other dances, else I shall be seen to be dancing only with you, Lord Marchmont.” Returning her gaze to him and feeling a good deal more settled within herself now that her heart was no longer misbehaving, she allowed her smile to broaden. “And I should not want that.”
“Indeed not, Miss Grey,” he replied easily. “If you would be willing to accompany me, then I might introduce you again to Lord Blackridge, who is here this evening also.”
Ophelia’s lips quirked, aware that, most likely, Lord Blackridge would not be best pleased to be forced to speak with her again, since he would be embarrassed about the entire scenario. Miss Smallwood had told Ophelia everything, including the fact that Lord Marchmont had been discussing matters with Lord Blackridge. He had been fully aware of the circumstances that had surrounded Lord Marchmont and Ophelia, but had not once suggested, as Miss Smallwood had done, that Lord Marchmont tell her the truth.
“I should be glad to, if my aunt does not protest.” She cast a quick glance towards Lady Sharrow, who made a shooing motion, shaking her head in mock disbelief as she did so. With a chuckle, Ophelia took Lord Marchmont’s offered arm and walked with him away from her aunt.
“Might I say that you look quite lovely this evening, Miss Grey?”
She smiled softly. “Thank you, Lord Marchmont,” she replied quietly. “Might I ask how you are faring?”
Much to her surprise, Lord Marchmont let out a long, slow breath, his head lowering for a few seconds before he replied. The crowd parted before them as they walked, drawing nearer to the edge of the ballroom where it was much quieter.
“I confess that I find my mind still tortured as I question who has done such a thing,” he admitted, speaking openly to her as he had done before. “I cannot imagine why someone would wish the two of us together. What would be so pressing about our courtship that they would threaten my own brother’s reputation?”
Ophelia frowned, her eyes darting about the room as though they might land on the culprit and, in one moment, everything would become clear. “I confess I do not know,” she conceded solemnly. “I have wondered whether my uncle or aunt would do such a thing, but it was nothing more than a momentary thought, for I know full well that neither of them would act with such indiscretion. My uncle is not even in London at this present moment, even though he has been informed of various… events.” She gave Lord Marchmont a sidelong glance, wondering if he knew just how confused her uncle had been to receive one letter from Lady Sharrow stating that Ophelia’s courtship had come to an end, only to receive another a few days later saying that it had been reinstated. His return letter had been short but clear enough to display his confusion over the matter.
“I have had one thought,” Lord Marchmont said as they walked towards the open French doors. “Might you care to walk with me for a few minutes? Ah, there is Lord Blackridge. He can accompany us so you are not without a chaperone.”
Ophelia found herself wanting to state that she did not care whether or not she had any chaperone, but stopped herself from saying such a thing aloud just in time. She was trying to keep a guard over her mouth, was she not? And to speak so foolishly might be a source of embarrassment not only to her but also to Lord Marchmont.
So, with due diligence, Ophelia greeted Lord Blackridge with as much good grace as she could manage, seeing the way that his expression grew somewhat uncomfortable as he looked away from her only to let his gaze dart back to her face for a moment.
“As I have said, Blackridge, Miss Grey is aware of everything,” Lord Marchmont said as Lord Blackridge shuffled his feet in a nervous fashion. “Might you walk with us for a few minutes in the gardens? I have had a thought that I wished to share with Miss Grey, but it is important that it is done so as privately as possible. You may recall that the note stated that Miss Grey was not to know of what had occurred with me and I fear that the person behind the note may be watching us or drawing near to us at this very moment.”
Ophelia had quite forgotten about this part of the note, and felt a shiver run down her spine, trembling suddenly. Lord Marchmont gave her a sharp look of concern, having obviously felt her shake. Ophelia, who hated that she had shown such a moment of weakness, cleared her throat gently and then smiled at Lord Blackridge. “Shall you join us, Lord Blackridge?” she asked, not wanting to cause either gentleman any concern. “All is forgiven, I assure you.”
Lord Blackridge smiled back, although his shoulders dropped in evident relief. “Yes, of course, Miss Grey,” he said, stumbling over his words. “I should be glad to. Please.” He gestured towards the door and Ophelia walked towards it at once, half dragging Lord Marchmont along with her in her urgency to leave the ballroom and the many, many guests within.
The gardens were quiet and Ophelia allowed herself to relax, taking in long breaths as she fought to settle her quickening heart. It was the thought that the person who had written the note was within the ballroom that had set her all atremble, even though she had believed herself to have a strong constitution. What was it she was afraid of? Did she fear for Lord Marchmont? For his brother, whom she did not know? Or was it that she feared that her own behavior would be the thing to throw the entire situation into disarray? If she spoke out of turn, if she behaved with her usual brashness and blunt manner, then might she not inadvertently say something that would prove to the person responsible that she knew what was going on? That could, in turn, have disastrous consequences for which she would be solely responsible.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Grey?”
She jerked in surprise, pulled from her anxious thoughts by the voice of Lord Marchmont. He was now looking at her with concern, his eyes darting across her face as though he might be able to make out what she was thinking or feeling. The gardens were well lit with a good many lanterns and so it was easy enough to see the worry in his eyes.
“I am quite all right,” she replied, trying to reassure him despite her slightly tremulous smile. “Thank you, Lord Marchmont. I was just lost in thought for a moment.”
Lord Marchmont nodded and smiled, although the concern did not leave his eyes completely.
“What was it you wished to say?” she asked, trying not to think about the effect his worried gaze was having upon her heart. “Was it something of particular interest?”
Lord Marchmont nodded and lifted his gaze from her, freeing her completely. Ophelia quietly let out her breath, relieved at no longer being the object of his attention.
“Yes, indeed,” he murmured, keeping his voice low and quiet so that only Ophelia and Lord Blackridge could hear him. “I did wonder, Miss Grey, whether you are simply the u
nfortunate soul in all of this.”
Her frown was immediate. “Unfortunate?” she repeated quickly. “What do you mean?”
“Unfortunate in that you have found yourself tied to me,” he replied by way of explanation. “I was reminded by Lord Whitfield recently that the ton are always aware of the happenings of others. Most will know that we were courting. Had I been courting some other young lady, then it might well have been her name on the note I discovered, as opposed to yours.” He shrugged and looked away. “This may very well have nothing to do with you, Miss Grey, and yet you have become entangled within it regardless.”
Ophelia considered this in silence for some minutes, whilst Lord Blackridge grunted his agreement. If such a suggestion were true, then it meant that she was simply unlucky.
“The note instructed you to resume your court with me,” she stated, seeing Lord Marchmont nod. “The urgency, then, might be presumed to be your marriage, Lord Marchmont.”
Lord Marchmont rubbed at his chin with his free hand. “What do you mean?”
“The note mentioned courtship and marriage, did it not?” she asked, seeing Lord Marchmont glance at her before looking away. “The focus of the note is to have you married just as soon as can be arranged. And the best way for such a thing to occur is for you to resume your courtship with a lady you have previously become fairly well acquainted with.”
“Indeed, that is so,” Lord Blackridge agreed, suddenly sounding a little excited. “Miss Grey is quite correct, Lord Marchmont. To demand that you resume your acquaintance with her might well be because the need for you to marry grows urgent. It would take much longer for you to acquaint yourself with other young ladies and even longer for you to choose one or two to court.”
Ophelia felt Lord Marchmont’s steps slow, his expression thoughtful. “That could very well be the case,” he admitted, looking down at Ophelia with dark, knotted brows. “Which means, Miss Grey, that I must apologize to you profusely that you have been dragged into this.”
