by Darcy Burke
Ophelia averted her gaze, brutally aware of that fact.
“He may not have pretended to love me so that he could marry me for my fortune, but I bared my heart to him while he kept secrets from me.”
“He was afraid, Ophelia.”
“Nash,” Rochester warned.
Nash held up his hands. “I’m merely attempting to put things into perspective for Ophelia.”
“Perspective or not, I don’t know if I can forgive him.”
“I am not sure I can either,” Rochester grumbled.
Nash groaned and pointed a finger at Rochester. “Forgive him for what, exactly? This is not about you.” To Ophelia, he said, “Forgiveness is like that. You do not know if you can offer it until you realize you already have. It’s not your lack of forgiveness you hold onto but your mistrust. Are you certain you have not already forgiven him?”
“I do so detest voices of reason lately.” Ophelia fell back onto a heap of pillows. “I don’t want reason right now. I want to bury my head in the ground.”
“You are not an ostrich. You are Ophelia Thornton.” Nash nodded to Rochester. “Avondale has been calling every day multiple times, taking Rochester’s gibes—for you.”
Ophelia slanted Rochester a questioning look; he shrugged innocently. “He deserves my ire.”
She sighed, pushing her hair from her face. “It’s more complicated than you understand. I asked Avondale to marry me.”
Rochester’s eyes swung to hers in astonishment. “You did what?”
“Do not take that tone with me, Rogan. I took your advice. I found the perfect man and pursued.”
“You found the one man who fooled you completely, Ophelia. And pursued him.”
“He didn’t fool her,” Nash snapped. “Not entirely. Not with the intention to hurt her. Besides, it’s how you arise from the rubble that matters now.”
“Right,” Rochester muttered darkly. “He didn’t fool her. He just clogged her nose so she wouldn’t smell the stench of his deceptive ass.”
Ophelia sighed. They both made valid points. However, Avondale never gave her a definitive yes on her proposal. His declaration had come on the heels of being caught in the act, so to speak, so she did not truly trust it. He called on her, yes. Left flowers, even. But he’d done nothing that screamed, Yes, I will marry you, Ophelia Thornton!
What if all he wanted was her forgiveness, but he didn’t actually want her? Why hadn’t he told her he loved her after she had confessed? Had he felt guilty because of the list?
“He could have ruined her multiple times,” Nash was saying to Rochester. “He didn’t. No true fortune hunter would allow such opportunities to pass him by. And yes, Ophelia clearly lost a few marbles if she asked a man to marry her, but that is your influence, Rogan.”
“Would the two of you please stop?” Ophelia demanded. “The blasted man slipped under my skin, and I don’t know how to get rid of him. He has lodged himself in my bones—like a bone disease.”
“Take a tonic,” Rochester suggested. “Port works wonders, I hear.”
Nash groaned. “Ophelia. Go to the ball. Marry Avondale. That’s the remedy.”
“Wait a moment,” Rochester said, his features suddenly dawning with suspicion. “When did you ask him to marry you?”
Ophelia shrugged. “The night before we discovered the truth.”
“Night?” both men exclaimed simultaneously.
Ophelia’s face flushed. “There might be some details I’ve neglected to mention.”
“Are you saying you were alone with Avondale for an entire night?” Nash asked, his eyes wider than an owl’s. “No wonder the man looked devoid of life each time he called. He is thoroughly in love!”
“Wait . . . the ring you demanded back from him, was it an engagement ring?” Rochester asked. “Oh, Ophelia, how you have fallen.”
Nash jerked. “You gave him a ring?”
Ophelia rubbed her forehead. “Do not look at me like that, Nash. The man can charm a snake, I’m sure. Besides, it was a ring made of twigs. Nothing extravagant.”
“It’s a ring,” Nash breathed. “Made of twigs, stone, or paper, there is no greater extravagance.”
Ophelia groaned.
“There’s more.” Rochester shook his head, turning to Nash. “She demanded the twigs back, but he refused to hand it over.”
Nash’s lips parted. Then he reached and snatched a handful of Ophelia’s bedsheets and yanked them from the bed. She cried out in protest, but he ignored her. “You are getting out of this bed, Ophelia, even if I have to haul you out.” He shook his head exasperatingly. “You were alone, alone,” Nash emphasized the word, “with Avondale for an entire night. If word gets out, you will be ruined.”
“Word will not get out,” Ophelia assured him, attempting to snatch back her sheets and failing. “And even if it does, Avondale—fortune hunter or not—will not push my hand.”
“Because he loves you,” Nash said. “If you don’t marry him, and word does get out by some way, you will be a spinster for the rest of your life. All because you were stubborn.”
Ophelia sighed. Nash was right.
Perhaps Avondale hadn’t confessed at the best time, and perhaps it had not been how she imagined it, but he had never lied to her outright. He loved her. She loved him. Since when did Ophelia Thornton give up on something wondrous like that?
Never.
Ophelia rose to her feet on the mattress, giving a resolute nod.
“What do you want to do?” Rochester asked. He and Nash peered at her expectantly.
“I want to court a husband.”
Chapter 22
She wasn’t there.
Harry stood at a table stacked with treats, one similar to the table where he had first been introduced to Ophelia. He turned in a slow circle for the umpteenth time that night, searching the sea of faces for the one woman he loved more than anything in this world. But she wasn’t there. Where the hell was she?
His mother had assured him Ophelia would be here. She had it on good authority. Well, apparently good did not equal excellent, given that he was here and Ophelia was not.
His entire body shook with nerves.
Harry glanced at the selection of sweetmeats set out on the table. He was searching for a particular one—the one that had coated the corner of Ophelia’s mouth in cream. But to Harry, they all looked the bloody same. Should he try one of each until he got to that one? Harry shoved one into his mouth. Not bad, he thought, chewing. But not the one. He pushed another one between his lips, no better than the last. He tried another. Still no.
He glared at the treats.
They were no treats at all.
“Don’t look now, Avondale,” Deerhurst murmured, appearing from among the crowd. “But your goddess has arrived.”
Harry’s head whipped to the stairs that descended from the entrance into the ballroom. And saw her. She was an avenging goddess fitted in the finest silk. Silk that draped over her curves like second skin. The graceful sway of her hips alone weaved spells—beautiful, sleek, enticing—and he stood mesmerized.
He swallowed the stale pastry in his mouth.
It was not just her beauty or the slight flush in her cheeks that riveted Harry and every other person in the room. Her gown, vibrant plum—a favorite of hers, he had noticed—drew all attention to the creamy porcelain of her skin. The starkness, the boldness of the color, also a symbol of royalty, conveyed the confidence of the woman who wore it and had every eye in the room turning to her. Matching gloves graced her arms, and encircling her neck was one lone gold necklace, a glittering emerald pendant dangling from the chain.
She floated down the steps like the world belonged to her. And then she slowly reached for the single ribbon that held her hair in place and tugged. A glorious wave of dark silky hair cascaded down her back. She laughed, and for a moment, Harry was caught off guard. He’d forgotten the velvet charm of her laughter.
Harry instantly understood.<
br />
This was Ophelia making a statement—a bloody grand one. She was telling the world that the old Ophelia, the one society had neglected, was no longer available. And in her place stood a goddess. A goddess that would no longer tolerate the likes of charlatans and gossip. A goddess that no longer played by the rules of society.
She was sending a message to every fortune hunter—no, to every man and woman alike—that the rumors and wagers and slights could no longer touch her.
And Harry loved her all the more for it.
Saville and Warrick arrived then, flanking him and Deerhurst.
“Damn, Avondale, you are one lucky son of a bitch.”
“Not lucky. Not yet.”
“No?” Warrick said. “Why the hell are you still standing here? Go make yourself lucky.”
Deerhurst nodded. “Grovel.”
“I’m not going to grovel,” Harry said, his eyes on Ophelia. Well, he would. But not tonight. Tonight was for deeds. Not words. And yet his plan shot to hell the moment he laid eyes on her. He ought to stride toward her, whisk her up into his arms before a gawking audience, kiss her senseless until she melted into his embrace, and then boldly declare his love.
If she slapped him . . . so be it. She could save her reputation by laying into him before their peers. If she did not . . . he’d toss her over his shoulder and carry her from the room with the unmistakable air of his intentions.
They would both be delightfully ruined.
“No?” Saville murmured. “Do you have a plan, then?”
Yes, but why won’t my bloody limbs move?
“Why the hell is he just standing there?” Deerhurst asked.
Harry was no longer listening to his friends. He had locked eyes with Ophelia’s bright emerald gaze and frozen, dumbstruck. Ophelia had it entirely wrong. Men could never see blunt when they cast their eyes upon her. Ophelia Thornton had the sort of devastating beauty that never failed to catch the eye of any man who passed her. There was no missing the spark that burned brighter than any star in the sky. It was impossible not to notice her skin so smooth that Harry’s hand itched to trace a finger along the softness, or the smile that bathed the world in sunrise.
No, men did not see her dowry when they looked at her. Not anymore. She’d made it impossible.
“I believe he is what women call smitten,” Warrick announced, a wolfish smile softening the hard edges of his face.
“My feet cannot move,” Harry admitted at great cost. He would never live this moment down.
Deerhurst shoved him forward. “You are not a tree, Avondale. Go get your woman back.”
But Harry took only one step; his legs failed him completely as she stared at him. They stood entranced, gazing at each other. Harry dared not even blink, afraid she would disappear if he did.
His plan vanished. His ability for action had died the moment he’d set eyes on her, the moment he’d been stunned into immobility. For all his intended deeds, for all his love, the best gift he could give Ophelia was the gift of choice.
So he held his breath, his eyes locked with her own, and prayed.
He was the first person Ophelia saw.
As though her eyes were drawn to him of their own accord, they found him easily among the crowd of faces. Dear Lord, the man wasn’t just sinfully handsome, he overpowered any and all of her senses—a danger to her heart. He bore the face of an angel, and yet his kisses were wicked as sin. He was a rogue. But not a rogue. That was Harry Spencer, the not-quite-a-rogue Earl of Avondale.
Her skin prickled as their eyes met.
Her pulse quickened when he ran an appreciative glance over her silk gown with delicate tulle sleeves that slid off her shoulders. And just like that, Ophelia was faced with the final choice: walk toward love or forever walk away.
Deep down, she’d already made her decision. And though it would be much less awkward if he came to her, he seemed determined to stay rooted beside the treats—a man after Ophelia’s heart—leaving the choice up to her.
Ophelia could not have loved him more.
She’d been so furious after she had learned of his connection to the list; she’d turned her back on him. She’d rescinded her proposal in asking for the ring back. She’d not even given him a chance to explain. Pain and shock had been driving her then. Now something else was pushing her toward him.
She placed one foot before the other and took one step in his direction. Then he was advancing toward her, moving with long, purposeful strides, and Ophelia’s breath caught. She did not have time to collect her thoughts before his lips crushed hers and his hands dived into her cascading hair.
Ophelia did not hesitate; her arms circled his neck, and she melted against his chest, the gasps of people nearby falling on deaf ears as she kissed Avondale back. The last of her anxiety disappeared as they poured their love, their frustration, and the promise for the future on each other’s lips.
He pulled away from her, dragging in a deep, ragged breath. His eyes delved into hers, searching. “I love you.”
She grinned. “I love you too.”
Twin creases appeared between his brows, as though he hadn’t expected her response. She motioned to the table. “I thought you’d never leave the pastries.”
She smiled when he just stared at her.
“I’m partial to the ones with cream, though I probably should not indulge now, or I will finish them all off without any regard to the other guests.”
“I’m partial to cream too,” he finally said in a gruff voice. “But only from your lips.”
Warmth instantly invaded Ophelia’s breast: a mixture of happiness and relief.
“Ophelia,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “I should have told you about the list; I should have done so many things I did not. I will explain everything to you with no omissions, but right now, I just want to say one thing: forgive me.”
“I already have.” Her gaze fell to his friends, who circled closer. “Them, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about.”
Murmurs of apologies rolled off their tongues.
Ophelia waved them away and focused back on Harry. “You never answered my question.”
“I thought I answered your proposal adequately with my lips. Shall I kiss you again?”
Ophelia felt a flutter of nerves making their way up her spine. “We have caused quite a scene already.”
“I’m not nearly done causing a scene, Ophelia.” His voice dropped. “I mean to thoroughly ruin you before the night is done.”
Lud, he was doing a splendid job of that already.
Happiness spread through Ophelia once more, and she took a moment to savor the depth of feeling that flashed in his eyes like a lighthouse beam—a beacon.
“I want the words, Harry.”
He grinned down at her. “Words, heh? Very well. Yes, Lady Ophelia Thornton, I will marry you.”
A hot flush spread to her cheeks as a spellbound audience once more gawked at the scene. His grin, however, was infectious. “I ought to club you over the head for that.”
“Club me all you like, after I peel away this dress from your skin.”
“Harry,” Ophelia hissed and laughed when he swooped in and silenced her with another heart-throbbing kiss.
A hundred titters exploded as Harry melded his lips over Ophelia’s again. A thousand gasps echoed in the ballroom when she circled her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Again. But Harry barely heard them. He was busy kissing Ophelia like the world would end the moment their lips separated. Hauling her up against him, provoking more gasps, he kissed her like a man who thought he had lost the love of his life and then found her again. He kissed her like a pauper clinging to his last piece of gold.
“Dear Christ.” Harry heard Rochester mutter. “The scandal is going to be untamable.”
Harry smiled against Ophelia’s lips. Christ, how he loved this woman. Watchdog and all.
“Well, you did say you wanted a husband that steals your breath and obstinately
refuses to give it back. Did he at least tell you he loved you before he ruined you, Ophelia?” Rochester demanded, and Harry had no choice but to pull away.
“Yes,” Ophelia said, a touch out of breath, before smiling up at Harry. “He loves me.”
“Warts and all,” Harry replied, casting a meaningful look at Rochester. He felt ridiculously pleased when Ophelia laughed.
Rochester looked to Nash. “Did he just call me a wart?”
Saville clapped Rochester on the back. “Don’t worry, old chap. We will find another woman for you.”
Nash burst out laughing, the sound carrying across a ballroom that had suddenly fallen silent. He clamped his mouth shut and looked around.
Harry frowned. The crowd was no longer looking at them. Odd, that. Turning with Ophelia, he craned his neck to see what new event could have possibly drawn the attention away from them and held the entire ballroom so transfixed.
Four lean figures had appeared at the top of the stairs. Impeccably dressed in the latest fashion of men—from top hats to boots and burgundy suits with gold embroidery trimmings—lending an air of authority and rebellion. The figures were a sight to behold. The black walking sticks nestled in each of their right palms seemed a tad theatrical, but it rounded off the quartet’s look with flair. But it was the announcement of their names that sent ripples of shock through the crowd.
Harry looked at Ophelia and back at the quartet.
Lady Theodosia and Lady Phaedra, flanked by Lady Selena and Lady Louisa, stood at the top of the landing, gazing down at the assembly as though their audience was of no concern to them. They swept the room with haughty reproach.
“Is that not your sister, Saville?” Deerhurst asked in a shocked voice.
Saville cursed.
“Is that the betting book of White’s beneath Lady Phaedra’s arm?” Warrick asked, alarm in his tone.
“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, his stomach sinking. “What are they going to do?”
The four women reached into the pockets of their coats, and each pulled out a bundle of paper.
“Ophelia,” Rochester groaned. “What have you done?”
