Page 44 of The Duke’s Hidden Runaway Bride

“My lady.” Ophelia offered a respectful curtsey.

“Sit, if you please. I have no wish to conduct an inquisition, however much my son may have prepared you for one.”

“He did not.”

“No. Adrian seldom prepares anyone for anything.”

Elise sat beside Ophelia. Lady Daventry remained standing for a moment, studying her.

Ophelia knew the look. Women had used it upon Shirin and upon her, measuring complexion, gown, manners, and fortune. Yet the Marchioness’s examination contained no contempt, only doubt and pain, and an effort at fairness that did not come easily.

At last Lady Daventry took the chair opposite.

“Adrian has told me what Lord Markham said of you. He told me what he himself heard yesterday as well. I have known Crispin since he was a boy. I loved his mother, and after her death I allowed myself to mistake affection for evidence of character.” Her voice tightened briefly. “I was wrong.”

Ophelia had prepared herself for disbelief. The admission left her without a defence. “I am sorry,” was all she could think to say.

Lady Daventry looked almost offended. “You have nothing for which to apologise. That is the first matter between us.”

She smoothed her skirts deliberately, then continued.

“The second is tonight. If you attend my party under your own name, I will receive you. You will enter with Lady Elise, and no one in my house will dare insult you without answering to me.”

“Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet. I offer justice, Miss James, not comfort.”

Elise shifted beside her. “Marian.”

“No. She must know.” Lady Daventry kept her gaze on Ophelia. “Receiving you will divide the room. Some will follow my lead because they possess sense. More will follow because they fear exclusion from my next invitation. Others will smile beneath my roof and tear you apart beneath their own. I can open a door, but I cannot make everyone beyond it kind.”

“I understand.”

“And then there is Adrian.”

Ophelia’s fingers curled tight in her lap.

“My son is a duke. That fact has given him freedoms few men possess. But the title is also a trust. His marriage concerns a family, an inheritance, and a succession that does not belong only to him.”

“Adrian has made me no offer.”

“No. He appears to have acquired some judgment in Wales.”

“Marian,” Elise warned again.

Lady Daventry ignored her, keeping her eyes on Ophelia. “He loves you.”

Ophelia could not speak.

“I asked him,” the Marchioness continued. “He answered plainly, which was unpleasant enough that I believed him.”

Her expression softened, though her voice did not.

“I will not tell you to refuse him. Nor will I pretend that becoming Duchess of Calder would cost either of you nothing. The papers already use his name beside yours. If he publicly binds his life to yours, some doors will close. The family will be discussed, the succession examined, and any children you might have will be made to answer for an ancestry London will judge harshly.”

Each word was measured and without malice. That made them cut more deeply.

“I tell you this because men in love are inclined to call sacrifice easy before they begin paying the price for it. Adrian believes he can bear the cost. He may be right. But you should know what it is before either of you decides.”