Page 102 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“He can’t expect me to marry her now!” Trentham scoffed.

The viscount’s face reddened. “But I haven’t touched her! Well, except for—”

Dessie stamped her foot. “No! Don’t say it! Lord Hayworth, Ophelia is clearly freezing, and you hurt her shoulder, too, with that stupid stunt. Bitsy is yours now, and if you’re not brave enough to face Lord Barrington and fight for her, I will push you into the sea and not fish you out!”

That shut the fellow up. But Dessie was right. Ophelia was shivering. He was cold, too, but also…warm. This was the second time he’d ended up wet, filthy, and stinking to high heaven alongside her. Somehow, he doubted it would be the last.

“Where is my jacket?”

“Here, Your Grace.” Mrs. March threaded through the crowd to hand him the jacket she’d retrieved from the gangway. He draped it over Ophelia’s shoulders, for what little that was worth.

Now, reality. He cleared his throat. “We can’t go seven hours in a carriage like this. We need to dry our clothes. Lynch, you, and Dessie will have to take Lady Elizabeth and Lord Hayworth back to London. Miss Delancey and I will take my barouche to Lannington.”

Dessie’s eyes flew wide. “No, you won’t! In the middle of the night? To Robin’s estate? Daddy will have all our heads! I’m coming with you.”

“What about Lady Elizabeth’s chaperone?” Lynch asked. His eyes looked tired. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“Take Mrs. March.” Dessie cast her gaze around the motley assembly. “Mr. March, you bring the curricle to Lannington. And the rest of you go back the way you came. We’ll sort ourselves out tomorrow.” She linked her arm through Ophelia’s and gave a little pull, dislodging her from Trentham’s hold. “Let’s move!”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Seated beside Trentham in the back of his snug, well-sprung barouche, Ophelia felt safe. Even cosseted. But she was damp, tired, sore, and smelled of bilgewater.

Before setting off, Trentham had directed his coachman from Lannington to take them to Crawley Arms, where he’d purchased a pan of hot coals to put in a brazier at her feet, as well as a small glass of brandy to take the taste of the harbor out of her mouth. She would have been touched by his solicitousness, except that his care felt impersonal, as if he were taking charge out of ducal responsibility, nothing more. The proprietor had certainly jumped to be of service when he learned he was answering to a duke.

Trentham had also obtained three heavy blankets, one each for Ophelia, Dessie, and himself. Then he’d assigned their seats. Dessie was given the rear-facing bench, alone, to avoid getting wet, while he and Ophelia sat in back, dripping and squishing, but under the roof, out of the wind. He tucked Ophelia’s blanket around her, then spread his own over them both.

“How long until we reach your estate?” Ophelia asked. She was anxious to get to Lannington to clean herself up and sleep, but more, she was curious to see it because it was Trentham’s ancestral home. A person was shaped by his childhood experiences, and a home would be part of it.

“Three-quarters of an hour.” Trentham leaned back with a slight groan and shut his eyes. Half-framed by the slanted glow of the carriage lamps, he looked worn out. Heroic, yet worn out. She was glad just to be with him, but in the aftermath, with heightened emotions dimmed, she wasn’t sure if he was glad to be with her.

Dessie was grinning to herself. Ophelia nearly asked her what was amusing, but lost interest before she could speak. She relaxed back into the seat cushion and closed her eyes also. It had been too long a day. A few moments later, she felt the blanket edge that was tucked under her hip begin to loosen. Then Trentham’s hand slipped under it. Slowly. Seeking. She slid her own hand down and caught him. Apparently, it was only her hand that he sought, because he gripped it firmly. She peeked at him from beneath nearly-lowered lids, hoping Dessie wasn’t the wiser. All the while, his face didn’t change and the rest of his body didn’t move. She clamped her lips together to keep from breaking into a smile. They were misbehaving again. And she was keeping far too many secrets from her sister.

“Robin?” Dessie said. Ophelia’s breath caught.

“Hmmm?” he murmured.

“You should know Daddy was impressed.” She spoke in a singsong fashion. “He called you ‘a fine fellow’.”

Trentham began easing his hand away, but Ophelia held on tightly. He grunted, half opening his eyes. “Poor judge of character, is he?”

Dessie shook her head. “No, he’s the best. And Lynch said, back there on the wharf, that the old Robin would have responded to a bag thrown at his head by smashing Hayworth’s face, then tossing him overboard. He was practically giddy when you jumped in instead.”

“Lynch doesn’t get giddy. Moreover, I might have drowned.”

“I said practically giddy.”

He was quiet another moment, a hint of a smile curving his lips. Then he said, “If I’d known you’d be so quick to toss your sister a lifebuoy, Dessie, rest assured I would have taken the time to throw Hayworth in.” Trentham shifted position and closed his eyes again. “Please hold any further admiration of my person until we get to Lannington. I can’t stay awake, and I’d hate to miss it.”

*

They traveled silently—Trentham dead to the world, yet still holding Ophelia’s hand, and Ophelia sliding in and out of a semi-dream state. Dessie had curled up on her bench, under her blanket, snoring softly and intermittently.

Trentham startled Ophelia by straightening up and letting go of her.

“We’re here.” He cleared his throat and ran his hand through his hair. It was affecting, waking up beside him. For a moment, there was something innocently unguarded in the softness of his jaw and his heavy-lidded eyes. She wondered if he had been dreaming. And, if so, what about?

They entered the grounds through a large iron gate, the only opening within sight in a massive stacked-stone wall. Moonlight shone down on an expansive, manicured lawn. The packed-dirt drive was lined by English Oaks. The path turned to the left, revealing a noisily spurting fountain and silent pool, behind which rose a country home that would turn the Schermerhorns green with envy. Built of a pale-colored stone, rising four stories tall, it was more palace than house. Large windows stretched across the front on all levels. Ophelia tried and failed to count them—she kept losing her place.