Page 103 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Good heavens, Trentham!”

He slid a glance toward her. “Impressed or appalled?”

“I—I’m not sure.” This was not simply wealth. It was majesty. It was tradition and timelessness and—and responsibility. If this was what had shaped him, she understood the haughty duke. It was a good deal harder to understand where the lovable toff came from.

As the carriage rolled up to the entrance, the front door opened and half a dozen footmen tumbled out, carrying lanterns. They followed a stout, older man who was walking with stiff dignity. He directed one of the footmen to lower the barouche’s step. Trentham threw off his blanket and climbed down.

“Ah, Jeffers. Good.” He glanced about. “How did you manage all this? You can’t possibly have been expecting me.”

“We have been for about ten minutes, Your Grace. Mr. Potts arrived on horseback with a message from Mr. March.” Through the open carriage door, Ophelia studied the footmen who were waiting for instruction. One’s jacket appeared to be buttoned up crookedly. Two were yawning. Jeffers asked, “Shall we have your bags brought in?”

“No bags this time, I’m afraid. A bit of an incident in Southampton. We’ll only be here the night. I’ve brought the Countess of Lynchford and her sister. If Mrs. Pettigrew would prepare two chambers for them, the blue and green rooms, in addition to mine—”

“Two?” Dessie said, rising from her seat and moving to the carriage step. “There are only a few hours left in the night, Your Grace. Don’t go to so much fuss. I think one for Ophelia and me to share will suffice.”

“Two,” Trentham repeated. “I have been reliably informed the countess snores. And Miss Delancey needs her sleep after that dunking.”

Dessie sputtered a protest, but only to defend herself against accusations of snoring. Ophelia wondered if they were actually tussling over how strictly Dessie would be allowed to play chaperone. Then she scolded herself for imagining such a thing.

Trentham gave his arm to Dessie and helped her descend.

“Miss Delancey?” He peered into the carriage. “How are you faring?” He extended his hand.

“Well enough, under the circumstances.” Her clothes were still damp, and muscles she didn’t even know she had were stiff. She peeled off her blanket and dropped it, then took his hand to allow him to guide her down.

“Jeffers, have Cook warm something up for us. A soup or stew or whatever is about. And keep a bowl warmed for my tiger, who will be arriving soon with Mr. March. Have two hot baths drawn, for Miss Delancey and myself.” He paused, pinching his bottom lip. “And ask Mrs. Pettigrew to locate some night-wear for the ladies. There must be something in Felicity’s room or in storage. And Miss Delancey’s clothing will need to be cleaned and pressed for our return to London tomorrow.”

“What about yours?” Ophelia asked.

“I have a wardrobeful here.” He grimaced. “I should start wearing disposable clothing.”

Dessie giggled. “Only around Ophelia.”

That sounded somehow lewd.

“Let’s go to the kitchen first,” Trentham said. “I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

*

Ophelia knew she should be sleeping. Her hunger had been sated with a hearty lamb stew. She’d soaked away her soreness and the harbor’s stench in a hot bath perfumed with rose oil—where she’d been relieved to see that the bruise on her shoulder was not too unsightly and not as large as she’d feared. There wasn’t a proper ladies’ maid in the house, but a chambermaid had plaited her hair and carted away her dirtied clothes. Now, Ophelia lay in a quiet, dark room, in a comfortable bed, wearing a soft, white cotton nightdress. It was snug across her bosom and, when she had been standing, it dragged on the floor. Had it been Felicity’s? It didn’t matter whose. She was fortunate to have it.

She should be sleeping, but she was wide awake. This was Trentham’s house. His bedchamber was just four doors down the hall. And Dessie was three doors away from her in the opposite direction. He had insisted they have separate bedrooms. He must have intentions to come to her.

She’d been certain of it, but now, she was not so sure.

In preparation for his knock, she’d agonized over whether to allow him entrance. She’d finally decided that no, she must not. But there was no point to her virtuous resolve if he didn’t plan to challenge it.

Trentham cared for her; of that much, she was sure. In the kitchen, while eating their makeshift supper, she kept catching his eyes upon her, his expression intense but unreadable. And he’d held her hand in the carriage. For pity’s sake—he’d jumped into the sea to save her!

But he wasn’t here now.

She crumpled her coverlet with both hands, frustrated. Could she have misinterpreted his intention? After all, they had never finished their argument. With a pause in the excitement, perhaps he’d recalled that he’d been angry with her.

He’d been very angry.

She exhaled with a whoosh and sat back up. Why had he insisted upon a separate chamber for Dessie if he didn’t mean to come to her? Or was she being ridiculous, putting so much weight on that? This palace was enormous. Why on earth should she and Dessie share a room?

Was it possible he’d fallen asleep?