Page 105 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

He entered the morning room. Sunlight poured through the windows, enhancing his expectations for the day. Moreover, the ladies were already there, perfectly presentable in yesterday’s clothes, though the white stripes in Miss Delancey’s dress had a yellow tinge they had not had before.

“Good morning!” He sang out the words.

“Good morning to you, Robin,” Dessie said. “It sounds as though you slept well.”

“I did.” He turned his focus to her sister. “I hope you did, too. No untoward aftereffects of your plunge?”

“I slept well,” she said, her face turning pink. She was lying. He felt a tiny dip in his good humor. When she’d left his room last night, and he didn’t chase after her, it was as though an anvil, one that had taken up residence across his shoulders, had been lifted. He’d slept very well.

Hurriedly, he changed the subject. “I’m glad to see Cook has provided breakfast.” Their plates held eggs and toast, and he could smell both coffee and tea. “I’d like to start for London as soon as possible, after we’ve eaten. Is there anything either of you might need?”

“No, Your Grace,” Miss Delancey said.

His mood dropped another notch. She was embarrassed about last night, while he was practically gloating. But not over her. Over himself. He needed to let her know something of what he felt, without falling to his knees in front of her, with Dessie looking on.

Ah. “It would give me great pleasure if you were to call me ‘Robin’.” He thought he would have to suppress a grimace, but he didn’t. Robin, from her lips, would be music. “And if you would permit me to use your given name as well.”

“It’s about time!” Dessie said.

“Yes, it is,” he admitted.

Cook poked her head into the room. “Your Grace? The same for you? Or—”

“Yes, the same. Coffee, not tea, if you would.” He sat beside Dessie and stuck out his wrist. “Can you do something about this?” He fished in his pocket for the cufflink.

While fastening it, she said, giggling, “I thought musicians had to be ambidextrous.”

“Good musicians are. Sometimes I think Eli must have three hands.” He turned when Dessie dropped his shirt sleeve. “You must be both-handed, Ophelia.”

She shrugged. “Not naturally so. It comes with practice.”

God! She was beautiful. His elated smile returned.

He had never felt as needful as he had last night, not even when he’d first discovered the pleasure of sex and considered it his reason for being. He had been warring with himself over whether to go to her. He’d ached with want. And when she’d appeared in his room, in that nightdress that hugged every inch, he had very nearly pounced. And why not? She’d offered. He’d make it good for her. And he meant to marry her. He would marry her. His body had cursed him for an idiot for sending her away. But it was the right thing to do.

And, miraculously, he’d done the right thing.

But she must be wondering…

Without tearing his eyes from Ophelia, he said, “Dessie, would you give us a private moment?”

Dessie jumped up. “Yes, of course!” He heard even more delight than usual in her voice. “But I’ll be right outside the door, and it will be open.”

He didn’t watch her go, but waited until the sound of her footsteps faded. Then he scooted his chair closer to Ophelia’s.

“Last night, you wanted to talk. And you were right that we must. Will you give me leave to speak first?”

She nodded slowly.

“My dear, this morning, for the first time in ten years, I awoke contented. With myself. Free of—of self-loathing.”

“Self-loathing?” She tsked. “Really, Robin, it’s high time you forgave yourself for Fanny.”

“It wasn’t only Fanny. It was everything. The way I blamed her, in my heart. The way I hated Gilliam, who was only doing what I would have done in his place. My uncontrollable temper. Running away from home. Even the way I mistreated Lady Elizabeth. Using her to ‘redeem’ myself as if she existed solely for that purpose. Trapping her. That was even more selfish, and crueler, than sleeping with Fanny.”

Her gaze softened. “But your intentions were honorable. With Lady Elizabeth.”

“Were they? Please. Let me finish. I owe you the truth.” He took a deep breath, then let it out. “I beat Fanny’s husband to within an inch of his life, not for abusing her, but because he nearly killed me. I was arrested and jailed, briefly, for assault. I was tried and somehow acquitted, after Lynch testified I’d acted in self-defense. But I was also sued, by Lord Stanley, for loss of consortium. It was a lengthy trial and the talk of the ton. I shamed my father.” He sighed. “Who nevertheless paid the exorbitant fine when I was found guilty. I was guilty. So I ran from—from responsibility.” Confession was difficult. He felt vaguely sick. “In truth, Ophelia, sometimes I don’t know right from wrong without consulting Lynch.”