Page 16 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

She whisked off the other end, in her haste knocking a few sheets of music onto the floor.

“No, it’s your turn to warm up. I’ll turn pages.”

“All right.” He smiled up at her.

He was sly. And gorgeous, with his tousled dark hair and soulful brown eyes. Ophelia wondered how many girls fell for this. If she were three or four years younger, she’d fall for it too.

He shifted some of the paper left on the music shelf. The piece he began was the Chopin Nocturne that he had played last night. Very romantic. It evoked his “tortured lover” face. He didn’t need to see the music; he hadn’t used it when he performed. Nevertheless, she followed along to turn the pages, and to watch his technique, which was absolutely perfect. He had long, slender, delicately tapered fingers. Prettier hands than hers. He glanced up at her, with half-lowered lids and an inviting curve to his lips.

“Oh! Too much!” Dessie cried out. “Foul! Foul!”

Ophelia’s head shot up. Not only was Dessie upright, leaning forward in her chair, rapt, but Trentham was sitting on the arm of the chair. Glowering.

Ophelia jumped back, off-balance, hoping she had not been draped all over Mr. Cameron. Her heel landed on the sheet music that she’d spilled, and the floor slid out from under her. Flailing, with nothing to break her fall, she smacked into the window. The latch had not only been fixed, but left unfastened. The window flew open. And Ophelia tumbled out.

Chapter Six

Somewhere far off in the distance, muffled by the blood pounding in his ears, Trentham could hear Dessie’s gleeful laughter. The sound was at once reassuring and annoying.

He’d sprung up and away, shoving past Eli, who was his typical useless self, and hurdled the windowsill. Miss Delancey lay curled in the wet grass, shaking, emitting soft noises that might have been laughter or sobs or some combination of both.

He squatted beside her. “Are you all right?”

“Just grand.”

He wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Still, he tucked an arm beneath her shoulders. “Come on, then. Let’s get you out of this wet.”

She sat up with his help, wincing.

“What hurts?”

“My ankle. The left.”

Her skirts were tangled around her legs, and her boot leather was scuffed. He switched from squatting to kneeling, then gestured. “May I?”

“I suppose.” Her voice sounded resigned, and her face flushed nearly puce.

He set her foot on his thigh before raising the hem just over the top of her boot. “Ah. A little blood. On your stocking.” He sighed with relief. No jagged bone poked out from the skin. “I suspect you barked your shin. We should get that boot off, but I’d like to get you inside first.”

She nodded. He helped her to stand. She definitely favored her left foot.

“Put your arm around my neck,” he said.

She made a face. “Your neck is way up there. Just let me hobble.”

“Sorry. No.” He scooped her up. Her surprised “oh” was a little embarrassing. However, he’d learned not to say things like I’m stronger than I look, because women took that to mean he thought they were heavy. Not that he hoisted that many women. And none at all in recent times, sadly.

He carted her to the window and stuffed her inside. Eli had the sense to take over, giving her his arm while she limped toward a chair. Trentham stepped back over the sill.

Dessie had ceased laughing. “Are you hurt, Ophelia?” she asked, now tentative.

“Mortified.”

“Oh, good.” She grinned.

“Here.” Trentham pushed an ottoman next to Miss Delancey. “Foot up.” He raised her foot, tucked up her hem, and unlaced her boot.

“I’ll do it,” she said, brushing away his hands.