Page 2 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Your Grace?” He was a duke. “Your Grace” was right, right?

He glanced about the room, letting his gaze rest a moment on the fireplace. Ophelia followed suit. Kindling was artfully stacked in it but there was no fire. The room was not overheated. She had no cause to be forcing the window. He looked back at her.

“And you are Miss Delancey?” His expression was baffled.

They had not been introduced. He no more recognized her than she did him. He was not the broad-shouldered handsome man she’d seen across the gallery at the opera and thought might be Lynch’s music-loving friend. No, this one was tall and thin. Not scrawny, but singularly thin, with a beaked nose and eyes that were set a little too close. His clothing was fine, but he appeared hurriedly dressed. His black hair was disheveled, and he was in need of a shave. Not at all the way a soiree attendee should appear, let alone its host. Whereas she was exquisitely put together in a new Parisian gown that showed a bit more bosom than she’d ever shown in New York and wished she wasn’t showing now. Not that he was leering. His puzzled eyes had not left her face.

“I believe you know my brother-in-law. The Earl of Lynchford.” It was all she could think to say.

He sauntered in, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Yes, of course, Lynch. Your resemblance to Dessie, um,” he corrected himself, “Lady Lynchford, is quite evident.”

It felt strange to be compared to her younger sister, rather than the other way around. Yes, Dessie was a stunner: shining pale-golden tresses, flawless skin, expressive brown eyes, dazzling smile. Yet Ophelia, similarly featured, had always been held to be prettier. Probably because Dessie’s figure was slender and boyish, while her own was…not. She decided it must, of course, be meant as a compliment. “Thank you.”

He still looked confused. “I’m afraid I have to ask. Why are you breaking out of my house?”

“I don’t think I should be here.”

“Well, no. But I do have a door. Presumably you came in through it.”

“I mistrusted my ability to find it.”

He stared at her a moment longer. “One or possibly both of us is making no sense.” Half-smiling, he gazed past her to the window. “Please tell me Lynch and Dessie are hiding behind the draperies.”

“No, of course not. They are at Lady Walpole’s poetry reading.”

“Ah, poor sods.” He turned up his palms. The amusement in his face faded to skepticism. Perhaps annoyance. “Then I am stumped. Why are you here?”

She was beginning to feel angry. This was not her fault.

“For the musicale! To hear Mr. Cameron. I was invited!”

His eyebrows rose. Then he said, soft-voiced, ironic, “That is tomorrow.”

Of course it was. A wash of heat spread over her. Ophelia closed her eyes and leaned against the blessedly cool window. What had she done? He could be forgiven for imagining a grasping American heiress was trying to land herself a title in a despicable fashion.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “Don’t faint.”

She heard the pad-pad of his feet on the carpet, moving closer. Opening her eyes, she said, “I’m not going to faint.” She tossed her head and muttered, “If I fainted every time I made a cake of myself, I would spend half my life on the floor.”

“Come now,” he chided, stopping a few feet in front of her. “It’s an honest mistake. I’ve told my secretary again and again, his fives and sixes are indistinguishable.” She swore he was catching back a laugh.

At least it was kind of him to suppress it.

She pulled the card from her reticule and looked it over, then held it up to show him. “Yes, so he spelled the words out.” How could she have been so stupid? She’d seen Elias Cameron’s name and everything else had blurred. “This is entirely my fault. I do beg your pardon. If you’d be so good as to have your butler show me to the door—”

“Henson said Lynch’s carriage has gone.”

“It will be back.”

His eyes slid over her, assessing, but in a practical way, not a lascivious one. “Not shortly, I wouldn’t imagine. And you’ll have caught your death of a cold.” Scratching his chin, he said, “There’s a solution to this. Let’s have a think.” He paced, obviously as aware as she was of the implications. Ladies did not pay unchaperoned evening calls at gentlemen’s homes. “You haven’t been here long enough to…I suppose I could send you back in my coach.”

“With the ducal crest? How inconspicuous.” She locked her knees. She wasn’t going to faint, but she might just fall down anyway.

“Well, you came here in Lynch’s carriage. That’s hardly incognito.”

“I thought there would be a party.” Such a hideously weak excuse, he would have to believe it. “It was not his landau. I don’t think this one was marked.”