Page 26 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Another minute and you would have leaped into his lap.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

There was a long silence. Then a murmur. He leaned his head closer to the door.

“Am I not to believe him then? Is that what you are saying?”

“That is not what I’m saying at all,” Dessie answered. “I’m sure every word was the truth. ‘The story of me.’” She scoffed. “All I’m saying is, it sounded to me as if he were leaving quite a bit out.”

Silence fell. He could see movement down the hall, probably Peters. He couldn’t continue to stand there. Eavesdropping. It didn’t matter. He would go. Dessie had said all that needed to be said.

Chapter Nine

Given that the Fates had decided to curse her with clumsiness, Ophelia had had ample opportunity to learn one lesson well: recuperation could not be rushed. Fortunately, the sprain was not as bad as it first seemed. After nearly a fortnight of sitting, she’d now been hobbling about with a cane for the past few days. This morning, she tossed it aside. She could walk unaided, though with some residual achiness. She would be in fine dancing form on time for…it.

Why was it, she mused, that she heard forbidding music whenever she thought the words: Barringtons’ ball?

Would Trentham attend? It seemed he must, unless the Barringtons’ home was one where he was not received. She didn’t dare ask Dessie. They’d avoided speaking his name since he’d paid that awkward visit ten days ago. Yes, Ophelia sighed, she was counting them. And Dessie had been right, scolding her for receiving Trentham alone. But Dessie needed her rest. And decorum was such a nuisance!

Yet, as if he’d meant to prove the necessity of a chaperone, Trentham had behaved badly. Sitting so close. Taking hold of her hand like that. At least it had answered the question of how warm his touch would be without gloves. Answer: very. Of course, he’d previously held her stockinged foot in his hands, a rather more shocking breach of propriety, but there had been nothing sensual in that—she’d been in acute pain. Whereas tickling her palm had been intentionally wicked. And it had felt wickedly marvelous, sending a thrill up her arm and down to her core.

The problem was, she liked him. He made her laugh. His banter challenged her. She enjoyed his company. So it was unfortunate that she also found him so appealing. That was how ill-suited ladies and gentlemen got themselves into predicaments. That appeal.

And even if Dessie’s warning of something wrong proved to be as substantive as a fever dream, Ophelia recognized she and Trentham were ill-suited. She didn’t want to be a duchess. Trentham had no need of her dowry. A match between them served no practical purpose.

Even so, she would likely end up asking him if he would attend—here came those minor chords—the Barringtons’ ball, because he would be coming to supper tonight. Dessie had finally put together a small dinner party. Twelve people. Mostly married couples. Trentham was bringing his sister, Lady Townes, and also Mr. Cameron to even the numbers. Dessie was uncharacteristically nervous. They might both be old hats at playing hostess at New York society events, but this was the Countess of Lynchford’s first formal dinner party—not only a social function but a political one—and it had to be perfect.

Ophelia was nervous too. Dessie had practically handed her dossiers on the guests and made her memorize which topics would be safe and which were out of bounds. Ophelia had about resolved to keep silent, or only ask people about their pets. She didn’t tease Dessie, though, because earlier in the day, she’d found her sister in tears. Dessie would not admit to anything being wrong. She said she just felt like crying. Which was absurd. One could smack Dessie in the face with a board and it would not occur to her to cry.

This was all too hard. She wished they were children back in New York, over-acting scenes from old plays. She wasn’t homesick but rather timesick, if there was such a thing.

Here, now, Dessie was married to an earl, having children of her own, and weeping for no reason. Dessie needed Ophelia and yet, found her to be a potential embarrassment. And Ophelia could not stop thinking about a man she shouldn’t be giving any thought to at all.

*

It was not a difficult dinner. Dessie had paid as much careful attention to the seating arrangements as she had to the menu. Ophelia was placed between two married gentlemen, one old and one young, equally polite, and equally dull. They asked her questions about American things and then discoursed upon why British things were better. It was very simple to nod and smile and ignore.

Dessie sat diagonally across from her, close enough that they could catch snatches of each other’s conversations. Dessie would have nothing to fault her for.

In fact, the only embarrassing gaffe belonged to Dessie. She had Trentham on her far side. Ophelia couldn’t hear him, though he likely could hear Lord Wrotham holding forth beside her about the horrors of American spirits, because he’d caught her eye a couple of times and smiled as if he knew what she was thinking. A stuffed pastry was served. Dessie cut into hers and it was too hot; gravy spurted out with the steam like lava from a volcano. At the same moment, Trentham had reached for his wine glass. Dessie gasped, but Trentham merely blotted his sleeve with his napkin, then set it back in his lap without interrupting his conversation with Lady Perkins on his right. He might tease Dessie for the rest of their lives for ruining his jacket, but he affected not to notice tonight. Ophelia loved him for it.

Not loved him, loved him, just loved him. She was not that flighty to fall in love with a man she’d known, slightly, for less than a month. But she did admire a few things about him, his gracious aplomb being one.

At the end of the meal, Lynch invited the men to the cardroom for cigars and brandy. Dessie said the ladies would retire to the parlor.

“But Lord Lynchford, how disappointing!” tittered Lady Wrotham from the far end of the table, her hand possessively squeezing Mr. Cameron’s arm. “Surely we are going to the music room to listen to a performance!”

He made a slight ‘at your service’ bow.

Ophelia’s heart didn’t need this much bruising. Mr. Cameron was not his usual ebullient self. His eyes looked bleary and the skin beneath his nose was reddened and rough. No matter that the man adored showing off, surely he preferred to do it on his own terms. Not when he was sick with a lingering head cold. But he was a “scholarship boy,” dining with members of the ton. He must be used to singing for his supper, and Lady Wrotham clearly expected it of him.

Dessie drew herself up, arching her brow as haughtily as if she’d been born a countess. Or an Astor. “The piano is quite out of tune.”

Lynch said, in a more mollifying tone, “Another time, perhaps.”

Trentham jumped in with: “Melvin, Lynch is overly impressed, in my opinion, with his latest brandy acquisition. I say too much cherry. We need your vote.”

Lord Melvin chuckled. “Lynch is always asking for my vote. This one, I will assuredly give him. Your palate is untrustworthy, Trentham. You claimed my Croizet B. Léon had too much pear.”