Page 30 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

That was wise. But he was not. “Will we?”

He cupped her chin in his hand and slowly drew his thumb along her bottom lip, delighted to see the shiver he’d meant to cause. There was nothing more arousing than watching a lover’s response to his touch. Since she didn’t pull away, he lowered his head and kissed her. He didn’t press the advantage he was taking. One might even accuse it of having been a chaste kiss, though he was unsure of that, having never given, or intended to give, a lovely woman a chaste kiss before. He drew back.

She didn’t protest. Or slap him. Or encourage him to try again and do better. Wordlessly, she bent to pick up her book, then, without hesitation, she walked around him and left the room.

The door clicked shut.

Blast! What was he thinking? Why in God’s name was he behaving so recklessly? If she reported this to Lynch, he’d be tossed out on his ear, never to return. And it wasn’t just that this was Lynch’s sister-in-law. Miss Delancey was a lady. An American, yes, but still a lady. And he was not in the habit of seducing marriageable young ladies. If he didn’t stop this immediately, he was going to set his rehabilitation back years.

He didn’t have years. He had four months. If he could not redeem himself by the time he turned thirty—a self-imposed deadline, the most binding kind—he did not deserve to carry the honorable name of Wormsley. He was not—as charged—a “dissolute rake” or a “moral degenerate.” He groaned inwardly: so why did he still behave as one?

The Barrington’s ball, then. He could not drag his feet any longer.

Chapter Eleven

The ominous music played continuously in Ophelia’s brain, except for odd moments with dancing violins bringing to mind baby squirrels frolicking with delight in sunny meadows. If this was being in love, Ophelia was happy to leave it to Dessie and Lynch. She was getting nauseous from the abrupt key changes. Something was developing between Trentham and herself, but she wasn’t sure what it was.

When the happy music was playing, Ophelia could question whether the obstacles to a relationship with Trentham were imaginary. He might not need her inheritance, yet surely, he would not reject her because of it. And although she had no yearning for a title, that shouldn’t disqualify him. His birth was not his fault. She had never bought into Daddy’s Anglophilia, but she hated the thought of the Delancey sisters living an ocean apart as much as Dessie did. Humming along, she could convince herself a future with Trentham was not only possible but desirable.

However, the more omnipresent foreboding music—bashing away like Mozart’s Requiem—reminded her that Trentham had given no hint that he was of a marrying inclination. Not only had he allowed her to leave the library without calling after her to apologize, or dropping to one knee to confess his undying love, but he also had not called at the Lynchford home the next day, or the next, or the next.

Was he a bashful suitor or a scheming rake?

If her father were here, he could demand of Trentham his intentions. But Daddy would not arrive for at least another two months. And besides, how humiliating. Maybe she should just ask Trentham herself. Except a seducer would never admit to being a seducer, would he? And there was that nagging question of a sordid secret that he was supposedly hiding, though Ophelia was beginning to suspect it was Dessie who read too many novels, not her.

At any rate, tonight she would no doubt see him at the Barringtons’ ball. His behavior there might help her discern. Whether suitor or scoundrel, he would likely claim a dance, and they’d have a chance to talk.

Likely? No. Certainly. He would claim a dance. She knew he would because she was going to wear her mauve ballgown.

She hadn’t intended to. Dessie had asked her not to draw attention to herself. And she had no wish to draw men’s attention, only Trentham’s. She had originally decided to have an old gown redone, one she’d brought from New York, to make it even more matronly. The modiste would be displeased by the unfashionable choice and by the rushed nature of the commission, but that was what money was for.

Unfortunately, an emergent claim upon the dressmaker’s attention was made first by Dessie, who had discovered to her horror that her own new Parisian ballgowns were all too tight in the bust. She’d sobbed for an hour that she had become a cow overnight. Nothing Ophelia could say would comfort her. She was afraid Dessie would offend all of the hoity-toity Brits by sending last-minute regrets to the Barringtons. Fortunately, Lynch had wandered into the dressing room and managed to decipher what Dessie was crying about. He asked Ophelia to give them a few moments alone.

Whatever he’d, um, said, had served the purpose. Dessie emerged a while later, smiling, with a plan.

The modiste arrived, measured, carted away Dessie’s blue velvet gown, and promised to return it, altered, in time for the ball—while managing to convey the impression that poor fit was no more than could be expected if one had gowns made by Parisians.

Ophelia and Dessie could not both wear blue. Hence, the mauve. Or so she rationalized. The truth was, Miss Ophelia Delancey was, ugh, cue the violins, in danger of falling rather hard, and she would not be toyed with. One way or another, she was determined to see that Trentham declared himself. Tonight.

*

They had arrived. Good Heavens! Emerging from Lynch’s landau to gaze up at an immense, neo-classical mansion, Ophelia muttered to Dessie, “I thought the Barringtons were supposed to be poor.” “Poor” meant something different back in New York.

“Just don’t wander off,” Dessie whispered back. “Remember, closed doors are closed for a reason. They’ll hide their emptied-out rooms. That’s what Lynch’s father did at their old house.”

With Lynch at their heels, they walked the short brick path to the front door. And crossed the threshold.

Ophelia was not generally impressed by trappings. Things were just things. Money, as Daddy always said, was nothing to be proud of; it was nothing more than a tool. Some people used the tool more skillfully than others, and that skill stemmed from a combination of good fortune and application, like musical proficiency. As for those who had never possessed the tool and so had no opportunity to learn to use it, they had no cause for shame. If she or Dessie ever looked down on those with less for that, then he would be ashamed of them. So it had always amused her that her practical father was so dazzled by the aristocracy. People did not earn their titles; they had them handed to them. And she could not see that titles had any earthly use except to puff up the bearers and separate them from mere mortals.

Even so, she was impressed by the Barringtons. Their home was not the largest mansion she had ever been in; that would have been the Schermerhorns’ in New York. Nor was it the most lavish. Again, the Schermerhorns’. But everything she spied in the receiving room: wide rosewood chairs, Axminster carpet, portraits, gilt-edged mirrors, chandelier, red moire window dressings—it all bespoke tradition, elegance, timelessness. The air felt different. All that lingering Norman breath, she supposed.

She even admired young Lady Elizabeth Barrington. Yes, the girl was skinny and pallid and squinted a bit. But she was self-possessed rather than awkward. Her white debutante’s gown flattered her with its simplicity. And, when greeting the guests who had come in her honor, she looked them each in the eye and smiled. With warmth.

She met Lynch with: “My lord, I am so pleased you could come. I expressly checked my parents’ list to be sure you were on it.” And to Dessie: “My mother will be holding a series of teas, and I hope to better make your acquaintance soon. I don’t think I’ll have much opportunity tonight, but I do so want to talk to you when there is more time.” Then she nodded to include Ophelia. “And you, too, Miss Delancey. I hope you will not think me a goose, but I am curious about America. I may wear you out with questions.”

The receiving line was long, and moved quickly, but Ophelia was charmed by even the short interaction. Surely, such an amiable young woman deserved better than to be pitied.

After handing their wraps to one of the footmen, they left Lynch to fend for himself and made a beeline for the sweeping curved staircase at the end of the entrance hall. They joined a parade of new arrivals heading to the first-floor ladies’ parlor to make sure their gowns were still hanging correctly and all their hairs were in place.