Page 37 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

Dessie didn’t quite manage to catch back a laugh. “You live in London!”

“Yes.” A blush spilled across her cheeks. “But London’s attractions have grown stale.”

Ophelia was torn between a snicker and a huff of offense—offense on Trentham’s behalf. The discussion moved on to Lynch and his political crusade.

“You wouldn’t believe the number of men who claim the sanctity of the home will be destroyed if women are allowed to control the money they earn or have a say in what to do with property they bring into a marriage.” Dessie deepened her voice to mimic a man. “There can be but one ruler in the household: the husband!”

Lady Elizabeth’s gaze fell, and she exhaled softly as though resigned. The discussion made Ophelia uncomfortable. Didn’t Dessie remember explaining that Lady Elizabeth had nothing to bring into a marriage but her bloodline?

Nevertheless, Lady Elizabeth responded, “Lord Lynchford is doing important work. Even my father admits that, although he insists any amendment should only apply to the lower orders. Those brutes drink away their wives’ hard-earned pay and beat them without remorse. The law should protect those women, but the wives of gentlemen need no such protection.” She paused. “I suspect that is untrue. The men who most adamantly insist their wives need no protection are likely the worst offenders.”

An insightful observation. It made Ophelia wonder if Lady Elizabeth was worried about Trentham. It almost made her want to reassure the girl. But then, what did she really know about the duke?

Conversation became more general and superficial. Lady Elizabeth knew everyone, but had nothing mean or negative to say about anyone. Which Ophelia appreciated: it made it unlikely she would turn around and say nasty things about Dessie. The longer they talked, the more Ophelia had to concede that she liked her.

At last, Dessie said that they should go. Lynch would be home for dinner, so she should be too. Ophelia and Lady Elizabeth teased her about the man ruling the roost, but that was absurd enough that they all three laughed.

“Would you like to go riding tomorrow morning?” Lady Elizabeth asked as they rose. “I usually go out early, before the crowds appear.”

“I would love to!” Ophelia exclaimed. They had their own stable in New York, but she hadn’t ridden since coming abroad. She was so keen on the chance that she forgot, briefly, Dessie’s situation.

“I—I’m afraid I can’t,” Dessie said, one hand sliding to her abdomen. “I mean, I am not so very fond of riding. But Ophelia, you should go. Lynch will see you mounted.”

Lady Elizabeth’s face fell for a moment; then she turned to Ophelia expectantly.

Ophelia wondered how awkward the outing might be without Dessie. Less awkward than changing her mind abruptly and offering a weak excuse. So she said, “Where should we meet? And what time?”

*

Ophelia regretted wearing her new riding habit, a dark green velvet outfit with a matched pelisse. It felt ostentatious. Lady Elizabeth wore a faded brown habit that hung loosely about her hips, as if she might not have been the original owner.

At least Lady Elizabeth’s horse was a beauty, with a tawny coat and gentle eyes. The Barringtons were not in such straits that she could not keep her mare. The gelding Lynch had provided for Ophelia was a dun with a white snip on its muzzle, pretty but rather plodding. She suspected he mistrusted her ability to ride anything more spirited. In his defense, she had twisted her ankle falling out a window.

They rode side-by-side at a modest pace, down one of the grassy, tree-lined paths in Green Park. Ophelia could see where it got its name. It was greener and more florally fragrant than even Central Park in New York.

At Lady Elizabeth’s suggestion, they slowed further so they could converse. They talked about nothing for a while. It was clear to Ophelia that her new friend was circling around something she wished to discuss. Just as she was about to ask if anything was bothering her, Lady Elizabeth blurted, “This is terribly unseemly, I know, but I need some advice and have no one to ask.”

“Advice? From me?” She flattened one hand against her chest in surprise and protest.

“I need to know how to—to properly reject a proposal. I’ve never had one, you see, but I’m sure you have. Probably many.” The girl’s neck and cheeks reddened as her composure deserted her. “I fear I might…that is, several people have suggested…”

“The Duke of Trentham?”

“Yes.” She nodded, so obviously miserable that Ophelia could not feel resentful.

Rather, her heart thump-thumped. “I was under the impression that it was a sought-after match by both parties.” She was the wrong person to tell Lady Elizabeth how to reject the duke.

“I know I should be grateful to him. And he should be grateful to me, I suppose. My parents are thrilled, while last year they would not have had him in our home!” She shuddered. “I don’t mean to say he’s an unpleasant man. He isn’t. But he’s so old.”

“Old?”

“He must be thirty. Or near so.”

The problem was not that Trentham was old. It was that Lady Elizabeth was so young. But Ophelia did not have the heart to point that out.

“He’s very cynical, I think,” Lady Elizabeth continued. “Which I am not. I’m not foolish enough to yearn for a love match. But a marriage should be based on mutual respect, not mutual pity.”

Mutual pity? What possible reason could Lady Elizabeth have to pity Trentham?