Page 72 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Is that what they’re doing?”

He nodded, grimacing. “When it’s my turn to entertain her, give me a shove.”

“When it’s your turn, don’t be lecherous.”

“I couldn’t be if I tried.”

She pulled a topic from the air. The MacAlistairs’ ball. She talked through the soup course, then the meat. Trentham responded, though distractedly. For politeness’ sake, she paused a few times to talk with Lynch, but not for long. She left him to engage Lady Coates since Sir Albert wouldn’t.

This was the worst failure of a dinner party Ophelia had ever attended. She didn’t even think it was serving the purpose, since Lady Elizabeth showed no interest in the other couples.

When the servants brought out a blancmange for dessert, Trentham roused himself to comment upon it to Lady Elizabeth.

“I hear in America, they call this pudding. Isn’t it odd that with a common language, we have different words for the same things?”

Lady Elizabeth pushed her spectacles up higher on the bridge of her nose and said, “Language diverges over time when the speakers are geographically separated.”

Ophelia, eavesdropping, inwardly groaned. The correct response was: Blancmange is French.

When Lady Elizabeth turned back to Hayworth, Trentham gave Ophelia’s foot a bump, unnecessarily. She was already watching him, waiting to start talking. Then he bumped her again, and rested his foot against hers. It was not an accident. If it had been, he should have jerked it away.

She tucked her chin down and leaned toward him. “Are you flirting?” she whispered with mock outrage. Was this something he did automatically when he was bored?

“No, that is teasing. This is flirting.” He slid the toe of his shoe against the outside of her foot, then around her heel, then under the hem of her dress and along the inside of her foot. Leg pressed to leg.

She felt a flash of shock. Followed closely by exhilaration. Their legs were touching! She had never been so acutely aware of a man’s physical…physicalness. Her pulse bounded. No one had ever dared. She had never dared. What if someone saw?

The correct thing would be to pull her foot away. Give him a cutting look. Stab him with her fork! She shouldn’t thrill to his touch, but oh! She did. Her neck grew hot and the heat spread to her cheeks. She must be glowing red. So she reached for her wine glass, then set it down abruptly and took a drink from her water glass instead. She put on a sheepish expression and fanned herself with her hand. A wine flush—should anyone have noticed.

No one appeared to be noticing. She managed a timid sidelong glance at her tormentor.

Trentham was eating his blancmange. Smirking, ignoring her, and eating his dessert.

She picked up her spoon, then shifted her attention, pointedly, to Lynch. But she did not move her leg. It remained, for the duration of the meal, wickedly, clandestinely, daringly, interlocked with Trentham’s. And she wondered if he, too, was thrilled—or merely amused.

*

After dessert, the men remained in the dining room for their port. Dessie brought the ladies back to the parlor, where thankfully, a maid had cracked open the windows. While they made half-hearted attempts at conversation, Lady Elizabeth kept sighing and glancing toward the door.

At last, desperately, Dessie said, “My talented sister has been taking lessons from Elias Cameron. Play for us, will you, Ophelia?”

“Yes, of course. If you like.” There was no risk of anyone here leering.

“You play the piano?” Lady Coates asked, perking up. When Ophelia nodded, she said, “Perhaps I can persuade you to play sometime for the children’s choir at the Asylum for Female Orphans? Our current pianist is desperate to retire. We’re trying to gather a list of willing ladies so that the burden will not fall all on one.”

“I’d be delighted! I used to accompany a Sunday School choir back in New York, and I’ve missed it.” All true. Playing in public was not difficult when hiding in the background, behind children.

Dessie herded them to the music room. Ophelia sat down at the piano and began Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. For several minutes, the ladies listened quietly. Inevitably, they relaxed and conversation started to flow. Ophelia played with passion, allowing the music to invade her body and soul, until a hairpin dropped onto the keys and a long, fat lock of hair fell down her back. Oh, for pity’s sake! She stopped. Before she even faced her audience, she heard Dessie’s giggle.

“I simply cannot wear this style,” Ophelia said, rising and snatching up the pin. “Excuse me. I must go fix myself.”

The ladies made sympathetic noises. She tried to laugh away her embarrassment as she left the room. “These things happen!” To her. They happened to her.

Hopefully, she could stick the pin back herself, or else she would have to find Milly upstairs. There was a mirror in the parlor, over the fireplace. She headed there, but before she reached it, she heard the men’s voices emanating from it. They must be done with port and were now waiting for the ladies to return.

She changed course, remembering a mirror in the library. She rounded the corner of the hallway, slipped inside the room, and shut the door.

“Not again!” Trentham laughed. Ophelia nearly jumped out of her skin.