The Aristocrat's Charade: Regency Romance (Brides of London)

by Joyce Alec

  “I hardly think that such a thing would be possible, Lord Marchmont.”

  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Shame crashed over her like a wave, sending a flurry of heat from her chest to the very top of her head. She wanted to bury her face in her hands, to step back in horror and to turn and run from him, such was her mortification. Silence reigned for some minutes, leaving Ophelia in such a state of embarrassment that she did not know what to do or what to say. Yes, she knew she should apologize, but she could not even think of how to begin.

  Lord Marchmont let out a long, heavy breath and shook his head, lowering it so that he looked the very picture of sadness. “I am not a particularly interesting gentleman, Miss Grey. I have opinions which I keep to myself, for I am unused to sharing my thoughts. I struggle to know what to say to you in order to engage you in conversation for I am not well used to speaking to young ladies such as yourself.”

  “I am so terribly sorry, Lord Marchmont,” she blurted out, pressing her hands against her hot cheeks and wishing she could find something more to say other than a mere apology. “It was not meant as it sounded.”

  He chuckled sadly and kept his gaze on the ground by their feet. “I fear it was. As I have said, I do not think of myself as a particularly interesting fellow, whereas you have a great many opinions and do not seem to be eager to keep them to yourself as I am.”

  Ophelia felt herself bristle but held herself back from reacting strongly, hearing the slight rebuke in his words but telling herself that it was to be expected. A young lady did not often share her thoughts, suggestions, or opinions with others as Ophelia did. Her own aunt had often said so, had she not?

  “I am surprised, then, that you are so eager to continue this courtship,” she stated, without putting any sting into her words. “If you consider that we are so ill-suited, then surely in time, your feelings will disappear.” Reminding herself that she did not believe that Lord Marchmont truly felt anything for her, Ophelia held her gaze steady until he lifted his head to look back at her, seeing his jaw clench tight.

  “I would try to get to know you a little better, Miss Grey.”

  He had chosen not to answer her, it seemed, looking at her with such a steadiness in his eyes that Ophelia felt her frustration begin to fade away.

  “I truly believe that we can find a way to rub along quite well,” he continued when she said nothing. “Even though I am somewhat dull and you more than a little… lively, I would hope that we might find a balance somewhere. Pray, do not turn away from the possibility.”

  She wanted to bark at him that he was being ridiculous and that she had no choice but to bring this absurd arrangement to an end, but much to her surprise, she felt something twinge within her that made her hesitate. What could it be? It surely could not be that she wished to find that same companionship that Lord Marchmont spoke of, for she knew all too well that such an idea was more than foolish when they so obviously did not suit. Was it because of her aunt’s warnings that she was now torn with uncertainty over what she wished to do?

  “Have you ever considered, Miss Grey, that our courtship was of too short a duration?” Lord Marchmont asked, his voice a little softer now. “Mayhap that was all that is required in order to bring us both to a place of certainty.”

  Again, Ophelia felt herself hesitate, questioning this. Their courtship had been rather short, but she had thought it to be a good thing, ending what had only just begun out of the realization that they did not suit. Privately, she did not think that prolonging their courtship would bring them closer to each other and certainly would not convince her that he was a gentleman she might grow fond of, but the slight sense of hope about Lord Marchmont forced her to remain silent.

  “If you would just consider me again, then we might find a new sense of happiness and contentment that would otherwise have passed us by,” he said, as though he could see the struggle going on in her heart. “Would you not even allow yourself to consider such a possibility?”

  Much to Ophelia’s surprise, Lord Marchmont reached out and settled one hand over hers. She could feel the heat from his hand through her glove and was even more astonished at the reaction from within her heart. It jumped furiously in her chest and began to quicken almost at once, not slowing until he had let go of her hand.

  “You have convinced me, Lord Marchmont,” she replied, wondering why she suddenly felt so unsteady. “I shall allow our courtship to continue for the time being, as you have requested.”

  He smiled at her, his eyes alight and his appearance suddenly so altered that Ophelia caught her breath. This was not the Lord Marchmont she knew, the gentleman who remained so stoic and expressionless no matter the conversation or the company. This was a gentleman she did not know, whose smile brightened his entire countenance and suddenly seemed to render him a good deal more handsome. Ophelia was forced to drop her gaze, not at all certain what she was to do with such a strange, unwelcome feeling.

  “You cannot tell me how glad I am to hear this from your lips,” Lord Marchmont breathed, looking almost relieved at her admission. “Truly, you have made me happier than you know.”

  This filled her with a deep sense of pleasure, which, again, she could not explain. When had she ever considered that bringing joy to Lord Marchmont would add to her own sense of delight? It confused her utterly.

  “Might I call upon you tomorrow, then?” Lord Marchmont asked, beginning to walk again and, to her surprise, offering her his arm.

  Ophelia swallowed and accepted it after a moment, trying to clear her mind from all the many troubling questions over her strange and curious feelings. Thankfully, the surge of excitement that had filled her when he had taken her hand did not return, allowing her to breathe a little more easily.

  “Yes, of course,” she found herself saying, without even considering what other social events she might already be planning to attend. “I should be glad of your company, Lord Marchmont.” Ophelia frowned as she said this, feeling as though her heart were forcing her to say things that she did not understand nor wish to say. She certainly did not want Lord Marchmont’s company, surely? Why, then, was she saying to him that it would be delightful to see him again?

  “Wonderful,” Lord Marchmont murmured, looking at her for a long moment before turning his gaze away. “Are you to go out this evening, Miss Grey?”

  Ophelia, who could not recall a single thing about her intentions for the rest of the day and particularly for the evening, shook her head so that she would not have to tell him that she did not remember.

  “Then I shall make sure to be as interesting as possible when I call upon you tomorrow,” Lord Marchmont quipped, as though he found her previous comment about his dull character to be somewhat amusing. “For I should like you to have some entertainment to look forward to!”

  Ophelia did not know what to say, wondering at his sudden lightness of tone and manner and finding that she herself was deeply confused about what she felt and what she thought of Lord Marchmont’s behavior. “Thank you,” she murmured, quite at a loss as to what else she might remark upon. Now, it was not Lord Marchmont who struggled to maintain the conversation, but she. How quickly things had changed.

  Suddenly aware that her usual honesty and tendency towards speaking her thoughts without consideration had, in fact, brought her a deep sense of embarrassment and Lord Marchmont a good deal of mortification, Ophelia took care to speak carefully as they returned towards the waiting carriage. She had always thought that her bluntness was a refreshing change that ought to be seen amongst more of the young ladies of the ton, but now that she knew just how poorly she had behaved, Ophelia was inclined to think more carefully about what she wanted to say. Lord Marchmont, for his part, seemed to relax slightly and the conversation certainly flowed with a little more ease, although it was not completely without pause. To her surprise, Ophelia found that she garnered some enjoyment from the remainder of her time with Lord Marchmont. Much to her astonis
hment, she found herself telling him of her father, who lived on the continent and had not been seen by Ophelia in some years. Lord Marchmont expressed regret at this, and Ophelia, without having any intention of doing so, told him that her father’s absence brought her a good deal of hurt and a sense of loss. That she should have shared such an intimacy with him was quite astonishing, even to herself.

  When he bid her farewell and stated that he looked forward to seeing her again the following day, there was no sigh of irritation that escaped from her lips, nor was there any sense of heaviness or frustration that she was not to be free of him.

  Her aunt was going to be delighted.

  However, upon entering the house, Ophelia was surprised to discover that her friend, Miss Smallwood, was waiting for her in the parlor. Glad that she would not have to immediately report to her aunt and account for all that had passed between herself and Lord Marchmont—which meant that she would have a little more time to consider the renewal of her courtship with the gentleman—Ophelia hurried into the parlor and greeted her friend quickly.

  “I am terribly sorry that you called upon me when I was already out,” Ophelia said hastily, grasping her friend’s hands for a moment. “Had I known that your intention was to seek me out, then I would have let you know that I was already previously engaged.”

  Miss Smallwood smiled, although it did not quite reach her eyes. “I knew that you were to be out walking with Lord Marchmont, Ophelia,” she said, sitting back down in her chair and waiting until Ophelia did likewise before continuing. “I spoke to him rather recently, you see.”

  Ophelia frowned, not quite understanding what Louisa meant. Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she gazed at Louisa in the hope that she might explain herself further.

  “He did not say anything to you, then?”

  Ophelia’s frown deepened. “What can you mean, Louisa? We spoke of some things, but nothing of importance.”

  “He did not speak to you of his reasons for seeking to continue his courtship, then?”

  A tight knot formed in Ophelia’s stomach, her hands clasping together with a sudden anxiety. “I do not understand what you mean, Louisa.”

  A long, heavy sigh dropped Louisa’s shoulders. “He did not, then. I am sorry for that. However, he will not be allowed to continue on as he has done. I have already told him as much.” She looked back up at Ophelia, a slight tension in her expression. “You would have been rather proud of me, I think, speaking to them both as boldly as I did!”

  Growing both frustrated and all the more nervous that her friend was speaking of something she had no awareness of, Ophelia sat forward in her seat and tried to contain her fright and irritation. “You have not told me what you are speaking of, Louisa, and I do wish that you would do so since I am growing increasingly anxious waiting for an explanation.”

  Miss Smallwood nodded, now looking apologetic. “I am sorry for not speaking plainly, Ophelia. However, the truth is that Lord Marchmont has not been honest about his reasons for pursuing you again. I overheard him speaking to his acquaintance and knew at once that you ought to be made aware of the truth.” She shook her head, her lips thinning as a frown formed between her brows. “I had thought that he would take the opportunity today to tell you the truth, but mayhap he thought that I was not serious when I first spoke to him.” Her brows lowered a touch more. “But he will find that I have meant every word.”

  “What is it that he has said?” Ophelia asked, her anxiety bubbling over. “Come now, Louisa, you must tell me.”

  Louisa shook her head. “No, I shall not,” she stated firmly. “Lord Marchmont shall be the one to do so. When do you see him next?”

  “Tomorrow,” Ophelia replied, hating that she would have to endure hours of not knowing the truth about Lord Marchmont. “Why?”

  Louisa grimaced. “Because I fully intend to be there,” she replied darkly. “And he shall be forced to tell you all, Ophelia, for otherwise you are being led down a path with no true knowledge of why you are being taken there. And I shall not stand for that.”

  Ophelia closed her eyes and let her breath shudder out of her. She had no idea what Louisa meant, but needless to say, the happiness that had flooded her soul within the last hour was now completely gone. Having suspected that Lord Marchmont had not been telling her the truth when he expressed his deep affection for her, Ophelia now knew for certain that he had been telling her an untruth. But for what possible purpose? And why had he chosen to lie to her?

  “He shall have a good deal to answer for,” she heard Louisa mutter as the door opened to allow in the maid with the tea tray. “But mayhap there might be some good from it in the end.”

  Ophelia, feeling as though dark, heavy clouds had wrapped around her and now held her tightly, could not even feel a single flicker of hope. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

  7

  Peter muttered under his breath as he walked swiftly towards Lady Sharrow’s townhouse, avoiding the urchins that ran here and there in front of him. Perhaps having chosen not to take his carriage had been a poor idea.

  “Marchmont!”

  A little surprised to hear his name being called, Peter looked to his right to see a familiar face peering out of a carriage window.

  “They will have the money from your pockets if you are not careful!” Lord Whitfield laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Come now, come in here and I shall have the carriage take you wherever you need to go.”

  Peter was about to refuse and say that he did not have far to walk, only for one of the street children to shove at him hard, whilst another grabbed at something in the depths of Peter’s pocket. With a yelp, Peter regained his footing and stumbled quickly towards the carriage, shaking his head as he went.

  “I do not recall London being as full of urchins as it is now,” he muttered as he climbed into the carriage and sat back opposite Lord Whitfield. “But now it seems that one is not safe even walking in broad daylight.”

  “That is why one should always take one’s carriage,” Lord Whitfield said, shaking a finger at him. “Now, where am I to take you?”

  Peter let out a long breath and finally managed to relax. “I am to call upon Miss Grey, who resides with Lady Sharrow, her aunt,” he stated, giving the address. “She is expecting me.”

  Lord Whitfield looked mightily interested at this and, having instructed his driver where to go, leaned back against the squabs and pierced Peter with a sharp eye. “So, you have gone back to Miss Grey, have you?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrow. “I thought I heard that you had brought an end to such an acquaintance.”

  Clearing his throat and not particularly willing to go into such details, Peter lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I have changed my mind.”

  Lord Whitfield laughed heartily at this, although Peter did not find anything of particular mirth within what he had said. “Good gracious! A gentleman who pursues the lady he has, only days before, said goodbye to. I do not think such a thing has been heard about before within society!”

  Peter grimaced. “I am to be an object of ridicule, then?”

  “Certainly not,” Lord Whitfield replied, looking suddenly serious. “You are not a gentleman who is often within society, I know, and you appear to enjoy a quiet life for the most part.”

  Wincing, Peter knew he could not deny it. He had never thrown himself into the Season and did not often seek out new acquaintances so that he might converse and dance with the new debutantes that had arrived in London. Last Season, he had enjoyed watching all that went on for the most part and had not particularly engaged with anyone other than a few close friends. This Season, however, he had thought to behave a little differently, which had begun with his desire to court Miss Grey. He had been overeager and made a mistake as regarded that particular lady and now he was to find himself saddled with her for the rest of his days.

  “You shall hear a few comments about your behavior, mayhap, and some gentlemen may laugh at your
choice to pursue Miss Grey for the second time, but have no fear… the Season is only just begun and there are sure to be a great many more things to capture the attention of the beau monde. You shall be nothing more than a passing remark.” He shrugged. “You may wish to avoid White’s for the next sennight or so, until someone else has attracted the scrutiny of the ton. That is all you must do.”

  This did not relieve Peter’s tension particularly, although he smiled as best he could and thanked Lord Whitfield for his advice and for his aid in escaping the urchins. Removing himself from the carriage, he bade Lord Whitfield a quick farewell and mentally reminded himself not to go to White’s for at least a fortnight, so that he would not have to endure any knowing looks or cutting comments regarding his behavior towards Miss Grey. They could not know of the torment that was in his heart, the suffering and the struggle that came from having to court Miss Grey when he did not wish to.

  That being said, he considered, as he walked up the stone steps towards the front of the house, his last conversation with Miss Grey had not been as bad as before. She had made a somewhat cutting remark and had clearly been ashamed of it thereafter. That seemed to have softened her as a result, for she had spoken with a good deal more care and her apology had appeared quite genuine. There had been an easiness that had begun to form between them as they had returned to the house. It did give him the smallest flicker of hope that he would not have to endure a long and difficult marriage with her, when the time came. She might, in fact, be able to set a guard on her lips in time, so that she was not as blunt and cold with her words as he had always known her to be.

  “Miss Grey is waiting for you, Lord Marchmont.”

  The butler took his hat and gloves and directed him towards the drawing room. Peter quickly made his way towards the door, not wanting to be tardy, and pushing open the door, made to greet her and bow… but was suddenly stopped by the sight of Miss Smallwood sitting directly beside Miss Grey, who was looking at him with ice in her blue eyes.