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

by Joyce Alec

  Ophelia was about to protest that she should not greet Lord Marchmont alone, only for Lady Sharrow’s expression to grow a little hard, her brow furrowing. Seeing that it was pointless to argue, Ophelia sighed heavily, turned on her heel, and began to progress along the hallway towards the drawing room where Lord Marchmont was waiting.

  “Lord Marchmont.”

  Opening the door, Ophelia attempted to sail in with as much grace and poise as she could, hating that her heart was thumping so loudly that she was certain that he could hear it.

  “Good evening, Miss Grey,” he replied, looking quite resplendent in his formal attire. “Thank you for permitting me to accompany you to the theatre this evening.”

  Ophelia smiled and nodded, suddenly wondering what it would be like to sit in the darkness in such close proximity to this gentleman. A flush began to rise up her neck and into her cheeks as she let this thought take hold, feeling a sense of excitement.

  “You are looking forward to this evening, I hope?” Lord Marchmont asked, coming a little closer to her, his hands held loosely behind his back. “I confess that I am not often enamored with Shakespeare, but this evening, I may find that the company increases my enjoyment of such a thing.”

  This was a compliment indeed and Ophelia managed to accept it with a warm smile. “I look forward to being in your company also, Lord Marchmont,” she replied, a trifle thickly as she struggled to know what to say. His nearness was having a profound effect on her, one she could not quite understand. “It will be a relief for us both, I think, to have an evening without focusing on the current predicament we find ourselves in.”

  Lord Marchmont grinned, his brown eyes alight as he stood only a couple of steps away from her. “I am glad you think so, Miss Grey. It has been a very interesting few days, has it not?”

  It had been two days now since they had been at the boarding house. Ophelia had been glad that they had discovered as much as they did and had been greatly excited to find the handkerchief and then to be shown the box with the initials carved into it. However, she had left both items with Lord Marchmont, knowing that she could not be of much help to him given that none of her acquaintances had either the name ‘Wilson’ or the initials ‘R.H’.

  “Have you discovered anything new?”

  Lord Marchmont’s smile faded and he shook his head. “No, unfortunately not. I confess that I was hugely pleased that we had found not one but two items, and that Marks had been willing to speak to you about what had occurred that night. However, now it seems that the task of finding who created the box and who the handkerchief belongs to is much more difficult than even I had anticipated.” He gave a small shake of his head. “I thought this evening to take my mind from it entirely and simply enjoy being in your company, Miss Grey.”

  “I would have thought that you would prefer not to be in my company, Lord Marchmont, given that I am much too brash and far too outspoken.”

  Ophelia did not know where the words came from, surprising both herself and Lord Marchmont, it seemed. She closed her eyes and cringed inwardly, wondering why she had spoken so indelicately. Was it because she was afraid that he would end their courtship the moment they discovered the truth? Why would she be afraid of that when it was what she wanted also?

  “Miss Grey, I know that we find ourselves in a very awkward situation,” Lord Marchmont began, sounding a trifle hesitant. “I am aware that we must keep up appearances in order to prove to whoever is watching us that we are—that I am—doing as he has asked, but I would not have you believe that I find your company something that I must endure.”

  Swallowing quickly, Ophelia settled her shoulders and tried to think about what she wanted to say before she said it. Lord Marchmont was looking at her with concern and worry in his expression, as though he were the one at fault for making her believe something that was not at all true.

  “Forgive me, Lord Marchmont,” she stammered, spreading her hands in front of her. “I do not know what possessed me to speak to you in such a manner.”

  He did not smile nor did he look to be angry. “There is nothing to forgive, Miss Grey.”

  A small groan escaped her mouth and she shook her head, turning away from Lord Marchmont so that she might wander to the window and attempt to gather her fragmented thoughts. Embarrassed, she was glad that he could no longer see her red cheeks, hating that she had not been careful in what she said.

  “You do believe me, do you not, Miss Grey?”

  His voice was nearer than she had expected and Ophelia jumped, turning around to see Lord Marchmont moving closer to her again, as if he could not bear to be separated from her. “What do you mean, Lord Marchmont?” she asked, aware of the fluttering in her chest and attempting to settle her composure.

  He cleared his throat, now standing so very close to her that she could feel his breath brush across her cheek. She could move away, could step back from him, but it was as though she were tied to him and he was pulling the cord so that she had to move even closer.

  “I must know that you are assured that I truly do find your company most engaging,” Lord Marchmont said, his voice and expression somewhat tender. “I know that when I first brought our courtship to an end, I told you that I did not think we suited each other particularly well. I am rather quiet and fairly dull, whereas you sparkle with life and vivacity.” He shrugged, a sad smile creeping across his face. “We are very different, you and I, and yet I find now that I truly do look forward to being in your company.”

  She did not know what to say at this, seeing the fervency in his eyes and wanting to understand it. They were, as he said, so very different and yet she, too, had found herself growing increasingly comfortable in his presence. Over the last fortnight, she had learned to watch what she said before she said it, to speak with consideration and understanding, and not to act brashly. That was entirely because of Lord Marchmont’s influence, from her desire not to embarrass him in any way. Part of her had wanted him to enjoy her company, had wanted him to find a quiet contentment in their acquaintance. She should be delighted that he was speaking to her so, but instead, all she felt was nervousness building up through her.

  “Miss Grey?”

  Lord Marchmont reached out and before she could say anything, pushed back a curl from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. She shivered at his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she pressed one hand to her stomach in an attempt to steady her breathing.

  “Forgive me.” Lord Marchmont’s voice was low, his hand falling to his side. “I did not mean—”

  “Please.” Ophelia opened her eyes, speaking urgently so that he could not continue to express regret. “Please, Lord Marchmont, you need not apologize. It is quite all right.”

  He looked down at her with something in his eyes she could not quite make out.

  “I—I find that I also look forward to being in your company, Lord Marchmont,” she admitted, the words tumbling from her mouth as if she were suddenly desperate to have them said aloud. “I know that I have insulted and offended you prior to this, when I called you dull and the like, but I can only apologize for such a thing now.” She held his gaze, her heart thudding in her chest. “You are not at all the gentleman I thought you were. I find myself looking forward to being in your company. I do hope you can forgive me for my past wrongs.”

  He smiled at her and took a small step closer, making Ophelia’s heart thump all the more quickly. Her whole being was aware of him, focused entirely on him, finding that a strange desire was building up within her, urging her on. She did not know precisely what it was she wanted, feeling this strange new affection and desire for Lord Marchmont grow within her with such force that it took her breath away. When he reached out and brushed his fingers lightly down her cheek, it was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms about his neck and pulling his head down to hers. To behave in such a wanton fashion was not at all acceptable and she knew she could never give in to such a desire without full
y considering the implications that would follow.

  “Miss Grey, you are quite extraordinary.”

  Lord Marchmont’s voice was low and soft, one hand settling on her waist whilst she found herself putting one hand gently on his chest, feeling the wild beat of his heart under her fingers. Astonished, she looked up into his face and saw him smile at her in a self-conscious manner.

  “You can see what effect your nearness has on me, Miss Grey,” he whispered, his head beginning to lower. “I do not know what this means, but—”

  The sound of footsteps brought Ophelia to her senses all at once and she dropped her hands to her side and then turned so that she could hurry towards the window, in order to look out of it. Her eyes saw nothing, her breathing coming quick and fast as she tried to find her composure all over again, not wanting her aunt to be aware of what had almost occurred.

  “Lord Marchmont!” Lady Sharrow’s words were filled with welcome and, as Ophelia turned, she saw the hopeful gleam in her aunt’s eye although she appeared to be disappointed that Ophelia and Lord Marchmont were standing on opposite sides of the room. “How good to see you. Thank you for your kind offer of accompanying us to the theatre this evening.”

  “But of course.” Lord Marchmont’s voice was calm and steady, and he gave Lady Sharrow a small bow as Ophelia smoothed her skirts and then walked towards them both. “I do hope this will be an enjoyable evening.” He glanced towards Ophelia as he said this, a smile playing about his mouth that had Ophelia blushing all over again.

  This did not go unnoticed by Lady Sharrow, who practically grinned with delight as she gestured for them both to quit the room.

  “Shall we depart?” she asked, moving to stand by the door. “I do not want to be late.”

  “Of course, Aunt,” Ophelia murmured, hurrying forward first and thinking that the sooner they got in the carriage and made their way to the theatre, the better. She would no longer feel such a heat rushing through her once she was in the company of her aunt as well as Lord Marchmont. There was nothing she needed to worry about. This strange awareness of his presence would flee from her soon.

  Much to her surprise, Lord Marchmont was at her heels, catching her hand and, before she could say a word, settling it on his arm. She did not remove it but felt her breath hitch as he looked down into her eyes.

  “I think we have an urgent need for a private conversation, Miss Grey,” Lord Marchmont murmured as Lady Sharrow walked behind them along the hallway. “What say you?”

  She nodded, not quite certain she should trust her voice.

  “I apologize if I was overly familiar and if you did not wish for my attentions,” he continued, in such a low voice that Ophelia struggled to hear him. “But there are emotions in my heart that cannot be hidden for much longer, Miss Grey.”

  Taking in a breath, Ophelia attempted to settle her shoulders and remove the sense of frantic anxiety from her. “You have nothing to apologize for, Lord Marchmont,” she told him, no longer able to look up into his face for fear of what his smile might do to her heart. “And yes, I quite agree. A conversation would be most welcome, although mayhap in a few days’ time, once I have considered all that I feel and decided what I am to do with it.” Shooting him a quick glance, she saw that his smile had faded somewhat and a flicker of a frown was crossing his brow. Nevertheless, Lord Marchmont nodded and accepted her suggestion with quiet thanks.

  Nothing more was said thereafter, for once they were in the carriage with her aunt, there was no opportunity to speak privately. Ophelia took the chance to look out of the window and allow her heart to swim with whatever emotions it wished, letting them climb through her as she accepted each one. This was not at all what she had thought would occur when she had first offered to help Lord Marchmont, and even now, she was not certain that it was what she wanted.

  It was good that Lord Marchmont was willing to listen to her, to give her the time she needed to consider her own heart before sharing his thoughts with her also, but even the thought of allowing herself to feel this deep affection for Lord Marchmont without restraint gave her pause. What would become of their mystery if she thought to accept him again? Would he simply give up the search? Would he want to marry her and forget about the note and the ring? Or would he seek to find the culprit and mayhap, once it had been dealt with, choose to pursue a true courtship with her? Ophelia did not know, feeling a dull ache begin to form between her brows. This was all so new and, in its own way, quite terrifying. She had been certain of herself, knowing what she thought, what she felt, and what she wanted, but now, in this strangeness that surrounded herself and Lord Marchmont, she had very little idea of what she wished for in her future. She was not even sure of her own heart, wondering at the emotions that flooded it whenever she so much as glanced at Lord Marchmont.

  He caught her looking at him and smiled at her, his eyes warm as he held her gaze. Ophelia swallowed hard and looked away, unable to bring a returning smile to her lips. It was all quite overwhelming and she did not feel as though she had the strength to save herself from her turbulent emotions.

  But, then again, perhaps there was no need to do so. Perhaps there was something truly wonderful in what she felt for Lord Marchmont and in what he might feel for her. The only question was, dare she risk the vulnerability that would come with sharing her heart with him?

  11

  “You have found nothing?”

  Peter shook his head, sighing heavily. “I took the box to various places within London and asked as to who might have made it, but no one gave me any help whatsoever.”

  “Then we must keep looking,” Lord Blackridge stated unequivocally. “There must be someone who knows where this box has come from.”

  Peter nodded but did not say anything more. His mind was, it seemed, not completely focused on the box nor on the note and the ring. Instead, it was beginning to consider Miss Grey with a good deal more urgency than before.

  “Marchmont.”

  He looked up. “Yes?”

  Lord Blackridge narrowed his eyes a little. “Something else has occurred. Something else is distracting you. What is it? Have you heard from your brother?”

  Feeling a twinge of guilt that he was not more concerned for Edward given that he had received no response as yet to any of his letters, Peter shook his head.

  “Then what is it that catches your attention so?” Lord Blackridge asked, frowning. “You appear to be quite caught up with something other than this box and handkerchief.”

  Peter swallowed hard and then shook his head again. “It is Miss Grey, Blackridge, that is all.”

  Lord Blackridge looked greatly astonished for a moment, then began to chuckle. “Indeed?” he replied, laughing softly. “That is, you are considering a proper courtship with her?”

  Peter shrugged. “I do not know what it is I am considering,” he replied truthfully. “Other than I cannot seem to remove her from my thoughts. I greatly enjoy her company and no longer find her as loud and outspoken as I did before.” He sighed heavily and would have run his hand through his hair in exasperation at his own lack of clarity, were it not for his hat. “My estimation of her has changed significantly.”

  “That is excellent news,” Lord Blackridge exclaimed as they drew near to White’s. “It means that if we do not find the person behind the note and the threats, then you may find yourself rather contented in the fact that you must marry Miss Grey after all.”

  Frowning, Peter tipped his head. “I cannot be certain if that will be the case,” he said slowly. “I am not certain as to what Miss Grey herself feels and I should not want to press the matter if she does not feel the same as I do.” He did not tell Lord Blackridge about how he had drawn close to Miss Grey the previous evening, before they went to the theatre. Nor did he tell him about how her breath had quickened, how color had come into her cheeks, and how her eyes had sparkled as she had looked up at him. She had been utterly breathtaking and even now, Peter was not certain that it had ac
tually occurred.

  “I think, then, that you must speak to her of what you feel,” Lord Blackridge said authoritatively. “I know you are not inclined to speak your thoughts and opinions aloud, but mayhap in this case, it is merited.”

  “I have every intention of doing so,” Peter told him, seeing the surprise in Lord Blackridge’s expression over Peter’s sudden decisiveness. “I have even told Miss Grey as much. However, I am to wait a day or so first, I think. I simply need to consider what it is that I wish to proceed with, as does Miss Grey.” He smiled at Lord Blackridge, seeing the surprise turn to sincere happiness. “But in any case, you are correct. There is still the need to find the culprit for I do not wish either myself or Miss Grey to feel obliged to proceed with any deepening of our acquaintance. I would have it come from the heart, if it is to come from anywhere.”

  Lord Blackridge nodded his agreement. “Quite. Now, what say you to a drink, old boy?”

  Peter glanced up uneasily at White’s. He had not gone into that establishment for some weeks, fearing that he would be ridiculed and mocked by the gentlemen within. It was not as though he could not brush off such comments, but merely that he did not want to be the center of attention. Nor did he want to feel obliged to defend himself over his decision to reacquaint himself with Miss Grey. “I do not think that it would be wise,” he told Lord Blackridge. “Lord Whitfield was quite clear that there would be those within who would enjoy nothing more than to mock my choice of lady.”

  Lord Blackridge’s eyebrows rose. “I see,” he said slowly, looking at Peter with a curious expression. “And you do not think you can meet such a challenge?”

  Stiffening, Peter tried not to allow the barb to sink home. “It is not as though I cannot withstand it, Blackridge. It is simply that I do not wish to. I am permitted that, am I not?”

  His friend chuckled. “You are of course, permitted to do as you wish. However, I fear that you are being a little too cautious, Marchmont. The rumors and whispers will have moved on to someone new by now, I am quite certain. After all, have you not heard that Miss Lambert has found herself engaged to some rogue or other? I cannot quite recall his name, but it is more than a little astonishing that someone as proper and as choosy as Lady Elgin—that is, Miss Lambert’s mother—would see fit to attach her daughter to a scoundrel.”