Ophelia knew little about the late Lord Montrose. Paul had warned her never to mention the man or his wives. Montrose’s mother had been the first bride, but she had died when Montrose was very small. The rest of the wives had each failed to deliver up siblings for the current duke. According to Paul, Montrose had lived a secluded and unhappy childhood here alone.
Ophelia removed her special boot and moaned to be free of the restriction. She could almost believe she could still flex her toes of the foot that only she remembered anymore.
Montrose stared at her leg a moment. “Does it hurt you still?”
Ophelia removed her bonnet, too. “Only if I have done too much.”
Montrose dug in the picnic basket and set out wine and two glasses. “What were you doing this morning to be walking too much?”
She blushed again. She didn’t want to admit to him that she was walking around her rooms to combat gaining weight because of inactivity. “Nothing in particular.”
He handed her wine. “For you.”
Their fingers brushed as she took her glass from him, and she shivered. “Thank you.”
He lifted his glass toward her, and they touched them together. “To the future.”
“Whatever that may be.” Ophelia buried her nose in her glass, inhaling, and then sipped. She did enjoy the bounty of Montrose’s cellars—both for pleasure and medicinal purposes. There had been many a night not so long ago made pleasant, pain-free, by an overindulgance of the contents of his wine cellar. Thankfully, Montrose had been only too willing to indulge her medicinal requirements. He kept her chambers well stocked with a variety of liquors. “Lovely.”
“I had hoped you might like this particular one.” He drank then, too, glancing away to enjoy the view in silence.
She studied his profile. He had the straightest, longest eyelashes of any man she’d ever met. They lie thick upon his skin when he closed his eyes. She longed to stretch out and brush her fingers across them, to discover if they were as stiff as his posture often was or soft the way she wished he’d be.
She looked away, noticing his hands had clenched at his sides. They were often like that. Usually right before he left her…
There was something about her presence at Sherringford that set him on edge, though he never hinted at what that might be.
She worried about what she’d done to set him off today. The uncertainty of her future at Sherringford returned to weigh on her mind, too. She needed to know what to do to make her presence more bearable for him. Only he could tell her if she should start thinking about finding another home.
She gulped some more wine, liquid courage, and then looked at him. “I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“If you had returned a married man, what would have become of me?”
His brow furrowed deeply. “What do you mean?”
She worried at her lip a moment before speaking from her heart. “When you brought me here after Paul died, I was not thinking very clearly. I don’t remember if we talked about how long I would stay.”
“Forever.” His answer was immediate. Definite.
He started to graze on a bit of everything from the plates set out, and Ophelia nibbled, too, watching him closely. She still didn’t feel convinced he wanted her here.
“What would I have done? Your wife would have wanted to run the household, as is her right. I would have had nothing to do but stare out the windows.”
He looked away. “Is your life at Sherringford so unpalatable and dull that you want to go elsewhere?”
“No, that isn’t what I meant. But this isn’t my home.”
“It can be if you want to stay.” He sighed. “I am not married yet, and you are free to run the house any way you wish. Nothing has to change,” he promised. “Nothing at all.”
She believed he meant that, and finally, she felt confident of her place at Sherringford. She would not have to marry Mr. Drayton, or anyone else, if she didn’t love them. She didn’t have to imagine going away at all or leaving Montrose in that great big house all alone. “Thank you.”
He refilled her glass before she was quite ready and then shifted onto his side, facing her. “If you’re not going to eat, why don’t you stretch out beside me on the blanket and rest?”
The warm day and the wine were very soothing, and the journey had shaken her about a fair bit. She drank more from her glass and smiled ruefully. “I’m half afraid if I do, I’ll fall asleep.”
He took her glass and set it on the ground beyond them, next to his. “I’ll be here to watch over you.”
Ophelia was tempted. It wasn’t as if anyone could see her, and as he said, this was her home now.
She eased onto the picnic blanket, and Montrose wadded up his coat for her head to rest upon. It was as sweet a gesture as she’d ever seen from him, and it made her smile. “I’m starting to think offering you lessons is a horrible waste of your time, Montrose. You know exactly how to woo a lady.”
“Only time will tell if that is true,” he admitted, and then a soft laugh escaped him.
Ophelia stared at him in amazement. She hadn’t heard Montrose laugh before. It was a good sound to hear from him now, given his recent disappointment and their discussion of her future at Sherringford. It meant a lot to her, and it was proof he really was comfortable with her being around.
“I promise you will be successful next time.”
“I hope so.” Montrose wriggled around to lie on his side, facing her. “Are you comfortable?”
“Very.” She turned her head to look at him, staring straight into his green eyes. He had such nice eyes. “Are you?”
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and then her breath caught when he lifted a hand to touch her face. Slowly, he slid a strand of her hair across her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. She shivered as he smiled again. “Actually, yes.”
Ophelia nearly swooned. Two smiles from him, and she was in grave danger of behaving in a manner he would not care for. Ophelia easily imagined leaning forward to claim a kiss from him, then crawling on top of his big body and making love to him right there beside the lake. It was the perfect spot to conduct a seduction, and she fought the attraction the only way she knew how.
She imaged how awful it would be when he rejected her because she wasn’t a complete woman anymore.
That was enough to make her turn onto her back and fix her gaze on the sky above them until her longings faded. The bird flew in lazy circles overhead. It wouldn’t fall to earth because the Duke of Montrose smiled at her. It wouldn’t fall in love, either.
The way she had.
Ophelia put her hand up to her eyes, shading them from the sun as much covering up her shocking thought. If she hadn’t been lying down, she might have fainted there and then. She forced her eyes open, focusing on the bird in a bid to ignore her discovery. “What sort of bird is that?”
“I’ve not the faintest idea,” he murmured.
The tone of his voice was softer, more intimate than she’d ever heard before. It did funny things to her insides yet again.
Ophelia remembered when she met Paul. She had been a little silly about him, trying to catch his notice. She’d known she had to be near him. She felt that way about Montrose now, and not only today.
She stole a glance in his direction. Montrose wasn’t watching her anymore. He seemed more interested in the bird, now. “I fear that creature intends to claim the contents of our picnic basket.”
Ophelia sat up quickly and handed his grace a plate. “We should make a proper start on lunch so it doesn’t go to waste.”
The duke sat up slowly, taking the plate from her, but his eyes were full of questions.
She looked at the expanse of water and spoke before he could voice them. “Paul said he swam here as a boy.”
“Once. We both did, only I got into trouble for it.”
Her cheeks were still hot, and she studied only the expanse of water rather than the man she love
d. But she shouldn’t be in love with him. He’d never want her. “Weren’t you allowed to swim here?”
“I wasn’t allowed to swim anywhere. Swimming was considered too dangerous. My father had all sorts of rules for what his only son was allowed to do.”
Montrose had been an only child. Ophelia had been, too, and she’d had to teach herself a great many things that other children learned from their siblings. “But you swam anyway?”
Montrose dropped a piece of cake onto her empty plate. “Paul taught me that last summer he was allowed to visit Sherringford.”
“He taught me, too. Right after our marriage, we stayed a month by the sea. I was nervous about it, but he convinced me to try it. Said it was a wonderful exercise, and I came to enjoy it very much.”
Ophelia could feel Montrose’s eyes on her, and she forced herself to eat even though she was becoming flustered by him. By Harry. The cake was probably wonderful, but her mouth was now too dry to appreciate the flavors.
Montrose passed her glass of wine into her hand. “Do you still swim?”
“What now? No. Of course not.” She drank a hasty mouthful of her wine. “I’d probably sink like a stone and drown now.”
“I wouldn’t let you,” he insisted, as if the matter was settled. “I’d be there in the water with you.”
Ophelia couldn’t help but smile at his continued confidence in his abilities. She wished she had that herself. She stole another glance at him.
Harry clearly had no idea he had her head in a spin, that her body was begging for his touch. If they were to go on together in the same house, Ophelia had better bury these new feelings deep down, before he noticed. She was supposed to help him find a bride, not keep him for herself.
She finished her cake, mulling over Montrose and what he’d said about his childhood. She could hardly imagine him as a child. But she’d heard Paul describe the late Duke of Montrose. Joyless. Inflexible. Montrose had said he’d gotten into trouble for swimming with Paul, but hadn’t elaborated. “What punishment did you and Paul suffer for breaking the rules?”
“Paul was banished, never allowed to visit again.”
“And you?”
“The usual.”
The way he said “usual” made her heart skip a beat. Punishments should never be usual. “Was it so awful you cannot speak of it even now?”
He sighed heavily. “My father’s favorite punishment never harmed me. Not physically. He wouldn’t endanger his only son’s life. He punished others instead. His wives and the servants bore the brunt of his wrath. He kept me at his side and made me watch everything, pointing out it was because of me that they were being punished.
“If I showed any signs of concern for their welfare, servants were dismissed. He sent his third wife, a kind woman who had wanted to mother me, back to her parents and annulled their marriage—citing infidelity to shame her, instead of admitting to jealousy. Maggie Nash was once a kitchen maid at Sherringford, too. She was dismissed because she made me laugh. My father saw, and he couldn’t stand the idea I might be content.”
“That’s monstrous!”
“Yes, he was.” He shrugged. “Paul knew what my life was like, what my father did to others, and he still encouraged me to rebel.”
“And the only punishment he got was to be sent away.”
“It was probably a kindness,” Montrose said with a nod. “He had freedoms I never knew.”
Ophelia felt sick to her stomach for the injustice of that. Paul had always been good at getting people to do what he wanted. He’d convinced Ophelia to elope after a short acquaintance, claiming to be madly in love with her. Later, he engaged in all sorts of ridiculous and often dangerous wagers with his friends. He’d lived life to the fullest extent, and probably would have continued in that vein even now, if he was still alive.
Harry was the victim of a cold father and her husband’s flighty nature. Was it any wonder he doubted his chances of being loved? “What loneliness you must have suffered. Forced to keep everyone you might have cared for at arm’s length.”
“It hardly matters now, does it?” He pointed at the lake. “I chose to rebel. I chose to swim that day, knowing something would be done about Paul. Being sent away was the kindest punishment my father could inflict on anyone. I could have stayed home in my chambers, or at my studies like I was supposed to do. A dutiful son.”
“There’s more to life than duty, Montrose. You were just a child.”
“I know.” He smiled quickly. “I hadn’t thought about any of it in years. These lessons of yours have stirred up old memories best left in the past.”
Ophelia couldn’t forget so easily. So many things about the duke made perfect sense now. She was appalled at how hard Harry’s life must have been. His nature might have been so different if he’d been more loved. She wanted to put her arms about him and promise that no one would ever hurt him again.
And that woman he’d almost married had wounded him, too. That made her angry. It made her want to keep all other women at bay. But that was impossible.
Montrose needed a perfect wife, and by God, he would have the right one.
Chapter 6
Nothing had gone right after that perfect, brief interlude looking up at a cloudless sky with Ophelia lying at his side. Ophelia had put her boot back on suddenly, eaten her lunch in near silence, and then shuffled back to the carriage before he was truly ready to return to Sherringford. He’d packed up the luncheon things in a state of bewilderment and hurried to help her into the carriage before she tried to do it herself.
He had done, said, something wrong.
He always seemed to put his foot in it no matter how hard he tried not to with her. He’d shared too much, too soon, perhaps. He’d best remember that women didn’t like to hear uncomfortable truths about their deceased husbands, either. Paul had been reckless, a fickle companion.
That day by the lake, Paul had vanished into the trees and returned to the manor without the duke knowing of his involvement in Harry’s escapade. Harry had been caught alone—and had sworn he’d been at the lake on his own—intending that Paul be spared any harm. Paul had been sent away that very night, probably suspected of leading Harry astray, because they’d not met again until Harry had assumed the title.
When they had met again, Paul had reminded Harry of their adventure to the lake as if it had been a great lark.
Like all the other cousins, he’d had his hand out, too.
Harry hadn’t minded supporting Paul so much after meeting Ophelia. He’d even increased Paul’s income from that year onward.
The carriage ride back seemed full of uncomfortable silences. Ophelia refused to engage him in any sort of lengthy conversation, aside from matters that pertained to the management of their home. And once back at the manor, Ophelia had scurried off and disappeared into her room, claiming to have much to do now she had his blessing to stay forever.
Harry resented the assurance he’d given her today. He hadn’t meant for her to rush back to her work the way she had.
But she was like him in that respect. She was quite particular about their home. He’d noticed that many times before.
As he glared at the door she’d left through, he cursed himself for making assumptions that the right setting would be easier to reveal his interest in her. She only cared to know she had a future here.
But she had said his name while she’d pleasured herself…
It made no sense.
Perhaps she hadn’t meant him, after all. Maybe she dreamed of another Harry as her lover.
He gritted his teeth at the idea of her lying in another man’s bed. No. She belonged here, with him. Even if he couldn’t have her affection, her body in his bed eventually, she had him. Completely.
Their lessons were over.
He turned away, heading back to his study and the work he’d neglected that day.
He had loved his cousin Paul but had resented him, too. For behaving in a manner that put Ophelia
’s life in danger. Harry believed the carriage accident had occurred because his cousin was in yet another damn rush to show off and break the rules.
Perhaps that was Harry’s problem as well. Was his lack of progress with her merely a case of wanting Ophelia too much, of rushing to change their relationship to a more intimate footing too quickly? He’d rushed proposing to Miss Hayes in London. He would be wise not to do that again with Ophelia.
Unfortunately, Harry was not a very patient man. Once he made up his mind, he tended to think of nothing else but achieving his goal.
Harry looked around his empty office with displeasure. There was so much he needed to do that day, but he could not woo Ophelia even slowly if she was always on the other side of the manor from him. He glanced down at his papers, knowing he must resume working on them. He’d much to catch up on after being away in London.
He sat down and worked until the dinner hour. He did not usually dine with Ophelia more than once a week when he was home. She would not expect him to join her tonight. A pair of servants slipped into the room at seven and deposited a meal for one on a table by the window. Harry studied the single place setting sourly. When the servants were gone, he went back to his work.
Despite his father’s adherence to rules, the estate had been a mess when Harry had inherited, and the demands on his pocketbook enormous at that time.
His father had left matters of the estate to indifferent managers. He’d not neglected his two last wives, though, or his mistresses. He’d spent lavishly on them, jewels, homes, his time. Nearly bankrupting his estate. His mother, God rest her soul, had been dead the better part of his life, and he was glad she’d escaped.
Harry had worked tirelessly to turn things around. He had kept his disappointments to himself, not even confessing to his cousin Paul the depths of his disgust with the man whose likeness he bore. He couldn’t bear to look at his own face in mirrors more than he had to.
Everyone had assumed Harry was like his father. For a time, he’d tried to live up to the old man’s scandalous reputation—even going so far as to boast of his amorous conquests.
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