by Tanya Wilde
Rochester grinned. “Forgive me, Ophelia. I got caught up in the moment.”
“Yes, well, please stop.”
Oliver Moore, Viscount Nash, dear friend to them both, sauntered up to the table. “Rochester, Ophelia, what are the two of you discussing so solemnly? Gossip, I hope?”
“The usual: men and romance,” Rochester said, slanting Nash an arch look.
“Is that so?” Nash directed a smile at Ophelia. “Any man in particular?”
“The Marquis of Kirkwood,” Ophelia muttered bitterly.
“Not a bad fellow.”
“Not a particularly interesting one either,” Ophelia offered, sulking a little.
“Do not look so sour, my dear.” Rochester nudged her. “You will never attract a gentleman with such a downcast face,” he said, mimicking her mother’s voice.
Ophelia glared at her friend. “Must you use that tone? You know how that annoys me.”
Nash’s lips twisted.
Beyond Rochester, Ophelia caught the Earl of Avondale sneaking a glance their way again. “What do you know of the earl?” Ophelia discreetly nodded to Avondale.
Both men arched their brows at her question.
“What?” Ophelia said. “I caught him staring at me.”
Rochester’s brow did not lower. If anything, it raised a notch.
“He’s newly titled,” Nash said thoughtfully. “Inherited the title after his father passed away.”
“Besides that,” Ophelia replied. “Everyone knows he is recently titled.”
“He is also known to be a troublemaker,” Rochester said and winked at her. “Now that I think about it, perfectly your type.”
“I do not have a type.” She eyed him askance. “And I’m not a troublemaker.”
“No? You merely delight in disheveling the hats of swashbuckling opportunists by racing their carriages.”
Ophelia snorted.
“More mischievous than troublemaker, I’d say,” Nash corrected. “Avondale, that is, as he is harmless.”
Ophelia did not know about that. Not if the heat in his gaze was any indication. The earl did not look harmless. He looked extremely dangerous, in fact, though perhaps in ways only a woman could grasp.
“How do you mean?” Ophelia asked.
“He made a wager that had a poor bookish spinster run off to Bath,” Rochester commented. “I call that the mark of a troublemaker.”
Nash nodded slowly. “Yes, but I heard the lady’s brother orchestrated the entire affair so she would quit the season—ergo, mischievous by fact of participation but not the source of the trouble.”
“He still participated,” Rochester argued. “He could have said no.”
Ophelia thought Nash had the cooler head on this matter and aligned with his assessment. So Avondale was mischievous. No crime there. He was also out and about while in mourning. Also not frowned upon after a selective period of weeks had passed, but Ophelia’s mind always cautioned against the unfamiliar and unquestioned.
“What else do you know?” Ophelia prompted before the men escalated their debate, which they inevitably would.
“Not much,” Nash answered.
“I think what Ophelia means to ask is,” Rochester told Nash, “Is the earl an opportunist?”
“An opportunist?” Nash echoed, brows furrowing. “Ah, of course. I don’t believe so.”
“That’s a relief,” Ophelia said with a nod, recalling those intense eyes probing her. Newly titled, still in mourning, sudden focus on her—one could never be too cautious.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to court a gentleman?” Rochester probed. “Have you changed your mind?”
Nash’s jaw slackened. “Court what?”
“I’m merely curious as to why he would be staring at me all evening, that’s all,” Ophelia replied to Rochester while reaching for a pastry.
Nash’s eyebrows scrunched together as he turned to Rochester. “Tell me you did not put some silly scheme in her head about courting a gentleman?”
“I might have.”
Nash’s face turned crimson. “Rochester.”
“It’s not that scandalous, Nash,” Ophelia said. “But though I might be wary of money-grubbers knocking on my door, courting a gentleman is too much, even for me.”
“How is it too much?” Rochester inquired. “You ask him to dance, simple as that.”
“She’ll be considered forward,” Nash pointed out.
“A forward heiress is better than a backward one,” Ophelia pointed out, if only to get a rise out of Nash. Her friend could be too serious at times.
“Dear Lord, you both have lost your minds.” Nash glanced between them. “Completely.”
“So you are curious about Avondale,” Rochester remarked, ignoring Nash altogether. “But not enough to court him?”
She nodded. “I merely wondered about the man on account of his staring.”
“How has he been staring at you?” Nash asked reluctantly. “That might give us some insight.”
Ophelia thought for a moment, then said slowly, “As if I’m the answer he is looking for.”
“That doesn’t tell us much,” Nash remarked. “It could either mean your fortune or simply marriage to a beautiful woman.”
“Why don’t you ask him to dance?” Rochester suggested with a grin. “That way, you can sniff out his motivation.”
“Please stop referencing those ridiculous rumors,” Ophelia muttered. “I do not have a nose like a bloodhound.”
“Ophelia,” Nash said solemnly. “As your friend, I forbid you to ask Avondale to dance.” His eyes narrowed on her and Rochester. “Or any gentlemen for that matter.”
“It’s not as though I plan to drag him off to ravish his virtuous soul,” Ophelia defended.
“His soul is not virtuous. You can be sure of that,” Nash replied.
“Is he a rake, then?” Ophelia asked. She found herself oddly disappointed.
“Not a rake but a man. No man’s soul is virtuous,” Rochester clarified. “And there is still the matter of scaring a bluestocking off to Bath.”
“Who scared a bluestocking off to Bath?”
All three of them turned to the new voice that entered their circle. Ophelia’s lips parted.
“I beg your pardon,” Avondale said before any of them could react. He inclined his head. “I did not mean to eavesdrop. I found myself reaching for a treat and overheard your conversation.”
Oh, dear Lord.
Ophelia felt her face flush scarlet. Of course, the earl was only being polite. He must have overheard a great deal of their tête-à-tête. Just how long had he been standing there, earwigging, without them noticing?
“Avondale,” Rochester acknowledged with a touch of suspicion in his voice. He too found the earl’s “sudden” appearance suspect. “Haven’t seen you around lately.”
Ophelia and Nash grimaced at Rochester’s unfortunate turn of phrase. The man had lost his father. He was in mourning. Of course he would not be seen around lately. Lud, Ophelia wanted to whack Rochester again.
“Yes, well, tonight circumstances bid me to attend.” A bemused gleam entered Avondale’s eyes. “And, to return to my earlier query, I trust the lady that was scared off to Bath prevailed in good health?”
“Of course,” Nash murmured, slight color infusing his cheeks. “She is quite happily married at present.”
Ophelia was still hung up on the earl’s previous statement. Circumstances? What circumstances? Did he simply mean that he was in the market for a wife? A man, not a rake and not a fortune hunter, simply seeking to marry? If he wasn’t a bore, that would prove a miracle. Then again, he could merely be retrieving a friend. Drat, she was overthinking again.
She nudged Rochester, sending him a pointed look.
He cleared his throat. “May I introduce Lady Ophelia Thornton?”
Ophelia offered her gloved hand, shivering when Avondale’s fingers connected with hers. Their eyes met and held as h
e bowed to her. “My lady, a rare pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Her stomach did a slow somersault. If a woman could fall for eyes alone, she would most certainly fall for his. It felt like invisible threads were weaving a spell over her. But spell or not, when he freed her fingers to suddenly reach out for her face, she stiffened.
“You have a spot of cream,” his thumb brushed at the corner of her mouth, “right there.” He lifted his finger for her inspection, the corner of his lips lifting into a grin. “See.”
Humiliation rendered her speechless.
The Earl of Saville appeared at Avondale’s side and patted his shoulders. “You ready to depart this decrepit hell of . . .” his voice trailed off as he spotted Ophelia. “My lady,” he said on a deep bow.
“Forgive my friend’s manners,” Avondale murmured. His eyes never left Ophelia’s as he lifted his thumb to his mouth to suck the cream from his finger. “Until the next time we meet, my lady.”
Oh! Ophelia wanted to hang her head in mortification as the stream of embarrassments hit her one by one. First, she was unclear about how much the earl had overheard of her overly bold questioning about him. Then there had been cream—evidence of her indulgence—on her lip the entire time. And even with these moments of shame on the forefront of her mind, she still couldn’t quite focus beyond the fact that he had licked the cream from his finger.
Lord above.
Ophelia’s face flamed as the two men bid their farewell, Avondale’s parting wink raising her pulse to new heights.
“Did you see the way he tasted that cream?” Nash choked out. His amazed eyes were glued to Avondale’s back, drawing a glare from Rochester.
“He wanted to taste more than cream,” Rochester said disapprovingly.
Ophelia stared at the spot Avondale had disappeared from, her heart pounding, and amended her earlier thoughts on the man.
She had thought him predatory. The one who pursued. But after being introduced to him, Ophelia could tell there was more to the man than met the eye—a sort of audacious spark to him. Something playful and full of life. An energy that called to the woman inside of her. Which made her all the more grateful that her parents raised a levelheaded woman. Because had she decided to take Rochester’s idea to heart, which she had not, the Earl of Avondale not only would have made her list—he would have held a spot right at the top.
***
Harry strolled away, his gait lighter than it had been in days.
Admittedly, he had always considered himself an idealist. Granted, he would never be the sort of man that cited poetry or fell in love at the drop of a hat, but Harry had always thought, in the far reaches of his mind, that he’d marry for love. A reason beyond duty. Motivation beyond heirs. One day.
Ophelia Thornton. The name turned over in his mind. The lady was something else. Brazen. Beautiful. Beguiling. A sweet breath of fresh air in an otherwise stale environment. She could be a reason beyond duty. Hell, her laughter alone had held his pulse captive. Her magnetism was awe-inspiring. He felt the pull as surely as he felt his still-racing heart.
In a perfect world, Harry would not delay fighting for Lady Ophelia’s hand. But his world was one disaster after another at present.
Those blasted pieces of art.
His mother’s list.
Nothing about it felt right.
Marrying an heiress for her purse strings did not sit well with him. And though he’d met her but for a brief moment, the mere thought of wedding Lady Ophelia for that purpose felt even worse. Yet Harry could spend the rest of his life listening to her laughter and die a happy man.
But he could never wed her. Not for that reason.
Harry refused to accept the title “fortune hunter” as his fate.
“Tonight you interacted with two of the women on your list,” Saville drawled, drawing Harry from his thoughts. “Are you partial to Lady Ophelia?”
“Forget that damn list. I’m confident I will find my father’s missing art.”
“This again,” Saville said lazily. “It might be too late for that. The art could be halfway around the world this very moment.”
“Or it could be buried beneath a tree in my garden.” Sarcasm laced Harry’s voice.
“More likely your art is occupying another buyer’s home,” Saville noted dryly.
“I have a man on the task of finding the pieces as we speak.”
“And you are confident this man will find your father’s purchases?”
“He must.”
There was no other choice.
“Well, in the event that he fails, you still have four heiresses on the list to cross off.”
Harry sighed. He did not want to think of what might happen if they did not retrieve those art pieces. And he was burning that damn list the first opportunity he got.
His mind drifted back to Lady Ophelia’s sparkling green eyes. No other women on that list—no, in all of London, all of Britain, even—would ever compare to a single note of her laughter. It was just that kind of sound. He could not explain his reaction or his need to find her in the sea of dancers. Harry was probably not the only man who responded that way. Lady Ophelia must have that effect on all gentlemen in her circle.
“Speaking of which, where is the list?” Harry asked.
“Dunno,” Saville answered. “Warrick has it, I believe.”
“Tell him to burn the cursed thing.”
“I will,” Saville said, followed by a grunt. “My head is still smarting from last night’s brandy.”
They stopped at the entrance and waited for the footman to retrieve their cloaks. Within two minutes, they were heading out. The tension slowly eased from Harry’s shoulders.
Midway down the steps leading to the line of carriages, they were met by Warrick, panting and out of breath as if he’d run twenty miles.
“Christ man, what devil is chasing your tail?” Saville asked, a scowl gathering between his brows.
“I lost the list,” Warrick wheezed between labored breaths. “I lost the list.”
Harry’s heart came to an abrupt stop.
“What do you mean you lost the list?” he demanded, a sickening sense of dread spreading through his bones as his heart started up again, each beat painful against his ribs.
“It must have fallen out of my pocket last night,” Warrick replied, clutching his chest to catch his breath. “Searched the entire bloody night for that scrap of paper.”
“This cannot be happening.” Harry dragged a hand over his face. “You wrote things on that list!”
“We did,” Warrick corrected.
“Devil take it, man,” Saville snapped, hands fisting. “My sister’s name is on that scrap of paper!”
Warrick inhaled deeply. “I found it again.”
“Why the hell didn’t you start with that?” Harry demanded. He let out a shaky breath. Relief had never felt so bloody acidic.
“Thank Christ,” Saville growled. “Burn the damn thing.”
Warrick shook his head, an apologetic turn curving his mouth. “I found it, but I don’t have it.”
“What the devil does that mean?” Harry growled.
“Chatteris found the list, which would have been fine had Aubrey Digby, that rat bastard, not been there. It fell into his hands.”
Bloody hell!
The list had made its way to the worst possible member of White’s. There was no way in hell Aubrey Digby, Baron of Cromwell, would not exploit the content. And if it should ever come to light that the list was his . . . that they, Harry, Saville, Deerhurst, and Warrick had written those remarks of the women . . .
It would be a bloody nightmare.
A catastrophe.
Hell, Harry would be lucky if he ever acquired any bride, much less one with a fortune.
It won’t come to that, he reassured himself. No one except them knew the truth.
“I don’t care if that son of a bitch has the list!” Saville growled. “Threaten to beat him into t
he sixth chamber of hell, and get the damn list back.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“How the devil does it get more complicated than that?” Harry demanded. Sure, they might have to resort to extreme measures to get the list back without outing themselves, but that was not impossible. The state of affairs could not possibly get worse than that.
But it could.
And Warrick’s next words confirmed how.
“The list is secured in the betting book of White’s.”
Chapter 5
Two days later
Ophelia clapped her hands in delight as horses flew past her and Rochester’s place in the stands. Dust clouds enclosed the onlookers, blinding them momentarily, but the crowd roared with cheer nonetheless. Beside her, Rochester made a remark about hair and grime. But though the smell of dirt, horses, and cigars was as inescapable as the air they breathed, Ophelia did not mind the undisguised rawness of the tracks.
She loved it all.
Ascot was one of the rare places where she could observe gentlemen in their most natural state. Puffery and pretense did not hold court here as it did in the ballroom, not amid the sweat and dung—at least not for the men. Many of the ladies present, on the other hand, were another breed entirely. Fashion predominated the minds of the fashionable. And while Ophelia could never be called unfashionable, she did not parade the grounds and showcase her artistry to attract attention. She liked to think herself quite separate from that lot, an exception to the rule. And it would be remiss to point out that some gentlemen were, of course, an exception to the general rule for men here as well.
Point in fact . . .
“Must we stand so close?” Rochester complained, dusting off his pristinely ironed jacket. “I can scarcely breathe from the dust collecting in my lungs.”
“Cheer up, Rochester! My horse is going to win!”
“Your horse has never won before.”
“I’m sure one of them has,” Ophelia retorted.
“I assure you, they haven’t, because each year I walk away with a hefty purse.”
Her gaze swung to his. “You bet against me?”
“I don’t bet on you.”