Delphine looked bored by names she didn’t recognize. In response to Mrs. Bridewell’s recitation, she only made a hum of acknowledgment.
“Very brave, what they did,” Julian said.
“Or you could have stayed home, and you wouldn’t have been in danger,” Delphine said. “So lovely to meet you both. We absolutely must see the next room. I’ve been positively aching to be here for weeks.”
She pulled him away from the Bridewells so suddenly that he didn’t have time to argue. He let out a stunned farewell and let her pull him along. They stood in front of another painting.
“That was rude,” Julian commented, his consuming lust from earlier completely evaporated.
Delphine turned on him, her eyebrows drawn together in concern. “My apologies, Julian, I couldn’t bear to talk about a topic that everyone else loves and I do not. It makes me feel like my life has been utterly wasted.”
Julian softened at this. “But what you said sounded so insulting to Mrs. Bridewell.”
“Oh, did it? I certainly didn’t mean to make her feel bad, the words slipped out.” She turned her attention back to the painting, rather than seeking his forgiveness.
It rankled that she didn’t offer an apology, and he understood that she wouldn’t, because she said she was embarrassed for her actions. And her rudeness was not that she intended to insult the other woman, but rather suffered an insecurity which rose to the surface in polite company. Lord knew he had plenty of insecurities himself. He decided to let the matter drop. It wouldn’t do well to think so poorly of her, and he’d found that most people meant well, overall.
“Would you care for an ice? There’s a shop not far from here,” he suggested.
“Sounds delightful,” she said, as if she could intuit his forgiveness. “And then perhaps you wouldn’t mind walking me home?”
“Of course,” he said, confused as to why she would think he might abandon her in the middle of London.
“And stay for a bit?” she insisted, her dark eyes searching his.
“Er,” he said, before his mind understood the inference.Oh.“If you like.”
She patted his chest, as if she had fixed his pocket square. “I told you I have your best interests at heart.”
*
Family dinners onSundays used to be a chore. As children, they were called down from the nursery to have them, all together, so that they might learn from watching their parents. Ophelia recalled her dread of them. Sundays were the worst day of the week, from the cold pews of the church in the morning to the tedious evening meal, she could barely keep herself from throwing herself out a window.
Now that she was older, she enjoyed the dinners. Her sister Portia and her husband came, Eleanor came with Tristan. And now Lady Emily joined their table as well. Well, typically, she did. It was lovely to have all of them together, the original Bridewell siblings and their spouses. Except for her, of course. She looked down at her hands. As the youngest daughter, it was conceivable that she would have married long before Arthur or Tristan, which was typical for the fairer sex. Men could wait until they inherited, or were set in a career so they could provide for their future family. Women, given limited self-reliance, were married off as early as some families could manage, as they were a drain on the household finances.
But she would not think on that now.
“A roast!” Tristan rubbed his hands together. “Finally.”
“Lady Emily has not been planning the menus of late,” Ophelia said. “Too ill.”
Arthur shot her a quelling look.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Ophelia insisted as her mother failed to chime in around the dinner table. “Lady Emily’s menus are boring.”
“I like her menus,” Arthur protested. When no one else seconded his comment, he scanned the room and found no one to meet his gaze.
Ophelia shrugged. “At least I’m willing to say it.”
Eleanor giggled. “Now that Justine isn’t here, someone has to take the job.”
Tristan snickered.
“And what is the news from Justine Vogel these days?” Lady Rascomb asked as she tasted her soup.
“Smashing, no doubt,” Tristan said. While he and Justine had made a sport out of bickering, after their subsequent marriages to other people and the bonding of a harrowing night on the Matterhorn, they’d become quiet champions of one another.
“We’re discussing meeting up in Paris sometime after the summer ends,” Ophelia said, glancing between Arthur and her mother. Someone had authority over her still—her brother, technically—though she didn’t know which one would protest this idea.
