“There are some discernments that men make that can be deemed erroneous in hindsight,” Tristan muttered.
“Are you suggesting—” Ophelia almost choked on her sip of wine. “That he is with her because she is a loose woman?” Her voice had raised in pitch so high that she was almost squeaking.
Everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Oh, so it was true. Oh, and they’d all understood that from the beginning of the conversation, and she hadn’t. Oh. The idea of eating roast suddenly turned her stomach, but she kept still, refusing to flee the dinner table. Julian cavorting with an older woman. No, she amended, an age-appropriate woman most likely, just older than her. More appropriate than her. Better.
Which, of course, wasn’t relevant, because she had Lord Fairport to worry about. Or rather, his suit. And possible proposal. Which made her think of Portia, who was sitting there, completely silent on the matter.
“Portia, what do you think?”
“About what?” her sister asked, as if they had been talking about the weather and not what Sir Julian was doing dallying about with some strange woman.
Ophelia scanned the table, but from their shuttered expressions, she could tell no one wanted to continue the conversation. “Oh, er, me going to Paris.”
Portia gave her a critical and pitying glance. Ophelia hated that look, and it was the one Portia used most frequently on her. Portia seemed to glide through people, understanding them, liking them, getting them to like her, so easily. She could sort expressions and emotions and motivations better than anyone, while Ophelia had gotten none of that particular talent.
“With the proper chaperone, all should go swimmingly,” she said, echoing Arthur’s previous approval.
Ophelia nodded, and let them figure out conversation without her. She pushed the slices of roast around on her plate, listening to the pattern of clinking silverware as comfort. She stayed quiet through pudding, and then the cheese and port.
“Is all well?” Eleanor asked, as they were standing and moving from the dining room to the drawing room, where Lady Emily was intent on joining them for a chamomile tea.
Ophelia nodded, but Eleanor looked skeptical. Eleanor had met this Lady DeMarius. Ophelia wanted to ask her what she looked like, how she dressed, but Ophelia bit her tongue. It wouldn’t do to interrogate anyone over Sir Julian’s love interest. Whom he was absolutely free to have. Because he was a bachelor and owed no one his allegiance other than himself.
Eleanor tucked Ophelia’s arm in hers as they traipsed over to the drawing room, where Lady Emily already sat with her chamomile. Ophelia didn’t often see her, but she was wan and thin. Sickly-looking. None of the robustness than so many people touted motherhood giving to a person.
Arthur rushed to his wife’s side and doted upon her, which was somewhat comforting to see. A man who truly loved someone. They all filed in, taking up seats all over the room. Portia sat down at the piano and began to play. Lady Rascomb took the seat closest to the fire. Tristan poured the men a measure of brandy from the sideboard. “Anyone else?” he asked as he distributed the liquor.
Women said no, mostly. Lady Rascomb signaled for a glass. Sometimes Ophelia would as well, but she didn’t feel right. “I’m going to go lie down,” Ophelia said to her mother.
“Are you ill?”
“Just out of sorts. Excuse me.” Ophelia wandered out of the drawing room, feeling sick to her stomach. First Lucy Walker and now Sir Julian.
Eleanor caught up to her in the hallway. “Do you want to talk?”
The amount of empathy in her friend’s voice almost pushed her to tears. Is this how it had felt when they were in Scotland? When Eleanor and Tristan were flirting with one another? Is this how miserable she had felt?
“It’s nothing,” Ophelia said.
“Are you certain?” Eleanor pressed.
And Ophelia knew what she really meant:Is this about Sir Julian?And because the answer was probably yes, Ophelia didn’t answer at all. She nodded, and left her in the hallway.
*
Julian pulled uphis trousers.
“Is that all?” Delphine asked, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders.
Julian laughed hoarsely. “It’s all I can manage. If you want more, you should find a younger man.”
“Surely someone as virile as you should have no difficulty with a refractory period.” Delphine’s silk robe slipped off her shoulder. She looked like the pornographic French postcards that circulated through the ship’s crew and male passengers on the voyage home. The curve of her delicate white breast, still high and rosy from her exertion, was visible in the part of her robe. There was no question Delphine was perfectly lovely. Her attentions were flattery, making him feel more appealing than he was.
He chuckled at her flirtation. “I’m not as young as I used to be. And I think my jaw is locked up.”
She threw her head back in a throaty laugh. “The first time is all about discovering each other’s favorite paths to pleasure.”
“I suppose mine was more of a meandering path?” He had spent long enough between her legs that he had doubted his abilities.
