To suggest he was after Lady Rascomb affronted his very honor. “No!”
Delphine relaxed with a smile. “Good. You know I don’t like competition.”
“These people are the closest thing I have to family left. We will be dining with an eye toward the compatibility of the young couple.” Lord Milquetoast the Bland and Miss Ophelia. He still couldn’t figure out why Ophelia would entertain the idea of that man, but a title, security, those must be appealing. He’d not had to consider those factors, being a man, and an heir to a frighteningly small fortune.
“And you play the part of a dutiful uncle?” Delphine slipped next to him in the carriage, pressing herself up against him.
They had not consummated their relationship fully yet. Delphine had managed to turn what he’d meant to be a chaste evening of chess into a different sort of game. But still he hadn’t wanted to fully give himself over, as if the hours spent dallying without their clothing were not as consequential. He knew in his mind that this was not true, that their proximity and physicality was still intimacy, but when she’d asked him to be inside her, it felt like too much to him. A commitment that felt wrong. He knew other men didn’t feel that way, but dammit, he did.
He’d made excuses, used his hands to bring her to another climax to distract her. It wasn’t well-done of him, but he couldn’t parse his embattled emotions yet. There was always something else to think about. The Matterhorn, a trip to Paris, his writings, his next appointment to South America by either the RGS or a private company.
Still, he’d squired her to the art exhibition, the opera, Hyde Park, and a few private concerts. It had been instructive to meet Delphine’s friends—more artists and bon vivants than he’d known. They were witty and clever, full of vitality. The kind of vigor he’d felt when he was on a mountain. A feeling that he keenly missed, which pushed him even more towards thinking of the Matterhorn.
Delphine seemed content to kiss him and pet him there in the carriage while his mind was occupied with other things, but he caught her hand when it strayed too close to his hair.
“I don’t wish to appear unkempt,” he said.
“You mean you don’t wish to appear as if you’ve fooled around in a carriage on the way to dinner,” Delphine said, reaching out to unbutton the top button of his shirt.
He caught her hand again. “Precisely. I want to be respectful.”
She hummed in disapproval. “Terribly boring of you.”
“I told you, this is family.”
Delphine crossed back over to her side of the carriage and sulked. Fortunately, they arrived not long after. He descended and helped Delphine down, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to accept the invitation from Arthur—er, Rascomb rather. It was hard to call his friend’s son by his name, even if Julian and Arthur were more of a similar age than Arthur’s father and Julian had been.
He hoped that this dinner would smooth over Delphine’s rudeness to Tristan Bridewell and his wife. That it would ease Lady Rascomb’s perspective of Julian’s involvement with Delphine. Even though he’d been ready to cut Delphine off, the idea of the conflict made his temples throb. It would be far easier if everyone got along tonight.
Besides, Delphine’s clever wit might be an interesting match to Ophelia’s strong mind. They were intelligent in such different ways. If Delphine could only stop seeing other women as competition.
Ferris ushered them into the townhome, taking their hats and coats. The butler still guided them up to the drawing room as if Julian weren’t a frequent visitor. Lord Fairport had already arrived, and he was engaged with Rascomb in the corner, while Mr. and Mrs. Bridewell chatted with Lady Rascomb and Miss Ophelia.
The men wore almost identical black and white suits, but the ladies wore a pleasing array of colors. It was something he had enjoyed about going to Society events, and something he missed about his sojourns in South America—the colors. London was so gray and drab. Staid and somber, as he ought to be as well now that his forties were approaching.
Ferris announced Delphine and himself, and the company turned as one. The ladies curtsied and the men bowed to Delphine, given that she outranked them all, with the exception of Fairport. They entered, but had barely enough time for introductions before the dinner bell rang. Since this was a family dinner, they did not follow a ranked entrance, and made their way as they wished.
At the table, however, Delphine was seated across from him, next to Fairport, while Julian was seated between Lady Rascomb and Mrs. Bridewell. On the other side of Fairport sat Miss Ophelia. Fairport was about to get whiplash from the steady stream of witty banter, no doubt. Julian grinned, and wished he’d been seated there. But then, he suddenly worried, if Delphine perceived Ophelia as a threat, it could be a vicious place indeed.
For a long while, dinner seemed to be going well, with light first courses, crisp wines, and easy chatter. Julian couldn’t pinpoint where the turning point was, precisely, as he was deeply ensconced with discussing which knot would have been better when hauling cargo down a snow-covered mountainside with Mrs. Bridewell.
“Don’t you think?” Delphine asked loudly, catching everyone’s attention.
The table quieted. Fairport’s expression was perplexed and Miss Ophelia was staring down into her lap. Something had definitely occurred.
Delphine looked straight at Julian. “What do you think?”
“I beg your pardon,” Julian said, buying time to look at everyone’s faces, trying to gauge the responses. “I did not hear the conversation.”
“Miss Ophelia asked Lord Fairport if he believed a married woman could go on an Alpine expedition with a man who was not her husband. I said that it was another way of cuckolding her husband.” The coldness in Delphine’s eyes conveyed her earlier thoughts exactly:I don’t like competition.
“I don’t see why, with proper chaperones, it is any different than an unmarried woman going on an expedition with an unmarried man. Something that both myself and Mrs. Bridewell have done.” Miss Ophelia kept her voice even, but she didn’t lower its volume. If he had closed his eyes, he would not think Miss Ophelia upset in the slightest.
“And look what happened,” Delphine said, gesturing to Mrs. Bridewell next to Julian, and Mr. Tristan Bridewell seat on Delphine’s right.
Ophelia frowned, and Mr. Bridewell’s brow furrowed, no doubt wanting to protest the idea.
“I don’t understand why this should come up at all,” Lord Fairport said. “What does it matter?”
