Eleanor and Ophelia both spoke flawless French, and Julian’s French was accented by his Spanish, causing some misunderstandings. Perhaps his dark hair and eyes made him seem Spanish here, while in London everyone believed him to be Welsh.
“Do you not climb?” Julian pressed.
“No,” Mr. Moon repeated. “It’s pointless.”
“Unusual attitude for a man married to a lady climber,” Julian said.
Mr. Moon closed the newspaper and put it down, giving Julian his undivided attention, which was, frankly, unnerving. “I love my wife very much, and she is very much her own person, as am I. She supports me, I support her, that’s how it’s supposed to work. I gather you’ve never been married?”
Julian swallowed hard, thinking of his time living with Maria. The time where he thought they would get married, but she didn’t understand the difference between Catholicism and Church of England. Well, ultimately, she didn’t care about marriage, because she left the village he stayed in, disappearing into the Amazon, back to her people. “No,” he croaked. “Never married.”
He didn’t mean to, but his eyes drifted toward Ophelia then. Watching her laugh and talk, sipping her tea, as they all lingered over breakfast. Mr. Moon followed his gaze.
“Do you intend to be married?”
The question made his heart stop. He blubbered out meaningless sounds, never less articulate in his life.
Mr. Moon smiled suddenly, which should have been friendly, but somehow came across as condescending and vaguely threatening. “Good luck.” And he picked up his newspaper and continued to ignore Julian.
Julian glanced at Tristan, who immediately stuffed a heavily buttered piece of bread in his mouth and looked the other direction. Mr. Vogel likewise looked away.
“I’m not—” Julian protested, but Tristan just held up a hand to make him stop. “But there’s nothing—” Tristan waved his raised hand. “I’m too old for her.”
Tristan swallowed hard, no doubt regretting it. “Mate. Stop. When you’ve something to tell me, tell me. ’Til then, none of my business.”
Breath whooshed out of him as he sat back hard against his chair, causing the legs to squeak across the café’s polished floor. Did they see something he didn’t? Yes, men married much younger women all the time, but those were men who were of higher rank. An earl could marry a younger viscount’s daughter, but a baronet? Especially a penniless one? It seemed uncouth. But was there a possibility? Did she look at him the way he looked at her? He felt foolish and young and utterly ridiculous. He stood suddenly, snatching the green cloth napkin off his lap and throwing it on the table. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m going to take some air.”
*
At dinner, Juliansat next to her, feeding her funny quips and insights as everyone talked loudly across the table. Even Mr. Moon smiled and joked, allowing them to see his prodigious wit. With intelligence like that, it was no wonder that Prudence liked him so much.
Ophelia’s cheeks hurt from laughing.
“I meant to tell you earlier, but I forgot,” Julian said, leaning in conspiratorially.
He smelled good, like cloves and cinnamon. She’d had enough wine that she could admit that to herself. The evening was the most perfect one she could imagine, full of delicious food and good, plummy wine, and his unwavering attention.
She searched his face, wondering when she would be this close to him again. “Yes?”
“I received a note from the RGS. They plan to publish your article next month.”
Ophelia gasped. “My article?”
Julian chuckled as he nodded. “Your article. The one you wrote. I handed it to the editor shortly before I got on the ferry. It’s set. Next month, you will be a published authoress.”
Ophelia squeezed her eyes shut and kicked her legs to keep from squealing. A dream come true! But questions thrummed through her. “Wait, does he know who the author is?”
Julian shook his head. “I told him the author wanted to protect their identity, and preferred to be published as anonymous.”
Ophelia could kiss him, she was so happy. “I wish Papa could see it.”
Julian took one of her hands in his. “He would have been so proud of you.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?”
Justine snapped her fingers at them from across the table. “Share the good news with the class, please.”
“My article about us climbing Ben Nevis will be published by The Royal Geographical Society next month!”
