As she slipped out of her dress and took the pins out of her hair, she sagged against the weight of her life. She could acknowledge that it was better than most, yes, but what had she done with it? She was a failure, and when she’d tried so hard to prove that women could be as adventurous as men, she had failed more than herself. She’d failed her father, who had believed in her. Believed so hard that he’d died in her attempt to prove it. And it wasn’t infrequent for her to receive a letter or suffer the comments of men who hadn’t so much as climbed a molehill to tell her how her failure was foreordained on the basis of her body.
And now, she was a failure at trysting. Julian had seemed so right and so perfect, but there was something about their interaction that left her feeling so very bereft. That she had opened up to him in every way possible, and he’d given nothing. She felt like a schoolgirl with a crush on a teacher who had patted her head when she confessed.
But perhaps they could repair this at breakfast. Get back to the familiar space for them: fully clothed conversation. That was better. Easier. She went to bed, but tossed and turned, not falling asleep for hours.
*
Julian skipped downthe stairs the next morning. He’d slept well, relieved that Ophelia understood him enough to let him have his privacy. That what they’d shared was special, but that certain things were inviolate. They’d had a very intellectual apology exchange, which was such a relief. He remembered Maria’s occasional crying fits that he’d never quite understood, as she never explained them in Spanish or English. He hadn’t understood what was happening, and was only relieved when she calmed herself.
What a novel experience to be with such a level-headed woman like Ophelia.
He stopped by the front desk to pick up his post and saw Ophelia already in the morning room, taking tea and toast. She likewise had gotten her post and was reading letters. It would be a lovely, easy morning together. Friends. Even if he’d prefer to be more, despite his guilt.
Had she regretted their intimacy? Had it not been good? He was fairly certain that she had climaxed several times. He wasn’t an egotistical person about most things, but he could admit he kept count of his partner’s pleasures. It was merely a good way to analyze the situation for improvements. Frankly, he would be shocked if every Englishman didn’t do so, given their national propensity for bureaucracy.
“Good morning. May I?” Julian stood beside the chair, waiting for her permission, despite their previous invitation.
She waved her hand, and he sat, notifying the waitstaff with a raised finger to bring another cup for the pot that already steamed in front of Ophelia. “Please. And good morning to you as well.”
Her hair was hastily pinned up, and strands were coming loose. It was more than the amount of curled tendrils that was fashionable, but it was tantalizing to see the locks catching the morning light. It made him think of her hair strewn across his bare chest. Across his pillow. Wound between his fingers.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, pouring his own tea when she made no motion to put her letter down, or even make eye contact with him.
“Thank you for asking,” she said, still not bothering to look up.
He let the moment pass, but it was frustrating. He thought they’d repaired the squabble they’d had. “That’s not an answer.”
“What’s not an answer?” she asked, still engrossed. She chewed on her lip as she read.
It was an unladylike habit, but he confessed he found it appealing, giving her lower lip a bee-stung appearance, just as her mouth had looked after he’d kissed her senseless. Was she a coquette? Had she more schooling in the art of drawing a man in? If it were Delphine, he would absolutely believe this to be an act. But with Ophelia, could she be such a flirt? “Are you doing that for me?”
“For who?” she asked, flipping the letter over, continuing to read.
“For me.”
“No, the letter is for me,” she said, shaking her head. “Obviously.”
Julian sighed. “You aren’t listening.”
“You aren’t looking,” she said, her eyes finally snapping up to meet his. “I’m busy reading. Stop talking.”
Julian blinked, taken aback. “That was uncalled for.”
“Was it?” She sighed and put down her letter. “I see you feel that I must adjust my behavior because you have arrived in my sightline.”
Julian’s mouth fairly gaped open. Who was this harpy? “It is merely polite.”
She waved her hand. “Yes, yes, a woman is to serve, I understand. Any activity I engage in is not worth continuing once a man enters the room.”
“That is not what I said,” Julian protested.
“No, but you implied that me biting my lip is somehow bait for you.”
“I thought you weren’t listening.” Julian narrowed his eyes. So she was a coquette?
She huffed and set her jaw. “I wasn’t at the time. But I spooled it up in my mind and examined it again. So yes, I know what you said now. And no, I was not readingfor you, I was not drinking teafor you, and I certainly was not biting my lipfor you. Do you know how many times I was paddled for that growing up? Not for you.”
Julian flushed at the idea of Ophelia being paddled. Because he didn’t picture a little girl, he pictured her as she was now, in her pretty pale blue day dress, with ruffled lace at the collar, bent over a table. Not helpful. “How about we start over? Good morning, Ophelia.”
