Justine’s mouth made a flat line, as if she didn’t really believe her. Which, Ophelia could see why she wouldn’t.
“Any other stipulations?”
Ophelia thought about it. “After an heir is born, I choose if he is allowed to touch me again.”
Justine’s eyelashes fluttered with how rapidly she blinked. This was clearly unexpected. “Oh.”
“I think it would only be right to be the one to control my own person.”
“Yes, of course, but I’m not sure he would agree to such a stipulation,” Justine said, looking down at her cup of chocolate.
“Why not? It is my body. I should control who has access to it.”
“But a husband wants to retain those rights for his own pleasure,” Justine said, nearly choking on the last word.
“But if it doesn’t please me, then why should I engage in that sort of behavior with him?” Ophelia protested.
“I agree with your sentiment wholeheartedly, Ophelia. However, I’m not sure Lord Fairport would. But it would be a good negotiating point. I’ve learned a great deal about negotiations from the Vogel family.”
Ophelia frowned. “He is not forcing you—”
Justine’s laugh cut her off. “No, not that. No, they are merchants, and deal in goods across Europe. Negotiations are critical and can do a great deal of revealing work. So if you put those two things down as your stipulations, and Lord Fairport doesn’t like it, you remove one of them to obtain the other, as a compromise.”
“But I don’t wish to compromise.”
“No one does,” Justine said, putting her hand on Ophelia’s arm. “The question is, do you want to enter this negotiation at all?”
“I think I’d rather walk and talk about this.” Ophelia did not wish to talk about this at all, but she couldn’t very well say that. It was a betrothal, and she knew she ought to be ecstatic. Even with Justine, who was not ecstatic about the prospect, Ophelia knew she needed to feign interest.
Because how depressing would it be to marry a man she didn’t like? On top of everything else?
They finished at the café, rounded up Karl, and returned to the hotel as the others were as well. They stood in the lobby discussing adventures and where they should make reservations for dinner. Tristan finally took charge and went to the desk to ask the concierge to make reservations, and he told the man to hold a table for seven.
“Seven?” Ophelia asked. “But our party numbers eight.”
Eleanor took Ophelia’s hand and whispered, “Sir Julian left this afternoon. A telegram arrived, and he said he had urgent business in London.”
The words burned. Justine looked at her with worry. Prudence detached from Mr. Moon and came over to stand near them. Turning, Prudence announced brightly in her American accent, “I have a brilliant idea. Men, why don’t you go out together for dinner, and us four ladies will dine in tonight. We will have all our potions and lotions out to refresh and renew ourselves, and you all can visit some place we would hate.”
“Not the Moulin Rouge,” Justine said, staring daggers at Tristan. Tristan put his hands up in his own defense.
Ophelia sagged with relief.
“We will not go to the Moulin Rouge,” Tristan agreed. “Gentlemen? Where shall we go with our newfound freedom?”
Prudence returned to Ophelia’s side. “Let me take care of everything. Would you like Champagne, wine, or sherry?”
“Or gin?” Justine suggested.
“The first two,” Ophelia said.
“Why don’t you get her a bath sorted, and I’ll order up provisions for the evening.” Prudence said to Eleanor.
“Can we use my room to gather in?” Ophelia said. “I don’t want—”
“Absolutely.” Justine said, cutting off Ophelia’s lack of explanation. Her best friend knew that Ophelia sometimes wanted to only be in her own space. That she could only truly relax in a space that was for herself.
The emptiness that she had felt after her father’s accident yawned wide open, knowing that Julian had left without saying so much as a goodbye. She pulled away from the rest of the Ladies’ Alpine Society and went to the desk, asking if there was any note or post for her. The man checked but shook his head in the negative. Nothing.
Julian hadn’t even bothered to leave her a note. Could he have received a telegram, requesting his presence? It was possible. But as far as Ophelia knew, the only urgent business was making sure his landlady would get the rent. A task easily fixed from the safety of a Paris hotel. Perhaps it was the love letter that was urgent.
“Come on upstairs, Fee,” Justine said, taking her shoulders and guiding her upstairs.
Ophelia knew her brother was looking to the others for an explanation. But Ophelia didn’t cry, didn’t contort her face in despair or even sniff out of turn. That wasn’t her way. No, she was not prone to outbursts. Rather, she retreated. That scared some, how far she could go inside of herself. Thankfully, Justine knew this. And with Justine’s help, she could return to London without gossips catching wind of what might look to others like a deeply depressed state.
