He had no doubt that Ophelia would enjoy small excursions like a stroll through the British Museum as he’d done with Delphine, as well as accompanying him on larger ones, like climbing mountains. She was a Londoner, yes, but she was also a person who looked beyond the British Empire. A global citizen as much as a British one. And she didn’t seem to possess that air of English superiority that so many of the explorers at the RGS seemed to be harboring. It drove him mad.
How lovely would it be to come home to a woman that he could really talk to? One who was not just a helpmeet, but a partner? Able and funny, beautiful and curious, strong and ambitious. And there was that need inside his aching heart again. Waxing poetic didn’t make him want her less. But that telegram from RGS, asking for an interview as soon as possible made it easy to swallow his cowardice.
“Oh, Dunstan, good chap,” Lord Fairport said, strolling down the damp hallway. “I am well to bursting with excitement.”
The man looked pleased, but no more than the type of expression a man might have than having a good apple tart placed in front of him. “Are you?” Julian inquired, not caring, but unable to snub such a blandly amiable man.
“I am. It’s been months, and that Rascomb is a hard negotiator, he is.” Fairport put his hands on his hips, as if he were chastising a dog. “But we’ve finally come to an agreement, and tonight I shall propose to Miss Bridewell formally.”
Julian would have much preferred Fairport thrash him. There was an impulse that scratched through him, to tell him he’d already been with Ophelia, and therefore staked his claim. That there was no amount of negotiation that Fairport could do to erase the fact that Julian knew her body better than Fairport ever could. That the sound of Ophelia’s ecstasy, her arched back, her mewling gasps as her climax coursed through her haunted his dreams nightly. But he couldn’t. He never staked his claim to her heart. That awful breakfast the morning after her apology, where she sniped and taunted him. The disdain for him that made him run. “Do you think she will agree to marry you?”
Fairport blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
It was Julian’s turn to blink and frown. “I mean, do you think she will accept your suit?” Because Julian wanted her to say no. Julian wanted her to run away with him to Ecuador or Chile, to the beautiful green Andes, shaped unlike any mountains in Europe. Any place where they could be themselves, and he didn’t have to constantly belittle himself for not being a viscount, or not having a fortune.
“Why wouldn’t she?” Fairport looked vaguely concerned.
“I don’t know, but is that not why you are asking?” Julian countered. In a perverse way, he enjoyed watching Fairport squirm.
“I’m asking as a formality. I’ve signed contracts with her brother. It’s done.”
“But it is contingent on her agreement, is it not?”
“Well, yes, but why would we go to all this trouble if it were not certain?” Fairport backed up, as if he needed the support of the opposite wall to keep him upright.
“I don’t know,” Julian said.
“Well, I don’t know either.” Fairport held his hand to his head. “Why would you bring up such a difficult conundrum?”
“I did not bring up a conundrum,” Julian said slowly. Was the man entirely daft? “I merely asked a question.”
“A question designed to utterly undermine my efforts! It was you, after all, who pointed her out. It was under your influence that I set my mind to asking Miss Ophelia Bridewell to dance. What is your game, sir?”
Baffled, Julian raised his hands, as if it could indicate some defense. “I have no game. I was merely being polite in inquiring after your impending nuptials.”
Fairport sighed, relief streaming into his wide-set features. “Oh. Oh, I see. I see it now.”
“Yes,” Julian said, wondering if Fairport was moments away from an entire mental breakdown. How very tedious it would be to deal with this man’s temperament. Which Ophelia would have to do for the rest of her life. And apparently, he had orchestrated it all, unknowingly. As if he couldn’t ruin her even more than he already had. He let his head fall back against the wall, the impact stinging.
“But thank you for bringing me back to reality, sir.” Fairport collected himself and stood fully upright again and shook a finger at Julian. “You are the devil himself, but I’m glad to have you on my side.”
The devil himself? Seemed a bit harsh to say, or rather, it wouldn’t be if Fairport knew the true extent of it.
“I must dash. New coat for this evening’s dinner. Must be on my best for my future bride.”
Julian dipped his head, acknowledging Fairport’s superior rank. “Then good luck to you.”
“Yes, thanks. I shan’t need it.” Fairport disappeared around a corner.
No. A wealthy earl didn’t need luck. He’d already been born with it, wedged between every tooth.
There was no way to atone for how awful he had made Ophelia’s life. He should have never appeared at their house, so long ago. He should have never visited so regularly, or engaged in such welcome and stimulating conversation with her. And of course, he never should have opened his hotel room door that night. That wonderful night where he’d felt complete and whole for the first time. A night that he turned to in even the smallest of moments, not only for the eroticism, but for that feeling of acceptance. The peace she had given him when they had finally found their rhythm together.
Tomorrow then, hat in hand, he would go make the best apology he could muster. And break his own heart as he did so, for he was calling on the future Lady Fairport.
*
The drawing roomwas ablaze with candlelight. Lady Rascomb had never fully trusted the gas lines that were installed in the house and preferred the more forgiving light of actual fire. Ophelia didn’t mind on cold, rainy nights like this evening, as the chill still seeped past the heavy tapestry of the winter curtains.
