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Fingers squeezed tight, Ophelia held her breath, waiting for Stanford’s response. She’d rehearsed what she wanted to say. That nervous, stumbling-over-her-tongue jumble hadn’t been the smooth, rational speech she’d practiced.

Regardless, her meaning was clear, and Stanford would have to be as obtuse and as thick as a one-hundred-year-old oak’s trunk to not comprehend her meaning. He was neither of those things.

It was incomprehensible to consider physical intimacy with a man she scarcely knew. She had no idea what his food preferences were or if he had any pets or favorite activities. What was more, she didn’t know what Stanford didn’t like, although his reputation suggested nearly everything fell into that category.

Her soon-to-be husband wasn’t known for his good nature and genial mien.

But still, shouldn’t husbands and wives at least know each other’s favorite color or how many children they wanted? And that intrusive thought brought her right back to the issue at hand.

Consummating their vows.

Folding her hands together, Ophelia darted a swift glance to the mantel clock.

Two forty-two.

Gabriella and Maxwell would return any moment.

Perhaps she ought to have waited to make her request, but she’d been a bundle of nerves since arriving at the decision early this morning after having lain awake all night. She wasn’t saying she and Stanford would never consummate the marriage.

Just not right away.

Only a couple of days ago, she’d vowed to never wed him.

She still hadn’t adjusted to the fact that in one week, he would be her husband. In truth, she had considered reneging and letting scandal reign. But every time she examined the consequences of that decision, it brought her full circle.

A compromised woman wasn’t welcome in Society. She’d face malicious whispers and unwanted attention from men who now believed her fast and a wanton. By marrying Stanford and becoming a duchess, she might suffer a few unkind looks and cuts, but a duchess was powerful in her own right.

This wasn’t the path Ophelia would’ve chosen, but moping about all Friday faced would serve no purpose. She had wandered farther into the woods, out of sight of Stanford and the fair-goers, and had been caught unawares. The responsibility lay solely at her feet, even if the consequences were unjust.

The weighty silence seemed to drag on forever. She glanced at the clock again, resisting the urge to wiggle or prod him into responding.

Two forty-four.

“How long?” Stanford asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Nothing in his tone gave away his emotions.

Ophelia’s gaze flew to his.

He was actually considering her request?

Without arguing?

Wetting her lower lip, she blinked rather stupidly at him.

Ophelia had hoped he would, of course, but she hadn’t expected he’d be this cooperative. In fact, she’d anticipated a battle. Quite a loud, intense, highly unpleasant argument, truth be told. She was far more accustomed to quarrelsome encounters with Stanford than cooperation.

“I…well…honestly, I don’t know.” She hadn’t thought that far ahead.

What was a reasonable amount of time to get to know one’s spouse?

Several of her friends had fallen in love swiftly. Everleigh, Duchess of Sheffield, Theadosia, Duchess of Sutcliffe, Jessica, the new Duchess of Bainbridge, and Gabriella too. Gabriella said that her heart knew Maxwell was her soulmate, and waiting months or years to wed would’ve been ridiculous.

And Gabriella had loathed Maxwell before she fell tea kettle over bum in love with him.

Love was a strange creature, indeed. Not the least bit logical or sensible. Not that Ophelia expected to love Stanford. But mutual respect that mayhap developed into genuine liking wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Stanford slid a tense glance toward the open door.

“One month, Ophelia.”