Page 24

An hour later, Ophelia’s face threatened to crack under the strain of constant smiling and pretending to be thrilled about her upcoming nuptials. Yet, her responses must’ve been believable because no one seemed to notice the tension radiating from her. Or the slight twitch that had begun at the corner of her mouth fifteen minutes ago.

In truth, that might be blamed on over-taxed muscles. In fact, that was the excuse Ophelia intended to use if anyone commented on the nervous tic.

A few minutes ago, she’d slipped out the French windows to the terrace adjacent to the drawing room. She couldn’t stay away for long. She’d be missed, and that would cause more gossip.

Nonetheless, she desperately needed five minutes alone to calm her thoughts and to regain her equanimity. This nervousness sluicing through her was as foreign and unpleasant as the Russian caviar she’d sampled at the Berkenshires’ rout a fortnight ago.

Chin tucked to her chest, she trailed a finger across a peach rosebud. The gardens weren’t extensive but sufficed as a pleasant reprieve to enjoy nature.

Several times since the guests had arrived, she’d met Stanford’s gaze from across the room. At first, she’d been relieved they wouldn’t be forced together the entire afternoon. She hadn’t been sure she could pull off the charade of a happy bride-to-be with him beside her. But astonishingly, she found herself seeking him out with her gaze, over and over, and wishing he was at her side.

Which, truth be told, was the queerest of things.

Since when had he become an ally?

Better an ally for a husband than an enemy.

Stanford had given her tender half-smiles, his blue eyes gleaming with something Ophelia couldn’t name but which made her feel warm and feminine. At once, she felt rejuvenated and reassured—her nerves temporarily calmed. Which made no sense at all because he was the reason she was a taut, confused mess.

In a manner of days, her plans for her life had been wrested out of her control. She should resent it more than she did—she should resent Stanford. Only she couldn’t. He’d given her the choice whether to wed him or not yesterday. She’d made the decision to acknowledge the faux betrothal as a reality.

Standing before the small burbling fountain surrounded by multi-colored freesia and ranunculus, she closed her eyes and touched a fingertip to her lips. Their kiss had been splendid…breathtaking.

Nothing like the two—no, three—rushed pecks by her other would-be suitors. Those had made her want to gag and clobber the brash young men.

Ophelia could still feel Stanford’s mouth upon hers. Still smell his manly essence.

He’d proven more willing to compromise than she would’ve ever guessed.

Had she misjudged him all this time?

“I believe we can be happy together, Ophelia.”

A private smile bent her mouth upward. Mayhap, just mayhap, they could be.

Feeling decidedly more cheerful than she had before sneaking from her betrothal party and humming a nonsensical little tune as she imagined what life as Stanford’s wife would be like, she retraced her steps.

“There you are.”

Ophelia jerked her head up.

Bother and rot.

Just what Ophelia did not need.

Candace Metcalfe.

And, naturally, her constant shadow and cohort, Ann Marie Washburne, accompanied her.

“I saw you sneak out.” Candace gave Ann Marie a side-eyed superior glance. As if she’d caught Ophelia in a criminal act and gloated about her discovery.

“Yes, we saw you,” Anne Marie put in with a swift glance for approval toward Candace. “Sneak out, that is.”

As usual, Candace ignored her.

Ophelia hadn’t thought anyone had seen her slip out the French doors.

She raised an eyebrow and stared the viper down. “It’s hardly sneaking to take a bit of air in my brother-in-law’s garden.”