Page 26

“Please excuse me,” Ophelia said. “I see that my hem is torn, and I need to repair it before rejoining the others.”

It was true and provided just the excuse Ophelia needed to be rid of these pests. Rather than enter through the drawing room and risk Candace and Ann Marie creating a scene, Ophelia moved toward another French window farther down the flagstone.

She had no intention of changing her gown or sewing the hem straightaway. Let them think she meant to. Ophelia owed neither woman an explanation.

“Word has it, you were compromised, Miss Breckensole,” Candace said. “Several respectable people witnessed your…dishabille and disgrace.”

“Compromised, indeed.” Ann Marie giggled again, reminding Ophelia of the hares common in the countryside. Had she sucked her thumb for too many years? Is that what had caused her protruding teeth?

Dressed in an unbecoming orange and bright blue gown, far too tight for her plump figure, the unfortunate girl resembled the parrot she sounded like.

No doubt Lady Jamesworth was responsible for spreading that ugly tarradiddle.

“Asherford, being the honorable gentleman that he is, fell for your harlot’s ploy.” Candace curled her mouth into an unbecoming sneer. She jabbed her pointer finger toward Ophelia. “You don’t deserve him. He’s far above you. You’re little more than a common who—”

“That is quite enough, Miss Metcalfe.”

The frigid, clipped words caused Candace to gasp and whirl around.

Stanford towered over them, displeasure stamped onto his lean features. Blue sparks flew from his black-lashed eyes. “I shan’t tolerate you insulting my betrothed.”

Engrossed in refraining from slapping Candace’s face, Ophelia hadn’t heard Stanford approach either.

Her heart raced in gratitude and chagrin. Lips pressed into a tight ribbon, she met his furious blue eyes. She’d seen him angry before. Nevertheless, this rigidly controlled rage raised the hair on her nape and caused goose pimples to spring up along her arms.

Stanford regarded Candace with the same contempt he might fresh cow dung clinging to his polished Wellingtons.

“Y…your…Gr…ace,” Candace stuttered, her complexion waxen. “You…you misunderstand.”

Ann Marie had turned an unbecoming shade of puce. Her unremarkable brown eyes bugging from her head, she gasped like a banked trout, and little wheezing noises came from her slack mouth.

“I believe I understand perfectly,” Stanford responded with a contemptuous glance over Candace’s person. “You are a mean-spirited, jealous harpy. You delight in putting others down because it makes you feel better about yourself.”

“That is true,” Ann Marie whispered beneath her breath.

Candace leveled her a murderous glare meant to eviscerate.

Expression horrified, Ann Marie clapped her hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean it, Candace,” she mumbled behind her fingers.

Eyes narrowed to hostile slits, Candace said, “Oh, I think you did.”

Ann Marie frantically shook her head.

Candace would make her pay dearly for her slip.

Stanford held out his arm toward Ophelia. “Come, my darling. Let us return to the house. Pennington wants to raise a toast in our honor and wish us felicitations on our upcoming nuptials.”

Head high and shoulders squared, Ophelia swept to his side without looking at the two sulking women.

Stanford tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and covered it with his other hand. Bestowing a doting smile upon her, he leaned down and whispered into her ear. “I am going to kiss you on the forehead. I don’t want those jealous twits to have any doubts as to my eagerness to wed you.”

He proceeded to press his firm, warm lips to Ophelia’s forehead in the tenderest of gestures.

Swiftly stifled gasps at his public display of affection caused Ophelia to curve her lips upward.

Well done, Stanford.

“Let’s return indoors, my dear,” he said. “The others await us.”