Chapter 13
O
phelia thought for an alarmed instant that Jasper must recognize Alexander as a groom from the Searle House stable. Then the look of recognition in his eyes passed, leaving only an expression of besotted wonder, which he directed at Hetty. Ophelia had to smile. His snobbery seemed to have succumbed to his admiration, altogether an improvement in his character. She could not fault his manners as Hetty introduced him to her guests.
As Hetty led Jasper around, Ophelia seized a chance to speak with Solomon.
"Where have you been, miss?" he asked. The words were playful, but his eyes had lost their customary mirth.
"I've been caught with your daughter again, sir, and been confined to Searle House."
Solomon's gaze followed Jasper and Hetty. "Is that what's brought your brother down on us?"
Ophelia shook her head. "You can see Jasper's besotted. Apparently he lost his snobbery somewhere between home and here."
"
He
'
ll find it again soon enough." Solomon's mouth settled in a grim line.
"
Because of Mrs. Hart?" Ophelia asked.
A little flash of alarm in those fierce eyes betrayed the truth. "Did your father tell you?"
Ophelia nodded. The novelist, in a burgundy gown that set off her alabaster complexion, sat listening to Berwick with half an ear, her fingers playing on the carved arm of her chair as if she were waiting for something.
Solomon suppressed a groan. "It's a game to her. She can unmask me to my daughter anytime."
"Why?"
"She never wanted a child. She left Hetty entirely to me
…
until this spring. She saw us by chance in the street, and realized who Hetty
was."
"She came out of curiosity, then?"
Solomon took a swallow of his wine. "She can ruin Hetty. All the respect
ability I've tried to give her…"
"Hetty is utterly respectable, lovely, and good. Mrs. Hart can't change that. Nothing can change what Hetty is."
"Miss Brinsby," called Mrs. Fenton. "You must join us, dear. We're speaking of novels." She saw Solomon's face and immediately offered an apology.
Solomon smiled, feigning his usual good humor. "Take her away, Mrs. Fenton." To Ophelia, he added, "Your review of Berwick's poem has come out. It's being quoted here tonight. Berwick takes exception to your characterizing his style as 'diffuse.'
"
A few minutes passed before she could really attend to Mrs. Fenton's ideas about the lonely, superior heroine of Samuel Richardson's
Clarissa.
Alexander sent her a veiled, questioning glance, and she gathered her wits, joining the conversation. The Grays' drawing room, Ophelia realized, doubled the narrow realm in which she and Alexander could express their friendship. It was curious that she thought of him as a friend. True, he kissed her. But he had put her in command, and she knew her limits, knew just when the dangerous weakness began—and
that
she would not allow. She had two friends now.
Ophelia smiled at him until Mrs. Hart's gaze reminded her that even here there was a need for caution. No one except Hetty knew that Alexander was her groom, but Mrs. Hart appeared capable of discovering the secret. Jasper, too, could ask embarrassing questions, for which Ophelia would have to prepare herself. For the moment, however, Jasper had forgotten Ophelia. He and Hetty had settled on a couch near the door in a private conversation.
Mrs. Fenton was still defending
Clarissa.
Then Mrs. Hart came to attention, leaning forward, her snowy bosom attracting the gentlemen's notice. "Must the heroine's story always end in marriage?" she asked, directing her gaze at Alexander.
At any other time the question would have fascinated Ophelia, but she saw what it was. Ideas didn't interest Mrs. Hart; she wanted to see character exposed. She was like Wyatt, collecting secrets, making others vulnerable.
Berwick sent Alexander one fierce look, as if
they were rivals, and pounced on the question. "Marriage
is
the heroine's story,"
he insisted. "She keeps herself pure and unspoiled until the man of merit secures her by valiant deeds. Penelope, Cinderella, the Sleeping Beauty
…
marriage is the end for all of them." He gave a careless wave that summed up the possibilities for women.
Mr. Archer brought his wineglass down with a clunk. "Not Penelope. I'll not allow you to lump her with those witless paragons waiting to be plucked. Her resistance is magnificent."
Others sang the praises of Penelope until Mrs. Hart brought them back to the topic again.
"Berwick's wrong, of course," she said with her charming smile. "The girl in a fairy tale is static, unchanging, a prize. The story has nothing to do with marriage." She cast Alexander another interested glance. "The conflict is always between an old crone and a maiden. The fairy tale is simply the story of a young woman displacing an older woman as a sex object."
Archer choked on a sip of wine. Solomon pounded him on the back while the others protested Mrs. Hart's view with impotent politeness.
She merely smiled and scanned their faces, pausing at Solomon's, daring him to check her, her sly cat glance passing on to Alexander. "Your turn."
Alexander set aside his wine. "I haven't been married," he said lightly. "But I'll venture an opinion. The heroine's story ends in marriage because the heroine's proper opponent is a man, her equal." He watched Ophelia, letting her know the words were for her. Her pulse quickened in reply. "They must tame one another to live in society."
Mrs. Fenton and Mrs. Gardiner applauded, but Mrs. Hart stiffened. "How conventional." She sipped her wine and turned to Ophelia. "Now you, Miss Brinsby, a woman of marriageable age—you must have a reply to Mr. Alexander."
All eyes shifted to Ophelia. Under their scrutiny, she felt Mrs. Hart plucking at the invisible threads of consciousness that bound Ophelia to Alexander. A glance showed her that Jasper's place beside Hetty was empty.
She raised her teacup and took a delaying sip. Mrs. Hart had roused everyone's suspicions of them by her pointed questions. "The heroine's story should end with her choice, whether to marry or not. Marriage, as it is, has too much to do with property and rank. A woman must be able to refuse marriage if there's no love in it."
"Love or nothing? Miss Brinsby is a romantic." Mrs. Hart leaned back in her chair, letting her amused glance wander to Alexander. "Back to you."
Berwick broke in at once. "Ridiculous for a woman to think of refusal. Marriage is the imperative for women—biological, social, economic. What else are they to do?"
"Write?" Mrs. Hart asked, her thin brows arching upward.
Berwick sputtered incoherently, and laughter drowned his defense. When the laughter died, Mrs. Hart turned to Hetty. "Miss Gray agrees with me, I think?"
Hetty smiled softly. "About writing, yes; but about marriage, no." Hetty had that serene inward look that came over her when she was thinking about a poem. The room went quiet and some of the tension left it. "I imagine marriage is one of those deep, simple necessities in which life renews itself."
"Come now, Miss Gray." Mrs. Hart's mouth became a thin, contemptuous line. "Marriage is absolutely mired in formality and legality."
Hetty shook her head. "We build elaborate churches, but prayer remains a simple cry of the heart. We give marriage forms and ceremonies, but that doesn't change what it is."
Ophelia held her breath. In some way her friend had broken Mrs. Hart's indefinable control of the room. There would be no unmasking tonight. Mrs. Pendares sailed in so promptly with the tea tray that Ophelia suspected her of having listened at the door. Everyone moved to the refreshments, and Ophelia realized that Jasper had slipped away. When she looked for Alexander, he beckoned her to the door.
I
n the garden they paused to adjust to the freedom and consciousness of being alone together. Ophelia recognized now how awareness of him wakened her senses to the immediate, to damp stones under her slippers, the scant of sweet violets and hyacinth, the cool air against her cheeks, the sharp divisions of shadow and moonlight in the garden. His gloved hand found hers, and thus linked, they started down the path.
His hand was a firm, warm clasp around hers, solid, real, an extension of the man himself, his frankness and generosity, his habit of offering comfort and strength. This joining of hands differed from all the times when he'd offered his hand as she'd mounted or dismounted Shadow. This was a meeting of equals, another gift of the Grays' drawing room. Their unhurried footsteps on the path had a companionable sound.
"Does Miss Gray know that Mrs. Hart is her mother?" he asked.
Ophelia turned quickly. "How did you guess?"
"Little things. Their looks. Mrs. Hart's hold over Solomon Gray. I suspect she could hurt him only through his daughter, and you've been worried about the Grays all evening." He gave her hand a squeeze.
"Apparently Mrs. Hart is threatening to reveal her secret."
"Do you think she will?"
"I think Solomon should tell Hetty himself and free them from Mrs. Hart."
"He must fear to lose her if he tells."
"It will be worse if he doesn't."
Alexander didn't answer, but Ophelia liked sharing this other secret with him. It seemed to fit the new experience of joining hands.
At the gate he reached for the latch.
"You're not going to kiss me?" she asked, half teasing, half in earnest.
"You didn't command it," he said in a low voice, his hand on the latch.
"I do now."
He let the latch fall with a click, and turning, leaned against the gate, drawing her into his arms, cradling her with his body.
She closed her eyes, burying her face in the folds of his cravat, breathing the scent of him,
but pressing her forearms against his chest, keeping a little distance. She would not spoil the closeness by letting him discover the betraying peaks of her breasts.
He put his lips to her hair, his hands to her waist. "I lied about why I kissed you that first time."
Ophelia started to pull back, but his hands trapped her.
"It wasn't solely your riding ability. It was this," he said, kissing her hair. "And this." He spread his fingers, framing her waist firmly, settling her hips against his.
She stiffened. Pressed against each other, she would know if his body changed.
"Am I too bold?" he asked, his lips at her ear. "I have no experience at kissing ladies."
Ophelia lifted her head. "You can't tell me that you've never kissed before."
He laughed. "Do you want me to confess my amorous adventures to you?"
She supposed it was an odd thing to want to know, but she knew he would tell her if she asked. "May I command it?"
"Yes." His voice was a hoarse whisper.
"Then I do."
His chest rose and fell under her as a he took a deep breath.
"Alexander's experience of love. A very short narrative. An innkeeper's daughter taught me boldness, and a courtesan taught me a few refinements."
She wanted him to say more. Sometime she would ask him about that interesting, wicked-sounding word
refinements.
He plainly knew
more than she did about sexual congress, but he seemed to think what he knew did not apply to ladies.
"Are you going to confess your experience?" he asked.
She gasped. "No."
"At least tell me what you like, so I don't offend you. It's one of the rules. A lover should never give offense."
"I like kisses," she said.
"Nothing more?" She could hear the dismay in the question.
"Just kisses."
"Because I, your humble groom, am so far beneath you?"
"You are a most unhumble groom."
"Still, I am your servant in love. I do what you bid me." His fingers found her chin and tilted her face up to his. Then he paused, holding her mouth in
ch
es from his, as if to test himself and let the longing build.
It was a sweet relief when his lips met hers in a long, slow kiss. One kiss led to another. He didn't force or press, but drew back each time until their mouths seemed to meet again by mutual accord. Ophelia could stop at any time. It was like turning the pages in a fascinating book, the story unfolding so that one could not find a pause, longing written on every page. Just one more, her mind whispered.
His hands kneaded her waist, bunching her gown, the silk sliding o
ver her fiery skin. She felt th
e hungry press of his body against her belly and a terrible impatience to move. She could not
hold still another minute. She squirmed, wanting to release her arms.
The voice spoke in her head.
You're one of the hot ones, Ophelia.
She hated the smug voice, but she couldn't stop the words. She twisted in Alexander's hold. His hands slid urgently up her ribs, and she tugged desperately at his ear. He broke their kiss with a groan, holding her in an impassioned clasp, as she stood shaking and shamed.