Page 2 of A Duke for Opal (The Carmichael Saga #2)

A fter a half-day’s ride by carriage, Lady Opal Carmichael found herself escorted through Lockwood “Locke” Renwick, the Duke of Strathearn’s country estate by none other than her elder sister, Lady Glain Grimoire.

The way Glain led along the white Italian marble floors with their crimson velvet runners, one would think she was the lady of the house and not a woman whose husband was, in fact, a benefactor of said duke’s largesse.

“Wasn’t it most generous of Strathearn to allow us the use of his property?” Her sister prattled in the happy way only a woman free of their father’s influence could.

“ Most generous,” she murmured, hating herself for envying her sister that blitheness.

“Here we are, Opal!” Glain tossed the pretty painted, white panel doors open.

As Opal entered, she took in the sunshiny accommodations. Everything from the white Aubusson carpet to the floral curtains, coverlet, and canopy overhead oozed warmth and welcome.

While her sister went on lauding the duke’s praise, Opal continued walking until she reached the cozy window seat that overlooked the westward side of the duke’s grounds.

She briefly closed her eyes.

How different this room was from the cramped, lonely, sterile chambers she enjoyed back at Le Innocence. There, the walls were white. The coverlets stark and crisp and devoid of comfort. There, that hated place where young women were told they’d come to the instructors as similarly blank slates, and the knowledge they’d leave with would be valuable and seen to they not become vapid leaders of Polite Society.

Glain clapped her hands happily. “I promise it will be a wonderful house party.”

“A house party?” she ventured hesitantly. That suggested…

The permanent smile she’d worn since catching sight of Opal slipped, as did Opal’s heart.

“It is just a small gathering, Opal,” her sister sought to reassure.

A small gathering hosted by the Duke of Strathearn.

For that was the only way Opal’s father would allow his daughters to meet. Such had been the price paid for Glain—a formerly prized Diamond—marrying Abaddon Grimoire, the librarian at Chetham’s Subscription Library. Opal loved her brother-in-law, and even as she’d never alter fate if she could and deny her sister the marriage she’d deserved—and needed—neither would it never not hurt that Opal had been sent away and allowed but limited contact with her siblings.

And him—the Duke of Strathearn. He’d come into her life when she’d been but a child and been everything, she’d never known a nobleman could be—funny, clever, kind, and, even more unheard of amongst the peerage, well-read.

She frowned. Something Glain said earlier gave her pause.

“Strathearn has been so good as to allow us the use of his property?” She frowned. “You make it sound as though the duke will not be in attendance at his own house party?”

At Glain’s silence, Opal’s frown deepened. “My God, he won’t?”

Before her sister could confirm, Opal tossed her head back and laughed. “Hosting a respectable event, and then not even attending.” Then, should she expect anything different of the contrary gentleman? “My if that is not the Duke of Strathearn to the T.”

“He’ll be here! He promised he’d be here for some . His Grace has just not arrived yet.”

Which hardly proved promising for Opal’s plans for the week, especially seeing as how Locke opened his household as a favor but didn’t truly wish to attend the house party.

Glain brightened. “But me, you, Abaddon, and Flint, will be together.”

That should have been enough, and, maybe in some small part, it would have, were it not for all the other details her sister had just revealed.

Wearily, Opal drew off her blue velvet top hat and tossed the costly millinery piece atop the window seat in her guest chambers. “How many guests will be present?”

“Five,” her sister hurried to reassure.

Emotion formed a ball in her throat.

This was not the intimate family gathering she’d wanted or wished for.

Still attired in her white-fur lined, crimson-red cloak from the journey she’d only just made, she stared absently out the cool, frosted windowpane, at the rolling, snow-covered hills of the Duke of Strathearn’s properties. This way, Opal didn’t have to meet her own regal, lady-like—and now, hated—visage or her sister Glain’s sad reflection.

Nothing for Opal these past years had been anything she wished for, or wanted. She’d been separated from her younger brother, Flint, older sister, Glain, and Glain’s husband, Abaddon. Sent to finishing school in Paris. Denied books she loved, and forced to read and study every last rule of decorum and propriety.

Here she was, back in England, reunited with her sister Glain, at the Duke of Strathearn’s country seat—and free of their father’s imposing, commanding company—about ready to cry.

“How generous of Strathearn to host a house party for the sad Carmichael family.” Opal didn’t even try to bury her bitterness. “Abaddon’s greatest , grandest patron to do all of this for us.”

She strove for icy indifference, and by the down turning of Glain’s lips, achieved the desired effect.

“ Opal ,” Glain chided. “Strathearn has been and continues to be exceedingly generous.”

No, in the way he’d used the power he had to look after Opal and her siblings had been heroic. It’s merely one of the reasons she’d fallen in love with him.

Her sister combed concern-filled eyes over Opal. “What is this coldness, Opal? I do not like seeing you this way.”

Being this way, was what her sister should really say. Opal had become a guarded, jaded, hopeless person, and, as much as Glain hated this new side of her, Opal detested it a thousandfold more.

“You are right, Glain,” she said tiredly. “I’m being atrocious. I am just…exhausted.” And she was.

With herself.

Who she’d become.

Her life.

Her loneliness.

The future awaiting her—if she didn’t do something to thwart her father’s efforts to marry her to some ruthless, heartless, nobleman—as part of his attempt to make amends—and atone—for Glain’s rebellion and inferior union.

Opal pulled her gaze from the tranquil winter landscape and looked at Glain. “How many did you say will be in attendance?” she asked resignedly.

“Five.”

“Five people.” That wasn’t quite so grim.

Color splashed her sister’s high, proud, cheekbones. “ Families .”

Opal’s eyes slid shut. When she’d received the joyous and unexpected summons at Madame Touraine Le Innocence Finishing School in France, Opal had been happier than she had in all her years away. During the entire length of her long journey, she’d looked forward to an intimate, cheerful, game-filled house party at her sister and brother-in-law’s country cottage.

One would have thought these past years taught Opal better than to expect life, or any part about it, to be fair or good.

When her sister didn’t volunteer any more than that, Opal quirked an eyebrow. “Well? You mustn’t leave me in suspense. Which families?”

“The Earl of Everhart, the Marquess of Brightly—”

Somewhere around the third lord, Opal’s mind drifted off. Being herself from an illustrious, noble family with roots to William the Conqueror, she knew better than anyone, five noble families meant anywhere from twelve to forty-two, or even more , people.

“The Duke of—”

Opal’s ears pricked up.

“Savage,” her sister finished.

Her heart sank. A different duke. Not the one and only one whom she’d carried thoughts of these past years, and the hope of seeing.

That’s what the sentiment known as hope gets you. As if you hadn’t already learned that five years ago, you ninny.

“The Duke of Savage,” Opal repeated drolly. “I trust he is as charming as his title suggests.”

Opal waited for her sister to join in that scurrility.

Glain frowned. “Do not allow his title to fool you, he is surprisingly lovely.”

Opal laughed softly. “Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

She pressed a hand against Glain’s forehead and sought a fever. “I daresay I never believed I’d see the day when my sister would declare one gentleman, let alone numerous ones lovely , and invite them as guests,” she drawled, feigning levity, when inside she was only hurting at yet another reminder of how apart she and Glain had drifted.

“I’ve changed, Opal.” Glain gave her a delicate look; but one that did not strip away the gentle chiding. “You know that.”

Glain’s love for Abaddon had transformed Opal’s sister into a woman she didn’t recognize. Ironically, all the changes that’d befallen Opal, too, were because of Glain’s love for her husband, just not in any ways that were good.

“My apologies,” Opal said tiredly. “I was jesting.”

“I know.” Sadness wreathed her sister’s countenance. “Your jokes are different, Opal.”

Her jokes? Now, that was hilarious.

“I’m different,” Opal snapped back.

One would have to be carefree and happy to make quips and jests.

An awkwardness fell between them.

Inside the protective folds of her cloak, Opal curled into herself.

Since having fallen in love, her sister, once ice cold and emotionally detached, possessed a warmth, tender-heartedness, and joy she never exuded before, while Opal saw those sad shades of who Glain once was, now, in herself.

As for Opal, everything had changed so much she wondered if she’d merely imagined a time when she was happy, carefree, and hopeful.

Every day, Opal found herself slipping further and further away until, soon, all the best parts of her would fade and then disappear altogether.

Opal couldn’t and wouldn’t be saved—unless, she herself found the same healing, freeing love Glain knew. And Opal? She’d discovered that great, all-powerful—and entirely one-sided love in the Duke of Strathearn.

Now, she found herself at the gentleman’s estate, and without any promises he’d even come around.

Did you expect he’d be eager and happy to see you as you are to see him?

Her sister pulled her out of her self-pitying musings. “I am so sorry, Opal.”

Not as sorry as I am.

“It is fine.” That lie sounded trite even to Opal’s own ears.

Again, Glain moved her gaze over Opal’s features.

She could look all day. Opal had perfected the ability to reveal nothing.

“Are you… very disappointed?”

“Oh, no,” Opal said, keeping a straight face. “I’ve come to adore stilted, ton events.”

Her sister winced. “It was the only way, Opal.”

The only way, she thought bitterly.

Opal’s heart pounded hard in her chest; beating so fast, the organ’s frantic rhythm thundered in her ears, and painfully knocked the walls of her chest.

The same panic that’d built steadfastly during Opal’s time at Le Innocence threatened to overwhelm her.

No! Not here! Breaking down and apart when alone in her rooms at Le Innocence was one thing. That madness hadn’t besieged Opal when in the company of others—until now.

She focused on getting air into her lungs.

“I’ve missed you,” her sister’s words penetrated Opal’s fast-rising panic, but in the way she registered voices when she was swimming underwater at her father’s lake in Bath.

Only this time, Opal found herself not gliding effortlessly through, but sinking, suffocating, drowning.

Glain rested a hand on her shoulder and the unexpected feel of that soft, loving touch plucked Opal from the depths of despair.

Opal dimly registered her big sister taking her into her arms.

She tensed, but closing her eyes, she returned that hug. How strange. There’d been a time long ago when this was all she’d wanted; when this was all she’d thought she needed—the love of her sister.

She’d found the joy of being held by her sister but for a fleeting time before the duke had ripped them apart, and so, all this with Glain was still new.

Foreign.

Her panic came back in full force.

Glain patted her gently on the back and then released Opal from the sisterly embrace.

“I know this is not what you wanted, Opal,” she said softly. “And I know what it is to feel like you are struggling to breathe under the weight of father’s thumb and power, but you will find happiness again, and love.”

She struggled to breathe.

She was wrong—Glain still saw so much. Too much.

Opal’s skin went hot and then cold. Moisture slicked her palms.

The few times she came to London, the occasional meetings she had with the Duke of Strathearn—or Locke as she referred to the gentleman—sustained her.

And if her astute sister learned about Opal’s intentions for him?

Her feet twitched with the urge to run and to keep on running until she was free of it all.

Which was the main reason for her being here. Yes, she missed Glain and Abaddon and Flint, but they could not free her. At least as long as Father lived, and not even the Devil appeared to want him.

In the end, it wouldn’t prove to be her sister’s love or warmth or embrace that pulled Opal back from the precipice of breaking down right there before her sister…but rather, the thought of him—Locke.

“Opal?” Glain ventured haltingly.

“Yes?”

Her sister appeared to consider her words carefully. “Is there perhaps a gentleman you do carry a tendre for?”

“No,” she answered flatly. “I don’t carry a tendre for anyone.”

Opal loved Lockwood Renwick, the Duke of Strathearn, madly, deeply, desperately, and in every last way in between there was to love a person.

Glain studied her closely. “You’re certain?”

Why must her sister be so tenacious with this topic?

Opal looped an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “I’m absolutely confident, as you should be. I’d be well aware if I carried feelings for some gentleman.” And to head off further questions, she gave a playful wink.

Unrelenting, Glain peered at Opal.

She tried not to squirm.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Enter!” Glain called out, and a look of such profound relief washed over her face, a fresh, crippling tide of hurt assailed Opal.

Opal’s maid, Julia, or The Eyes of the Duke, as Opal referred to her in private, stepped inside like she herself was the daughter of a duke and not the lackey of one.

The woman, near in age to Opal, dropped a stiff curtsy to Glain, and then Opal.

“Splendid.” Glain gave a happy clap of her hands. “I’ll allow you to change and rest some before you join the festivities.”

The festivities.

“It will be good fun!” Glain promised with such cheer and optimism, Opal almost believed her.

That fanciful delusion lasted only as long as Julia set about unpacking Opal’s belongings.

Through her spiraling fear, she dimly registered smiling at Glain, hugging her, and then her leaving Opal alone with her maid.

While Julia, with a military-like precision, removed and hung Opal’s garments upon the hooks and pegs within the armoire, Opal’s dread continued to swell.

Locke had to come. Why, he was loyal to Abaddon and Glain, and would, if for no other reason than that.

And if he isn’t…what then…

Everything hung upon his being here, winning his heart, and becoming his wife so she could break free of the chains that bound her.

The walls began closing in.

The pressure built in Opal’s chest.

And alternately wanting to scream, vomit, and pull her hair out, she walked with numb steps out of the room where her maid worked, and ran.