Page 6 of A Duke for Opal (The Carmichael Saga #2)
“…B e it known, little Opal, no day that features haricot lamb and roast carrots can be a bad day…”
Such had been Locke, the Duke of Strathearn’s profession to Opal when he’d hosted a parting meal for Opal and her siblings, when she’d first been sent away to finishing school. Given haricot lamb too had been her favorite, she’d taken it as another sign they were destined to be.
While she sliced into a tender piece of Locke’s beloved protein, Opal repressed a snort.
It appeared Locke hadn’t gotten his own memorandum.
When Opal took her leave of Locke earlier that day, she’d gone with a boundless, unspeakable joy.
Locke had agreed to help Opal woo a lord— (a lord who was in fact, him.) He’d capitulated far more easily and quickly than she’d anticipated, which meant this very night she’d begin having time alone with him.
In the entire lead-up to dinner, she’d spent every last moment thinking about the coming time she’d have with Locke; during meals when, given their like stations, they’d find themselves seated near one another and afterward, alone.
Alas, Opal’s happiness and grand expectations for her first night reunited with Locke proved all too fleeting.
She made herself take a small bite and evaluated the festively decorated table glittering from the gilded candelabras and their long, white, tapered candles.
With Opal seated at the opposite end of the long, long dining table from Locke, her plans had hardly gotten off to a promising start. A truth made all the more miserable by the sullen scowl on Locke’s face every time he happened to look Opal’s way—which was rare.
Oh, every guest assembled, with the exception of Locke, appeared perfectly gay and merry.
The same, however, could not be said of the duke. He’d spent the better part of the night glaring, like a sullen Henry VIII at his porcelain plate. And when not frowning at his dish? Well, then, Opal found herself the recipient of his boy-like ire.
By Locke’s sour, miserable demeanor, it couldn’t be clearer—he resented Opal having wheedled him into helping her.
Her fingers trembled, and to keep her silver fork from clinking against the crystal, she lowered the utensil. Picking up her napkin, she made a show of wiping at the corners of her mouth, and then, smiling, she returned the white linen cloth to her lap.
Let Strathearn frown all he liked. The wider his frown, the bigger her smile. The bigger her smile got, the wider his frown became. She’d discovered that particular—and amusing—detail, somewhere between the first course of white soup and the second course of, the duke’s favorite—haricot lamb, roast carrots, and asparagus.
In the past, she’d have done so to get the better of him. But nothing between her and Locke was the same, and if she had her way, it never would be, again.
Opal attempted to get Locke’s attention.
As if he felt her gaze, he tensed.
Opal smiled as he angled his head…
Her brow dipped.
Locke’s attention went not to her but instead to the eldest of the Marquess of Brightly’s younger sisters, Lady Amelia. Recently widowed, strikingly beautifully and eminently kind, Opal certainly understood the reason for Locke’s absorption. On top of that, the lady also happened to be a patroness of Abaddon’s library.
The lady was utter perfection, and Opal was the pettiest creature in the kingdom for hating h—
“A pence for your thoughts, Lady Opal?”
That murmuring at her side brought Opal’s attention swinging to the lady’s, tall, slender, handsome brother, Lord Brightly, seated at her left.
Splendid. Here she’d sat resenting the benevolent gentleman’s, benevolent sister.
Tongue-tied at her last ungracious and shameful jealousy, Opal attempted to fashion a reply.
It’d have been a grim, miserable meal entirely if it hadn’t been for the unexpectedly pleasant company of Opal’s tablemate at her left. Lord Brightly, with his pale blond hair, gleaming spectacles, and love—and knowledge—of books, had a name that all too perfectly suited him.
“A pence?” To the right of Opal, the Duke of Savage snorted. “That’s all, Brightly?”
Dark, dashing, and an unlikely—but most generous—patron of Grimoire’s, slid a wry glance Opal’s way. “Take that as a sign of Brightly’s frugality, my dear.”
Savage favored Opal with a roguish grin. Her heart should have fluttered.
Not unlike Locke, Savage was a young, dashing, handsome duke. But her heart danced for—and belonged to only one man.
Lord Brightly proved a sport and grinned. “A true gentleman doesn’t brag about wealth and money. Expect you should know that, Savage.”
The duke arched a black eyebrow. “It’s not bragging, Brightly, when you’re the one who set a price on the lady’s thoughts,” he drawled.
The jocular pair’s banter put the men’s clear friendship on display.
Opal joined in. “Now, now, gentlemen,” she threaded a teasing note into her rebuke.
She favored each with a smile. “It is my understanding Lord Brightly is a most benevolent patron of my dear brother-in-law’s circulating room, and I only hold in the highest esteem gentlemen whose generosity extends to literature and the arts.”
“It appears then, Savage,” Brightly splayed his hands before him, “the lady holds us in equal favor.”
“That is troublesome, indeed, Brightly,” the Duke of Savage drawled, pulling a laugh from the other man. “There remains but one way to rectify such a dilemma.”
Savage called down the opposite end of the table. “Grimoire?”
Pausing mid-conversation, Opal’s brother-in-law looked at the peer. “Your Grace?”
“In addition to my annual contribution to the circulating library,” the dashing lord said, “I’d like to donate another one thousand pounds to my sponsorship.”
Grimoire’s brows shot up. Surprised and happy cries and applause met the duke’s unplanned—and generous—announcement.
“You may rely on two from me,” Brightly vowed, just as toasts were starting to go up. “And,” he jovially added, “payment enough for fifty subscriptions for those unable to fund the cost of membership.”
An even greater, deafening furor ensued.
“How wonderful!” Glain cried happily.
“Ten-thousand and one hundred and fifty subscriptions for those unable to pay for memberships!” A sharp, angry shout cut through the celebration, and left in its place, an uncomfortable silence.
All eyes, including, Opal’s, went to the cross host, slouched at the head of the table. She and Locke, however, may as well have been the only two present; their stares remained fixed.
Anger emanated from Locke’s gaze and the breath in her lungs, it froze.
Why is he looking at me so?
Grimoire broke the awkward silence. “Uh…many thanks, to each of you,” he said, drawing all eyes his way, except for Opal. “Your generosity will go far in improving the lives of a good many people.”
Ever the proficient hostess, Glain echoed her husband’s gratitude, then effortlessly slipped in and redirected the guests to the festivities planned following refreshments.
Confused, Opal’s gaze remained moored with Locke’s.
From down the length of the table, he glowered at Opal.
Ah, yes, I’m the source of his displeasure. Opal’s throat moved wildly. The only reason he suffered through— and , hosted!—a polite house party was because of her. Locke’s loyalty to Grimoire came first.
Not backing down, Opal edged her chin up and held Locke’s hard stare.
The audience melted away. Opal and Locke remained embroiled in a tense, silent, battle between the two of them.
Catching his wine glass in his coolly elegant fingers, Locke took a sip.
Her body trembled.
She searched the sharp, defined, angular plains of his face. She’d never seen him so…so…mordacious.
Befuddled once more, Opal shook her head. “ I …”
That stare… Locke’s stare, piercing, savage, penetrated her very soul.
All the while, the ghost of a cold, smile flickered on his hard lips.
Plink-Plink-Plink
The crisp, steady, clear clink as Glain touched her fork repeatedly against her crystal glass called the guests’ attention—the other guests.
“On this happy note,” Glain’s warm, but regally commanding voice filled the room.
Locke tossed back the rest of his wine and the minute he shifted his focus to Glain, the terrible spell broke.
Opal gave her head a shake.
“May I suggest the ladies join me so we may discuss all the wonderful events His Grace has planned for us this week.” Opal’s sister dropped her voice to a pretend hush. “I’m sure the gentlemen would relish time alone where they can all raise glasses and toast their generosity.”
An answering laughter followed.
And as the guests came to their feet, Opal, still dazed, struggled to follow suit…and also to make sense of the silent, bewildering exchange between she and Locke.