Page 10 of Into the Sky With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #4)

J ulian didn’t know what to do with his hands. Dinner was awkward, but Mrs. Vogel fussed over Ophelia so much that Julian wondered if she knew about their indiscretion. Would Ophelia tell anyone?

The conflicting sides of the argument warred as he passed a bread basket down the table. The walk earlier with Tristan and his wife had garnered no accidental insights, but rather reenforced how much Julian enjoyed the entire clan. He fit well with them, as if there had been a dark puzzle piece off in the corner, waiting for him to appear and press into place with a satisfying click.

The party ordered more wine and Julian capitalized Karl Vogel so he wouldn’t have to speak with Ophelia. Or look at her. Or remember what she looked like when she said she’d never felt like this before. The softness of her thighs, the sighing from her lovely mouth, the golden tresses he’d fisted as he’d come, wanting so badly to spill into her, but pulling out because the consequences were too great.

He shook his head to focus, clearly not thinking well. Perhaps he should leave Paris early, claim to have a lecture to attend. Anything to get out of here and not think of how horribly he’d sabotaged the only relationships of value in his life. Yes, bow out gracefully. Be gone. Let Ophelia be Ophelia, and have her carry on as she always had. Marry Lord Fairport, climb whichever mountains she could manage. It really was of no concern to him. He had no claim on her.

Julian mechanically ate his meal, not registering the taste or the texture. The restaurant was filled with diners, and the air was stifling with all the windows and doors shut against the winter chill. Finally they adjourned and walked out into the fresh night air.

Ophelia hung back in the group, as he did, and it made him wonder if she was going to speak to him. He wasn’t sure he could manage it. He was eleven years her elder, and he wasn’t emotionally capable of going toe-to-toe here.

“May we talk?” Ophelia said in a low voice.

“Of course,” he said, slowing his pace.

“Last night was...” she trailed off.

He wanted to supply her with words, but they were words that described his experience. Words like, incredible, decadent, transcendent, beautiful, life-altering, all came to mind. But those were his ideas, not hers, and his heart thudded with cold dread.

She cleared her throat, and Julian couldn’t help but notice she was looking at the ground. He already felt terrible enough about the ramifications, but he couldn’t say that he would change anything. Being with her had been more than he’d ever hoped for. He knew that he would pine for her for the rest of his life. He wouldn’t be able to watch her marry Lord Fairport. In fact, he’d already written to the RGS requesting another posting. Anything that would take him out of England and Europe at large.

“Last night was better than I imagined,” she finally said, wringing her hands and making her plush leather gloves squeak.

That was something, but it didn’t alleviate his guilt. How could he feel guilt but not remorse? Because he was not at all sorry for what they’d done, only that the rest of the world would condemn then for it. And that his friend would have condemned him for doing this with his daughter.

“But I’d still very much like it if we could ascend the Matterhorn together.”

That was not what he thought she would say next. But then, Ophelia was always surprising him. “But—”

“It wasn’t right of me to ask about your past, I see that now. It was childish of me.” Now she looked at him, her blue eyes staring up at him. “I sincerely hope you might forgive me for that intrusion, but also understand the impulse of my curiosity.”

He was mesmerized. There was no question he could forgive her anything. He nodded, his mouth slack, unable to come up with any words to convey how relieved he felt. However, it was probably uncouth to ask her if she would come to his bed again tonight. “I absolutely forgive you, Ophelia. It is natural to be curious.”

She smiled at him, and his heart could burst from relief.

“And will you forgive me for being obstinate?” he asked, his body surging with a fervor for her that bordered on zealotry. He must control himself. “For not remembering what it was like to be the one asking questions?”

The comment about remembering visibly needled her, but she swallowed the discomfort. “Yes, of course.”

He offered his arm, but she ignored it, or didn’t see it. Still, this was what he’d hoped for, a reconciliation, even if something felt wrong.

“Will you...” He pitched his voice low, so the others wouldn’t hear. He was a weak man. The idea of her in his bed again was making him feel drunken.

But she shook her head, a tight, polite smile on her face. “No, it’s not a good idea.”

“You are right, naturally. Forgive me.” He hated not that she had declined him, but the way she had. That impersonal smile created a distance that yawned between them.

She made a high-pitched noise in her throat that she’d never made before. She’d had his contrition. Was it not enough? Perhaps his relief at their reconciliation was not as apparent? Did she require more dramatics from him?

“Perhaps you might meet me down early to break our fast before the others?” That felt at least proper. It was public and easily explained. Perhaps he could get her accustomed to his presence again, and he could find a way to not stare after her like a lovesick puppy.

“Yes, that I can do.” She still didn’t take his arm, but Julian still considered it a victory.

*

They arrived back at the hotel and everyone dispersed up the stairs. Ophelia felt drained, and was glad she didn’t have a maid with her to fuss about her clothes and hair. It was a bother to be without one, but still manageable.

As she slipped out of her dress and took the pins out of her hair, she sagged against the weight of her life. She could acknowledge that it was better than most, yes, but what had she done with it? She was a failure, and when she’d tried so hard to prove that women could be as adventurous as men, she had failed more than herself. She’d failed her father, who had believed in her. Believed so hard that he’d died in her attempt to prove it. And it wasn’t infrequent for her to receive a letter or suffer the comments of men who hadn’t so much as climbed a molehill to tell her how her failure was foreordained on the basis of her body.

And now, she was a failure at trysting. Julian had seemed so right and so perfect, but there was something about their interaction that left her feeling so very bereft. That she had opened up to him in every way possible, and he’d given nothing. She felt like a schoolgirl with a crush on a teacher who had patted her head when she confessed.

But perhaps they could repair this at breakfast. Get back to the familiar space for them: fully clothed conversation. That was better. Easier. She went to bed, but tossed and turned, not falling asleep for hours.

*

Julian skipped down the stairs the next morning. He’d slept well, relieved that Ophelia understood him enough to let him have his privacy. That what they’d shared was special, but that certain things were inviolate. They’d had a very intellectual apology exchange, which was such a relief. He remembered Maria’s occasional crying fits that he’d never quite understood, as she never explained them in Spanish or English. He hadn’t understood what was happening, and was only relieved when she calmed herself.

What a novel experience to be with such a level-headed woman like Ophelia.

He stopped by the front desk to pick up his post and saw Ophelia already in the morning room, taking tea and toast. She likewise had gotten her post and was reading letters. It would be a lovely, easy morning together. Friends. Even if he’d prefer to be more, despite his guilt.

Had she regretted their intimacy? Had it not been good? He was fairly certain that she had climaxed several times. He wasn’t an egotistical person about most things, but he could admit he kept count of his partner’s pleasures. It was merely a good way to analyze the situation for improvements. Frankly, he would be shocked if every Englishman didn’t do so, given their national propensity for bureaucracy.

“Good morning. May I?” Julian stood beside the chair, waiting for her permission, despite their previous invitation.

She waved her hand, and he sat, notifying the waitstaff with a raised finger to bring another cup for the pot that already steamed in front of Ophelia. “Please. And good morning to you as well.”

Her hair was hastily pinned up, and strands were coming loose. It was more than the amount of curled tendrils that was fashionable, but it was tantalizing to see the locks catching the morning light. It made him think of her hair strewn across his bare chest. Across his pillow. Wound between his fingers.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, pouring his own tea when she made no motion to put her letter down, or even make eye contact with him.

“Thank you for asking,” she said, still not bothering to look up.

He let the moment pass, but it was frustrating. He thought they’d repaired the squabble they’d had. “That’s not an answer.”

“What’s not an answer?” she asked, still engrossed. She chewed on her lip as she read.

It was an unladylike habit, but he confessed he found it appealing, giving her lower lip a bee-stung appearance, just as her mouth had looked after he’d kissed her senseless. Was she a coquette? Had she more schooling in the art of drawing a man in? If it were Delphine, he would absolutely believe this to be an act. But with Ophelia, could she be such a flirt? “Are you doing that for me?”

“For who?” she asked, flipping the letter over, continuing to read.

“For me.”

“No, the letter is for me,” she said, shaking her head. “Obviously.”

Julian sighed. “You aren’t listening.”

“You aren’t looking,” she said, her eyes finally snapping up to meet his. “I’m busy reading. Stop talking.”

Julian blinked, taken aback. “That was uncalled for.”

“Was it?” She sighed and put down her letter. “I see you feel that I must adjust my behavior because you have arrived in my sightline.”

Julian’s mouth fairly gaped open. Who was this harpy? “It is merely polite.”

She waved her hand. “Yes, yes, a woman is to serve, I understand. Any activity I engage in is not worth continuing once a man enters the room.”

“That is not what I said,” Julian protested.

“No, but you implied that me biting my lip is somehow bait for you.”

“I thought you weren’t listening.” Julian narrowed his eyes. So she was a coquette?

She huffed and set her jaw. “I wasn’t at the time. But I spooled it up in my mind and examined it again. So yes, I know what you said now. And no, I was not reading for you , I was not drinking tea for you , and I certainly was not biting my lip for you . Do you know how many times I was paddled for that growing up? Not for you.”

Julian flushed at the idea of Ophelia being paddled. Because he didn’t picture a little girl, he pictured her as she was now, in her pretty pale blue day dress, with ruffled lace at the collar, bent over a table. Not helpful. “How about we start over? Good morning, Ophelia.”

“Good morning, Sir Julian.”

He flinched at hearing her say sir . They were past that. “You don’t need to be so formal.”

She blinked her large blue eyes at him, but didn’t say anything.

“Right, well. If you would like to spend the morning reading correspondence, I will continue with my own.”

“Excellent,” she said, picking up her own letter again.

They sat in companionable silence, or at least, it was companionable on his side. He had news from the RGS on the date of Ophelia’s article’s publication. A letter from Mrs. Talbert asking about his return date and rent. Another letter, forwarded to him by the RGS, smelled of perfume as he opened it.

The scent was strong enough that Ophelia put down her letter and stared at him as he perused the contents. It was innocuous enough. A woman who had attended a short lecture he’d given about South America in a RGS member’s parlor a few weeks back wrote to say how much she’d enjoyed hearing about the other side of the world. The paper was of high quality, but he didn’t remember the woman by her signature.

“What news?” Ophelia asked.

Julian smiled. Apparently Ophelia could be made jealous, as evidenced by the aroma of his admirer. She could be teased about this, and perhaps that would finally break the tension between them. He put down the scented envelope and held up the others. “Publication date for your article. My landlady concerned I won’t return before my next rent is due, and—” He flourished the scented letter. “—A love letter.”

Her expression went blank. She didn’t take the bait. “I see.”

“Ophelia—”

“I must share in kind, as is only polite. I have a lengthy letter from my mother. It seems Lord Fairport has requested that my brother draft a wedding contract. He means to propose to me upon my return. Arthur has assured him he will sign no such contract if I do not consent.”

Julian’s stomach dropped. That thought of teasing her was gone. No wonder she had been so tight-lipped with him this morning. It was his turn to study his teacup. “And what will you say?”

“To my mother? Thank you for the information, of course.” Ophelia was already folding the paper back.

“I mean to Lord Fairport,” Julian said gently.

She stared him down, expressionless. “What ought I say?”

He swallowed hard, not trusting his voice. His teasing was utterly forgotten. This sunny day had definitely soured. “I know that I have no claim—”

“Haven’t you?” she asked.

He knew it was a challenge. She was asking him if he would do right by her and marry her, but he was not wealthy. Lord Fairport was a higher rank—honestly, Julian couldn’t remember if he was a viscount or an earl. Everything regarding the man dropped out of his head as soon as it went in. “No, I don’t.”

Ophelia nodded. “Not while you have your ardent devotees to attend to.”

“That’s not what I meant. It was a joke, Ophelia. I was trying to tease you.”

Her jaw set. “Because I am so easily mocked.”

“No!” He put his hands flat on the table to keep himself trying to grab her hands, to touch her, to try for a connection that he was so clearly unable to establish. “I’m not mocking. Mocking and teasing are different. Besides, you are the one who is marrying someone else.”

“Am I?” she asked coolly.

They heard a bustle of noise and saw the rest of their party entering the dining room, ready for their morning repast.

“We must get a table to fit all of us,” Eleanor said, looking about at the other white linen-covered tables.

“I’m sorry, I have a headache. Excuse me.” Ophelia threw her napkin on the table and gathered up her letters before pushing away from the table.

Julian was left feeling like he would have preferred Maria’s crying jags to Ophelia’s cold distance. He didn’t know what to do. He only knew that he felt like an utter cad.

*

Ophelia tagged along with Justine and Karl for a walk through the shops. She registered nothing she saw, but at least she didn’t have to pretend. Karl cited professional interest in shopping, and Justine kept one eye on Karl and one eye on Ophelia, waiting for Ophelia to crack wide open. But she wouldn’t.

The life path that had been so obscured to her now became obvious. Ophelia would marry Lord Fairport. She would become a lady in marriage, and not only by her own birth. There would be dinner parties and charities. Loveless nights of perfunctory attempts at producing heirs. She would likely never climb another mountain. Never run through the woods like a deer. Instead of a wild animal, she would become a pet. Caged and confined.

As a woman ought to be. No voice. No ambition. No gumption. A prop for her husband. And then for her children. An ache opened in her chest again as she wished for her father. He would have looked at Lord Fairport and scoffed. He would have known from the beginning that they would be a poor match, regardless of his wealth and status.

But Arthur was not her papa. And Ophelia was getting on. She was well past the declaration of spinsterhood, and approaching being an eccentric. She should count herself lucky indeed to nab a man like Lord Fairport.

They settled into a café for a cup of chocolate. The drink was rich and thick, adulterated with delicious heavy cream. It warmed her insides and allowed her to look at her best friend. Justine felt her gaze and put her hand out to Ophelia.

“Karl, love?” Justine said, not breaking her gaze with Ophelia.

“Hmm?” her husband said, pulling his attention from the newspaper he was reading.

“Go away.” Justine wasn’t angry when she said it, rather it was said with all the love she always had in her tone when she spoke to him.

“I’ll be gone twenty minutes.” Karl folded up his paper without another word and walked off.

“That was extraordinary,” Ophelia said.

Justine pulled her hands back and sipped at her cup. “Not really. I told him it might happen, especially when I saw you leave at breakfast.”

Ophelia put her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry about that. I couldn’t—”

“Don’t apologize!” Justine interrupted. “You needed space, you took some. It was exactly the right thing to do. Would you like to talk about it now?”

A lump in her throat formed. “I’m not sure? I think perhaps yes, but it’s so messy, I’m not sure I can.”

“Fair enough. But do your best?”

Ophelia nodded. “You know of the night I spent with Julian.”

Justine nodded, leaning forward, which told Ophelia she’d dropped her voice too low.

“And my apology to him. And then he apologized to me. And then he invited me to his room again—”

“He did what?” Justine shrieked. It was then she noticed all the people staring at her. But she merely waved at them as if they were acquainted already before lowering her voice. “I cannot believe he asked you to his room.”

“He suggested it, but I refused. I didn’t feel like I could do that again. Not with the way I felt.”

“I’m proud of you.” Justine folded her arms, outraged on Ophelia’s behalf.

Ophelia took no small amount of comfort knowing that Justine would be there for her no matter what. “Thank you. We agreed to meet for tea before everyone came down this morning. But I was reading a letter from my mother as he arrived, and he wanted to talk, but I just couldn’t. She was writing to make me aware that Lord Fairport asked to marry me, and that Arthur was drawing up a contract.”

Justine withdrew with a gasp. “He wouldn’t!”

“Arthur apparently told him that he wouldn’t force me into marriage, but everyone believes it to be so obviously my only chance that plans are going ahead without me.”

Justine shook her head slowly in shock. “That’s forward of them.”

Ophelia sighed. “It does make sense, looking at it from their perspective. I’m twenty-eight, Justine. This is my only chance.”

“You are perfect and I love you just as you are.” Justine stared into her eyes as she declared her love, which always made Ophelia smile. “But I want to know if it makes sense from your perspective.”

Ophelia had been trained not to shrug. But this felt like a very appropriate time to do it. Even so, she forced herself to answer with words. “From my point of view, it is rather practical. It is what is expected of me. With certain conditions, I think I might be able to marry Lord Fairport.”

Justine winced but nodded her assent. Ophelia interpreted that to mean that she was willing to be supportive, but wanted to know what those caveats might entail. “For instance,” Ophelia said, gaining some confidence as she thought quickly. “I would be allowed to climb any mountain I wanted, with anyone I deem fit.”

“You’re thinking of Sir Julian.”

“No,” Ophelia protested automatically. But wasn’t she? “I’m not not thinking of Sir Julian, but also perhaps someone else I might meet in the future. Or you and your husband.”

Justine’s mouth made a flat line, as if she didn’t really believe her. Which, Ophelia could see why she wouldn’t.

“Any other stipulations?”

Ophelia thought about it. “After an heir is born, I choose if he is allowed to touch me again.”

Justine’s eyelashes fluttered with how rapidly she blinked. This was clearly unexpected. “Oh.”

“I think it would only be right to be the one to control my own person.”

“Yes, of course, but I’m not sure he would agree to such a stipulation,” Justine said, looking down at her cup of chocolate.

“Why not? It is my body. I should control who has access to it.”

“But a husband wants to retain those rights for his own pleasure,” Justine said, nearly choking on the last word.

“But if it doesn’t please me, then why should I engage in that sort of behavior with him?” Ophelia protested.

“I agree with your sentiment wholeheartedly, Ophelia. However, I’m not sure Lord Fairport would. But it would be a good negotiating point. I’ve learned a great deal about negotiations from the Vogel family.”

Ophelia frowned. “He is not forcing you—”

Justine’s laugh cut her off. “No, not that. No, they are merchants, and deal in goods across Europe. Negotiations are critical and can do a great deal of revealing work. So if you put those two things down as your stipulations, and Lord Fairport doesn’t like it, you remove one of them to obtain the other, as a compromise.”

“But I don’t wish to compromise.”

“No one does,” Justine said, putting her hand on Ophelia’s arm. “The question is, do you want to enter this negotiation at all?”

“I think I’d rather walk and talk about this.” Ophelia did not wish to talk about this at all, but she couldn’t very well say that. It was a betrothal, and she knew she ought to be ecstatic. Even with Justine, who was not ecstatic about the prospect, Ophelia knew she needed to feign interest.

Because how depressing would it be to marry a man she didn’t like? On top of everything else?

They finished at the café, rounded up Karl, and returned to the hotel as the others were as well. They stood in the lobby discussing adventures and where they should make reservations for dinner. Tristan finally took charge and went to the desk to ask the concierge to make reservations, and he told the man to hold a table for seven.

“Seven?” Ophelia asked. “But our party numbers eight.”

Eleanor took Ophelia’s hand and whispered, “Sir Julian left this afternoon. A telegram arrived, and he said he had urgent business in London.”

The words burned. Justine looked at her with worry. Prudence detached from Mr. Moon and came over to stand near them. Turning, Prudence announced brightly in her American accent, “I have a brilliant idea. Men, why don’t you go out together for dinner, and us four ladies will dine in tonight. We will have all our potions and lotions out to refresh and renew ourselves, and you all can visit some place we would hate.”

“Not the Moulin Rouge,” Justine said, staring daggers at Tristan. Tristan put his hands up in his own defense.

Ophelia sagged with relief.

“We will not go to the Moulin Rouge,” Tristan agreed. “Gentlemen? Where shall we go with our newfound freedom?”

Prudence returned to Ophelia’s side. “Let me take care of everything. Would you like Champagne, wine, or sherry?”

“Or gin?” Justine suggested.

“The first two,” Ophelia said.

“Why don’t you get her a bath sorted, and I’ll order up provisions for the evening.” Prudence said to Eleanor.

“Can we use my room to gather in?” Ophelia said. “I don’t want—”

“Absolutely.” Justine said, cutting off Ophelia’s lack of explanation. Her best friend knew that Ophelia sometimes wanted to only be in her own space. That she could only truly relax in a space that was for herself.

The emptiness that she had felt after her father’s accident yawned wide open, knowing that Julian had left without saying so much as a goodbye. She pulled away from the rest of the Ladies’ Alpine Society and went to the desk, asking if there was any note or post for her. The man checked but shook his head in the negative. Nothing.

Julian hadn’t even bothered to leave her a note. Could he have received a telegram, requesting his presence? It was possible. But as far as Ophelia knew, the only urgent business was making sure his landlady would get the rent. A task easily fixed from the safety of a Paris hotel. Perhaps it was the love letter that was urgent.

“Come on upstairs, Fee,” Justine said, taking her shoulders and guiding her upstairs.

Ophelia knew her brother was looking to the others for an explanation. But Ophelia didn’t cry, didn’t contort her face in despair or even sniff out of turn. That wasn’t her way. No, she was not prone to outbursts. Rather, she retreated. That scared some, how far she could go inside of herself. Thankfully, Justine knew this. And with Justine’s help, she could return to London without gossips catching wind of what might look to others like a deeply depressed state.