Page 6 of Into the Sky With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #4)

J ulian felt much better about visiting the Rascomb residence now that he’d cleaned up. Delphine hadn’t sent him a note in the week since he’d last seen her, and that felt right somehow. He was not opposed to accompanying her wherever she wished to go, but it was clear that she had held certain assumptions about him that were patently untrue.

There was the idea of the intrepid explorer permeating popular thought these days, helped along by men like Sir Richard Burton. But Julian was nothing like him. First, his exploration was more akin to surveying rather than the ephemeral idea of “truths” and the metaphysical grandeur men like that sought. They were two for a ha’penny at RGS, and Julian steered clear.

As he entered the drawing room, both of the expected women looked down and ill at ease. He didn’t know if he should inquire or not. He decided to pretend as if all was well, at least for the moment, in hopes of finding any clues as to what had them both feeling uncomfortable. Perhaps, and most likely, he assured himself, it had nothing to do with him whatsoever. Certainly not his morning walk home from Delphine’s. They would not have noticed his level of dishevelment, surely.

After perfunctory greetings were made, Julian tossed in a gambit. “Have you worked on your article, Miss Ophelia? I am happy to say that I’ve made friends with one of the editors, and I think he’ll trust my judgement if I hand off your work. It’s no guarantee, but it’s better than sending it in blind.”

Ophelia’s eyes flashed wide for a moment. “Yes, I do. I’d quite forgotten. Please excuse me for a moment, I’ll go fetch it for you.”

“Lady Rascomb,” he turned his full attention on her. “How do you fare this fine day?”

She glanced at Ophelia’s retreating form, and Julian’s heart sank. It had been years since his mother had passed, but he knew the signs of a scolding.

“Sir Julian, please take greater care of your reputation. Should you be so bold as to parade about London in your evening clothes every morning, my daughter shan’t be able to take you up the Matterhorn. You’ll be too great a risk to the reputation of an unmarried woman, and no married man would allow you to take his wife!”

Julian sat back, stunned. “But it—”

Lady Rascomb held her hand up, quieting all his protestations. “It does not matter what you are about to say. This is not about facts or truths. This is about perception, which is all Ophelia has left. Climbing the Matterhorn may be a lark to you, but it is what is keeping her going. I beg you not to ruin it.”

“This surely has nothing to do with—”

“This has everything to do with the widow DeMarius. She was scandalous before she married the earl, and even more so now. You are a grown man, and may do as you wish. But know that you have intertwined us with your life, and we will suffer the consequences of your actions. If that occurs, I will shut my doors to you to protect my daughter.”

Julian sat back, stunned. The idea that he could lose the regard of Lady Rascomb hurt more deeply than he could have imagined. And ripping Ophelia out of his life—he was the weed in this flowerbed, he realized. He was disposable, an interloper. Heat flared all over his body, embarrassment and shame running fast and deep through his veins. “I assure you that was not my intent.”

Ophelia returned, handing him her article. “Here you are. I have noted that it is written by Anonymous, and it should stay that way. If there are any identifying marks, it could be assumed my brother wrote it, and it would be acceptable to put his initials, if needs must. But I’d prefer it to remain as it is.”

He took it and folded it over once, sticking it in his pocket.

“Will you not read it?” Ophelia asked, her voice bereft of the confidence with which she normally spoke.

“Of course I will. At home.” He stood, unable to withstand that disapproval in Lady Rascomb’s expression. “As it is, I must be going.”

“But you’ve just arrived,” Ophelia protested. A line between her brows deepened. He’d not noticed it until now, and he had an urge to reach out and press that line with his finger until it smoothed.

This room was suddenly filled with conflicting emotions, and somehow, it felt like the morning he’d realized Maria had left him all over again. Everything felt wrong and strange, and he couldn’t breathe.

“Lady Rascomb reminded me of tasks I need to accomplish before the day is out. I shall stop in again soon.” He gave a curt bow and left, thundering down the steps as if an avalanche nipped at his heels. At least in an avalanche, he’d know when he would be suffocated.

*

“Lady Emily!” Ophelia turned in her seat. She was the only occupant of the drawing room this morning, as her mother was not feeling well. Instead of sewing, Ophelia was reading letters. She’d just gotten a lengthy one from Justine, and while she adored her letters, it made her miss her friend even more acutely.

Lady Emily was still wan and terrifyingly thin. She padded in, almost uncertain. Ophelia half-stood, unsure if her sister-in-law would lose her footing. But Lady Emily made it over to the sitting area.

“It’s good to see you up and about.” Ophelia had the urge to find a blanket to drape over her, as if she were an invalid, but she refrained, not knowing how Lady Emily was feeling.

“It’s good to be seen,” Lady Emily said, managing a thin smile. “I have been abed far too long.”

“Arthur has said it has been awfully difficult for you.” Ophelia wanted to save her from the embarrassment of knowing that Arthur had informed them of how many times she’d managed to cast up her accounts in one morning.

Lady Emily nodded, her eyes closed, as if it hurt to move her head. “No one told me carrying a child could be so trying. I knew that it could, but I didn’t think it would happen to me.”

Ophelia tried to murmur sympathetically, but she felt that her pitch wasn’t quite right. She had no intention of performing this particular obligation, but it was polite to empathize nonetheless. “It does seem strange that something so terrible is the norm, isn’t it?”

Lady Emily gave her a strange look, so Ophelia opted to change the subject.

“I hope—”

“Darling!” Arthur crashed into the room. “You are up!”

Lady Emily barely had time to stand before Arthur was there swooping her into his arms, kissing her cheeks. Lady Emily squeaked in delight and surprise. Ophelia watched them, feeling a hole opening in her heart. She had acquiesced to being courted by Lord Fairport, but she couldn’t imagine him swooping in to gather her in his arms. Or smothering her with kisses. Or being affectionate in any way, really.

“What are you doing home? I thought you had—”

“I’m only home for a moment, but Ferris told me you were in the drawing room. I had to see you.” He released her, finally, looking at her with stars in his eyes. Ophelia had never seen her serious, studious, duty-bound brother look so... smitten. And to think, Arthur almost didn’t marry her.

“I’m much better today,” Lady Emily said, puffing out her chest in pride. Ophelia was reminded of a robin, cleaning itself on the stone birdbath in the garden. “I have no doubt this is the beginning of a new era for me and the babe.” She touched her stomach, where a protrusion, though small, was now obvious.

Arthur looked as if should night fall, he could be a streetlamp himself, glowing as he was. “Must dash, but I’m so glad, Em.” He kissed her. As he turned to leave, he spotted Ophelia in the room. The afterthought. “Oh, hallo.”

“Arthur,” Ophelia said, greeting him with a polite smile, as if she had not witnessed perhaps the most intimate display of affection she’d ever seen between two people.

He continued to the door of the drawing room, and then turned, snapping his fingers. “That reminds me. I saw our friend, Sir Julian, out the other day. I invited him and his companion to dinner this Friday. Should be smashing. Lord Fairport as well. Invite whoever else you want, Fee, we’ll get the man to propose before Christmas!”

And then Arthur was gone.

“Who is proposing?” Lady Emily asked the surprisingly still air in the drawing room, now that Arthur had exited.

“No one, yet,” Ophelia said, her heart not quite caught up to her ears.

“Lord Fairport or Sir Julian?” Lady Emily asked, sinking back down into her chair.

“Neither,” Ophelia said, pulling the lap desk back onto her lap. The barely started letter to Justine was there, waiting. Did she dare detail the intimacy she’d witnessed? Would Justine know this kind of affection with Karl Vogel? Likely so. The Bavarians were far more obvious in their emotions than the English. Or Germans, now, she supposed. She wondered what the Vogels thought about that, and she longed to have a free-wheeling discussion with Justine about everything from life in a newly minted state of Germany to how she liked living in Augsburg, to watching her do impressions of her mother-in-law.

“Don’t you want to be married?” Lady Emily asked.

“I want to go to Paris,” Ophelia snapped.

“What’s in Paris?” Lady Emily asked, and Ophelia was glad she switched topics.

“I want to meet my dear friend and her husband there. Justine Brewer? She’s now Mrs. Karl Vogel, and I miss her.”

“Yes, I remember meeting her. She’s difficult to forget.” Lady Emily’s hand settled on her lower belly and she stared into the empty fireplace.

“I miss her,” Ophelia said, trying hard to not sound defiant. During her years in the nursery, Nanny had always told her she was defiant. Despite the slaps and the many nights without supper, Ophelia had trouble controlling her tone, sounding “too confident” or “defiant.” Yet that same attribute was encouraged in Arthur, and not chided in Tristan in the least.

“I have no doubt you do. What can I do to help you see her?” Lady Emily asked.

Ophelia looked up, grateful that Lady Emily understood. Of course she did. Lady Emily knew a great deal more than she let on, which made her an excellent Lady Rascomb. “Help me get through the dinner and have Lord Fairport still like me at the end?”

Lady Emily smiled. “I will do my best.”

“And no fish, please.”

Her sister-in-law drew her head back in surprise. “But—”

“The sauce is atrocious, and someone needs to tell you.” Ophelia turned her attention back to the letter. There was much to plan, and much to tell Justine.

*

“You know, I didn’t think you would be taking me to dinners with titled aristocrats,” Delphine purred in the carriage. “I thought it would be the other way ’round.”

Julian straightened his collar, which somehow seemed tighter this evening. He wouldn’t have taken her if Arthur hadn’t spotted them together in Hyde Park. Julian was trying to end things with her politely, charmingly, as per Lady Rascomb’s wishes, and then Arthur had charged up and invited them both to a private dinner. He couldn’t very well refuse. And then he accepted her invitation to return to her townhome. “These are family friends. I was good friends with the late Lord Rascomb, and upon my return, I renewed my acquaintance with the family.”

“Which has nothing to do with Lady Rascomb’s status as a widow,” Delphine said, piercing him with her onyx gaze.

To suggest he was after Lady Rascomb affronted his very honor. “No!”

Delphine relaxed with a smile. “Good. You know I don’t like competition.”

“These people are the closest thing I have to family left. We will be dining with an eye toward the compatibility of the young couple.” Lord Milquetoast the Bland and Miss Ophelia. He still couldn’t figure out why Ophelia would entertain the idea of that man, but a title, security, those must be appealing. He’d not had to consider those factors, being a man, and an heir to a frighteningly small fortune.

“And you play the part of a dutiful uncle?” Delphine slipped next to him in the carriage, pressing herself up against him.

They had not consummated their relationship fully yet. Delphine had managed to turn what he’d meant to be a chaste evening of chess into a different sort of game. But still he hadn’t wanted to fully give himself over, as if the hours spent dallying without their clothing were not as consequential. He knew in his mind that this was not true, that their proximity and physicality was still intimacy, but when she’d asked him to be inside her, it felt like too much to him. A commitment that felt wrong. He knew other men didn’t feel that way, but dammit, he did.

He’d made excuses, used his hands to bring her to another climax to distract her. It wasn’t well-done of him, but he couldn’t parse his embattled emotions yet. There was always something else to think about. The Matterhorn, a trip to Paris, his writings, his next appointment to South America by either the RGS or a private company.

Still, he’d squired her to the art exhibition, the opera, Hyde Park, and a few private concerts. It had been instructive to meet Delphine’s friends—more artists and bon vivants than he’d known. They were witty and clever, full of vitality. The kind of vigor he’d felt when he was on a mountain. A feeling that he keenly missed, which pushed him even more towards thinking of the Matterhorn.

Delphine seemed content to kiss him and pet him there in the carriage while his mind was occupied with other things, but he caught her hand when it strayed too close to his hair.

“I don’t wish to appear unkempt,” he said.

“You mean you don’t wish to appear as if you’ve fooled around in a carriage on the way to dinner,” Delphine said, reaching out to unbutton the top button of his shirt.

He caught her hand again. “Precisely. I want to be respectful.”

She hummed in disapproval. “Terribly boring of you.”

“I told you, this is family.”

Delphine crossed back over to her side of the carriage and sulked. Fortunately, they arrived not long after. He descended and helped Delphine down, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to accept the invitation from Arthur—er, Rascomb rather. It was hard to call his friend’s son by his name, even if Julian and Arthur were more of a similar age than Arthur’s father and Julian had been.

He hoped that this dinner would smooth over Delphine’s rudeness to Tristan Bridewell and his wife. That it would ease Lady Rascomb’s perspective of Julian’s involvement with Delphine. Even though he’d been ready to cut Delphine off, the idea of the conflict made his temples throb. It would be far easier if everyone got along tonight.

Besides, Delphine’s clever wit might be an interesting match to Ophelia’s strong mind. They were intelligent in such different ways. If Delphine could only stop seeing other women as competition.

Ferris ushered them into the townhome, taking their hats and coats. The butler still guided them up to the drawing room as if Julian weren’t a frequent visitor. Lord Fairport had already arrived, and he was engaged with Rascomb in the corner, while Mr. and Mrs. Bridewell chatted with Lady Rascomb and Miss Ophelia.

The men wore almost identical black and white suits, but the ladies wore a pleasing array of colors. It was something he had enjoyed about going to Society events, and something he missed about his sojourns in South America—the colors. London was so gray and drab. Staid and somber, as he ought to be as well now that his forties were approaching.

Ferris announced Delphine and himself, and the company turned as one. The ladies curtsied and the men bowed to Delphine, given that she outranked them all, with the exception of Fairport. They entered, but had barely enough time for introductions before the dinner bell rang. Since this was a family dinner, they did not follow a ranked entrance, and made their way as they wished.

At the table, however, Delphine was seated across from him, next to Fairport, while Julian was seated between Lady Rascomb and Mrs. Bridewell. On the other side of Fairport sat Miss Ophelia. Fairport was about to get whiplash from the steady stream of witty banter, no doubt. Julian grinned, and wished he’d been seated there. But then, he suddenly worried, if Delphine perceived Ophelia as a threat, it could be a vicious place indeed.

For a long while, dinner seemed to be going well, with light first courses, crisp wines, and easy chatter. Julian couldn’t pinpoint where the turning point was, precisely, as he was deeply ensconced with discussing which knot would have been better when hauling cargo down a snow-covered mountainside with Mrs. Bridewell.

“Don’t you think?” Delphine asked loudly, catching everyone’s attention.

The table quieted. Fairport’s expression was perplexed and Miss Ophelia was staring down into her lap. Something had definitely occurred.

Delphine looked straight at Julian. “What do you think?”

“I beg your pardon,” Julian said, buying time to look at everyone’s faces, trying to gauge the responses. “I did not hear the conversation.”

“Miss Ophelia asked Lord Fairport if he believed a married woman could go on an Alpine expedition with a man who was not her husband. I said that it was another way of cuckolding her husband.” The coldness in Delphine’s eyes conveyed her earlier thoughts exactly: I don’t like competition .

“I don’t see why, with proper chaperones, it is any different than an unmarried woman going on an expedition with an unmarried man. Something that both myself and Mrs. Bridewell have done.” Miss Ophelia kept her voice even, but she didn’t lower its volume. If he had closed his eyes, he would not think Miss Ophelia upset in the slightest.

“And look what happened,” Delphine said, gesturing to Mrs. Bridewell next to Julian, and Mr. Tristan Bridewell seat on Delphine’s right.

Ophelia frowned, and Mr. Bridewell’s brow furrowed, no doubt wanting to protest the idea.

“I don’t understand why this should come up at all,” Lord Fairport said. “What does it matter?”

Miss Ophelia looked at Julian, and while he knew why, it stopped his heart with dread. He knew she would out them, and knew that she needed to in order to prove a point—and to see what kind of husband Lord Fairport would make, but Julian still winced, not wanting to broach a topic that would cause him so much upset.

“Because Sir Julian has asked me to take him up the Matterhorn next year,” Ophelia said.

Delphine glared at him, an almost too-satisfied expression on her lovely face. As if she had found him out in some kind of lover’s deception.

“Oh,” Lord Fairport said, squirming in his seat as he looked at Julian. The man was as interesting as a boiled potato, and resembled one as well.

“If anyone would like to come along, they are more than welcome,” Ophelia said, glancing around the table.

Delphine scoffed, earning her glares from almost everyone in the room.

“I shall go, Ophelia,” Mrs. Bridewell said. “I would love to have another crack at it.”

“And of course I would be happy to help plan as well as climb,” Mr. Bridewell added, in solidarity. Julian then remembered that he’d opened an Alpine outfitters shop not long ago.

“Would that not be sufficient chaperones?” Ophelia asked Delphine and Lord Fairport. “Besides, it’s only Sir Julian.”

He flinched. What was that supposed to mean? As if he couldn’t be a threat to a woman’s reputation. Wait, that wasn’t what he meant. Ophelia’s dismissal stung, even though it shouldn’t. He was too old for her in some ways, yes, but in others, not at all. She was higher ranking than him, but he still had a title, even if he was not a Peer.

“I think planning another expedition is a fine thing,” Lady Rascomb said, glancing around the room, quelling the clear feeling of animosity that floated around the table.

The rest of the evening was stilted and stifled, everyone trying not to trigger the avalanche of bad feelings that threatened to rain down upon them. By the time the ladies were being led to the drawing room by Lady Rascomb, Julian had endured all the social discomfort he could take in this house. He would rather sleep a dozen nights without blankets in the damp winter than do this again.

“Thank you, so much, Lady Rascomb, for your hospitality this evening. I regret that we must take our leave.”

Delphine slowly daubed her napkin to her lips and rose. “Yes, thank you for the invitation.”

As Delphine stood, the men all stood as well, the shuffle of chair legs across the carpet the only sound in the room. She walked around the table and took his arm as they exited the dining room, everyone watching her languid and slow movements.

Once safely ensconced in the carriage, buttoned up and moving, did Julian dare speak. “You must write an apology. I will as well.”

She turned a shocked gaze at him. “ I should apologize? That girl has designs on you. You took me to a husband vetting, not bothering to tell me that you were a candidate. I told you that I wouldn’t tolerate competition.”

“I was not being vetted,” he insisted. “It was for Lord Fairport. Besides, you heard Miss Ophelia, ‘It’s only Sir Julian.’”

“That will last one afternoon alone between you and that girl.”

“That ‘girl’ is nearly thirty,” Julian reminded Delphine, but that only made her laugh.

“Which only makes her more desperate.”

“Which explains why she should be wanting Lord Fairport,” Julian said. He ticked off the man’s virtues on his fingers. “He’s wealthy, he’s titled, and he doesn’t seem the type to run off with another woman.”

“Yes, how droll,” Delphine shot back. “As opposed to you, an impressive physical specimen who reminds her of her dear departed father. I say, which would she choose?” Delphine put a finger to her lips, miming indecision.

Julian scoffed. “Miss Ophelia is a very pragmatic person. She’s not about to throw away her future on a pauper like me.”

“What does she care if you are a pauper or not? I have no doubt her brother will settle a fine dowry on her, just to be rid of her.”

He stared at this viper in an expensive dress, all lust and attraction snuffed out at last. “Why must you be so cruel?”

“If you’d had my life, you would be worse,” she spit. “How dare some doe-eyed child like her get so coddled that she gets to climb mountains and have a love match? Women don’t get to have it all, Julian. And some women get no choices to begin with.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had such a terrible go, Lady DeMarius,” he said, emphasizing her title, hoping to show her the advantages of her life.

She scoffed. “Oh yes, my husband, that I ensnared .” She pulled off her elbow-length black gloves in a fury. “I know what everyone says. That I somehow made him want me. Does no one have eyes? He was a disgusting old man, and I paid for it all with my body, no different than any chorus girl or common whore. He wanted me for fucking , Julian. This gown? This necklace? Bought by my exposed flesh, and willingness to let him do what he wanted. I was glad he died. And don’t tell me his previous wives would have felt any different.”

Julian bit his tongue. Her vitriol was unleashed, and there was no amount of words he could say to make this situation better. “I’m sorry that happened.”

Delphine glared out the window, her anger fizzling like a candle in the rain. “I know you can’t love me Julian. You’re too nice. Too soft. Too idealistic. But her? You could love a girl like her. And that hurts.”

“You told me not to fall in love with you,” he reminded her. “I thought you didn’t want that.”

“Of course I want you to love me. I want everyone to love me, because I am incapable of it myself.” Her eyes welled up, and for a moment, Julian was terrified she might cry. But Delphine was not a woman who would grace him with a moment of weakness. He didn’t deserve that honor. When she spoke again, her voice was soft with no evidence of a tremor. “I won’t ask for your company again, Julian. But if you come to me, I’ll welcome you back.”

The carriage stopped at her townhome, and she got out without another word, or a backward glance.