Chapter 1
Lady Ophelia Price, daughter of the Earl of Rigby, slipped into Hatchards bookshop with a sigh of relief.
It was not the downpour of rain drenching Piccadilly Street that caused her to feel a sensation of bliss as she entered the hallowed halls of the bookshop.
Oh no, it was the fact that she was finally surrounded by her favorite friends in the entire world.
Libraries and bookshops gave her such excitement and pleasure that the mere nearness of books filled her with a joy and contentment she could not readily explain.
Rain gave her little pause, in truth.
So, as she shook the droplets of good English weather from her umbrella and placed it on the umbrella rack, she turned to the rows and shelves of books, a smile tilting her lips.
She was rather relieved to not have to travel on to Fortnum and Mason with her sisters, who were looking for spiced fruits to bring home for the dinner party this evening. She liked the shop, full of delicacies and goods from all over the world, quite well. But the endless wedding chatter and discussion of the night’s revelries? That she could do without.
The dinner was to be a celebration of her sister Jane’s upcoming marriage.
The engagement had already been announced, and close friends and family of the future groom and their family would be coming to celebrate. Given how jovial and sociable her family was, there would be a great many people, and, while still intimate, it would be nigh a crush to her.
Frankly, Ophelia was dreading it.
She did not like parties. She’d tried. Oh, how she had tried to like them. But she’d never quite found a way to be at ease in the company of so many. She could not find an accord with the conversations or dancing.
She did not like dinners, and she did not like balls. Card parties were slightly more tolerable because she could focus on the cards, but she was still expected to chat. A thing she did not do well.
She did not excel in company, much to her entire family’s dismay. And if she was honest, her own.
It was most unfortunate, for that was what she needed to do to get on in society.
Her inability was perhaps why she was a confirmed wallflower after three years on the marriage mart.
Slowly, reverently, she wandered through the bookshop, drinking in the scented air and the energy of the books. Desperate for them to alleviate her present agitation.
It was a difficult thing when one’s younger sister was to be married and she was not. Her two older sisters had been married some time now, and it had become quite evident that Ophelia was firmly on the shelf. She wouldn’t have minded such a thing, but...
Ophelia folded her gloved hands behind her as she gazed through the shadows and gray light spilling in through the windows, trying not to blow out a frustrated breath lest she call attention to herself.
The blasted thing was the unavoidable fact of the precarious pecuniary state of her parents meant that she could not go on as a spinster without serious financial concern. Her parents had just enough extra blunt to launch their daughters into decent, secure marriages. Not to maintain children for their entire lives.
It was a hard reality for young ladies. Especially ones without fortunes or the ability to make a fortune.
She did not know what she was going to do.
Such dreadful thoughts occurred to her occasionally, bringing her waves of woe, but she would not allow herself to succumb. Especially not in Hatchards.
Oh no, she was made of sterner stuff than that, and so she turned to the beautiful bindings of the books on the shelves, allowing her kid gloved-fingertips to trail ever so gently along the leather-bound editions. None of the staff mentioned her blatant worship to her, for she was such a common sight amidst the shelves that they were all used to her poring over the books.
Luckily, her parents did allow her to have credit at Hatchards. Her father, who dearly loved books as well, never blinked an eye at her expenditures there.
Almost certainly because she spent so little on gowns and such that her father could not argue with the careful sums she spent at the bookshop. She was rather glad he did not remonstrate with her.
Her mother occasionally made clucking sounds that she did not prefer ribbons and feathers to the books that she would bring home in bound paper packages. But her mother had given up the idea that Ophelia would eventually be like her other daughters and choose lace and a lord. Yes, her mother abandoned such hopes in the last Season, which Ophelia had spent on the fringe of the ballroom, having been never asked to dance by anyone other than family.
She knew that, somehow, she’d have to marry at some point. Her fate would not allow anything else. Yet, at present, she had no idea how she was going to secure a husband she didn’t loathe.
She gave a slight shake of her head, as if she could send the upsetting thought away with such a gesture.
Now, just now, she could savor the smell of the printed paper and even the residual scent of the ink. Happily, she drifted through the stacks of books, looking at the gold-embossed copies, wondering which author would become the next most successful scriber.