And immediately, she knew, he was trying to set her at ease. To take the fear and unease away, and her heart warmed. How could it not? Even in this moment, he was trying to make her feel better.
“After all,” he continued with determined positivity, “you’re you and I’m…. Well, me. We don’t run at a challenge, nor do we turn into watering pots or moaners at the first sign of a bit of difficulty. We aren’t about to lose the war just because a battle has gone a bit funny.”
She laughed, then drank a good measure of champagne. “Last night was a battle, was it?”
“Yes,” he said honestly, his dark hair brushing his hard jawline in a surprisingly playful way. “There were high points and low points, but now we’re more than simply on the same side. We are united against the world. Don’t you agree?”
She raised her brows at that. “Indeed, we are. What an interesting thing to say.”
United against the world, husband and wife, married and no longer merely friendly acquaintances. And yet she felt as if she had found a friend, someone that she understood, someone that she could be close to. And he seemed to feel the same way, which was most assuring.
And yet...
But what now? Now what were they to do? How did they avoid the yawning crevasse that most ton marriages fell into with polite interludes and production of an heir?
They were surrounded by mindless chatter about horses at Newmarket, the weather, the latest fashion, and what was happening in France. Of course, what was happening in France was absolutely terrible. But neither of them seemed to be able to engage in small talk at present, something she was rather glad of, for she had never deemed it worthy.
She looked at Peter and couldn’t stop the smile that dared curve her lips. “You don’t seem as if you’re about to be taken to Tyburn.”
“Why should I?” he asked, his brows quirking together. “Do you plan on making my life a misery?”
She sighed. “No, but you did not wish to marry, and you seemed rather, well, disturbed by the idea of marriage at all.”
He cocked his head to the side, and a muscle tightened in his jaw as he contemplated his reply. “You’re correct. I did not wish to marry. I had no desire to do such a thing for the foreseeable future because I’ve seen how it can lead to absolute unhappiness. But here we are. No going back. And I refuse to take the path of misery. And you, Ophelia, will you take the path of misery as your namesake did?”
She scowled. “I am not so lamentable as that lady,” she said. “There will be no streams for me, thank you very much.”
“Good.” He gave a terse nod. “We should avoid water, then, at all costs.”
She laughed, unable to stop herself. She lovedHamlet. It was a remarkable work, full of lies, manipulation, politics, and betrayal, as well as self-discovery. Still, she had no desire to have the fate of any of those characters. “Are you going to prove to be a prince like Hamlet and leave me tossing flowers about, proclaiming that you are not honest about your feelings as I run mad?”
He took her hand in his. “I will always be honest with you. I do not see why I should not. And somehow, we shall be friends. You are the closest to home I’ve ever felt, Ophelia.”
Her heart began to pound so loudly that she could almost feel the whoosh of it coursing through her body.
She could not allow her heart to feel too much at such a strong proclamation. And yet...it was so tempting, for those words were far too close to love.
But surely, he did not, would not likely ever, love her. They could be content, perhaps. But he’d been forced to marry her. Fear. There it was. She feared that he would never truly want her.
Taking a sip of champagne, she silently told that voice in her head to go to the devil. Life was far too full of hope to listen to fear.
Chapter 9
Peter refused to give in to doom and gloom or fury at the way the fates had set him on the path of marriage.
Such stuff was for weaklings.
Oh, a good dose of the down and out was not completely without avoidance.
Everyone had their moments, but he refused to succumb to melancholia. After all, he was a bloody earl. He had funds and houses. He never feared for lack of food or warmth. Lady Fortuna had smiled on him over and over again. And he wouldn’t insult her by not being grateful.
And now, Lady Fortuna had given him Ophelia.
Despite his concerns that he didn’t know how to make her happy, he wasn’t about to muck this up entirely.
No. He couldn’t do as his father had done by giving in to the darkness. If he did, he’d take to his bed chamber and never come out. No, he’d seen the hell that led men into.
He could not allow himself to be dragged down by the coils of dark, inky sorrow. No. He had to fight and fight on and fight hard, hence his long walks, his riding, his determination to be merry, though sometimes it felt false.