After all, he did not usually feel happiness. Oh, he felt the excitement of revelry and the fun that it brought, but that was a different feeling. This was so easy. So natural.
He found himself quite glad that he was going to see her tonight at dinner and would not have to worry about the flirtations of the other young ladies at the table.
He blinked and blurted, “Do you think your mother could sit us together at dinner?”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, gazing at him as if he had gone mad.
He cleared his throat, realizing how odd it was, given how little attention he’d paid her over the years. “Would you find it terribly amiss? Is it a very formal dinner? Or is it moreen famille?”
She looked at him suspiciously. “It is not going to be a very formal dinner,” she said. “I could ask her, I suppose, but why would you wish it?”
“Because you are most easy to talk to, Ophelia.” He beamed, unable to stop himself. It was such a relief to be at ease. “I had no idea.”
“You have known me for years,” she pointed out. “How could you possibly not know that I am easy to speak with?”
“It is my mistake,” he agreed without protest.
And it was, because he had not sought her out in company or in conversation.
After all, he was her brother’s friend, not hers, and gentlemen had a tendency to avoid their best friends’ sisters. It was considered good practice not to get into the habit of chatting with a best friend’s sister because difficulties could arise.
He’d seen it before, and he valued Edmund’s friendship too much to put it at risk.
And yet, he could not deny himself the temptation of sitting beside Ophelia tonight at dinner. They would be able to perhaps increase their friendship, something he suddenly found that he wanted. He wanted more of this feeling. This strange ease he felt with her.
That was it.
A friendship.
It would be just the thing.
He was getting exceedingly tired of the run of London. Of the late nights, the drinking, the gambling, and the emptiness of it.
He wanted a little peace before he went back to the continent. Though few Englishmen would ever admit it, he was tired of the never-ending meaninglessness of London nights. The whirl of the Season reminded him too much of the miseries between his father and his mother. No, he’d be much happier at least seek out the gentle friendship of a young lady who was interesting and not overly concerned with the latest hat.
Surely there was nothing amiss in that?
“You love to read?” he inquired.
“Of course I do. What an absurd thing to say,” she said, as if he was dense beyond measure.
“It is not absurd,” he countered, adoring her fierceness. “Many young ladies do not choose to read in company, even though I know that is what you prefer.”
“If you know that is what I prefer, why would you bother to ask?”
“Well ...” He cocked his head to the side, taking in her simple gown and the way her straw bonnet cast delicate shadows over her face. “I’d like to knowwhy.”
She frowned at him. “It is quite obvious,” she said.
“Is it?” he asked, his brows rising. “Do elucidate so that I might understand.”
“The world in books,” she said firmly, “is far better than anything in this world.”
A slow smile tilted his lips as understanding dawned. “You escape.”
“Yes,” she said. She squared her shoulders. “Don’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, taken aback.