Lady Wild (16 page)

Vane’s lips twisted in pained smile. “Life, Stark. Life. She’s an unforgiving mistress. And she’s taught me well.”
Andrew hesitated. “You’ve become unforgiving?”
“I don’t need to give forgiveness,” he replied.

The porter approached silently and left a full decanter of brandy on the small mahogany table beside Andrew. Pouring it until the amber liquid trembled against the brim, he asked, “What do you need, then?”

Vane thrust out his glass. “Vengeance.”
A chill crept down Andrew’s spine at that one unrelenting word. Vane was on a dangerous path, and for now, there was nothing he could do but wait and watch and pursue the solutions to his own problems. Vengeance? No. Ophelia and Lady Darlington, for all the pain they might bring into his life, had taught him to face life with more strength than that.

’Twas a pity that Vane was lost. He’d been such a good man once.

“Stark?” Vane demanded.

“Mmm?”

“Forget her,” Vane said softly, almost kindly. “It’s the only way to survive, old man.”

Andrew smiled tightly and nodded, but in his heart, he knew he’d never forget Ophelia. How could one forget the moon and sun and stars once exposed to their glory or the soft warmth that he’d felt upon his heart for the first time in his life? No. He’d never forget.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A mother is the most wonderful thing in this world,

and it’s always terrifying to contemplate her loss.

-Ophelia’s Notebook

“You’re out of sorts,” Lady Darlington said. She clutched at the velvet blanket tucked firmly about her delicate legs with red-gloved hands. Under the faint, late-afternoon London sun, braced by cushions, she looked a wisp of a woman.

It had been suggested that they go out, but Lady Darlington had gently brushed that notion aside with a hand even more frail than the day before. So they had adjourned to Andrew’s courtyard.
Ophelia gripped the arms of the chair, wishing she could channel all her fear into the bamboo. Fear of her mother’s passing, fear of what had transpired with Andrew.

Of course her mother would notice. Even in her quickly declining state, her mother missed nothing.

“Well?” her mother prompted.

Ophelia leaned back in the bamboo chair. She couldn’t bear to look at her mother if she was going to tell a lie.

“No, Mama,” she said. “I simply wonder if Mr. Millais will indeed agree to teach me. He is so talented, and I admire him so much, it would be heartbreaking if he said no.”

“Look at me, Ophelia.”

Ophelia squeezed her eyes tight. It was so difficult, her mother’s embrace of honesty. How could one face so many hard things at once? At last, she opened her eyes and turned to her mother.

Penetrating pale-blue eyes blazed out from Lady Darlington’s paper-white face. Even in her opium-laced state, there was an otherworldly knowledge in her eyes that couldn’t be ignored. “Do I look”—she drew in a slightly shaky breath—“as if I’ve fallen off a turnip cart?”
Ophelia fought her distress at the strange turn her mother’s breathing had taken in the last day. Labored, shallow, and impossible not to notice. Ophelia wished she could pretend it wasn’t so.

Instead of thinking on how ill her mother truly was, she answered the silly question. “You’ve never ridden in a turnip cart.”
“Exactly. I am no fool.” Her mother smiled softly. A dreamy smile, despite the seriousness of her words. “You’ve quarreled with Andrew.”
Ophelia’s cheeks burned. Quarreled? Oh, she’d done so much more than that. She’d given herself to him in every sense of the word. Well, almost every sense. When he’d asked for it all, she’d denied him. But she couldn’t give him what he wished. She couldn’t trust Andrew with her hand. She was about to have her heart ripped out by her mother’s death. How could she ever risk feeling such pain again? Giving in to love would only ensure such pain would find her once more. Perhaps not now, but one day. She couldn’t bear that.

In fact, as soon as her mother had slipped from this world, she’d be done with Andrew. Surely Andrew would just remind her of her mother’s death? And that she wouldn’t be able to bear.

A red-gloved hand wrapped hers, and Ophelia jolted out of her reverie. “Mama?”

“You slept with him,” her mother whispered dramatically.

“That is not of your business,” Ophelia whispered back, her throat tightening around the shocking words. She should have known that her mother would see how it was and refuse to be silent. If anything, impending death had made Lady Darlington as bold as the wildest racehorse. Nothing held her back.

She forced herself to face her mother.

Her mother’s glance had altered, a slight glazed look taking over her eyes. Lady Darlington seemed to see much more than just everyday things. She was slipping away to a different place, her spirit seeing that strange, mysterious place before her body was ready to leave.

“Mother. . .I. . .I did sleep with Andrew.”

“Marvelous. Is he a good lover?”

Ophelia groaned, wishing she could run from such an awkward conversation, but she could refuse her mother nothing. “Yes. Or at least I assume so.”

“You enjoyed it?”
Ophelia gave a tight nod, but then an uncontrollable smile tilted her lips, warming her heart. The feel of Andrew’s arms about her, his lips on hers were not so far gone. He’d made her feel as if she was the sun and he but a planet basking in her life-giving rays. “It was wonderful.”

“Good.” She nodded slowly. “I’m glad Andrew lived up to his reputation. Now that that is underway, I expect you two shall enjoy each other very much.”

The warmth encasing Ophelia’s heart began to fade. Andrew had looked so disappointed in the early hours as she’d refused him. “He asked me to marry him.”

Her mother tilted her face to catch the sun. “I am not surprised.”

“No?”

“Mmm. I knew he was the man for you from the moment I saw you two together.”

Ophelia was tempted to roll her eyes, but she couldn’t. “What am I to do?”

Face still turned up to the sun like a flower drinking in the last warmth before dusk, she asked, “You don’t wish to marry him?”
Ophelia bit her lower lip, then said tersely, “No.”

“It’s not just your fear speaking?” her mother asked. Slowly, she lowered her chin and turned her gaze to her daughter. Gently, she reached out and touched Ophelia’s cheek.

Tears burned Ophelia’s eyes at that soft touch. She longed to cling to every gesture, to mold it into a memory. “I’m not afraid. Not of Andrew.”

“Aren’t you?” Lady Darlington didn’t look away, but rather cupped her hand along Ophelia’s face and simply held her gaze. “It is perfectly acceptable to be afraid, my love. Fear is a part of life.”

Tears sprang to Ophelia’s eyes. How was she going to survive without her mother’s love? And she was afraid. Afraid of the pain of loss. “Haven’t we already had this conversation?”

“Well, it seems we need to have it again.”

“I am. . .afraid of what it will be like when you’ve gone.” Her words poured out, fast and angry. “But I shan’t marry out of loneliness!”

Lady Darlington’s silver brows drew together. “I never suggested you should.”
“Andrew did, more or less.” She let out a harsh sigh. “Or at least, that’s why he wishes to marry me.”

“He said that?” her mother asked, surprised.

“Yes.” Ophelia fought the tears lest they overwhelm her.

“No mention of love?”
“No,” she said tightly, not willing to admit how much that had hurt.

“You’re afraid he’ll hurt you,” her mother said simply.

Ophelia opened her mouth to deny it, but before she could utter the blatant falsehood, Andrew’s rich voice came from the doorway across the courtyard.

“Lady Darlington,” he called.

Despite her tired, shaking breath, Lady Darlington lit up at the sight of the viscount. “Young man, you have been absent far too long!”

Andrew stepped into the courtyard, his gray coat swirling about his black trousers. He looked askance at Ophelia, almost hesitating, but then he turned his gaze to Lady Darlington and his doubt seemed to fade away.

Ophelia folded her hands demurely in her lap, determined he shouldn’t see her distress. Had he overheard any of her conversation with her mother? From his relaxed countenance, it seemed not.

Crossing to Lady Darlington with arms outstretched, he bent down and lightly kissed her cheek. “Do forgive me. I had a meeting this morning I couldn’t deny.”

“Well, one must keep their appointments,” Lady Darlington agreed.

Andrew beamed down at her mother. “Speaking of appointments, you and I have one, do we not?”

Ophelia’s heart spasmed. Love. Andrew loved her mother. It was utterly clear from the soft look upon his face. He loved her mother in the way he’d never been able to love his own.

“My dear boy, alas, it is I who shall be coming up short.”
“Never say so!” he protested with exaggerated cheer.

“I must admit that I am a trifle tired today.”

“Well, then, what should you like to do if not a walk in the park?”

Lady Darlington looked at Ophelia, a gentle smile tilting her thin lips, then returned her gaze to Andrew. “I’d like to go up to my room, and Andrew, I’d like you to play for me.”
Ophelia swallowed.

“And darling daughter, I’d like you to come and hold my hand.” Her mother gave a small, contented nod. “My journey is almost done, I think.”

Those heart-rending words fell upon Ophelia’s ears, and she wanted to scream that her mother shouldn’t say such things. But she couldn’t. The surety in her mother’s voice and gaze rebuffed any denial of the upsetting statement.

Ophelia couldn’t speak. Her throat was suddenly too tight, so she forced a smile instead.

Andrew’s own smile wavered, but he didn’t falter. Rather, he reached down, tucked one arm beneath her mother’s knees and the other around her shoulders. In one move, he swept Lady Darlington’s childlike body up against his chest. “Let us go then. . .”
“Mama,” Lady Darlington whispered.

Andrew’s gaze darted to Ophelia, but then he glanced down at Lady Darlington, his eyes glazed with a sheen of moisture. “Yes, Mama.”

Ophelia could scarce believe it, but the term was most appropriate. No matter that there was no blood relation, there was a love between her mother and Andrew. Ophelia found herself smiling without restraint through her sadness. Her mother had brought a love into Andrew’s life that no one else could. A type of love that everyone needed and she’d been lucky enough to have all her life. A mother’s love.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Pain can no more be avoided

than the rising of the sun.

-Ophelia’s Notebook

Ophelia rested her hand on the door knob and took one last look at her mother’s sleeping form, ensuring herself that, yes, Lady Darlington’s chest was still rising and falling, even if now the action was shallow and fast. In truth, not only was her mother’s breath abnormal, her body, even in sleep, was tense.

Pain. At long last, not even the laudanum was relieving her mother’s discomfort.

She tore her gaze away from the distressing image and met Mrs. Rourke’s eyes. The capable Irish woman smiled, her own gaze full of knowing. “Go now, m’dear,” she whispered. “Have a cup of tea, refresh yourself, and then come back, but not before.”

So deep was her mother’s sleep that she didn’t stir.

Mrs. Rourke’s kindness and acceptance of her mother’s state only added to the lump forming in her throat.

Her mother was going to slip away very soon. Possibly tonight. Possibly tomorrow or the next day. It was impossible to tell. She’d been told it could be quick once a change had occurred.

And in the last two days, a definite change had occurred. Gone was the mischievous lady who had teased Andrew and reveled in traveling to an artist’s studio.

Oh, her mother could still make light of things, but now only for a few moments, before closing her eyes and drifting off. ’Twas as if she was a newborn babe again. Helpless, unable to care for herself.

Ophelia nodded at Mrs. Rourke and forced herself to shut the door behind her. She had to keep her strength up until the end. And that meant a breath of fresh air, a gulped meal and a splash of water over her face.

When her mother was gone, then she could collapse.

When her mother was gone. . .

Ophelia’s face crumpled, and a wail of pain threatened to break free from her throat. She clapped a hand over her mouth and sobbed against it. She staggered away from her mother’s room, crying silently against her hand, not caring that she was in the hallway.

At last, she couldn’t put another foot in front of the other as grief pounded her. She turned to the wall and pressed her forehead into the cool, sage-green brocade. Lifting her palms, she rested them against the fabric, letting the wall hold up her weight.

How was she going to manage?

How was she going to let her mother go?

“Ophelia?”

Andrew
.