Both man and woman gasped. However, Ophelia merely continued. “He took care of me by hunting and cooked rabbits and birds on a spit. We will also be married when I am seventeen.”
The gentleman choked, and the lady stiffened.
“I beg your pardon?” she said in accents so crisp, they almost sliced Niall.
“Yes,” he said, wanting them to understand his intentions. His heart knocked frantically around inside his chest, but still he staunchly continued. “One day Fifi will be my wife.”
“I find it incredible and brave that you were able to rescue our daughter. How old are you, lad?” the gentleman asked kindly. “Seven years?”
Niall pushed out his chest, the tips of his ears burning. “I am twelve years. I am old enough to understand our promise,” he said earnestly, lest they thought him foolish and too ignorant. He sensed his success was rooted in approval from this large, imposing man. “Fifi and I will get married. She’ll not have Peter Warwick, the Earl of Langdon.”
The gentleman seemed to find some amusement in the matter, for he chuckled, but not the lady. She appeared affronted. Niall hoped that was the right word. His ma used it often, and it was always to describe when betters had that look.
“Come, Ophelia dear,” she said, holding on to her daughter’s hand. “A lady of your stature would not marry a gentleman of common origins but one of great wealth and consequences, a titled lord. You’ll come to understand the full of it when you are older.”
His heart started to thunder when the lady walked away with Fifi. Common origins?
Fifi glanced back and waved, her expression saddened. They were just taking her away from him, with no care that they were friends? His throat burned, and he hated that it felt like stupid tears.
The gentleman held out a few coins to Niall, but he placed his hands behind his back. “I…I doona want no money for saving Fifi.” Never would he take money for her.
“You have the appearance of a starving flea-infested beggar. Can you afford to refuse this money, lad?”
A starving flea-infested beggar. The shame curdled deeper in his gut, but then he recalled the pride and dignity his da said a man, even a poor man, should always own. Holding the gentleman’s eyes with his, Niall said tightly, “Yes. I’ll not take no money for saving Fifi.”
“Very well,” the man said, arching a brow. “My servant here will take you to the kitchen and ensure something warm fills your belly. Then I’ll arrange with the viscount for a carriage to take you…wherever your home is.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said respectfully, as his mother taught him.
The man made to turn away.
“Sir?”
“Yes, lad?”
Niall swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I promised…Fifi and I promised to marry each other, sir, and that we shall be great friends.”
The gentleman smiled again, as if the entire situation was humorous. Niall was most assuredly serious, and it was his turn to feel affronted even if he was not better. He puffed out his chest, hoping to appear taller and more dignified than a starving flea-infested beggar. His da taught him to be a lad of his word. A man never goes back on his word. That would make him the worse sort of ruffian.
“I have no doubt you wish to marry her and be her friend. You are fit to be neither, and it is insulting that you believe you can. My daughter’s husband will have wealth, power, and good breeding—all of which you lack. Learn not to want to pick the high-hanging fruit, lad, but always go for the one you can reach.”
The man walked away, too, leaving Niall feeling hollow. “Fifi!”
A hand grabbed his neck and dragged him. Niall dug his feet into the gravel, the stone poking through his worn boots.
“Fifi!”
This time she heard, because she looked back just as she was about to enter the large home. “Wait for me…” he shouted, hoping she could hear him.
“Wait for me…” This time it was a whisper, a prayer, a hopeful plea.
Her mother tugged her inside, and the door closed with a finality that echoed through his soul.
Wait for me…
Chapter One
15 years and 6 months later.
Berkeley Square, London.
Lady Ophelia Darby’s fingers ran with swift grace over the grand pianoforte keys, playing a lively tune. Sensing a presence in the music room, she lowered her hands and twisted on the bench. The Marchioness of Shelton framed the doorway, a wide smile on her mouth. Her mother was an exquisite lady, and today she was garbed in a bright yellow gown that flattered her trim and elegant figure. Her light brown hair streaked with golden strands was no longer clasped in a tight chignon but flowed loosely past her shoulders in a riot of becoming curls.
As her blue eyes gleamed with happiness and a hint of tears, Mama looked many years younger than her actual age of five and forty. Most importantly, she no longer wore dark-colored gowns, nor did she appear wan and hopeless as she waited for her husband to die.
Aware of her own fingers trembling, Ophelia stood and fully faced her mother. “The doctors gave a good report?” she softly asked, renewed hope blooming through her heart.
“Your father…” Mama cleared her throat. “Your father has healed well. The doctors said all danger has passed, and he will eventually recover his vitality completely.”
Relief swelled through her and burst forth in laughter. Lifting the skirts of her gown, she hopped over the bench.
“Ophelia, what wildness is this!” her mother cried, as if aghast; however, her eyes shone with laughter. “And you are without shoes and stockings, too! Impudent child.”
Running from the room, Ophelia only paused briefly to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Impudent lady, Mama. I am four and twenty.”
Ophelia gripped her gown and dashed up the winding staircase, swiping away at the tears running down her cheeks. Upon reaching her father’s bedchamber, she paused, swallowing down these peculiar feelings that darted through her whenever she met with him. Only two weeks ago, he had summoned her to his bedside to speak with her. She had greatly feared it was the last time she would see her father.
Her mama, the servants, and even Ophelia had anticipated the passing of the marquess with grim visages. Mama wept and prayed daily, and Ophelia often sat by his bedside reading and telling him of her day. Her papa had believed his death imminent, and because of that, he shattered the love and trust between himself and Ophelia by revealing a secret…or better, a truth. Since then, whenever they faced each other, she had to fight for equanimity and present a serene and determinedly untroubled countenance. Ophelia could not bear for him to see that the truth he had revealed still ravaged her daily.