She knocked and politely waited for him to respond.
“Come in, Ophelia.”
She opened the door and slipped inside the large and airy bedchamber. Her father sat by the windows in a high wingback chair, a blanket covering his knees. He was wearing a purple banyan, but underneath, his shirt and neatly tied cravat were visible. He did not look like the powerful and robust marquess she’d always known, her papa who could conquer any insurmountable obstacle.
“How did you know it was me, Papa?” she asked with a smile, hurrying to his side and brushing a kiss to his cheek.
“Though I am sure you tried to practice restraint, I could feel the impatience in your knock.”
Ophelia wrinkled her nose and sat on the chaise longue opposite his chair, curling her feet onto the cushions. When she was growing up, her father had lamented many times that her energy was entirely too boundless, that she did not know how to sit still, and even suggested that her impetuous temperament was better suited to a son, to which she had always rolled her eyes in the most unladylike fashion…no doubt confirming his assessment.
Running her gaze over him critically, she was pleased to note his color had improved and he seemed stronger. Since the affliction that had struck his heart, her papa had lost an undetermined amount of weight, grooves bracketed his mouth, and his skin was pulled taut over the elegant ridge of his cheekbones. Yet there was an inherent strength in his face that his ailment had not been able to reduce. A few more silver strands dotted his temples, but her papa was a man in his prime and retained his devilish handsomeness.
“The doctors have given a really good report, Papa. Mama is very happy. You will soon be dancing at balls with her and riding in the park again.”
“That would please me,” he murmured, his rich golden-brown eyes, identical to her own, lighting up.
Since his ailment, his marchioness had not been away from his side, refusing all callers to their home and canceling all her social engagements. Ophelia had taken over household matters with grim resilience, understanding her mother was too shattered to manage that responsibility.
“You will be taking walks with Mama soon, Papa.”
“I daresay I shall, poppet. How I long to just hold your mother’s hand between mine and walk about the gardens, listening to the chirping birds and the rushing waters in the fountains.”
Her father smiled at her bare toes peeking from beneath her dress and her unbound hair resting against her hips. All the propriety she practiced outdoors in the company of others vanished once she rested under her papa’s roof, and he had never forced her to conform to others’ expectations. “Papa…”
Their eyes met, and it happened then. Ophelia’s throat closed, and she simply stared at him, hating the burning sensation in her eyes.
“Why do you cry?” he gruffly demanded.
“I am not crying,” she said with a stubborn lift of her chin, keeping those dratted tears from spilling over.
His hand that rested on the carved arms of his chair stilled. He sensed it, too, this uncomfortable strain between them.
“Will you tell me about her?” she asked hoarsely.
“No.”
“Papa—”
“You do not need to know about her, ever.”
Ophelia felt as if her whole solid world had evaporated in one breath. “Papa, what do you mean?”
His face was dark with emotion and wariness. “The marchioness has been a wonderful mother to you, and you have led a contented and happy life. Let us be enough!”
His command shocked her speechless. On his supposed deathbed, he had told her a truth that had destroyed her, and now Ophelia realized he never intended to reveal the rest to her. How naive she had been, waiting for the moment when he would share more.
“Tell me, Papa,” she breathed. “Was she an awful woman? One who was unkind and selfish in her nature? One so terrible it is in my best interest I never know anything about her?”
“No. You are so very much like her,” her father said, a faraway look entering his eyes, as if he disappeared into a memory. “Your voice is just as beautiful as hers…maybe even more. She too sang and played the pianoforte with incredible skill and passion.”
Something inside Ophelia crumpled. “Then tell me about her, please, Papa! At least tell me her name.”
Her father’s eyes filled with tears. His throat worked, but no sound emerged. He turned his regard away, staring through the windows of the parlor for unending minutes. “Miss Sally Martin.”
Her birth mother’s name was Sally Martin.
“Papa—”
“No! What’s done is done,” he commanded hoarsely. “If not…if not…” His lips pinched, the words clearly heavy on his tongue and seeming unbearable to speak.
A sharp swelling pain rose up in her. “If not that you believed you were dying, you would not have told me,” Ophelia said, a hot ache burning in her throat, such unknown emotions sweeping through her it took an enormity of willpower not to cry.
“You only told me to relieve the guilt on your heart. You wanted to go on to your rewards with a conscience no longer burdened by secrets and guilt. You would have departed this world at peace, but you would have left behind a daughter bewildered, hurt, and shocked, for the papa she loved and doted on had revealed a character that was flawed. You would have left me alone with such doubts and pain, such confusion I would have nowhere to turn. But you did not die, Papa. You lived, and I have so many questions. Please, I beg of you to answer them.”
He closed his eyes, lines of pain and regret bracketing his mouth. “We will never speak about this again.”
His tone was implacable, his eyes hard and shadowed, and it was the powerful marquess who stared back at her, not her doting papa. She met his gaze with seething frustration. “Papa—”
“Your mother…” Papa cleared his throat and gruffly commanded, “Your mother must not be troubled with this. We will not speak of it again, ever.”
Ophelia understood then that whatever her father thought he protected—his wife’s sensibilities, losing his daughter’s love, having to face his own lack of honor—mattered more to him than the lingering confusion and doubts in his daughter’s heart.
She stood, dipped into a polite curtsy, and rushed through the door. Once it had closed, she leaned against it, letting the hot spill of tears course down her cheeks. A tumble of confused thoughts and feelings assailed her. Since her father’s confession, Ophelia had taken all the doubts and bewilderment, wrapped them in a tight ball, and pressed them deep down inside until they no longer tormented her. She had prayed daily with her mother that he would recover, for she loved him with her whole heart, and she was not ready to lose him.