A Lady's Scandal

II: A Friend

1810

PEMBROKE MANOR, DERBYSHIRE

In the hushed grandeur of the estate's library, the scent of aged leather and polished wood mingled as Ophelia and I wandered amidst towering shelves laden with books. My eyes widened in awe at the splendor of the surroundings, a testament to the Autumnfield's wealth and prestige.

"This library is amazing," I breathed out, my voice barely above a whisper as I took in the rows upon rows of books.

Trailing her fingers along the spines of antique tomes, Ophelia smiled softly. "It is where I spend most of my time when I am not busy with my other pursuits," she admitted with a touch of wistfulness. "Embroidery, piano, quadrilles... They keep me occupied, but this place can be quite lonely."

Turning to me with a spark of excitement in her eyes, she exclaimed, "Eureka! You should come here to keep me company."

I hesitated, my brow furrowing slightly. "I would love to, but I cannot always pay a visit. Father insists on accompanying him for lessons on my responsibilities," I explained, unsure of how to navigate the idea.

Undeterred, Ophelia pondered for a moment before suggesting brightly, "Then I could come to your house and wait for you there. Or better, I could sleep at your house."

My mind raced with thoughts of letting her sleep in our estate. "I am not sure that would be appropriate," I replied cautiously.

Her face fell slightly, but she quickly recovered with a hopeful smile. "Well, at the very least, I could stay for dinner and then go home," she offered,

I thought of what my younger brothers might think of me being acquainted with a girl. "I think only friends can do that," I finally said, hoping to gently convey the boundaries.

"Then can I be your friend?" Ophelia asked earnestly, her eyes searching mine for approval.

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The gossip had spread like wildfire through the aristocratic circles of London. At every breakfast table and afternoon tea gathering, whispers danced on painted lips, fueled by the tantalizing tidbit revealed in the latest edition of "The Whisperings of the Elite." The column penned by "The Whispering Rose," known for its daring insights and uncanny accuracy, had struck again.

"Have you heard? Lady Arabella's rendezvous in the gardens of the Bridgewater's ball with none other than Sir Lowther! Are they not on good terms since the called off engagement of Sir Lowther's young sister and Lady Arabella's older brother?"

"Is not the baron married to Lady Victoria Hummingsworth?"

"I saw Lord Whitbell dancing with Lady Ophelia last night. I think Lady Glanchester has a heart of gold to allow her son a dance with a lady like her."

"I heard that Lord Hastings has associated himself with a scam in the Americas."

"It seems the baron has made his way to Lady Amelia's skirts."

The scandalous revelation had sent shockwaves through the ton, igniting a frenzy of speculation and intrigue. Society's elite, accustomed to concealing their indiscretions behind a veil of propriety, now found themselves exposed to the merciless scrutiny of "The Whispering Rose."

Saturday morning dawned over the Pembroke's Mayfair townhouse. In the breakfast room, Ophelia sat with her family. The atmosphere, usually one of genteel conversation and familial affection, today carried an undercurrent of restrained excitement.