From London With Love

11 | the importance of being earnestly in love

Ophelia was beginning to suspect that all of Andrew's friends owned homes the size of small villages.

She had only been at Argyll Estate for a few hours, and already she had gotten lost in the portrait gallery, trapped in a turret, and assumed that a spacious area with chairs and a fireplace — but no bed — was her bedroom. When she asked Digby where she was meant to sleep, he laughed so hard that there were tears in his eyes.

"Oh, Dickens," he said, ruffling her hair. "You're sweet."

"It's just, there's no bed."

He smirked. "Do Canadians often put beds in closets?"

After that, Ophelia stopped asking questions.

She had spent most of the morning exploring the Estate; Digby and Andrew had been busy preparing the guns for the shoot, so Henry had volunteered to be her impromptu tour guide, showing her around Argyll's rambling stone ramparts, the basement kitchen ("Mostly used by the servants, at one point," he explained), and the state dining room.

"This dining table," Henry said, knocking on the wood, "is older than your country."

Ophelia sized it up. "1750?"

"1800," Henry corrected her. "By Gillow of Lancaster." Still, he looked impressed as they wandered into a Parisian-style drawing room. "Not a bad guess, though."

Ophelia sat gingerly on a lavender couch decorated with small white flowers. She was painfully aware that everything in this room could be in a museum; the Beauvais tapestries, the hand-painted ceiling, the giltwood palm tree table....

She sat on her hands.

There was no way that she was touching anything.

Like, ever.

"Hello?"

A head popped through the doorway. Henry immediately hopped to his feet.

"Rupert!"

Henry tackled the other blond man, slapping him on the back. Rupert made a big show of grinding his knuckles into Henry's hair, grinning as he caught Ophelia's eye.

"Ah," Rupert said. "And who's this?"

She smiled. "Ophelia."

"Ophelia," he repeated, disentangling himself. "I'm Rupert; Henry's older brother."

Immediately, Ophelia felt foolish for not realizing it before; standing side-by-side, she could see that the men had a lot of identical features. Ruddy colouring. Left dimples. Eyebrows growing thick as a lie.

Rupert's eyes darted to a dish of pistachios on the table. Ophelia smirked. Yup; the two were definitely related.

"Oh, dear," she said mildly. "I do hope Digby's ordered lots of food."

Rupert stared at her. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

"You know, that's exactly what my wife said," Rupert mused. "Speaking of which." He stuck his head into the hallway. "Jess!"

"Yes?"

"Come say hello, darling."

A moment later, Jess appeared in the doorway, looking flushed and out of breath. Her dark hair was falling out of its ponytail. Her dress — a frilly white frock with a high neck and bare shoulders — was slightly speckled with mud.

"Sorry," Jess panted. "I was giving the others a hand with their bags." She kissed Henry on the cheek. "How are you, Hen?"

"Jess!"