At times, Ophelia had to wonder just what sins she’d committed to be subject to this – her own sort of personal hell. To others, the conversation chattering away through the plush sitting room likely sounded jovial rather than grating, the strains of music and the shuffle of dancing feet inspired excitement rather than dread. And to others, of course, being tucked away in a semiprivate corner, ensconced in a brooding wingback chair and concealed by a decorative teak screen during the Duchess of Hampshire’s birthday ball would have been a nightmare. But then again, she was Ophelia, not “others.” If her mother could see her in that moment, she knew just what would be said, the way her mother would cluck disapprovingly at the way her gown had been rumpled by her slouch, the grousing request in quiet French for her to sit up and smile. (“C'est une fête, pas une exécution.”) Truthfully, it was not her mother’s fault. She wasn’t the one pushing for Ophelia to find some malleable halfwit to marry – the inheritance laid down upon her in terms that had no grasp until she was married was more than large enough to have piqued her stepfather’s interest, of course. Lord Eastleigh was a greedy man, one made even more desperate by gaming debts. Perhaps if Ophelia had been less of a shy, disinterested stepchild he might have developed some sense of fondness for her, but no – she had been reticent and now he saw her as nothing more than a windfall in the making. Bored out of her skull by the inimitable waiting – surely her mother wouldn’t want to stay all night – Ophelia traced the patterns in the chair’s brocade upholstery absentmindedly. Whatever the reason for being plunged into this inane purgatory known as London’s social set, she was determined to endure. @Bliss