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cottage was not what he’d been expecting. In fact, it was only one story with what appeared to be a poky attic, crowned by a thatched roof. With its red door and red-painted window shutters, he half-believed he’d been transported into a Grimms’ fairy tale.
    It was barely in decent repair. The thatch looked in need of new reeds, and the whitewash was beginning to chip in several places, like a once-loved child’s doll, its porcelain fading.
    He assumed it was on Vane’s estate. If so, he was going to have to have a word with his friend about being a sufficient landlord.
    He stole a glance at Ophelia. This could hardly be her home.
    She gave him a tight smile, rushed up to the narrow door, apparently about to pull off his coat, despite the fact that a trap or farmer might pass down the deeply rutted lane that passed before the cottage, thrust it at him, and send him off into the world, completely unwiser to the cocoon that was her home.
    “Will you not invite me in?” He eyed the chimney, black smoke swirling up into the air. “I should like to meet your parents and perhaps warm my hands by your fire?” It was damned rude, his pushing, but he felt compelled to peek inside her strange little world. One she clearly didn’t wish him to see.
    She frowned, her fiery brows pressing together over her sharply green eyes. “If you insist.”
    He grinned in response, disliking her discomfort, but determined.
    Her pale hand twisted the black iron latch, and she strode into the narrow hall. His trailing coat brushed the walls, the space was so small, and he had to duck to enter behind her.
    Dim light spilled in from the parlor, and the hall, bathed in shadow, led to a remarkably narrow and curved stair that likely ascended to the attic. Given the outside of the house, it would be barely large enough for his Ophelia to dress in.
    “Ophelia, dear?”
    She tensed, her red curls dancing over shoulders as she glanced to the left, to the small doorway leading to the parlor. “Coming, Mama.”
    Without a word, she strode into the small room.
    He stood silently, then pursued. What else could he do, unless he remained like some errant fixture in the hall?
    He had no idea what he would find, but the small faded woman taking up so little space upon a worn chaise lounge tucked by the fire was not it. The woman appeared old. Far too old to be Ophelia’s mother. She seemed to be folded in on herself, a doll of a woman wrapped up in a thick quilt. Soft silvery curls framed her wrinkled face. But the wrinkles and slightly hard look to the older woman’s features didn’t seem like the wear of a long life.
    Instead, it seemed illness and the cruel hand of ever-present pain had engraved itself upon her face.
    Her blue eyes peered at him, the pupils pinpricks. She smiled softly, trusting. “Who is this?” Her voice whispered through the room, as frail as her small body.
    She didn’t even notice Ophelia’s strange dress.
    Ophelia knelt beside her and cupped her mother’s folded hands in her own. “Viscount Stark, Mama.”
    The older woman blinked down at her daughter, not understanding, but she was clearly pleased by her daughter’s presence. Those eyes of hers looked about, but were in a state of waking dreaming.
    Poppy.
    There was no question. The woman was consuming large quantities of laudanum, which of course meant she was indeed in a great deal of pain. If he was correct, it certainly explained the tension in her face and the withered state of her body.
    He shifted on his feet, suddenly realizing that his quest to shove into Ophelia’s life might have been truly ill-advised. His own throat was closing in the tiny space. He’d told her he wished to help shoulder her burdens. Suddenly, he felt unwilling, afraid of slipping back into memories of a different room, of a different ill mother. He swallowed. A mother who had not cared for him at all.
    Ophelia smiled gently. “I was walking by the river and tripped in. Of course, I got