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!"

"What?"

"Don't call me that." He scowled. "Christ, you're so embarrassing."

Jess winked. "You love it." She turned to Ophelia. "And you must be Ophelia; Henry never shuts up about you. None of the boys do, actually."

Henry gave his sister-in-law a look that said he would very much like to throw her off one of the stone turrets. Ophelia bit back a smile.

"I love your dress," she said.

"Oh." Jess smoothed the skirts. "Thank-you."

"She designed it herself," Rupert added. "She's an interior designer by trade, but she's been getting into fashion lately and—" He yelped as Jess elbowed him in the side, massaging the spot indignantly. "What? I'm allowed to be proud of you, darling."

"You don't need to brag, though."

"I wasn't!"

"Yes, you were."

"I was not."

Henry looked at the pair despairingly. He seemed to be about to intervene when two more sets of footsteps arrived; a tall man with a short beard entered first, closely followed by a petite brunette woman with startling green eyes.

"Ah." Rupert perked up. "These are our friends, Millie and James." He gestured to Ophelia. "Mils, this is—"

"Ophelia!"

They stared at one another, stunned. Ophelia shook her head. She was dimly aware that she probably looked like a dog trying to dry off after leaving a lake, but she couldn't make herself stop. What the actual hell?

"Millie?"

The brunette raced across the room, throwing her arms around Ophelia. She squeezed her back, reveling in the familiar smell of coconut.

"What are you doing here?" they both demanded.

Millie stepped back, smiling sheepishly. "James and Rupert work together. You?"

"Oh." Ophelia paused. "Well, I..."

Oh, god. Why was she here? That was an excellent question. Fortunately, she was spared a response by Rupert, who frowned.

"Hang on," he said. "Do you two know one another?"

"Oh, we go way back," Millie announced, slinging an arm around Ophelia. "Ophelia went to Lovewood Academy with my younger sister, Louise." She turned to James. "Remember, darling? That's the school in Toronto."

"Ah." His expression cleared. "The boarding school."

"Yes."

"Good god," Andrew drawled, striding into the room. "How is it that all Canadians know one another?" He popped a pistachio into his mouth. "Are there only five of you in the country or something?"

Millie scowled at him. "I'm English, you twat."

"Only by blood."

"Yes, well, I—"

"Oh, good," Digby said. "You're all here."

He strode into the room, plopping on to the lavender sofa next to her. Ophelia immediately felt her cheeks heat up. Digby looked every part the Victorian hero today; his dark hair was windswept, and the smell of the outdoors — damp earth, mud and pine — clung to his creamy wool jumper.

"Typical," Digby murmured, dropping his voice so that only Ophelia could hear. "I've tried to impress you once again, and you already know the guests."

Ophelia's heart flipped over. Oh, god. What had Andrew said to do again?

Right.

Play hard to get.

"Well, then," she said, smirking. "You'll just need to try harder, I suppose."

Digby's eyes darkened. "I'll keep that in mind." He slung an arm over the back of the sofa, his long fingers brushing her shoulder. "Dinner should be served in a half-hour, if that suits everyone?"

She frowned. "What about Eleanora?"

Not that she cared if Eleanora was there for dinner. Ophelia found the other girl a lot like a cream cracker: harmless, but not particularly exciting or enjoyable on its own. Still — Andrew would want to know.

Ophelia glanced sideways at him. To her surprise, Andrew was frowning slightly, his eyes burning a hole into Digby's arm.

"Andrew?" she prompted.

"Hmm?"

"Shouldn't we wait for Eleanora?"

"Oh. No." He dragged his gaze away. "She doesn't arrive until tomorrow."

Ophelia frowned. Odd. He hadn't mentioned that, before; in fact, now that she was thinking about it, Andrew hadn't spoken about Eleanora even once this week. Maybe he was nervous about seeing her. Anxious that she might reject him.

Digby nudged her shoulder. "You'll sit next to me, won't you?"

She could feel herself melting. There was something so damn charming about that lopsided grin; she couldn't get enough of it.

"Of course," Ophelia said. "I'd love that."

Andrew woke early the next morning.

Not that he had slept much at all, really, Andrew thought darkly, slipping into a navy jacket. His dreams had been plagued by visions of Digby's arm wrapped around Ophelia's shoulder. Only this time, Digby had been kissing her neck. And murmuring her name.

Andrew had woken up panting, covered in sweat and furious.

What the bloody hell was wrong with him?

He didn't even like Ophelia half the time, Andrew thought bitterly, wrapping a scarf around his neck. Sure, she was sweet and charming and obviously pretty, but she wandered around with her head in the clouds. Andrew had always been dismissive of people like that. They were too naïve; too trusting.

So why was she different?

He sighed, glancing at his sketchpad on the desk. But, no; not today. A brisk walk was what he needed this morning. To clear his head.

Andrew was halfway out the door when footsteps pattered behind him.

"Wait!"

He groaned inwardly. Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

He knew who it was before he even turned around; Ophelia was racing down the steps, wearing ridiculous yellow rainboots and an oversized brown jacket. Her red hair spilled over her shoulders in crimson flames.

He pressed his lips together.

Damn that hair; it would kill him, someday.

"Perfect timing," Ophelia said breathlessly, falling into step beside him. "I was just about to go explore the grounds."

"Couldn't sleep?"

She shook her head. "I'm always an early riser."

They walked in companionable silence, making their way through the manicured garden and into the overgrown woods beyond. Andrew resisted the impulse to carry Ophelia. He winced each time she stumbled on a muddy patch, or tripped over a log. Christ. She would break her neck at this rate.

She looked at him, amused. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Seriously." She dug her hands into the deep pockets. "What is it?"

"You're just such a city girl."

"And it bothers you?"

He clenched his jaw. "Just try not to die out here, okay?"

She nodded, and then immediately veered towards a patch of poison ivy. Andrew sighed. He placed a hand on her lower back, firmly guiding her out of the way.

"Again," he said, shaking his head. "City girl."

He led her to a meadow at the heart of the woods. The golden field was overrun with withering dandelions, their wispy grey beards tickling their legs. Ophelia's face lit up with delight, and she broke free of his grip, sprinting through the meadow.

Andrew stared at her. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Making wishes!"

She let out a whoop, pinwheeling her arms through the air. Her red hair flew out around her like a banner, and he watched in genuine awe as she laughed, the breathless sound curling up above them like smoke in the crisp morning air. There was a sort of childlike wonderment about it that made his chest swell. An innocence.

She held up a dandelion to his face.

"Here." Her cheeks were adorably pink. "You try."

"What do I do?"

Ophelia's face was incredulous. "You've never wished on a dandelion before?" She shook her head. "That's a tragedy."

Her smile was infectious. Andrew shook his head, taking the flower.

"I just blow on it?" he asked, amused.

"Yes."

Andrew closed his eyes. There was nobody else in the world that he would do this for, he realized in bewilderment. Nobody but Ophelia.

He blew out a breath, opening his eyes just in time to see the tufty white bits float into the sky like miniature stars. Ophelia's smile was dazzling.

"What did you wish for?"

Andrew froze. Oh, god; he hadn't expected her to ask. He wracked his brains frantically for a convincing lie, and Ophelia's face fell.

"I'm such an idiot," Ophelia whispered. "Your father. Of course." She shook her head. "Forgive me, please, Andrew; I wasn't thinking."

Guilt swelled in his chest. Andrew let the dandelion stem drop from his hands, joining the other carcasses littering the ground. He was a bad son. A horrible one, in fact.

Because Andrew hadn't been thinking of his father.

Not at all.

Ophelia couldn't help but find this shooting weekend rather sexist.

She took a delicate sip of tea, glancing around the parlor. A three-tier cake tray sat on the table, covered in little Norfolk turkey breast sandwiches, raisin scones, chocolate biscuits piped with royal icing, and a coconut sponge cake decorated with sugar roses. Ophelia had already helped herself to several of the latter.

She had also — on Andrew's request — slipped a chocolate biscuit into her handbag.

Just in case Henry got to them first.

Ophelia glanced out the window. Somewhere, the boys were out shooting grouse, dressed in green jackets and tweed hats. None of the girls had been invited.

"It's much too violent," Digby had told her, shaking his head. "Women always get so squeamish about these things."

She had to admit that the comment had irritated her slightly, but she decided to give Digby the benefit of the doubt. He probably hadn't meant to sound so condescending.

Anyway, Ophelia mused, it wasn't entirely a loss; she'd rather be inside eating cake than wading through damp marshes with a shotgun.

Across the table, Jess leaned forward, helping herself to a coconut cake. Eleanora arched a thin eyebrow. "You're so lucky, dear," she murmured. "Having that much cake would go straight to my hips."

Jess paused, a forkful of cake halfway to her lips. "Well, I do run regularly."

"Even with the pregnancy?"

She flushed. "I'm not pregnant."

"Ah." Eleanora had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Well, never mind." She poured herself another cup of tea. "Andrew is already talking about children, you know. He's quite set on the idea."

"I thought you broke up," Millie said sweetly.

Ophelia turned a laugh into a hacking cough, reaching for a napkin. Millie was smiling, but she was clutching her fork so tightly that Ophelia wouldn't be surprised if she planned to stab Eleanora's eyes out with it.

Eleanora frowned. "We had a little hiccup."

"So you're back together now?"

"Oh, yes." Eleanora added a splash of cream. "We've already planned the most amazing mini break to Paris in February. Nothing better than holibobs."

Ophelia was careful not to catch Millie's eye; they both knew that Ophelia considered using words such as "holibobs" tantamount to running someone over repeatedly with a car. She stirred some sugar into her Earl Grey.

"Andrew hasn't mentioned that," she said mildly.

She was surprised, too, considering that most of the things Andrew had done to win Eleanora over — the roses, the handwritten love letters — had been her idea. Paris wasn't a bad idea, though. The City of Love, and all that.

Eleanora frowned. "Why would he? The two of you hardly know one another."

Ophelia felt an odd stab of irritation. She supposed it was true, but still. Rude. Next to her, Jess pushed away her untouched piece of coconut cake.

"Well, it's lovely to have you with us," she told Eleanora. "I'm so pleased that you could make it to Scotland for the weekend."

"Yes, it's rather nice, isn't it?" Eleanora mused. "I daresay that I've always had more male friends that female friends." She took a sip of tea. "I find that there's always much more drama with women, you know?"

This time, Ophelia couldn't resist peeking at Millie. To her gratification, the other girl rolled her eyes. She knew what they were both thinking; any girl willing to throw her entire gender under the bus like that deserved to be strung up from the stone ramparts.

"Depends on the women," Ophelia muttered.

Eleanora paused. "What was that?"

"I said, it depends on the women." Ophelia pointedly took a bite of cake. "All of my best friends are female, and we never argue; in fact, I find them to be the most supportive people in the world."

"Oh." She sniffed. "Well, you're the exception, then."

There was a horribly awkward pause. Ophelia loudly munched on her cake. Millie smirked into her tea. Eleanora stared broodingly into the fire. Finally, it was Jess that moved, crossing to the window to peer out of it.

"Oh, good," Jess said, looking rather relieved. "The boys are back." She hopped to her feet. "I think I'll go get changed for dinner."

She raced out of the parlor. Millie immediately shot to her feet.

"I should go too," she said. "Check on James."

She gave Ophelia an apologetic look as she backed out of the room, leaving Ophelia and Eleanora alone, surrounded by a sea of untouched cakes. Ophelia grabbed her purse.

"I'll see you at dinner."

She had almost reached the door when Eleanora spoke. "Taking a chocolate biscuit for the road?"

Ophelia froze. She turned around, her spine stiff.

"So?"

"Those are Andrew's favourite."

"He has good taste."

"Yes," Eleanora said coolly. "It's why he chose me." She gave Ophelia a long look. "He'll get bored of you eventually, you know. He always does. The only thing that Andrew always keeps around is me."

Ophelia shifted her bag. "What are you trying to say, Eleanora?"

"Stay away from Andrew." She smiled sweetly. "That's all."

And with that, Eleanora shoved past her, knocking Ophelia into the wall as she went.

A/N: And so it begins!!

I have to say that Ophelia and Andrew's little dandelion moment was probably my favourite scene to write in this whole novel — did anybody else make wishes on dandelions growing up? I was so convinced as a kid that they came true.

"Backstage Girl" readers: did you recognize Rupert and Jess? Rupert is the cousin of someone we all know very well ;)

Okay, also a little heads-up that the next chapter gets pretty ~steamy~ so if you're not one for kissing scenes and/or are related to me (hi, Mum!) then you may want to skim through the second half of the chapter. Consider yourself warned.

Affectionately,

J.K.