He had the nerve to laugh. “You didn't think I'd want you for a mistress, did you?”
Felicity had never once fainted in her life. She didn't then. She reared back and slapped the laughing lord as hard as she could. And when he stumbled back, she stalked off, the sound of the siren's throaty laughter following her down the corridor.
Chapter 2
Felicity was furious. She couldn't quite see well enough to get her clothing folded into her bag. She also had to keep interrupting her work to swipe at the tears that streamed down her face.
“Drat...!” She hated even more that she couldn't weep like a lady. “Blast..!” She gulped and sobbed and hiccupped. And she had no reason. She had known all along, really, that this was a mistake. That someone was making micefeet of her life for no discernible reason.
Marriage. To a duke's son. How funny the farce must seem to them. A true Sheridan play, right there in the family manse.
“Damn!”
If she could only get her cloak to fold properly, she could latch the pestilential bag and be off. Where, she wasn't certain. She wasn't even quite sure in which direction Gloucester lay. But she would find it if it killed her. Better to be found frozen in the snow than stay another minute to amuse a bored lordling and his familiar. Although, she ruefully had to admit, it would be difficult to freeze in September.
If only she understood why. Why her? What could she have possibly done to deserve such treatment? Who could have seen something in her that would suggest to them that she deserved to be humiliated and shamed this way? Who decided she should be the object of such a great joke?
“He didn't mean to insult you, you know.”
Oh, blast. The very last thing she needed.
The Siren stood in the narrow doorway to her room like a lily at the edge of a midden. Felicity dropped her head, her hands still clutching the faded blue woolen cloak that still spilled out of her bag.
“I have no idea what the duke is thinking,” the woman said in her soft, languorous voice, “but he really is intent on having you marry his son. Bracken told me all about it on the way down.”
“How lovely for you. I wish someone had bothered to tell me. Or explained what the joke is.”
Finally, she lifted her head, wishing she could shrill at the woman, knowing she had no reason. It wasn't the beauty's fault. She was simply trying to be kind. At least Felicity hoped she was. She didn't think she could survive another person setting her up for such a fall. And still she had to scrub the tears from her face.
“I mean no insult, Miss—-” Felicity began.
That perfect smile again. “Missus. Mrs. Genève Dent-Hardy. You are Miss Chambers?”
Instinct kicked in and pushed Felicity into a drawing room curtsy. “How do you do, Mrs. Dent-Hardy. But why has he delegated you to beard the lion in her den, as it were?”
“Oh, he doesn't know I'm here. But I couldn't allow you to leave thinking...”
Felicity's jaw came up. “Thinking what? That the nobility is so bored it must find an unprotected woman to torment? That games are more important than her livelihood or self-respect or honor?”
“But I was serious,” the lordling himself piped up, stepping up next to his paramour. Before Felicity could answer, his features took on a thunderous appearance. “Is this where the staff put you?”
Felicity looked around the room as if she had not been shivering in it for four days. “Of course.”
It was, after all, on the staff floor, a single room without fireplace or bureau or rug. It did have four hooks on the wall, though, and a tiny dormer window near the ceiling, which let in some light. Felicity had certainly occupied worse.
“Higgins!” Lord Flint suddenly bellowed, turning away from the door. “H-i-i-g-g-i-i-i-i-i-i-ns!!!”
Felicity looked around again. “What is wrong?”
She heard someone thundering up the narrow third-floor steps.
“My lord?” The skeletal butler appeared in the doorway, huffing and pink.
“Get Mrs. Windom up here,” his employer growled. “Right. Now! This is inexcusable. Whose idea was it to put a guest of this house in the goddamn attic?!”
“My lord,” the butler protested, red-faced, as he shot an uncomfortable look at Mrs. Dent-Hardy.
Thank heavens the butler hadn't been here earlier, Felicity thought. Her language would have sent him into a seizure.
“Miss Chambers is moving. Now!” Lord Flint commanded. “The Chinese bedroom, do you hear me?” The young lord had his hands clenched and was leaning over the old man. “Do you hear me?”
“No thank you,” Felicity said, finally getting her bag closed. “I would prefer Mr. Higgins get me a ride to the nearest posting house.”
“Don't be absurd,” Lord Flint snapped. “You'll stay here and marry me.”
“Don't you be absurd, my lord,” she said, lifting the bag in her arms. “You have no more desire to marry me than I have to marry you.”
“Marry?” Higgins gasped in failing tones.
“Of course you do,” Lord Flint scoffed. “No one would be idiotic enough to turn down a chance like that. You would be mistress of this house and another like it. A duke's daughter-by-marriage. A leader of fashion. Put that bag down.”
Felicity bristled, back straight, chin out, cheeks hot. “My lord. Women are not afforded many choices in life. Especially poor women. Especially poor, orphaned women.” Trembling with the effort, she stepped up to him, barely noticing that Mrs. Dent-Hardy scooted aside, smiling like a conspirator. She did notice that her own chin only came as high as the lordling's top jacket button. “But I do have this choice. I am going home, my lord. I am going to teach girls to maintain their self-respect as their parents auction them off like sheep in a market, and I am going to assure them that they amount to more than their piano or drawing or stitchery. Because then I can help them avoid the kind of insult I have suffered today.”
And without another word, she pushed past her tormentor by the expedience of shoving her bag straight into his stomach.
“Higgins?” she asked, walking out into the hall as the lord dropped, gasping to his knees. “Do I have to walk?”
Higgins was frozen in place. “Oh, Miss...”
She sighed. “I understand. It would not be worth your job.” Patting his thin arm, she stepped past. “I will not endanger another person's position.”
And with annoyingly persistent tears once again streaking her cheeks, Felicity descended the stairs, never once acknowledging the sound of female hands clapping behind her except to think that Mrs. Dent-Hardy really must learn to keep her opinions to herself.
“You needn't enjoy this quite so much, Gen,” Flint rasped, his stomach still sore as he straightened in time to hear the door slam three stories down.
“Oh, yes I do,” she answered, patting him on the shoulder like a child. “I don't believe I have ever seen you treat a woman in so cow-handed a fashion.”
He glared down the stairs, as if he could conjure the little termagant. “I have never been so provoked. What could ever make her think I was making a maygame of her?”
Gen turned a startled gaze on him. “Oh, my dear. She said she was an orphan, did she not? A poor one who managed to secure a position in a lady's academy? And you pulled her from her place of employment to leave her languishing for four days without explanation before laughingly telling her that she will marry you. What could possibly compel her to think you might not be sincere?”
Bracken closed his eyes, mortified. Furious. Resentful. Damn his father for demanding this of him.
“She might have learned if she'd stayed around.”
“And she might have stayed if you had used just a bit of your legendary charm. Instead you seem to have taken out the anger that should be directed at your father on an innocent young lady.”
He sighed. “I still have to figure a way to get her back here. Whether I like it or not.”
Again, Genève smiled. “Well, I do believe
you have met your match, my love. She will make an excellent wife.”
“That termagant? I should say not. She belongs in Bedlam.”
“She belongs on the throne. Don't you think, Higgins?”
Higgins was still standing like a statue at the edge of the stairs, his forehead beaded with perspiration, his eyes wide. “I think we have just suffered a close call, madame.”
Gen's laugh was delighted. “Oh, how I wish I could stay and watch this play out. I suspect it will be a more delicious battle of the sexes than anything Shakespeare could come up with.” Fluffing her hair a bit and straightening her signature pink roundgown, she stepped past Flint toward the stairs. “Sadly, I would be grossly de trop in the courting.”
“Courting?” Flint snorted, rubbing at his middle. “I'd rather catch a tiger by the tail.”
Still grinning, Genève offered her hand. “I suspect that will be an apt comparison.”
Finally pushing himself forward, Flint held out his elbow for her and accompanied her down the stairs, followed by the still-affronted Higgins.
“Why her?” Gen asked as they descended. “There are certainly more acceptable females out there. Do you even know who she is?”
“A classmate to my cousin Pip at that academy where she caused so much trouble.”
“An orphan.”
He shrugged. “Evidently.”
“But attending Miss Chase's. Not exactly a workhouse.”
“Not at all.”
She shook her head. “You have to admit that it does sound suspect.”
“The duke did not bother to over-explain himself. Simply reminded me of my promise to wed by thirty, a certain indiscretion which will not be mentioned before ladies, and gave the chit's name and direction. I suppose I should be endlessly grateful he stumbled over a candidate with all her teeth.”
Although there had been that one tooth that was just a little crooked, which only served to made her look charming. Even with her face puffy and tear-stained, she was rather a pocket Venus, with thick mahogany hair, a pugnacious little jaw, and great brown eyes that snapped fire when she was angry. And that tooth he suddenly wanted to run his tongue over. Definitely not a blond, but suddenly Flint thought she would have been wasted as a blond.
What she didn't seem to be was underhanded or sly. If she had been, instead of slapping him like a villain in a melodrama, she would have stayed right here to attract his full attention. And if his father was correct, that didn't make any sense.
“And no explanation as to why you are to marry her?” Genève asked.
Flint shrugged. Oh yes, there was an explanation. Not one he could share with Gen, though. “He says all will become clear.”
Gen chuckled, her voice thrumming up and down his chest. “That is what I'd be afraid of. You have to admit that even for the duke this is just a mite eccentric.”
Flint rubbed at his forehead where he thought a headache might soon make an appearance. “I'll have to go after her and drag her back.”
“It is that important?” she asked.
He looked around at the well-loved house with its time-darkened paneling and white linenfold walls, its family portraits and dark pastorals topped off by one rather rusty set of armor. The house had been in his grandmother's family since Queen Bess had been a girl. It had been his refuge his entire life. He knew every cranny and cherished every out-of-plumb line and eccentricity.
It was his, damn it. It and everything and everyone it protected. But only if the duke agreed.
Then he thought of his fiancée's tear-ravaged face. He could hate his father for this. She didn't deserve any of it.
He was bringing her back anyway.
“Vital.”
And for reasons even greater than his home.
Gen took her own look around. She had spent quite a bit of time here herself, having grown up on the next estate over. “Then you are quite right. You must run her down.”
Flint sighed. He knew that. His father had given him no choice. It was the girl or the house.
If there were only a more honorable way to do this.
“I believe it's time for me to go to my own home,” Gen told him as they reached the black-and-white marble entryway. “Along with everyone else. The last thing you need is an audience. And Flint?”
He stopped to attend her.
“If this plays out the way it looks, then I expect you to honor it.”
He raised his eyes to hers and saw their shared history in their depths. Friends, one-time lovers, neighbors. He'd once thought she would be his wife. She'd fallen in love with somebody else, though. Her words meant that even their casual flirtation was over.
She lifted a hand to his cheek. “Make sure she understands. She will not accept a lie.”
He nodded, his heart a little sore. He realized now he had held out a hope that with Gen widowed, they might find their way back together again. Depending on how things went in the next few weeks, his father had quite thoroughly put paid to that idea. Gen would never disrupt a family the way hers had been.
“I'll let you know how things fall out,” he promised.
She shot him a flashing grin. “Oh, I have a feeling I'll be able to hear it from Ravenwood. I’ll give Aunt Winnie a quick visit and then be gone along with the rest.”
Another complication in his life. “See if she’s interested in leaving anytime soon.”
Gen just smiled, since both of them knew the answer to that. Aunt Winnie had been ensconced in this house as long as either of them could remember.
With one last brief kiss, Gen shooed him out the front door. “Go on. I have to breach the billiards room.”
His head groom was waiting for him by the front step.
“She's gone, then,” the banty Irishman said in a near-growl. “You can fire me if you want, but Billy Burke isn't one to turn away a weeping girl.”
Flint thought he was doing a lot of sighing today. Good lord. She'd turned the man who'd taught him to ride against him. “You know damn well I won't fire you, Billy,” he told the grizzled, bent old man. “Now go get me my curricle.”
“Why?” the old man demanded, hands on hips.
Flint leaned down until they were nose-to-nose. “To bring her back.”
For a moment the only thing that could be heard was distant birdsong and the chuckle of the fountain on the front lawn.
Then, abruptly, Billy nodded. “Well, all right, then.”
He'd spun around and was stalking over to the stables when Flint spoke up. “She rides, huh?”
The question earned him a rusty bark. “Sits like a sack o’ corn.”
That stopped Flint where he stood. Not at all the answer he'd expected. Billy judged everyone he met on their relationship with horseflesh.
Billy gave his head an odd shake that passed judgment and wonder. “Never sat a horse in her life, I'm guessin'. Refuses to let it stop her.”
There it was then, Flint thought as he watched the bow-legged little man head for the stables. The ex-jump jockey valued bottom. Flint just wished he knew how Miss Chambers had gained the enmity of Mrs. Windom, who had exiled her to the maid's room.
But those were matters for later. Right now, he had to decide how he was going to get Miss I-Deserve-Better Chambers back.
She did, too. She had fire in her, that girl. She had more spine than many of the soldiers he'd served with. She was going to need it.
At the hard crunch of gravel, Flint turnedto see Billy swing the prancing chestnuts around the front drive.
“I'll be after doin' the driving,” the groom informed Flint as he pulled the restive team to a halt
Flint swung up into the curricle and pushed Billy over. “You'll drive the day I'm dead. Which way did she head?”
“Jem went toward Gloucester.”
Flint chucked the reins and set the horses into motion. “Then so will we.”
Chapter 3
One coaching stop was pretty much like another. The New Inn in Glouces
ter was no different. A half-timbered hostelry built around a high, wide archway that opened into the courtyard and stables, it was bustling, loud, and urgent. Ostlers laughed and yelled, running passengers juggled luggage and the remains of hastily-eaten meals, and the horses stomped and shook, setting their tack to jangling in the echoing yard.
Felicity should have been nervous. After all, she was a lone woman about to climb onto the outside seat of a northbound coach with at least half a dozen strangers, three of them men who kept casting her suggestive looks. But she had not reached her age without having to face a few unpleasantries, so she tucked herself onto the bench by the inn wall, her bag wrapped safely in her arms, and watched the world go by. She had just enough money to make it back to the school. Beyond that, it didn't matter.
And then a bright blue curricle pulled by two perfectly matched chestnuts swung expertly through the archway and pulled to a precise stop right next to the stage. Felicity almost groaned out loud. There was no mistaking the bearing of the top-hatted driver, or the anxious frown on the face of his smaller, more grizzled companion.
She looked around. Briefly considered taking flight. It would do no good, of course. The inn yard was completely enclosed, with the dozen or so people who hadn't already climbed on the stage just as riveted by the proceedings as she was. She had a feeling that if she tried to hide, they would just point her out. So, she sat still, her chin instinctively lifting, even as her hands trembled and her skin remembered his touch.
Lord Flint tossed his reins to Billy Burke and hopped off the vehicle, still frowning. Felicity frowned right back.
“Where do you think you're going?” he demanded.
She met his bright green gaze without flinching. “Home.”
“You mean back to that school. That's no home.”
“It is to me.”
And then he surprised her all over again. Instead of stalking up to loom his six-foot-plus frame over her, he strolled over. Removing his curly-brim beaver, he sat right beside her on the bench and leaned his head back against the half-timbered wall.
Miss Felicity's Dilemma Page 2
