If fairy tales were real, she wouldn't be alone. And Miss Murphy wouldn't have those bruises. And Aunt Winnie wouldn't live in hourly fear that she would lose the only world in which she still mattered.
Felicity knew she should leave. Sneak into her room, gather her meager belongings and tiptoe out the back door. Leave her sheet music if necessary. She should walk to Gloucester, all the way back to school if it came to it, if it meant being safely away from a situation that was looking more and more sketchy by the minute.
She should be strong enough to know better.
She feared very much that she wasn't.
There was nothing else for it. Taking hold of the banister, she pulled herself to her feet. It was time to move on. Pausing only long enough to brush any wrinkles from her feed sack of a dress, she sighed and continued on down the stairs.
Chapter 7
He knew she was approaching even before he heard the soft pad of her feet outside the library door. He knew before she knocked, before he bade her come in. It was the oddest thing. He'd asked her to join him, of course. He'd been waiting to hear if she had gained any more information from Miss Murphy.
But that wasn't why his head lifted seconds before the floorboard creaked at the far end of the corridor. Something shifted in him, something unsettling and new. Something he thought it would be wiser not to identify. Something that set his heart skidding and his cock waking.
Still, he put down the quill he'd been using to scratch a quick letter to his father and waited until he heard the sound of her knock.
“Come in.”
Good lord, his palms were sweating. How could that be? He'd only met her that morning. There had been a spark of awareness when he'd taken her hand, of course, a delicious fire in her lips when he’d kissed her. But he'd felt that fire before and never actually anticipated seeing the woman again. Never looked forward to the surprise of learning just what she'd say next.
He definitely had to stop this now. Whatever his father expected of him, he suspected a real attraction wasn't part of it.
“Oh, you're busy,” she said, stopping in the doorway.
She was such a little dab of a thing. How could he keep forgetting that? Maybe it was the rich color of her hair, like a good bay horse, or her eyes, that brown as deep as bitter chocolate. And she looked him in the eye. Nobody looked him in the eye. Not women, at least. It just wasn't done.
He found he liked it.
He glanced down at the half-finished letter. “I was just composing a threatening missive to the duke and a summons for my estate manager. Please. Sit down.”
She approached as she might have an uncertain animal.
“Did you learn anything new from our guest?” he asked.
Felicity lowered herself onto the green leather chair across from him, her spine not quite touching the seatback. “She likes your tea.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”
It would never do to let her know that he was relieved she'd joined him. He valued her level head, he assured himself, ignoring the smile that fought to rise in response to that pugnacious little chin, the sudden desire to pull a lock free from that tortured bun and see if it was as soft as it looked.
“Nothing else?” he asked instead.
“Nothing else. What do you plan to do now?”
“With Miss Murphy? Until I find out just what is going on here, nothing. This all seems a bit too coincidental for my peace of mind.”
Felicity used her palms to smooth out the lap of her dress, which seemed her only way of displaying nerves. “As I am not familiar with your father the duke, I couldn't offer an opinion. Does he frequently resort to subterfuge?”
Looking back down at the letter, Flint scowled. “Frequently. But usually only among my brothers and me.”
Felicity looked up, frowning. “Why?”
He flashed on a memory of William, the oldest, lifting him by the scruff of his neck for the crime of laming his favorite hunter. William had damn near choked him, and it hadn't even been Flint who had been the culprit. But their father had intimated it just to see what would happen.
“He said conflict honed the senses,” Flint mused, then considered the current situation. “But the older I get the more I suspect he simply can't help himself.”
Another of his father's favorite themes had been that all it took to create unity among forces was a common enemy. Flint considered both his companion and the young woman upstairs and wondered if that was what his father was doing this time. Building a bond between him and Miss Chambers so she would come to trust him. Coincidence indeed.
Signing the brief missive to his father, he sanded it, affixed the wax seal and called Higgins to have a groom deliver it and the one to Mr. Everhill. Felicity waited patiently, her hands in her lap, questions boiling behind her eyes.
Flint gave himself enough time for Higgins to get well beyond eavesdropping range.
“So,” he said, learning back and considering his guest, “we are not dismissing my housekeeper for insults to your person?”
Felicity dismissed the question with a small wave of her hand. “Don't be silly. You'd have to fire every servant who protected their place in the hierarchy, which would be a tad disingenuous from the son of a duke, don't you think?”
She wasn't precisely smiling, but there was a challenging sparkle in her eyes that settled very low in Flint's middle. He did love a sassy woman, especially in bed. Too bad he had other things to discover, which the events of the day had delayed far too much already.
“I would almost be forced to suspect you of enjoying yourself right now, Miss Chambers,” he mused.
She outright grinned. “I do admit that repositioning small hands on piano keys does not afford quite so much enjoyment as...” She tilted her head, considering. “What exactly would you call today? A carnival? A challenge? A mayhem?”
“Since you have been involved,” he said, “a delight.”
Good. He got a blush out of her, mild but definite. It made the faint scattering of freckles over her nose stand out. He hated freckles. But somehow, he didn't hate these. Not at all.
While he was musing on Miss Chambers' more interesting attributes, she rose to her feet. “If there is nothing else you require of me,” she said, “I shall retreat to my room.”
Once again he was surprised, this time by disappointment. He deliberately maintained his place. “Miss Chambers, you don't have to ask my leave. You don't work for me.”
She gave her head a little tilt. “A difficult habit to break. Especially since I am still unsure exactly what my position is here.”
At that he rose. “You are my fiancée.”
She gave her head a quick shake. “Not until I say yes. If I do.”
Flint nodded. Nothing else he could do. “Well then, you are my guest.”
“With housekeeping duties.”
“With the rights of a lady of the house.”
She just frowned. “And your aunt? I will effectively displace a woman who has had a free hand here for how long?”
He shrugged. “Gran's been gone two years.”
She nodded. “At least allow me to accord her the respect to maintain some of her control.”
He considered her a moment. How many other women would offer to share seniority? “You are now in charge of the house. It is your decision.”
She gave him another quick, firm nod.
“I'll see you at dinner?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Will you?”
He shook his head. “My fiancée does not eat in the kitchen.”
“But I am not your fiancée.”
He was frowning now, even though he was enjoying the bright edge of her wit. “Call yourself what you wish,” he said. “You will eat with me. In the dining room. Like a civilized person. Maybe we can start to get to know each other.”
“And your aunt?”
He grinned at her. “God only knows.”
His aunt did join them, perched upon a
fat pillow placed with an almost reverent attention by Miss Fare, who took the seat next to her. Felicity decided it was probably better that the old woman had joined them. She was feeling jittery again, unbalanced, as if Lord Flint was yanking the carpet from under her feet. She worried about what kind of conversation she would be obliged to enter and what deficiencies in form and manner she might betray.
Instead she listened to a desultory conversation that mostly involved people and places Felicity had no knowledge of, which left her ample time to enjoy the luxury of a civilized meal where little hands weren't spilling things and little voices weren't raised in ear-splitting whines.
It didn’t bother her at all that she knew few of the people involved, although it did amaze her at the number who regularly saw their way to Glenhaven to visit, and of all generations. No wonder Aunt Winnie knew so much about so many.
But that was not a problem she decided to waste time on. The wine was beyond anything she had ever tasted. The food was delicious enough that she had to remind herself not to squirrel any away in her pockets for later when she would certainly be hungry. No one went hungry in a duke's house, even an impecunious instructor of piano and deportment.
Maybe one small apple, she thought, instincts pushing her hard as she watched Flint and his aunt discuss several men he had served with. Perhaps a boiled potato. Just in case. No one would notice, surely.
“Are you expecting sudden famine, Miss Chambers?” Lord Flint asked, his voice dry as dust.
Felicity dropped the small, warm potato into her pocket and lifted her chin. “It is a long walk to the kitchens, my lord. Sometimes a person gets a mite peckish later on.”
He lifted a quizzing glass. An actual gold quizzing glass, as if she were an insect to be examined. “From the way your dress hangs, your peckishness must be chronic.”
She felt a miserable flush rise up her neck. As if she needed to hear that she had only recently had an even plumper figure.
“I may not be an expert, my lord,” she said, keeping her chin high, “but I believe that such a comment is not considered appropriate courting behavior.”
He lifted one eyebrow, which made Felicity even more unhappy. She had practiced for months to affect such a look. She had never succeeded. There was something so wonderfully toplofty about it, especially when the person wielding it was wearing his best dinner attire.
“I don't know,” he said, dropping the glass and picking up his wine. “I would think that if one were so chronically under-served as to pilfer dinner victuals, any man who could provide an unlimited supply of potatoes would seem quite attractive.”
An odd gurgle escaped her. Damn him, he truly made her laugh, even over her own humiliation.
“You are not going to shame me into putting that potato back,” she challenged. “You can have no idea what it means.”
And that quickly, the entire tone of the conversation changed. “What does it mean?” he asked softly.
And Felicity was caught on the barb of her own hook. How did she make him understand without further diminishing her in his eyes? How to retain her dignity when speaking of long cold nights with a gnawing stomach, of locked doors and cabinets that kept staff and students away from the food, no matter how unpalatable it was. How could she make him understand want without making herself a pitiable figure?
Briefly she looked away, only to discover the paper-thin defiance in the expression of Aunt Winnie, iron-straight, hands clenched on the table. And Felicity knew that at least one other person understood. Not the food perhaps, but the desperation.
“It is about,” she finally said, turning back to Lord Flint, “the tyranny of uncertainty.”
For a long moment, there was silence. Even Lord Flint seemed to have nothing to say. Felicity held her breath, wanting him to understand without having to give anything else away. She could only bear to diminish herself in his eyes so much.
“What an excellent idea,” Aunt Winnie suddenly barked. “Pass me that bowl of potatoes, gel. Miss Fare might be hungry later.”
Again, Felicity almost laughed, this time from relief. God bless the old tartar. And Miss Fare, who accepted the bowl from Aunt Winnie and, smiling, slipped a single potato into her pocket.
Lord Flint watched them all, and then leaned back in his chair, sipping at his wine. “The only difference between you and me,” he said, “is that my uncertainty will never involve food.”
Felicity didn't have the courage or the energy to withstand another grilling over tea. The minute Aunt Winnie excused the ladies from the table, she attempted to excuse herself from company and head up to bed.
“Not yet,” the old woman said, making her way down the hall at a surprising speed for someone who leaned heavily on a silver-topped cane. “You will join us.”
She joined them, perching onto a royal blue brocade chair, back rigid, hands in lap as she taught her students to do, and she waited for Aunt Winnie to be settled on the powder-blue settee.
“Well,” Aunt Winnie declared with a thump of her cane, thankfully on an Aubusson carpet. “You didn't disgrace yourself, at least.”
It was moments like this Felicity so wished she could lift one eyebrow. Maybe if she married Lord Flint, she would get a quizzing glass just like his so she could lift it to one eye. Surely that would create the same impression.
Instead she sat still and waited, refusing to give the old woman the satisfaction of making her explain herself.
Another thump. “I was thinking at dinner. You went to that school with Phillipa.”
“I did.” Although she suspected Pip wouldn’t recognize herself by that name.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Miss Fare take a seat by the window and pick up her needlework.
“Why?” Aunt Winnie demanded.
Felicity blinked, turning back. She had obviously missed something. “Why what?”
“Why did you go there? Very select school. Couldn't go without a recommendation. Who recommended you?”
Again, Felicity was reduced to blinking. She had never thought about it.
“I don't understand.”
Aunt Winnie blew out a frustrated breath. “Miss Chase's isn't just for any parvenu who decides she wants to ape her betters. It is for betters. Many daughters of government men go there. How did you get in?”
Felicity tried to remember back far enough to answer. But she couldn't recall actually moving from the country house to the school. She had been about six, she thought, and all she could remember of those first months at the academy was cold, hunger, loneliness and the surprising balm of the written word. She had soaked up language like a proverbial sponge and read everything she could get hold of, which admittedly wasn't much at first.
But it had been her only joy, her companion in the empty nights when other girls not much older than she kept away.
Until Pip. Pip had changed her entire world.
“I truly don't know, ma'am,” she said. “I never thought about it. One day I was in the country, and the next locked in that awful place.”
Aunt Winnie's frown grew more ferocious, which made the gentle tone of her voice a surprise. “It was unconscionable what you girls went through. I heard about it from Pip's father, the dolt. Leave it to men to drop you off and simply assume you were safe. No one ever came to visit you?”
Felicity shook her head. Safe? Who would have ever thought anybody could be safe under the auspices of Miss Chase? For the longest time Felicity had thought she was being punished for something.
Aunt Winnie nodded her head once, sharply. “Well, at least they taught you to be a lady. It will be easier passing you off.”
Felicity decided that she had had quite enough. “You needn't pass me off,” she said and stood. “I am a lady.”
And with a quick bob of a curtsy, she turned and walked out.
She was halfway down the hall when she heard another crack of laughter. “She'll need every bit of that spine for what's coming, if I'm any judge.”
Lord Flint hadn't merely assigned her a room, she admitted as she stepped back into the brightly-decorated sitting room connected to her bedroom. He had provided her a sanctuary. And if Aunt Winnie was correct, she was going to need it.
Just to make sure the rooms really were a sanctuary, she turned the key to the hallway and locked the door. Then she walked through to her bedroom and locked that door too. She wasn't quite sure why it was so important. She thought Sukie was correct. She did not risk injury in this house. Even so, it might just be wiser to make sure nothing intruded on her peace. Especially a too-handsome almost-fiancé with the most delicious dimples she had ever encountered.
Making one more test of the locked door, she finally relaxed and turned back to her bed. Which was when she realized how bone-tired she was. Too much running about today, too much uncertainty and surprise. Too much emotion—panic, anger, grief, hope, caution—all in one day. Heavens, she hadn't allowed herself that many emotions since she'd graduated from Last Chance and stepped out into the world. It simply didn't pay to let yourself be that vulnerable.
Sukie had obviously already been in the room. Felicity's worn, white cotton night rail was carefully laid out on the turned-down bed. Felicity thought she had never seen anything so inviting in her life.
Oh, and there underneath was her music. Mozart’s “Turkish March” from Sonata 11, the perfect piece for limbering up proficient fingers. She wondered where the staff had found it. They wouldn’t have bothered with something sitting on the piano, which was where she’d thought she’d left it.
She shrugged. Oh well. At least she had it back. She would simply need to remember to collect it from her room next time she practiced.
Picking up the sheets, she slipped them into the dresser drawer. Then she reached around to untie her dress and couldn't help grinning. She bumped into two separate lumps in her pocket. A potato and a roll. Just in case. Pulling them both out, she hid them behind the clock on her bureau. Then she finished readying herself for sleep.
Miss Felicity's Dilemma Page 7
