Flint was standing in the wrong hallway. He knew that. His rooms were in the west wing. This was the north. But when he saw Miss Chambers stalk out of the sitting parlor, he instinctively followed a ways behind, wanting to make sure she was all right.
He had just reached the door to her sitting room when he heard the lock close with a very definitive click. It stopped him with his hand raised to knock. Should he knock anyway and demand to know what was wrong? To see whether his aunt needed some taking down?
Another lock clicked from the bedroom door to his left. He found himself smiling. If that wasn't a statement, then he didn't know what was.
And yet, still he didn't leave. He could hear her moving about in her room, soft whispers of fabric and softer mutterings. He imagined her readying herself for bed, pulling out those medieval torture devices that held her hair back until it flowed down her back, thick and shiny and touchable. Did it curl or fall straight as a waterfall? Would she sit to brush it or simply weave it into a braid? Would it feel like silk in his hands?
And then that misshapen nightmare of a frock. What really lurked beneath? He knew she had curves. But in what proportion? Did she wear stays? Were her hips as lush as they seemed, a fair match for her pert breasts?
“Seduce her if you must,” his father had said.
Suddenly the idea had merit. His body certainly thought so. Just the thought of having those delicious breasts in his hands had him hard as a stone.
He frowned and turned away. Too bad he still had a semblance of a conscience. It would have been one thing to seduce somebody like Gen, who knew the rules and would have participated with enthusiasm. Felicity Chambers did not. Not only that, she did not hold the kind of position in society that would buffer her from condemnation
The terrorism of uncertainty. And he was about to make it worse. He didn't have to make it that much worse.
Chapter 8
Two days later
“Where is your riding habit?”
Felicity looked up from the last of her morning eggs. “Why yes, it is a lovely morning, thank you.”
He had been away the day before, seeing to some problem with a local dam. It seemed odd that he would disappear right after making such a point of her staying, but she imagined unexpected things happened on estates just as much as in cities. She had filled her own time getting to know the staff and deciding which responsibilities she would temporarily take over and which to leave to Aunt Winnie.
She was actually amazed how much she'd enjoyed it. How comfortable she felt slipping into a role she had trained for and never expected to occupy. It was foolish, but she couldn't help growing even more attached to Hedgehog Haven and all its denizens.
And then, to secure her regard more surely than any gift might have, she had claimed the music room. A grand harp stood in the corner of the quietly classical ivory and burgundy room. The lovely pianoforte took up the window, out which she could see the pastureland rolling away to the wood. Reclaiming the sheet music from her room, she closed the door and spent several hours losing herself in Mozart. The rest of her world might be in upheaval, but Mozart's precision and emotion calmed her more surely than tea and biscuits.
When she got to the end of his Sonata 11, she turned the page to find an extra sheet. Taking a quick look, she decided it was a practice sheet from one of her students. She shook her head. Undoubtedly Mary Tracy. The girl had even less of an eye for music than she did for mathematics.
Felicity had planned on returning to Mozart after breakfast this morning. From the looks of Lord Flint, she wasn’t going to make it.
He was standing in the doorway frowning. “My apologies. I didn't mean to leave you alone all day yesterday. So, I thought you might like to go out with me this morning. If you'll don your habit...”
Straightening against the discomfort those words produced, she shook her head. “I have none.”
Flint stepped further into the breakfast room. “But you've ridden.”
“I have. Billie is teaching me.” In fact, after luncheon yesterday, he had let her trot around the paddock until her bottom ached.
“In what?”
She sighed. There would be no leisurely cup of tea to be savored while contemplating the view out over the back parterre. No extra crumpet or visit with Herr Mozart. Lord Flint was tapping his crop against his buckskin breeches.
Felicity desperately wished he didn't look so compelling standing there in those form-fitting breeches, the glossy tasseled boots, the gentleman's coffee-colored jacket and mathematical knot in his neckcloth. His clothing merely emphasized the strength and elegance of his form. His coat perfectly fit his broad shoulders. It softened his chiseled features not at all. Nor did it sap the power of his eyes, which gleamed spring green in the morning sunlight.
Blast him for being every girl's fantasy.
She held her arms out to her sides. “This is what I wear. Since I have only been riding about your estate, it did not seem quite so outrageous that my half-boots showed a bit.”
He dragged his hand through his hair, completely destroying the Brutus cut his valet had obviously spent time on. “You...I thought you had ridden the paddocks.”
“No. I did go farther afield.” She tilted her head. “Oh, I see. If I went that far, why didn't I simply keep riding? Because Mr. Burke was attached to me like a cocklebur, that's why. Besides, he would have been blamed for my escape, and I did not wish him to be punished. He has been most kind to me.”
Lord Flint’s attention wandered even as he gave a vague nod. “I was thinking of touring the farms today.”
She nodded. “They have been anxious to see you.”
That reclaimed his attention. “You've seen them?”
Another moment for a lifted eyebrow, Felicity thought. “They are on the property. And Mr. Burke likes to stop in regularly. I believe I like the Fosters the best. They have a lovely new baby with bright red hair. And Mrs. Foster
bakes the most delicious currant scones. You might want to check on the thatching, though. It's a bit spotty.”
Felicity deliberately smiled. Flint was looking more thunderous by the second.
“What would a deportment teacher know about thatching?” he demanded.
“She would know when rain plops on her nose while being served scones in a kitchen.”
“I'll get you an interview with the duke,” he growled. “I'm certain he would be delighted to know you have everything well in hand.”
“I should be happy to instruct him.”
Popping the last bit of crumpet into her mouth, Felicity got to her feet. Her frock today was another disaster, a moss-green Circassian cloth with long sleeves and a bit of worn lace about the collar. Not very attractive as a dress or a habit. At least it was heavy and long enough to protect her modesty on a side saddle.
“Shall we go?” she asked, giving her skirts a final brush-off as she joined him at the door.
He didn't answer, just turned and preceded her down the corridor to get her bonnet and spencer and exit the house.
The stable block was set behind the kitchen, a sturdy brick C that housed a dozen healthy denizens including Flint's matched carriage grays and the stallion he had ridden down, a massive chestnut with a bright eye. Billy Burke was standing in the yard between the stallion and the sleepy-looking black Felicity had been riding.
Her horse nudged her shoulder and was rewarded with a lump of sugar. The stallion alongside nickered and stretched out his neck to receive his own. Felicity chuckled at the imperious look in his eye.
“Now you're making up to my horse?” Flint demanded.
“I have discovered that horses are often superior acquaintances to humans,” she said, letting the chestnut lip the sugar from her palm. “What is his name?”
“Don't they have any horses at that school where you teach?”
Felicity accepted a leg up and settled herself atop Charlie who seemed as tall as the manor house balcony. “No. It is not a rich enough
school.”
Besides, she had never had enough extra time to learn even if they had had horses. Or a riding instructor. If she had, she might have already known that fear can sometimes be exhilarating.
“Your posts before?”
She patted Charlie's neck and settled reins and crop. “I was not in a position to learn to ride there.”
She had been invited. But the price for a few minutes' canter would have come far too high.
Lord Flint vaulted into his saddle with effortless grace and settled the great animal with a few soft words and a gathering of reins.
“Galahad,” he said.
Felicity looked up, surprised. “Pardon?”
He actually looked uncomfortable. “Galahad. The horse's name.”
This time Felicity thought she might have gaped. “Why, Lord Flint,” she accused. “You are a romantic!”
He huffed impatiently. “Don't be absurd. That was his name when I bought him.”
Out of the corner of her eye Felicity caught a passing expression on Billy Burke's face that made her think she was being lied to. She might have challenged Lord Flint on his statement if she hadn't thought she would put him in such a snit that he would cancel the ride.
“Lord Flint...”
“Bracken,” he barked, guiding his horse to her side. “You don't have to Lord Flint me all the time. My last name is perfectly acceptable.”
Felicity tilted her head a bit. “So, my choice is between an incendiary rock or a prickly weed. I don't suppose there are any other names to choose from. Otter, Fieldstone, Toadstool?”
His scowl, she admitted, was magnificent. It only increased when Billy Burke let out a huffing laugh.
“How do you ever keep a position with a tart mouth like that?” Flint demanded.
She gave him her brightest smile, buoyant with the realization that she never had felt secure enough anywhere to be herself. Anywhere but with Pip. And, evidently, here.
“I never waste my smart mouth on employers. Only fictitious fiancés.”
It was Flint's turn to huff. “Just my luck.”
Without another word, he wheeled Galahad about and set him off down the lane. Felicity had the feeling it was his way of maintaining the upper hand. She didn't mind, at least for the moment. She got to be on a horse out in the fresh air. Nothing else mattered. With a final smile at the laughing stablemaster, she turned after Flint.
Oh, dear. He was galloping off as if she would follow. She had barely gotten past a posting trot in her lessons. And Charlie was pulling on the reins to follow the much larger horse.
Suddenly Billy let out a shrill whistle. Flint pulled Galahad up to a gravel-scrunching stop and turned back.
“Oh!” he called. “Sorry.”
Felicity had the feeling that he didn't mean it, but she quite understood. The morning was brisk with an early autumn breeze, the plane trees that lined the drive just beginning to yellow in a weak sun. She wished she could just gallop off after him.
Settling the gelding to a trot to catch up, Felicity drew in a great lungful of air, savoring the mingled scents of grass and leaf mold and country. It had been one of the benefits of this last six days, reacquainting herself with the rhythms and simplicity of the countryside. No matter what else happened in her life, the countryside soothed her.
She had hoped to go out on her own this morning, too, give herself some distance in which to contemplate what was going on. A nice quiet ride with Mr. Burke to clear her head. Instead she was following Lord Flint from the yard and wondering what he had in mind.
Fortunately, he must have felt the same way she did.
“Would you like to try a canter?” he asked as she pulled up, Charlie slowing after him like a gentleman.
She would like nothing better. And yet, suddenly a canter seemed far too fast and high. She'd managed it twice, right alongside Mr. Burke, and felt as if she'd fly right off the tiny saddle. And yet, now seemed the perfect chance to try again.
So, she nodded and curled her leg more tightly around the horn, afraid she was becoming addicted to the tight-chested attraction of risk. Flint grinned and set Galahad off. Charlie followed right behind. And Felicity failed to fall off.
The exhilaration of it crowded her throat. Too fast. She was going too fast. She knew it. Too high and too fast. And yet suddenly she found the rhythm of the gait and leaned into it, like settling into a rocking chair. It was just what she'd dreamed riding a horse would be. She curled her knee more tightly yet and made sure the reins were taut and her posture straight.
Felicity had no idea where they were going. They were headed in the opposite direction Mr. Burke usually took. It didn't matter. She all but laughed at the feeling of flight. She loved the sense of sudden freedom, as if the earth fell away beneath Charlie's hooves. She loved the jangle of the tack and the creak of the leather and the pull and ease of the reins through her fingers.
Charlie didn't have the stallion’s size or power, but he was as game as a pebble. He followed right behind the bigger horse as they crossed the fields, clods of dirt kicking up in their wake. If she could, she would run like this forever. She and Charlie would take flight just to see how long they could go, how far behind they could leave their troubles and questions. All the way to John O'Groats, if necessary.
They were approaching a village Felicity didn't recognize. They had been heading southwest away from Edgecombe, the estate village, and crossed a bridge or two. Breaking through the tree line, Flint turned them onto a road that wound through harvested fields towards a group of old brick-and-half-timbered buildings clustered along an abnormally long village green. Swans circled a pond at the near end, and at the other, the road wandered off amid the horse chestnuts that ringed a square church steeple.
Just as they reached the first houses, Flint eased back on his mount. Felicity followed suit, giving Charlie another few pats for his service.
“Where are we?” she asked, breathless from the ride.
They had eased to a walk, Lord Flint falling back to ride alongside. “Frampton-on-Severn,” he said, pointing to the square Norman steeple that peeked through the trees. “That is St. Mary the Virgin. First stone laid down in the 1100s.”
It took Felicity a moment to follow his guidance as she quickly stuffed her wayward hair back into its pins. Thankfully Charlie seemed to know the way.
“What an interesting place,” Felicity mused, her attention caught by all the ancient brick and half-timbering, the air of sleepy disuse that seemed to envelop the road. “Is there any building newer than a hundred years old?”
“I don't believe so. Do you see the green?”
It would have been difficult to miss it. There was no real high street, no square of any kind. Just that long stretch of cropped grass, which didn't seem to contain much activity at present.
“I do.”
“Do you know why the green is this long?”
“Of course, I do,” she said, giving a final pat to her hair and tightening the reins a bit. “Although I've rarely seen one maintained this long. It was the law in the Middle Ages. The green had to extend the length of a long-bow shot, so the local yeomanry could practice.”
Flint shook his head. “How would an instructor of piano and deportment know that?”
She couldn't help smiling. “The instructor reads history for her own pleasure, which she learned from your cousin. Pip was always spouting off things like that. Anything to do with the courtly age, knights in shining armor, quests, Crusades. She was enamored.”
“I believe the word you're looking for is obsessed. Drove us mad with her quests for holy grails when we were young.”
Felicity smiled. “She told me.”
Felicity had listened in rapt attention to what she'd always considered fairy stories of close-knit families and the kind of cousins who abused and amused each other with the nonchalance of familiarity. Adventure amid safety, the easy assumption that one belonged somewhere.
She had listened
to Pip from her place in that hard gray dormer bed, envying the bright comforters and knitted throws the other girls had brought from home to keep them warm. Part of the fairy story of belonging.
Flint guided his horse to a small, red-brick inn and dismounted. Striding around to Felicity's side, he reached up without a word and caught her at the waist. Felicity started badly. The last time a man had caught her in such a way, he had forced her to stomp on his feet to get free. But the feeling wasn't the same now. Not at all. When Flint set her down on the ground, she caught herself just short of leaning into him, simply to enjoy the scent of sandalwood and man. Her skin still tingled after he took his hand away. Her knees felt a bit fluid. She quickly stepped away and smoothed down her skirts.
Flint acted as if he hadn't even noticed. Instead he pointed with his crop toward a manor house down the way that was part mellow red brick and part half-timber. “Did she tell you about the Manor?”
Felicity turned to look in the direction he indicated.
He was gazing on the time-softened house with a smile. “The Fair Rosamund was born there. Mistress to Henry II and bane of Queen Eleanor's existence.”
Felicity gaped. “That is the Manor?” She shook her head, reconsidering what she saw. “My heavens. I have certainly heard enough about it. Pip has never liked poor Rosamund, you know. She is a staunch Eleanor supporter.”
“Pip is nothing if not loyal.”
“Would that Henry had been.”
Flint's smile grew. “Eleanor was no weeping violet herself.”
“And why should she be? She had power. She used it.”
Flint laid a hand at her back, causing her to startle a bit. “I can see that I'll have to keep constant watch for attempted insurrection,” he said as he guided her through the door of the little ale house that was so low he was forced to duck.
They entered a dark, smoky taproom with a few listing tables and a well-worn bar. Across the flagstone floor a pair of farmers sat at a battered table nursing ales. A pretty blond barmaid leaned on the counter, thinking her own thoughts.
Miss Felicity's Dilemma Page 8
