Flint seated Felicity at a table by the front window and set down his crop on the table.
“Tea?” he asked her.
“Ale.”
Up went that eyebrow. “Indeed.”
“The samples I've had in the neighborhood have been quite good,” she assured him, reaching up to untie her bonnet. “In fact, your own estate ale is a recipe from Aunt Winnie.”
Flint stopped in his tracks. “Aunt Winnie?”
Felicity smiled. “She has been in charge of its brewing since she’s been here. I hope you don’t mind that I asked her to continue.”
“You had that talk, did you?”
“Yes. And it was astonishingly amicable. I think we should get along famously.” His eyebrow began to rise. Felicity raised her finger in response. “If I stay.”
There was something so satisfying about making him huff like that. She had a feeling no one else dared try, except maybe the Siren. Felicity admitted that it gave her a rather delicious shiver to see the spark flare in his eyes.
By the time he returned, her bonnet was on the table and her gaze out onto the long green. “So, if that is the Manor down the lane,” she mused, “then this must be Rosamund Green?”
He set two brimming mugs down on the table and took up the other chair. “It is.”
She nodded, peering out through the thick glass to the village beyond. “Pip really does love this place. I'm glad I saw it.”
“You could live near it,” he coaxed. “Possibly invite Pip to wander all over it with you and tell you the local stories.”
Refusing to betray the pain that offer ignited, Felicity just smiled and picked up her ale.
“It is my concerted belief,” she said after taking a long sip and surreptitiously wiping the foam from her upper lip, “that men conspire to keep the better things away from women.”
He looked around. “Like what, the green? The alehouse?”
“The ale.”
Flint’s chair scraped across the stone as he picked up his own ale and leaned back. “Most women aren't interested in things like ale.”
“Most women have never been given the chance to decide for themselves.”
“So, you're doing it for them?”
She tilted her head. “It has been a long few days.”
“I thought you spent it locked in the house with no one to talk to.”
“Metaphorically speaking.”
He gave a mournful shake of the head. “I don't suppose this behavior is an aberrancy.”
She considered it. “Well. Of course, I haven't had the latitude to try ale or jump fences in my various positions. It might severely impact the morals of the children. God forbid they should learn to stand up for themselves or, perish the thought, have adventures.”
“Please tell me you were this radical before arriving here. It would serve my father right.”
She flashed him a bright grin. “I was one of Pip's best pupils in revolutions and rambunctiousness.”
“It must frustrate you now being so constrained.”
Felicity's smile faded. She shook her head and took another sip, savoring the dry, nutty taste of the brew. “Not eating frustrates me far more.”
For a long moment, there was just silence punctuated by the soft murmurs from the other men, two rosy-cheeked grandfathers in tweed caps and hard boots.
“You truly never found out who your people were?” Flint asked, his gaze on his glass.
Felicity looked up, surprised. “No. Pip says I have a perverse streak. I have decided that if they do not wish to know me, I am happy to return the favor.”
He went very still. “What if they don't know you exist?”
She shrugged, trying to ignore the familiar ache in her chest. “Pip looked in the school records once. Said there was nothing there. I was actually a bit relieved. I cannot imagine how uncomfortable it would have been to show up on some toff's doorstep crying, 'Mother!'”
She knew she had disconcerted him. He went quiet, staring into his ale as if scrying his future. For the first time in a long while, Felicity felt uncomfortable herself about her situation. She shouldn't. It had never been a secret. Somehow, though, sitting in this homely little inn across from such a handsome man, she wanted to be more than she was. Actually worthy of his consideration instead of merely a chore.
A chore. She unconsciously shook her head. The story of her life.
“How many positions have you had?” he asked, not looking up.
She looked at his hands—long, elegant fingers, strong wrists, with a scar or two marring the knuckles. Lovely hands. The hands of a gentleman who had known work.
“Three,” she said, turning back to her glass. “Two as governess and one at the school. That would be the one your father the duke undoubtedly destroyed for me.”
“Is marriage to me truly a worse prospect than teaching piano to snot-nosed little girls?”
She straightened, desperately trying to inject a bit of humor. “I will have you know that our little girls were all perfectly groomed and behaved...well, the last might be a bit of a stretch.”
His smile was quiet. “So am I. Am I so terrible a prospect?”
“You are an unknown prospect. Remember. I didn't know of you until four days ago.”
“Of course, you did,” he protested, tapping his chest. “I'm Igneous.”
“Igneous was a twelve-year old who played Knights of the Round Table and loved kippers. You are...” She gave him a quick, assessing look. “Not.”
This time his grin was brash. “I'm far better.”
“In what way? And please contain your answer to one that can be repeated in your aunt's parlor. The last I heard about you, you were leaving for the army in a magnificent red coat and shako, a lovely woman hanging off each arm.”
He surprised her. Instead of throwing off a blithe answer, he frowned. Suddenly his hands became restless, and he seemed fascinated by the handle of his mug.
“Bracken?” she asked quietly.
He gave her a quick, rueful smile. “I was quite the sight, if I do say so myself. It seems uniforms imbue one with a very inflated sense of one's self-worth. It was the career I was given as third son—certainly more fitting than vicar, which my older brother Ransom was given—and I was well pleased.”
“Has the romance of it paled?” she asked.
“Nothing so gentle. War is not all perfectly-tailored parade jackets and glossy boots. It is crashing boredom and flashes of abject terror. What surprised me was that I resented the boredom far worse than the terror.”
Suddenly he looked up, his eyes wide. Startled, as if he'd overheard his own words for the first time. Felicity didn't know what to do. She found herself wanting to reach out and hold him. At least to lay her hand over his so he wasn't alone with that admission.
He broke the mood with a laugh and a shake of his head. “Can you be too good at an occupation? God bless Grandmother for giving me a different direction for my talents.”
Felicity tilted her head. “How does a talent for mayhem help an estate?”
“A talent for organization and planning. I have many, many plans for the Haven.”
“If only your father will release it.”
“Yes. If only that.”
His admission did nothing to ease the growing tumult in her chest. She didn't want to be his answer. She didn't want him to require nothing more than her name on a form so he could gain his inheritance.
On the other hand, how else could she ever expect to have a family of her own? And she did want one. It was a dream she had kept carefully tucked away with her saved shillings and the whitework she had so painstakingly practiced to include in her trousseau. The trousseau her classmates had all already used while hers languished untouched at the bottom of her trunk.
“What do you expect?” she asked suddenly.
He looked up, startled. “Of what?”
“Marriage. What exactly are you hoping for?” She gave her hand a little wav
e. “Besides the estate, of course. From me. What do you expect from me?”
She wasn't certain how she expected him to respond. She should have known he'd surprise her. It was he who reached out and curled his fingers around her hand. It was he who stole her breath with just the brush of his skin.
“What do you want?” he asked, those soft green eyes intense.
What did she want? She wanted to remember how to breathe again. She wanted enough space to actually consider what he was asking of her. What he was offering. She wanted to not be backed into a decision that would change her whole life.
“A voice,” she said, surprised at the admission, not the breathy quality of her own voice.
He stared at her a moment. “A voice?”
Briefly she squeezed her eyes shut. She was about to offer up the desire she'd tucked away even below the dream of a family. She was about to share it with a man she didn't know, not really. Only really being acquainted with him a day, she was entrusting him with the only dream that had never died.
Chapter 9
This wasn't what Flint meant to be talking about at all. He was supposed to be talking of her last governess position. The people she'd known, things she might have overheard. Instead he was sitting here waiting for her to tell him a truth he suspected she didn't want to tell and he didn't want to hear. He was rubbing his thumb over her slightly-callused palm that should have been satin soft and somehow was more appealing for not being so, waiting for her to confirm his suspicion that she had been dragged into a conspiracy that wasn't hers.
“A voice?” he prompted, knowing he was heading down the wrong road.
And yet, he wanted to know what that hesitation in her giant brown eyes meant.
As if hearing his thoughts, she looked away to where the barmaid was flirting with one of the old men at the table. It was harmless, sweet even. The barmaid had the old codger blushing with her bright, easy smile. It was the kind of familiar interplay that happened between people who knew each other well. Who knew where they belonged in the village, in the nation, in the world.
Flint lived in just that kind of world. Even if he didn't know the people with whom he interacted personally, he knew, and more importantly they knew, exactly where he belonged in the hierarchy. He was a duke's son and accorded appropriate respect. He was a brother who knew exactly where he fit in the family. He could insult his brothers at will and know he'd get a cuffing and a grin. He was an Eton man, a Balliol man, a member of Whites, Brooks, Gentleman Jackson's and the Coldstream Guards, and knew exactly how he would be treated in all those places. Whom he should ignore or invite closer. Whom he owed respect and by whom he was owed it.
What, he thought, would it be like to never know? How would someone navigate the shoals of society when she had been given no more than a ticket to a boarding school where all the other girls knew their place? How did she overcome the—what had she called it?—terror of uncertainty?
“Felicity?”
She looked up, and that quickly the shadows fled. Flint had a feeling the act was deliberate.
She smiled. “Oh,” she said, gently pulling her hand free, “I suppose the easiest way to put it is that I would far rather not be the supplicant in my own marriage.”
Flint almost gaped at her. God, who was this woman, and where did she come by such knife-edge awareness? How did she have the courage to speak it out loud?
“You think I would hold my offer over your head?”
“Many would.”
He thought his smile was probably a bit rueful. “But I am Igneous.”
“You are also still the son of the Duke of Lynden. I am—”
He waved off the rest of that sentence. “Yes, yes. So you have been at pains to tell me. Are you afraid of being silenced because you have so little to say, or so much?”
This time her smile grew. “Oh, so much. Definitely so much.”
“But I like women who speak up.”
“Even if they challenge your decisions and rights?”
He paused for a moment that stretched out almost uncomfortably. “It seems to me that you're making it a point to list all the detriments to marrying you. I don't believe any other woman would do that.”
“It is difficult enough to be invisible among society. It would be soul-crushing among those to whom I entrust my life.” Her frown returned. “Which brings us back to the inevitable question. Why me? What exactly do I bring to a marriage with the son of a duke?”
He attempted his own grin. “Piano and deportment?”
Her frown, if anything, grew. “Not very much of a dowry.”
“To be perfectly frank, I don't provide much more.”
“Your house.”
“I consider that to be a gift from both of us. If I don't marry, I will lose it for another five years. And the duke has promised to let it languish, just to tighten the screws a bit.”
“Excellent,” she mused darkly. “Matrimony by extortion.”
“I do mean to make it a great success.”
“I don't doubt you at all. I don't doubt that you can make anything you wish a success.”
Flint felt as if he'd taken a blow to the gut. His skin actually went clammy. “That would not necessarily be a safe bet, my dear.”
She looked up, the bemusement clear in her eyes.
He kept his smile small. “Do you think the duke simply woke one morning and decided that it was time for me to marry? That he would throw a dart at a map and pick my bride for me?”
“Didn't he?”
“Certainly. After quite a few years of warnings, deadlines and ultimatums. I wager the old man could recite the demands in his sleep. 'Do something useful with yourself, boy. Get back in your uniform and act like a man. You're a disgrace to the family.' That sort of thing.”
She was silent for so long he thought he might have made a critical mistake and pushed her away. When she shook her head, he was sure of it.
He should have known better.
“Perhaps there are some benefits to not having a family after all,” she said. “No one to tell me I'm a disappointment, even if I'm not.”
By damn if she didn't simply take his breath away.
She tilted her head as if assessing him. “You were supposed to spend your entire life in scarlet regimentals, then?”
“Something like that. Third son and all.”
“You had a better idea, though.”
“No. I didn't. I just knew that I would not walk back onto a battlefield unless Sussex was under siege.”
Blast, his right hand was shaking. He dropped it to his lap, hoping she didn't see.
“When did you come to this life-altering decision?” she asked.
He tried so hard to sound off-hand. “If memory serves, I was face-down in the mud at Bayonne praying the last cannon blast had left the top of my head intact. Or it could have been a moment later when I lifted it to find that I got my wish. Except I seemed to have been the only one to have succeeded.”
Now his stomach was roiling. He could smell devastation. Charred flesh and blood, thick and musty and skin-crawling. He could see Johnson's brains spattering his right arm.
“But you were at Waterloo a year later,” she said, her voice softer.
He stared at that shaking arm where it lay useless in his lap and shrugged. “A brief aberrancy.”
“Because your men were fighting.”
“What was left of them.”
And he'd delivered them up to Hougoumont. Screams. He heard screams in his sleep almost every night. He saw flames shooting up from the disintegrating thatch that covered the makeshift hospital in the great barn. He ran for nothing.
When he felt her hand curl about his, he thought he was imagining it. He hadn't felt that kind of warmth in so long. Deep, calm, gentling warmth. He looked up to see that, indeed, she had caught hold of his left hand and simply held on.
“Has the duke ever been to battle?” she asked.
He grinned. He actual
ly grinned. “Dukes do not go into battle, my dear. Nor the eldest sons of dukes. It's why they...”
Damn. What was it about her that made him want to say too much?
But again she pulled the rug out from under him.
“Were so insistent that you did?”
He gave a jerky nod, feeling the nausea build at his own duplicity. “Exactly. Someone in the family had to make an appearance. Noblesse oblige and all. The funny thing is that the curate would have made a better Colonel than the Colonel did.”
“Bollocks.”
He kept blinking at her as if she'd changed form. “Pardon?”
She frowned. “He might have enjoyed it more. He wouldn't have cared for his men so well.” When he didn't answer her, she flashed him a grin. “Don't forget. Pip adores you. She shared with the other girls every word of not only your letters but Wellington's dispatches, which she did not do with the curate's letters from Wells. I had the most execrable case of hero worship.”
He wouldn't have cared for his men so well. Flint wasn't certain how he could have cared for them worse. He had begun with a company of two hundred-forty men. He had walked away from Waterloo with seventy. No. He had not taken better care of his men than anyone.
He wasn't certain how long he sat there in silence, just holding Felicity's hand. It was a burst of laughter from across the room that woke him. One of the old farmers was backslapping the other. Felicity smiled over at them as if she didn't notice how long they'd been sitting there.
“Do you think the horses are rested?” Flint asked and took back his hand, which left him feeling oddly bereft. It didn't keep him from getting to his feet.
Setting down her ale, Felicity grabbed her bonnet and followed, as if sensing his urge to flee.
They never got the chance. Even while Flint was downing the last of his own ale, he was alerted by another voice.
“There you are, Miss Felicity,” he heard in broad Gloucestershire accents. Flint turned to see the pub's owner striding their way, drying his hands on a much-used towel as he smiled at Felicity.
“Why, Mr. Hawkins” she greeted him with a smile. “I did not know this was your establishment. How lovely. Your ale is the best I’ve tasted in the neighborhood.”
Miss Felicity's Dilemma Page 9
