by Erica Ridley
“They did not,” Hester said with portent, “and he wanted to. Of course they were destined to marry. Everyone wants who they cannot have.”
Felicity’s stomach clenched. Was there some truth to what Hester was saying? Was the real reason Lord Raymore had yet to ask for Felicity’s hand because she said yes to every dance instead of limiting her availability?
She gritted her teeth in frustration. Courtship rules were so arbitrary! Why must it be a game of winners and losers instead of frank conversations where everyone simply said exactly what they meant?
I like you.
I like you, too.
Let’s get married.
Wouldn’t that be much easier than making the proper hand signs to flirt with one’s fan, whilst rationing out minuets and pinching one’s cheeks in the retiring room between each set in order to keep up the appearance of a youthful glow?
“The expression on your face,” Hester said with a laugh. “It’s as if you just tried the Barkleys’ dreadful sherry for the first time. What on earth are you thinking about?”
“Marriage,” Felicity replied honestly.
“Believe me,” Hester said, lowering her voice. “If there was a better crop to choose from, I would introduce you. I’m afraid this is it. You’re looking at the best of the best.”
Felicity nodded. “I know.”
The truth was, marrying anyone in this ballroom would have seemed like a dream come true to the eight-year-old version of herself. Even being the wife of a footman would have been unthinkable. For most of her childhood, Felicity hadn’t belonged anywhere. She and Cole had been lucky enough not to be alone, but love couldn’t fill one’s belly.
Because she and her brother weren’t a part of the original duke and heirs’ lives, there was little to no gossip about the dark years before Cole inherited. The people in this ballroom did not know the truth about their past, and God willing, they never would.
Felicity wasn’t ashamed of anything she’d done to survive, but the truth would make her an outcast right when she was closest to finally being in.
That was, if she could bring Lord Raymore up to scratch.
Hester raised her brows. “I don’t think you have to worry about marriage anymore.”
Because of the marquess? Felicity perked up. Perhaps Hester had heard something interesting.
“What do you mean?” she asked carefully.
“You must know by now,” Hester said in surprise. “This is your fifth Season.”
Felicity swallowed. “Sixth.”
“Exactly,” Hester said dryly and returned her gaze to the dance floor.
Felicity’s stomach twisted. Hester wasn’t suggesting a marriage proposal was on the horizon. She was saying it was too late.
“I’m four-and-twenty,” she whispered.
“Mm-hmm,” Hester said absently. “I’m almost two-and-twenty. This is my last year.”
Felicity drew back in horror. “Two-and-twenty is not the end!”
“Oh, of course not,” Hester agreed. “Not for me. I’ve always known who I’ll marry. Our fathers made a pact when we were children. Titus and I made our own pact to enjoy three Seasons of independence before joining in marriage. He’s got the license. We’ll marry next month.”
Felicity stared at her before managing a faint, “Congratulations.”
She’d known she was tempting the devil by waiting this long to marry, but she hadn’t considered the possibility that things were already dire. Felicity’s chest tightened. She’d promised her brother she’d be betrothed before the end of the Season. She promised herself she’d make measurable progress with Lord Raymore before the end of the night.
This was her best opportunity.
The orchestra lowered their bows and dancers dispersed from the polished floor. One of the gentlemen made his way in their direction. Tall, sandy hair, dark eyes… this was the Earl of Thistlebury.
Felicity straightened. She had one more set free before her promised dance with Lord Raymore.
The earl bowed to them both before extending his elbow toward Hester. “I believe this is my dance?”
Hester winked at Felicity over his shoulder as if to imply she was very much enjoying her last month of freedom.
Felicity wished she were enjoying the evening, too. Not standing around awkwardly next to an empty spot where her already betrothed friend had just waltzed off with an earl.
She accepted a glass of sherry from a passing footman just to have something to do with her hands.
Out of habit, she scanned the ballroom for Lord Raymore. Theirs was the following set. Felicity would not be so forward as to approach him before it was time, but she was standing about with a cup of delicious, allegedly subpar sherry, and it wouldn’t hurt to have someone to converse with.
There. Lord Raymore’s shock of salt-and-pepper hair caught her eye.
The marquess was not standing about with no company save for a glass of sherry in one hand. He was in the center of the dance floor, enjoying a minuet with none other than Miss Corning.
The shy debutante was gazing up at the marquess with high color on the apples of her youthful cheeks, her hair resplendent in the style Felicity had crafted with her bare hands.
Wonderful.
Felicity set her unfinished sherry behind a potted plant. All was not lost, but she needed a clear mind when she danced with Lord Raymore if she wished to have any hope of impressing him as a better option than the blushing cherub currently in his arms.
Quickly, she circumnavigated the dance floor toward her brother and his wife, careful to not to stray too near to the dancers. The last thing Felicity needed was for Lord Raymore to catch sight of her alone and partnerless, and develop second thoughts about his own interest.
When she reached her brother and his wife, they were no longer alone.
Arrogant blowhard Silas Wiltchurch was bending Cole’s ear on some matter or another. Wiltchurch was the nephew of one of the patronesses of Almack’s. No matter how unbearable he might be, no one dared gainsay him if they wished to be barred for life. Wiltchurch never let anyone forget the danger of crossing him.
“Am I interrupting something important?” Felicity asked her sister-in-law in a low voice.
Diana rolled her eyes. “Racing is not important. Interrupt all you like.”
Felicity returned Diana’s smile, but her interest was piqued. Racing might not be important to Diana, but it interested Felicity very much indeed. Particularly if the race in question involved mechanical conveyances. The only thing Felicity loved more than horses were carriages.
“What are we racing?” she asked lightly.
Before Cole could reply, Silas Wiltchurch let out a huff. “You are not racing anything. Ladies do not race. We means Colehaven and me, and a few other men.”
Cole turned to Felicity as if Wiltchurch had not spoken. “Carriages. Curricles, specifically. You might be interested to know that—”
She shook her head slightly before he could continue.
Although she knew her brother would never say anything truly scandalous—like, I’ll be racing the carriage you modified for me—Silas Wiltchurch was right.
Even the most superficial interest in “manly matters” displayed on her part might be enough to dissuade a conservative older gentleman like Lord Raymore from considering her as a future bride. She could not take the risk.
Unfortunately, Wiltchurch had noticed Felicity’s little shake of the head.
“Ohhh,” he said with exaggerated impatience. “First you interrupt a conversation that has nothing to do with you to ask what it’s about, and then you attempt to silence us when your brother tries to answer your impertinent question.” He turned back to Cole. “It’s not your fault. Inferior female brains aren’t capable of comprehending anything more substantial than ostrich feathers and French lace.”
Cole looked like he was about to put his fist through Wiltchurch’s face.
“You’re so right.” Felicit
y infused her voice with cloying saccharine, hoping to diffuse the tension before she drew all the wrong sorts of attention. She gave her brother a pointed look. “Ladies rarely even enter a carriage without the aid of a gentleman. What could we possibly know about the art of racing one?”
“Precisely.” His pride restored, Wiltchurch turned his back to Felicity and resumed his conversation as if he had never noticed her arrival.
“Insufferable prig,” she muttered beneath her breath.
Diana grinned in solidarity. “He wouldn’t recognize sarcasm if it hit him.”
“I thought Cole was going to hit him,” Felicity admitted.
“He was definitely going to hit him,” Diana assured her. “And I was going to let him.”
“My peacekeeping will haunt me to my dying day,” Felicity said with a sigh.
Diana’s eyes twinkled. “We both know which one of them owns the superior curricle… and why.”
The thought should have warmed Felicity’s heart. Diana’s inclusion into the family had doubled the number of people who knew Felicity’s secret.
Today, it just made her sad.
She was tired of having to hide her mechanical capabilities. Tired of having to pretend she was too clueless to follow along, too “proper” to be part of the conversation.
Her brother didn’t miss the old days. Felicity... well, she didn’t miss the hunger pangs or the cold nights or the endless uncertainty, but the day that the more knowledgeable lads at the forge stopped seeing her as a worthless hanger-on and started treating her as an equal?
Of course she missed that.
For a moment, what she wanted most was not to blend in with the other ladies, but to challenge Silas Wiltchurch to a curricle race in front of all and sundry. She could beat a slug like him blindfolded.
But she would never have the chance.
“Snare your big fish yet?” Diana asked, meaning Lord Raymore.
“Next set,” Felicity murmured back. “God willing.”
She was grateful down to her bones for every advantage she possessed, and she knew what she had to do to keep it.
Was she scared of poverty? Terrified. She’d been frightened and miserable every day of her childhood and would never risk her offspring experiencing such a fate.
But marrying the marquess was far more than a way to ensure her personal security, or even her children’s futures. Felicity did not want any child to go through the hell she and her brother had. It wasn’t living. It was barely surviving. And even so, others hadn’t been so lucky.
Marrying well wasn’t just for her. It was for everyone who didn’t have a way out. The better Felicity was set up, the more she could help others. That was worth any sacrifice.
The first act she intended to take as Lady Raymore was to sponsor opportunities and housing for homeless or impoverished children like she and her brother once were. Cole donated handsomely, but he was one person. Felicity and her husband would be two more. Hester Donnell had agreed to support Felicity’s future foundation, and spread the word to her friends as well. With luck and hard work, Felicity and her powerful husband could start a movement.
It might be impossible to save all the children, but she would bloody well die trying.
Even if it meant putting up with unconscionable self-important prigs like Silas Wiltchurch.
“Thank God,” Diana muttered when Wiltchurch at last flounced away. “I got tired of not throttling him.”
“Agreed,” Felicity said with feeling, then turned to her brother. “When’s the big race?”
“Never,” Diana interrupted before Cole could reply. “I don’t trust Wiltchurch as far as I can throw him, and believe me, I’d very much like to throw him. Let him race other madmen. I want you to stay in one piece.”
“I already gave my word as a gentleman,” Cole protested. “Last night at the Wicked Duke, I was boasting about the curricle that a certain master mechanic has been conditioning for me—”
“You’re welcome,” Felicity murmured.
“—and the next thing I knew, six of us were scheduled for a curricle race at dawn, two weeks from Saturday.”
“It’s like you can’t hear me,” Diana said. “Allow me to summarize. The key word was ‘No.’”
“I hear you,” Cole assured her. “And I have the perfect solution. My carriage is obliged to present itself at Hyde Park on the appointed hour, but I am not required to be the man at the reins. The Curricle King does this sort of thing all the time. I’m certain he’ll be delighted to thrash Silas Wiltchurch yet again.”
Felicity’s heart skipped. The “Curricle King” was Giles Langford.
Talented and clever, reckless and dangerous, Langford was a notorious whip and a god among coach smiths. There were rumors that women with dampened bodices crowded Hyde Park at dawn to glimpse the handsome daredevil winning another race, only to swoon at the mere sight of him.
Not proper ladies, of course. Much as she wished to, Felicity had never laid eyes on the Curricle King. Nonetheless, his reputation spoke for itself.
“Langford could win with one hand behind his back,” she agreed in satisfaction. “With him as your driver and me as your—”
“I believe this is my dance?” came a bemused voice from just behind her.
Felicity whirled around to see Lord Raymore patiently waiting with one arm extended… and the rest of the dance floor already filled with new couples.
“Of course,” she stammered.
Her face heated as she took his arm. Had she really almost said with me as your mechanic out loud in the middle of a ballroom? Good God. She had to do better than that.
She took a deep, calming breath as Raymore led her to join the others for the first waltz of the evening. This Season might be her last opportunity. She had to do everything right.
“Thank you for this dance,” she murmured.
The marquess smiled. “I always enjoy dancing with you.”
That was something, wasn’t it? A step in the right direction.
The problem was, they’d been making the same rhythmic steps once a week all Season long. They needed to see each other outside of the occasional ballroom if their courtship had any hope of blossoming into marriage.
He wasn’t Felicity’s best chance. He was her only chance.
If it meant hinting at her willingness to turn their weekly half-hour intervals into something more substantial, then so be it.
She peered up at him through her lashes and offered her sweetest, most biddable smile.
“I always look forward to sharing a set with you,” she responded. “I’d be amenable to seeing each other more often. If the weather holds tomorrow, it should be a lovely day to enjoy the park.”
There. Forward, but hopefully not too forward. In any case, the words were out. Where they took them was up to Lord Raymore.
“Oh,” the marquess said with an embarrassed wince. “Not tomorrow, I’m afraid. I’ve promised to take Miss Corning for ices, and then a visit to the theatre.”
Ices.
A public appearance in Raymore’s theatre box.
Young, pretty, first-Season-debutante Miss Corning. Not Felicity. Her stomach sank.
“Of course,” she murmured. “I understand.”
There went the one man who could provide everything she dreamed.
Chapter 2
Giles Langford whistled a jaunty Irish air as he organized the tools hanging from nails or arranged on shelves strategically placed about his shop. Although he held a soft spot for all smithies, his favorite would always be his own. He grew up here, in this very chamber, at his father’s knee learning everything he could.
Friends and customers alike often teased him about owning the cleanest smithy in all of England. He ignored their jests. Not only was Giles fond of a place for everything and everything in its place, but he would also always consider this space to belong to both him and his father alike. He would never disrespect his father by failing to take care of some
thing the family owned.
When the smithy was tidied to his liking, Giles crossed over to Baby, the much-loved lightweight conveyance in the center. His father had helped him build this curricle. They’d begun with nothing more than a dream and ended with a thing of beauty, built with their own hands.
That was, until the tremors and involuntary movements started. When Father could no longer keep any tools clutched in his shaking grasp, he’d been forced to watch without participating. He swore it gave him just as much pride to witness everything his son could accomplish on his own.
It had taken Giles much longer to get used to working without his father.
But he didn’t work alone. A smithy this busy required talented journeymen to helm each specialized post. Giles also sponsored close to a dozen apprentices; some in the traditional manner, and some… less so.
He raked a final glance over a small table prepared with two pitchers of fresh lemonade and checked his pocket watch. If prior history was any indication, every drop would be gone within the next half an hour.
“Mr. Langford! Mr. Langford!” The shouts were accompanied by the patter of a dozen boots rushing into the smithy at once.
Giles gave a welcoming smile to his six young charges, then motioned to what they really wanted—the lemonade in the corner.
As they crossed the threshold into the smithy, the six lads ceased elbowing each other and assumed the exaggeratedly calm mien of the responsible, mature blacksmith apprentices they hoped to someday be.
Most of the children who spent time in the Langford smithy lived nearby, although a few came from the neighboring rookery St. Giles. His good friend Hugh Tarleton was a rector of a local church, and occasionally dropped off a lad who needed something to do with his time besides make trouble.
Although Tarleton often teased the children that they were in the presence of the modern-day Saint Giles for “rescuing” so many of their brethren, Giles didn’t feel particularly saintly. He and the children were helping each other.
As business increased and Giles expanded the smithy to include the properties on either side, there was room for more carriages, more horses—and more apprentices. Including the neighborhood lads had been a natural extension. Welcoming a few more from Tarleton’s church was no hardship at all. Giles enjoyed the company.
