by Erica Monroe
Yet knowing that—and even knowing that physical responses could also simulate attachment—did not ease her mind the way it should have. Science had been her touchstone, offering explanations devoid of the messy complexities of emotion.
Margaret’s death had changed all of that. The rules she’d prized so highly kept failing her. Never had she worked so hard, for so long, without achieving the right result.
Never had she doubted her own choices.
“You need to move on, Fieldsy,” Tressa had said, when she’d first found out about Felicity’s attempts to recreate the Philosopher’s Stone. “You need to accept that Margaret is gone. This isn’t healthy.”
Since the first day she’d come to Tetbery as a scared and lonely four-year-old, Tressa Teague had been Felicity’s constant—almost as much of a guide, a comfort, to her as science was. Though they were vastly different, their friendship had stood the test of time because they understood each other.
We deserve more, Tressa said. We deserve happiness.
She’d always been so certain that Felicity had worth. It didn’t matter to her what Felicity accomplished scientifically—Tressa had believed in her long before she’d ever converted that secret room behind Uncle Randall’s old study into her laboratory. While the rest of Bocka Morrow—while Nicholas—considered Felicity dispassionate and awkward, Tressa thought she was brilliant. Loyal. Caring.
The kind of woman who maybe, just maybe, was deserving of love. Real love, like what Tressa’s sister Nessa had found with Lord Harry Beck.
Felicity had been lucky to know familial love. To have the love of friends like Tressa and Mallory. But she had never known—never really wanted, she would have claimed—the love of a man.
And she’d certainly never thought about Nicholas that way, before this week.
Had she?
She frowned down into her empty mixing bowl, swiping at an errant curl that had escaped from her chignon. After the first summer, she’d viewed Nicholas as a necessary nuisance, like wearing a petticoat or going to church. Every once in a while, he was useful when conducting an experiment, or he surprised her by saying something clever. The rest of the time, he was simply there, his endless chatter becoming background noise.
In the last six years without him, the estate had become quiet. When Margaret was alive, she hadn’t much minded that. She’d claimed for so long she wanted silence to do her work that it seemed hypocritical to complain—to wish for Nicholas to return, and foul up the works again.
Yet without Margaret…she couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d missed Nicholas’s companionship.
That scared her most of all.
Nicholas was never a permanent fixture in her life. He came and went every summer, and then he’d disappeared for a long time.
But unlike Margaret, who had never wanted to leave, he’d stayed away by choice.
So when he hustled into the kitchen, she braced herself for the worse. He would surely be leaving soon—how could he not, when he’d looked so miffed the day before? She’d never been adept at reading people’s faces, but even she knew she’d wounded him.
She just didn’t know what to do next.
“There you are, finally.” He did not sound upset. Just…concerned. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I was just about to check your laboratory when Tolsworth mentioned you were in the kitchen.”
She hated it when anyone worried about her, for those worries usually came with a side of judgment and disapproval. She heard Georgina’s voice in her ears, then Tressa’s quiet disavowal of her experiments.
You’re not right in the head, Felicity. I wish my aunt had never taken you in.
You’re opening Pandora’s Box, Fieldsy, and I worry you won’t be able to close it.
Yet…she could not summon her usual level of irritation. She felt—God help her—almost pleased by his concern for her.
And that frightened her almost as much as kissing him had.
She scrubbed at the counter with a towel, wiping up the egg she’d spilled. She took far longer than necessary, because it made her look occupied. As if she had a purpose.
“That smells amazing.” Nicholas crossed to the big coal-fired stove. “Is that your lemon cake? God, I’ve been dreaming of that.”
He reminded her of a bunny rabbit with his wild sniffing—but bunny rabbits did not befuddle her the way he did.
Another metaphor that did not work as she wanted it to.
She tried not to wonder what else he might have been dreaming about. Had he thought about their kiss? Did she care if he had?
This was why she hadn’t wanted romance. It distracted her, when she needed to be focused on alchemy.
“It is, but it’s for dinner tonight, so you’ll have to wait.” She busied herself with tidying up the kitchen, seeking solace in the activity. That was what she was best at: action. The concrete, the actionable, the provable. “Why did you want to see me? I haven’t changed my mind about London. I’m not going with you.”
He ignored her quarrelsome tone, smiling at her. Not his customary smirk, but something gentler—something that felt akin to a soft caress, if that were possible. “I have been thinking about that.”
“Lord save us all.” It was easier to be acerbic. Easier than confronting the way her heart pounded against her chest as he stepped closer, his masculine scent blending with the sweet tartness of the baking lemon cake, the combination somehow complimentary, as if they were meant to be together.
But that was nonsense—dukes did not usually spend time in the scullery.
Hell, he probably didn’t even approve of her being in the kitchen.
“If you’ve come to tell me I shouldn’t be baking because we have servants for that, you can save your breath.” She notched her chin higher, steeling herself for his reproach. “Mrs. Manning is doing me a favor by giving me access to her oven. I asked her to leave me alone for a few hours. I won’t have you scolding her for abiding by my request.”
He drew back from her, hurt flashing across his face. “Bloody hell, Felicity, what kind of man do you think I am?”
“I don’t know. You don’t make sense to me.” She hadn’t meant to be that honest, but the words had popped out before she could stop them. “I used to think that you were different from the rest—that you were my friend. But then you stopped visiting, and you didn’t come to Margaret’s funeral. Now you demand I abide by your rules, with no care about what I want.”
“I am your friend, Lissie.” He selected an apple from the bowl on the table, giving it a quick rub against his breeches. “And I care about you.”
“Mrs. Manning will be annoyed at you,” Felicity said, with a nod to the apple. Not that the cook could do much to Nicholas, given that he was her employer. “Those are for dinner tonight, too.”
“I will apologize,” he said, as if that made everything better.
It didn’t. Apologies were pretty words that changed nothing.
Nicholas took a large bite from the apple, chewed, and swallowed—all the while watching her, studying her reaction. It was unnerving.
She narrowed her eyes as she gathered up the kitchen implements she’d used so that the scullery maids could wash them. “Why are you staring at me?”
“I was wrong before,” he said, ignoring her question. “You don’t have to come to London with me. If you want to stay here, I’ll make sure you have enough money to run the estate, and I’ll hire you a companion.”
His words took her by such surprise she dropped the mixing bowl she’d been holding, and it clattered to the floor. She looked from the bowl to Nicholas and back again, her mouth agape, eyes as wide as the bowl’s rim.
“Is that what you want?” Nicholas asked, as he knelt down to retrieve the bowl.
“Yesyesabsolutely.” She nodded emphatically, all her words running together.
He’d given her the greatest gift—the chance to work in peace. She could continue her efforts to bring back Margaret, and
she wouldn’t have to worry about money.
“I’m glad you’re happy, then.” He placed the bowl on the counter, then took her hand in his, giving it a squeeze. “I should have seen it before. I had breakfast with a friend today, and he reminded me of my real duty to you.”
There it was again, that word: duty. What was she to him, then? An obligation? A friend? Or something more?
And why did she care, when anything more meant she’d have to lie to him about Margaret?
“I don’t understand.” She frowned. “You used to tease me. You’d tell me I was too mechanical, and that I was strange. Now you tell me you wanted me to kiss you. These two things do not compute.”
“I—” Nicholas opened his mouth and shut it twice before finally settling on a response. “It’s complicated.”
“I do not like complicated.” Felicity’s frown became a glower, for it seemed everything in her life was complex. The very last thing she needed was another problem to solve—especially when she already knew the solution would bring her heartbreak. She wiped her hands on her apron, and walked toward the kitchen door.
Once there, she turned back around to face him. “You need a duchess, Nicholas. I am many things, but I am not duchess material. You were right before when you said I was an automaton. That has not changed. I have not changed.”
Except she had. She knew it, and he probably did too, from the disbelieving look he was giving her.
He picked up the apple from the counter, taking another bite from it. “What do you want, Felicity?”
A direct question. She liked that—so much time was lost in subtleties.
“Friendship.” That was safer. As long as they were friends, when he left, she wouldn’t be devastated.
He stuck out his palm, and they shook hands. “Friends, then. As we were before, so shall we be again.”
If only she could convince herself that was really all she wanted.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Nicholas unlatched the gate, stepping out onto the sand of the shoreline. The Atlantic Ocean was quiet today, the waves gently lapping against the beach. This time, he did not take the straight path he had walked with Felicity so many times before in their youth, but instead turned to his left, where the orderly gardens of Tetbery turned into bramble-beaten woods.
He’d never liked this forest. In fact, when he’d first visited the estate as a boy, he’d asked Uncle Randall why he didn’t cut down some of the trees, and expand onto the garden. Uncle Randall had smiled as he informed him that a man could only hope to tame some of nature—the rest, he had to let grow wild. He’d said that these twenty unruly acres reminded him of his real place in the world, because when he hiked through the woods, he wasn’t the Earl of Tetbery anymore.
He was simply a man, enjoying nature the way nature was supposed to be.
That had never made sense to Nicholas. He’d never wanted to be “just any man.” He’d wanted to be a duke.
Now, he didn’t know what he wanted. Everything he’d valued before didn’t seem to matter, not when compared with Felicity’s fresh-faced beauty. Or the fire of defiance lit in her jade eyes. And the taste of her, cinnamon spice and honey.
He thought of her as his, even after they’d agreed upon friendship. The steady, dispassionate way she approached life had made him think she was not capable of great emotional depths.
He’d been wrong.
Wrong about Felicity, wrong about his bill, wrong about his duty—a bloody triangle of wrongness, making him question everything.
I am not duchess material.
He couldn’t deny that. Hell, she wasn’t society material at all. Georgina was supposed to help with that. But what right did he have to insist Felicity change? She’d always been so sure of herself, until Margaret’s death.
And so it was with Tolsworth’s warning in mind that he’d struck out toward the crypt. The old butler had been concerned about Felicity, and now more than ever, Nicholas needed answers. Did she really want only friendship? She’d always been unflinchingly honest, giving him no reason to doubt her words.
But he wanted her to be lying. He wanted her to think of them as more.
Even if she wasn’t duchess material.
Even if he knew damn well the beau monde would never treat him the same again.
Because when he was with Felicity, he was different too. Less concerned with what the world wanted of him—and more concerned with what he wanted. He was a man, outside of being a duke.
Funny that it had taken him hiking to the Grantham family mausoleum to realize that.
In the distance, the mausoleum loomed, high atop the hillside. It was a tall, rectangular building, with a triangular roof that had always seemed too simple when compared with the ornately carved door, and the flower border etched into the stone of the exterior walls. In the crypts were buried every Earl and Countess of Tetbery for the last two hundred years. Two centuries worth of ancestors, with the rest of their family and servants buried in the copse to the left of the mausoleum. To the right of the building was the rushing water, giving the inhabitants a perpetual sea view.
He liked that. It seemed…peaceful.
As he climbed the stone steps up the hillside, he already knew what advice Aunt Margaret would have given him about his current predicament. She’d tell him he ought to let Felicity stay at Tetbery, and that he was a fool for thinking he could ever, ever get that girl out of his mind. He’d thought of Felicity when he was a lad at Eton, as a green adolescent roaming these wild Cornwall shores, and as a man sponsoring his first bill for Parliament.
She’d never been far from his thoughts. Hell, maybe he’d avoided Tetbery these last six years because he knew damn well that the second he set foot on this land, he’d be in her thrall again.
So it was with equal parts bewilderment and solemn reverence that he pulled open the heavy stone door to the mausoleum, the cold burst of air taking his breath away. If he had thought the beach was cold, then the mausoleum was positively artic. He did not remember it ever being this frigid, in all the times he’d visited with Felicity in the past.
She’d always liked it here—she’d said it was quiet—but he’d always thought it eerie. Too many ghosts and all of them probably found him lacking. The whoosh of his released breath echoed, and the tap of his booted feet against the stone floor banished the unearthly silence.
Pulling out his tinderbox, he lit the lantern by the door and unhooked it. Light filled the room, filtering into the cold gray corners. He closed the door behind him. Each room held twelve crypts—usually three grouped together, and then another column beside that. Husbands and wives were buried together in larger tombs. As time passed, the mausoleum had been extended; always further back, never cutting into the graveyard to the left.
With the lantern held high in his hand, he continued on, valiantly attempting to ignore the hair rising on the back of his neck, and the ever-present chill seeping deep into his bones. Finally, after passing through several chambers, he came to the room where Uncle Randall and Aunt Margaret had been buried.
Except nothing was the same.
For a minute, he stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock. His mind sputtered, words not reaching his lips, as he struggled to process what he was seeing.
This did not make sense.
None of this made sense.
And if Felicity had anything to do with this, then Tolsworth was damnably right to be worried about her.
Chapter Twelve
When Nicholas barged into the parlor that afternoon, interrupting her notation on an alchemical manuscript, Felicity knew he’d found Margaret before he spoke. She set her book down and stuck her quill in the ink well, getting up from the desk to face him.
His face was devoid of color, his eyes bulging. “Felicity, when did Aunt Margaret die?”
“The third of June.” She didn’t have to think about it, not when the date was so emblazoned on her mind. “You know that.”
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br /> She crossed the room, closing the door firmly behind him. It wouldn’t do for the servants to hear them.
“That’s what I thought.” Nicholas’s brows furrowed. “But it’s not possible. I just saw her body in the mausoleum. There’s barely any decay. I don’t know how this is possible, Felicity, but she couldn’t have died six months ago.”
“Did you close the door?”
The urgency of her question snapped his head up. “What?”
“Did you close the door to the crypt? It’s important. The door has to be closed tightly, or the temperature will rise.”
“Of course I did.” His forehead wrinkled. “I don’t want the servants to see the corpse.”
Neither did she. She’d ordered that no one enter the mausoleum, not since she’d embalmed Margaret’s body.
That had been the hardest thing she’d ever done—and if she needed any encouragement to proceed, all she had to do was remember that night, when she’d had to autopsy the woman who was like a mother to her. She shuddered at the memory.
“Felicity.” That hint of something more was gone from his tone, replaced by his standard officiousness.
She could deal with that—she was used to him ordering her around. “Yes?”
When he looked at her now, there was none of the concern he’d exhibited before. “Why does Aunt Margaret’s body look like she died but a few days ago?”
She was out of time. He’d already seen the body, so there was no point in hiding her research anymore. Even if she didn’t explain everything to him, he’d find out from the servants that she was the one who had ordered the glass coffin for Margaret. It’d be a short leap from there to assuming she was the one who had anatomized Margaret, since none of the servants would know how to do it.
Heaven’s bells, he’d probably already confirmed travel arrangements with Tolsworth to take her to Wycliffe Manor after the wedding at Castle Keyvnor.
She might as well get this over with. If nothing else, at least he’d no longer want to be near her. He’d unload her on his sister, rather than deal with her himself. Her logical mind knew that was a good thing—he brought too many complications into her life.
