“My lord,” she said softly, and nudged his shoulder. “Are you asleep?”
“Yes.” He didn’t open his eyes. “I thought we agreed on first names.”
“If we’re finished…”
“Why? Do you have other plans for the rest of the afternoon?” He opened his eyes then and began toying with her hair, using a lock of it to trace her cheekbone, her jaw, her throat, and the valley between her breasts.
“No,” she admitted.
“Then there’s no hurry. All in good time.”
Somehow that reminded her of something he’d said the previous day, and before she thought twice she asked, “Are you a farmer?”
That brought him fully alert. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yesterday you said…” She felt herself turning pink. “Something about… preparing soil.”
He didn’t laugh at her, and she was profoundly grateful. “I have farmland on my estate, of course.”
“What’s it called? The estate.”
“Collinswood. It’s in Surrey.”
“That’s where the Hawthornes live. Is it close to them?”
“Twenty miles or so. It’s a big county.”
“What do you grow there?”
“A little of everything. I’ve always been interested in the land—managing it, making the estate self-sustaining, finding new methods to increase yields.”
She was feeling the most interesting sensation… without moving, he seemed to be stirring inside her and filling her once more. It seemed yields weren’t the only thing that he was interested in increasing… and suddenly Felicity lost her fascination for an estate called Collinswood as once more he took her to the heights.
A while after that, he left her for a couple of minutes to light the candles, and then they made love yet again in the soft glow. But eventually he kissed her gently and said, “I must go. Remind me to bring a picnic basket next time.”
Next time… Despite being pleasantly relaxed, her senses went on high alert once more. “I could ask Cook…”
He laughed. “No, my dear—Cook wouldn’t be nearly as skilled at sating my hunger as you are. And in any case, I must keep my engagement for dinner.”
“With Lady Colford?” She was quite proud; her tone was perfectly casual, careless.
His hands stilled on the buttons of his shirt. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Will I see you tomorrow?” Twice, she had promised herself, in her guilt over Blanche; she had sworn they would only meet these two times, and then she would let him go. But the question slipped out despite herself.
“I’ll come if I can. I’ll send you word in the morning.”
“I’ll wait for your message.” She sat on the bed and watched him dress. “Richard,” she said finally.
“Yes, my dear?”
“I would like sometime to talk to you of… Roger.” The name felt awkward on her lips—but somehow it helped to assuage her guilt by reminding herself that this was, after all, about her lost love.
He paused in the midst of arranging his neckcloth. “What about him?”
“What he was like as a child… what games he played… where he grew up.” She shrugged. “You could tell me anything, really, and I’d love listening to it. How he felt about being a younger son… how he died.”
“Of course,” he said politely. “At your convenience.”
“And about you, of course,” she added. “Roger told me you were always the good son—the one who was more like your father.”
He looked at her inquisitively. “How very odd of him.”
A moment later he was gone, leaving Felicity feeling that somehow, unexpectedly, things had gone sadly wrong—though she wasn’t quite certain how.
***
It was childish of him, Richard knew, to want to kick the nearest piece of furniture. After an entire afternoon spent in his arms, and a bit of the evening, as well, his oblivious little golden beauty had wanted to talk about his brother. His brother! The man who had bedded her but not bothered to show her the joys of love. The man who could have married her… but hadn’t.
You could tell me anything, really, and I’d love listening to it. How he felt about being a younger son… how he died.
She’d planted him a facer with that one, and no doubt about it. But she’d puzzled him as well. It was past time for him to find out what Roger had really been doing in York two years ago and why he had lied to Felicity Mercer. Richard thought he knew who might be able to tell him.
But he would have to rush a bit to be on time for dinner at Colford House.
***
Rather than joining Anne for their usual morning coze, Felicity sent a maid to deliver her regrets and settled into her own drawing room with a book to wait for a note from Richard. But after she’d read the same page a half-dozen times without registering a single word, she put the book aside and sat in the window that looked out over Upper Seymour Street.
For the first time, she found herself regretting her decision not to even attempt to go into society. She certainly couldn’t ask Anne about Lord Colford; inviting Anne’s curiosity would be disastrous. But if Felicity had begun to develop a separate circle of acquaintances in the city, she could have asked leading questions and listened to chatter. She couldn’t have aspired to the heights of the ton, but surely she could have found some friends who, like herself, occupied the fringes. They would have heard—and shared—the gossip. She might have been able to find out all kinds of things about Lord Colford.
She told herself briskly that she was being foolish—acting like a schoolgirl in love…
The idea seemed to echo in her head.
A schoolgirl in love.
She was long past being a schoolgirl, that was sure—but apparently she was not too old to behave like one. In fact, she realized with a sudden sinking feeling, she was every bit as foolish as any schoolgirl she’d ever known—for she had fallen headlong into love with a man she could never have. A man who was so incredibly wrong for her that there weren’t even words to express how foolish she had been…
Her stomach felt jittery, her chest tight. How had this happened? How could she have been so shortsighted?
Was it possible she was just feeling a sort of infatuation, born of Richard’s kindness and the undeniable, exotic joy of his lovemaking? If that was the case, then perhaps she would forget him if their paths didn’t cross in the future…
Pain lanced through her at the very idea of never seeing him again. She clenched her fists against it until her nails dug into her palms, but it didn’t go away.
No, she would never be able to forget. This was different. This was… overwhelming.
More than a year ago, she had realized, even as she’d let herself fall in love with Roger, that they were too far different in station to actually marry. Though she had been heartbroken when he left her, she had not—in a way—been surprised.
But if a love match between the daughter of a mill owner and the younger son of an earl was almost unthinkable, how very much more ridiculous the idea was when it concerned the daughter of a mill owner and the earl himself.
Not that she had ever thought of marriage where Richard was concerned. But perhaps simply knowing how impossible it would be had made her let down her guard. Because Felicity had felt herself safe, she had been in even greater danger of losing her heart to this charming, dangerous man…
She heard the knocker fall against the front door, and she had to force herself to sit quietly rather than rush out to see if the sound heralded the message she was waiting for. In that moment—as she sat like a proper lady in her drawing room, wanting with every fiber of her being to run to the door, to seize the paper from the footman’s hand, to find out whether he would be coming to her today or if she would have to wait—she admitted the truth.
She had never intended to know Richard well enough to actually care about him. He was supposed to be a fleeting encounter, a convenient replacement—a pale substitute for
the man she had lost.
What she hadn’t realized until far too late was that Richard wasn’t a pale substitute for anyone or anything. And so the inevitable had happened.
Only this time, she suspected, the pain would be even worse than what she had felt when she’d lost Roger—because this time the situation was so clearly her own fault. She should have known better…
Mason came in just then to tell her that Lady Hawthorne was calling.
In fact, Anne was just a step behind him. “I’m presuming on our friendship,” she announced, “and being very rude indeed to burst in on you like this without waiting for Mason to ask if you’ll receive me. But when you sent a message this morning instead of coming, I was worried. Are you all right, Fliss? Did you get bad news?”
The worst, Felicity thought. How had she let this happen? After having her heart broken by Roger, how could she have been so naive as to think she could walk away from his brother unscathed? She had intended to use Richard to get what she wanted… but instead, she was the one who had been caught up in her own desire. She was the one who would pay the price.
“Oh, my dear,” Anne said. “Is it very bad? Is the mill in trouble?”
“The mill?” Felicity couldn’t focus. “What do you mean, the mill?”
“Your manager. You said Mr. Rivers was coming to speak with you. I thought perhaps he’d brought bad news and you couldn’t bear to see anyone. Felicity, look at me.” She seized Felicity’s arm and shook her.
Felicity dragged her mind back to the drawing room and to her friend. “No, not at all. Mr. Rivers hasn’t been here.”
“Then you haven’t… Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry—rushing over here because I’d jumped to conclusions that you were suddenly impoverished. How silly of me! But why didn’t you come to sit with me this morning? Are you ill?”
“No—I just… Anne, should you be walking around so early in the day? You’ve had such trouble in the mornings.”
“Not for a few days now. I seem to be over the worst—now that the first few months are past. I really was afraid for a while that I was going to be ill every morning until Christmas!”
Christmas… it would be a special one for Anne, for they had calculated her baby would be born in December. And as for Felicity’s…
With any luck at all, Felicity’s child would be just a couple of months younger. And if they lived close enough to each other… Our children can play together, she thought idly.
Then she stopped herself cold as the harsh truth struck home. Her child would not grow up anywhere near where Anne lived—certainly not at his father’s home at Collinswood. Her child would have no claim to the estate or to the family. He could not be acknowledged by his father.
Her child would be the son or daughter of an earl; yet without a father’s name, that child would not—could not—be a suitable playmate for Anne’s child. Even Anne, who was Felicity’s dearest friend, would not lightly flout society’s rules on that head. And in any case, Felicity would be going back to York, far from Surrey and Collinswood…
Far from Richard.
Her child would never know its father.
What have I done? Felicity asked herself.
Being the child of a mill owner was a serious social handicap, as Felicity had learned the hard way when she went off to the boarding school where she had met Anne. Not every girl at the school had been as willing as Anne to overlook Felicity’s origins; some of them had been downright cruel.
But the social stigma Felicity had faced paled in comparison to what she had so carelessly done to her own child. Yet being illegitimate wasn’t the worst burden she had placed on her baby—there were ways around that, stories that could be told. She could make up a husband who had conveniently died…
But that would mean lying to her child—denying him the truth and the right to know his father…
I must stop this now, she told herself. And I must hope and pray that it isn’t already too late, that we haven’t already made a child…
Her body rebelled against the idea of never touching Richard again… but perhaps even worse, against the idea that she might not, after all, carry his child.
She had dreamed long ago of having Roger’s baby—and she had mourned when that obviously was not to be. But that was nothing compared to the twin griefs she felt now. She wasn’t even sure which grief she felt more deeply—the idea that she might bear a child who would eventually blame her, perhaps even hate her, for not giving him or her a father… or the idea that she might not have Richard’s child to love and cherish forever.
The butler came in. “This was just delivered, Miss Mercer. The servant is waiting for a reply.”
Felicity took the folded paper with stiff fingers. How could she take the chance of opening Richard’s message in front of Anne? But she couldn’t ignore it, for the footman who had delivered it was waiting to take back her answer.
She unfolded the message, but it took her a couple of minutes to register what it said. It wasn’t from Richard at all but from Jason Rivers, the manager of her mill. He was in London and would call on her that afternoon, if it was convenient.
“So he’s here at last,” Anne said. “Of course you were concerned because you didn’t hear from him yesterday—and no wonder you wanted to be at home today, to be certain not to miss Mr. Rivers’ message. And Mr. Rivers.” She looked quite pleased with her deduction. “Tell me—is he nice? Will I like him?”
Felicity could imagine no circumstances in which the elegant Countess of Hawthorne and the rough-edged Mr. Rivers would be in the same room, much less that they would ever get to know each other. “He’s very attentive to the business,” she said. “But I hardly think that I could introduce him to…”
“Oh, Fliss, if he’s important to you, of course I want to meet him.”
And that, Felicity thought hollowly, was truly the death knell for her silly, girlish dreams. If even her dear friend Anne thought that the manager of her mill was an appropriate match for Felicity Mercer…
How utterly foolish she had been. She supposed next she’d catch herself wishing that someday Lord Colford would stop making love to her long enough to realize that he was in love with her!
But even if that could happen—and it couldn’t, for she must stop this madness now—there could be no hope of a future.
Anne’s head was tipped inquisitively to one side.
“It’s not like that,” Felicity said.
“Well, something—or someone—has rattled you so completely that you can’t finish a sentence. If it isn’t Jason Rivers, who in heaven’s name is it?” Fortunately Anne didn’t wait for an answer. “Now that I know you’re all right, I’ll leave you, so you can get ready to receive him.”
***
Richard lingered at his club, pretending to read the newspapers and half listening as Hastings, the old rattlepate, told anyone within range about the team of sweet goers he’d bought the previous week at the Newmarket horse fair.
He had sent word to Felicity that he would call on her this afternoon, but as the hour approached, he found himself hesitating. It was not that he didn’t want to go to her, for visions of himself entwined with Felicity had kept him awake the night before as he contemplated what he would do with her the next time they made love. But this encounter would not—could not—follow the pattern of the past two.
Today, he had to tell her the truth about his brother—and that might change everything. So he sat a bit longer, trying to rehearse what he would say, before he put aside the unread papers and walked from his club to Number 5 Upper Seymour Street.
The butler promptly admitted him, but Mason looked a bit doubtful and seemed to move more slowly than ever before as he led the way up the first flight of stairs.
Richard’s patience, already worn, thinned to the vanishing point. “No need for you to make the entire climb,” he said finally. “I’ll show myself up to the sitting room.”
The butler didn’t seem to hear, f
or his pace remained steady. “Miss Mercer asked me to conduct you to the drawing room instead.”
The drawing room? That was unexpected. Richard wouldn’t have been surprised to find her already in bed; such an eager little mistress she was proving to be. In fact, he’d actually considered whether it might be better to satisfy her first before having their little talk… But he knew that was his own raging desire speaking and not common sense.
He was still wondering if the butler had got it wrong when Mason opened the drawing-room door and he saw Felicity arranging roses in a tall vase.
For an instant, he thought he had stepped back in time to when he had first come to see her. It hardly seemed possible that so much could have happened…
She looked up, and he was shocked—her face was pale and her eyes shadowed as if she hadn’t slept. “My lord,” she said, and her voice also was different—flat and hollow and lifeless.
“My dear.” He went to her, hands outstretched.
She stepped aside around the table, and Richard stopped in the center of the room. “What’s wrong, Felicity?”
“I’ve come to my senses,” she said.
What a shame. For an instant, he was afraid he’d actually said it.
“I can’t see you anymore,” she went on. “I… I can’t bear it anymore.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Never in his long and varied experience had a woman dismissed him before he was finished with her. For this minx to do so—especially after what they had shared—was incredible.
His eyes narrowed. She wasn’t looking at him, he realized, but beyond him.
“Very well,” he said. “It is, of course, your prerogative.”
A bit of the tension went out of her body. Her shoulders no longer seemed rigid—as if she was relieved that he was taking it so well.
He watched her closely while he pretended to flick a speck of dust off his lapel, and then he issued a challenge. “Come and kiss me good-bye, Felicity, and we’ll part friends.”
She sucked in a breath that sounded painful. She looked terrified.
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