“Of course. But why her? She’s beneath you in station, after all.”
“That didn’t matter to your stepfather, your husband, or your brother, so I don’t know why you think it would matter to me.”
“All right, so you don’t care about that. What do you care about that makes you think you should marry her?”
“She has four brothers,” he retorted, seizing upon a fact he’d scarcely considered until now. “Need I point out what that says about the likelihood she can bear me a son?”
“So can many women. You still haven’t told me what I wish to know. Why should I help you snag my friend as a wife when any woman will suit your purpose?”
Dragging his fingers through his hair, he glared at her. “You know she’s better off married to me than in her father’s old house tending four scamps and dabbling in gossip.”
“Are you so sure? She seems to enjoy her odd life. To my knowledge she has no financial difficulties, so she doesn’t need to marry you for money. But you haven’t answered my question. Why her?”
“Because I want her!” he burst out. “She’s the only one I want!”
He regretted his admission the moment he saw Sara’s delighted expression. With a groan, he shifted his gaze past her. Damn the woman for pressing him into saying more than he’d intended.
But it was the truth. Felicity had stirred something primitive in him, something he thought he’d suppressed long ago. Excitement. Passion. The sheer enjoyment of kissing a woman he truly desired. Just when he’d resigned himself to doing his duty no matter the cost, she’d burst into his life like fireworks against a midnight sky.
Now he was addicted to the brightness she showered around her whenever she swept through a room. He ached to possess that brightness, to make it his own. He needed to possess her in every possible way. And he could only do that by marrying her.
His gaze shot back to Sara. “Well? Have I given you enough information? Will you help me win her? Or do you still think Felicity and I won’t suit?”
“Oh, I begin to think you’ll suit each other nicely.” She cast him a blazing but enigmatic smile. “Yes, I’ll help you. Sit down, Ian. It’s time we made some plans.”
Chapter 12
Lord Hartley has strict requirements for his heir’s prospective wife, particularly that she have “a striking appearance and a presentable wit.” One only hopes that the heir apparent recognizes what his father does not—that a woman with a presentable appearance and a striking wit is far more interesting.
LORD X, THE EVENING GAZETTE,
DECEMBER 21, 1820
Felicity scowled fiercely at the pale-cheeked face in the huge square mirror over her dressing table. Fool! she told herself. Ninny! Ridiculous dreamer!
She had no reason to be so somber, and certainly no reason to let her listlessness show in her face! In the week since her return from the country, she’d gone to four Christmas balls, three parties, and a private concert. She’d provided Mr. Pilkington with six good columns for which he’d paid her decently. Tonight she was attending Lady Brumley’s annual St. Thomas’s Day party, the most prestigious ball of the season, with London’s most interesting characters, who would provide her with ample material for even more columns. So why did her malaise persist?
Because of him, of course. That false-hearted viscount with the roving eye.
He would attend tonight as well, dancing with one woman after another, seeking a wife with blithe nonchalance. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She’d refused him, so what did she expect him to do—pine for her?
That’s precisely what she’d expected, fool that she was. But she should have known better. She’d done nothing but torment the man since the day she met him. Not that he didn’t deserve it, because he did. Still…
Glancing back into the mirror, she scowled again. No wonder he’d given up on her so easily. Look at her colorless face and dull expression! She looked exactly like the common-born woman she was!
Furiously, she dabbed rouge onto her cheeks, then just as furiously, scoured it off. No respectable woman wore rouge these days. Mama had done so in her day, but it was acceptable then.
Why did she care what he thought of her anyway? They were quits now.
“Lissy, what’s that red stuff you’re playing with?” a boy’s voice asked behind her.
It was Ansel who’d spoken, but all her little tin soldiers were ranged at her back, having invaded her chamber en masse this evening. James sat cross-legged on her closed trunk, keeping his posture meticulously erect as he’d been taught at Islington Academy. Devoid of such training, William and Ansel sprawled on their bellies across her bed with their heads resting on their elbows and their bare feet kicking idly in the air. And George, true to form, wandered the room in search of mischief.
“I’m not playing with it.” She set her mother’s old rouge pot firmly aside. She would not give Ian the satisfaction of seeing her appear all rouged and plucked like some tart. Then he’d know how she regretted refusing his proposal.
Regretted? Hah! She did not regret refusing to marry a man for whom women were merely an amusement and a wife was a manufacturer of dutiful children. Marry a man with a mistress? A man who within a day of her refusal was courting every eligible female thrown his way? Never!
“Do you have to go to a ball tonight?” Ansel asked, his golden head cocked to one side as he watched her latch Mama’s paste ruby necklace about her neck.
“Yes, Lissy, do you have to?” Georgie put in. “You’ve been going to parties all week. Don’t see why you can’t stay here with us tonight.”
James supplied an answer for her. “Lissy’s got to have something to write about, lads, so she has to go to parties. You know that. If she doesn’t, then we shan’t have enough money for Christmas goose. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
The triplets shook their heads in unison, and Felicity bit back a smile. “Tomorrow I promise to spend the entire day with you. Mr. Pilkington sent over tickets to Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks Exhibition. It’s in the Strand again. Would you like to go see it?”
Even James perked up. “Can we, Lissy, truly? You’ll take us?”
“I most certainly will.” She’d seen the exhibition often as a girl and looked forward to discovering what Madame Tussaud had added to the collection.
“Can we go into the Separate Room?” Georgie asked in a hushed whisper.
Felicity frowned at his mention of the notorious collection of death masks from the French Revolution that had started Madame Tussaud on the path of such a strange profession. “Indeed, you may not! It’ll give you nightmares.”
“No, it won’t!” Georgie protested. “Nothin’ scares me, Lissy!”
She cast an irritated look into the heavens, questioning God for his wisdom in making little boys so fearless in theory and craven in practice. The triplets were generally all bluster and bombast…until nighttime brought the standard childhood nightmares.
“We’ll see,” she said noncommittally.
The door to her bedroom swung open, and Mrs. Box hurried in. “The Worthin’s has arrived. You don’t want to keep ’em waitin’, luv.”
Snatching up her fan, she rose from the dressing table and faced her brothers. “Well? How do I look?”
“You look like a peacock!” William said, giving his highest compliment.
“She don’t look like no peacock, Will.” Georgie sneered at his brother. “There ain’t a single feather on that dress.”
Felicity opened her mouth, then shut it, realizing it was pointless to correct so many grammatical errors at once. George really must stop spending time with Mrs. Box and Joseph, neither of whom had adequate grammar.
“You look very beautiful,” James said artlessly, ignoring his brothers, who now argued over William’s words. He left the trunk and approached with arm extended. “May I escort you downstairs, lovely lady?”
Stifling a laugh, she nodded and took his arm. “I’d be honored, kind sir.”
With a haughty expression, James waved his brothers closer. “You may carry the train, lads, if you like.”
“I don’t have a train,” Felicity protested, but it was too late. Three pairs of grimy hands now struggled for purchase on the back edge of her peach skirt. She winced, but didn’t stop them. Her skirts would be soiled the moment she walked into the muddy street anyway. And though the boys held her skirt high enough to reveal a full foot of her petticoat, she knew she must give them some chance to participate in her evening, or they’d be little terrors for Mrs. Box the rest of the night.
The top of the stairs was her limit, however. The possibility of tumbling to the bottom with her three enthusiastic helpers tangled in her gown was too real to risk. With a gentle word, she shook them free like so many clinging kittens. “Now, boys, you might as well stay here—”
“But we want to talk to Lord Worthing,” Georgie protested. “He hasn’t come with Lady Worthing before. Ain’t he the pirate?”
With a quick glance down to where the Worthings conversed with Mrs. Box, she hissed under her breath, “Who told you that?”
“You did,” Ansel put in. “The day you got back from your trip.”
She’d forgotten. And of course they were interested in his adventures on the high seas. That was precisely what she did not need—the triplets cornering an earl with earnest questions about how to run a man through.
“Can we talk to him, huh, Lissy?” William asked.
She forced a smile. “Not tonight. Another time, all right?” At their crestfallen expressions, she bent down to buss each one on the cheek. “You’ll see plenty of pirates at Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition tomorrow.”
That wiped the disappointment from their faces.
“Be sure to mind Mrs. Box,” she added, ruffling Georgie’s hair with affection. “And don’t stay up waiting for me. I’ll be late.”
She felt their eyes on her as James, looking quite the adult, led her downstairs. The boys were growing up much too quickly. Although some days she couldn’t wait until they could help with the family’s financial burden, most days she regretted the circumstances that would thrust them into adulthood far too soon.
Mrs. Box looked up, caught sight of her and James, and smiled broadly. “There she is, milady. And the young master with her.”
James drew himself up straighter, and a lump lodged in Felicity’s throat. He wouldn’t be master of anything soon. Today three different creditors had assailed her—the butcher, a shopkeeper from Cheapside, and some gambling companion of her father’s. The last man, a knight, had threatened to bring the magistrate after her if she didn’t pay off her father’s debt. Thankfully, she’d had the coal money to give him, or there was no telling what he would have done. But the other two she’d sent away empty-handed.
Good Lord, did she need money—bushels and bushels of it. She’d never pay off all the debts at the rate she was going.
Tonight she’d have to gather more material than usual. Perhaps if she could find enough, she might secretly approach a rival newspaper about writing a second column under a second name. If she could only pay a large sum on the worst of the bills…
“You’re looking well this evening,” Sara commented as Felicity reached the bottom of the stairs. With a warm smile, the countess turned to James. “And what a handsome man you have at your side.”
James fairly beamed at the countess’s praise. He’d been half in love with the woman from the day the Worthings had brought Felicity home from the country.
“I suppose the triplets are already in bed.” Sara’s face showed disappointment. “I do so enjoy the darlings, and I’d hoped to introduce Gideon to them. They were asleep when we arrived from the country last week.”
“Actually—” James began.
“Actually,” Felicity repeated, glowering at her brother before he could say more, “I promised them an outing tomorrow, so I had to send them to bed early.”
“Lissy’s taking us to see Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks Exhibition,” James put in. “The lads are very excited about it.”
“I imagine they are.” Sara laughed, then eyed Felicity speculatively. “I’ve never been. It’s usually in the Strand, isn’t it?’
“Yes.” Felicity glanced up the stairs to where her brothers stood peeking around the banister, then swiftly added, “I suppose we should be off.”
After a quick good-bye to James, they left.
The ride to Lady Brumley’s was sheer torture. Sara and Gideon shared so many secretive smiles and fond looks it made her envy their happiness. It also reminded her of Ian…his kissing her, touching her intimately, whispering endearments…
She sat up straight. Gideon might know the answer to a question that had plagued her for days. “Gideon, do you speak Spanish?”
“A little.”
“What does querida mean?”
His gaze narrowed on her. “It means ‘darling.’”
Her heart gave a little twist. Ian had called her “darling” that night at the Worthings? What did it signify? Nothing, judging from his behavior this week.
“Who called you ‘darling’ in Spanish?” Sara asked with a smile.
Felicity laughed weakly. “Oh, no one. I read it in a book.”
Sara and Gideon exchanged knowing glances.
The clamor outside the carriage thankfully drew their attention from the subject. As usual, Lady Brumley’s affair was a great crush. Coaches crammed the narrow street like dogs trampling each other to reach a bone. One thing was certain—Ian would have plenty of eligible women to choose from tonight.
The thought depressed her. Firmly, she thrust it aside. Who cared about that philandering lord and his roving eye? Not her, to be sure. Just because he called her “darling” and knew exactly how to use his hands on a woman’s body—
“Drat it,” she muttered under her breath.
“I agree,” Sara said, mistaking the source of her distress. “It’s chaos out there. But don’t worry, we’ll get through. Wait until you see Gideon handle a crowd.”
A few moments later, Felicity got to see exactly that. Once Gideon stepped from the carriage, every eye was on him, and not only because of his imposing frame. His reputation had apparently preceded him, for everyone gawked at the dark-haired American rumored to have been the Pirate Lord. With his purposeful stride, which Sara and Felicity had to hurry to match, Gideon knifed through the crowd like a hot blade through ice. Thank God. She was eager to be out of the winter wind that slapped them like icy metal paddles. In moments, the three of them were inside the cramped villa and at the top of the stairs to the ballroom, being announced.
“There’s Ian,” Sara whispered to Felicity as they strolled down into the swirling scent of crushed bay branches, sweat-dampened wool, and smoking beeswax. Felicity followed Sara’s gaze to where Ian danced a quadrille. Superbly. With a pretty woman only half his age, or so Felicity told herself in a burst of temper.
“Ah,” Sara continued, “he’s standing up with Miss Trent. Excellent. I suggested her to him, you know. She’s a bit of a flirt, but her bloodlines are impeccable and she has three brothers. If he can snag her, she’s sure to give him an heir.”
I have four brothers, remember? Felicity wanted to retort. Of course, her own bloodlines were less than impeccable, especially when one considered a father whose liking for drink had sent him tumbling into the Thames.
It didn’t matter, she told herself with a scowl. There would be no marriage between Ian and her, and she didn’t want one anyway.
She caught Sara watching her and smoothed her features. “Has Ian offered for anyone yet? Considering how he complained of his difficulty in finding a wife, he seems to have done quite well under your tutelage.”
“Yes.” Sara trained her gaze on Ian. “And I’ve ensured that you’re free to pursue your own concerns.”
“I do appreciate it,” Felicity said hollowly. Sara hadn’t answered her question. Had Ian set his sights on someone in p
articular?
The lowering thought dogged her for the rest of the evening. Though she gathered information for her column and agreed to several dances, more often than not she found herself drawn to watching Ian dance.
Some of his partners she dismissed as inconsequential. He stood up with Lady Brumley and Sara out of duty, of course. Then he danced with Lady Jane, who was surely too frivolous for him to consider as a wife, and Miss Childs, whose well-known affection for champagne would tax both his finances and his patience.
It was his second dance with Miss Trent that alarmed her. Miss Trent had intelligence, wit, an even temper, and worst of all, gorgeous blond hair and sweet blue eyes. Miss Trent would certainly meet all of Ian’s requirements for an uncomplicated wife, drat her. Not to mention the woman’s “impeccable bloodlines.”
“I see Ian is standing up with Miss Trent again,” Sara remarked to Felicity after returning from a galop with her husband. “She’d be a good choice for him.”
“If he could ignore her poor taste in accessories,” Felicity said peevishly, seizing upon Miss Trent’s only apparent flaw. “Look at that dreadful reticule she carries.”
“Somehow I don’t think it’s Miss Trent’s reticule that concerns Ian.” There was a hint of laughter in Sara’s voice, but when Felicity shot her a chilly look, Sara masked her amusement.
“Speaking of men and their partners, the Earl of Masefield is headed toward you,” Sara added in an undertone. “I do believe he’s aiming for a second dance himself.”
Felicity checked her dance card. “Oh, yes, I forgot. I promised him a waltz.” Thank goodness she’d been practicing with James. She’d begun under the pretense of preparing James for adult life, but in truth, her lack of ability in that area galled her. It was one of many inadequacies in her character, skills, and appearance that tormented her of late. Ever since she’d met a certain viscount, to be honest.
“Lord Masefield seems enamored of you,” Sara commented. “He rarely dances twice with anyone.”
Felicity waved a hand dismissively, her gaze still on her dance card. “He likes to talk, that’s all, and I’m a good listener. It’s my profession, you know.”
The Dangerous Lord Page 17
