“Hmm?” she grumbled as a soft tapping sounded on the door.
That was followed by a muffled voice he recognized as the housekeeper’s. “Miss Taylor, are you in there?” The doorknob rattled, and he thanked his good fortune that he’d thought to lock the door earlier.
“Miss Taylor!” the voice said more loudly. There was no mistaking the urgency behind the three sharp raps that followed.
Felicity shot up on top of him, her expression impossible to read in the darkness. First she glanced down at him sprawled beneath her, then at the door, then back at him. He could imagine what she was thinking, especially when she jerked a sheet up to cover herself. She started to speak to him, but he gave her a quick shake of his head.
“Come on now, luv,” the voice outside the door pleaded. “I know you’re in there. Wake up. It’s important!” There was the sound of keys clinking, and he groaned.
Felicity nearly vaulted out of the bed. “I’m coming, Mrs. Box!” She motioned for him to stay put, then scooped up her chemise and jerked it on over her head. “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it one of the boys?”
“It’s that nasty Mr. Hodges again,” Mrs. Box said through the door. “He’s drunk. Says he met up with your father’s trustee in a tavern and found out the truth about—”
“Wait, I’m coming out,” Felicity said, cutting Mrs. Box off. In a flash, she’d yanked on a voluminous dressing gown and tied it around her waist, then was sliding out into the hall, taking care not to let Mrs. Box see into the room.
“What’s this about the butcher?” he heard her say before the door shut behind her, muffling the voices.
Quickly he climbed out of bed and lit a candle. While donning his shirt and trousers, he strained to hear the conversation that trailed off as the women apparently descended the stairs. Cursing, he searched for his Hessians until he found them lying half under the bed. As soon as he had the boots on, he eased out into the hall without bothering to put on his frock coat or waistcoat.
Voices wafted up from downstairs. The first was a man’s, querulous and slurred, with the accents of a lower tradesman. “Now lookie here, Miss Taylor…I gots to have me money…”
“Keep your voice down,” Felicity urged. “Do you want to wake the entire household?”
“If that’s wot it takes to get me money, I will. I don’t care ’bout wakin’ them brothers of yours nohow…a lot of devils, them boys…”
Ian strode to the stairs and looked over the banister. The man named Hodges, a scrawny creature in disheveled frock coat and breeches, swayed unsteadily in the midst of the ill-lit foyer below. Mrs. Box stood between Hodges and the stairs with her back to Ian, plump hands planted on plumper hips.
A few paces away, Felicity, looking distinctly agitated, clutched her dressing gown closed at the throat. “You’ll get your money as soon as Papa’s estate is settled.”
“Ha! Ain’t no settlement an’ you damn well know it! That fancy trustee of yers were in the tavern tonight, and I asked ’im ’bout it. Tole me the truth, ’e did, ’cause ’e was drunk. The only thing yer papa left you were a pile o’ debts and them four boys to feed. An’ I’m plannin’ to get wot’s comin’ to me before everybody else finds out you ain’t got a penny to yer name.”
Ian had heard enough. With grim purpose, he started down the stairs.
“We can discuss this tomorrow at your shop, Mr. Hodges—” Felicity began, then squealed when the man lunged for her.
Ian vaulted down the stairs in a blind rage.
Below him, the tradesman caught hold of Felicity’s shoulders. “You c’n pay me in coin or you c’n pay me in pleasure,” the man was saying as Ian neared the bottom step, “but one way or t’other you’ll pay me tonight, little missy—”
Before Ian even reached the bottom, however, Felicity brought her knee up into the man’s crotch, then shoved the bastard backward over the leg Mrs. Box held conveniently out behind the man’s knees. The man toppled over and dropped on the marble floor bent double, his hands clutching his groin.
Mrs. Box laughed as she hovered over the moaning creature. “That’s the only ‘pleasure’ you’ll be gettin’ tonight, you damned—” She broke off as Ian rounded her and jerked the tradesman up in both fists.
Ian held the small man dangling off the ground. “You want money?” He shook the groaning man furiously. “You want money, you miserable bastard?”
“No, Ian!” Felicity cried as she ran up to him.
Insensible of anything but the insult to her, Ian shook the man again, heedless of the eyes going wide with terror and the head flopping back and forth. “You’ll have your money, Hodges. But if you ever lay a hand on my fiancée again, I’ll—”
“Fiancée?” Mrs. Box said, having apparently recovered her tongue.
“Ian, put the man down, damn you!” Felicity ordered. “Now!”
Ian hesitated. Then he ground out, “Fine,” and released the wretch.
Hodges’s body thudded to the floor like a sack of barley, but he scrambled to his feet, half-sober and all outrage. “I dunno who you think you are, guv’nor, but—”
“He’s the Viscount St. Clair, that’s who he is,” Mrs. Box put in with a haughty sniff. “Y’d best not cross him, you fool.”
The man gulped, then dropped his gaze to examine his rumpled suit. “Viscount or no, he had no cause to grab me like that,” he mumbled. “It’s a sad day when a man can’t collect on his debts.”
“You weren’t collecting on debts, you bloody—” Ian began.
“I’d hold my tongue if’n I were you, Mr. Hodges,” Mrs. Box said. “Now go on with you. The miss and I’ll be round in the mornin’ to discuss the bill.”
“To pay the bill,” Ian corrected her. “And the ‘miss’ will not be there. My man will attend to it.” He stepped menacingly toward the butcher. “But see that you never come within a mile of Miss Taylor again, you understand? Or I swear I’ll—”
“I got yer message, milord,” the man said quickly, holding up a hand. “I’m leavin’ now, and I won’t be back. All I wanted was me money, and if yer seein’ to that—”
“I’m seeing to it,” Ian bit out.
Hodges fled.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Felicity turned on Ian, eyes blazing. “There was no call to come barging down here. I had the situation well under control—”
“Yes, I saw how ‘well under control’ you had the situation! You were stirring up a hornets’ nest, damn it! What the bloody hell would you have done after he recovered from the blow to his groin?”
Felicity’s chin came up a notch. “I would have called Joseph to throw him out.”
“He couldn’t throw out a mangy dog on his best day! But never fear, once we’re married—”
“We are not going to be married! I told you before, Ian, I won’t marry you, not even after…” She trailed off with an embarrassed glance at the housekeeper.
“What d’ye mean, you told him before?” Mrs. Box broke in. She regarded Ian with new interest. “Have you proposed to my mistress before tonight, milord?”
Ian started to say it was none of her concern, then thought better of it. If Felicity still intended to be stubborn about this—he might need Mrs. Box on his side. “My first proposal was a week ago, at the Worthings. Apparently your mistress needs more persuasion than most to do what’s in her best interests.”
“Beg pardon, milord,” the housekeeper said tartly, her gaze taking in his scanty attire, “but I ain’t sure I approve of your methods of persuasion.”
“If I’d known Felicity was destitute,” he snapped, “I wouldn’t have needed such methods.”
“I am not destitute!” Felicity protested.
Ian fixed his gaze on Mrs. Box. “Well? Is she?”
“Mrs. Box,” Felicity threatened, “if you tell that man one word, I swear I’ll dismiss you at once!”
“Never fear,” Ian assured the housekeeper, “I’ll find you a place at my estate no matter what happe
ns. Now tell me, does your mistress have an inheritance or not?”
Mrs. Box shot him a considering glance, then shook her head. “Nearly penniless she is. Her papa left them a hundred pounds per annum and a mountain of debt. James inherited the house, and it’s mostly mortgaged.”
“Thank you,” Ian said tersely, returning his gaze to Felicity.
“Mrs. Box, how could you?” Felicity cried. “I thought you were my friend!”
“I was, and I am. Somebody had to do somethin’, luv, and you know it. Besides, if you like the man well enough to let him bed you, you like him well enough to marry.”
The shame that spread over Felicity’s reddening cheeks made Ian grimace. “That’ll be all now, Mrs. Box. Felicity and I have important matters to discuss.”
Accepting his right to command her as if he’d always been her master, the housekeeper nodded and headed toward the hall. Then she paused to fix him with a warning look. “One of them matters you’re discussin’ best be an early weddin’ date, milord. Hodges ain’t likely to keep his mouth shut for long, and since he saw you here, he’ll guess that you and the girl were…well…”
“Will eleven A.M. on Christmas Eve suit you?” he asked dryly, wondering how he’d ever sunk to the point of accepting a servant’s opinions on the date of his own wedding. “I’d marry her in the morning if I could, but I need time to procure a special license. As it is, that’s earlier than even I had planned, and gives us only today and tomorrow morning to prepare—but you do have a point.”
A brilliant smile brightened the woman’s work-worn face. “Then Christmas Eve it is. That would be lovely.”
As the woman walked off down the hall, Ian held his hand out to Felicity. “Come, let’s return to your bedchamber. I can dress while we discuss this.”
“No, indeed. I’m not such a fool as to give you another chance to seduce me.” Though she spoke the words coldly, a bright blush accompanied them. He’d seen her blush more in the past day than in the entire time he’d known her. He found it vastly encouraging. A woman didn’t blush before a man she hated.
With a disdainful bearing more fitting of the viscountess she was soon to become than the architect’s daughter she presently was, she marched past him to a door halfway down the corridor. “We can talk in the drawing room.” She turned the knob and thrust open the door. “Not that it will do you any good.”
He grabbed a candle from a nearby sconce and followed her. “You know full well that marriage is our only recourse now.” He entered the room and closed the door.
“Recourse for what?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he bit out, “I’ve compromised you, and that generally means a wedding.”
“Generally. But not necessarily.”
Headstrong witch. “Damn it, I’ve ruined you for any other man!”
Though she flinched at his words, she stood her ground. “I never expected to marry anyway.”
Sara’s words leapt into his mind. I should caution you that seduction might not succeed in changing Felicity’s mind. She has a strong will.
Bloody hell, he hadn’t believed her, but obviously she’d understood Felicity better than he. What must he do to make Felicity listen? He set the candle carefully down on the closest table, fearful he might actually throw it in a fit of temper. He hadn’t suffered from fits of temper in years. He’d striven hard to rid himself of that fault, and he had succeeded—until he met Miss Felicity Taylor.
Ruthlessly, he forced down his anger. Felicity was a rational woman and must be treated as such. “You know this is the best solution to your money troubles and my need for a wife.”
She merely stared at him, her mouth drawn up into a tight line. Engulfed by her oversize dressing gown, she looked fragile and pale.
“Such a union will be very much to your advantage,” he went on. “You’ll be a viscountess with a healthy allowance at your disposal. Your brothers won’t want for anything, I’ll continue the upkeep on this house, and I’ll make sure your servants are provided for. I’ll be a most generous husband, I assure you.”
“That’s probably all true. Unlike you, however, I believe a woman needs more than a comfortable home and a generous allowance to make a successful marriage.”
“If it’s your bloody column you’re worried about, I don’t care if you continue—”
“It’s not my column,” she said wearily.
What then? He thought a moment, then stiffened. “You enjoyed our lovemaking—I know you did.”
“Yes.” She bent her head, her lashes fluttering down to shield her eyes. “Of course I enjoyed it. I’m not a block of ice, after all.”
Only when relief surged through him did he acknowledge that she’d actually made him doubt his prowess in bed. The woman was turning him into a nitwit, and he’d had enough. “Well? What is it you want from me?”
If she’d been a chit fresh from the schoolroom or a dewy-eyed lover of poetry, he might have thought she desired vows of undying love. But she was neither—she regarded all members of his sex with cynicism. And she’d never once mentioned love when refusing his last proposal.
“Felicity,” he said impatiently when she lifted her gaze to his, confusion and uncertainty on her face. “Don’t make this more complicated than it needs to be. Name your concessions and be done with it. I’ll give you whatever you wish within reason.”
“Even the truth about Miss Greenaway?” she blurted out.
Damn. He should’ve known. Once Felicity got an idea in her head, she worried it as a kitten worries a string. “I told you before, Miss Greenaway has nothing to do with us. You’re a fool if you balk at this marriage because of her.”
She pivoted away from him then, padding over to the window on slippered feet. Her slender frame looked small and delicate next to the lofty Gothic design, all the more as she shivered from the draft. He had a sudden fierce urge to enfold her in his arms and shield her from the cold, from her fears, from everything that could harm her.
With shaky hands, she tried to close the drapes at the window more tightly against the draft. “And what if…” She paused, as if to gather her courage. “What if I’m balking because of someone else? What if I’m balking at…Cynthia Lennard?”
Coming on the heels of his tender thoughts, her question hit him like a pistol shot to the chest. God, no. Not this. Not now. He strove to conceal his reaction, but his words still came out harsh. “What do you know of Cynthia Lennard?”
She bent her head against the drapes. “She was your aunt, wasn’t she? I’ve heard…that you and she had a love affair. That she pined away for you after you fled England for the Continent.”
She’d “heard” this? Where? How? A weight of guilt crushed his chest, making it nearly impossible for him to breathe. Bloody hell, no matter how he tried he couldn’t escape Aunt Cynthia’s legacy. Poor beautiful and doomed Aunt Cynthia. He didn’t know which was worse—the story Felicity had heard or the truth. Neither did him credit.
He needed more information. “You’ve truly outdone yourself this time. Where did you get such a tale? I doubt even Lady Brumley could rival it for sheer imagination.”
“Lady Brumley was the one who told me.” Felicity came away from the window and began to pace, her words tumbling forth in a higher pitch that showed her nervousness. “She heard about it from your uncle’s servants. She seems to detest your uncle, and so she tries to find out all she can about him. I don’t know why.”
“Why? Because he jilted her twenty-five years ago. He left her at the altar when he discovered her father’s wealth was a sham. After that, her only choice was to marry old Brumley. She’s never forgiven my uncle for that.”
She seemed shaken. “I don’t blame her.”
“Nor do I, but surely you can see this tale is nothing but her attempt to strike back at him. It makes him appear a fool and a cuckold. That’s her only reason for spreading it.” Yes, perhaps it could work in his favor that Lady Brumley, of all people, had hit s
o near the truth.
“Actually, she told me her story because…” She swallowed. “Because your uncle had told me a worse one.”
The blood drained from his face. “My uncle?”
“He accosted me in private at her ball, and…and told me that you had…forced his wife and she’d killed herself for shame.”
He sank into a nearby chair and stared off sightlessly. Damn Uncle Edgar and his lies! Rage swam up through his senses to tear at him like a hungry shark. “I suppose you believed him!” he snapped.
“No! Of course not!” She stepped toward him and laid her hand on his shoulder, a blush tinting her cheeks a rosy color. “I know from experience that you don’t force women. I found the entire tale suspect even before Lady Brumley confirmed that he was lying. But as you can see, she didn’t tell me her story to strike back at your uncle. She was trying to help you. She’d guessed at your interest in me and wanted to reassure me of your character.”
“I see.” Shaking off her hand, he rose from his chair. “She wanted to reassure you I was merely an adulterer.” My God, this was a nightmare. Both tales were horrible. Yet the truth was so awful he couldn’t even speak of it, especially to her.
“Then that’s a lie, too?” she asked in a whisper.
Yes, he thought, but couldn’t say it, for then she’d want to know the truth. Damn them all for putting these doubts in her mind. And damn her for even thinking them partly true. “Obviously, you’ve decided the answer to that already. You believe I bedded my aunt—the wife of my own father’s brother—and then abandoned her.” An awful realization stole over him. Staring down at her, he growled, “And you let me make love to you last night even though you thought—”
“I let you make love to me, because I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t.” Her voice wavered, and he suddenly glimpsed the hurt she’d striven mightily to hide. “But I don’t know what to believe. Everyone speculates about your life, bombarding me daily with new tales about the dangerous Lord St. Clair. And you expect me—a woman who’s known you less than a month—to discern the truth amidst the lies while you act the tragic hero and keep silent about it all?”
The Dangerous Lord Page 24
