The door swung open and rather than her butler, it was young Billings, the coal boy, who blinked up at her. “What happened to you, miss? Are you all right?”
“Oh nothing, I’ve been in the garden and the rear entrance was locked.” She swept inside and reached behind her to untie her apron and hand it to the lad. “Will you please summon Mrs. Winterton to chaperone my first interview of the day?”
“Mrs. Winterton inn’t here, miss,” the lad informed her. “She left a note saying she ‘ad to take an early train north to see to her bruva… or was it her uncle?”
“Oh, dear. I hope it’s not serious.”
“Dunno, miss. Do you want me to summon Mrs. Pickering?”
Felicity looked over her shoulder to find the man had not followed her up the stairs. “Don’t bother Mrs. Pickering from her breakfast, but when she’s finished, she might join us in my personal parlor where I’ll be making inquiries regarding qualifications for the position.”
“Yes, miss.” The boy scampered off, trailing the long ribbons of her apron in his wake.
She turned to the man who’d not moved from his spot. “If you might forgive the impropriety of the two of us spending a moment alone together, we could begin our conversation,” she suggested. “My housekeeper will join us directly.”
“Men like me have very little use for propriety.”
The way he said that sent little shivers skittering along her skin. For some inexplicable reason, she hoped Mrs. Pickering didn’t hurry her breakfast. Indeed, she found herself very much liking the idea of being alone with this man.
Which made absolutely no sense.
Felicity was possibly the most skittish woman of her acquaintance, especially in the company of men. And this one, this mountain of masculinity, was possibly the most imposing fellow she’d seen since… well, in at least a year.
She should be a catastrophe of disobedient nerves. But she wasn’t.
At least, not more than usual.
If you would follow me, Mr.…” As she swept over the marble floors toward her parlor, she realized she hadn’t even asked his name.
“Severand. Gareth Severand.” His answer came from closer than she’d expected.
My, but he moved swiftly and silently for a man of his size.
“I’m Miss Felicity Goode.”
“I know who you are.”
She let out a nervous chuckle. “Of course… of course you would know from whom you are soliciting a position-- how silly of me.” She propped open the door to the parlor and gestured to a chair by the far window. “May I take your coat?”
“It’s not necessary.”
Felicity tucked into a chaise a very respectable distance apart from Mr. Severand, who folded himself into the wine-hued velvet chair with some caution, as if testing the structural dependability of the object before settling his entire bulk into it.
“Well,” she began, abruptly losing what little confidence she possessed. “If I’m honest, I can’t say I exactly know how to go about hiring personal protection.”
At those words, he straightened, instantly more alert than before. “Let’s start with why you need it.”
“Right. Well… I erm…” She scratched at the hairline below her ear, smoothing at the tickle of hair as it stood on end.
She was alone with a dangerous creature, and her body knew it.
“As you may or may not be aware, my parents were the Baron and Baroness Cresthaven. They passed rather suddenly in a carriage incident on the Continent last year.”
“I had heard. I’m sorry for your loss.”
For a man who knew her not at all, he sounded remarkably genuine.
“Thank you. You are kind.”
“I am not kind.”
This was said so low, Felicity thought she might have misunderstood him. Or imagined he’d said it in the first place?
Deciding to let it lie, she continued. “Well, it turns out, before they left for the Riviera, my father amended his will. As he had no male heir, his title and the country seat of Cresthaven Abbey, of course, go to a distant cousin. But all my father’s liquid capital, his shipping company, and various investments and holdings have been inexplicably bequeathed to me, of all people, with one very specific caveat.”
“Which is?”
“Now that my year of mourning has passed, I must marry into the aristocracy immediately. At the very least a viscount, or so the documents dictate.”
She could feel, rather than see, his frown long before it was reflected in his voice. “Treacherous as the noble marriage market may be, I do not comprehend how I can assist you in that arena.”
Felicity fiddled with the cuff on her sleeve, toying at the grey pearl buttons before pushing them through the little loops of midnight blue silk. “You are right. Of course you are. Finding a husband will be my lamentable responsibility, alone. But you see… the day before yesterday, I attended a lecture at Hornbrook Hall for the London Horticulture and Botany Society. The study was of night-blooming plants, so attendance was required late into the evening. The weather was pleasant when we adjourned, and I was overheated from the closeness of the room, so I decided to walk the handful of blocks here, rather than take a hackney.” She swallowed over a lump in her throat and suppressed a tremor at the memory.
“Before I made it home, I was… accosted by a lone assailant.” She pulled the cuff of one sleeve back to uncover the finger-sized bruises on her wrists.
Mr. Severand surged to his feet, knocking his chair backward.
“What the bloody hell was done to you?” The demand was not a roar like that of a lion, but more the low and lethal warning growl of a jaguar.
All the more penetrating for its resonance.
Astonished by his reaction, Felicity tucked her wrists into her body as if to protect them from his unanticipated rage. “Not very much, if I’m honest.”
In the grand scheme of things, she’d been through worse.
“Tell me,” he demanded.
“Well… he wrenched my arm and shoulder behind me and pulled at my— my hair.” She smoothed at the back of her scalp where it still smarted. “He ripped my spectacles off and stepped on them.”
With one hand, Mr. Severand jerked the chair upright, but he didn’t claim it. Instead, he paced in front of the far window and stood like a sentinel against the sunlight. “What did he look like? Did he say anything? Where, exactly, in the city were you—?”
“Do sit down, Mr. Severand.” She rushed to soothe him even as her own heartbeat accelerated. “It was not my intention to distress you.”
His shoulders rose and fell with a tangibly difficult breath. And then he turned and reclaimed his seat as she bade him, though she didn’t have to see the lines of his body to sense the palpable hostility emanating from him.
Perhaps answering his question would help.
“To be completely honest, I didn’t get a good look at him. He told me that I did not deserve what I had. That he was going to take it from me. He sounded— a bit older. Not like an enfeebled elderly sort of fellow. But someone perhaps fifty or sixty. Mature and… and somewhat maniacal.”
“Did he—” The sentence cut off as if his throat wouldn’t allow him to say the words. “Did you suffer any other injuries?”
“No. Fortunately,” she rushed on, compelled to appease him. “The brigand was frightened away by some rather drunken noble lads staggering from one sort of trouble to the next. He ran into an alley and disappeared.”
When he said nothing, she continued. “I returned home that night, unbelievably agitated, only to find this.” She extracted a scrap of paper from the pocket of her skirts, unfolded it, and set it on the table.
In that moment, the door clicked open, and a maid came in carrying tea and biscuits. She set it on the sideboard and curtsied. “Mrs. Pickering said she’d be up directly, miss.”
“Thank you, Jane. Tell her there is no reason to rush. Mr. Severand and I are getting along quite well.”
<
br /> For some reason she did not dare identify, Felicity didn’t want company other than his at present.
“Yes, miss.” Jane glanced over at Mr. Severand and swallowed audibly. “I-If you are in need of assistance, ring the bell. Mr. Bartholomew is just outside the door.”
This was obviously said for his benefit rather than hers.
“Thank you, Jane.”
When Felicity turned back to Mr. Severand, she found he’d taken the paper and retreated to his seat to study it intently.
It was no epistle or manifesto, merely a sketching of Cresthaven Place engulfed in flames, with a chilling message printed hastily below.
I will claim what is mine.
“Do you have the envelope this arrived in?” he asked in a lethally subdued voice.
“That’s just it,” she explained. “It wasn’t in the post. I found it on my personal correspondence secretary here in my parlor.” She gestured to the desk in question, strewn with stationery and several of her favorite pens.
“Whoever left this was in my house and my staff witnessed nothing.” She shivered as she did whenever the picture of the intruder invaded her mind’s eye.
“This evidence suggests that my attack was not random violence, but something far more malevolent. Needless to say, I find personal protection necessary until I can secure a husband who’s responsible for my safety. Since Parliament is in session, and my mourning for my parents is considered officially over, I’m expected to take a season. I-I need someone at my side so I can feel… so I am safe. At least until this enemy can be discovered and dealt with.”
Felicity paused. Waiting for him to say something.
Wishing he were closer.
As a nervous sort of creature, she’d become a master at reading expressions, sussing out people’s responses and emotions, if only to predict what their reactions might be at any given point so she could avoid conflict or worse.
Mr. Gareth Severand was not a man easily read, nor was he predictable. Even without her spectacles on, she was categorically certain of that.
“What about your family, Miss Goode?” he asked, still studying the paper in his hand. “Is not your brother-in-law a rather famous chief inspector at Scotland Yard? Has he seen this?”
Felicity glanced away, not for the first time wishing her family had not become so infamous through no fault of their own.
Well… almost.
“Chief Inspector Morley and my sister Prudence are abroad for a few weeks, settling my parents’ final overseas interests. My eldest sister Honoria and her husband live above the Alcott Surgical Specialty Hospital. She’s in her confinement with child, and is over thirty years. I’m told that makes pregnancy exponentially more difficult. I could never visit peril on their household or their patients. What if stress or danger caused Nora— that’s what we call her— to lose the baby? I’d never forgive myself.”
Felicity looked down at her lap, plucking a stray fiber off her dark frock. Tomorrow her new trousseau for the season would arrive, and she could put her mourning clothes away for a good long time.
“My sister Mercy…” Sadness drifted like a cloud over her heart, mingling with the love she felt for her twin. “She’s on an extended honeymoon, and I can’t say exactly where in the world she is at the moment. But I’m fairly certain she couldn’t make it home in time to do any good, and I don’t want to bother her…”
She glanced back in Mr. Severand’s direction, noting that he’d folded the paper back up, but made no move to return it to her. “I-I did show that to a detective,” she informed him. “He’s the one who suggested I should engage personal security… so here you are.”
“Here I am.”
Was it her imagination, or did he sound none too happy about the prospect? Perhaps he didn’t think he’d be a good fit for the job? Or maybe he could not be away from a family for so long?
“May I ask you a question, Miss Goode?” he queried, leaning forward in his chair.
“Certainly.”
“Do you think your assailant meant to… to have his way with you?”
She swallowed and shuddered, but ultimately shook her head in the negative. “I can’t speak to his ultimate designs, but there was nothing suggestive in his manner. Only violent. I know this sounds— well, I haven’t much reference to pull from— but the attack felt personal. That man… he hated me. I didn’t recognize him at all, but he hated me. He liked what he did to me. He enjoyed the fact that he could cause me pain and I was helpless against his strength.”
“Doesn’t seem possible,” Severand murmured, turning his head away from her. “Someone hating you.”
Something about the way he said that evoked a pleasant heat from beneath her collar to climb her neck and spread to her cheeks.
“Some people can hate you for just being born,” she murmured, thinking of her father.
“That’s true enough.”
They shared a companionable silence. A discovery of a common pain, unspoken but already understood.
Felicity had known only a few men of close acquaintance. The first being her father, the Baron. A rotund bear of a man, his voice booming and his manners bombastic. He’d been overbearing, extremely religious, and unrelentingly critical. He’d had two loves in his life, money and power, and only paid his four daughters attention when he could use them to acquire more of one or the other.
To increasingly disastrous effect.
Even in death, the Baron controlled her future. Not with an iron fist, but an ironclad contract.
Her brothers-in-law were each of them good men in their own right. They had power or passion or both. They were protective rather than controlling, and adored her sisters with enviable devotion. Her family was so lively, and when they were together, the men and women spoke with equal fervor. There was laughter and debate, a multitude of opinions, and even more chaos.
Felicity loved it, and simultaneously felt lost in the maelstrom of it. Everyone spoke over each other, their wits firing like a volley of rifles, and their words often strewn about like projectiles.
She was often tempted to duck behind something to protect herself from them.
Though none of her loved ones aimed at her.
Not only because of her adversity to conflict, even harmless debate. But because she never said much in a crowd, preferring to watch the conversation rather than fight to be part of it. She was much more relaxed interacting as she did now, with one or two people, in a place that was comfortable and familiar.
All her own.
With someone who was capable of being silent long enough to let her gather thoughts often scrambled by nerves, like marbles spilled on a parquet floor. She’d spoken more to the man in front of her than to anyone else in a very long time.
And she found herself a little bit bold in his company, which, considering his aura of general menace, was indeed a wonder.
“Mr. Severand,” she inquired. “Would you consider yourself a violent man?”
He was quiet for a moment, shifting in his chair for the first time.
“Yes, Miss Goode. I am a violent man.”
Felicity couldn’t for the life of her understand why the way he said this caused little thrills of electricity to spark in her veins.
“Would—” She cleared something husky from her throat. “Would you go so far as to say that you… excel at violence?”
“I would go so far as to say it is the only thing I excel at.”
“I see.”
With that, she reached for the bell Jane had mentioned, and rang it.
Mr. Bartholomew appeared as if he’d been waiting on the other side of the door. “Do you need me to escort the— gentleman out, Miss Felicity?” He sniffed in the direction of her guest.
“No, Mr. Bartholomew, but, if you don’t very much mind, I do need you to cancel my other appointments for today.”
Small eyes beneath amusingly large eyebrows narrowed to a comical degree. “Are you quite certain, miss?”
>
“I am,” she said, feeling more certain about this than she had about anything in a long time. “That is, if Mr. Severand accepts the job I am offering him.”
Chapter 2
As Gabriel followed Felicity Goode through the grand manse he’d watched so often, he appreciated the enticing scent left in her wake. It was even better than he remembered, herbs and lilacs and honeysuckle reminiscent of the sun-drenched vines of his homeland in Monaco.
He could not believe she was close enough to touch. That he could simply reach out and…
No. He curled his hands at his sides.
He would never. Hands such as his would stain her.
His gaze touched her everywhere, though, cataloguing every delectable detail. The ridge of her corset beneath her fitted, solemn blouse. The arousing disarray of her hastily knotted hair. The careful set of her slim shoulders and the soft sway of her hips.
Blood no longer flowed through his veins, there was no room for it. He was a beast overwhelmed by so many opposing forces, he could barely contain himself.
A fury coursed through him so white and hot, it threatened to singe his flesh from the inside out. She’d bruises on her delicate wrists. A man had dared to grab her, imprison her. Frighten her.
A dead man, if he had anything to say about it.
Sheer befuddlement followed on the heels of said rage, as he tried to examine just how he’d found himself ambling after her on the lush, blue Egyptian carpets of Cresthaven Place, admiring her shape. He tried his utmost to pay attention to the tour, but he had a rudimentary familiarization with the layout. The rest was merely decoration where he was concerned.
When she was near, how could he admire anything else?
Christ, how was this happening?
Only moments ago, he’d been lurking in the archway that led from the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the garden. Possibly his last before he left for the other side of the world.
The glimpse had been granted as she scurried from her glasshouse, that little pot cradled in her hands. He’d ducked into the shadows as she’d reached the courtyard door. Cautious of being sighted, he turned to go, grappling with a yawning sense of loss.
Tempting Fate Page 3
