An Independent Miss (10 page)

“Why did you come to my rooms? It
wasn’t like you.”

“You think not?” She turned,
regarded his quizzical look.

“Despite what you say, your visit
was not to end our betrothal. You meant to save it from ending. Why did you
suppose it was at risk?”

“No,” she persisted. “I wanted to
end it.”

“Felicity, did you know, when you
avoid the truth you look to the left, as if the confessor is standing off
somewhere out there.”

“I don’t.”

He laughed. “You do, and I
shouldn’t have told you, for now you will fight to hide the evidence.”

She blushed.

“And when we are married and you
come in from the shops and I ask, ‘Did you purchase anything, my love,’ you
will look to the left, then to the right, then up and down before you say ‘No,
dearest.’”

Except she was not his love and he
was not her dearest. What a faradiddle, because this marriage, if it were to
take place, would not be based on love.

But if not love, then what?

He took her hands, which answered
one question … he was as affectionate as her family, for this was not the first
time she looked at their clasped hands. Confused, she pulled free.

“Please, Felicity, tell me.”

If he wanted to badger, she would
make it work for her.

“A truth for a truth,” she told
him.

He tilted his head to the side. “A
marvelous idea. Shall we sit?”

But just as they took seats
opposite each other, Bea and Lord Upton rushed into the study, with Bea calling
for Felicity.

“Oh!” They both stopped short.

“What are you doing?” Bea quizzed,
breathless, her wild hair flying free from its confines.

Lord Upton had Bea by the
shoulders, urging her out of the room. “Whatever it is, shall we let them get
on with it?”

Bea pulled free. “No.” She stood
firm, giving Felicity an excuse to leave with them, if she wanted to. “We have
pulled all the blinds in the breakfast room and are playing shades. Will you
come, Cis? You are the best at silhouettes.”

Andover rose when Bea entered the
room, standing beside Felicity’s chair. “We would love to, wouldn’t we
Felicity?”

Felicity started to respond but he
didn’t give her a chance. “As soon as we are finished with our discussion.”
Gently, he squeezed her shoulder.

“Is that what you want, Cis?” Bea
asked.

“Lady Beatrice.” Lord Upton urged
her from the room. Again, she shrugged him off.

Dear Beatrice to the rescue…only,
perhaps, she didn’t need it just yet. She simply couldn’t decide. As she
wrestled with the opportunity, Andover leaned close. “Coward.”

Felicity shot him a glance, but
addressed Bea. “He says I’m a coward if I don’t complete our conversation.”

Beatrice moved further into the
room. “Or very wise,” she countered, glaring at Andover.

Lord Upton rolled his eyes.
“Beatrice, they need to find their own way through this.”

“Do you, Cis? Do you want to find
your own way?”

“Yes, Bea, it’s all right. But,
Bea?”

“Yes?”

“Let the children come down from
the nursery. They love shades and will add a game of shadows to it.”

“How thoughtful, Cis. Just like
you.” Bea glared at Andover again. “Perhaps we should play up in the nursery.”

“What a novel idea.” Lord Upton
added, and had Bea out of there before Felicity could change her mind.

“Thank you for the vote of
confidence,” Andover said, as he took the chair angled toward hers.

“I really do enjoy silhouettes.”
She sighed and they both chuckled.

“We will join them, only later.”

He was right, she was being a
coward. In facing him she was facing her fears, her doubts. He wanted answers,
but so did she. There was a choice to be made that would change her very
existence.

“A truth for a truth.”

He nodded. “Ladies first.”

She drew back. “Ladies first? Even
into dangerous territory?”

“Giving you an opportunity to
decide just how indelicate you want your question to be.”

“Ladies first,” she murmured, as
she looked into the empty fireplace, gathering her thoughts.

“You never let on that you were courting
me. You did not give it much time. Why was that?”

He had leaned in toward Felicity
but when she asked her question, he drew back, surprised. “Was it not
apparent?”

“No.” And with that one word, she
realized that was exactly why she had worried. He did not strike her as an
impulsive man. Her brother, her family were terribly impulsive, she knew the
difference.

In light of recent events, it all
made horrible sense. He had not proposed for love or passion. He needed to
marry to meet newly-acquired obligations.

“Felicity, I was not about for the
last season, when you were presented,” he stated firmly. “I have attended a
number of seasons in the past and have met any number of prospective brides.
None drew my interest until I found you.”

“And you feel you know me, after
only a few weeks?”

“Yes. As I told you the other day,
I was on the lookout for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not fair. You are requesting
another truth before you have answered mine.”

“But you haven’t answered mine.”

“Yes, I have. You asked why I
proposed so quickly and I told you.”

“Not really. You haven’t explained
to me why you see me as different from other young ladies.”

Now he looked at the fireplace, as
he gathered his thoughts. She studied the tilt of his head, the line of his
cheek, his profile.

Upstairs they were drawing
silhouettes. She would like to do his, with cutaways, so one could see the
strong line of his jaw, the way his hair curled at his brow and again at his
collar. So caught up in her plans he startled her when he explained, “Do you
remember the first time we rode out to the Smiths’ cottage?”

“Yes.”

“And you were so good to their two
little ones.”

“They are very good children.”

“Not when Peter used the slingshot
against his sister.”

Felicity laughed. “Well, Peter is a
boy, after all.”

“You handled him beautifully. That
was the last piece of the puzzle for me. I couldn’t leave that cottage fast
enough to get to your father and ask for your hand.”

“Because of those children? You’d
barely arrived on that day.”

“Because of you with those
children. You never once fretted about your boots on the muddy path, sticky
hands tugging at your riding habit, or the young girl pulling your hair from
its pins. You enjoyed it all.”

What did one say to such a thing? A
truth, but nothing out of the ordinary.

“You love children, would put your
children before yourself. And you cared for that family. A family you could
ignore as easily as not.”

“That’s what mothers do. That’s
what landowners do.”

“Not all mothers, Felicity, and
certainly not all ladies of the manor.”

He was right. It was a disgrace how
some treated their tenants. One heard stories after all. As for children, she
wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the Smith family.

“You were good with them as well,
setting up a target that moves in the breeze. That was true brilliance and he’s
been practicing.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Yesterday. It seems you like
children, too.”

“Yes, I do. I rather hope we have a
dozen.”

“Oh, my,” she hesitated, “I should
have asked you about this before I said yes!” Again, they shared a laugh, a
merry sound. Felicity leaned back to catch her breath. How wonderful it would
be if he loved her, even a little.

“Have you said yes?” So soft, so
deep, not so much a question as a seductive invitation.

“Things have changed and there are
differences between us.” She couldn’t look at him. Let the silence lengthen
until he broke it.

“We can work through anything.”

Could they? Should she explain the
divide?

“My turn.” He reminded her.

“Yes.” She
whispered, not quite ready to have it all out, for once she had it all out,
there would be no turning back. He could walk away before she knew her own
mind.

And that was the
crux. Could she, would she, give up a lifetime of study? Any other young lady
would, she knew. Society was not set-up for a woman to have a career. Not in
their world.

He cleared his throat. “Well, time
for the big question. Why did you originally say yes to my proposal?”

Felicity blinked. That was not the
question she anticipated, nor one she wanted to answer. He proposed for fine
reasons, but none of them were for love.

“You were going to ask why I went
to your room.” It was the safer of the two questions.

“Will you be honest?”

“Those are the rules of this game.”

“Then why did you go to my rooms?”

She knew this was coming, shored up
her courage by thinking that a kiss was such a small thing. Surely he wouldn’t
think her an absolute hoyden for wanting one.

He watched her, waiting. “Why,
Felicity? Surely you were prepared to tell me once, you can do so again.”

She took a big breath, let the
words slip from her lips like wine from a tilted glass. “A kiss. I wanted you
to kiss me.”

CHAPTER 10 ~
SILHOUETTE KISS

“A kiss?”

“We are to marry, but you have yet
to kiss me. Other than my fingers, of course, when you proposed…”

He saw the blush rise on her cheeks
as quickly as remorse hit him. All of this could have been averted by a mere
kiss. He had never been stingy with them before, but then again, he had never
kissed a gently bred young lady.

Her blush deepened and he realized
she needed him to respond. To kiss her now would be crass, as if he hadn’t
thought of it until she asked. He had to give her more of a reason, a real
reason. This was, after all, a game of truth.

“Have you ever been kissed before,
Felicity? By any other man outside of your family? Family kisses don’t count.”

She shook her head, though she did
not lower it or try to hide her expression. She was reserved, not cripplingly
shy.

“Good. It is unfair of me to have
wanted that, but I did. And that was why I did not pursue you with seduction.
Or not entirely. The kiss to your fingers was a start.”

He edged his chair closer to hers.
“It was my intention to move slowly. Just in case there is a long wait between
the betrothal and the wedding night. I did not want to anticipate that event.”

“I don’t understand.”

He was nearer still, had managed it
with the slightest of movements.

“There comes a point, my love, with
kisses,” he explained, “when one doesn’t want to stop. Or, at least, I hope you
will feel that way. It seemed best to move very slowly over the course of
months before the wedding.”

“Are you saying you wanted to kiss
me too much?”

“Precisely.”

She put her fingers to her lips,
her eyes wide. “You are fond of me?” That balance between intelligence and na
ï
veté charmed him.

“Felicity, I would not have
proposed if I were not, at the very least, fond of you. Come with me,” he held
out his hand, not surprised by her hesitation.

She gripped the arms of the chair.
Just a touch and she relinquished her hold, took his hand as he helped her to
stand before him. “That’s my girl.”

“I am not a girl.”

The mulishness in her tone matched
the lift of her chin, countered by a refusal to look in his eyes.

“You are right, you know.” He
murmured, more to himself than to her. “I have been remiss in broadening our
relationship.” He tugged her closer.

Shallow and quick, her breasts
lifted with each thin inhalation and shimmied with each uneasy exhalation. As
he pulled her into his arms, he could feel the quick tattoo of her heart.

“Has anyone died from a kiss?”
Sweet innocence.

“I promise you will not die, my
little sparrow.” He understood the fear, felt the edge of a precipice, about to
fall himself, as his lips brushed her forehead, trailed down to the pounding
pulse at her temple.

Her knees buckled. He took
advantage, wrapped an arm around her waist, steadied her, pulled her flush
against his body with one arm as he lifted the other hand to tilt her chin.

“Do you understand now, how
all-consuming this sort of thing can be?”

Unfocused, she looked to him.

Slowly, so she could pull away if
she chose, though he did not think he would survive that, he pressed his lips
to hers. The tremble in those soft lips surged through him on a wave of heat.

He wanted her. Now. Here. Because
of a simple, innocent kiss, a tidal wave of sensation roared through him. He
pressed her tighter against him, lips settling more firmly against hers,
nudging the parting until she allowed him access.

And he was lost. Lost to her
innocence. Aware of his own. Having stepped straight into a desire he’d never
known. Passion, need, swirling through him, blinding him from reality. Life,
joy, enthusiasm rushing through him, breaking through the crust of mourning.

He was alive, wanted, needed. He
was alive. Every nerve in his body sang with a heady craving that could not be
sated standing, no matter how fiercely he held her to him. How eagerly she
clung to his neck.

Reality.

They were in her father’s study, a
place anyone could enter.

Stunned, shamed, he eased his hold,
lifted his head, unable to focus as he fought the raging throb of blood
pounding in his veins.

This woman, this young girl, barely
a woman, lowered her arms, her hands on his chest. He wanted to hold her still,
but she pushed away, a gentle but firm shove. On unsteady legs, she stepped
back, dipped her head.

“Do you see, Felicity, why I
thought it prudent to wait?” he rasped.

She put her fingers to her lips,
eyes wide even as tears filled them.

His mind raced to comprehend what
those brimming eyes could mean she whispered, “This is what you share with
others.” and turned away as though shamed.

“No!” Panicked, he tried to pull
her around, to assure her, but she refused, had shut him off.

“Please, don’t.”

Don’t what? Be swept away by a
kiss? Find, in the brush of lips, the one woman who could awaken him from the
dead.

“Felicity, it is not like that,
will not be like that.” He was too shaken to know what to do.

Felicity reached the door Rupert
had closed upon leaving, put her hand to the knob. “Please, Lord Andover.”
Formal, as though they hadn’t just shared the most profound of moments. “Don’t
make promises you cannot keep.”

“Felicity, wait.” He reached her as
she opened the door.

“They will be waiting for us, up in
the nursery.”

“Please, let us discuss this. It
was not my intention to offend your sensibility.”

“There is nothing to discuss. I
must marry you. I know that, but wish to God it weren’t true.”

She didn’t want to marry him
because of the kiss? They would marry even if they hadn’t felt anything for
each other, even if the attraction was dull, but they
had
felt something, damn it. The attraction was powerful.
Completely undid him and, he suspected, undid her as well. Why would she deny
it, fight it?

Andover sat in the corner of the
darkened nursery and watched as Felicity traced one silhouetted shadow after
another. The children used their fingers to form shadows of animals and objects
on the walls.

It was a high time for all. All but
him and, he suspected, Felicity. His betrothed, and he refused to think of her
in any other fashion, would not show disquiet, or any feeling, for that matter.
As Rupert had said, still waters. They do run deep indeed.

So what put her off? Not the kiss.
He’d be damned before he believed that. She was as much a part of it as him,
delightfully so, until she pulled away. Shaken by the physicality of their
attachment, as was he, but not repulsed.

The revelation was in her
avoidance. She could not look in his eyes. In the past weeks she had drawn him
out with mere glances, from across a room, or when their companions said
something outrageous. There would be that look of laughter or amusement or
astonishment. Any number of shared reactions to a situation, they would look to
each other and share that moment as a private understanding.

Today she refused eye contact. Even
in the past few days, through this whole sordid mess, she had never avoided
looking at him. Being near him, yes, but she was not shy of talking to him,
joining in conversation when he was present.

This afternoon she was.

Rupert left Bea and headed toward
Andover’s private little dark corner. This was serious, as Rupert never strayed
too far from Bea’s orbit. No doubt Lady Bea refused to have anything to do with
Andover.

Rupert stood over him, which was an
easy thing, as Andover was in one of the children’s small chairs. “After seeing
you in the library, I would have thought we didn’t need my sister’s help after
all, but now here you are sulking. What happened?”

“I kissed her.” Was all Andover was
willing to offer.

“Does that mean your reputation as
a lothario is ill-matched?”

“Stop,” Andover snapped. “And sit
down, Rupert. You’re giving my neck a strain.”

Rupert eyed the chair with caution
as he lowered himself onto the small seat. “What went wrong with the kiss?” he
whispered.

“It was a bloody damned good kiss,”
Andover whispered back, completely out of sorts because it wasn’t the kiss that
had gone wrong. That had, in fact, gone as right as a kiss could.

“I don’t know about that, Andover.
You kiss her and she closes up. Doesn’t sound like your wiles worked.”

Andover shot him a glance. “You
noticed how she is changed? She isn’t that easy to read.”

“Bea noticed. If looks could kill,
my dear friend, you would be pushing up daisies right now.”

“Blast it, it’s that vixen,
Vivien.”

“Watch the language, Andover, we
are in the nursery after all.”

Andover rose. “And I’m not fit
company for children right now.”

“Or any one,” Rupert confirmed.

He got as far as the door, needing
air, space, a place to organize his courtship, because that was what he had to
do. He had to court Felicity again.

He turned to see her. From this
angle she was silhouetted, a beautiful silhouette, and he realized he didn’t
have anything of her, not a miniature, no profile, no lock of hair. He could
use such a thing, to have her close in some way, when she was so distant in
others.

At the dinner gathering that night,
silhouettes were passed around for all to admire. Even the children were
allowed in the salon full of excitement, proudly displaying their own
likenesses. Each and every one was exquisite, for Felicity had done more than
copy silhouettes for the others to cut out. She had taken a small knife and
scored out sections to show strands of hair, the outline of a ribbon or cravat.
True representations of the sitters.

All but Felicity’s. Hers was a good
representation, but without the cutouts. Like a callow youth, he coveted that
silhouette, though Bea now owned it. He didn’t try to get it from her, for he
knew she would not part with it. Especially to him.

Lady Westhaven stood alone watching
the excitement as everyone huddled over the portraits. Andover took advantage
of the rare opportunity and approached her.

“Andover.” She greeted him.

“I don’t suppose there are any
other silhouettes of Felicity.”

Keen-eyed, she studied him before
answering. “Actually, I have one on my dresser.”

“Do you?” He looked to the group,
now dispersing, seeking to calm his racing anticipation. “I would offer the
earth for that silhouette,” he said, before turning to watch as she took her
time in responding.

“I would rather exact a promise
from you,” she finally said.

“What would that be?”

“That you be good to my daughter.”

His turn to study her, a shrewd
woman.

“I know,” she went on, adjusting
the fan in her hand, “that my husband has talked with you at length about our
responsibilities and yours to Felicity. But you men tend to talk in financial
terms. I do not.”

“I see.”

“Yes, I am sure you do. And from my
view, you have not shown much promise.”

“My aim, Lady Westhaven, equals
yours. Unfortunately and understandably, your daughter is set on refusing me.”

“She has no choice in the matter.”

“That will work to my benefit, if I
am to keep my pledge.”

“Then you promise. No matter what
you learn of each other, you will be good to her, support her in all that she
is and wants to be?”

“Is there something I need to
know?”

“No.” Her chin lifted, the same as
Felicity’s when she took a stand. “No, I do not think there is. You are
acquainted with her nature, her caring for others.”

“Precisely why I proposed.”

“That is all you need to know.” She
told him, and looked to the fan she held.

“Then it is an easy promise to
make, as that was my intention all along.”

“Good.” She tapped his arm, sealing
the bargain. “I will see that you have the silhouette before the end of the
night.”

He placed it in the left inside
pocket of his jacket, a memory of her bright calming light near at hand, as he
must leave in the morning for the dark melancholy of his home, Montfort Abbey.

****

Bea slept in Felicity’s room.
Perhaps Felicity’s parents feared she would go visiting again, or perhaps they
understood, with so much on her mind, she needed someone to talk to.

“What happened, Cis, when you spoke
with Andover in the library? Something went terribly wrong.”

“Not really.” Felicity focused on
getting the tangles out of her hair. She didn’t dare tell Bea what happened. Too
open to keep anything inside, Bea wouldn’t be able to keep it to herself. She
would tell her mother, who would tell Felicity’s mother, or worse, she would
tell Lord Upton.

It was obvious now, her mother had
been right. There was definitely something going on between Bea and Lord Upton.

“Cis, I know you.”

“Yes, and you know how I like to
mull over something, again and again, before I share.”

Bea sat cross-legged on the bed,
her nightgown puffed around her so she looked like a white teardrop. In a
posture normally foreign to her, Bea’s head bent, as she worried a piece of the
counterpane.

“Something is troubling you,”
Felicity realized out loud.

Bea shook her head. “Nothing next
to what you are dealing with.”

“I would be glad of a diversion.”

“It isn’t really a diversion.” Bea
looked up with mournful eyes.

“If it isn’t about me, then it is a
welcome change.”

“But it is, you see. It does
involve you.”

Carefully, Felicity laid her brush
down and crossed to the bed so they could braid each other’s hair. Bea started
on Felicity’s.

“You are going to tell me, you
know. Might as well get it out quickly.”