An Independent Miss (17 page)

“Do you remember when we spoke in
the carriage? You claimed Felicity might be better off not marrying me?”

Lady Andover studied the mesh of
her shawl, where the ends lay draped in her lap. “Yes, I do, Andover. It all
depends on you. How do you feel about Lady Felicity? Why, of all the girls, did
you choose her?”

He passed her drink over, lifted
his own to gain time, thought better of it. No avoiding her question. He had
been asking himself the same question.

“She is calm, practical, like you.”
Like you used to be.

“I will take that as a compliment.”

“And, as you suggested, had stars
in her eyes. But she did not pursue me, nor did she push herself forward or,
truly, take any notice of me, other than in friendship, until I pursued her. I
put those stars there, Mother. I drew her to me.”

“You are taking responsibility for
her expectations?”

“I suppose I am. It’s a heady
business when a woman slowly warms to you. Far more enticing than those ladies
who try to draw me to them.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

She smiled and shook her head.
“What I see, Andover, is that you are quite taken with Lady Felicity. You must
be, if you worked so hard to win her.”

“I wouldn’t say it was work, Mama.”
More like being under a tree when a perfect fruit, sweet and ripe, falls from
the branch and into your hand.

The
depths of her
. Was there a worm in its core?

“Good.” His mother’s hand trembled,
as she put her glass on the table. “I am not the only one who misses your
father’s advice. He would have words for you, man-to-man chats.”

“I can imagine.”

She smiled, eyes bright. “Yes, I
suppose you can.”

“What do you think he would say,
Mama?”

“He would speak to both of us of
responsibility.”

And
he had a responsibility to marry Felicity.

He caught his sigh, as tears welled
in his mother’s eyes. He sat beside her, taking her cold hands into his,
surprised the cold, so common of late, had eased to cool. She was getting
better. She smelled better as well, of lavender, of a better past.

“I miss Father as well,” he
murmured, afraid of a spiral of remorse she could ill afford. “You tell me,” he
asked, hoping to distract her. “What would he say, if he were here?”

She wiped her eyes, took a deep
breath. “Of course.” She sat up straighter. “That is why I came down, to tell
you what he would say.” A wistful, distant smile pulled her away. “He came to
me in a dream, told me…” She drifted off, into that other world of hers.

“Mother, you were speaking of
Father.”

“Oh, yes.” Her head snapped up.
“Your father. Yes. He says it is of the utmost importance you appreciate and
hold to your responsibility.”

He
would
say, Andover corrected. He did not say, for he was not with
them.

“As you well know, he does not
condone scoundrels. Claims the difference between a decent man, such as
yourself, and a scoundrel, is that a scoundrel does not understand, or care to
understand, that once a woman is won, there is the added measure of keeping
her.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve changed my mind from what I
said in the carriage. You won the lady’s affections. Don’t take that for
granted and do not let her fall from that place you have put her.”

“It is a little late for that
sentiment, Mother. She has fallen. Those stars are no longer there.”

Changing from wistful to rueful,
his mother’s smile weighed on his heart. “Don’t you see? This is better. When
she marries you now, it will not be with dreamy expectations, but with that
practical nature of hers that you so admire.”

Without thought, he admitted, “I do
not want to be married for practical reasons.” At least from her part.

“Then strive to put the sparkle
back in her eyes.”

“How am I to do that?” For do it,
he would. He could not love, but he would welcome being loved.

“I am certain, once you have her
truly wed, you will find a way.”

CHAPTER 18 ~
MISGUIDED WORDS

Felicity stopped, adjusted a flower
display, reluctant to meet Andover in the salon, but knowing she must. Humphrey
told her a gentleman waited. She did not relish the confrontation.

Andover had looked right at her in
the park. That did not mean he
saw
her. He might have looked beyond her, not recognized her. Possible, except she
saw the shock of recognition on his face.

She would have to lie.

She hated the lies.

Nerves held close, she stepped into
the room and realized, once again, when told a gentleman waited, she should ask
which gentleman.

“Robbie.”

Jack’s brother stopped pacing,
bowed, all crumpled clothing and wary eyes. He swiped his unruly hair back off
his forehead as she approached. “Has something happened to your brother?”

“No.” He stepped forward, to meet
her halfway. “No, at least, no more than you requested.” He looked away, jaw
clenched, turned back, eyes angry, fierce. “You are going out?”

Confused by his anger, she glanced
down at her best dress, the one her mother insisted she wear, wondered why he
would take offense. “No. I’m expecting company, but none as important as you,”
she soothed, as his wariness transformed into a deep, worried furrow.

“I did not mean to intrude.” He
bowed, as though to leave, his anger palpable.

“You are no intrusion. So tell me,
you have come for something important. I know that.” She touched his arm,
hesitant. “You would not leave Jack otherwise.”

“I have no right,” he said, “my
family will never be able to repay your kindness, your attention to him. The
nurses speak of all you do, not just with your…your medicines, but your search
to find ladies to write letters, to read. They don’t know, but I do, the risk
you take in going there. The risk of ruin.”

“Oh, Robbie, that’s the least of my
worries.”

He pressed his lips, as though
fighting what he wanted to say. He looked away, his skin dulled by sitting
indoors, heavy, puffy circles under red-rimmed eyes. A bit crazed by the pain
and suffering he endured to be with his brother so many hours of each day.

“Shall we sit?”

“Yes.” He nodded, then shook his
head. “No, not yet, I…” He gripped her hands so tightly she was hard-pressed
not to pull free, but didn’t dare. “Please forgive me, but after you have done
more than anyone could ask, I am here to request another favor of you…only…”
His words flew out in a rush. “I’m thinking it may be a favor for you, as well.
I think we can help each other.”

“Of course.” She raised their
clasped hands, the desperation in his eyes gleamed. “If it is in my power, I
will do anything you ask.”

“Yes, it is…it is unforgivable of
me to appeal to you, but…”

“Perhaps, then,” Andover said from
the doorway. “You should not ask it.”

Robbie jumped back.

“My lord.” Desperate to ease
Robbie’s agitation, she glared at Andover. “If I may introduce Robbie Marshall,
neighbor and friend from Homslee Hall. I believe you met his parents, on a
visit with my father. Robbie, this is Lord Andover.”

Robbie glared at him as well, his
jaw working, his breathing in short pants, as though he’d been in a fight or
was ready to start one. “Is this the man who ruined you, Lady Felicity?”

“Robbie! No!” she countered.
“Andover did no such thing.”

“I am her betrothed.” The man in
question stepped into the room, long and lithe while Robbie reeked of the
hospital, his clothes rumpled from sleeping in a chair. “And have no intention
of seeing her character besmirched.” Andover slapped his gloves against his
open palm. “I believe I interrupted a request. Something that would aid both of
you?”

Robbie stood rigid, color rising,
reddening cheeks grey from days in a convalescent ward. He turned on Felicity,
accusing her, challenging Andover’s word, or both. “You never once said you
were to be married.”

No, she hadn’t, because she was not
at all sure it would come to that. “I haven’t told anyone, Robbie,” she
explained. “No one knows. It hasn’t been…” she daren’t look at Andover,
“…completely decided.”

Andover raised his eyebrows, lips
tight, his own challenge ready. “I rather thought we were in agreement.”

Lady Westhaven swept into the room,
saving Felicity from responding.

“My goodness, Robbie! And Lord
Andover! Has Felicity failed to offer you refreshments?” She went to the bell
pull and gave it a tug. “Robbie, do tell us, how is your brother? We have been
so worried about him.” She moved as she chatted, indicated for everyone to take
a seat while they waited for Humphrey, who cleared his throat to let her mother
know he was standing in the doorway.

“I won’t be staying, Lady
Westhaven,” Robbie told her. “I just came to speak with Lady Felicity about my
brother.”

“We are so sorry to hear he is
doing poorly.”

“Thank you, Lady Westhaven. I will
let him know you are thinking of him. And now, if you will excuse me, I will
return to his side.”

“Of course, Robbie.” Lady Westhaven
braved Andover’s scowl and signaled for Felicity to take Robbie to the door.

As they walked into the hall, she
asked, “What is it you want, Robbie?”

He shook his head. “Not now.”

“Please…” She stopped him, but
Humphrey came out from the back hall. Robbie shook his head, took his leave.

She returned to the salon to find
her mother and Andover seated across a small table. Her mother was complaining
to Lord Andover. “We have no idea what happened to the announcement, or why it
hasn’t been published.”

Andover stood with Felicity’s
arrival, raised his eyebrows as he looked to her.

“Please, sit,” she offered as she
took her own place, but as she sat her mother stood, forcing Andover to remain
as he was.

“You have yours, Cissy,” Lady
Westhaven said.

“My what, Mama?”

“Your shawl. Lord Andover says it
is a bit chilly. I will go fetch mine. As you have yours, perhaps you and the
marquis would like to stroll in the garden?”

Andover bowed, and Felicity took
his arm, as they crossed to the French doors leading to a terrace. They stood
for a moment, the fresh night air before them like a cleansing breeze, washing
away potential argument.

She felt Andover’s tension ease as
they stepped over onto the stone of the terrace and into the quiet evening.

“You are close to this Robbie?” he
asked.

Felicity sighed as they stepped
down the stairs to the path. “He is like a brother.”

“Odd. I’ve never noticed Thomas
leaping away when caught speaking with you.”

Felicity stopped them on the
pebbled path, the cool damp air with its musty scent, more reminiscent of
autumn than spring. “What are you asking? For there was a question in your
words.”

“He wasn’t feeling brotherly,
Felicity.”

“Of course he was!” she argued.
“He’s just in a tumult with his brother dying. It’s awful,” she said, nearly
revealing an awareness of Jack’s convalescing that could only be known had she
been there. No one must know of that. “He feels guilty.”

“Guilty? Why should he feel
guilty?” He guided her toward the center of the garden.

“Because Robbie always wanted to be
a soldier. It was his dream, while Jack loved the land.”

“So why didn’t he buy a
commission?”

“Jack is the younger of the two,
and would not inherit. Their father forbade Robbie a commission, wanted him to
learn more about the land. Something that never would have happened with Jack
jumping in to take care of matters, and so…”

“Robbie was sent to battle.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t tell me Robbie would
rather have been wounded?”

She let that sit between them
before whispering, “Don’t you feel that way sometimes? That you would have
traded places with your brother, your father?”

Again, she could feel the tension
in his arm, but he did not shy from honesty. “Touché.”

Felicity hugged his arm to her. A
quick, simple gesture, drawing in the scent of him as she did. “You know that
feeling, that guilt, is a natural part of mourning. I don’t know why we must
cross that bridge, and yet so many do. Cross it, that is, not stand on it and
think of jumping.”

She sighed, reluctantly eased the
close hold. “In this case, I think Robbie believed he would have survived,
because he would have been good at it. He’s ashamed he didn’t fight harder to
be the one to go.”

His scowl softened, as he urged her
forward. “You’ve a soft heart, and I don’t doubt there’s a grain of truth in
what you say, Lady Felicity, but trust me, as a man, that particular guilt is
not what made him jump away from you. That was something else.”

They stepped away from the lights
of the salon, though still within sight of the doors, heading toward the
fountain at the center of the garden. “Why would he feel guilty with me? What
reason would he have?”

“Something to do with his request,
perhaps.”

“I can’t think of anything he would
ask that would not be appropriate.”

“Something to help you, as well as
him. What could that be?”

“No, you are wrong there.” She
stopped that train of thought. “He was not asking for himself, but something
for Jack and poor Jack, I’m afraid, is on the threshold of death.”

“Is he the reason you were climbing
trees?”

There it was, the question she’d
known would be asked. She sat on the high sill of the fountain, head bowed, as
she fought for any one of the explanations she’d dreamed up. But none fit with
so apt a confrontation unless she lied. Boldly.

“Yes, in a manner of speaking.”

“Which was why your maid fetched
ribbons for you? Which is, so I am told, a most important task.”

Wearily, she looked up. “Lady Jane,
I presume.” He nodded, proving Lady Jane had not lied. They were close enough
for her to tell him such things within hours of them happening.

Felicity wondered why he chose her
to be his bride, if he were so close to that other woman, but she would not ask
him. Instead, she fingered a blossom that would never open. “All this cold
rain. Is not a fit environment for blooms.” A miserable spring, cold and overly
damp, mirroring her spirits. Still, there was no running from it any more. “Or
for any of the plants I gather.”

“Is that what you were doing?
Foraging in the city?” He held her back, his horror apparent.

She rose. “Yes and no. I did not
set out to gather anything, but saw something…”

“So you climbed a tree, in broad
daylight, where anyone would see you? Is that how you want to spend your life?
Like a gypsy in town, as well as in the country?”

“Not as a gypsy, or if it is, then
good for them, because I do good things. I help people.”

“And that dead woman at Ashley
Park?” He loomed over her, had crossed the space to stand over her, tall and
strong and forbidding, with a gravity she couldn’t bear. She did not back away.

“There was an inquest…” He did not
let her finish, slashing the air with his hand.

“There could be a thousand
inquests, it makes no difference. You put together a concoction that killed a
woman. These plants…” His hand swept out, encompassing all plants everywhere,
“…are dangerous. Do you hear me? Dangerous!”

“Not if used properly.” Her voice
shook, but she kept it low, calm.

It worked. He ran his hands through
his hair, shook his head. “I cannot abide such a thing. Not in my household, on
my lands.” He looked away, as though she were a painful sight.

“Then we will not suit,” she told
him, crumbling inside, though she had been fearing this truth for days. Her
hands trembled as she smoothed her skirts.

Finally, he looked straight at her,
nostrils flared, eyes wild with his thoughts. “We will, in some ways.” It
sounded a threat. “Though not in all,” and reached for her, that mesmerizing
force of his, like his voice, keeping her there when she knew she should flee.

“We won’t,” she cleared her throat.
“We don’t suit in the most basic ways.”

He laughed, dark and cynical. Not a
merry sound at all. “Oh, but that is where you are wrong.” He cupped her head.
“We do suit in the most basic and fundamental of ways. The rest…” His face
lowered toward hers, “…we will have to fight our way through. But in this,
Felicity, we are one.”

His kiss, deep and powerful, swept
resistance away, as her senses dissolved. She’d been warned against this path
to happiness. Kisses, caresses and loving words easily said, short lived and fickle.
To open herself to this longing, to hope for love in desire. Like fire, too
close, you burn.

And she did burn with the carnal
pleasure of the press of bodies, his to hers. She felt his heart beating a far
different tattoo from the day he proposed. Now it near pumped from his skin,
against her breast, making her ache in ways she never knew she could even feel.

The searing torture of his hands
stroking the length of her back, to cup her buttocks, lift her harder, firmer,
against him.

“Oh,” she whimpered when he
abandoned her lips to trail kisses along her jaw, her neck, his hands framing
the soft swell of her bosom. Bliss, torture. He eased her to her feet, smoothed
the side of her torso, loosening his hold.

“Your mother is on the terrace,” he
murmured, as he stepped back.

Stunned, Felicity tilted her head,
watching her mother hesitate and turn to go back into the salon.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered,
beyond proper speech.

“I don’t think the good Lord is
involved just yet.” His voice was grave and deep.

He chuckled. This was no laughing
matter. Her senses were pouring in, their fingers wagging at her, reprimanding
all the chaos that kiss produced. She shoved him away.