An Independent Miss (23 page)

Felicity blinked, confused by her
own dozing. “Oh, Lady Andover! I didn’t mean to sleep.”

“Nonsense, child. You look all done
in,” his mother soothed.

She didn’t deserve soothing, not
when she risked compounding his mother’s muddled brain with her duplicity.

Andover would have none of that.

“You’re quite right, Mama.”

Felicity scrambled to her feet, so
obviously unaware he’d been there, in plain sight. No doubt she imagined coming
and going without his knowledge, as she must have done in the past, his
servants complicit in those trespasses.

He dared not look directly at her,
but that did not mean he missed a thing. He was here and she would deal with
the consequences. They all would, even his mother with her hard-earned
normalcy. A small matter, perhaps, next to what Felicity endured this past night,
but that didn’t lessen his mother’s hard-won efforts.

Once again, Felicity forced his
hand with impetuous actions. No turning back with her coming here, any more
than when she’d gone to his room at Ansley Park.

Worse, he doubted he’d change the
result. Damn him for that weakness. She would never truly be his, yet he reeked
of caring for her, wanting her, regardless of common sense.

Felicity was not a practical bride
choice.

“She is all done,” he continued,
looking at his betrothed for the first time, though he’d been aware of her
movements from the moment she woke.

He’d have been better to cling to
his anger, not to look, not to see the deep shadows under eyes, lined with red.
She watched, wary, and he knew she would defend herself even as she expected
total censure. She’d not shrink back despite the tremble of her lips, or hands
gripped so tight he feared she staved off circulation.

All from a young lady who could
face the worst of illness.

He’d reduced her to this. His heart
shifted, emotion welling past fierce opposition. He did not want this
unrequited love, had every right to be furious.

He looked at her, pictured her
stoic calm, as tormented screams clawed away peace. Sounds not easily loosed
from a mind. Fodder for nightmares no woman, no man, should bear.

And she bore it with fortitude,
even knowing what she did would be of no avail. No cure for the men who
suffered so.

Yet still she fought.

The measure of her character. Her
loyalty. Her steadfastness.

Calm and soothing in the midst of
hell. Wasn’t that why he proposed?

“Your Mrs. Comfrey,” he explained
to his mother, “spent the night attending desperately ill soldiers.” He
shifted, met his mother’s clear gaze, risked sending her back into her fog, as
surely as Felicity’s complicity threatened her. “Gruesome sickness fierce as
the ones we faced.” He swallowed, looked to the ceiling, memories far too vivid
haunting him even when awake.

He pinched his nose, turned. Dawn’s
chorus, a sweet cacophony of bird song, flowed through the open window. Beyond
the promise of a new day. Promise. He sighed, knowing she forced his hand, even
if unwittingly. “You would have been proud, Mother. She did not waiver, or
leave, which is why she did not attend you when you expected, for I assume, you
did expect her last night.”

He looked back at his mother,
watchful for distress. Not happy memories, but honest memories that must be
acknowledged. If she could not do this now, when better, she might not ever be
truly well.

Sorrow lined her face, but not
agitation. She smiled at him, a soft sharing of their history. “The pain will
always be there—” tears filled her eyes, “—but so will life and
laughter and love. They would not want us to live, forever, in the grief.”

“You are much better, Mama.” But
she didn’t look at him, she looked at Felicity, the two women sharing an
understanding.

“My lord,” Felicity said, only to
be cut off by his mother, stunning them both by saying, “Do sit down,
Lady Felicity
,” as she patted the
bedside. “Don’t let Andover’s fierce expression alarm you. You will get used to
it in time.”

“Lady Felicity?” The lady in
question squeaked and sank back down on the chair, her hands stretched across
the counterpane, touching his mother’s hands.

Like mother and daughter.

Andover couldn’t move. An imp of a devil
danced in his mother’s eyes. Felicity fixed her gaze on the
tap, tap, tap
of his crop against the
side of his leg. He spun away, heart beating a rapid tattoo as he catalogued
changes.

From sallow and mottled, his
mother’s cheeks hinted at pink, her smile known to brighten hearts, returned.

Because of Felicity?

Good lord, behavior beyond the pale
should not deserve applause.

She worked a miracle.

By acting against all he believed.
Ignoring all that made him comfortable. She trespassed Montfort Abbey! For that
was precisely where his mother first mentioned Mrs. Comfrey.

Servants would have played a role,
against his strict orders.

She undermined him in his own home
before she was even introduced to it.

She would never give him peace. All
he wanted was a quiet, serene life. Peace, for God’s sake, understandable
routine, like going for a morning ride without being stunned into a scene such
as this. Peace.

“What did you say, dear?” his
mother asked.

He spun back. “Peace,” he near
shouted. “That’s what I sought in a wife, peace and calm and stability. Someone
to soothe you.

“Instead I chose the only lady in
the whole of London who would sneak into the home of her betrothed, in the
middle of the night, to attend his mother. Who would dress as a servant and climb
trees into gardens locked against her. Who would treat a man with maggots!
Maggots!” He shuddered. “And what has become of me?” He paced now. “I have
become a man who wouldn’t choose any other lady, if I had that choice, which I
don’t, because she stole it from me.”

He stopped, staring at the floor,
seeing all the wild events that led to this moment.

“You made me care!” he railed at
her, confusion roiling over him. “I don’t want to care about you!” He stormed
about the room, ignoring Felicity sinking back into her seat. “I can’t afford
to care, but here you are, making me feel again, putting a…” he gestured toward
his mother, “…a sparkle in my mother’s eye! And you are an herbalist! You treat
people with potions, and yet I would have no other, even if given the choice.”

“Which you have not been given,”
his mother finished for him. “Though you had been given that choice before you
asked for her hand.”

So sensible. When only a month
before, his mother lived far, far away, in a very different world.

Good lord, he was going to cry. He
looked away, toward the window, over the tops of trees, to a horizon not long
touched by the sun.

“Andover,” Felicity started to say,
but he spun back, lifted his hand. “Let us not go there just yet,” he said.
“For I would like to know how Mama knew who you really were.” He sent a baleful
look at his elfin mother, calmed by direction, focus.

She sat back in her bed, beaming.
“You were to be married. It was my place to learn of your bride-to-be’s
character.”

“Did you really?” Felicity asked,
with a hint of admiration.

“Well, of course I did! Just as
your father would have looked into Andover’s affairs, it was my responsibility
to look into what sort of woman my son wanted to marry.” Affection for
Felicity, so obvious in her easy comfort, the reach to cover her hand before
turning back, the same warmth in her eyes, to pat the other side of her bed.
“Come, son, stop playing at that fool Byron and sit down.”

“Byron?” He snorted. “The second
time someone compared us. Awful, the man has no self-discipline.”

“Which is why he leans toward his
own drama.”

“Enough of that.” Andover sat. “How
did you do it?” he asked, as he followed her orders. “How did you look into
Felicity’s character when you haven’t been taking visitors?”

“There have been a few visitors,”
she admitted. “Besides Mrs. Comfrey. But, then, that is not where the best
information comes from.”

There was a scratch at the door and
a maid entered, bearing the tray of coffee and hot chocolate.

Felicity jumped up, still in the
gown she’d worn to the ball, heavy straight tendrils of hair falling loose from
the stylish arrangement her abigail would have worked hard at creating.

Difficult
hair
, Lady Jane had jeered. Not difficult by a man’s standards, quite the
opposite. Thick and luscious, with a will of its own. He couldn’t quite take
his eyes off it, off her, as she set the bed tray over his mother’s lap. A
daughterly gesture. Their mutual fondness shutting him out.

Exactly why he wanted a wife. He
scowled

“Servants.” Lady Andover startled
him.

“What about servants?” Andover
asked.

“Lord Westhaven would have asked
financial men about your state of affairs, but a woman, well, she runs the
household, so you must find out what the servants think of her.”

“And some of ours are connected to
some of yours, aren’t they?” Felicity leaned back, smiling.

“Yes, though that wouldn’t matter.
News travels faster down that grapevine than ours, I can assure you.”

“And what did you find out?”
Andover asked, watching Felicity who would not meet his eyes.

“The servants adore Lady Felicity,
and so they should. Not a one suffers any malady. She tends to them all. Though
she is known to be…how should I phrase this…”

“Outrageous, outlandish, a true
hoyden?” Andover offered, receiving a slap of his hand for his efforts.

“He’s right, you know,” Felicity
defended him. “I’ll never be a paragon.”

“Pshaw!” Lady Andover exclaimed.
“Overrated virtues! It’s not society you have to be true to, it’s each other.
Can you do that?”

“I’d forgotten how dictatorial you
could be,” he complained, rewarded with his mother’s laugh.

“You boys could be stubborn beyond
reason,” she informed him, referring to his brother without losing her smile.

“I was always the worst,” Andover
admitted, looking to Felicity.

“Yes,” his mother agreed. “You like
things a certain way.”

“He’s not getting his way in this,”
Felicity acknowledged. “Everything’s wrong, not at all what he sought.”

Lady Andover settled back against her
pillows. “Perhaps we receive what we need, not what we think we need.”

Too true, but with all his
complaints, all his stubborn stands, he might need a lifetime to convince her.
Sifted words to find a way to start, but the crunch of a carriage slowing down
outside, drew him to the window.

“Your parents are here, and…” he
looked back at Felicity, “…if I’m not mistaken, your abigail.

He loved the way she stood,
unconsciously at ease in herself, not fretting at the loose strands of hair,
the wrinkles in her gown.

“Such a fuss,” she teased his
mother, “just to fetch me home.” And laughed. Only it didn’t last when his mama
shook her head. She looked to him then, and he, too, shook his head.

“This is your home now, Felicity.”
He allowed the thrill of it to course through him before he continued. “The
vicar will be waiting.”

“Oh, no…” She backed up, her legs
hitting the chair seat, forcing her to sit. “This is what you meant by my
forcing your hand.”

“Yes, I’ve told you that and I will
be grumpy about it, no doubt. I don’t like someone making decisions for me.”

She rose again, stepped around the
seat. “Then I shan’t do it. I have to be willing.”

“I said I would be grumpy. Correct
me if I’m wrong, but I did not say I would be sorry.” He didn’t move around the
bed, afraid if he got close enough to hold her, he would.

Not that his mother would mind. So
near to her old self, she would crow with delight. Only, there was no time. Not
if she was to be dressed in her morning wedding finest.

“The special license allows us to
be married in the evening.” He sulked. “But now we will be a plain old conventional
couple, getting married in the morning.” His exaggerated sigh covered a smile.

They would be married this morning,
his mother improved with each day, there would be life in his home once more.
“My life will never be the same.” He shook his head woefully.

“I should hope not!” His mother
swatted his arm. “And out of here, both of you, I’ve packing to do!”

CHAPTER 2
3 ~ WHAT OF LADY COMFREY?

They married in the Earl of
Andover’s chapel. All parents present, Lord Upton, Bea, and her parents, as well
as the Marshalls.

In the wee hours, Lady Westhaven
arrived with Felicity’s wedding dress and part of the trousseau. “Thank
goodness one of the seamstresses is the same size as you.” Lady Westhaven
explained. “She’s been standing in while you’ve been off gallivanting about,
missing appointments.”

“Oh, where is Felicity?” Bea
beamed, rushing into the vestibule on Upton’s arm, her parents following more
sedately. “This is so exciting!”

Andover stood quietly at the altar
as his mother pinned a rosebud on the lapel of his coat.

“I like your Lady Comfrey,” she
whispered.

“No need to whisper, Mother. I’ve
always told you there is no such woman as Mrs. Comfrey.”

“There is. I’ve seen the name on
the labels of the bottles.”

“There isn’t anymore.” He rocked
back on his heels. “She is about to become Lady Andover.”

“You will not stop her from being
who she is.”

He stopped rocking. “No, Mother. I
don’t think that would be possible, or fair.”

“I never should have let you spend
so much time with my mother, but I was so lost when your little brother
passed.”

“Grand mama had her ways.”

“She was a bitter woman. Hard. I
should have kept her away from you.”

“She wanted to protect me.”

Lady Andover huffed. “She wanted
you tied to her.”

“No harm was done.”

“It almost was.” She wrung her
hands, still easily agitated. “Imagine, poor Lady Felicity having to pretend
she was Lady Comfrey.”

He looked down at his mother. “How
long before you figured it out?”

She smiled. “That book, on the
table when we went around to visit. And, as I told you, servants’ gossip. They
believe we will have the best herbalist in all of England living in our home.”
She patted his arm. “Rather gives an old woman a new lease on life.”

Fear slayed happiness. “What do you
mean by that?”

She cupped his cheek, her warmth
warming him. “The way you described Lady Felicity in your letters, I thought
you had found the sort of bride to tolerate a mother-in-law, no more. A horrid
existence, even living in the dowager house. I imagined no access to my
grandchildren. The medication, I suppose, painting vivid pictures. Mrs.
Comfrey—” startled, she laughed, “—your Mrs. Comfrey had a long
talk with me when I cried over my fears. It seems she knew what she spoke
about.” Lady Andover tutted. “Imagine me complaining to her about such things.
How she drew that out of me, I haven’t the foggiest, but she knew, she
suspected the temptation of oblivion.”

“You wouldn’t, Mother.”

Seriously, she patted his hand.
“Oblivion with the tonic, living in that awful stupor. I doubt your bride would
allow any backsliding there.”

“Don’t frighten me like that,
Mother.”

“No,” she promised, as she had
promised Mrs. Comfrey, never to do anything drastic without, at the least,
admitting to the idea. “I have made my vows to your young lady. Besides, I have
no doubt your children will intrigue. Bound to with parents like you. I do not
want to miss that.”

“Lady Andover,” Upton joined them.
“You look well.”

“Yes, Lord Upton, just in time for
this festive occasion.”

Bea ran in from the vestry. “Take
your place, Lord Andover! Cis…I mean, Lady Felicity…is coming out!”

Despite the hurried
pulling-together of the event, it proved memorable and beautiful. The vicar,
Andover’s friend, and his wife were gracious, considering they, too, had been
roused in the darkest hours of the morning. Upton and Bea stood as witnesses.

Awed, the gathered guests watched a
dim day turn to a mosaic of colors as the sun came out, strained through a
window telling a story of redemption in colored glass. A story of blessing,
with a ten-foot-tall angel. In increments, the light shifted until, at the
moment of ‘I dos,’ beams of richly hued illumination haloed the couple. Dust
motes, like little faeries, dancing in its stream.

Everyone cried, tears of happiness
and relief.

Andover nearly dropped the ring he
had been fiddling with in the carriage. “It was your grandmother’s,” he
whispered, as he prepared to put it on her finger. “Your mother gave it to me
when I arrived in London. She said it would mean much to you, that you were
close.”

Felicity nodded, unable to speak as
he repeated the vicar’s words, “I take thee, Felicity…

Her grandmother’s ring. A
gentlewoman with a backbone of steel. It was fortuitous that something of hers
would be with Felicity in her marriage.

They arrived at Andover’s town home
without fanfare. His butler was there to let them in, but no other servants
were about.

Married. Husband. New terms in
life.

He led her up two levels of the
grand staircase, before turning away from the path she knew, toward a double
set of doors that opened to a sitting room. In the center stood an intimate
table set for two. On the side, a wheeled trolley with chafing dishes and
carafes. To the left, a set of doors revealed his bedchamber, and auxiliary
rooms. To the right, the marchioness’ rooms.

Lady Felicity no longer, but Lady
Andover, Marchioness.

“Odd,” she hesitated, toying with a
fork on the table, glancing toward her rooms, though she didn’t take a step
toward them. “I hadn’t thought of being a marchioness.”

“Let’s have a bite to eat, then we
can rest.”

Her hand trembled as she brushed an
imagined lock of hair from her forehead.

“You must be famished.” She’d
certainly missed supper at the ball. He doubted anyone thought of food after he
left her.

“I’m not certain I can eat.”

“Trust me, Felicity. You will sleep
better after a bite to eat.”

She looked up, a brave young lady,
willing to face horror and gore of septic wounds, fragile and shy with a new
husband. “You’re probably right.”

He thought of food nibbled from her
skin, wine sipped from fleshy dips but she was so skittish he didn’t dare play,
but served her as gallantly as possible. He didn’t ask about her work or tell
her of his fears, though he was afraid. Their path would not be an easy one.

“You’ll be tired.” Even sitting there,
her eyelids fought to stay open, though they popped open with his words.
“Come,” he rose, pulled her chair out, helped her to stand, facing him. He
touched her cheek, just below the dark circles under her eyes. “You’ve not
slept the whole night.”

“No.” She looked about, managing to
miss the doorway to her own rooms. “A bit.”

“More than a bit.” Not surprised
she wouldn’t meet his eye. “I believe there’s a night rail on the bed. A gift
from my mother. Let me show you.”

As he led her to her chamber, she
frowned. “Perhaps your mother should stay here, rather than with my parents.
The children are raucous and…”

“She’s looking forward to it.”

“Except…”

“No exceptions, Felicity. We spoke
of it while you were dressing this morning, she truly is looking forward to the
children.”

Still, her steps faltered.

“You’ve had a rugged night.” He
couldn’t imagine anyone sleeping well after facing what she faced. “Come.” He
urged, for she stopped just shy of the threshold. “I believe Lucille, Mother’s
finest French abigail, is waiting for you in your dressing room.”

****

As promised, the very French
Lucille waited, helped Felicity with her bath, lowered the night rail over her
head and tied it at the throat. Sheer, with the most delicate of laces at
throat, wrist and hem. Exquisite embroidery flowed from the lace.

Rather than braid her hair, Lucille
brushed it out and twisted it in a way that looked both loose yet contained,
and then sent her off to a four-poster bed, with damask drapery and welcoming
white linen sheets.

Alone.

She climbed into the bed. The bath,
the clean sheets, the beautiful night rail. Tired as she was, she should be
able to sleep. Instead, the fragility of being alone in this place, strange to
her, in a huge bed, within a massive room with high ceilings and long
silk-covered windows.

Loneliness slipped deep, only to
jar with contrary wariness, as the door to the sitting room opened. Andover
stood just inside the door.

“I surprised you,” he realized.

“Yes,” Felicity admitted.

“You did not expect me?” He stepped
in, closed the door behind him.

Foolishly, she opened her mouth
before closing it; realizing, put like that, she should have expected him.

Of course she should have expected
him. She hadn’t thought it through, too tired to do so.

He crossed to the bed. “Scoot over.
We will sleep. Neither of us had any rest last night.”

All the tension, fear, anticipation
drained from her. “Please,” She held up the sheets, inviting him in now that
she didn’t need to worry about what was right and what was wrong. “I’m glad you
came. I was lonely.”

He needed no other invitation,
reached for the ties of his robe transforming an innocent nap into something
not so innocent.

She tried not to look, really
tried, chastising herself for her weakness. Despite seeing limbs and bodies and
all sorts of man parts at the convalescent home, this was not a weakened, ill
man.

She forced herself to turn away
until the bed shifted, the covers rearranged. She looked back. He lay on his
side, levered up on one arm looking down at her.

Ever so gently, he brushed a strand
of hair from her face.

“Beautiful, you are so beautiful.”
And she believed him, even though she knew she was no great beauty.

He laughed, as though he read her
mind. “Don’t be such a doubter. You are beautiful and it runs deep. From the
gleam of your eyes, the ease of your smile to the way you care for others. I
don’t know of any other woman who carries as much love in her heart as you.”

Boldened by fatigue, or by his
words, she didn’t know, but she no longer wanted to sleep. She wanted one of
his kisses, she wanted to feel the press of his body to hers. She reached up,
traced the curve of his eyebrow, even as it quirked up in question. With a
smile, she cupped his head, pulled him down for a kiss.

This kiss so different from the
others, starting in a different place, a place where there was time, time to
touch, time to taste, time to explore.

“You need sleep,” he whispered,
pulling away.

She shook her head.

“I’ll ask one more time…”

She nibbled at his collarbone.

“Unfair. I am trying to be a
gentleman.”

“My mother told me not to be a lady
in the bedroom, so…”

He cut her off with a groan,
kissing her a thousand different ways as the sun crossed the sky. His lips
brushed her mouth, eyes, neck, along her throat.

He kissed her with his hands as
they brushed along her body to touch and entice, to cup and squeeze and explore
places she never dreamed she would welcome another’s touch.

He taught her with patience, he
inspired her with passion, he tamed her when she grew restless and all the
while she sensed his own desire, pent-up and waiting for what, she didn’t
know—but understood by the tremble of his fingers, the sweat on his brow.

“Please…” She begged him, for his
sake and hers. She knew, had been told, what to expect from this night. But
that foretelling held nothing of the truth. “Please, please.”

“Felicity…Cis…I don’t want to hurt
you.”

“Please…” She needed him. “It hurts
to wait.” She relished his weight, as he settled over her, craved the pressure
of him pressed, the stretch as he inched further, further still until he moved
no more. Braced on both forearms, he watched her.

“I love you, Cis, my brave girl.”
He pulled back and thrust forward, quickly, stilling, his body trembling with
the effort.

His forehead to hers. “Oh Cis, my
Cis.”

She took a breath, adjusted, and
nodded. “Yes,” stroked his cheek, “I love you, too.”

Her words releasing him, to carry
them both on a powerful tide of building tension until, together, they tumbled
to completion as one, in body as well as soul.

****

Felicity awoke, buried deep in a
feather mattress, the weight of a down-filled comforter cocooning her. Eyes
still closed, she searched her waking mind until movement from across the room
brought her wide-awake, eyes open. Andover leaned over a fire, lighting it, a
robe carelessly draped over his body.

He stood, turned. She shut her
eyes, shy again, as the sides of the unbelted dressing gown billowed.

“Ah, she is with us again.” He
laughed, shifting covers and mattress as he climbed in beside her. “I told the
servants to set the fire, but not light it, as I didn’t want anything to wake
us.

Sure enough, a fire blazed. Fire in
the spring. Extravagant, but this was an unusually frigid spring.

“How talented of you, to know how to
execute such a thing.”

“Very talented,” he nuzzled her
neck, reminding her of the night they shared, the closeness. Hunger ignited,
waking her for a mere touch, his shoulder, his face. No objection from him,
that she roused him with her newfound curiosity, rousing to more than wakefulness.

“How are you this morning?” he
asked.

“Hmmm,” she considered his
question, the slight aches where she never ached before, but she did not want
to tell him, did not want to stop the fascinating, compelling explorations her
reticence would encourage.

Silent too long, he drew his own
conclusions. “Ah, I see.” He rolled over, but not without taking her with him,
to hold her close to his side. “Let’s have leisurely baths and take the day
slowly, perhaps speak of your dreams.” He lifted her chin, studying her as he
asked. “We need to discuss your work. How you want to balance our life with
your studies.”