An Independent Miss (3 page)

“Yes, well, we can’t all do what we
want.” Her mother sighed. “And loath as I am to admit it, you are talented at
what you do. Even Samuel Henry asks for your advice.”

“Yes,” Felicity said with a smile,
“which is why you should trust him when I am gone. He has an open mind and he
dares to look where others wouldn’t. Though, Mother, he did ask me not to tell
anyone he came to discuss that rash. After all, I have the advantage of the
journals. He does not.”

“Those blasted journals.” Lady
Westhaven snapped, back to her normal opposition of Felicity’s passion. “Your
grandmama did you no favors when she passed those down to you. Thank goodness
your sisters aren’t interested in such things.”

“They are young yet.”

Her mother flapped her hands.
“Don’t even say it. I know better now than to let them near those tomes. I just
hope Lord Andover hasn’t heard of your…your…interests.”

Felicity sighed. “We are to be
married, so he will learn about them soon enough.” Those ‘blasted journals’
held nearly six centuries worth of anecdotes on the sick, the dying, and those
who were perfectly healthy, but thought they were dying, and were as
fascinating as they were helpful.

“If I had known it would come to
this…” her mother fussed, as she broke off the stem of a perfectly healthy
plant. Felicity winced. “It just isn’t done, Cis. You mustn’t tell Lord
Andover, you must never let him know. When you are married, when you are in
town, you will be absolutely rejected should anyone hear of this,” she gestured
about her, “that you tend to others’ ills. It’s not the thing at all.”

But it was, to her father’s people.
Every other generation, one was chosen to copy the journals, word for word,
drawing per drawing, preserving against the wear of time, infusing herself with
all they were. An overwhelming privilege and responsibility Felicity could not
abandon.

“Mother, marrying does not mean I
have to give up my healing. With Lord Andover’s support, I could do so much
more.”

“Have you told Andover this?”

Felicity fiddled with a fern. “No,
we have not spoken of such things.” Reticent by nature, she listened, he spoke,
as he would speak to any young lady. Never once did he offer a discourse on
aches and pains, or any number of ills of an extended family. She’d been loath
to change that by sharing her passion. To be sure, enough others wanted to
share in that.

“Well, don’t speak to him of that.
You will have enough adjustments to make without adding your interests to the
mix.”

Felicity blinked, not certain she’d
heard correctly. “They are part of who I am.”

“Who you are has changed,” her
mother charged, as though it were as simple as changing her dress. “You must
think of more than your own reputation. Look at what happened to your
grandmother. Branded a witch!”

Relieved, Felicity leaned heavily
against the potting table. “That was jealousy, a woman’s jealousy. The woman
would have done her best to discredit grandmama in any manner. And you know,
Mama, the woman was mad. Absolutely lost.”

“Felicity, think.” Lady Westhaven
sighed and joined her. “This could affect your husband’s reputation, and would
certainly bear upon your children. Jealousy or not, your father and I had a
difficult time with those accusations.”

“What I do is good, mother. I help
people. Why would anyone begrudge that?”

“Because people are motivated by
fear, not right or wrong, or good or bad.
Fear
.
Your grandmother was destroyed socially because of what she did.” Lady
Westhaven tried to move through her agitation, but the small space only added
to her rising ire. “And then there are the charlatans. You would be painted
with the same brush. Even worse, it smacks of trade. You are limited by
privilege, my love, which is not such a bad thing. There are far worse
restraints to bear.”

“So you would like me to douse the
best that I am? It’s not fair or right.” She stilled her mother’s hands that
had been brushing over the tops of plants. “You expect me to keep years of
intense study and hard work hidden, even from my husband? And the journals?
They were incredible, vastly important to the world.”

Her mother continued, “Well… they
would pass the information down through the female line. I do not know what
possessed them. Men would have been held in high regard, respected.”

Felicity snapped, “And why is that,
Mother? Why is it respectful for a man, yet not for a woman?” She spun away.
“That’s absolute nonsense you’re helping to propagate. Diminishing me, your own
daughter!”

“Don’t be so naive, Felicity.
Really.”

Breathing as though she’d run a
race, Felicity battened down her burgeoning fury. She would not argue now, not
until she’d spoken with Andover. Truth be told, if he agreed with her mama, she
could not marry him. It was as simple as that. “I shan’t say anything, shall I,
Mother. Not in town, anyway.”

Lady Westhaven sank back against
the plant bed, gentling her voice as Felicity had given ground. “You need to do
more than hold your tongue, Felicity. It is not what you say, and it’s not just
those journals. People mend around you.” Her hands fluttered, as she fought to
say what must not be said. “You know…you just
know
. No one need tell you they aren’t well, you know they aren’t,
and know what they need without so much as a word from them.”

With a shove, Felicity moved away
from the potting table, and brushed her hands. “And that is the heart of your
argument, isn’t it? That people will see me as an oddity, as a…” At her
mother’s look of disgust, Felicity blunted her words. “As a sorceress of some
sort.” Again, she snapped at her mother, having lost her temper more in the
last few moments than she had all year. “I will control myself. You know I can
do that.”

“Oh, my dearest, I know how hard it
is to fight your own desires, but it is very wise.” Her mother’s arms wrapped
around her, threatening the stoic stance Felicity fought so hard to cling to.
“You will come to be thankful.”

Lady Westhaven leaned back, and
brushed Felicity’s hair from her brow. “No matter the sacrifice, you are
fortunate in your station in life. And now, with Lord Andover, you will have a
family to ease any loss.”

Felicity blew at a wayward strand
of hair, and swiped a bead of perspiration from her brow. The still, heavy air
clung, as she and her mother moved down an aisle thick with growth, their
argument dropped, as always. Other conversations prodded, just as important,
and not much time to have them.

The cusp of the season loomed. As
tradition demanded, the Redmond household would be full of guests breaking
their trip to town. Even as a child, Felicity enjoyed the comings and goings.
This year, she rather longed for the quiet. There would be few moments like
this, alone with her mother.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she
asked. “Why didn’t you tell me that Lord Andover was seeking my hand?”

Her mother looked up sharply, then
away, as though fascinated by the plant before her.

“It’s a spring green, Mother. It
doesn’t offer a pretty bloom. I doubt it is really of much interest to you.”

“No, it does not.” She let go of
the leaf, looked around the conservatory, before finally facing Felicity. “Is
it really so bad that we didn’t say anything?”

“So bad?” She missed her one and
only courtship, something she had dreamt about, longed for, and she missed it.
“I should have known, had the chance to enjoy his attentions instead of
fretting about never seeing him again.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Lady
Westhaven rolled her eyes as if she didn’t live on the edge of theatrical. “Of
course you would have seen him again.”

“Not if he was married to someone
else.”

“Oh, Cis…” Her mother looked at
her. “He didn’t want your brother or Lord Upton knowing, or the children, for
that matter. He thought they might intrude and tease you if they knew his
intentions.”

True enough, her suspicion of a
prank was well grounded. Thomas was a ruthless jokester.

“Oh, look at them.” Her mother
watched the young men outside in the south garden, fencing. It was an
aggressive match. Although the windows were dulled with condensation, Felicity
could tell the opponents; Thomas and Andover. Upton stood to the side.

She swiped a swath of window clean
with one of her work cloths. Thomas, impulsive and reckless, next to Andover’s
graceful force. Tall and flexible, Andover moved like a dancer, no hesitation,
his lunges quick, sharp. The sight alone touched her, a tuning fork tapped.

She stepped away from the
temptation to gawk.

“I’m very good at keeping secrets,”
she told her mother, crossing to another bench, away from the lure of the
window.

“Yes, you are,” her mother
admitted. “Much better than the rest of us except, perhaps, your father, who
can keep a secret better than a papist priest. But in this instance, you could
not have. It would have been in your eyes.” Her mother stilled Felicity’s
hands. “Do you really mind? Are you sorry for this time, for the opportunity to
be friends with Andover, to enjoy his company with no more expectation than
that?”

Felicity looked down at her
mother’s hand on hers. They were an affectionate family. She wondered if
Andover was as well, and blushed as she recalled his finger against her cheek.

Her mother was right. If she had
known he was courting her, she would have been torn between adoration and
terror. He was too much for her. She wasn’t certain why she had accepted him so
quickly.

“Mother,” she finally asked. “What made
you choose Father over all your other suitors?” When she didn’t answer,
Felicity turned to her. “Mother?”

Agitated, Lady Westhaven pulled
away from Felicity, inspected strawberries on a hanging basket. “What makes you
think I had a choice of suitors?”

Felicity snorted, her mother
frowned, not at the reaction but the unladylike sound of it. The reaction was
to be expected. Volatile and striking, with her dark auburn hair and light
green eyes, Lady Westhaven was a faerie grown tall, a lithe, agile figure even
after birthing over a half-dozen children. Men watched her walk down a street.
She could have any of them with a finger snap, despite being old enough to have
children of marriageable age.

“You could have refused.”

Good humor gone, Lady Westhaven
studied her daughter before turning back to watch the scene unfolding outside.
“No, Felicity, I could not say ‘no’ nor do I wish I had.” As though she had not
shocked, she continued. “What matters now is why you have said yes. You have
the freedom to make a choice, Cissy. You were not plagued with debt, or
scandal, or any other nasty business that would keep you from marrying whomever
you wanted to marry. So just what are you trying to say, child?”

But Felicity was stuck on the word
‘no.’ Her mother had not been given a say in the matter of who she married. Her
mother had to marry her father, because of debt or scandal or some other nasty
business. Caught on what she had just learned, Felicity jumped when her mother
shouted.

“Good grief, they are fighting! I
will kill your brother! I swear, that boy cannot keep his temper to himself!”

CHAPTER 3 ~ A
LADY’S SECRET

One moment they were in the throes
of battle, the next, Thomas was gone. Andover swiped at his lip, and came away
with blood. Wary, he looked for the next blow and realized Upton held a
struggling Thomas, whose eye was worse than Andover’s lip.

“Stop it! Both of you!” Upton
commanded. “The women have seen and are coming.”

Not the auspicious start Andover
anticipated for his betrothal.

Andover gingerly touched his lip
again, sniffed at a leaking nose, and realized that was bloody as well. His
handkerchief was in his coat pocket, feet away, and, as Upton had warned, Lady
Westhaven and Felicity hurried down the slope he had just traversed with such
happiness.

Desperately, he tried for a
semblance of order, ran fingers through his hair, attempted to straighten his
soiled cravat. It was undone, his pin—the one his father had given
him—gone. He looked to the ground, amazed that tears had come to his
eyes.

Mourning the loss of a loved one
held no clock, no sense of propriety. It hit when it chose to hit and damned be
the man who scorned it. A sparkle of blue caught his eye. He reached to
retrieve the sapphire and was laid flat, tackled. Young Edward caught him off
guard, sat atop him and pummeled with surprising force. Cries and shouts of the
other children rang out, as Andover managed to push Edward off, held him to the
ground.

“You beat up my brother!” The boy
strained to get free, as a dainty foot collided with the small of Andover’s
back. Over his shoulder, he saw little Annabel, all of eight years, unrepentant
and ready to give him another kick. Her twin, Charles, behind her, mulish and
restless, restrained himself, most likely by fairness, one against one and all.
One opening and he’d be in the fray like a shot.

“Whoa!” Upton declared, “Your
brother hit first.” He pulled a squirming Annabel back.

“I don’t care!” Edward seethed, but
Andover eased his hold, as the fight left the boy with Upton’s information.

Thomas was no help, standing aside,
laughing.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lady
Westhaven pulled Edward to his feet. “Where is your tutor?” She spotted the
beleaguered man, running to the scene, the children’s governess hurrying along
at his side. “Mr. Pipping, Miss Mary, would you please take these children
inside and see that they are not allowed outside again today.”

“But, Mama…” Little Beth argued. “I
was good.”

“You watched a brawl, which is not
what young ladies do.”

“But I’m not a young lady, I’m just
a little girl.” Beth stomped her foot, arms crossed firmly across her chest.

Exasperated, Lady Westhaven sternly
eyed the caregivers, who rounded up the children.

“Are you hurt?” Felicity put a hand
on Andover’s arm. Embarrassed, he turned away, his sapphire pin clasped in one
hand. “Here.” She handed him a sturdy handkerchief.

“Look at the two of you.” Lady
Westhaven fussed over Thomas, whose eye had already gotten worse, his sleeve
torn from the shirt. “What sort of example did you intend to set?”

Andover staunched his bleeding,
stood still as Felicity looked at his lip, surprised by his fierce
possessiveness. The raw, unfamiliar sensation raged with the sure knowledge
that Felicity did not go to her brother, though Andover was certain Thomas
looked worse than he did, nor did she stay safely with her mother. She had come
to him.

He fought to calm the brutishness
of it, put it down to base humors raised by a fight.

Upton, always one to deflect
trouble, muttered, “men are but boys.”

“Forever.” Lady Westhaven snapped.
“Come, you two. We’ll see if Lucy has time to tend to your wounds.”

“Lucy?” Thomas snarled. Lady Westhaven
shot him a hard glance. Still, Thomas continued. “What about Felicity?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That would be
absolutely unsuitable.”

“Unsuitable?” Thomas looked at his
sister, a sinister hint to his smile, up to one of his games. “If you ignore
Mother and help us, Cis, you could send for Samuel Henry.”

“There is no need for Samuel.”
Felicity took Andover’s arm. He covered her hand with his own and held it there
with a desperate firmness that surprised him.

Redmond was a threat, with
everything still too new between Felicity and himself. He did not want
intrusion, and he did not like the way Thomas limped to her other side.

“But we all know how much you like
to
visit
with Dr. Henry,” her brother
teased. It was not a friendly jest.

“Ignore him,” Felicity ordered.
“Samuel Henry is a physician. He is not a surgeon. He does not tend to the
injuries of schoolboy antics.”

“For you, I do believe he would
lower himself to a surgeon’s job.”

“Stop it, Thomas,” Felicity warned,
too late for Andover. Thomas succeeded with words what he’d failed to do with
fists.

Another man held Felicity’s
interest. To what extent, he couldn’t guess, or why she accepted his and not
the other man’s suit.

Of course other men courted her.
She was sweet, and kind and, well…he looked down at her, stunned. Good God, was
he that numb, that he failed to look at her, his future wife?

He stepped back, wanting to see her
in a way he’d not before, in the way he had always viewed women.

Thomas tugged her forward, unaware
he’d played into Andover’s need. Felicity, her arm firmly held by Thomas,
turned sideways, to see what held Andover.

“What?” she asked, all concerned.

His eyes snapped to hers, no doubt
guilt-ridden and wide, having just traversed her form from head to toe. Thomas
urged her forward again.

Good
God.

He was repeating himself, to
himself, but couldn’t help it.

The curves of a pagan goddess, her
bodice filled to brimming, the length of her skirt, loose and empty midpoint,
going taut with the spread of her hips. He swallowed, remembering those warm
brown eyes he’d found so calming, inspired now to the dark welcome of
unawakened sensuality.

The power of her earthy beauty
stirred him from a trance of mourning, beckoned him to life, thoughts of
virility, and lust. By God, he’d never once thought of a wife in the context of
desire, something a man felt for an entirely different breed of female. Had
mourning so unmanned him?

Thomas glanced back and scowled.
Andover schooled his expression, strode forward, linked arms with Felicity. Her
gentle hold, an artless tease, adding to his disquiet. Her brother sneered and
moved ahead, sullen and grim.

“What is wrong with him?” Felicity
asked no one, as Upton took Thomas’s place beside her.

“We’ve had a gentleman’s
disagreement.” Andover said, startled by Felicity’s unladylike snort. For
Thomas, he hoped, and not himself.

He catalogued his injuries,
grateful for their insistent aches. A much needed diversion to his wayward
thoughts.

Lady Westhaven stopped on the top
terrace. “Cis,” she called back. “Someone has just arrived. I’d better see to
them.” She looked at the three, heading up to her. “Please don’t forget our
conversation when you settle the men with Lucy. She’s been trained by an expert
and is more than capable of dealing with this sort of problem.”

“Yes, Mama,” Felicity responded,
though Andover sensed a sigh.

Andover stopped her. “There is
nothing that needs doing that I cannot do for myself.”

Despite the nasal drone of his
voice, swell of his nose, prompting the idea it was broken, he’d had his fill
of charlatan medics and those who considered themselves physicians. He’d not
turn to a one. Damn the lot of them.

She looked up, scanned his wounded
face, before she met his eyes. “She will need to use comfrey on that lip.”

“Comfrey?” He asked.

“Yes, I have heard something of its
nature. It will ease the pain and aid the healing. Or so I have heard.”

“Ah, well.” Upton tried to pipe in,
but Andover doubted Felicity would understand Upton’s deflection. She couldn’t
know of Andover’s abhorrence of herbs and spices, or healing concoctions. He
had not brought himself to speak of it, though he knew he must. Soon. Once they
were married.

Surely, it would not matter.

Far too disheveled to greet guests,
he and Thomas angled toward the back of the house, avoiding the new arrivals.
The carriage Lady Westhaven spoke of now stood in the portico. Felicity stopped
at the sight of the garish conveyance with its high feather plumes on each
corner and a riot of ornate gold curlicues over a pink base. From this angle,
the baggage rack at the top looked like a jewel-encrusted crown. More grandiose
than grand. Andover feared he knew the owner, hoping to God he was wrong.

“Whoever owns that horrible thing,
it is not the Redmonds,” she lamented.

Upton looked up. “Lady Beatrice’s
family?”

“Yes, she’s my cousin. They’ve been
expected for days.”

“Beatrice is still expected?” Upton
smiled. “I thought, perhaps, the plans had changed.”

“No, not at all. They will be going
to London with us for the season.”

“Jolly good,” Predictable, as ever,
Upton stood a bit taller. Andover bit back a smile. “She’s good fun.”

Limping though he was, Thomas had
not waited for them. Andover wished he had, to counter her next question. “What
were you fighting about?”

Upton had the grace to look away.

“He’s a brother, Lady Felicity,”
Andover explained. “Brothers don’t like the idea of younger sisters growing
up.”

This time Felicity stopped. “Thomas
doesn’t approve of our betrothal?”

“Oh, I say. I wouldn’t go that
far.” Upton lied.

It was Upton’s way to smooth things
over, but Felicity would have the truth of it soon enough. “Your brother is not
keen on the match,” Andover admitted, ignoring Upton’s frown. “He’s protective.
I would hope our future sons will be the same toward their sisters.”

She frowned, started forward,
watching her step on the damp grass, avoided looking at him. He shouldn’t have
been fighting, should have done more to prevent it. He’d offended her.

“He will come around, Lady
Felicity,” Upton offered.

She nodded, but still did not look
beyond the path they were taking.

“I say, Lady Felicity,” Upton
added. “You and Andover getting married is jolly news. Pleased to hear we’ll be
neighbors.”

“Oh,” Felicity stumbled on that
closely watched path. Andover steadied her, but she looked at Upton, not him.
“Of course, I had not thought of that.”

“Yes,” Upton responded cheerily. “I
believe you were school chums with my sister Jane.”

He remembered their own school days
and bonds formed. They’d had a good time at Eton, better than most, and Upton
was always eager to reminisce, no doubt reluctant to change the subject, though
he did. “Not that she’ll be around for long. She’s bound to leg-shackle some
unsuspecting man soon enough.”

Andover’s lip throbbed. His
shoulder ached and the handkerchief Felicity gave him could not sop up any more
blood from his nose. He lifted his chin, raised his nose, trying to staunch the
flow.

“Does Lady Jane have her eye on
someone in particular?” Felicity snagged his interest away from pain. Not what
she said, but how she said it. Something in her tone, but he was so full of his
own discomfort he couldn’t focus.

Upton shook his head. “Don’t know,
really. Too many females in my family, gave up listening to their natter about
us men. Upsets the senses, it does.”

Felicity’s chuckle lacked its
normal rich warmth, no doubt wondering if she made the right decision to marry
a man so easily entangled in a boyish fight. He held her back, leaned down and
asked, “May I have a word with you?”

Still, she managed not to look at
him, though she nodded and spoke up, “Would you mind, Lord Upton, helping
Thomas? His limp worries me.”

“Of course!” Upton charged ahead,
calling over his shoulder, “should have thought so myself!”

“I’m sorry,” Andover told her. “I
have offended you precisely when I wish to encourage your interest.”

Even with head down, he caught
sight of a blush rushing up her cheeks. “I dare say it was Thomas who began the
argument.”

“He didn’t like my courting you
behind his back.”

Ah, that earned her frank gaze. “I
rather think you did it behind
my
back as well.”

“That was not my intention,” he
promised. “Is there any way, at this point, to make amends?”

He flinched, as she raised her hand
to this face, toward stinging wounds. Surprisingly, her touch did not warrant
the reaction. It was butterfly soft, tenderly prodding, her eyes intent on what
she discovered.

“Your poor face,” she finally said.
“I do believe you’ve just slain your first dragon for me. Thank you.”

Her pardon surprised him. “I rather
think it is your brother who attempted to do the dragon slaying.”

This time, an honest chuckle
floated on the air. “Thomas has a dreadful temper. I’m sorry you received the
brunt of it.”

“I’m aware of your brother’s
moods.”

“Yet this is the first time you’ve
had a bout of fisticuffs with him?”

There it was again, her soothing
voice, the light touch of her fingers. She drew him in—or did she nestle
inside of him? Whatever it was, he didn’t think he would ever tire of it. “I’m
no fool, Lady Felicity,” he told her. “I stay on Thomas’s right side as much as
possible.”

“But today you fought because of
me. A disquieting thought.” Her crooked smile lacked its normal sparkle and he
wondered where her thoughts had gone.

Andover opened the door and bowed
low. “It is my pleasure to champion you.”

She entered the house before she
had a chance to respond, and found a maid waiting for her.

“Maddy? Oh dear, I am late, aren’t
I?”