An Independent Miss (7 page)

CHAPTER 7 ~
CONSEQUENCES

The Earl of Westhaven was not
familiar with dawn. Given his preference for late nights of study, he was not
familiar with being woken before noon at all. Felicity could well imagine
Humphrey scratching at her father’s door right about now, waking him and, as
her parents unfashionably slept together, her mother.

She knew this because Humphrey had
stopped by her father’s study to inform Felicity that he had, indeed, found her
note.

Of course, it was not proper for
her to be slipping through the house at all hours and pushing notes beneath
Humphrey’s door, but nothing about this situation was proper. There was no need
for the butler’s stiff sniff to tell her that.

If it had been possible, she would
have bypassed him and gone straight to her parents’ room and slipped the
missive under their door. But then the scullery maid, or some other maid
carrying a tray of coffee and hot chocolate, would have found the note.

Humphrey was both an earlier riser
and fanatically protective about the family’s business.

At least he had seen to the fire
and delivered a pot of tea. No doubt there would be another tray with slices of
toast, once Humphrey knew her father was there. And her mother, of course. Her
mother, who had no say in who she married, but chose, unfashionably, to share a
bedroom with him. Did she have a choice in that as well?

Felicity stared out at the blustery
morning, feeling as cold inside as the world looked beyond the window.

How could he? How could Andover
propose to her and entertain her … her …aunt?

“Cissy?” Her father’s gentle, thoughtful
voice.

Oh
no…
She was going to cry and she promised herself she would not.

“Cissy?” Her father tried once
more.

The soft click of the door closing
let her know his back was to her, gave her a moment to wipe her eyes before she
turned to face him.

“I suppose mother will be here
soon.”

“Of course she is coming, Cissy.
You are not one for hysterics or commands in the wee hours of the morning.” He
moved toward her in the same way he approached an agitated horse in need of
gentling. How many times had she admired his way with creatures? He had a knack
for knowing just what they needed.

Perhaps that was what he did with
Mother, that made her come around to the smiling, happy wife she appeared to
be.

But his knack was off at the
moment. She was far too fragile for him to take her hands, which she was sure
he meant to do. If she cried, he might actually hold her, and then she would be
totally undone.

Neatly, she avoided any touch, as
she moved around his desk to the standing globe, idly spinning it.

“Ah,” he said, and uttered nothing
more, leaving her to let him know just why she had summoned him, to his own
study.

“It was a mistake, the betrothal; I
don’t believe we will suit after all.”

He didn’t respond. She feared
turning around, to see just what was on his face. His strong, square face, with
those gentle brown eyes. Perfectly fine for a man, but terribly boring for a
woman—which is what she was and how she looked. The squareness of her jaw
softened, making more of an oval, but still much like his. She was all broad
jaw and muddy browns.

Unlike her brother, Thomas, a
dashing example of her mother’s kin, with light eyes and hints of fire in his
hair. It would have suited him just fine to look like their father, such a
manly look.

She stopped the globe from its
spin. It was all so unfair. No one was ever anxious about Thomas finding a
spouse. He could take his time for all of that. His looks weren’t important. As
a female, she was absolutely dependent on her appearance, because one couldn’t
find a husband when lost in a crowd of wallflowers.

She touched her mouth, vividly
aware that if she looked like her Aunt Vivien, Andover would have kissed her by
now. Of course he would have. But he hadn’t, and that told her so very much.
Married to a man like Andover, one would always worry about faithfulness. She
would rather not have that on her plate.

Her
own aunt
. She shivered.

A scratch at the door announced a
maid with—as Felicity had predicted—a tray. She glanced over her
shoulder, to determine there was toast on that tray, startled to find she was
starving. Not surprising, as she had been awake all night.

When the maid left, her father
poured a cup of tea, added milk and held it out as an offering. She took the
cup, looked at her father, and wondered what she never would have thought to
wonder before. Had her father ever strayed? She couldn’t imagine it. He adored
her mother, as did everyone.

“Your mother mentioned you were
questioning things.” He spread jam on a toast point. “What has brought this on?
We both thought you were quite happy with the situation.”

“I was, or thought I was.” She
licked her lips, fought for words she spent hours preparing. They fluttered
away, chased by more thoughts than her tired mind could cope with.

Whatever she said, she would never
tell them about the incident in Andover’s chambers. It was far too humiliating
and she didn’t want to explain why she had gone to his rooms.

Instead, she chose a new topic, an
idea that was just taking seed.

“Perhaps marriage doesn’t suit me
at all,” she argued, wondering if it weren’t true. “My work is too important.”
Or it should be, except she had actually considered easing back for him.

For him, the only man she would do
that for.

Head bowed over his toast, as if to
study it for some clue, her father asked, “Not marry at all, Cis?” That’s when
he looked up and she realized the idea hurt him. “No grandchildren from my
little girl?”

She hadn’t thought of such things
as grandchildren. This was the first inkling that his main focus, in her
getting married, had always been about having little ones about.

“The others will give you
grandchildren someday.”

He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be
the same.” and busied himself pouring another cup of tea. “But it makes me
wonder if this isn’t something your mother can help you with. Perhaps…” Soft
and mild, his words gentled the moment, “…it’s the getting of children that makes
you question marriage.”

A blush ran clear to the roots of
her hair. Before she could even form a reply, there was another rap at the
door. Grateful for the interruption, she looked to her father, who was watching
her. Closely, too closely. An astute man.

“No,” he answered his own question,
“no, I don’t think that is the problem.” And without hesitation, called out,
“Come in.”

Andover stood on the threshold,
grim and handsome, and, as far as Felicity could tell, not surprised to see her
there.

“May I join this conversation?” he
asked, with a slight bow to them both.

Again, her father watched her, and
she knew he wanted her permission before he answered, but she didn’t know what
she wanted. He was there, they could get it over with, but then again, perhaps
her father could take care of the nasty business.

“I will go upstairs,” she told them
both.

“No, you will stay here until we
finish,” her father said.

“Which,” Andover interrupted,
“concerns me, I would imagine.”

That brought Westhaven’s head
around, his eagle eyes now on Andover. “You know what this is about?”

“Yes, I believe I do, and wish to
have a few moments with Lady Felicity, if I may.”

“Cis, do you want to talk to the
man?”

“No.”

Her father looked back at him, with
an “it’s up to her” expression.

Andover moved into the room,
leaving the door open, should she send him packing.

“Please, Lady Felicity, if you
would allow me a few words, I promise I will not take much of your time.”

“Cis,” her father chided gently,
“can you give him that?”

She knew what he was saying, that
it was a point of honor, that if she wasn’t going to marry the man, the least
she could offer was a few moments to hear him out.

Honor was not what her barely
tamped-down temper wanted, but she had learned that bad humors were not always
the best judge.

“Very well.” She could not face
him. Not yet. She let the wild weather pull her to the window, focus on
raindrops trailing down the panes.

“Good.” Her father rose from his
chair. “I will see what is keeping your mother.”

There was no need to see Andover’s
reflection in the glass, the feel of him coming up behind her, as tactile as a
touch. Then he did touch her, put his hands firmly on her shoulders, as though
to hold her there.

Everything in her tightened fought
the onslaught of sensation that slight contact afforded. Rather than put him
off, her reaction earned a gentle brush of his thumbs along the back of her
shoulder. A tender, enticing lure, as intimate as a kiss. Why now, when it
would have meant so much before? Now, when she knew it was not personal. Such
tender stroking was not limited to his betrothed.

Nor was the soft brush of his
breath, as he leaned in and whispered, “There is no turning back time. If I
could, I would. You did not deserve or warrant that scene last night.”

No argument there. “Are you saying
it is better not to know?”

“No. As a gentleman I am not at
liberty to explain last night. It is a point of honor. You deserve more than
that wall of silence, or the machinations that had you facing what you did. We
were both victims, Felicity, you must believe me on this.” His lips brushed her
ear, his breath caressed. She tilted her head but he followed. “We can move
forward. We can move past this.”

No, she could not move past it. She
wanted a marriage like her parents’ marriage. That was not what he offered. He
made no promises of fidelity. That gave her the courage to pull free and face
him. “There is no need, Lord Andover. You are free to share your affections
where you will, to find another unwitting girl to be your bride.”

He reached for her hands, but she
stepped away. “It is over,” she told him, amazed at the calm in her voice, when
inside a tidal wave of emotion throttled her.

“It is
not
over!” Lady Westhaven stormed into the room, slamming the door
behind her. “You!” She pointed at Andover, “better have something to say for
yourself and
you
,” she turned the
temper she was famous for not controlling, at Felicity, “have some explaining
to do.”

With that, she slumped into a
chair, as Lord Westhaven slipped back into the room.

“I cannot believe what the servants
are talking about,” Elizabeth told her husband.

The room went silent. Lady
Westhaven fanned her face as though that could ease the heat of her fury. Both
Felicity and Andover stood absolutely still. He watched her, Felicity felt it,
though she dared not look at him. Instead she watched her father, who was
taking it all in.

“It seems as though I am the only
one who does not know what you are talking about, Elizabeth.” He shut the door
behind him. “Would you care to enlighten me? Or perhaps Andover might explain?”

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

Felicity spun around, pressed
against the window, as if that were a route of escape, unable to bear the world
knowing the whole sordid mess. And the world
would
know, because what was spoken of below stairs would carry
upstairs and every ladies’ maid and valet there with a guest would soon be
whispering all about Felicity’s humiliation. She wanted to curl up and die. To
run away to some hidden cottage somewhere and live her life where no one knew
her.

“Felicity?” Andover stepped toward
her, but she didn’t want him, tried to wave him away.

“Please,” he appealed to her
parents, “let us have some privacy.”

“No,” she told him, not daring to
look at anyone, as the tears that threatened all night, fought once more to
spill. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “No.” Calmer with the firm stance.
“It’s not a private matter anymore. Everyone knows about your company last
night.”

“Excuse me.” Her father’s patience
snapped. “What do you mean, his company last night? What does everyone know
that I do not?”

“I will tell you, Westhaven,”
Elizabeth jumped in. “My guttersnipe of a sister, who is packing as we speak,
ordered a footman to deliver champagne and victuals for her t
ê
te-
à
-t
ét
e with Andover in his chambers
after we were all abed.”

“Good God, man!” Her father, who
never shouted, exploded. “Have you no decency? In our house, on the cusp of
your betrothal to our daughter?”

Before Andover could answer,
Elizabeth continued. “It gets worse, Westhaven, as the repast was not delivered
before Felicity managed to visit Andover as well. She was leaving as the
footman arrived to hear Vivien, in one of her foolish wisps of a night rail,
invite Felicity to have a drink with them. Quite a party you must have had, Andover.
It is too much, do you hear, too much.”

“He didn’t know I was coming,”
Felicity admitted. Why she spoke, she didn’t quite know, but it earned her a
smile from Andover. She sniffed at that and turned back to the window.

“What do we do, Westhaven? Do they
marry immediately or, can we hope…”

“No, no, no!” Felicity’s startled
them. So be it. Tantrums and outbursts were not her style, but she would not be
pushed on this. “There will be no marriage.”

Having gotten their attention, she
managed to calm herself. “I do not want to marry Lord Andover. That’s why I
went to his rooms.” She looked away, uncomfortable with the lie. “To tell him I
didn’t think we would suit.”

“Did you?” Her father asked, in his
most thoughtful way. “Did you really risk going to his rooms to tell him you
wouldn’t suit?”