Gareth: Lord of Rakes (31 page)

At that last thought she looked mortally disgruntled, while the way she stroked his chest was doing rotten things to his self-restraint.

“You are fretting,” Gareth said on a resigned sigh. “I’ll ring for breakfast, and we can discuss how you can profit from this business without being seen to know it exists.”

Felicity was an astute woman, and she had to know when she left the bed that he had shepherded her another step along the path leading them away from each other. She tried to pay attention over breakfast while he explained his plans for their business dealings, but her mind was no doubt on their looming separation, even as he sat beside her on the couch and tried to feed her a warm, buttered scone.

“My dear, you are not attending,” he chided, setting the scone aside without taking a bite himself. “Brenner and I arranged for your accounts to be handled by his old firm. Even as we speak, your files are being retrieved from Willard and Willard and sent to the new solicitors. Should it be necessary, you can have your solicitors contact Brenner. You aren’t being cast completely adrift, you know. Brenner is nothing, if not conscientious.”

She peered into her teacup, as if it might hold a picture of her future. “And if I have need of contacting you?”

He could smile and flirt; he could make her hope. He could provide her an address and an invitation “just in case,” but as he considered her question, Gareth realized that despite all odds to the contrary, Felicity Worthington had made some sort of gentleman of him in truth.

Equal measures of surprise and resentment collided, along with a dash of rueful humor and a sense of resignation.

He stirred his tea—a mild gunpowder, because it was her favorite. “You must not contact me, Felicity. The only exception I would ask you to make…” He paused, and to his consternation, his hand trembled as he reached for another scone. “The only exception I would ask you to make is if there is a child. I would not have our child raised as an unacknowledged bastard.”

He managed the teapot, pouring her a fresh cup he doubted she wanted.

“I thought you said a child wasn’t possible because of the way we timed it.”

“Much better men than I have been made fathers by the vagaries of nature, Felicity. I was conceived during my mother’s courses, if my father is to be believed. The only way to prevent conception of a certainty is to abstain, so I would ask this of you: You will let me know?”

“Of course.” The swiftness of her answer was some comfort, some small, tepid comfort.

As he consumed food he did not taste, Gareth detailed for her what she could expect from her new firm of solicitors, and what steps would prepare the business for sale. He’d set it up so little would be required of her. Brenner, or an agent of his choosing, would handle the sale, though Felicity’s signature would be required. He cautioned her to make her signature as illegible as possible without actually scribbling.

“Have you any questions?”
My
love.
For she was his love, regardless that their time was almost over.

He
had a question: How were they to live through this day? The depth of his heartache confounded him, made him resentful, and made him worried—for her.

“I comprehend, Gareth, and thank you for arranging matters. I would not have known how to change solicitors, much less how to sell a brothel. I am in your debt.”

She smiled at him—the warm, dear, soul-melting smile—and the last, desperate mental fiction that he’d survive this day as a whole man gave way.

“Callista is in my debt, may she rest in peace,” he said. “Shall I help you dress?”

Felicity’s expression said she knew this was more progress toward their parting, that she knew damned good and well he’d not taken her hand over breakfast, or put an arm around her shoulders, on purpose.

He was trying to ease her through the morning, and hurting her brutally with each increment of distance he imposed.

She slipped into her clothes and approached Gareth only when the hooks on her gown needed to be done up. Those, he fastened with brisk efficiency until he reached the nape of her neck. His fingers slowed as he brushed aside her hair.

“You had best brush your own hair,” he suggested quietly. She nodded without turning, and found his hairbrush on top of the bureau. He did allow himself to watch her, and had the sense she took her time, making this personal activity as lovely and graceful for him as she could. When she’d braided her hair and pinned it into a coronet, she turned to him, handing back his brush. He was dressed informally, wearing only breeches, boots, waistcoat, and a loose linen shirt.

“No cravat?”

“I don’t anticipate leaving the house for some hours yet.”

He made himself watch as she absorbed that blow. Saw her pain in the curve of her neck as she dipped her chin, in the way her hands clenched and unclenched twice against her skirts.

“Felicity…” He caught her by the shoulders when she would have continued to look away, and drew her against his body, knowing it was selfish, cruel, and necessary if he were to continue to draw breath. “I would have us say any private good-byes here, lest we embarrass old Hughes, hmm?”

As he rested his chin on her crown and stroked her back in the sweeping caresses that had soothed him on so many other occasions, she let herself weep.

And with those tears, Gareth learned what it sounded like when a woman’s heart broke. He did not chide her—the tears were his fault, after all—but neither did he offer her comfort beyond his embrace and the touch of his hand on her back. He offered her no promises, false or otherwise. He offered her no hope. He offered her nothing but whatever consolation she could wring from knowing her sorrow was shared by the man who’d caused it.

Gareth had already left. In his place, the quiet, self-contained marquess held Felicity, his very silence magnifying her sense of loss, her sense that soon even
he
would not be within the ambit of her touch. She clung to him, crying like a bereft child, missing the part of him he had already withdrawn from her, even while he stood with his arms around her.

And soon, it hurt too much even to cry. His lordship fished out a handkerchief and stepped back to mop gently at Felicity’s face. He smiled at her sheepishly and folded her fingers around his handkerchief. “In case you have need of it later.”

A final kindness, a token, a last whiff of his scent. She nodded her thanks, words being beyond her.

“If you are sufficiently composed, Felicity, I’d like to escort you downstairs. We have yet a few more needful things to say to each other.” He spoke gently, and Felicity knew he would not tolerate her procrastinating here for another hour.

Not for another minute.

He offered her his arm, and she wrapped her fingers into the crook of his elbow. When they reached the door, he turned to her.

“Good-bye, my love.” He kissed her mouth, her cheek, her forehead, and her knuckles—left and right in turn. With each gesture, he became less intimate, more formal. He became more and more Heathgate.

Without further word, he escorted Felicity down to the sunny little parlor where she had first met him. Felicity recognized the room, of course, and had a sense of coming full circle, of standing in the same place, but being a different woman as she did.

“I have more difficult things to say to you, Felicity,” he told her in that same gentle, cultured voice.

But he did not touch her.

“If I should call on you, you must not be at home to me, for I would not be at home to you.”

Felicity closed her eyes, his words landing on her heart like dirt on the coffin of a beloved friend.

“If you receive correspondence from me, you must return it unopened, for I will return any such correspondence to you unopened. If we should meet in public, and I sense the meeting is by anything other than purest chance, you must offer me the cut direct, or I shall be forced to offer it to you. You have means now. Take your sister to Bath, go on a walking tour in the Lake District, distract yourself from this dalliance you’ve had with me, and forget what you think you feel for me. Our business is concluded, and I certainly intend to move along to other pleasurable pursuits.”

Felicity could not even nod. She knew full well what he was about. He was intentionally offering her the means to hate him. He was telling her he intended to dally elsewhere, soon and often, to put this bothersome little episode with her behind him.

“Felicity, do you believe what I’ve just told you?” he asked, a good impersonation of long-suffering condescension in his voice.

She turned from him, unwilling to watch the effort he was making on her behalf, for he wasn’t convincing her for a single minute that she’d meant nothing to him. And she wasn’t going to let him have the last word, but she nodded affirmation—in return for his sacrifices, for all his sacrifices; she owed him that.

“Hughes is in the hallway. He’ll escort you to the carriage awaiting you in the mews. There’s the door, sweetheart, you have only to walk through it.”

His hands settled on her shoulders from behind and turned her to face the door. He gave her a gentle push, and his hands dropped, but she stood her ground.

“I will never,” she said, facing the door and speaking in a low, composed voice, “forget you, or that you are the man who came to be both lover and friend to me. You will continue to dwell in my mind and my heart as a friend at least, as I would be to you. And I will miss you, Gareth. I will miss you until my dying day.”

Felicity was proud of herself for making her speech without turning and flying back into his arms, but having made it, she still lacked the fortitude to follow up with a grand exit. She took a breath, hoping to find strength enough to move her feet, when she felt the barest hint of a weight from behind.

Gareth’s hand appeared in her peripheral vision, resting on her shoulder.

“My dearest love, if you would be my friend, then I must ask you—
beg
you
—take your leave of me now.” He spoke barely above a whisper, not the haughty, bored marquess, but the lover, the companion, the friend.

And he sounded every bit as devastated as she felt. Felicity wrapped her fingers around his hand, brought his knuckles to her lips for a kiss, then walked away without turning back.

***

From the depths of the parlor, Gareth saw the coach roll past the house. Felicity had drawn the shades, but he made himself watch until the horses trotted around a corner and the whole equipage disappeared from view.

He heaved a sigh, trying to be relieved—congratulating himself would have been too great a farce.

He had done it—said his good-byes as if he meant them, and sent Felicity on her way, back to the life of genteel respectability she deserved. Well done of him, if he did say so himself.

Of course, he hadn’t quite convinced her she was being casually tossed aside—she’d outmaneuvered him at the end—but still, she’d left him, knowing better than to expect impassioned declarations from the likes of him.

A decent job, all around. Felicity had her financial security, and she need never set foot on the premises of her business again. Gossip should die for lack of any new developments, and all should be well.

Because he was a man of relentless determination, Gareth continued to repeat these sentiments to himself in some form as he stood, staring sightlessly out the parlor window over the next half hour. Finding no comfort whatsoever in his own twaddle, he applied his determination in a more productive direction, and by noon had achieved a state formerly unfamiliar to him: that of complete, stinking drunkenness.

***

Astrid was more than a little worried.

Felicity had returned from what had obviously been an entire night spent in the company of the marquess, and had hardly spoken a word since. For several days, she had barely left her room, and even now, three weeks later, she spent much of her time in solitude, a monogrammed handkerchief clutched in her hand, grief in her eyes.

At first, she had told Astrid it was simply her monthly, hitting her harder than usual.

But monthlies came and went, and enough was enough. Pining for the marquess was understandable, but he was only a man, after all, and not that impressive a specimen, if a sense of humor and joie de vivre counted for anything. Something had to be done; but what?

Astrid’s musings were interrupted by their new butler’s announcement that a gentleman caller had arrived.

The caller was not Lord Andrew, whom she’d been telling herself for days not to expect on their doorstep.

“Mr. Holbrook!” Astrid beamed at her guest, and when he would have offered her a bow, she took both his hands in hers instead. “It is positively lovely to see you. You are a ray of sunshine to one confined in the dungeons of Caesar’s Gallic letters. You must make this a long visit, sir, or I shall be gloomed to death.”

“Good heavens, not the Gallic letters.” Holbrook passed his hat and cane to the butler. “Isn’t it illegal for females to read Latin?”

“Probably.” Astrid rang for tea and took a seat on the sofa. “But if I want to read all that naughty Catullus, I need to learn some grammar and vocabulary first. Interesting bunch, those old Romans.”

“You are serious,” Holbrook said. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or suggest your sister confine you with
Fordyce’s Sermons
. Will Miss Worthington be joining us?”

Astrid’s feelings abruptly hared off in all directions—resentment, frustration, long-suffering—and no little consternation, because by herself, she should not have invited Mr. Holbrook to stay.

Which point, he’d just delicately raised, drat him and his pretty eyes.

“My sister is indisposed, thank you for asking.” She was spared further explanation by the arrival of the footman with the tray. He shot a censorious look toward Mr. Holbrook and took himself off, no doubt to tattle to Mrs. Crabble.

Astrid started to pour, only to realize she was preparing to fix her own cup first. “And how do you take your tea, sir?”

“Plain today. I hope Miss Worthington’s indisposition is nothing serious?”

“Oh, it’s serious all right. Serious, grumpy, arrogant. I refer, of course, to the Marquess of Heathgate, who figured prominently in some embarrassing pronouncements made by a young lady of your acquaintance as you strolled recently by a certain duck pond.”

She handed him her tea, that is, tea made with plenty of cream and three lumps of sugar. When he looked down at it in puzzlement, Astrid realized her error.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. I do apologize. Let me try again?”

Holbrook passed her the tea and lifted the pot himself. “Why don’t I pour, while you enjoy that? Your nerves appear to be in need of settling.” He poured himself a cup of black tea and sat back. “So Heathgate was jilted more thoroughly than your sister intended?”

He apparently knew the gossip, though Astrid had the sense his interest was… kindly.

“It’s such a muddle,” Astrid muttered. “Heathgate’s a rascal, to use a ladylike term, so he thinks he ought not to offer for Felicity, lest she be disappointed. But he’s also quite the marquess, so Felicity thinks she ought not to encourage him, lest he form a union beneath his station, or some such nonsense. I could just slap that man for sending her into this decline.”

Holbrook considered his tea. “I have the sense plain speaking is in order.”

“Discretion is in order.” But how did one pretend to swill tea and discuss the weather when one’s only relation had barely left the house in weeks?

“I am very discreet, Miss Astrid. I give you my word, as a gentleman, as a friend, and as a fellow versed in the medical arts, that I do not gossip where a lady’s welfare is concerned.”

She should not be sitting here with him, even with the door open and Mrs. Crabble humming off-key Handel as she swatted the sideboard in the front hallway—loudly—with a dust rag.

“Your trust would mean a great deal to me, Miss Astrid.”

Heathgate had not trusted Mr. Holbrook, but where was Heathgate now?

“I fear Felicity has entered a decline.” If Heathgate were to fret over something, that struck Astrid as an excellent place for him to start.

Holbrook lifted the plate of tea cakes and held it out to Astrid. “She is not eating?”

Astrid did not want to eat either, but took a lemon cake to be polite. “Barely. She does not dress, she does not go out, she does not even speak much.”

Holbrook stirred his tea, which had neither cream nor sugar in it. “It could be, Miss Astrid, your sister, having become attached to Heathgate, is simply pining for a former amour. If he is her first, then she’s likely to take it quite too much to heart that they don’t suit. She strikes me, however, as a practical and resilient young lady. You must trust her to come ’round in her own time.”

Astrid took a raspberry tea cake this time. The conversation was very adult, and she should be pleased Mr. Holbrook would speak to her so, though she was at a loss to recall why adulthood had ever loomed with any appeal.

“Felicity has been practical and resilient for too many years. I fear this business with the marquess has exhausted her reserves.” For it had certainly tried Astrid’s patience, and she’d barely had to deal with the man.

Or his handsome brother. On that thought, she chased the raspberry tea cake with one covered in chocolate icing.

Mr. Holbrook held his teacup a couple of inches above the saucer, which brought out the fact that his left eye was the same color as the Jasperware. “If Miss Worthington doesn’t rally soon, will you send word to me? I can guide you in seeking consultation with a physician who might offer her some assistance.”

As if Lissy would permit a physician within twelve yards of her. “In truth, Mr. Holbrook, it is a relief to talk to someone about this, because I do worry, but you are not precisely… I feel awkward, that is to say… oh dear.” Astrid gave up in frustration, and was about to blurt out something far too blunt, when Holbrook spared her.

“Miss Astrid, I have already assured your sister, and I would like to assure you, I have no amorous intentions toward either one of you. I would simply like to be a friend to this household in whatever capacity a friend is needed.”

She had read enough Catullus to know that friendship—particularly from gentlemen not in contemplation of marriage—could be a flexible and not always proper concept. “Why?”

Holbrook sipped his tea, looking elegant and composed—suspiciously so? Astrid was safe receiving him in her own home, because the place was crawling with footmen and maids, but he didn’t necessarily know that.

“Your question is direct, Miss Astrid, and I will offer you directness in return. I grew up without a father, and my mother did not live to see me reach adulthood, which gives you and me something in common, by the way. In any case, I know firsthand what challenges can befall people who are facing the world, particularly as young adults, without familial support. I own myself protective of you and your sister, though I am, as you point out, little more than a stranger. The sentiment is there, nonetheless, and it cannot be any great inconvenience to have me stop by to chat from time to time, can it? How long has it been since you’ve taken a turn in the park?”

Astrid frowned at her tea, because it had been an age since she’d heard a duck quack, and that… that was Heathgate’s fault too.

“I shan’t go driving with you, but perhaps you wouldn’t mind a short stroll about the park? I haven’t fed my ducks for days, and even Felicity must understand I won’t be denied their company indefinitely.”

Holbrook smiled at her then, a smile as different from his proper-fellow smile as a male peacock was different from his drab little mate. He approved of her request, and that was more reassuring than it should be.

***

Astrid Worthington was growing up, the shift in her perceptible even in the few encounters Holbrook had had with her. As they walked along arm and arm, her footmen pacing them several yards back, he offered her one safe topic after another.