The Dress of the Season (7 page)

He had been too long without a woman. That had to be it. Needs had been building for months—hell, it was the reason he had sought out the widowed Mrs. Grace to begin with. And in the darkness of the attic, Felicity looked uncannily like Mrs. Grace. They both had dark hair and eyes, and pale pink skin . . .

Or,
some traitorous part of his brain posited,
Felicity did not look like Mrs. Grace so much as Mrs. Grace looked like Felicity.

“Harris?” Felicity asked, her voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough, more than enough to snap him out of his reverie.

“Never fear, Felicity,” he whispered back, all seriousness. “There are neither ghosts nor varmints in this attic.” Then, as somber as he could make his features, “Except for the family of bats over there.”

“Bats?!” she screeched, and slammed herself against his body, trying to get as far as possible from the corner of the room he indicated. Unfortunately, he had not anticipated her reaction would be so powerful, and did not brace himself accordingly. They had been standing so close, he could not help but tumble, taking Felicity with him.

“Ooof!” he exclaimed, as Felicity landed on his chest, their legs in a tangle. But she was too busy ducking her head, trying to hide her hair, and burrowing into him to notice the illicitness of their newfound postures . . . or how his body was reacting to them.

“Felicity . . . Felicity, you have to stop moving against me like that,” he choked out. “I was joking!”

She stilled. Her hands came off her hair gingerly. “You were?”

“Yes,” he replied on a sigh. “I can tease, too, sometimes.”

“Oh,” she breathed, settling her body against his—in a way it was even more disturbing than her moving. She fit so damn well against him. “It’s simply been so long, I had no idea you still retained a measure of humor.”

“Yes, well . . .” he grumbled, and could feel his ears going pink again. Thank heavens it was so dark. “Can we call an end to this game of hide-and-seek? I think it obvious who won.”

“Yes,” she sighed, propping her chin against her hand, resting on his chest. “After all, I did find you.”

“You did no such thing.” He frowned. “You walked right past me. I’m the one who reached out and grabbed you.”

“Those weren’t the rules. All I had to do was find you within the allotted fifteen minutes. Which I did.” She smiled at him, like a cat who had just found the cream.

“I don’t think so,” he replied, wrapping his arms around her tightly.

“Yes I did, now let me go so I can go crow about it to Mrs. Smith!” she said sternly, but was laughing against him.

“You will do no such thing, Felicity, I’m your guardian and I’m telling you so!” And he was laughing, too. Smiling as she giggled and struggled playfully against him. Grinning, as she found a weak point in his side and proceeded to tickle him. Laughing as he rolled her over onto her back, using his weight to hold her still.

“Tickling is against the rules,” he said seriously, but could not stop the smile on his face. Could not stop his hand from reaching up and threading through the dark waves that framed her face.

But then, she was no longer smiling. She was looking up at him, her eyes darker still, if that was possible, holding in them some sense of wonder. And he felt the smile slip from his face, as his gaze darted down to her mouth. He caught her gaze do the same.

“Harris?” her voice was a question, but it was not afraid. It was . . . waiting. Hoping.

And he knew. He knew he was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss Felicity Grove, and his body would sing with it.

“Felicity, I . . .” His fingers stroked her cheek. She tilted her chin up, her tongue darting out unconsciously to lick her lips.

They were in the attic, in the dark. Rain pounded down against the roof, encapsulating them in a wall of sound. They had their own world. And for once, he would not allow the consequences to ruin the moment.

He leaned in closer, could feel her breath against his . . .

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

Hands pounded against the attic door. And Mrs. Smith’s voice carried across the attic.

“Miss Grove? Lord Osterley? Are you in there? We heard a scream, and a crash.”

Every pleasure seeped from Harris’s body, and the real world seeped back in. He could see the moment it happened, reflected back at him in Felicity’s eyes.

Damn. Damn damn damn damn damn. What had he been doing? What had he been about to do?

“Yes, Mrs. Smith!” he called out. “Er . . . Miss Grove dropped her candle, and we cannot see a bloody thing.” Then without one last stricken look back to Felicity, he pulled himself up, dusted himself off, and offered his hand to help Felicity up. She took it . . . but then dropped it immediately when she gained her feet.

Good, he thought. That was good. That was right. That was how things were supposed to be. Felicity over there, safe and protected. And him over here . . . safe and protected as well.

Chapter Eight

The next few days passed, the rain perpetual, continuing the imprisonment of Lord Osterley and his ward. What transpired in the attic was not mentioned. Indeed, it was as if it had not happened. And Felicity was glad of it. All it did was add to the confusion in her mind, trying to decipher the puzzle of Harris versus Osterley.

It was as if some sort of wall had gone back up. But it was not nearly as sound a structure as the one he had erected four years previously. Felicity knew where the holes were now—all she had to do was not tolerate his scowl, the twitch in his jaw, and instead challenge him.

Still, she danced gingerly around him. He was wary of her, that much she knew. Although,
he
had been the one about to kiss
her
, she had no notion why he looked so disapprovingly at her. But instead of being offended by it and traipsing off with Aunt Bertha to a party, like she would have done had they been in London, she sat and practiced playing hand after hand of whist by herself, until he gave up and sat down and played with her.

When he tried to hare off and hide in his library, she marched right in. With a ball of string.

“I cannot get this untangled,” she stated unequivocally, and tossed the ball to him.

“What do you expect me to do about it?” He asked, startled out of the papers he was reading.

“Help me untangle it, of course,” and she pulled up a chair, and pulled the ball apart, so the tangle stretched enough for both of them to work on it.

And soon enough, Harris followed suit, helping her untangle the ball of string. They sat in silence for some time, working on the knot, their fingers brushing occasionally, but neither of them remarking upon it. The only sound they made was when one of them needed the other end of the string or some such thing. Within a half hour, the ball of string was untangled, and Harris was smiling at her again.

“What is this string for, may I ask?” He drawled, handing her the last of it.

“Cat’s cradle, of course.” She knotted the ends of the string together, and quickly looped it about her hands in the rhythm of the starting cat’s cradle position. She held it out to him, and he was unable to do anything else but play along.

And just like that, the wall that he had put up fell down again. They could talk again. He came out of his self-imposed shell, and the room lit up with him.

Harris was not the only one affected by their time together, she knew. Indeed, the continual presence of Harris in her life, the little touches that she knew he was aware of but did not acknowledge, the moments of being forced to take an interest in each other, they were wreaking a change in her as well.

She felt . . . steady, for the first time in years. As if there was an anchor, and that she no longer needed to ricochet wildly from one thing to another, seeking life and excitement. It was exciting enough when Harris told her something new—even if it was about irrigation techniques he was hoping to try in the north field (although with the constant April rain, he would be better suited to research drainage, and when she told him such, he had laughed). It was so much fun to watch the way his brow came down, as he pondered over something she said, whether it be about her taste in books or how she remembered the sweet shop in Whitney always giving them treats and how Harris always gave his to her.

It was marvelous to be this way with each other again . . . in some ways it was stronger than when they were children. Regardless of the fact that they did not mention what happened in the attic, and that he had tried and failed to put distance between them again, Felicity felt certain that when the rain stopped, their friendship would continue in the way that it had grown.

Wouldn’t it?

He would go back to London. He would still leave her here. The distance between them would grow as surely as there were miles between Croft Park and the city. And she would still be left alone.

But perhaps it would not be so bad. Perhaps she could make peace with the ghosts of her past. Perhaps, she would be able to take up residence in her little house just down the lane, even though she had not yet come of age.

Perhaps that was the kind of life she needed.

“What are you thinking about now?” he asked kindly, his head coming up from the desk, where he was flipping through a book.

She would miss this. The ability to be quiet and easy with him. She had never been able to just sit in a room, silence sluicing down with the rain, with anyone.

“You’ve been staring out the windows for a half hour.”

“Nothing,” she replied with a smile. “I was thinking about living in my house again.”

His head came up. “Living in your house? But you live here.”

“Well, yes. But I’ll be of age within the year. I thought maybe I should live on my property.”

“No, Felicity.”

“But why? I shan’t need the income from renting the property. And I would no longer be a burden to you and Aunt Bertha. I’ll visit in London of course, but maybe I should try to make my life here for a little while at least.”

“I said no, Felicity.” He slammed his book shut and set his eyes on her. “Is your only argument that you fear being a burden?”

“Well, no, but . . .”

“You are not a burden. So that is that.”

And he stalked to the door and out of the room.

She could only gape after his retreating form. For the past four years, not taking the past week into account, Harris had treated Felicity as nothing but a burden, and an annoying one at that. To declare she was not such now, when she gave the first indication of trying to plan for her future . . .

How could she explain to him how she felt about her home? About how she needed to see it, and was afraid to, all at the same time? How she wished to be able to bring it to life again, and maybe the anchor she had recently found would stay with her, even once Harris had decamped to London?

She shook her head. Harris Dane, Lord Osterley, was a puzzle. A complete mystery. One she would never be able to figure out.

And just as she had begun to think that she was perfectly happy to live in a bubble of time and memory with the mystery that was Harris, everything changed.

The rain stopped.

*  *  *

“I’ve sent to Whitney for men to begin work on the bridge,” Harris announced that morning over breakfast.

“How?” Felicity asked, her head tilting to one side.

“I had the stable lads take the rowboats from the lake over to the river. They rowed across and ran into town.”

The day had dawned bright and clear. Strange, blue skies and warm breezes had never left Harris feeling so . . . uneasy before. But there it was. Their imposed isolation was over.

“Well then,” Felicity replied, licking her lips nervously, “there is no reason you cannot make your way back to London. Take a rowboat across yourself and hire a carriage in Whitney. I do not doubt you could get one easily.”

But Harris just shrugged. The tightness in his belly grew tighter, but he ignored it. “I want to ride out with my steward today, make certain no severe damage was incurred by the rain.”

“Oh,” she replied carefully. He thought he saw a hint of a smile. But she squashed it down. “Well, I must confess I am looking forward to taking a walk outside. We have been cooped up in here too long.”

His eyes flitted to hers. What did she mean by that? And what did she mean by asking him if he was going back to London? Did she want him to go? But he did not let those errant, panicked thoughts control him. He was going to go, after all. He had already missed half a dozen votes in Parliament, and who knows how much gossip had grown from Felicity’s dress incident that Aunt Bertha had not managed to squelch. And he had been wearing the same clothes—laundered nightly, but still—for a week now!

But, given all that, he wasn’t ready to go. Not yet.

“Well, just be cautious. The ground is thick with mud, and Mrs. Smith swears this break in the weather will not hold.”

And with that, he stood up from the table, gave Felicity a short, oddly formal bow, and left.

*  *  *

“Excuse me!” Felicity called out to the men on the other side of the river. “Do you think you can take me across?”

The men from the village looked up at her. Men with caps and thick necks, who labored for a living, took her in as if she were a queer spectre. One of them in particular.

“Miss . . . Miss Grove?” he asked. “Is that you?”

“Er, yes,” she replied. “How do you do?”

“Miss Grove, it’s me! Peter Black, from the smithy!” He grinned out at her.

“Peter!” she grinned back. “How marvelous to see you!” Peter had been little more than a lad when she last saw him. He must be sixteen or so by now, and quite the man in terms of appearance.

“Hold on, Miss Grove, I’ll be right across!” Peter said, as he jumped into the rowboat.

She had stepped out of the house, almost as soon as Harris had vacated the breakfast room. She wore her sturdiest boots to guard against the mud, and had an old shawl wrapped around her. But the day was so warm, and the sun coming through so strong, she ended up leaving the shawl on a fence near the lake, as she wandered the sodden grounds. But it was not too long before her feet took her here, to the bridge, and to the place that had been haunting the edges of her mind since they had arrived.

It would be nothing to visit her old house. After all, it was just a little ways past the old bridge. No one was there, the tenants gone with the tree that ruined the morning room roof. She would be able to dip her head in, and see that it was not a place to fear, that her memories, as afraid of them as she was, could be a joy.

Peter arrived on her side of the river, and handed her into the rowboat with a grin.

“Miss Grove, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. We thought you were living in London, never to come home again!”

Home. Was this her home? Wasn’t it? Where did she belong exactly? Where was her anchor now?

“What did you say, Peter?”

“I asked if you was walking into the village, miss,” Peter answered.

“I’m just out walking.” She smiled at him, and saw the sixteen-year-old blush to the roots of his hair.

“Well don’t take too long, miss,” he replied, when his voice could be found. He nodded toward the western sky. “The clouds are gathering again.”

*  *  *

Harris was about to go mad. He was holding onto his temper with such a tight leash that it was a wonder it did not snap.

“She’s missing?” he barked.

“She . . . she went out for a walk this morning, and hasn’t been back.” Mrs. Smith, usually so stoic, was near to tears.

The skies had opened up about an hour ago while Harris and his steward were on the south field, seeing that the crops had not drowned in the past week. They had ridden back immediately, the rain pouring down harder and harder as they marched diligently back to the main house. But when they got inside, dripping on the carpets, they had been met by Mrs. Smith, bearing a sodden lavender shawl in her arms.

“One of the stable lads found this on the ground near the edge of the woods. She was wearing it when she went out. If she’s caught out in the rain, she’ll be sick with fever, I just know it,” the older woman worried.

Fever. Fever was how it had all started, four years ago. The epidemic.

“Johnson!” he called out, and his steward snapped to attention. “Have them put the saddle back on my horse. And fetch the stable lad that spotted the shawl. We have to find her.”

*  *  *

The house was exactly the same. The rooms were the same in proportion, the same in general arrangement. The small, tidy grounds laid out in the same fashion, the rose bushes that lined the windows beginning to show the very earliest of buds, as they always had, and always would.

But everything else was different. All the furnishings had been replaced with more modern ones, the wallpaper and draperies changed. And there was of course, a large, roughly patched hole in the roof of the morning room—luckily it had held firm against the week’s worth of rain. But it was more than that.

This was someone else’s home. Other people had lived here, moved through here, positioned the trinkets accordingly. Someone else had sat on this furniture, and spilled tea on the carpet, and played with dolls in front of the fire.

She wandered upstairs to her old bedchamber, found it oddly familiar yet changed, too. This was a boy’s room now—the décor was far more masculine, and she found a lone tin solider, left behind by his brigade, wedged into a corner. But it was still her room. There was still the marks on the wall where she and John had been measured growing up. Painted over, but she could still see them.

Felicity traced her fingers over the line with John’s name next to it, the highest, marking him as a man. He was not overly tall—not nearly Harris’s height, but she remembered how her chin had rested against John’s shoulder when he embraced her, that last time before she was sent to London. His dark hair had matched hers, but he had their father’s light eyes. Neither of them had looked like their stepmother Sylvia, although that was to be expected. She was tiny, and fair, and God help you if you underestimated her fierceness.

Smiling in memory, Felicity wandered into what had been her parents’ bedchamber. There her smile faded. The last time she had seen Sylvia, she was lying in bed, sweat broken out over her brow, small, ugly marks cropping up all over that fair skin. She wanted to approach, but John had forced her to stay in the doorway as she said her good-byes.

“Only for a little while,” Sylvia had said, trying to smile. “You make me envious—having a London adventure at sixteen!”

Felicity had smiled at her, wanted to kiss her, wanted to cry. And so, now, in this room, changed in everything but its fundamentals, she did. She let the tears fall, for the happy memories, and the sad ones. And that was when the sky began to cry with her.

Her past was just that, she felt, sure as it fell from her eyes. It was not here any longer. She need not fear it so, but at the same time, she could not go back to it.

Wiping her eyes after some minutes, Felicity realized, with unusual good sense, that she was in a bit of pinch. The rain was pouring down quite vehemently, and she was a long way from Croft Park, especially on foot.