The Dress of the Season (9 page)

Chapter Ten

The silver lace lay against her bosom as luxuriously as it had the first time she wore it. The silken layers of the skirt brushed lightly against her hands as she moved gracefully down the stairs toward the dining room. Surprisingly, her hair was down, dancing against her smooth, exposed back.

Every servant she passed in the hall stared at her. Every one of them, fighting a smile. They may not know specifically what was going to happen—Felicity trusted Mrs. Smith’s discretion—but they knew that something important was going to take place. Mrs. Smith had ordered supper completely rearranged—crème soups, orange preserves used to dress pheasant, the richest wine—all to seduce Harris into a more extravagant frame of mind.

The silver had been polished, Mrs. Smith reported, the china was pristine. The warm candles turned the crystals sewn onto Felicity’s dress into starlight.

All she had to do now, was go through with it.

Felicity paused before turning the corner, where footmen waited to admit her to the dining room. Her resolve could not fail her now.

“I wish . . . I wish I was brave,” she whispered to herself, her fingers playing with the topmost layer of her skirt as she did so. “Please make me brave.”

But she could not stay in the darkened hallway, wishing for bravery, she knew. She had to bring her head up, square her shoulders, and move forward. And that’s exactly what she did.

Turning the corner, she nodded regally to the footman waiting to attend her. He pulled open the door to the dining room, she held her head high in the air as she stepped inside, and . . .

No one was there.

This . . . this could not be right. Felicity glanced about her, checking the corners of the room. The impressive repast was laid out on the table, its silver trays and candlesticks shining, the food succulent, the wine poured, the fire easy in the hearth. She gave a brief glance to the clock on the mantelpiece. She was a quarter hour late for supper, as planned.

Harris should be here.

“Excuse me”—she turned to the footman who still held the door. “Where is Lord Osterley?”

“He asked for a tray, earlier, miss,” the footman replied nervously, and Felicity automatically corrected her speech to be less intense. No need to frighten the poor man.

“He did?” she asked, as casually as she could manage.

“Yes, miss. Told everyone he did not wish to be disturbed. Locked the door, even against Mr. Firth, who you know has been actin’ as his valet.”

Locked the door. Did not wish to be disturbed. Well, Felicity had come too far to let him put her off that easily.

“That coward,” she swore under her breath. Then, without a second glance to the footman, she turned around and marched out the dining room, through the hall and to the study.

The fire that had burned so high that afternoon was out now, and Felicity grabbed one of the candles from the hall to see properly.

“You may lock everyone else out,” she grumbled to herself, as she located the hinge and catch of the door that hid a secret staircase leading directly up to Harris’s bedchamber, “but not me.”

*  *  *

He paced the carpet like a tiger in a cage. The tray of food brought up for him had long gone cold, and all he could think about was Felicity, downstairs, having supper. Harris’s eyes flicked to the clock—she would be down there now, had been for twenty minutes. His feet took him to the door, his hand reached out.

Wait. No. He stopped himself. He would not go down there. He had told everyone he wanted to be alone. He was in his shirtsleeves and socks, for God’s sake! No matter how much he wanted to see Felicity—dreaded seeing Felicity—he knew it was better this way. Things had become too intense. It had all become too much. He would leave in the morning.

Besides, he thought glumly, returning to his pacing, she likely hated him now.

She would hate him, for his rejection of her. Felicity . . . well, to his knowledge, had never known rejection before. And why should she? She was all light and happiness. All enjoyment and life, beautiful to boot. He could not tie her down to him, to his guilt, to the hard work it had taken to get Croft Park back on its feet, to the seriousness of being Osterley.

Yes, she would hate him, he decided. And he would go back to London with her hating him, and order would be restored to his mind, to his life.

It would not hurt to lose her, because she had never been his to lose.

The moment he came to this conclusion—and wanted to weep from it—Harris felt it. A slight movement of air behind him. He whirled, tensed for attack.

And there she stood.

“I was wondering when you would stop pacing,” she said softly. “You’ve likely trod a path into the carpet.”

She stepped into the light, and his entire body, already as tight as a drum, practically vibrated at the sight of her.

She is wearing that dress.
That dress that had made him lose all reason little more than a week ago. That dress that made her look like a woman borne of silver fire.

His traitorous heart sped up. He almost smiled.

He was just so damned
glad
to see her.

“You are covered in dust.” It was the only thing he could think of to say.

She touched her hair self-consciously. “The hidden stairway”—she waved her other hand behind her, and he finally noticed the dark cavern that had appeared in his wall—“hasn’t been cleaned in a while.”

Then she dropped her hand, squared her shoulders, and left any and all self-consciousness behind as she advanced on him. He could only stare in wonder.

“You’re here,” he said numbly. “In my bedchamber.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“In that dress.”

“Yes.”

“Good God, Felicity, are you trying to break me?”

“Yes.” She smiled shyly. She was close enough now, close enough to touch. But she didn’t reach out to him. “If that is what it takes.”

He let out a ragged breath. “Do you have any idea what you are asking of me?”

“I do.” She met his eyes. “I’m asking you to let go. I’m asking you to be happy. And to . . .” She searched for the words. “And to take me with you.”

He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, before he grabbed her by the forearms and pulled her to him.

“Thank god,” he whispered harshly, before crushing his mouth against hers.

Glory. That was the only word for it. He gloried in her lips, playfully nipping at their corners. He gloried in her skin, so soft yet strong underneath his hands. Gloried in her hair, thrusting his hands through their luscious depths. Gloried in the feeling of finally, finally letting himself go.

And claim what was his.

Mine.

They moved across the floor together, as if dancing. He led, and Felicity learned the rhythms and followed beautifully. He gripped her waist, bunching his hands in the soft silk. He wanted to touch her, all of her, wanted to let go and allow himself those pleasures.

And, he finally decided, he would.

Their lips came apart briefly when his legs hit the back of the high, four-poster bed. He wanted her eyes then, wanted to make certain that this was real. Needed to know she wanted him, too.

He met her gaze, and saw no doubt in them.

“Felicity . . .” he breathed.

“Osterley,” she replied, with a teasing grin.

“No.” He smiled back. “Harris. Just Harris.” And he bent down, and lifted her easily into his arms. Reverently, gently, he placed her on the bed.

Felicity thought she had known what she was getting into. She was not a green girl after all, and had spent enough of her formative years in the country to know what passed between the male and female of any species. But she had not expect to feel so . . . cherished. So powerful. So wonderful.

He laid her on the bed, and he came to lie beside her. But that would not do. So she pulled him to her kissing him, holding him, letting her fingers play with the strands of thick blond hair that came to fall over his ears. But still it was not enough. She wanted his weight.

“Oof!” He groaned as she pulled him on top of her. “My darling girl,” he said, his breathing heavy as he came up on his elbows. “Don’t you think we are moving a bit fast?”

“Not fast enough in my opinion,” she replied, and pulled him down again.

Then there were no words. Only Harris, and Felicity, and the wonders of exploration.

Her hands traced the lines of his back, as she pulled his shirt over his head.

His mouth found the crook of her neck—she nearly cried out from the pleasure of it.

The buttons of her silver dress fell free under his nimble fingers, both of them laughing, surprised by his skill.

Her nipples hardened into peaks beneath his hands, making her gasp at the sensation.

Little kisses on her shoulder, on her breast, on the inside of her elbow. All of it making her feel as if they were the only two people in the world, and all the time was theirs, to do with as they pleased. She was truly drugged by his touch.

But, if Felicity was fluid, glowing, Harris was holding onto his control by the thinnest tether. Undoing the buttons of that dress revealed that she was not wearing a corset. Indeed, it seemed she was not wearing
anything
under that dress.

Thank God he was still wearing his trousers, otherwise he would have slammed himself into her then and there.

He forced himself to slow his breathing, his pace. For all of her passion, Felicity was still new to this, and that, more than his own needs, was at the forefront of his mind.

The dress slipped to the floor. He covered her with his body, his instincts to keep her warm, but also, his hardness sought her softness. Pressing himself into her, he heard her gasp of breath and smiled against her lips. Her fingers slid beneath the waistband of his trousers, and eased them down.

“I want all of you, Harris,” she whispered.

He was more than happy to oblige.

The trousers fell away as easily as the dress. His socks, her stockings. His drawers met the floor in the same heedless pile. Until there was nothing between them but air and the thudding of their hearts.

And then . . . there was nothing between them at all.

Heat rushed through her body, delicious slides of sensation emanating from her core. He was so careful with her, Felicity realized. He was moving so cautiously, so reverently. But she could tell that he was straining against himself. That war was still going on.

“Just let go,” she whispered in his ear. And felt him push inside of her.

It hurt. It was unavoidable. But she did not cry out. She took some small pride in holding herself apart from such indignity. But Harris felt her stiffen, and was immediately up on his forearms, desperately searching her face.

Instead of answering him with words, she leaned up and kissed him.

Everything Harris had ever feared, every terrifying consequence—that he could hurt her, that he could scare her—fell away with that kiss. And as she pulled him to her, his body moved within her, and she moved with him.

They gave themselves over to a dance as old as time. Legs held flanks, steadied him against her. The push and pull that was as engrained in them, as it was in every man and woman, stoked a fire that Felicity did not fully understand, but knew she wanted.

She wanted that ride. She wanted to know what her body was craving. She wanted . . .

“Felicity,” he whispered in her ear. “Just let go.”

Ripples of pleasure coursed through her body, leaving her breathless, panting. It was almost too much, the way it crashed against her, but she knew it was all right, because she was safe.

She was in Harris’s arms.

And as she floated back down to earth, she clutched him to her tightly. Holding him as he lost himself, as completely as she had.

“Oh, my love.”

She whispered it, against the thrumming of her heart, she couldn’t know if he heard her. But it didn’t matter. She mouthed it, again and again, until he brought himself up on his arms one last time, and kissed her quiet.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

And when Felicity awoke in the morning, he was gone.

Chapter Eleven

“Miss Grove? Miss Grove!”

Felicity awoke with a start, her body both oddly languid and stiff. Light filled her eyes as the bed curtains were ruthlessly thrown back, and bright, clear sunlight invaded the cocoon. Pillows flew to the floor in jumbled confusion. She blinked, and looked up at the panicked shadow of Mrs. Smith.

“Miss Grove!” Mrs. Smith cried, and Felicity, mindful of her lack of clothes, quickly pulled up the blankets around her so Mrs. Smith could not rip those away, too. “You must awake. He is gone!”

“Gone? Who?” Felicity blinked at her surroundings. She knew where she was, of course. She knew she was naked under the sheets and what had happened before and after that nakedness, causing that delicious glow over her skin (that was rapidly deteriorating from Mrs. Smith’s panicked tone). But everything else was a bewildering mystery.

“Lord Osterley, of course!”

Felicity sat straight up in the bed. “He’s
gone
?” Not gone, surely. No, he can’t be, she argued. “Maybe . . . maybe he wanted to take advantage of the weather, and went to check on the progress of the bridge. Or he went to continue checking the cottages with the steward . . .”

“No, he’s gone!” Mrs. Smith wailed. “He took off at dawn, and a carriage from the village met him on the other side of the river. Mr. Johnson just told me! He’s gone back to London, as planned!”

Mrs. Smith sat down on the bed beside Felicity, inconsolable. “And now you are ruined, and I . . . I have been culpable in your downfall. It is as much I who has ruined you as Lord Osterley!”

While the housekeeper sobbed into her hands, Felicity’s mind raced back to the past night. Why . . . why would Harris leave her in his bed? Why would he run? She thought that he . . .

Had she done something wrong? No—no, they had both reveled in the pleasures the other gave them. But had she said something . . . ?

Her words, when she had walked into the room, came back to her, each one spreading dread down her spine.

I want you to be happy . . . and to take me with you.

And then, Mrs. Smith’s own words to her floated to the front of Felicity’s mind, and her dread was confirmed.

It is no secret that you would wish to be in London.

“Oh, no.”

From the very outset, Harris had known Felicity hadn’t wanted to come to Croft Park, that she had wanted to stay in London. But did he honestly think that she would give herself to him, to persuade him to take her back to the city?

Felicity’s eyes fell mournfully on the empty space in the bed beside her. Apparently he did.

“Mrs. Smith, I think I have done something dreadful,” Felicity gulped.

“I know!” Mrs. Smith’s sobs had become a series of hiccups. “And I was the one who convinced you to do it. Well, do not worry, miss. I will leave Osterley’s employ immediately—how dare he be such a brute! I will stay with you and we will find a way to exist in our mutual shame.”

“Er, before we martyr ourselves,” Felicity began cautiously, jumping out of bed, keeping the blankets around her, “I’d much rather rectify the situation.”

“How?”

“How much of a head start does Osterley have?” she asked quickly.

“About . . . about an hour, I imagine.”

“Send to the village for another carriage—we will meet them at the river in short order. We are going to London, and we are going to fix this,” Felicity said with resolve, picking up her silver dress off the floor and making for the door.

“But what if it cannot be fixed, miss?” Mrs. Smith worried her hands.

“It will be,” Felicity resolved, her eyes growing dark.

“Or God help us, miss.”

“No,” she countered. “Or God help Osterley.”

*  *  *

“Hello Daniels,” Felicity, bag in hand, said as she entered the Berkeley Square town house early that afternoon, Mrs. Smith in tow. “Is he in his study?”

Daniels, Osterley’s valet stood in the foyer, nodding a hasty good-bye to a man that had just delivered a box into his hands.

“Er, yes, Miss Grove,” Daniels replied, startled to see her.

“Excellent,” Felicity replied, and she plowed right past the valet-cum-butler.

“Wait, Miss Grove!” Daniels called after her, but Felicity—who had overcome muddy roads, a bridgeless river, and the stares of most of the occupants of Croft Park and the village of Whitney respectively to make her way to London in little more than five hours—was not about to be stalled by one measly valet. Luckily, she had her secret weapon with her.

“I’ll thank you to get out of miss’s way. You must have the carriage and horses attended to.” Mrs. Smith said, blocking Daniels from reaching out to Felicity. Felicity marched onward to Harris’s study door.

“But, miss, you should not go in there just now—” Daniels warned, juggling the box in his hands. But Mrs. Smith grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the front door.

He broke free of Mrs. Smith’s grasp, but not in time to stop Felicity from her goal.

She opened the study door, and heedless of anything else, marched directly up to Harris, who sat behind his desk.

“Felicity!” he cried, astonished. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here!” she countered, all of her vibrating anger focused on him.

She heard behind her, the weak explanations of Daniels. “I’m sorry sir, I could not stop her—”

“Correct, he could not stop me”—she breathed heavily—“nor shall you, from saying what I have to say.”

“Er, Felicity,” Harris began, as the tips of his ears blushed.

“No.” She cut him off. “You left me. Alone, in your bed this morning, thus I get to say my piece.”

The rest of Harris’s face joined his ears in turning red. Felicity reached into her bag, and as dramatically as she was able, pulled out the crumpled silver dress and threw it onto his desk.

“There. There is the gown that caused all this trouble. This is the reason you sent me away, and it is what I wore to seduce you last evening. But if you think for one moment that I seduced you so you would end my exile and take me out of Surrey, you are sorely mistaken.

“I seduced you because I fell in love with you. Not in the past week, not solely. Sometime long before, but only a week of rain managed to unearth it. And I thought you had fallen in love with me. So the fact that you can treat me so casually is disconcerting to say the least!” Her voice went up an octave, in her anger. But with one easy breath she brought her temper back down again. “When I asked you to take me with you, I was speaking metaphorically. I meant to bed, not to London, you ninny!”

She leaned in on her hands, looking Harris dead in the eye, keeping her voice as devoid of sympathy as possible.

“I know you are scared,” she said. “I am, too. But I’m more scared of being without you than losing you someday. So you are going to have to love me, marry me, and just learn to live with it!”

She straightened, holding his gaze. She could not falter in this, as frightened as she was. So she stood there, chin up, eyes on his, until he spoke.

“Is that all?” he drawled.

“For . . . for now,” she replied.

“Well, before I counter, perhaps you would like to say hello, Aunt Bertha? Lady Worth?”

His eyes flicked behind her. Slowly, painfully, Felicity turned. There, sitting on the leather sofa by the fire, teacup held in midair, was Aunt Bertha, her eyes wide with shock. Beside her was Lady Worth, whose expression could only be considered “bemused.” And next to her, was a woman Felicity did not recognize, but who looked decidedly interested in this speech.

“And I don’t know if you’ve been properly introduced to Madame LeTrois,” he said, rising to his feet. “She designed the dress you just threw at me.”

“You should be more careful how you treat Gypsy lace, mademoiselle,” Madame LeTrois said with a tsk, in obvious good humor. Gleeful, in fact. As if she had just happened upon the juiciest bit of gossip in London. Which, she had.

“Aunt Bertha and her friends have just been reporting to me all the gossip of the past week—or more importantly, the lack of it.” He came around his desk. “It seems Aunt Bertha was very correct in thinking that Mrs. Grace would come off worse from this whole dress business than you would, and that madame would be useful in sharing our version of the truth.”

“Oh,” was all Felicity could manage to say. “That is very good.”

“Quite,” he replied. “It would seem that there is no scandal to speak of, and since the damper of rain reached London as well as Surrey, there has been so little activity in town no one really noticed you were gone. Thus, you should be able to take back up your social engagements as soon as you please.”

No scandal. Except for the one she just created. For indeed, not only was Madame LeTrois and Lady Worth witness to her little speech, so were Mrs. Smith, Daniels, and a few other servants, blatantly listening in the doorway.

Oh heavens, Felicity thought with a rush. They had left the front door open, hadn’t they? All of Berkeley Square likely heard!

All she wished to do was bury her face in her hands and give way to mortification. But Harris reached out and prevented her from doing so by taking her hand in his.

“However, I was informing them of a recent discovery of my own. Namely, that I had fallen madly in love with my ward, and intended to make her my bride.”

Felicity met his gaze in shock.

“Now, as your guardian, I was appalled that someone had stolen your heart, let alone your virtue under my nose. But as the man who did the stealing, I made my peace with it. Thus I decided that the only option was to marry you forthwith. Daniels!” he called out, snapping that man to attention.

“Yes sir?”

“Did the man from the bank arrive?”

“Er, yes sir. Just now.”

“Excellent,” Harris smiled—smiled!—down at Felicity.

Daniels stepped forward and produced the tightly secured box. Harris stepped back around his desk and fished in a drawer as Daniels put the box on the table. Producing a key from the depths of said drawer, Harris unlocked the box, lifting out a beautiful necklace, jeweled cuffs, and then finally, a ring.

“Aha!” he cried. “This one, correct, Aunt Bertha?”

Bertha peered at the ring in his hand, a bloodred ruby set in diamonds. “Yes, my boy, that was your mother’s ring, and her mother’s before her.”

Harris came back around to the front of the desk. Felicity stole a glance at the rapt audience of ladies and servants who watched. Lady Worth’s smile had gone from bemused to brilliant, and even Madame LeTrois seemed a bit misty-eyed. Mrs. Smith for her part, was openly sniffling as Harris gently pushed the ring onto Felicity’s finger.

“You ninny,” he whispered in her ear. “I left you a note.”

“You did?” she replied, the world turned dizzy around her.

“Yes, it was on my pillow, next to your head. I thought for certain you would see it.”

“Ah, no,” Felicity replied sheepishly, remembering the messy state they had left the bed in. “We were a bit rushed, once it was discovered you left.”

“I suppose I can take the blame for that, then.” He grinned and leaned in to kiss her.

“Wait”—she held a hand against his chest, stilling him. “What did the note say?”

“Mostly what we have already discussed. And that I was coming back. And that from now on, anywhere I go—I am taking you with me.” He smiled as he lowered his lips to hers.

*  *  *

In the weeks that followed, with the special license ordered and a new special dress designed by Madame LeTrois for the special day, it was easy to forget what had started it all. What Osterley’s first intentions had been for the silver gown, and how it had precipitated Felicity’s expulsion from town. Cynical though London seemed, it enjoyed a story of love triumphant more than it did of downfall, and thus, the events changed course in people’s minds. As the shock of Viscount Osterley engaging himself to his ward wore off, the pair of lovers became simply Harris and Felicity, a lovely couple, friends since youth, obviously meant to be.

But a certain few players—Madame LeTrois, Mrs. Smith, Aunt Bertha, and most importantly, Felicity and Harris themselves—knew the truth.

That they owed everything—their happiness, their family, and their love—to a moment of bravery, a week of rain, a washed out bridge, and to a scandalous silver dress.

The dress of the Season.