What a Lady Wants

by Victoria Alexander

“I’m not sure I need to. You seem to have covered everything extremely well.” She smiled pleasantly.

  Suspicion narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t like his sister to concede a point this easily. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It scarcely matters whether you believe me or not. Or whether I believe you. It seems to me the most important question is one neither of us has touched on.”

  He was almost afraid to ask. “And what, dear sister, would that be?”

  “It’s obvious, at least to someone who knows you as well as I do, and possibly even to the most casual of observers, that your reaction to this young woman’s desire to marry you is out of all proportion to her crime.”

  He snorted. “I don’t think—”

  Maddy held out her hand to stop him. “In a situation like this, I would have expected you to make light of the lady’s wishes and turn her away firmly but gently with your usual good humor. I would further expect that, in the process, you would somehow convince her that not only were you unsuitable for marriage, but that she was the one to come to that realization, and furthermore that it was her idea to turn you away.”

  “Certainly, I could—”

  “However, as you have not done so, and have instead acted in a manner completely foreign to your nature, it would seem to me, darling brother Nigel, the real question you should concern yourself with”—she smiled a slow, wickedly knowing smile that was all the more terrifying because he had seen a smile very much like it in his own mirror—“is why.”

  “Why?” Nigel said to himself. “Why, why, why?”

  “Did you say something, Mr. Cavendish?” the lady to his right asked. She was a widow around his age, with a lush beauty and a speculative gleam in her eye. Exactly his type of woman. Why, he should be charming her right now with an eye toward something of greater interest later. Yet it was all he could do to maintain a semblance of coherent conversation.

  “Nothing,” he said with a polite smile. “Nothing at all.”

  “Oh.” She leaned forward in a provocative manner. “Are you certain? I could have sworn you said something.”

  He stared at her for a moment, waiting for the surge of desire he usually felt when a woman this lovely and this eager flirted with him. Nothing. What had Felicity done to him? Damn the woman anyway. He resisted the urge to glance to where she was seated, directly across the table from him. And damn his sister too. She’d told him she hadn’t seated Felicity next to him, but she failed to mention she had placed Felicity where he couldn’t fail to notice her every move. Not that he cared.

  “No.” He shook his head with more regret than she would ever know. “I am sorry.”

  “As am I,” the lady said curtly, and pointedly turned her back to him to speak to the man on her right.

  The lady on his left was similarly engaged with the gentleman beside her. Maddy was right. He might well be polite but he wasn’t the least bit charming or engaging to night. Under other circumstances, by this point in the dinner—he glanced at the barely touched quail on his plate—the third or possibly the fourth course, he would have thoroughly conquered the ladies on either side of him and had one wondering if his reputation was well earned and the other planning to find out for herself. His heart simply wasn’t in it to night. Blast it all. Look at what the mere discussion of marriage did to a man. His resolve to avoid it hardened.

  He shot an annoyed glance at Felicity, the source of all his trouble, who was too busy conversing with Norcroft beside her to pay Nigel any notice at all. Judging by the expression on her face and the way her eyes would widen and she would lean toward Norcroft ever so slightly, not to mention her occasional light laughter, she apparently no longer found him dull. Norcroft didn’t seem the least bit bored either. At least she wasn’t paying any attention to Beckham, seated to her left, at the moment. Not that she hadn’t spent part of the soup course, and nearly all of the fish, hanging on the man’s every word. Nigel wouldn’t have thought it of her, indeed until to night the idea hadn’t entered his head, but Felicity Melville was an accomplished flirt. When one thought about it, it was surprising that she hadn’t found a husband before now. Why, just look at Norcroft and Beckham. They had both fallen under her spell. Well, Nigel Cavendish was made of sterner stuff.

  “What say you, Cavendish, do you agree with Beckham?” Norcroft said.

  Nigel stared at his friend. He had no idea what they’d been talking about. “I’m not entirely certain. It’s a…a difficult question to answer.” Made all the more difficult by not knowing what the subject under discussion was. “Want do you think, Lady Felicity, do you agree?”

  Beckham snorted.

  “Do I agree?” Her brow rose. “As it was my contention that started the debate in the first place, obviously I do not agree with Lord Beckham.”

  “However, she does agree with me, or rather”—Norcroft grinned—“I agree with her.”

  “I think Cavendish is trying to curry favor with Lady Felicity by evading the question,” Beckham said. “By not saying anything, he doesn’t have to disagree with her.”

  “Nonsense. I daresay Mr. Cavendish doesn’t worry about disagreeing with me at all.” An amused smile quirked the corners of Felicity’s mouth as if she knew full well he had not been following the conversation. “And surely you do have an opinion as to whether Mr. Robert Browning or Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning is the better poet.”

  Poetry? They were discussing poetry? Relief washed through him. He could certainly discuss poetry.

  “Unless of course it’s a topic you have never given any particular thought to.” A definite challenge sounded in Felicity’s voice.

  “I admit I have not given it a great deal of thought.” He shrugged. “However, I am familiar with the works of both husband and wife.” He paused to consider the issue and come up with some sort of lucid answer, straining to recall anything he had ever heard about the works of the Brownings. After all, he wasn’t an idiot, he did have discussions of an intellectual nature on occasion. He couldn’t recall a recent one at the moment but surely he had had them. “I believe,” he said slowly, “Mrs. Browning has been hailed as one of En gland’s most gifted poets. While Mr. Browning’s works have yet to receive the public acclaim of his wife’s, he is gaining respect from critics.”

  “Very good, Mr. Cavendish,” Felicity murmured.

  “Yes, yes, that’s fine, but what do you think, Cavendish?” Beckham pressed the question. “What’s your assessment? Whose work do you think is best?”

  “The lady’s or her husband’s?” Norcroft grinned. “The man’s or the woman’s?” Obviously Felicity had expressed her opinion, and Nigel would wager it was in favor of Mrs. Browning.

  “As much as I am scarcely ever reticent to articulate my views, in this case I believe it’s not possible to express a definitive opinion,” Nigel said in an offhand way. “I must admit, I quite enjoy Mrs. Browning’s work and I think, today, she might well be the better of the two.” He resisted the urge to smirk. That was good.

  Norcroft raised his glass. “Well said, Cavendish.”

  “However,” Nigel continued in an authoritative manner that he quite enjoyed. “I think as well there is an excellent argument to be made that Mr. Browning’s work continues to develop. A decade from now, we might well laud him as one of this country’s finest poets. Only time will tell which of the two is better.” That was very good indeed.

  “So today you think Mrs. Browning is the better of them but next year you might well change your mind.” Felicity laughed. “What a clever answer, Mr. Cavendish.”

  Norcroft cast him an admiring look. “Exceptionally clever. I had no idea you could be that clever.”

  Beckham scoffed. “Too clever, I’d say. Cavendish has managed to agree with everyone by leaving the answer to the future. To fate, as it were.”

  “Fate?” Felicity’s eye’s sparkled. “I don’t think Mr. Cavendish believes in fate.”

  “I most certainly do not,” Nigel said firml
y. “I refuse to believe what happens to us is predestined and out of the control of individuals. That choice has been taken out of our hands.”

  “What of you, Lady Felicity?” Norcroft said. “Do you believe in fate?”

  Her gaze met Nigel’s. “I didn’t, but recent events have convinced me otherwise.”

  Nigel stared at her for a moment. If he did not get her out of his life, he was as good as married. Even if he found her damn near irresistible, even if she might well be the perfect woman for him, the perfect wife, he would be the one to pick when he wed and to whom. Not Felicity. Not his sister. And certainly not fate.

  An idea popped into his head. Odd or brilliant, he wasn’t sure, but it was certainly worth trying. “If indeed,” he said slowly, “everything lies in the hand of fate, would you risk all on choosing one path over another? One door over another? One turn of the card?”

  “Feast or famine,” Beckham murmured.

  “One could argue that the path or the door or the card you chose is the one you are destined to choose,” Norcroft said mildly. “So, in truth, there is no risk.”

  Nigel ignored him. “But if indeed fate is already determined, then you shouldn’t hesitate to wager on the proper path or door or card because the outcome—whether you will win or lose—has already been determined.”

  “I suppose”—Felicity chose her words with care—“it very much depends on whether you are clever enough to recognize what fate has in store for you. If you are confident that you do indeed understand your own destiny, then I would say yes. One would not hesitate.”

  “Let us not speak in generalities.” He studied her intently. “As someone who believes in fate, who believes in destiny, would you hesitate?”

  “My father taught me never to wager more than I could afford to lose,” she said coolly.

  Beckham chuckled. “Excellent answer.”

  Norcroft’s gaze flicked between Nigel and Felicity. “But nearly as evasive as Cavendish’s.”

  “You’re right, my lord, it is evasive. Very well.” Felicity’s gaze locked with Nigel’s. “No, I would not hesitate. Not for an instant.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Norcroft cleared his throat, and the connection between them was broken.

  “If you are finished, sir,” a footman behind him said coolly.

  “Yes, thank you,” Nigel murmured, glancing at the barely touched quail as the servant removed the plate. A pity, really; he usually loved quail.

  Across the table, servants were removing plates in preparation for the next course. Felicity was already involved in a new conversation with Norcroft and didn’t so much as glance his way. But then he hadn’t expected her to. He had thrown down a gauntlet and she had picked it up. There was nothing more to do until the battle itself.

  Her trust in fate would be her downfall. He now knew how to get her out of his life, and he didn’t have the slightest doubt as to his success. Still, he had to wonder why, at this very moment, he didn’t feel at all triumphant but rather had a queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach, as if he’d eaten something not quite right. It was absurd, of course; he had nothing to feel sick about. Nothing to regret. Nigel would avoid marriage and put the too tempting Lady Felicity out of his reach and out of his head. He would get exactly what he wanted.

  And he did want Felicity Melville out of his life. Didn’t he?

  What was Nigel up to? Felicity glanced at him over her cards. What ever it was, she suspected he would reveal it soon.

  “Your turn, dear,” Lady Fernwood said.

  “Of course,” Felicity murmured and played a card.

  Nigel had been quite charming after dinner. Not at all the befuddled, sputtering creature he had become when she’d told him of her desire to marry him. No, he was the smooth, polished Nigel described in lurid detail by gossip and reputation. He had a plan, she was sure of it. It was apparent by the confident, self-satisfied look in his eye. She suspected it had come to him sometime during the discussion of the Brownings and fate. Before that, he was distinctly preoccupied and overly quiet. Afterward, well, if he had given the lady sitting on his right any more flirtatious encouragement, she would have leaned so close to him that her bosoms would have fallen right out of her gown and plopped onto his plate. The blasted man probably would have enjoyed that too.

  “Damnation, girl,” Lord Fernwood snapped. “Pay attention to the game.”

  “Sorry,” she said under her breath, not that she needed to pay any particular attention even to play well. She knew the game by heart. She’d started playing whist with her father before she could read.

  Felicity hadn’t had a moment alone with Nigel since they had arrived at Cavendish House. He had actively avoided her before dinner, and immediately afterward, Lord and Lady Fernwood had reminded them of their promise to play cards. Nigel had escorted Lady Fernwood into the library, where tables had been arranged, and Felicity had again found herself on Lord Fernwood’s arm.

  Nigel had done nothing untoward through the three hands they’d already played. Indeed, a casual observer might think the foursome was quite a congenial group, with the older couple far more competitive than she had expected. She glanced at Nigel. The man was taking great pains not to look at her, but a smug smile teased the corners of his mouth. It boded no good, that smile; she was certain of it. But until he actually revealed his plan, the reason for that smile, there was nothing she could do to counter it. Not knowing what he had in mind might well drive her mad. Therefore…

  She drew a deep breath. “What is your plan, Mr. Cavendish?”

  “My plan, Lady Felicity”—he played a card—“is to win.”

  Lord Fernwood snorted. “That’s why we play, boy. To win.”

  “Now, now, my lord,” Lady Fernwood said absently. “Winning is not paramount. It is equally important to play the game with skill and honor.”

  “Rubbish.” The older man scoffed. “The sole purpose is to win.” He slapped down a card, and a moment later claimed the trick as well as the victory. Lord Fernwood cackled with delight. “And so we have.”

  “Well played, sir.” Nigel grinned at his partner.

  “You do realize you have merely won this hand.” Lady Fernwood slanted a pointed gaze at her husband. “The game itself is still at stake. The points are very nearly evenly divided. And, as Lady Felicity is an excellent player, I have no doubt we shall be triumphant in the end.”

  Felicity smiled at the older lady. “I am confident of it.”

  “I suspect it will come down to this hand,” Nigel said mildly. It was his turn to deal, and he did so with an elegant efficiency. She watched his hands, strong and deft and skillful, deliver the cards to each player and wondered how those hands would feel touching her. Strong and deft and skillful. “Perhaps”—he paused in the deal, and her gaze jerked to his—“we should make a wager on it.”

  “A wager,” she said slowly. So this was what he was up to. Perhaps the man didn’t realize she was as skilled as she was. Admittedly her mind hadn’t been fully on the game, although it would be now. “What kind of wager?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged and continued dealing. “Something interesting, I should think.”

  “Don’t like wagering for big sums.” Lord Fernwood shook his head. “Had my share of that in my youth.”

  “Besides,” Lady Fernwood added. “It’s not as exciting when one doesn’t need the money if one wins and can afford the loss if one loses. No, money won’t do at all. But I agree we should wager something interesting. I know.” She smiled at her husband. “If Lady Felicity and I win, you and I shall spend the winter in Spain.”

  “I hate Spain. Always have, always will.” Lord Fernwood narrowed his eyes and studied his wife. “But I’ll agree. And if Cavendish and I win—”

  “When we win, sir,” Nigel said firmly.

  “When we win.” The old man nodded in agreement. “You will agree to sponsor my niece’s daughter for her first season next spring an
d allow the rest of her family to reside with us for the duration of the season.”

  “Oh dear.” Lady Fernwood winced. “That’s asking rather a lot.”

  Lord Fernwood grinned. “Spain is asking rather a lot.”

  Lady Fernwood leaned over the table toward Felicity. “It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy shepherding a young woman through the season. Indeed, I did that for several of my nieces many years ago. But these are Lord Fernwood’s relations.” She shuddered. “They’re truly annoying creatures, the entire family. The father is pompous, the girl is horribly spoiled, and her mother is a particularly unpleasant sort.”

  “One can’t choose one’s family,” Lord Fernwood said with a shake of his head. “I don’t like them much either but it doesn’t matter. Family is family.”

  “Excellent.” Nigel nodded. “Now you both have something interesting at stake.”

  “And what shall we wager, Mr. Cavendish?” Felicity said lightly and held her breath. “You and I? What do you want from me?”

  “Why don’t you just wager a night in her bed and be done with it,” Lord Fernwood muttered.

  Felicity stared.

  Nigel choked.

  “My lord!” Lady Fernwood glared at her husband. “That’s entirely improper and you well know it.”

  “Of course it’s improper, but have you seen the way he looks at her? The man is all but drooling over the girl.” The elderly man shook his head. “Might as well bed her and get it over with I say. What we would have done in my day.”

  “We most certainly would not.” Indignation rang in Lady Fernwood’s voice, then she paused to consider the question. “No.” She shook her head firmly. “I was right in the first place. We would not.”

  “Bedding Lady Felicity would lead to commitments I am not prepared to make,” Nigel said coolly. “You see, Lady Felicity has gotten it into her head that I am the man she is to marry.”

  “Oh how wonderful, Nigel.” Lady Fernwood beamed. “She is a lovely young woman and no doubt will make you an excellent wife.”

  Felicity smiled but held her tongue. Anything she said now might well make matters worse. But it was worth noting that Nigel didn’t deny Lord Fernwood’s comment regarding drooling.