by Jo Beverley
She was somewhat late, and the butler informed her that both Lady Aideen and her husband had eaten earlier. The man made sure she had everything she required however. Felicity thought sadly of her discourteous welcome of Miles to her own ramshackle home.
Then her guardian strolled in, a rather distant expression in his blue eyes. "Good morning, Felicity. I hope you have everything you want."
"Oh, yes," she said, through an ache in her throat. "And Hillsmore is having fresh eggs cooked for me." In the face of his cool civility, she attempted social chatter. "I'm absolutely ravenous. Lunch yesterday was completely inadequate for someone who would have no dinner."
Then she bit her lip, remembering why she'd had no dinner.
Miles said nothing, however, apart from directing her attention to the kippers.
She gave an artificial shudder. "I abhor fish at breakfast."
He took one himself and began to work the smoked flesh off the bones, giving the business all his attention.
After a few minutes, the silence became unbearable. "I like your home. It's so light and airy."
He looked up politely. "You could achieve a similar effect at Foy by painting the rooms white."
"You forget, it's Aunt Annie's house, not mine. Grandfather left it to her, and she prefers it as it is."
"I suppose I had forgotten. What little is done to care for the place seems to be done by you."
"I do what is necessary for my comfort, that's all. I have no domestic skills." Felicity sighed. Despite her good intentions, she was back to bickering with the man.
The alarming thing was that he did not react. "I hope you find no shortcomings in the comfort here."
"Everything is perfect, as well you know." To prove it, her eggs arrived, cooked to perfection. She slid two onto her plate. "I shudder to think what you must have suffered at Foy."
"It was hardly suffering, for the company was—on the whole—pleasant."
Felicity decided silence was welcome after all and settled to eating. She stole a glance at Miles every now and then, wishing he were the lighthearted friend again.
Hardly surprising that he was not.
But why, when he was so cool, did she feel so stimulated by him? So aware. She'd breakfasted with him most days these past two weeks without any effect on her appetite, but now it was quite a challenge to eat the food her body needed.
When she'd cleaned her plate, she was at a loss as to what to do next. What to do next that would be safe, that is. Music, she suddenly thought. For many years, music had been her refuge and her solace, and now she needed it.
"Do you have an instrument here?" she asked. "A harpsichord?"
He took a last drink of coffee. "We can do better. We have a pianoforte."
"I've never played one."
"Never?" A spark of surprise lightened his expression.
"We did not have one, as you know."
"But other houses in your area have. I've seen, and heard, them. I wondered why you didn't play, since you have more skill than most of the performers."
She could feel awkward color invading her cheeks. "I was too embarrassed to try in public. Too afraid I'd not play well."
"Have you never simply visited a house that had a pianoforte? They are a recent development, but not so rare as that."
"Until I went to Whitehaven to see my mother's family about my inheritance, I had never visited anywhere at all."
Too late, Felicity realized that wasn't true.
"Colum said you visited England a few years ago."
"Oh, that!" She laughed, and even to her ears it sounded shrill. "I just stayed quietly in the country pressing wildflowers."
What, in heaven's name, had Colum told him?
After a frowning moment, Miles rose. "Come then, and I'll show you the instrument."
He led her to a music room containing the piano and an Irish harp. She trailed her fingers across the harp strings, summoning a ripple of music. "I've never played one of these, either."
"You're welcome to do so, though I'm not sure your keyboard skills will help you much there."
"I fear that's true, and the wires are hard on the fingers."
Felicity sat on the silk-covered bench, surveying the handsome mahogany instrument. How she had wished to explore one. And, she knew well, her kind neighbors would not have minded any fumbles. Pride had held her back, pride and a fear of revealing any weakness or want.
She touched a key cautiously. As she'd been told, a quite gentle touch summoned a note, a softer more resonant note than the harp-like twang of the harpsichord.
Miles leant over beside her and stroked out a chord. "Piano—" Then he thundered one. "—forte. I don't think you can hurt it. Explore."
She started to play a familiar piece but stopped, dissatisfied by the difference in touch. "It's difficult to break a lifetime habit of hitting every key sharply." She turned to look at him. "Go away, please. I wish to make a fool of myself in private."
For the first time since she'd betrayed him to Rupert, he smiled. "I'm sure you'll make beautiful music, but I will go away for a little while."
His leaving created a hollow space.
Felicity filled it with music.
* * *
Miles was sitting in the library with a book open but unread, listening to Bach, when his mother came to speak to him.
"She plays beautifully," she said.
"It's her only accomplishment."
Aideen laughed. "I doubt that. She strikes me as a young woman who excels at everything she puts her hand to."
He closed the book and placed it on a table. "Then she never chooses to put her hand to suitable skills—such as handwriting and domestic management. I sincerely doubt she even knows how to thread a needle!"
"How very sad. After all, she might fall on hard times and have to take in mending."
At the caustic tone, Miles realized he'd never seen his mother with a needle in her hand either. He grinned, knowing he was probably as transparent as the glass in the long window.
"So," said Aideen. "Tell me what she has put her hand to apart from music. You will not convince me she's indolent."
He laughed at the thought. "She's cunning at chess, rides like a trooper—and swears like one, too, sometimes—knows nearly as much about horses as I do, and can handle a pistol."
"A useful list of accomplishments."
"For the Countess of Kilgoran?" Then he wished the words unsaid.
"I don't see why not, Ireland being Ireland. Now, I came to tell you that I have arranged the safe stowage of Master Kieran and his governess."
"So soon? How did you manage that?"
"I've written to his governess to say that the boy's father has been called away and wishes him to visit some cousins."
"Cousins?"
She waved a hand. "The gentry of Ireland are all interrelated."
"Don't I remember being whipped a time or two for stretching the truth?"
She twinkled at him. "And there were many times you weren't. It is all a matter of knowing how far one can stretch truth before it breaks. Now, should we tell Felicity?"
"The less we speak of the boy the better."
"Not speaking of him will not wipe him from her mind."
"It might let him slide from the forefront of it."
Then Miles detected what his mother had heard—a certain desperation in the flood of music coming from the pianoforte.
He sighed. "Once we have news of where he is, I suppose we should let her know. It can hardly make matters worse at this stage. But sooner or later, she'll have to let go of the child."
"I'm sure something will work out." Aideen smiled blithely and hurried away.
Devil take it, she was even beginning to sound like Colum.
Miles decided Felicity should be over her musical nerves and went to listen from closer by. She was so caught up in the music that he could study her at leisure.
She played, it seemed, with her entire body, swaying in
search of finer harmonies. Her eyes, however, stayed focused on some distant, darker vision. Could Dunsmore and his son really cast such a shadow on her life? Miles wanted, desperately, to bring back joy, in both senses of the word.
He did the only thing he could and interrupted her with an invitation to tour the house. She did not seem unhappy to leave the music. Perhaps if he filled her days with commonplace matters, ones that would arouse no unpleasant thoughts, she would learn to smile again.
Dangerous though that would be.
He should have known that avoiding unpleasantness was not Felicity's way. The first thing she wanted to see was Gardeen's grave. When he hesitated, she challenged him. "You have buried her properly, haven't you?"
"Of course."
Reflecting that bringing joy to this woman's guarded heart was likely to be an heroic task, he borrowed a servant's woolen shawl for her and took her outside. Accompanied by the dogs, they walked to the sundial in the middle of the herb garden.
It wasn't the best of days—they were being whipped by the tail-end of a storm—but the sweet tang of the herbs was in the air, rising powerfully when they stepped on the chamomile and thyme running between the cracks in the paved path. He directed her to the small mound. Donn and Dubh once more took up sentinel positions.
"She'll be happy there," Felicity said, holding the shawl close about her head.
"I think so."
But how can I make you happy, Felicity? And why is it becoming so crucial to my own content?
He watched as she broke off a spray of early forsythia and crouched to tuck it among the white stones. Her next words were so soft the wind almost snatched them away. "I would have gone with him and we'd have been under sail before you could have reached us, had it not been for her. We argued about whether to take her."
"He not wanting a cat along."
She rose to face him. "On the contrary. Lacking Kieran, he wanted her as hostage."
"Felicity..." He reached to pull her into his arms, but she evaded him, facing him from a couple of yards away.
"And I was determined that she stay safe with you. I took her out to let her go."
"What happened, then?"
"He tried to grab her. She scratched him." He thought she would say no more, but then tears glossed her eyes and she added, "He broke her neck. It was so quick...."
Again, he wanted to gather her into his arms, but it was as if a wall stood between them. "A quick death is a blessing. And it sent you running from him."
A slight toss of her head seemed to throw off weakness. "I regretted it immediately."
"But it was done. It wouldn't surprise me, you know, to learn that Gardeen knew what would happen and made her own death in the cause."
She frowned at him then, tiny drops of the blowing drizzle on her curly hair and even on her lashes. "That's nonsense."
"Is it? Or don't you want to admit that no one, no creature on earth, thinks you should marry Rupert Dunsmore."
She turned sharply away. "I do what I have to do. And to be thinking there's a conspiracy of cats out to stop my marriage is to be moon-mad, Miles Cavanagh!"
She swept back to the house and he followed, dogs at his heels.
His words had largely been whimsical, but now he wondered. There'd been times in his life when he'd felt, like Hamlet, that there were more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in logical philosophy. In Ireland, belief in magic and mysteries ran deep.
He glanced back at the tiny grave, remembering the way the dogs had seemed to honor it, unsure what was reasonable anymore.
And what of Felicity? Was Irish magic at work there, too? His feelings were shifting, growing, without any hope of conscious control, so that her care, her happiness, were central to his life.
And it had nothing to do with guardianship.
But she, of course, was still dead set on marrying Rupert Dunsmore.
The best he could do for Felicity's happiness was to keep her distracted, so he insisted on giving her the tour of the house. By hard work, he soon reestablished superficial good manners between them, and even a degree of humor and teasing.
He wanted that moment back, that moment on the journey when he'd carried her in his arms and a chord had hummed between them. He'd settle for some ease, however, and a smile now and then.
As he showed her the family portraits, she began to relax. Admiring the skilled plasterwork of the dining-room ceiling, she made a joke about the half-naked deities painted in the center. As they handled his father's porcelain, his hand brushed hers. The way she flinched away gave him hope.
Hers was not the manner of a fearful or disgusted woman.
It was the manner of a woman disturbed by a touch, aware of the vibration of the air between them.
"Have you more delights to show me?" she asked rather breathily, clearly hoping he would say no.
"One last thing." Without further explanation, he led her toward the west wing.
"What?" she asked, being careful not to touch him as they walked.
He opened the door on the billiard room specially constructed by his father, who had loved the game.
"Oh," she said, moving forward. "I've always wanted to try. It's generally considered a man's game."
He'd guessed right. A man's game was exactly the thing to enthrall Felicity Monahan. "I'd be happy to teach you."
With luck, this would take her mind off her troubles all afternoon and keep her nearby, where he needed her to be. That need bothered him, but he was losing the will to fight it.
She hesitated, poised for flight, but then walked in to inspect the rack of cues.
With a sigh of relief, and perhaps of surrender, Miles explained the rules of the game. He soon found, however, that the intimacy of their situation intensified the nerve-tingling atmosphere. It took immense control, as he guided her hand and aligned her body, not to turn each touch into a caress.
And his control was weakening...
When Colum came to join them, Miles could have hugged him, for he brought sanity with him. He was disconcerted, however, when his mother arrived and picked up a cue. During his father's life, she had shown no interest in the game at all.
"Colum has been teaching me," Aideen said. "I find it a game of considerable skill and challenge."
Much to Miles's astonishment, she beat him.
Colum beamed and applauded. "Sure, and isn't she the finest woman in the world? But I don't need to tell you that, my boy."
He didn't, but to Miles it seemed against the rules for a mother to change so dramatically mid-course, so to speak. Now he came to think of it, the caps she wore these days were more flighty, and he suspected she'd had her dresses altered to be more formfitting.
When the happy couple wandered off, Felicity chuckled. "You look dumbfounded. I think I'll practice so I can beat you, too."
That wasn't what had knocked him for a loop, but he didn't say so. He was just delighted to hear her laugh. "By all means. You have the eye for it. You'll master the game in no time at all."
The glow of laughter dimmed. She turned back to the table and lined up a shot. "That's as well since I only have a week."
Chapter 10
Felicity sent a red ball slamming into a corner pocket, wishing...
She didn't know what she wished for anymore. Yes, she did. She had to wish for Rupert's return and their marriage. She had to wish to evade Miles, to escape his care, his concerned eyes, his gentle humor.
His touch.
She knew he was working hard to ease her day and both loved and resented him for it.
No. Not love. Never that.
Her thoughts warred with each other until she was tempted to scream, or to run and hide like a child fleeing a thunderstorm. For it was a storm, a wild energy thrumming in the air around them all day, like a deep, disturbing chord.
A chord that could shatter the guard on her heart.
There was nowhere to run to, though, so she steadied her nerves and settled to m
astering the game of billiards.
Surely a safe enough way to pass the time.
Or was it?
The lesson involved Miles touching her—to adjust her grip on the cue, to align her body for a shot. There was nothing untoward in his manner, and yet she felt each touch as a shiver on her skin, even through layers of winter clothing.
It was worse when he leaned around her, encompassing her, as he helped her master the more difficult techniques.
Could he really be oblivious to the atmosphere, deaf to that nerve-jangling chord?
She glanced at him, and he smiled quite calmly.
Then his eyes darkened and seemed to shift, to linger on her lips.
She realized she was licking them.
Hastily, she concentrated on the white ball at the end of her cue, though her hand shook and a tendril of hair fell over her right eye.
If only it weren't so hot!
It was just the fire...
It must be the fire, for Miles was stripping off his woolen jacket. Her own long-sleeved, high-necked gown of sturdy Circassian cloth was stifling, and yet she had no layers she could shed. Her careful shot ricocheted pointlessly from cushion to cushion.
She stepped back to let him play, brushing the damp curl back and relieved to be able to move as far as possible from that distressing fire.
It did not reduce the heat at all, for it gave her a clear view of him. How could fine linen shirt and brocade waistcoat seem so wantonly underdressed?
He bent and stretched to take his shot. Without his jacket, the strong line of his body—wide shoulders to firm buttocks, then down long, muscular horseman's legs—forced itself on her senses like a crescendo from a massed orchestra, supported by a hundred drums.
The red ball fell neatly into a corner pocket.
Damn him. He felt nothing at all!
Straightening, he quite casually removed his cravat to let the neck of his shirt stand open. But he looked at her as he did it, and she realized he was not deaf to the music at all.
"This is so unfair...." She stared at his naked throat, wanting to lick the perspiration there.