From Wallflower to Countess

by Janice Preston

  ‘I did indeed. An encounter I should not like to repeat in a hurry. Your forbearance in the face of such antagonism does you credit, my dear.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Plymstocks’ ball was a success. Meaning, Richard thought, with an exasperated sigh, that it was a crush. Since their arrival, he and Felicity had been the centre of attention, every guest wishing to congratulate him and to claim acquaintance with Felicity, who was in high spirits. Her peacock-blue silk evening gown shimmered in the candlelight and a matching ribbon threaded through the shining ringlets framing her smiling face

  ‘You look lovely,’ he had said, as he escorted her to their carriage earlier. ‘I can hardly believe the change in you.’

  She had laughed, sounding delighted. ‘You should thank Yvette: she instinctively knows what will suit me. I bless the day you found her, Richard. Thank you.’

  As they waited in line to be greeted by their hosts, however, she had gone quiet, clearly on edge.

  ‘What is wrong?’

  He’d had to stoop to hear her low reply. ‘There is nothing wrong. I am perfectly happy, thank you.’

  So subdued, of a sudden. He had noticed her eyeing the other ladies queuing alongside them. Was she still so unsure of her appearance? He had slipped his arm around her waist and squeezed, intending to reassure her. She’d jerked away. He’d felt the frown gather on his forehead. The ups and downs of her moods were a mystery to him, and he brooded over her behaviour, unable to find any logic for her mercurial changes.

  Now, whatever had worried her on their arrival had been put aside. She was sparkling, her manner easy as she conversed with the people around her and it was his turn to be on edge as he battled his unexpected compulsion to thrust away every young buck eager to write his name on Felicity’s dance card. A visceral reaction, deep in his gut.

  What’s mine is mine, he mocked himself silently.

  He masked his dismay behind his customary urbanity. Inside, he was restless. He felt...vulnerable—a feeling as unaccustomed as it was unwelcome.

  She did not want to marry you. It’s better not to care. Keep your guard up.

  ‘Greetings, Coz.’ Richard started at the voice in his ear. ‘Your wife is in fine form, I see.’

  ‘She is indeed, Charles.’

  ‘It makes one wonder why she shunned society for so long,’ Charles murmured, sotto voce.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘She was telling me of her interest in that school. I cannot help but wonder if—’ Charles stopped abruptly.

  Richard felt the growl begin deep in his chest. ‘You wonder if...?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, Coz. Ignore me, I beg you. It was merely...her interest in children...pure speculation, and an atrocious gaffe on my part. Not for the world would I pay attention to such scandalous rumours and, if I hear any such, I shall be sure to put a halt to them, you can rely on it. Never fear, Coz. You have me to watch your back.’

  Fists clenched, Richard battled to keep his hands off his cousin. He knew Charles was a rattle, and prone to ‘slips of the tongue’, although he had never been entirely certain if such slips were innocent, or a deliberate attempt to stir trouble.

  ‘I should be obliged if you would do that, Charles. And you may rest assured: if I should hear any such scurrilous tittle-tattle attached to my wife’s name, I shall have no hesitation in dealing with the culprit. Do I make myself clear?’

  Charles grinned. ‘Eminently, my dear fellow. Sentiments exactly as I would expect of a doting husband. I shall make sure I pass on...’

  ‘Cha-a-arles.’

  Charles’s blue eyes widened. ‘Was that a growl, Stan? I am merely assuring you of my support. No need to take offence with me, old chap.’

  ‘You will not speak of this to anyone else, unless they mention the subject first. Is that clear enough? I will not have my wife’s name bandied about. Under any circumstances.’

  ‘Of course not, Coz; as if I would. Very fond of Felicity, I assure you. Now, with your permission, I shall go and make my bow.’

  Richard glared through narrowed eyes as Charles sauntered through the group surrounding Felicity, and bowed. Felicity’s face lit up, and she handed him her card. Charles scribbled his name. Richard strode forward to take his place by Felicity’s side. The sparkle left her eyes, although her smile remained in place.

  ‘They are forming the set for the first,’ he said. ‘You have not forgotten you are promised to me, my dear?’

  ‘Of course I have not forgotten.’

  The change was subtle. He doubted anyone else had noticed that hint of reticence in her manner. He stroked one finger down the stiff length of her spine, tracing tiny circles. He heard her sharp intake of breath, felt her relax.

  That was better, though he still could not help but contrast her caution around him to her behaviour with others.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Felicity suppressed the desire that shivered through her at Richard’s touch.

  Is she here? Is she watching?

  She skimmed the crowd as Richard led her to the dance floor. This growing obsession with the identity of his mistress was painful but she could not help it. He had already spent their first night in London with her. After bedding his wife for the first time in over a week he had slunk away like a...like a thief. Well, she would not allow him to steal her heart. Or her newfound and burgeoning self-respect. She was happiest when she was surrounded by others, and when she could forget her conjectures about Richard and his mistress—who might be here, smiling in Felicity’s face whilst all the time... She thrust away her thoughts, cramming her speculations about that woman to the darkest recesses of her mind.

  True, he had appeared to be the perfect, attentive new husband since their arrival at the ball but she could feel his underlying tension. She conjured up a smile as the musicians struck up the familiar strains of a Scottish reel. If Richard could put on a mask for others, then so could she.

  * * *

  This is torture.

  Felicity had danced the two first with Richard, responding to his comments with light ripostes. Her hand had then been claimed by a succession of partners, with whom she had exchanged the usual pleasantries even as her skin had prickled with the awareness of her husband’s heavy-lidded scrutiny from the side of the room. He had danced with no other. Felicity was both relieved and rattled by this. As she danced down the set, she caught his eye. Her bones almost dissolved at the heat in that glance.

  ‘You are quiet, Felicity.’ Charles was her current partner.

  ‘It is Richard,’ she whispered, as the steps of the dance brought them together. ‘He is not dancing. Do you think he is bored?’

  ‘I am sure he is not bored. He did mention a headache earlier today, but I am certain he is more than content to be here with you.’

  The dance parted them. Felicity glanced again at Richard, still smouldering at the edge of the floor, brushing off any attempt to engage him in conversation. His attention was still focused on her. Desire coiled deep within her, and she missed her step.

  ‘Steady.’ Charles gripped her hand and tugged her into the correct formation. ‘Do not allow Richard to unsettle you. I’ll wager he’ll claim your hand as soon as you have a dance free.’

  Felicity continued to dance by rote, options bouncing around inside her head. Her feelings for Richard were growing stronger. The thought of him with another woman hurt. Were her attempts to protect her heart in vain? Which path should she choose to follow? Should she continue to keep him at arm’s length, and risk pushing him into her arms? Or should she fight? Try to win his love?

  Even the thought of the latter seemed ridiculous and doomed to failure. But was the first option any better? After only three weeks of marriage she could finally empathize with her mother. She had found it
was nigh on impossible to deny your heart.

  You will not feel affection or love for this man.

  She could almost laugh at her naivety. Unless the man in question was cruel or disgusting—a man one could never respect—it would be hard indeed to share the intimacies of the bedchamber and not feel some tenderness for him. And Richard was neither cruel nor disgusting. He was kind, and thoughtful, and strong, and capable. And the most handsome, the most utterly desirable man here tonight.

  But he had a mistress. What chance did she, Felicity, have?

  As much chance as any woman, if you will but believe in yourself.

  She danced on. New partners came and went until, about to embark upon a country dance, a large hand grabbed hers.

  ‘Excuse me, Cheriton. Might I borrow my wife?’ The rich, velvety baritone slid like warm honey through every fibre of her being. She threw an apologetic smile over her shoulder at Cousin Leo, who stared after them, eyes creased with fans of laughter. Felicity felt her face flame as Richard led her from the dance floor and headed purposefully for the door. In the hall, he turned to her.

  ‘You look tired, Felicity Joy.’

  She searched his face, reading the strain around his eyes, the weary lines bracketing his mouth, the furrows on his brow.

  ‘Is your head still aching, Richard? Charles said—’

  ‘Charles says too much. No, I do not have a headache.’

  ‘Then what is troubling you?’

  ‘Nothing. I am merely concerned you are doing too much.’

  His effort to smooth his expression was not lost on Felicity. He put his lips close to her ear. ‘I cannot wait to bury myself inside you tonight.’

  As a distraction, it worked. Her belly clenched and her bones turned pliable. She moved her head, so his lips brushed her cheek.

  ‘I am—quite suddenly—exhausted,’ she said, with a tremor of anticipation. ‘Would you mind very much, my dear, if we go home?’

  * * *

  He dismissed Yvette as soon as they reached Felicity’s bedchamber. As the door closed behind her, Richard framed Felicity’s face, his kiss slow, sensual. She drifted dreamily as his fingers dealt with the row of buttons fastening her gown. She squirmed closer, pushing his jacket from his shoulders. In no time, his upper torso was bare and her corset had joined her gown in a pool by their feet. Felicity splayed her fingers against his warm, muscular chest then pressed her chemise-clad body hard against him, digging into his muscular shoulders as he stroked up her thigh.

  He deepened the kiss as he grasped her buttocks and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him, clinging tight. He tore his lips from hers and strode to the bed, lowering her to the mattress, and prised her arms from around his neck.

  ‘Look at me, Felicity Joy.’

  Felicity cranked open one eyelid, the heat of lust flooding her as he unbuttoned the fall of his evening breeches. He was magnificent. And she wanted him.

  ‘Now.’

  He laughed. ‘Patience, my sweet.’

  She reached for him, and he backed out of reach, shaking his head, a wicked glint in his eyes, a teasing smile on his lips. As she scrambled from the bed, he dodged around to the far side. He leant forward, his fisted hands propped on the mattress.

  ‘Do you know what I want, Felicity Joy?’

  Confused, Felicity shook her head. His lips stretched in a slow, sensual smile.

  ‘I want to see you naked.’

  Her heart stopped. Lurched. Then raced into a gallop. His hands had caressed every inch of her body, as had his lips. But for him to look at her...to see her...

  Richard straightened, his naked body exposed: erect; enticing; edible.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, trembling as his eyes pinned her to the spot.

  ‘There is nothing to fear. I know your body. I know its feel, its contours, its strength. I have taken pleasure in your body, as you have taken pleasure in mine.’ He sat on the bed and beckoned. ‘Come here. Please.’

  Her feet obeyed before her mind could raise a protest. She rounded the bed and stood in front of him. He tugged her closer, between his knees. He lifted her chin with one finger until she was looking in his eyes again. She suppressed a quiver: it was as if he knew her deepest fears. Her darkest secrets.

  ‘May I?’ His hands were on the hem of her chemise. Brows raised, he awaited her reply.

  She nodded, her eyes snapping shut as she felt the cool of the air caress the skin of her thighs, her buttocks, her back. She lifted her arms, and the chemise was gone. Her protection had vanished. Her screen—behind which she could fool herself and her husband she was a desirable woman with the abundant curves men desired—was no more. Time froze. Behind the blankness of her eyelids she waited for the axe to fall. The only sound, above the soft crackle of the fire, was Richard’s breathing. Quickening. A quiet groan, and then a mouth closed around her nipple as gentle hands slid to either side of her waist and caressed her hips and bottom.

  ‘So delicate,’ he murmured as he nuzzled first one breast and then the other. ‘You have no idea how desirable you are, sweetheart.’ He lifted his head. ‘Look at me, Felicity Joy.’

  She did. His eyes were dark and hot, penetrating deep into her soul, firing her blood. Desire flared and licked along her veins as he stroked her thigh, down, around, and up...up... Felicity threw her arms around his neck as she pressed her mouth to his, flicking her tongue against his sensual lips. He lifted her, splaying her legs as he lowered her on to his lap, filling her. Lips caressed lips, tongue caressed tongue. Hands gripped at her waist, lifting and lowering, and she caught the rhythm, rolling her hips, stroking her aching nipples against his hair-roughened chest, taking control.

  Then he lifted her, laid her back on to the bed and settled between her open thighs.

  ‘Look at me, Felicity Joy.’ The third time of asking. His whisper was hoarse. Almost a plea. She opened her eyes, and he captured her gaze as he slowly, slowly entered her again. ‘I want you to see me; to know this is me, inside you.

  ‘It will only ever be me.’

  He began to move.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Felicity stood in the hall of Stanton House at ten o’clock the following morning, wondering what Richard was planning. In accordance with his instructions—relayed by Yvette—Felicity was dressed for riding. She wondered what her husband was up to.

  Trick opened the front door. The faint sound of hooves from outside grew louder, and then stopped as Richard appeared from the direction of his study, smiling.

  ‘Good morning, Felicity.’ He urged her towards the open door with a hand at her waist.

  She walked through into a bright, sunny morning and gasped in delight. Dalton stood in the road outside at the head of Richard’s huge dapple-grey gelding, Gambit, and the most elegant light grey mare, complete with side-saddle. The mare whickered and pawed the ground. She shook her head, sending her silvery mane rippling over her neck.

  ‘Oooohhhhhhh.’ Felicity took a hesitant step towards the mare, who lifted her head and regarded Felicity with an intelligent eye.

  ‘Felicity; meet Selene.’

  ‘Selene?’

  ‘You can change her name if you wish. Selene was the goddess of the moon in Greek mythology.’

  ‘No. It is perfect for her. She is beautiful. Where did you find her?’

  ‘Do you recall our meeting in the park on Monday?’

  The day of their arrival in London. Felicity pictured the scene: Richard riding alongside a woman on a grey horse. She had barely noticed the animal, her suspicious glare on its rider. Shame began its slow ascent from the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Dalton heard she was for sale and I had arranged to see her in the park that afternoon,’ Richard continued. ‘Do you like her?’

  �
�I love her.’ I don’t deserve her, after those horrid suspicions. ‘She is beautiful.’

  Felicity held her hand out. Selene stretched her neck and snuffled at Felicity’s palm. Felicity moved closer still and rubbed gently under her chin, then smoothed her hand down Selene’s neck.

  ‘Thank you. I could not have wished for a more perfect gift.’

  Felicity glanced at Richard as they rode side by side through the park gates. Pride swelled: he was so handsome, and he sat Gambit as if he was born in the saddle. ‘It will only ever be me.’ She quivered at the memory of those words. He still had not stayed the whole night in her bed, but last night he had fallen asleep in her arms, and she had lain awake, reluctant to miss the moment, watching him. She must have drifted off eventually, for she had no memory of him leaving but, waking in the early hours, she had reached out and felt only chilled linen.

  She had risen from her warm nest and tiptoed across the room to peep into Richard’s bedchamber, ignoring her stab of shame at snooping. The flood of relief when she saw him in his own bed—sprawled spread-eagled on his back, sound asleep—had been overwhelming, as had her urge to climb in beside him, and run her hands over that wide expanse of bare chest. Instead, she had crept back to her own lonely bed and spent the rest of the night dozing fitfully.

  Last night had given her hope. Could he be persuaded to love her, or was she fooling herself?

  ‘How does she feel?’

  She reached to pat Selene’s neck. ‘Wonderful. Her mouth is beautifully soft and she is as responsive as I could wish for.’

  ‘Let’s try her paces.’

  They eased into a trot and Felicity gasped. Selene’s trot was as smooth as riding in a well-sprung carriage. ‘It is like floating.’

  ‘I am glad you like her: she looks superb.’

  His eyes lingered a moment on Felicity. She knew she did not do Selene justice. Yvette had been brutally blunt—her old black riding habit drained her of all colour.

  ‘The new riding habit I ordered has not yet been delivered.’