by Shana Galen
This was the comte who would find a woman of his station to marry. If she had ever thought she deserved or should aspire to that position before, looking at the comte now relieved her of that flight of fancy. She would never be anything more than a tutor, and he would always be an aristocrat—whether his title was revoked or not.
She realized quite suddenly she had been staring and his eyes were on her. His scowl had grown fiercer. Quickly, she stepped forward. “My lord, you look perfect.”
He faltered, glanced down at his attire. “I feel…”
She could see him grope for the word.
“Ridiculous.”
“Oh, no!” His mother rushed past Felicity and closed the distance between the family and where he still hovered on the stairs. “Miss Bennett is quite correct. You look just as you should. Are you ready?”
His eyes cut to Felicity’s, and she knew he was asking her the question. Was he ready? She took a deep breath. “Of course he’s ready. My lord, have a wonderful evening.”
He allowed his mother to take his arm, the tightening of his jaw the only sign of his discomfort at her touch, and descended the remaining stairs. Then he paused in front of her and offered his other arm. Felicity drew back. “My lord, we have been over this. I am not attending Lady Spencer’s musicale. The invitation was for family only.”
There was a long silence as the comte seemed to digest this information and find it distasteful.
“Armand,” the duc said, his tone full of warning.
But the comte waved a hand at him. “I remember.”
“Good. The carriage is waiting. Let’s go.”
The duc gave his wife his arm and led the four of them through the door opened seamlessly by the butler. Felicity stayed rooted in place, hands clasped, watching them go. This was her place, she told herself. This was her duty. She had tutored the comte in all he would need to know, and now she was to stand here while he went off and showed all he had learned. That was how things should be—and yet it hurt when he did not look back at her. It hurt when the door closed on his back and she was left standing alone in the vestibule.
She had a book in her room and had thought she would spend the evening reading or perhaps writing letters to her aunt or her friends in Selborne. But she did neither of those activities. Instead, she closed herself in her room, lay on her bed, and thought about the future. She didn’t like to think about the future. There was nothing to be gained by traversing that path. Up until this point, she had focused on preserving her position as the comte’s tutor. But now that he was progressing—speaking correctly, dressing correctly, hopefully addressing dukes’ daughters correctly—how much longer could she expect this position to last? A month? Two?
At the most, three, and that was if the comte did not find a bride before then. And what would she do at the end of three months?
If the comte’s appearance at the musicale tonight was successful, she might be justified in asking for an advance on her salary. Even ten pounds might be enough to hold off Charles a little longer. But if her position lasted only a few more months, would she receive her entire year’s salary? What would she do if she could not pay Charles the twenty-five pounds in January?
He did not really want to marry her. Perhaps if she promised him more, he would give her a few more months. And perhaps the duchesse would help her find another position—one far away from London and the comte.
She might work for a wealthy family in the country, people who avoided Society and did not care about balls or musicales or gowns. She would be happy there, teaching cherub-faced children, and she would only occasionally think back on this position and the strange, handsome comte de Valère.
And that was the biggest lie she had ever told herself.
She knew that not a single day would go by that she would not think of the comte.
Armand.
She would think of him every hour, every minute. How could she ever forget him? Forget his eyes, his lilting speech, his mouth… oh, the things he could do with that mouth.
But, of course, by that point he would not be doing them to her. No, he would be married by then. He would be kissing another woman, the daughter of a duke, most likely. He would have children. Perhaps one day he would even engage a governess for those children, but it would not be she. She would be an old spinster by then. She would never have children. She would never…
Felicity closed her eyes. She did not want to think of the future any more. She would focus on the present. And at present, she was living in a duc’s town house in Berkeley Square. She was tutoring a comte. She was in love with—
Felicity sucked in a breath of air and sprang to her knees. Where had that thought come from? That was a dangerous thought. She could not be in love with Armand—the comte. She would not be in love with him.
It was not love she felt. It was only lust. She wanted him to kiss her, touch her, and that was all there was.
And she would not allow any other thoughts—no matter how much they wanted to intrude—to enter her mind. She was not in love, and certainly not with an aristocrat! A man she could never hope to marry, even if Charles wasn’t determined to ruin her.
There was a knock at the door, and Felicity quickly smoothed her skirts and grabbed her book, trying to look occupied. Trying not to look like a woman in love.
The door opened to reveal Gertrude, the maid who often helped her undress for bed. Felicity smiled at her, thinking an early night was probably just what she needed. After all, one could not think about—anything—when one was asleep.
“Gertrude, I’m glad you’re here. If you could just unlace me, I can do the rest.”
“But, Miss Bennett, I haven’t come to help you undress. I’ve come…” She bit her lip and looked uncertain.
Gertrude was young, probably no more than seventeen, but she did not usually seem so unsure of herself. Felicity jumped off the bed. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?” Immediately the image of the shattered window and the brick on the floor of the dining room flashed in her mind.
“No, nothing bad has happened,” Gertrude reassured her. “But I was told to come and help you dress. I was told to have you wear this.” Now the door yawned open, and Felicity could see the dark blue gown that had been concealed behind it. Felicity frowned at it.
“What is that?”
Gertrude shook it out. It was silk and rippled like the waters of the ocean. “The dowager sent word you are to wear it. It was in her room.”
Felicity laughed. “Why would I wear that? It’s a formal gown, and I’m just going to bed.”
Gertrude shook her head. “No, Miss Bennett. You see, the carriage has returned, and the footmen have a note from the dowager, requesting your presence at Lady Spencer’s musicale.”
“What?” Felicity groped for the bed behind her and sat heavily.
“I know! Isn’t it exciting, Miss? They want you at the musicale?”
Felicity did not think it was exciting at all. Terrifying was probably the word she would have used. “The dowager sent word?”
“Yes, miss.” Gertrude held out a slip of paper, and Felicity forced her wobbly legs to hold her long enough to stand and retrieve it. Now that she was closer to the gown, she felt her stomach clench. She remembered that watery blue material. The dowager had picked it out when they were shopping in Bond Street. Felicity had thought she was just being kind when she had mentioned a ball gown. Now, she could see the dowager had been more than serious.
Her hand shook a little as she flipped open the note.
We have need of Miss Bennett. Please dress her in the blue gown hanging in my room, and send her posthaste.
It was signed with the dowager’s initials, but they were unnecessary. The commanding tone was quite enough. Felicity looked up at Gertrude, and the maid held out the gown. “Are you ready, Miss Bennett?”
“No.” Felicity shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
“But, miss, the note said posthaste. The carriage is waiting.”
“But my hair.” Felicity chanced a glance in the mirror across the room. Her hair was a mass of untidy curls and rumpled coils. “And I don’t have any suitable gloves.”
Gertrude waved a hand, obviously unconcerned. “I can take care of your hair, and I’ll ask one of the other maids if there are some spare gloves you might borrow.”
“But…” Felicity tried desperately to think of another excuse, but none came to mind. Curses! She was actually going to have to attend Lady Spencer’s musicale. As Gertrude helped her change into the gown, Felicity reflected it was not so much the idea of the musicale that alarmed her. She knew she would enjoy the entertainment. And it was not even the prospect of spending a whole evening among the cream of the ton that discomfited her, though she hardly relished the condescension she knew would be forthcoming.
What really bothered her was she would have to watch Armand—the comte—be introduced to other ladies. Would he flirt? Hold their hands and kiss their knuckles as he had hers in the garden? How could she stand seeing that?
“Miss Bennett, are you all right?”
Felicity blinked. “Pardon?”
“You’re clenching your fists,” Gertrude pointed out, fastening the last of the gown and bending down to straighten the skirt. Felicity carefully uncoiled her hands and peered in the glass across the room. Her hair was still rumpled, but the tutor in her serviceable beige gown was gone. Even without gloves, the blue gown made her look like a princess. Well, maybe not a princess but definitely a duke’s daughter. She turned from side to side, admiring the way the gown shimmered and rippled. With its scooped neck, it showed off just enough shoulder and bosom to look interesting, but not enough to raise even the most conservative eyebrows.
Of course, the expanse of white flesh called out for adornment of some kind, but Felicity had no jewelry.
“You look perfect,” Gertrude said, standing again. “Who would believe you were one of the staff?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, begging your pardon, miss.”
Felicity laughed. “I am one of the staff, and I’d much rather stay here with you.” But that wasn’t quite true anymore. Now that she was in the gown, could feel its silky texture on her skin, she was eager to see and be seen.
And there was one man in particular she wanted to see her.
Gertrude guided her to the dressing table, and Felicity sat patiently as the maid pulled and combed and twisted her hair into some semblance of order. The style was simple, which Felicity preferred, and when the maid was done, they both studied her reflection in the mirror.
“It needs something around the neck,” Gertrude remarked.
“I was thinking that myself, but I don’t have any jewels.”
“Me neither, though I do have something. Wait here!”
Before Felicity could ask what the maid meant, she was rushing from the room. A moment later, she returned with long gloves over her arms and a blue ribbon in her hand, almost the exact color of the dress. “Here, try this.” She leaned over and fastened the ribbon about Felicity’s neck, tying it with a small bow at the back. Then she held out the gloves and helped Felicity put them on.
Once again, Felicity was tugged in front of the full-length mirror, and she had to admit with the gloves, the ribbon, and the new coiffure, she looked entirely presentable. She smiled at Gertrude in the glass. “The ribbon is perfect, Gertrude. I think I shall actually blend in.”
Gertrude snorted. “You’ll do more than that, miss. You’ll turn heads, I wager.”
“Yes, well, let’s not be that optimistic.” But inside she was hoping there was at least one comte who would take notice.
“You’d better hurry, miss. The carriage is still waiting, and the dowager’s note did say posthaste.”
Felicity took a deep breath. “Thank you for your help, Gertrude.”
The maid snorted again. “It was nothing. The next time I get summoned to a fancy party, you can help me.”
Felicity grasped her hand. “Count on it.”
She stepped out of her room and was surprised to see several servants, including Mrs. Eggers, the housekeeper, waiting on her. Within a matter of moments, she was pronounced acceptable and whisked down the stairs and into the carriage. As usual, the London streets were packed with conveyances. The carriage moved very slowly, and it was three-quarters of an hour before she finally climbed out of the carriage and stood before Lady Spencer’s door. Lady Spencer was truly a neighbor of the Valères’, and Felicity suspected that had she walked, she would have been at the door within five minutes. She smiled, thinking of the horrified reactions had she shown up on foot.
The door swung open, and a footman greeted her. “Welcome.” He moved aside, and Felicity stepped inside. Lady Spencer’s vestibule was not as grand as the Valères’, but it was tasteful and well-appointed. She was goggling at the huge chandelier above her when she heard a man clear his throat.
She blinked and stared into the eyes of the butler. “Good evening,” he said.
Felicity smiled. “Good evening.” She peered past his shoulder, hoping she might catch a glimpse of the dowager or the duchesse. She was not looking for the comte.
“How might I assist you?” the butler asked, and Felicity brought her attention back to him. She could see the problem immediately. He did not recognize her, and he was being careful not to offend her by asking who she was and why she was there. It seemed butlers always knew who did not belong.
“The dowager duchesse of Valère asked me to join her party. If you could tell me where I might find them?”
His expression changed completely, his eyes lighting and the dour tightness of his mouth vanishing. “Ah, you must be Miss Bennett. Right this way.”
Felicity had no time to ask how he knew her name or where they were going. She was led through a maze of rooms, all packed shoulder-to-shoulder with men and women dripping silk and diamonds. As she passed, their eyes touched on her, most showing little interest. After all, who was she?
The farther the butler led her, the more people Felicity encountered. Who were all of these men and women? The duchesse had said they would attend intimate affairs. Such a crush of people would surely have alarmed the comte. Was that why she had been called? Had the comte been overwhelmed?
Finally they reached the music room, and Felicity saw a pianoforte was in the center, circled on all sides by chairs. A few of the seats were taken, but most were empty. Strange, she thought. Had she already missed the musical portion of the evening? She glanced at those seated in the chairs but did not see the dowager or any of the Valères. She was about to repeat her request to be taken to the dowager, when the butler bowed and said, “Lady Spencer, I present Miss Bennett.”
The butler moved aside, and a woman of forty or so, dressed in a crimson gown with matching rubies, raised her eyebrows. She was a small woman and a handsome one, her dark hair showing only the faintest traces of gray. She notched her brow higher, and Felicity belatedly realized she should curtsey.
She did so, clumsily, and said, “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”
“Yes,” she drawled. “I was told you can play and play well. Is that true, Miss Bennett?”
Play? For a moment, Felicity was confused, and then she saw the vacant pianoforte behind Lady Spencer. “Ah, if you mean play the pianoforte, yes, I do play. I cannot vouch for my skills, however.”
“That has already been done. I’d like you to play a variety of pieces, something slow to start with, then more lively in the middle. Some Mozart might be nice.”
Felicity stared for a moment. “You want me to play?”
Lady Spencer looked at her.
“You want me to play for your guests?”
The woman looked bored. “Yes, of cou
rse. Why do you think you were summoned?”
Yes, why had she thought she’d been summoned? Because the dowager hoped to introduce her to the ton? Because Armand—no, he was the comte, most definitely only the comte to her—had asked for her?
Ridiculous. She could see that now. She had been called to perform for the aristocrats. Nothing more, nothing less. To serve them was to be her lot at present, and if she was disappointed now, it was her own fault.
“Are you able to play, Miss Bennett? If not, then I fear I shall have to send everyone home. The maestro I had hired for the evening is in bed with a fever, and one cannot exactly host a musicale without any music.”
“I see.” And she did see now. She saw perfectly. “Of course, I shall play.” She was already unbuttoning her gloves. “Would you like me to begin now?”
“Yes. I will gradually have everyone move into the music room. No point in making some grand announcement when the entertainment is one of the Valères’ servants,” she mumbled. “And Miss Bennett?”
Felicity stopped in her stiff-necked path to the pianoforte.
“If my opera singer deigns to make an appearance, I assume you can accompany her.”
Felicity nodded, her neck cracking with the effort. “I shall do my best, your ladyship.”
She sat at the pianoforte and tried to block out the noise, the tinkle of glasses, and the harsh sound of laughter. She was not nervous. She was too angry to be nervous. Why had the dowager not mentioned in her note that she would be playing? Then Felicity might have thought to take some of her sheet music along. Now she would have to play only pieces she knew by memory.
Across the room, Lady Spencer threw her an impatient scowl, and Felicity raised her hands. When she set them down on the keys, the sound was as angry as her emotions.