“You are quite right about that.”
“But that does not mean I’m wrong for her.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Atwood murmured.
“Aye.” The single syllable word was sharply spoken, betraying the tension that simmered just beneath his amicable expression. “But she thinks I am, which is why I’m here.”
“You believe my opinion holds weight over my daughter and if I approve of you she will be more inclined to do the same.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
Felix gave a clipped nod. “I do.”
“Well in that case, you have my full blessing.”
“He what?” Felicity said in stunned disbelief. Of all the possible outcomes, this was not one she’d been expecting. Her mother actually approved of Felix? Impossible!
“You needn’t look so surprised my dear,” Mrs. Atwood said mildly.
“I – I just thought–”
“You thought because Mr. Spencer does not have a title or a formal education or any qualities pursuant to a gentleman – no offense intended, Mr. Spencer –”
“None taken,” Felix said cheerfully.
“–that I would send him packing, did you?”
Felicity snuck a quick glance at Felix before she admitted, “Yes. I did.”
“Perhaps once I would have.” Mrs. Atwood scratched Mr. Darcy behind the ear and the Pomeranian’s tail became a tiny white blur of happiness. “But over time I have come to realize something very important. Do you know what that something is, Felicity?”
“No.” At the moment Felicity felt like she knew nothing.
“I realized that love, true love, does not distinguish between classes. And I would rather my only child be happy with a pauper than miserable married to a prince.” Her gaze sharpened. “That being said, you aren’t a pauper, are you Mr. Spencer? My daughter has been through enough. I will not have her beggaring herself on the streets.”
“I don’t have the wealth of a duke, if that’s what you’re asking, but I’ve a steady income and enough tucked away for a rainy day or two.”
“One can hardly ask for more than that. I wish you well, Mr. Spencer.” Mrs. Atwood’s gaze flicked to her daughter. Her lips thinned, pinching in at the corners as a line creased her brow. It appeared for a moment as if she was going to say something of great significance, but with a tiny sigh and shake of her head she simply said, “You are going to need it.”
Chapter Seventeen
“This is a mistake.” Peering out the carriage window at the long line of men and women streaming between the massive white pillars of the Lyceum Theatre, Felicity let the curtain slip through her fingers and murmured a quick prayer. “I wish to return to my mother’s.”
“Your mother is the one who suggested we come in the first place,” Felix reminded her.
“I believe she may be gravely ill.”
“Because she likes me?”
“Yes.”
“Well in that case,” he drawled, eyes gleaming a bright, suggestive gold as he leaned forward and braced his arms beside her hips, “I fear ye are on death’s door, Miss Atwood.”
She pushed halfheartedly against his chest with a gloved hand. “I do not like you that much.”
“But ye do like me,” he said with the arrogance of a man who knew he was speaking the absolute truth. “No point in denying it any longer.”
No, there wasn’t.
Nearly three weeks had passed since Felix received her mother’s blessing, and in that time he had begun courting her in earnest. Every day he either brought flowers himself or had them delivered. They’d taken long strolls through Hyde Park and marveled over the oddities at the Leverian Museum. He’d given Henry a tour of Bow Street, just as he’d promised he would, and then they’d all spent the rest of the afternoon sailing a pond yacht in the Serpentine.
He hadn’t kissed her again, nor had he tried to. She’d made it clear that while she was willing to give the courtship a chance, there were two rules he would have to abide by. The first was that aside from flowers, she would accept no gifts of a material nature. The second was that he would keep his hands to himself. Felicity wanted to approach their relationship with a clear head and a steady heart, neither of which she was capable of sustaining when he touched her.
“I am not denying anything,” she said matter-of-factly. “I am simply saying that this, coming here tonight, is a mistake.” Of its own accord her gaze shifted back to the window and the curtain that covered it.
Inside the darkly intimate confines of the carriage she and Felix were protected from the outside world, but the moment they stepped out they would become vulnerable to all of the stares and whispers and vicious conjecture the ton could muster. In the park and the museum they’d managed to slip by unnoticed; just one more couple in a sea of faces. But the theater, especially one as grand as the Lyceum, was a place where people went to see and be seen.
Tickets were nearly impossible to acquire and sold out months in advance, but three years ago the Bridgeton Waverly Women’s Club had pooled their money and purchased a box which they rotated between themselves and their families. Tonight it had been Mrs. Atwood’s turn to see Shakespeare’s renowned masterpiece A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The reviews were excellent, the play heralded as one of the best the Drury Lane Company had ever produced, but Mrs. Atwood said she wasn’t feeling well and had insisted Felicity and Felix take her place.
“The box will simply sit empty otherwise,” she’d claimed. “And the Bridgeton Waverly’s will never let me hear the end of it. You must attend.”
“If you are not feeling well, who will watch the children?” Felicity had asked. She and Henry and little Anne were now living – temporarily – in her mother’s guest bedchamber. It was not the solution she’d wanted for fear of the stress it would cause her mother, but to her surprise Mrs. Atwood’s health had vastly improved since they’d moved in. Her strength had increased tenfold and she no longer took to her bed for long stretches of time complaining of megrims. If she really was feeling unwell, this was the first Felicity was hearing of it.
But Mrs. Atwood had waved her daughter’s concerns away with a flick of her wrist. “We’ll be able to manage by ourselves for a few hours. They’ve been so well behaved I am certain it will not be any trouble at all.”
“They tied wings to Mr. Darcy and tried to throw him out the second-floor window.”
“A minor incident.”
“Not for Mr. Darcy.”
But in the end, despite all of her arguments and concerns, Felicity had been no match for her mother’s stubbornness. Thus three nights later she found herself sitting in a carriage with Felix outside the Lyceum Theater, the very last place in all of London she wanted to be.
It wasn’t that she disliked the theater. Quite the opposite, actually. She’d always enjoyed the arts, and the Drury Lane Company was the best in the business. If she could have snuck inside and watched the production with no one being the wiser she would have done so happily, but she feared that was not going to be the case.
As the footman came around to open the door and she stepped out in a swirl of midnight blue skirts, she felt as though she were attending her first ball all over again. The one where she’d been terrified of falling flat on her face. Inside her black satin gloves her palms were clammy, and her heart beat in an irregular rhythm. Had Felix not been beside her with a steady grip on her arm she might have turned and fled back into the carriage, something he must have sensed for he leaned in close to whisper in her ear.
“Ye have nothing to be afraid of, love.”
Her spine stiffened. “I am not afraid.”
Except she was. Ridiculous and vain as it seemed, the opinions of her peers mattered. She’d told herself they didn’t. In the dreary mist with anger fueling her thoughts she’d told herself she had nothing to be ashamed of and to hell with anyone who believed otherwise. But standing at the foot of the marble steps leading up into the theater she felt nothing but sha
me. And even though they weren’t – even though no one had even noticed their arrival – she felt as though everyone was staring straight at them.
“We can leave if ye want to.” Felix’s quiet voice made her jump. She’d all but forgotten he was still beside her. He squeezed her arm, just a small, innocuous flex of his fingers, but it was exactly what she needed to reassure herself that the world was not going to end if people spoke unkindly about her. Especially people who had never been her friend to begin with. For the difficult truth – the hard truth – was that none of the men and women flocking into the theater had ever really been her friend. If they had, if they’d care about her even a little bit, they never would have abandoned her the second her name carried the slightest whiff of a scandal. Never would have gossiped about her. Never would have stared when she walked down the street, their eyes burning holes in the middle of her back, right above where they’d plunged their knives.
These were not her friends. Not anymore.
But Felix was.
“No. We came here tonight to see a play, and that is precisely what we are going to do.” She marched between the marble pillars with her chin held high. And when people stared and whispered and pointed, just as she’d feared they would, she did not allow her posture to waver.
Her reputation would never be what it had once been, but she’d be damned if she allowed herself to be cowed into hiding her face for something she had not done. If there was anyone who should have been ashamed, if there was anyone who should have stayed at home with the curtains drawn, it was Ezra.
He was the one who had brought this upon them. He was the one who had caused the scandal. He was the one who deserved the vicious gossip and scathing stares. And if he was able to get on with his life as if nothing had happened, then by God so could she.
An usher dressed in deep red with gold tassels hanging from his shoulders escorted them to their box seat. The first time Felicity had ever attended the theater she’d been surprised by how bright it was, and tonight was no exception. Even as the moon began its ascent into a clear, dark sky, the interior of the Lyceum was brightly lit courtesy of enormous chandeliers, each one boasting over a hundred individual candles. One of the great benefits of sitting in a box – aside from the obvious reasons of privacy and a superior view of the stage – was that one did not have to suffer hot wax dripping onto their head.
The curtains remained closed as people continued to trickle in and take their seats. Sinking gracefully into hers, Felicity watched with a touch of amusement as Felix went to the edge of their box and peered down over the railing, his expression one of wonderment and disbelief.
“Haven’t you ever been here before?” she asked.
“Never,” he said, glancing back at her. A lock of hair tumbled across his brow and he tucked it absently behind his ear. He’d worn all black tonight save a crisp white cravat that emphasized his golden skin. His brown hair was swept back from his face – all except for that errant curl – and he had trimmed his dark side-whiskers so they hugged the long, lean lines of his jaw. If one overlooked the roguish glint in his eye it would be easy to mistake him for an aristocrat. But the more she got to know Felix, the more grateful Felicity became that he wasn’t a lord.
As an earl, Ezra had always been obsessively concerned with keeping up appearances. Everything, from the shine on his shoes to the curls on the wig he wore when he attended Parliament, had to be absolutely perfect. His title and sterling reputation had meant everything to him. In the end, they had meant even more than his wife and children.
“What is it?” Felix asked when her stare lingered. He ran his knuckles across his chin. “Do I ‘ave something on my face?”
“No. I was just – you’re very handsome,” she blurted. Hoping the sudden color in her cheeks would be attributed to the heat radiating down from the chandeliers, she withdrew her fan from her reticule and waved it furiously in front of her face. “I meant to say, you look very dashing this evening.”
“Thank ye.” A grin crinkled the corners of his eyes as he leaned back against the railing. “And ye don’t look half bad yourself. I’ve never seen ye in that dress before. Is it new?”
Her gloved fingertips smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the lace overlay on her skirt. The blue gown was one she’d worn before she married Ezra. It was nearly eight seasons out of fashion, but of course Felix did not know – or care – about such things.
“I have not had an occasion to wear it in quite a long time.”
“Well it suits ye. You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Atwood.” The chandeliers paled in comparison to the heat coming from his gaze. It swept across her as the sun scorched the earth, leaving her breathless and uncomfortable and aching in places she wasn’t entirely certain she wanted to ache.
“I’ve missed touching ye,” he said huskily.
Her blush intensified. “Mr. Spencer–”
“I’ve missed the softness of your skin. The taste of your lips.” He pushed away from the railing. The space in the box was limited, and all it took was two strides for him to reach her. His tailcoat fell open as he leaned in close, enveloping her in a dark cloak of sin and seduction. “Have ye missed me?” He angled his head so his words brushed against her cheek like a caress. “Have ye dreamed about me as I’ve dreamed about ye?”
Her fingers curled under her seat, nails digging into the wood as she anchored herself to the chair. “Mr. Spencer, please. My rules were very clear.”
“Ah, love. Don’t ye know rules are meant to be broken?”
She trembled when she felt his tongue slide along the edge of her ear. Gasped when he bit down on her lobe and drew it between his teeth. “I – I am afraid I have never heard that particular saying,” she said weakly as he began to suckle.
Oh heavens. This was precisely why she’d made the rules in the first place! Because the second he touched her all common sense went out the window. Squirming, she pressed her thighs together in a desperate attempt to stop herself from dissolving into a sticky pool of honey.
They could not do this here of all places! And especially not now, when the theater was still aglow with light and people were still walking below them on their way to their seats. But loathe as she was to admit it, there was something deliciously decadent in doing what she ought not to. It may have been terribly wrong of her to allow herself to be seduced in such a public setting, but it felt oh so right. Especially when Felix cupped her breast through the thin fabric of her gown and began to leisurely circle her nipple with the pad of his thumb.
Inhibition followed common sense out the window as her spine arched away from the back of her chair with so much force she feared she might have popped a stay. Felix’s husky laughter tickled the downy hairs at the nape of her neck that had escaped her elegant coiffure. He continued to lean over her, his open jacket shielding her body from any prying eyes. If someone happened to glance in their direction it would look as though he was merely whispering a secret in her ear.
A very naughty, very wicked secret.
“Do ye like that, love?” he murmured when her nipples tightened in response to his touch. Her breasts grew heavier, straining against the restrictive confines of her bodice. “Do ye like when I put my hands on ye?”
“Yes.” The word escaped as a choked gasp.
“Look how flush your cheeks are. You’re vibrating, love. Can ye feel it?” He nuzzled her neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive spot where her throat and collarbone met. “Like a finely plucked bowstring,” he murmured before he soothed the bite with a teasing flick of his tongue. “Are ye going to play music for me, love? That’s it.” His hand slid down across her ribs and slipped between her thighs, pushing aside layers of crinoline and lace until his fingers pressed against the pulsing heart of her desire. “That’s what ye want, isn’t it?”
It was. It was what she wanted. And had the trumpets not sounded at that precise moment to announce the beginning of the play, Felicity did not know to what lengths she w
ould have gone to in order to get it.
“M-Mr. Spencer.” Her voice felt heavy on her tongue, as it had the night she and Scarlett delved into her father’s liquor cabinet. Except this time she was not drunk on elderberry wine left over from Christmas, but on desire. “The actors have t-taken the stage.”
“Aye, so they have.” And as if nothing was amiss, as if he’d not just been touching her in the wickedest of places and whispering the wickedest of things, Felix straightened, buttoned up his coat, and sat down beside her.
Bewildered by how he could appear so calm and unaffected while she was still struggling to catch her breath, Felicity discreetly pulled her bodice up and pushed her skirts down. Picking up her fan, she snapped it back open with a quick turn of her wrist and began to wave it feverishly in front of her cheeks.
“Does – does it feel overly warm in here to you?”
His gaze trained on the stage, Felix shrugged. “A little bit, I suppose. Probably the chandeliers.”
“Yes.” Her lips pressed together. “I am sure that must be it. Mr. Spencer, are we just going to pretend–”
He interrupted her with a hushing sound that had her eyebrows climbing all the way up to the middle of her forehead. “Are you attempting to shush me?” she demanded in a hissed whisper.
“I am attempting to watch the play.” He slanted her a look of marked disapproval out of the corner of his eye. “Which is rather hard to do with you chattering on like a blue-headed wagtail.”
A blue-headed wagtail?
A blue-headed wagtail?!
Her nostrils flared. “Mr. Spencer–”
“I’m not going to have to go get one of those stuffy blokes in the red coats, am I?”
“No.” Drawing on every bit of her debutante training, she managed to fix something that vaguely resembled a smile on her face. “No, you are not.”
Bothersome, annoying, irksome man!
For the rest of the first act she refused to so much as look at him, but by the time Puck and King Oberon began to conspire to make Queen Titania fall in love with a donkey she couldn’t help but begin stealing a series of sideways glances in his direction.
A Dangerous Proposal (Bow Street Brides Book 2) Page 17