Perkins looked as if he were swaying on the edge of a precipice and a deep breath would send him over the edge.
Now why hadn’t she thought of that herself? Upper Seymour Street would be perfect for Felicity—a quiet house in an out-of-the-way location, already staffed with very good and very discreet servants.
Of course, Anne would need to make sure Thorne didn’t mind her loaning out the house for a few months. But if she asked him tonight—while he was making his daily meticulous and very sensual inspection to see whether her stomach had started to round out yet and precisely how much her pregnancy had enlarged her breasts—he probably wouldn’t mind.
To tell the truth, no matter what she said in the middle of his daily inspection, Thorne wouldn’t mind. He probably wouldn’t even notice.
She sat back in her chair and smiled at Perkins. “That is an absolutely brilliant solution.” Mischief made her add, “I’m certain when you tell Lord Hawthorne the plan, he’ll instruct you to go ahead.”
Perkins choked and turned purple.
“No, no,” she said hastily, afraid he was going to collapse. Poor man—it wasn’t his fault that he was so much fun to torment; she really must be more careful in the future. “I was only funning. You don’t have to consult his lordship—I’ll see to that. But if you’ll instruct Mrs. Mason to make certain everything at Number 5 is in order for Miss Mercer’s arrival within the week…”
“Your servant, my lady,” Perkins stammered, and hurried out.
He was probably fleeing for his life before she could ask him for anything else, Anne thought.
Yes, Felicity could borrow Number 5 Upper Seymour Street with the Countess of Hawthorne’s good wishes. Anne wasn’t going to be needing it for a while.
Four
MY LADY DESIRE
The journey south across England had been a long one, and by the time the post chaise drew up in Portman Square, Felicity was exhausted. The steps of Lord Hawthorne’s town house seemed to rock under her feet as she climbed to the front door, and she actually dozed for a moment in the little reception room before the butler returned to take her to Anne’s morning room.
“Lady Hawthorne,” Felicity said formally, and curtseyed.
“Oh, Fliss, stop it.” Anne Hawthorne rose from a low chair and came to hug Felicity. “I won’t put up with you standing on formality.”
Felicity looked her over closely. “It suits you, Anne. The title—and marriage. You’re positively blooming. It’s going well, then?”
“Once I get past the first hour of the morning, yes,” Anne said with a little laugh.
“And… he’s good to you?” But there was no need to ask; her friend’s glowing face told the story.
“Yes, my dear. You’ll see at dinner.”
“I wasn’t planning to… Anne, I would really prefer not to go into society. Lord Hawthorne…”
“You can’t mean that you choose not even to meet my husband? Felicity, what’s this nonsense about avoiding society? What has happened to you?”
For the barest moment, Felicity considered telling her. But nothing would be gained from asking for pity. “Merely maturity and understanding of the way the world operates. The prejudices held against a schoolgirl because of her father’s birth and his occupation grow even stronger when she reaches marriageable age.”
“Only by people who have more hair than wit. You’re better educated and more of a lady than most of the females in the ton—and trust me, I’ve encountered all of them. If you will let yourself observe, you’ll soon see a gentleman who will overlook…”
Pain shot through Felicity. She held up one hand in a jerky warning gesture, and Anne stopped uncertainly. “But that’s my very point, Anne.” Her voice felt almost hoarse. “How condescending it would be of him to overlook the fact that my father worked in a mill and to accept the flaws in my heritage!”
“Your father owned the mill, Fliss.”
“Not at first. And it’s not much different, really, in the eyes of the world—owning it or simply working there. If I brought a vast enough fortune to the altar, a gentleman might be induced to take me, I suppose—but still, every time he looked at me, he would be reminded that he had married far beneath himself. He would feel superior to me in every way, and every word and gesture would make his feelings clear. I choose not to put myself in that position.”
“Not all gentlemen are alike.”
“Can you really believe that it wouldn’t matter? Not at all? I see the truth in your eyes, Anne. You know better.” Felicity forced herself to smile. “Perhaps in the end I am fortunate to be left with a competence rather than wealth so I am not tempted to believe that money could ever balance out birth.”
“A competence? But I thought the mill—”
“It’s doing well, my manager says—but the expenses are heavy and sales have not been as strong as in past years. I can afford my stay in London and my comforts. But I’ve arranged to sell the house in York.”
“Your home?”
Felicity suppressed a shiver at the reminder of the big, dark old house where she had never felt really warm. “Please don’t think it a sacrifice. It was far too large for one person. When I return, I’ll find a smaller one—something more to my taste.”
“For one person.” Anne sounded disgruntled.
“Just because you’re now happily paired off… As schoolgirls, we were very fond of fairy tales, Anne. But now that we’re grown up, we must acknowledge that not every woman finds a mate.”
“If you’re telling me that you kissed a frog and he didn’t change into a prince,” Anne said, sounding a little acerbic, “I should point out that neither did the first frog I tried.”
Felicity was stricken. “Oh, Anne, I do beg your pardon. I should not have reminded you of Lord Keighley.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Come, let’s have tea and a good long talk. Then I’m sending you up to rest—because you are coming down to dinner. If you don’t,” Anne threatened lightly, “I’ll… I’ll instruct Perkins not to show you the house we’ve arranged for you.”
Felicity’s heart soared. “You’ve arranged it already? Anne, what a good friend you are!”
She would have a house—a place that would be entirely hers, even if only for a few months. A place with no memories, no sadness lurking in the corners. A place to think, to plan, to decide… to heal.
She could hardly wait. A formal dinner was a small price to pay.
***
Felicity’s best dinner gown was gray, of course—a remnant of her year’s mourning for her father. She looked at it hanging on the door of the wardrobe and then told her maid to get out the only colored dress she had brought instead. It was a shade of gold so dark it was almost brown, trimmed with matching bows—and it was seriously out of date.
She didn’t realize exactly how unstylish it was, however, until she saw Anne’s dress—elegantly cut and the deep, rich shade of garnets—when they met in the drawing room just before the dinner hour.
Shopping for clothes would definitely have to take priority over the many other things Felicity wished to do in the capital, if she was to look anything other than a dowd.
Not that she was trying to impress. She didn’t care what the ton thought of her; she would encounter the ladies and gentlemen of society only by chance—at a museum perhaps or while picking up a book at Hookham’s. They would not pay any mind to her, and she would take no note of them. It might even be better if she did not draw attention to herself by having a fashionable wardrobe.
She sighed inwardly. She could try all she wanted to talk herself out of caring about pretty clothes, but she doubted she would succeed. “You said you have a favorite modiste, Anne?”
“Indeed I do, and I’ve sent word to her to expect us in the morning. We’ll start with the basics—walking dresses and perhaps a riding habit—and then…”
The drawing-room door opened, and two gentlemen came in. They were both in dinner clothes, t
heir black coats perfectly fitted, their linen snowy. Both were tall and straight—commanding men. But Felicity’s gaze came to rest on the second one, and she could not look away. The resemblance, she thought, was really quite extraordinary.
He was very fair, with brilliant blue eyes. His slightly curly golden hair caught the candlelight, and for a moment he seemed to be surrounded by a halo.
But, of course, it was fitting for this man to look like an angel—as long as the angel in question was Lucifer.
One of the men—not the one Felicity was trying her best not to stare at—spoke. “Of course you remember Colford, my dear? I told him he must come and do the pretty to excuse me being late.”
“Certainly I remember,” Anne said. “If you would care to take dinner with us, my lord, you would be most welcome.”
The second man smiled—a beautiful, winning smile—as he bowed over Anne’s hand, and again Felicity thought of fallen angels. “I should be honored to take my pot luck at your table, my lady. But I could not intrude, and indeed I am expected elsewhere. I came only to pay my respects, to make Thorne’s peace with you, and to beg pardon for keeping him overlong about business.”
“It is just now gone eight—it is no trouble at all. Let me make you known… Felicity, this is Lord Colford… my good friend Miss Mercer.”
So much for not having anything to do with society. But of course Anne could have done nothing else; not to have introduced one of her guests to another would be an unforgivable slight.
Felicity fought the coldness that had settled over her and forced herself to extend her hand. Colford bowed over it; she stared directly into his eyes and felt rewarded when uncertainty—perhaps even a hint of dismay—flickered in his gaze. From the corner of her eye, she saw Anne’s eyebrows arch, as if she felt the sizzling hostility in the air.
Felicity forced the corners of her mouth to turn up. “A pleasure, my lord.” Her voice was lower than normal, almost husky.
Anne stepped into the silence that followed. “How is Lady Colford?”
“As well as can be expected.” His voice was grave. “She’s not seeing anyone just now.”
“I shall call on her when she is receiving again.”
And then he was gone—but Felicity’s heart was still thrumming wildly as they went in to dinner.
What were the odds that of all the gentlemen in London society, Lord Colford would be the one to appear on her very first night in the city?
Colford… of all people!
She shot a look at Anne. Could she have arranged this? Brought him here on purpose? After all that talk about going into society…
But the Countess could not possibly have known. No one had known, except Felicity’s father—and even he hadn’t suspected the whole. Felicity’s own guilt had colored her reactions.
And no one, Felicity told herself, must ever know what a fool she had made of herself.
***
Felicity had hoped that Anne—or, rather, the earl’s man of business—would be able to find her an adequate house. Her expectations were not high; she’d have been content with a cottage. But when Perkins took her around to Number 5 Upper Seymour Street, she was delighted. The house was a mansion, in Felicity’s eyes—big, elegant, and quiet despite its location next to the entrance to Berkeley Mews. The fact that only a few steps through the gardens would take her to the side door of Anne’s house was an unexpected benefit.
“It’s beautiful,” she told Perkins. “Only—it’s so big! And in such a prime location… I don’t know whether I can afford it or the servants to run it.”
Perkins fixed his gaze on a point somewhere past her shoulder and said, “The house is owned by his lordship, who is… er… not in need of it at the present time.”
The tone of his voice said it all. His lordship didn’t need it at the present time? So her new house had been a trysting site, Felicity thought.
She felt a bit hollow—upset for Anne’s sake. But what had she expected? Lord Hawthorne was apparently a gentleman in true London style—with an adoring but pregnant wife at home and a mistress tucked away just around a handy corner…
But the whole point, she reminded herself, was that Lord Hawthorne didn’t have a mistress just now. Or perhaps the empty house meant only that he’d opted to be a bit more discreet than usual for a while and keep his mistress at a greater distance. If Felicity had been a gaming sort of woman, she’d have laid her bets on the latter.
Perkins cleared his throat. “The staff is all in place, as well. If you wish to make changes among the servants, please consult me so that I may arrange matters.”
Because his lordship will not want to dismiss the people who have been entrusted with his secrets… “Of course.” She was glad that she’d made the decision she had—not to have anything to do with London society. It was far too complicated with all its rules and standards… or lack of them.
She looked up at the quiet front of Number 5. It was classic, unassuming, clean, bright… But what had she expected? A sign on the door proclaiming its use?
Then she walked through the shiny, black front door, and the house reached out to her. It was richly furnished, and full of light and air. The moment she stepped inside, Felicity loosed a long sigh and felt herself at home.
Mason, the butler, was very old, and—Felicity suspected—a bit deaf. How perfectly convenient for his lordship, she thought.
Perkins introduced her to the housekeeper, who was brisk and efficient despite being nearly as old as her husband, the butler. Mrs. Mason conducted her through the house. Felicity inspected the library, the reception rooms, the dining room, the drawing room. She looked through all the bedrooms, ultimately choosing one that looked out over the garden at the back of the house.
“You don’t want to use the main bedroom?” the housekeeper asked in surprise.
Felicity suppressed a shudder. “It’s too big and too grand. All that emerald green velvet would smother me.” It was true, though hardly the entire truth. She couldn’t sleep where Lord Hawthorne had entertained his mistresses; she’d never be able to close her eyes. “This one is homey. Comfortable.”
Mrs. Mason went away to tell Cook to send up a tea tray. Felicity set her maid to unpacking the few things she had brought with her and then sat down by the window to look over the garden and the stables beyond.
During the following week, she ordered clothes; she visited the bookstores; she took out a membership in the lending library; she toured the British Museum.
And she thought about Colford. The way his hair had gleamed in the candlelight. The way his long, curly lashes had drooped as he’d bent his head over her hand. The look of uncertainty and dismay in his brilliant blue eyes as he had faced her…
She wondered what he had been thinking just then.
***
Since Anne had found it was advisable not to be too active when she first rose from her bed, Felicity soon got in the habit of crossing the garden to the Hawthorne town house early each morning to visit her, and they sat quietly sewing and chatting for an hour.
One morning, Felicity glanced from the tablecloth she was rehemming to the dainty baby gown in Anne’s lap. “That border you’re stitching is really lovely.”
“And tedious. The motif is taken from the Hawthorne crest, and why I ever thought that was a good idea—”
“Because Lord Hawthorne expects a son?”
“I don’t think he cares whether it’s a girl or a boy,” Anne said absently. She stroked the soft fabric and then took up her needle again.
“Of course, he cares. A son to inherit, to carry on the name and the title…”
Anne looked up in surprise. “What has made you sound so bitter on the subject, Fliss? I really want to know. You’ve changed from the woman I remember.”
“You mean, the girl you remember.”
“I’m beginning to think he wasn’t a frog at all,” Anne said somberly, “but a toad—the man who made you like this.”
&nb
sp; Felicity felt the sting of tears. “It’s nothing, really. Certainly not like what you suffered with Keighley.” Not at all the same, she told herself. Equally painful, perhaps—but different.
“That’s beside the point. What was it, darling? Obviously he was someone who wasn’t worthy of you—or he’d have married you despite what society sees as differences.”
“He was,” Felicity said. “Worthy of me, I mean. But his family didn’t think I was worthy of him. And that’s the end of it. What a darling little dress that is… What fun it will be to have a baby of your own.”
Anne was opening her mouth—intending to return to the attack, Felicity was certain—when the butler appeared in the doorway. “Lady Stone has called, ma’am. Are you at home?”
“Yes, Carson—thank you.” The butler bowed and retreated, and Anne made a little moue at Felicity. “I have to be at home to Lady Stone—she’s one of Thorne’s favorite people.”
Felicity felt that horrid empty feeling once more. Was she about to meet Lord Hawthorne’s mistress—the woman who had used Number 5 Upper Seymour Street?
“Mine as well, of course,” Anne went on. “And I think you’ll like her, too—for she’s even more outspoken than you are. But I realize that you choose to visit at this unfashionable hour every day just so I can’t press you to come again later and meet my other callers.”
Before Felicity could answer, the butler had returned with a tall, thin old woman with a craggy face, a beaky nose, and brilliant black eyes. She looked at least twice Hawthorne’s age, and Felicity had to smile at her own mistaken assumptions.
“Anne, my dear,” Lady Stone said. “Tell this fellow of yours that one of the privileges of age is drinking port instead of tea at whatever hour I wish. And since I know quite well Thorne’s got a cellar full of it, there’s not a reason in the world for me not to partake.”
Anne waved a hand at the butler, who bowed and retreated, and then greeted her visitor with a hug. “Lucinda, what brings you out at this hour?”
“Sheer cussedness,” Lady Stone said promptly. “And a desire to meet your friend.” She advanced on Felicity, hand outstretched. “Anne tells me you think yourself too good for London society.”
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