No longer under such restraints, he caught her beneath the arms and lifted her against the wall so they were perfectly aligned, nose to nose. His body pinned her in place, all rigid and taut to her softness and pliancy. Drawing her legs around him, he ached to unbutton her blouse, to taste every facet of her flesh. To feel her breasts bared against his chest—skin to skin.
But respecting her shyness, he settled instead for his lips traversing her jaw line and neck and collar bone. He licked away the floral-sweetened remnants of dried rain and stopped only when he came to a nipple spearing beneath her shirt. She arched upward, as if impatient. Experimenting, he opened his lips over the cloth and nuzzled the swollen nub. A keening cry burst from her throat and pierced through to his groin. He became more fervent, his tongue lapping and suckling. She clutched at his nape, legs tightening around him, her body as weightless as a porcelain doll in his arms.
Wanting nothing more than to sink inside her—to be one with this broken and fascinating woman—he paused to regard her rapt face. “Lord, Felicity. Why are you doing this? It’s so obvious you’re lying.”
A flash of firelight illumined her half-dazed, half-panicked expression. “It is?”
“To pretend our marriage is in name only, when we both want so much more. This union can be real if you’ll just let it.”
Her palms glided along his shoulders, a warm and sultry drag over damp fabric. “I can never compete with Mina. She could give you something I cannot.”
“Her innocence?” he scoffed. “She was married before me, though her intimacies with her husband were sloppy at best. But inexperience is highly overrated. I don’t want an austere, dewy-eyed bride. I like that you know how to touch me. I like how you respond to my touches. What more could any man ask of his wife?”
Honesty and offspring, Felicity said to herself, wrestling for the courage to relay it to him aloud.
As if sensing a rebuttal, he pressed his lips to hers and swallowed her confession before she could utter even a syllable. How was she to form any coherent thought when his lips and tongue tasted like that? Rain and earth and man—a triad so potent it sparked a yearning deep within her damaged womb.
Her fingers wove into the soft hair at his temples, feeling his desire hard and seeking against her pubis. To know he hadn’t been with a woman since his late wife stirred her passion to unexpected levels. This man had waited so long to be touched, to be satiated. She could do that for him.
He was right. She’d been well schooled. She could please him in ways Mina never had, and not even shed an ounce of her clothes. Indeed, she could repay the pleasure he’d given her last night and show him how much she loved him without spending any words or risking rejection.
Such intimacy—such skill—might give him a reason to stay, even after tomorrow.
Empowered by the thought, Felicity’s fingers skimmed atop his trousers to wrap around his length. But in that instant the longcase clock began to gong.
She groaned upon realizing the time. “That monstrously large package…” she muttered absently.
Nick pushed himself into her hand. “You can’t blame it. It’s begging to be unwrapped.”
“Not that.” Grinning, she forced herself to let go, banking her palms on his shoulders. “I have yet to prepare the last of Lia’s gifts—a rather sizeable one. Could you help me with it?”
Nick grunted and set her to the floor, winding fingers through her hair as he kissed her forehead, soft flutters of sensation too tender to be dismissed.
The way he touched her, with such care and veneration, inspired the most far-fetched notion: that perhaps his feelings for her were as real as hers for him, just as Aislinn had said.
“Are you always so easily distracted?” he asked, shattering her musings. “A lesser man could develop a complex.”
She pressed kisses to his neck before drawing back to look into his eyes. “Then aren’t we fortunate there’s nothing ‘lesser’ about you?”
He stared at her, strong jaw twitching. For a moment, she thought he might refuse to stop … might lift her into his arms and carry her to bed—initiating the sweet glories of lovemaking he was always telling her about. For a moment, she hoped he would.
The patter of raindrops began to fade.
“The gift is just there, by the window,” she mumbled.
Letting strands of her hair slide through his fingers, he gestured for her to lead the way.
The cheval mirror waited, draped in sheets next to the sitting window. Grayish-blue light filtered through the panes from behind and blended to a shaded swirl along the wrinkled cloth, making the form beneath appear haunted and foreboding—as if it were a portal to a world of dreams and shadows. The very thing it represented to Felicity: a doorway to a likeness she’d never have access to again.
She’d kept it hidden in an empty room since her arrival at the castle. Today, for the first time in seven years, she had Tobias and Fennigan haul it into her chamber. But she still refused to look at her bared reflection.
“Aislinn has her mother’s mirror … this one is mine.” Standing behind the frame, Felicity pulled the sheets off, nearly sneezing at the dust released on the action. With the cover cast aside, nothing remained but the glass and deep mahogany casing etched with intricate carvings of roses and ivy.
“I wish to give it to Lia since I have no more use for it,” she said.
Her husband studied her with a quiet thoughtfulness, his hair and clothes rumpled from the rain and her hungry caresses of earlier.
Instead of waiting for him to ask, she offered an explanation. “The last time I looked upon myself … fully bared … was the night of the tragedy. I mean to say, before the stabbing. When I was still whole.”
Remembering how she’d had the smallest bulge, the proof of life blossoming within her, she had to choke back a knot rising in her throat.
“Since then, I can’t bring myself to…” Gripping the neck of her shirt, she held it closed, missing her brooch terribly. “I’ve no use for such a thing. Lia wants to be a lady. This”—she stretched her arm over the frame so her fingertips could skim along the chilled glass on the front— “will make her feel like one.”
A tortured wrinkle drew Nick’s brows together. “You’ve never seen the scar yourself?”
“Only the tip. But I’ve felt it. I can’t look upon the reminder. Of what I’ve lost, of how broken I am.”
Their eyes held in the semi-darkness. “That scar doesn’t make you broken, Felicity. The only part of you that needs fixing is your heart. And I have the means to mend it.”
His kind attempt at chivalry wasn’t meant to patronize, but it did. A blaze of despondency surged hot in Felicity’s cheeks. “No. You can’t fix what’s broken in me,” she said. Then, before she could stop herself, she blurted the ugly fact. “That injury left me barren.”
The shock upon Nick’s face had her wishing she could gobble up the words and leave nothing but meaningless crumbs. Instead, the truth laid between them, raw and writhing, like a skinned and gutted animal.
Or like the precious baby she’d lost. But she couldn’t share that part of the tale. Not when he was looking at her with such pity in his eyes. Besides, there was still the matter of tomorrow’s visitors to discuss.
He swallowed. “Lord. I’m so sorr—”
“No.” Her cheeks burned. “You don’t get to apologize. You saved my life, and in return, I wronged you. I withheld pertinent information. You can never have another son … not with me. You should despise me for tricking you. You will, in fact … when you learn the depths of my deceptions.”
Trying to find the courage to tell him everything, she turned to the window seat and opened the hinged cushion, yanking out a long length of silver satin and an even longer strip of pink ribbon. Looking only at the back of the mirror, she proceeded to wrap the satin and ribbon around the glass. When she attempted to hold the ribbon in place to form a bow, she felt his strong frame behind her.
A
large, capable hand came around to hold the knot. Together, they formed a tie worthy of any hat maker. His mother would’ve been proud. Before she could pull away, he laced his fingers through hers, twirled her around, and pulled her close for a hug, snuggling her beneath his chin.
His hot breath stirred the hair on top of her head. “Felicity.”
She pressed her ear to his steady heartbeat. So lulled by the reassuring thud, she prepared to confess the rest of her lies, but footsteps slapped down the corridor toward the room. They both glanced at the door.
“Did you lock the latch?” she asked.
He released her. “No. I keep forgetting your children roam—”
“My brother’s children,” Felicity interrupted, awash in grief.
The door slammed open, revealing a tiny slip of a silhouette. “Auntie?”
“I’m here, little goose.”
Lianna tumbled in and stalled next to the covered mirror. She wore nothing but a rumpled chemise and a frown—her hair fuzzy with wet tangles. In spite of the ill-timed interruption, the vision amused Felicity. The child looked like a pixie caught in a windstorm.
“Bini wishes to put my hair up,” she whined. “But I’m old enough to wear it down with flowers tucked in. Like yours this morn.”
“Yes, you are old enough.” Felicity assured. “You can tell her I said so.”
“Is this my gift?” Typical of her nature, the child slammed into another subject, gawking wide-eyed at the satin and bows.
“It is. But you must wait,” Felicity answered, sweeping Lianna’s tangles into some semblance of order. “I shall have Fennigan and Tobias move it to your room and after dinner you can open it there.”
Lianna’s gaze caught on Nick as if just noticing him. “Mister Sir. Is your tummy rocking?”
Felicity glanced in his direction to see what Lianna referred to. He was pale—almost green. He appeared sick enough to retch.
“Yes.” He ran a hand through his messy hair. “I suppose I need to eat something.”
Felicity turned away, sharing his nausea. What had possessed her to tell him? Now, of all times? No doubt he was already planning a way out of their vows. It wouldn’t be so difficult. After all, they hadn’t even consummated.
How would she ever get him to stay after this?
She knew the answer. Ask him to uphold the charade for the safety of the girls. But how unfair to put him in such a position. To guilt him into being responsible when he’d only known them one month … when she was still harboring the lie about his father’s looming visit.
She cast about in her mind, fishing for a way to get Lia out of the room … to give them just a few more moments of privacy.
Another set of pounding steps shook the corridor and Aislinn appeared in the doorway, panting. “There you are, tiny slug. You’re so slippery.” She saw Nick and her eyebrows shot up. “Oh!” A smile wrestled to break free. “I tried to catch her.”
“Tis all right,” Nick answered. His broad shoulders drooped slightly along with the corners of his sensuous lips, belying his nonchalance. “I was helping wrap a gift. I should prepare for the gala.” He strode toward the door.
Lianna cast an imperial gaze to Aislinn. “He’s quite famished.”
“Ah.” Aislinn’s teasing smile broke loose. “We’ll have to get accustomed to such spells. Princes are notorious for their gluttonous appetites. Isn’t that right, Auntie?”
Before Felicity could even scold Aislinn for her brass, Nick dismissed himself and left the room. The distractions had saved her from confessing everything, leaving the truth of Nick’s father hanging heavy and uncomfortable, like a wet shawl draping her shoulders.
If Nick was physically ill over her admission of barrenness, she shuddered as to what his reaction would be tomorrow—when both their pasts came crashing down around them.
Chapter Thirty-one
Shaved, scented with sandalwood soap, and wearing a russet colored shirt and brown cravat with matching vest and trousers, Nick descended the stairs.
He cast a glance to Felicity’s chamber down the hall. Sympathetic misery clung to his heart—a constant aching sting—as if a knife had splintered within, leaving shards of tarnished steel behind. He’d always known the repercussions of that violent attack by Hayes went far deeper than a flesh wound. But he never realized how deep.
Though the lie didn’t set well, Nick understood why she’d been hesitant to confess. Unbeknownst to her, he had no qualms with a barren wife. For him, the thought of losing another child during birth was unthinkable. He hated how much agony Felicity was in, but she was better off to never feel that kind of loss.
He’d left her thinking he was angry and disappointed. That had never been his intent. Her confession leveled him to the bones, bared his inability to stop that monster before the stabbing could take place.
Nick had wanted to comfort as a husband should. To soothe. Was trying to find the right words when the girls burst into the chamber. As a man, he couldn’t imagine how such hollowness would feel to a woman … as bleak as any death sentence.
Something told him in this case, words just weren’t enough.
His palm skimmed the stair railing.
Speaking of words, what had she meant, he would despise her after learning the depths of her deceptions? Was there more she’d lied about? What else could there possibly be? Her brother … the ghost.
He didn’t care about any of that. His concern was for her now. She was weighed down with guilt, worried he wanted an heir. Tonight, after the party, he would offer her the gift he’d crafted along with his promise that all was well. It was time his wounded bird got her wings.
He touched the carving where it waited, secure and hidden in his right pocket, then resumed his trek down the stairs.
The sound of the girls’ happy chattering led him to the dining hall. He looked forward to their bright, shining faces, eager to embrace the bliss of their innocent oblivion. He now knew why Felicity was so fiercely devoted to them. They were the only children she would ever come close to claiming as her own.
A bittersweet sadness entrenched him, and he paused at the threshold. The clouds had thinned enough that sunset passed through the long windows and hazed the room to the soft ruddy hue of a ripened watermelon. The electric lights overhead and the fireplace cast a warm glaze across the glossy table and furniture. Nutmeg and Dinah wrestled on the floor beside the hearth.
A chiming melody, tinkly and mechanical, drifted from the desk where the phonograph had once sat. Now a music box sat there—new and expensive. It boasted a porcelain stand no bigger than a cigar box supporting a miniature white gazebo. Tiny latticework doors synchronically opened and closed to the melody, alternately revealing a ballerina rotating in the center.
Lia and Aislinn held hands and danced a minuet, though it didn’t fit the song playing.
Upon spotting Nick, Lia scrambled for the door. She threw herself against him, hugging his knee so tight the blood stumbled for passage in his veins.
“You kept your promise!” Her nose nuzzled him and hot tufts of breath warmed his leg. “Thank-you thank-you thank-you!”
“You’re … welcome?” Nick smoothed her hair—shimmering like spun sugar around her shoulders and interspersed at the crown with dried flowers. He glanced about the room, seeking Felicity and some answers.
Aislinn shut off the music box then came to his rescue.
“Lia,” she said, plying the little sprite from Nick’s leg, “go see if Cook has finished icing your cake.”
“Oh!” Lia looked up at Nick, her eyes sparkling beneath a curtain of white lashes. “Your empty belly will be all better soon. Cook made a plum pudding cake with honey frosting!” She started to bounce away but stopped at the door. “You’ll bump my noggin, won’t you, Mister Sir? Clooney used to, but I want you this time.”
Nick raised his brows helplessly in Aislinn’s direction.
She nodded and strands of her glossy dark hair captured hints of
the fading sunset, like embers coming alive amongst coal black ashes. “An Irish tradition. You hold her upside down and bump her head on the floor for each year of her life, giving her one extra for luck. It takes a strong hand to do the lifting and still be gentle.”
“Ah.” Grinning, Nick turned to the sprite. “I would be honored, Lady Lia. So long as you return the favor on my birthday.”
Lia rolled her eyes and snorted. “You’re such a jolly monkey.” Then she skipped from the room with Nutmeg at her heels.
Dinah purred and rubbed herself against Nick’s ankles. Aislinn bent to pick up the cat. “Lia wasn’t supposed to open the gift until you and Auntie both came down. But the moment she saw your name on it, she couldn’t hold her curiosity at bay.”
“My name?” Nick scratched the cat behind her ears as Aislinn buried her nose in its gray-striped fur. “I haven’t had time to get her a gift other than Butterscotch.”
“Auntie sent Clooney to Carnlough while we had our hike.”
Nick studied Aislinn’s eyes. “How could she afford it?”
She wrapped the cat’s tail around a finger. “I suspect she traded something. Perhaps … a special piece of jewelry?”
Remembering the absence of Felicity’s precious brooch earlier, Nick gulped back an odd flavor on his tongue—it tasted sweet yet sad, like some rare confection made of tears. He couldn’t believe she’d part with her heirloom merely to help him save face with Lia. “Where is she?”
“She’s getting ready. While the rest of us cleaned up, she decorated.”
Nick regarded his bride’s handiwork. A white lace runner graced the table, and fresh flowers, snipped off their stems to float in crystal bowls, provided simple yet elegant centerpieces. She’d strung the clover the girls had collected onto long threads and draped the shamrock garland from one corner of the ceiling to another, adding color and the subtle scent of the outdoors. A rainbow of satin ribbons crowned each of Lia’s masterpieces on the wall, and her dolls—seated along the settee and wing backed chairs—sported their finest gowns and hair adornments, some of them holding gifts yet to be opened.
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