An Independent Miss

by Becca St. John

  Was that all he sought? A soothing listener? Surely there was more to it than that.

  She’d accepted readily enough. Why? What did she really know of this man?

  Ashamedly, she agreed to marry him because of her body.

  She’d lean toward him the way the tired lean toward a bed, the thirsty follow the scent of water. Her breath hitched with no more encouragement than a simple gesture of fingers running through his hair, or the change in the timbre of his voice as he spoke. Shocking and oh, so, earthy, she agreed to marry him for that.

  Sealed by one kiss, to her wrist.

  One kiss.

  She frowned, remembered his lips, so close, when they stood alone when Maddy and Jimmy had moved well ahead on the path. She’d yearned for the touch of his flesh against hers.

  He’d stepped back.

  “This war has taken too many of our young,” Sir Bertram said.

  Thomas had meant well, she was certain of it except…her thoughts stumbled. What had her dinner partner just said? Taken too many of our young?

  “I’m sorry, Sir Bertram, but who are you referring to?”

  Both of her dinner partners looked at her. Mr. Andrews, on her left, patted her hand. “Jack Marshall.”

  Jack Marshall? The loveable, funny, sweet young man her sister would marry? Not that any knew of their growing love. She was too young to do more than whisper to Felicity, but Felicity knew of the plans. When Jack returned, when Caro turned down all suitors in London, the two would marry.

  Fanciful, on the surface, but not to Felicity who witnessed the depth of their interest. She was their one ally in this secret love. She didn’t doubt they would play out the waiting game and make it to the altar.

  If he survived.

  Caro hadn’t received a response to her letters in weeks. She thought they’d been lost in the chaos of war.

  “He’s still with us, Lady Felicity. But he is wounded.”

  “Badly,” Sir Bertram added, shaking his head.

  “Where? When?” She would have to write Caro.

  “The Marshalls just heard this afternoon,” Mr. Andrews was saying, as Felicity looked down the table, realizing that the Marshalls weren’t there. She had failed to notice that as well.

  “Oh, dear.” Poor Caro. “Was the notice dated? How long was it in coming?” It had been ages since she’d visited with the Marshalls.

  Sir Bertram shook his head again, his lips pressed tight. Mr. Andrews filled in. “They’ve sent Robert to fetch him back to England so he can get proper care. No telling what goes on at those camp hospitals.”

  Robbie would want to go, do something, rather than wait for news of his brother.

  “Is that possible?” Felicity asked. “To bring him back?”

  “Yes,” Sir Bertram supported. “He will get better care over here.”

  “If it’s not too late.” Mr. Andrews stared into his plate.

  Felicity put her hand on his. “It will not be too late. I know Jack, he’s the scrappiest fighter I’ve ever seen and that’s saying quite a bit coming from my family.”

  Lost in the worry, he looked toward her, not directly at her. Evidence she should have noted sooner if she hadn’t been so caught up in her own foolish concerns.

  “I believe you are right, Lady Felicity. I only wish he had you near his side. You could cure the dead and have them walking the land once again.”

  “Mr. Andrews,” Sir Bertram warned, “don’t encourage such a thing. Lady Felicity will have to put all that behind her.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Andrews argued. “She has a talent, and she should put it to good use.” He addressed Felicity. “You’re to go to London soon, aren’t you, Lady Felicity? For the end of the season?”

  “Mr. Andrews,” Sir Bertram began to argue, but Felicity cut in. “Thank you for the kind words. Yes, at the end of the week, for the season.”

  Sir Bertram was not to be distracted. “It’s not on, Andrews. If anyone were to find out about her…well, her hobbies…” He looked guilty, and so he should. Hobbies indeed. Felicity tended his gout on more than one occasion, and successfully at that.

  He droned on. “…Lady Felicity would be cut by the ton. Can’t have that. It’s time she let go of girlish interests, to see about finding a husband, having children.”

  Girlish interests?

  “Cut from the ton?” Mr. Andrews was stunned. “Good heavens, the doings up in the city. Why would they do a thing like that to a sensible, perfectly respectable girl such as Lady Felicity?”

  As the men debated the rules of society, Felicity looked down the table. Andover angled himself to hear the vicar’s wife, who was notoriously soft-spoken, his eyes on Felicity. He winked.

  Mr. Chandler’s voice grew louder. “That’s ridiculous, absolute rubbish that such a thing could happen.”

  ****

  Felicity flopped over in her bed, kicked her legs free of the twisted sheet, and tugged at the covers. Unlike her friend Jack, she was safe at home. She should be thinking of him, instead of foolish notions about her own disastrous betrothal and kisses—or lack of kisses—and the line of a gentleman’s chiseled jaw, or the way he leaned close, to better hear what she had to say.

  One moment she wished she could have gone with Robbie to find Jack, the next, her whole body raged with excitement and confusion and apprehension.

  Felicity flipped over again, as thoughts chased round and round, turning into dreams full of chaotic images of her brother, his sword at Andover’s throat, while her aunt stood in the background, laughing in that deep throated, mocking way she had.

  Felicity shot up in bed. Just as quickly, the dream faded.

  Just that night, the ladies had retired to the drawing room, while the men dawdled over their port. Felicity walked with the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Francis, a sweet, complacent woman who spoke with a soft, hesitant voice.

  “Poor Jack,” Felicity commiserated.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Francis replied, “it’s such a worry, and the Marshalls are refusing visitors. Not a one.”

  “But they will need the support, the distraction…” Felicity worried.

  Mrs. Francis nodded. “I tried, but they are not receiving.” She leaned close. “The servants say Mrs. Marshall has taken to her bed. Not that I fault her. Jack was a mama’s boy.”

  He was close with his mother. “If there is anything I can do …” Felicity offered, her mind on tonics that might help Jack’s mother.

  “Actually,” Mrs. Francis’ eyes lit with determination, surprising Felicity as her small, rounded face sharpened with a zealot’s fervor. “Some of the community discussed this very thing … that perhaps you could…”

  Vi cut her off, as she moved between the two. “Do, please, let me steal Felicity from you, Mrs. Francis, just for a moment.” She rushed on, not allowing argument. “We haven’t had a moment to chat since I arrived, and I will be leaving first thing in the morning.”

  As quickly as the vicar’s wife revealed a refreshingly unfamiliar eagerness, she slid back to her normal submissive calm.

  “Aunt Vi, please,” Felicity tried, even as Mrs. Francis shooed her on.

  “Go, Felicity, we will speak later. You go ahead.”

  “Very understanding of you, Mrs. Francis.” Vi tugged at Felicity. “The woman doesn’t mind and—” she whispered, “—I saved you from the doom of boredom. Do come with me.”

  Felicity looked over her shoulder to see Mrs. Francis standing alone, looking about her as though lost. Vi angled them toward the balcony doors. “Come, now, let’s have a good visit away from the ears of censors.”

  “Outside? Aunt Vivian, it’s been miserably cold this spring.” The damp air would compromise her aunt’s deteriorating health. With her liver in such a bad state, the rest of her had to be weakened.

  “Cissy, dear.” Vi let go long enough to throw the doors open, revealing a brisk evening, dimmed by low clouds, but no rain. “See,” she gestured to the terrace. “It’s a pleasant even
ing, for a change. We can step out, away from all these dullards, and you can tell me all about Andover’s courtship.”

  Andover’s courtship. First Thomas, now Aunt Vivien.

  “What courtship?” Nothing had been announced.

  “Come, Cis, I arrived before the lid was put on the talk.” She tugged at Felicity. “Haven’t we always had fun together? Shared all our stories?”

  “Inside,” Felicity relented. Sans rain, it was still quite cool outside. “My shawl is above stairs. We can visit just as easily in there. And you can tell me why we are fortunate enough to have you visit. And tell me how you are…feeling.”

  Vi’s eyes narrowed and, as quickly, she smiled, closing the terrace doors. “I am feeling fine, Cis, but if you insist, we will stay indoors and, as you want to know,” she guided Cis to a quiet corner of the vast drawing room, where two chairs faced each other. “I am here because of Andover.”

  Here because of Andover.

  Felicity kept her head lowered, adjusted her skirts and sat. Aunt Vi always verged on inappropriate.

  “I thought, perhaps, you arrived for a tonic.”

  “I was visiting with his mother…” All thoughts of tonics shattered. “She said he was here, mentioned she had hopes of a match.”

  The cold gleam in Vi’s eye could mean so many things, jealousy, calculation, success in attack, determination.

  “She approves?” Felicity tried not to care.

  His mother, at a distance, had known he was going to propose. Her parents knew, Vi knew, yet she hadn’t the foggiest.

  Vi’s harsh laugh transformed to languid. “She’s a bore, Cis. An absolute rigid bore, and sunk so low from mourning I doubt anyone else would care to visit with her.”

  This was not an answer to her question, which was an answer in itself.

  “She doesn’t approve of me?” Felicity shook her head, bewildered, trying to understand. Although not equal to her mother’s beauty, she was still all that was appropriate, except for her work with herbs and the ill. But surely Andover’s mother knew nothing of that. Yet.

  Vi patted her arm. “Of course she approves. Of half of you, at least. Foolish woman. Does she want her grandchildren to be as dull as she is?

  “Not that it matters. Right now, she would approve a guttersnipe if it meant some little ones running about. Really, Felicity, you can do better than Andover.”

  “You do not approve, either, I take it. Because of his mother?” Felicity asked.

  “Disapprove, dearest?” Vi went all aristocratic and condescending. “You are a lucky girl, Felicity, just think of what you can do with that wealth. He is terribly handsome, which will help, though of course it was the title you were after, clever girl. Power, that’s what that title means; power. If that is what you are looking for in marriage, which I doubt.”

  She doubted right. Felicity had not accepted Andover’s proposal for wealth or privilege or power. Not, entirely, on his handsome good looks, or to be a marchioness.

  “You do not believe I care for him or that he cares for me?”

  “Jenny Wren,” Vi patted Felicity’s cheek. “I can see the wisdom in his choice. You are so undemanding. You will let him get on with his life. So sensible.”

  Felicity didn’t want her marriage lowered to a sensible union, either.

  Vi smiled. “Of course, you have your own interests, so you are marrying for your heart.”

  “Is that such a shame?” Felicity countered.

  Felicity jumped as Vi’s fan hit her arm.

  “Handsome men break hearts, Felicity. They break hearts.”

  Vi held her gaze for a moment, then rose and swirled to face the door just as the men came through. She headed straight toward Thomas, leaving a trail of exotic scent and unanswered questions.

  It seemed Thomas and Vi both agreed, but what was it they knew that she did not?

  Felicity threw the covers back and got out of bed.

  CHAPTER 6 ~ INDISCRETION

  It was not a good evening.

  Lord Richard Henry Albert Carmichael, Marquis of Andover, Earl of Sutton, Viscount St. John looked at the woman who had just walked into the suite of rooms the Earl and Countess of Westhaven made free to him. They were luxurious, the perfect set of rooms for the fiancé of their only daughter.

  In their generosity, they failed to entertain the idea of his using it for a romp with the Countess’s sister. As had he, though Lady Stanhope appeared intent on just such a plan, interrupting a perfectly good read coupled with a fine glass of brandy.

  Not that the evening hadn’t been trouble enough already. Thomas had halted announcement of the betrothal, followed-by a change in Felicity. Nothing he could pinpoint. Just not her normal, easy self. Something troubled her and that something seemed to be him. Lady Stanhope and Thomas came to mind.

  If Vivien hadn’t meant to cause trouble before, she certainly managed to do so now.

  Arms crossed, he tapped a finger on his bicep as he studied her, considering the best tactic to get the blasted woman to leave.

  Those high cheekbones and large green eyes had not failed her. An hourglass figure, softened since the days his adolescent self ached for this woman ten years his senior. Then, too, she’d displayed herself in nothing but a wisp of fabric alluding to a night rail and wrap.

  She could bloody well go attract another man. He was not attracted, had learned the foolishness of such fancy when still wet behind the ears.

  She shivered.

  Good, if she stayed she would catch a cold in this brisk March air. He hadn’t fed the fire, as his brandy warmed him nicely, thank you very much.

  He wouldn’t feed the fire now, as he did not want her there. His mother taught him beauty is as beauty does. That fact wiped out much of Vivien’s appeal.

  She showed no interest in the fireplace.

  Women. They could make a man’s life decidedly difficult.

  Andover cut her off, as she headed for his bedchamber.

  “You need to leave,” he told her.

  He wouldn’t bother asking if she had been seen. The question would only amuse her. She loved to outrage society.

  Elegant and voluptuous, her chestnut hair untamed and falling from its earlier coil, Vivien leaned against the settee behind her and cocked her head to one side.

  She was too worldly for such childish ploys as a pout, but that never stopped Vivien. “You haven’t asked if I’ve been seen.”

  So he had robbed her of that. Good.

  “Do you ever think,” he asked, as he moved around her to shut the doors to the suite’s bedchamber, “of how cruel your actions are? How they affect others?”

  Her laughter peeled through the room. “Andover, don’t you know? It’s the cruelest of actions that offer the greatest gifts.”

  Only Vivien would say such a thing. A grating contrast to her niece Felicity’s straightforward nature, consideration of others.

  “How sweet, you’re thinking of Felicity, aren’t you?” Vivien asked. A smile barely edged her lips, as she watched him cross the room. He did not trust that smile.

  “Of course I am.”

  “And if it weren’t for Felicity, you would have enjoyed a tête-à-téte?”

  “A tête-à-téte?” To stall, he opened the door between his sitting room and the hall, looked out, ensured it was empty, and motioned her to leave. “I paid the price the last time, Vivien. A man can learn lessons, you know.”

  She didn’t budge. “You aren’t still upset about that little problem with my husband, are you?”

  “Barely surviving with my life may be a small problem for you, but I can assure you it is of no small consequence to me.”

  “Close the door, before I am seen then,” Vivien instructed.

  Why had he thought it would be easy? She had invited herself into his bedchamber when he was fourteen and she twenty-four. That time, he was eager and untrained and far too naïve to realize her goal was more than his manhood. His only gratitude to that day, th
ough humiliating at the time, was in reaching climax before she reached the bed.

  He’d never claimed her. Thank God.

  She’d been delighted to bring a man to fulfillment with her mere presence.

  Vivien lapped up jealousy like a lioness to the blood of a wounded gazelle. In that case, it was her husband. She teased him with Andover. A cruel game Andover failed to understand until too late.

  The tables were now turned. Vivian was jealous of her niece’s youth and appeal, and she was ready to strike out. Pistols at dawn were not her style. Seduction was.

  “You are such a bore, Andover. The most gorgeous of footmen promised to bring refreshments. You don’t want to waste good champagne, now, do you?”

  “Left over from my betrothal celebrations?” That never happened. He gave up, closed the door, and faced her.

  “Vivien, you can leave now, or I will. No doubt Westhaven wouldn’t mind being troubled for a game of billiards.”

  He had her with that one. She knew he would stay up all night if he had to. She knew he was good at avoiding her, because he had been doing it since that eventful week. He’d learned well to avoid all women like her.

  Damn nuisance, marrying into a family with a notorious female letch.

  Sulky and seductive, she moved around the room, picking up his book to study it.

  A quick tattoo of knocks stopped them both. Viv leaned forward, over the back of the chair that stood in front the fire. Her breasts threatened to flee her ensemble.

  “It’s the champagne!” she cooed. “We could share a drink.”

  Loath as he was to do so, he pointed to his bedchamber rather than toss her out of the room like a drunk from the pub. He did not want witnesses to her visit.

  He would answer the door, tell the footman he was mistaken and then—bodily, if he had to—he would send her packing.

  He shook his head, as he remembered how she had taken advantage of his youth, knowing her husband would walk in. Three weeks it had taken him to recover enough to get out of bed. Then there were the broken bones to mend, and worst of it all, his shattered ego.

  Vivien had been insulted the fight was so short. It’s hard to defend yourself when you know you are in the wrong.