An Independent Miss

by Becca St. John

  Still shaking his head at his boyish foolishness, Andover opened the door.

  Not to a footman.

  Not to a curious guest.

  “Felicity?”

  “Please,” she urged, and he spun them both around so fast she gasped. He shut the door behind him, held her in place, facing him.

  She couldn’t have seen Vivien, for she was facing him and more concerned with being seen herself. No chance to look for her aunt and risk Felicity following his gaze.

  “I need to speak with you, Lord Andover.”

  “Just Andover,” he reminded her absently, not daring to check whether the bedchamber door was closed, frantically trying to remember if he heard it shut at all.

  “Andover,” she repeated shyly, as she backed into the room, her eyes on him, thank goodness, for he could now see Vivien still rooted to her spot by the chair. He prayed the woman had enough sense, and a modicum of consideration, to keep her mouth shut.

  “Felicity,” he tried gently, as he didn’t want her to think he reprimanded her. “This is not the most auspicious time to speak.”

  She shook her head, cleared her throat. “No,” she hesitated a moment, “but it is the only time we won’t be badgered by others, and this is important.”

  He took a deep breath, leaned against the door to ensure she kept her focus in that direction. She wrung her hands, desperately. Alarmed, he worried she might pace. That would not be good.

  Wildly he sought solutions, even as he fought to be attentive to Felicity, while assessing Vivien’s potential to destroy everything.

  The thought crossed his mind that Vivien set this whole scenario up. It reeked of her manipulations.

  “Important?” He stepped up to Felicity, took those tortured hands into his and found them cold despite the neck-to-toe muslin nightdress and warm shawl draped over her shoulders. Even her neck and hands were covered, albeit with a delicate lace collar and cuffs. It was an unseasonably cold March.

  A gentleman, if one would have allowed a young lady, even his betrothed, to cross the threshold of his rooms, would lead her to the fireplace. He didn’t dare, even if it had been lit. The object was to remove her from this farce of a situation.

  He managed not to look at Vivien, though from the corner of his eye, he knew she had not moved. Nor had she made a sound. Perhaps that was better, perhaps he could get Felicity to leave without her any the wiser.

  She lifted her chin, sniffed, frowned, started to look around the chamber.

  “Felicity?”

  As always, her gaze went directly to his eyes, even as she pulled her hands free. The contrast between the two women caught him off guard. Most girls were too missish to meet a man’s gaze directly, but would welcome the touch. Her intelligent gaze clouded, and for once she looked away from him, to the floor, to the far wall, anywhere but at him. Something worried her.

  He wanted to protect her, he needed to protect her. It was part of her appeal. She offered warmth and steadfastness, and he would offer her security. He never anticipated exposing her to a sordid circumstance like this.

  It took a moment for her words to interrupt his musings.

  “I am so very sorry, Andover, but I am concerned that…that you don’t know me very well or I, you. There are so many questions I have, to see if we…” She hesitated, blushing deeply.

  “Suit one another?”

  The brightness in her smile, so absent this evening, was back. He wished some other subject had been the catalyst, but at least now he knew the problem.

  Or part of it.

  “There is no doubt in my mind,” he promised her, “but you are quite right in suggesting we speak. Early tomorrow morning? A quiet walk in the gardens? Will that offer solitude enough to discuss this matter?”

  “You will not speak with me now?”

  “What if your father comes? He has done so, in the past few days, to invite me down for a game of billiards.”

  “Oh?” She looked away. “Do you think we could get away with a quiet walk on our own? Without any of the guests or one of the children trailing us?”

  “If we rise early enough.” He ushered her to the door. She was right, they had very few moments to themselves, beyond that walk to the Smiths. Between the flurry of guests and her brothers, both younger and older, privacy was not an option.

  Nor should it be. A young lady must be chaperoned. But there were ways around that, especially once betrothed.

  Perhaps it would be good, now that they were set on a course, to discuss the matter. He certainly had discussed the marriage quite thoroughly with her father. One did not skimp when it came to business affairs.

  “I will trust you to arrange it then.” She smiled, looked up at him as he stood beside her and, as always happened, something in him settled. Even with Vivien there, with the risk of her being seen barely dressed, Felicity managed to ease his worries.

  Another reason he wanted to marry her. There was no doubt their life together would be physically pleasing, once he introduced her to desire. They would have a lifetime to explore that avenue.

  And lifetimes were fragile.

  Vivien hadn’t said a word and Felicity was nearly out of the room. Just a turn of the handle away from disaster. Andover did just that, pulled the door open as he smiled down at his betrothed, who was as tall as the top of his shoulder. He was thinking she was just tall enough, not too short, when he realized he no longer had her attention.

  He looked up sharply to find Vivien’s handsome footman holding a silver tray with covered dishes and an ornate wine bucket spouting a bottle of champagne.

  “Robert?” Felicity asked the stricken footman, just as Andover rallied from his own shock to declare, “You have the wrong rooms.”

  Robert started to turn when Vivien cooed in her most seductive voice, “Don’t be a spoilsport, Andover. Tell him to bring it in. I’m certain Felicity could use a nice glass of bubbly, couldn’t you, dear?”

  CHAPTER 7 ~ CONSEQUENCES

  The Earl of Westhaven was not familiar with dawn. Given his preference for late nights of study, he was not familiar with being woken before noon at all. Felicity could well imagine Humphrey scratching at her father’s door right about now, waking him and, as her parents unfashionably slept together, her mother.

  She knew this because Humphrey had stopped by her father’s study to inform Felicity that he had, indeed, found her note.

  Of course, it was not proper for her to be slipping through the house at all hours and pushing notes beneath Humphrey’s door, but nothing about this situation was proper. There was no need for the butler’s stiff sniff to tell her that.

  If it had been possible, she would have bypassed him and gone straight to her parents’ room and slipped the missive under their door. But then the scullery maid, or some other maid carrying a tray of coffee and hot chocolate, would have found the note.

  Humphrey was both an earlier riser and fanatically protective about the family’s business.

  At least he had seen to the fire and delivered a pot of tea. No doubt there would be another tray with slices of toast, once Humphrey knew her father was there. And her mother, of course. Her mother, who had no say in who she married, but chose, unfashionably, to share a bedroom with him. Did she have a choice in that as well?

  Felicity stared out at the blustery morning, feeling as cold inside as the world looked beyond the window.

  How could he? How could Andover propose to her and entertain her … her …aunt?

  “Cissy?” Her father’s gentle, thoughtful voice.

  Oh no… She was going to cry and she promised herself she would not.

  “Cissy?” Her father tried once more.

  The soft click of the door closing let her know his back was to her, gave her a moment to wipe her eyes before she turned to face him.

  “I suppose mother will be here soon.”

  “Of course she is coming, Cissy. You are not one for hysterics or commands in the wee hours of the morn
ing.” He moved toward her in the same way he approached an agitated horse in need of gentling. How many times had she admired his way with creatures? He had a knack for knowing just what they needed.

  Perhaps that was what he did with Mother, that made her come around to the smiling, happy wife she appeared to be.

  But his knack was off at the moment. She was far too fragile for him to take her hands, which she was sure he meant to do. If she cried, he might actually hold her, and then she would be totally undone.

  Neatly, she avoided any touch, as she moved around his desk to the standing globe, idly spinning it.

  “Ah,” he said, and uttered nothing more, leaving her to let him know just why she had summoned him, to his own study.

  “It was a mistake, the betrothal; I don’t believe we will suit after all.”

  He didn’t respond. She feared turning around, to see just what was on his face. His strong, square face, with those gentle brown eyes. Perfectly fine for a man, but terribly boring for a woman—which is what she was and how she looked. The squareness of her jaw softened, making more of an oval, but still much like his. She was all broad jaw and muddy browns.

  Unlike her brother, Thomas, a dashing example of her mother’s kin, with light eyes and hints of fire in his hair. It would have suited him just fine to look like their father, such a manly look.

  She stopped the globe from its spin. It was all so unfair. No one was ever anxious about Thomas finding a spouse. He could take his time for all of that. His looks weren’t important. As a female, she was absolutely dependent on her appearance, because one couldn’t find a husband when lost in a crowd of wallflowers.

  She touched her mouth, vividly aware that if she looked like her Aunt Vivien, Andover would have kissed her by now. Of course he would have. But he hadn’t, and that told her so very much. Married to a man like Andover, one would always worry about faithfulness. She would rather not have that on her plate.

  Her own aunt. She shivered.

  A scratch at the door announced a maid with—as Felicity had predicted—a tray. She glanced over her shoulder, to determine there was toast on that tray, startled to find she was starving. Not surprising, as she had been awake all night.

  When the maid left, her father poured a cup of tea, added milk and held it out as an offering. She took the cup, looked at her father, and wondered what she never would have thought to wonder before. Had her father ever strayed? She couldn’t imagine it. He adored her mother, as did everyone.

  “Your mother mentioned you were questioning things.” He spread jam on a toast point. “What has brought this on? We both thought you were quite happy with the situation.”

  “I was, or thought I was.” She licked her lips, fought for words she spent hours preparing. They fluttered away, chased by more thoughts than her tired mind could cope with.

  Whatever she said, she would never tell them about the incident in Andover’s chambers. It was far too humiliating and she didn’t want to explain why she had gone to his rooms.

  Instead, she chose a new topic, an idea that was just taking seed.

  “Perhaps marriage doesn’t suit me at all,” she argued, wondering if it weren’t true. “My work is too important.” Or it should be, except she had actually considered easing back for him.

  For him, the only man she would do that for.

  Head bowed over his toast, as if to study it for some clue, her father asked, “Not marry at all, Cis?” That’s when he looked up and she realized the idea hurt him. “No grandchildren from my little girl?”

  She hadn’t thought of such things as grandchildren. This was the first inkling that his main focus, in her getting married, had always been about having little ones about.

  “The others will give you grandchildren someday.”

  He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be the same.” and busied himself pouring another cup of tea. “But it makes me wonder if this isn’t something your mother can help you with. Perhaps…” Soft and mild, his words gentled the moment, “…it’s the getting of children that makes you question marriage.”

  A blush ran clear to the roots of her hair. Before she could even form a reply, there was another rap at the door. Grateful for the interruption, she looked to her father, who was watching her. Closely, too closely. An astute man.

  “No,” he answered his own question, “no, I don’t think that is the problem.” And without hesitation, called out, “Come in.”

  Andover stood on the threshold, grim and handsome, and, as far as Felicity could tell, not surprised to see her there.

  “May I join this conversation?” he asked, with a slight bow to them both.

  Again, her father watched her, and she knew he wanted her permission before he answered, but she didn’t know what she wanted. He was there, they could get it over with, but then again, perhaps her father could take care of the nasty business.

  “I will go upstairs,” she told them both.

  “No, you will stay here until we finish,” her father said.

  “Which,” Andover interrupted, “concerns me, I would imagine.”

  That brought Westhaven’s head around, his eagle eyes now on Andover. “You know what this is about?”

  “Yes, I believe I do, and wish to have a few moments with Lady Felicity, if I may.”

  “Cis, do you want to talk to the man?”

  “No.”

  Her father looked back at him, with an “it’s up to her” expression.

  Andover moved into the room, leaving the door open, should she send him packing.

  “Please, Lady Felicity, if you would allow me a few words, I promise I will not take much of your time.”

  “Cis,” her father chided gently, “can you give him that?”

  She knew what he was saying, that it was a point of honor, that if she wasn’t going to marry the man, the least she could offer was a few moments to hear him out.

  Honor was not what her barely tamped-down temper wanted, but she had learned that bad humors were not always the best judge.

  “Very well.” She could not face him. Not yet. She let the wild weather pull her to the window, focus on raindrops trailing down the panes.

  “Good.” Her father rose from his chair. “I will see what is keeping your mother.”

  There was no need to see Andover’s reflection in the glass, the feel of him coming up behind her, as tactile as a touch. Then he did touch her, put his hands firmly on her shoulders, as though to hold her there.

  Everything in her tightened fought the onslaught of sensation that slight contact afforded. Rather than put him off, her reaction earned a gentle brush of his thumbs along the back of her shoulder. A tender, enticing lure, as intimate as a kiss. Why now, when it would have meant so much before? Now, when she knew it was not personal. Such tender stroking was not limited to his betrothed.

  Nor was the soft brush of his breath, as he leaned in and whispered, “There is no turning back time. If I could, I would. You did not deserve or warrant that scene last night.”

  No argument there. “Are you saying it is better not to know?”

  “No. As a gentleman I am not at liberty to explain last night. It is a point of honor. You deserve more than that wall of silence, or the machinations that had you facing what you did. We were both victims, Felicity, you must believe me on this.” His lips brushed her ear, his breath caressed. She tilted her head but he followed. “We can move forward. We can move past this.”

  No, she could not move past it. She wanted a marriage like her parents’ marriage. That was not what he offered. He made no promises of fidelity. That gave her the courage to pull free and face him. “There is no need, Lord Andover. You are free to share your affections where you will, to find another unwitting girl to be your bride.”

  He reached for her hands, but she stepped away. “It is over,” she told him, amazed at the calm in her voice, when inside a tidal wave of emotion throttled her.

  “It is not over!” Lady Westhaven
stormed into the room, slamming the door behind her. “You!” She pointed at Andover, “better have something to say for yourself and you,” she turned the temper she was famous for not controlling, at Felicity, “have some explaining to do.”

  With that, she slumped into a chair, as Lord Westhaven slipped back into the room.

  “I cannot believe what the servants are talking about,” Elizabeth told her husband.

  The room went silent. Lady Westhaven fanned her face as though that could ease the heat of her fury. Both Felicity and Andover stood absolutely still. He watched her, Felicity felt it, though she dared not look at him. Instead she watched her father, who was taking it all in.

  “It seems as though I am the only one who does not know what you are talking about, Elizabeth.” He shut the door behind him. “Would you care to enlighten me? Or perhaps Andover might explain?”

  Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

  Felicity spun around, pressed against the window, as if that were a route of escape, unable to bear the world knowing the whole sordid mess. And the world would know, because what was spoken of below stairs would carry upstairs and every ladies’ maid and valet there with a guest would soon be whispering all about Felicity’s humiliation. She wanted to curl up and die. To run away to some hidden cottage somewhere and live her life where no one knew her.

  “Felicity?” Andover stepped toward her, but she didn’t want him, tried to wave him away.

  “Please,” he appealed to her parents, “let us have some privacy.”

  “No,” she told him, not daring to look at anyone, as the tears that threatened all night, fought once more to spill. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “No.” Calmer with the firm stance. “It’s not a private matter anymore. Everyone knows about your company last night.”

  “Excuse me.” Her father’s patience snapped. “What do you mean, his company last night? What does everyone know that I do not?”

  “I will tell you, Westhaven,” Elizabeth jumped in. “My guttersnipe of a sister, who is packing as we speak, ordered a footman to deliver champagne and victuals for her tête-à-téte with Andover in his chambers after we were all abed.”