An Independent Miss

by Becca St. John

  Andover rose when Bea entered the room, standing beside Felicity’s chair. “We would love to, wouldn’t we Felicity?”

  Felicity started to respond but he didn’t give her a chance. “As soon as we are finished with our discussion.” Gently, he squeezed her shoulder.

  “Is that what you want, Cis?” Bea asked.

  “Lady Beatrice.” Lord Upton urged her from the room. Again, she shrugged him off.

  Dear Beatrice to the rescue…only, perhaps, she didn’t need it just yet. She simply couldn’t decide. As she wrestled with the opportunity, Andover leaned close. “Coward.”

  Felicity shot him a glance, but addressed Bea. “He says I’m a coward if I don’t complete our conversation.”

  Beatrice moved further into the room. “Or very wise,” she countered, glaring at Andover.

  Lord Upton rolled his eyes. “Beatrice, they need to find their own way through this.”

  “Do you, Cis? Do you want to find your own way?”

  “Yes, Bea, it’s all right. But, Bea?”

  “Yes?”

  “Let the children come down from the nursery. They love shades and will add a game of shadows to it.”

  “How thoughtful, Cis. Just like you.” Bea glared at Andover again. “Perhaps we should play up in the nursery.”

  “What a novel idea.” Lord Upton added, and had Bea out of there before Felicity could change her mind.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Andover said, as he took the chair angled toward hers.

  “I really do enjoy silhouettes.” She sighed and they both chuckled.

  “We will join them, only later.”

  He was right, she was being a coward. In facing him she was facing her fears, her doubts. He wanted answers, but so did she. There was a choice to be made that would change her very existence.

  “A truth for a truth.”

  He nodded. “Ladies first.”

  She drew back. “Ladies first? Even into dangerous territory?”

  “Giving you an opportunity to decide just how indelicate you want your question to be.”

  “Ladies first,” she murmured, as she looked into the empty fireplace, gathering her thoughts.

  “You never let on that you were courting me. You did not give it much time. Why was that?”

  He had leaned in toward Felicity but when she asked her question, he drew back, surprised. “Was it not apparent?”

  “No.” And with that one word, she realized that was exactly why she had worried. He did not strike her as an impulsive man. Her brother, her family were terribly impulsive, she knew the difference.

  In light of recent events, it all made horrible sense. He had not proposed for love or passion. He needed to marry to meet newly-acquired obligations.

  “Felicity, I was not about for the last season, when you were presented,” he stated firmly. “I have attended a number of seasons in the past and have met any number of prospective brides. None drew my interest until I found you.”

  “And you feel you know me, after only a few weeks?”

  “Yes. As I told you the other day, I was on the lookout for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not fair. You are requesting another truth before you have answered mine.”

  “But you haven’t answered mine.”

  “Yes, I have. You asked why I proposed so quickly and I told you.”

  “Not really. You haven’t explained to me why you see me as different from other young ladies.”

  Now he looked at the fireplace, as he gathered his thoughts. She studied the tilt of his head, the line of his cheek, his profile.

  Upstairs they were drawing silhouettes. She would like to do his, with cutaways, so one could see the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair curled at his brow and again at his collar. So caught up in her plans he startled her when he explained, “Do you remember the first time we rode out to the Smiths’ cottage?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were so good to their two little ones.”

  “They are very good children.”

  “Not when Peter used the slingshot against his sister.”

  Felicity laughed. “Well, Peter is a boy, after all.”

  “You handled him beautifully. That was the last piece of the puzzle for me. I couldn’t leave that cottage fast enough to get to your father and ask for your hand.”

  “Because of those children? You’d barely arrived on that day.”

  “Because of you with those children. You never once fretted about your boots on the muddy path, sticky hands tugging at your riding habit, or the young girl pulling your hair from its pins. You enjoyed it all.”

  What did one say to such a thing? A truth, but nothing out of the ordinary.

  “You love children, would put your children before yourself. And you cared for that family. A family you could ignore as easily as not.”

  “That’s what mothers do. That’s what landowners do.”

  “Not all mothers, Felicity, and certainly not all ladies of the manor.”

  He was right. It was a disgrace how some treated their tenants. One heard stories after all. As for children, she wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the Smith family.

  “You were good with them as well, setting up a target that moves in the breeze. That was true brilliance and he’s been practicing.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “Yesterday. It seems you like children, too.”

  “Yes, I do. I rather hope we have a dozen.”

  “Oh, my,” she hesitated, “I should have asked you about this before I said yes!” Again, they shared a laugh, a merry sound. Felicity leaned back to catch her breath. How wonderful it would be if he loved her, even a little.

  “Have you said yes?” So soft, so deep, not so much a question as a seductive invitation.

  “Things have changed and there are differences between us.” She couldn’t look at him. Let the silence lengthen until he broke it.

  “We can work through anything.”

  Could they? Should she explain the divide?

  “My turn.” He reminded her.

  “Yes.” She whispered, not quite ready to have it all out, for once she had it all out, there would be no turning back. He could walk away before she knew her own mind.

  And that was the crux. Could she, would she, give up a lifetime of study? Any other young lady would, she knew. Society was not set-up for a woman to have a career. Not in their world.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, time for the big question. Why did you originally say yes to my proposal?”

  Felicity blinked. That was not the question she anticipated, nor one she wanted to answer. He proposed for fine reasons, but none of them were for love.

  “You were going to ask why I went to your room.” It was the safer of the two questions.

  “Will you be honest?”

  “Those are the rules of this game.”

  “Then why did you go to my rooms?”

  She knew this was coming, shored up her courage by thinking that a kiss was such a small thing. Surely he wouldn’t think her an absolute hoyden for wanting one.

  He watched her, waiting. “Why, Felicity? Surely you were prepared to tell me once, you can do so again.”

  She took a big breath, let the words slip from her lips like wine from a tilted glass. “A kiss. I wanted you to kiss me.”

  CHAPTER 10 ~ SILHOUETTE KISS

  “A kiss?”

  “We are to marry, but you have yet to kiss me. Other than my fingers, of course, when you proposed…”

  He saw the blush rise on her cheeks as quickly as remorse hit him. All of this could have been averted by a mere kiss. He had never been stingy with them before, but then again, he had never kissed a gently bred young lady.

  Her blush deepened and he realized she needed him to respond. To kiss her now would be crass, as if he hadn’t thought of it until she asked. He had to give her more of a reason, a real reason. This was,
after all, a game of truth.

  “Have you ever been kissed before, Felicity? By any other man outside of your family? Family kisses don’t count.”

  She shook her head, though she did not lower it or try to hide her expression. She was reserved, not cripplingly shy.

  “Good. It is unfair of me to have wanted that, but I did. And that was why I did not pursue you with seduction. Or not entirely. The kiss to your fingers was a start.”

  He edged his chair closer to hers. “It was my intention to move slowly. Just in case there is a long wait between the betrothal and the wedding night. I did not want to anticipate that event.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He was nearer still, had managed it with the slightest of movements.

  “There comes a point, my love, with kisses,” he explained, “when one doesn’t want to stop. Or, at least, I hope you will feel that way. It seemed best to move very slowly over the course of months before the wedding.”

  “Are you saying you wanted to kiss me too much?”

  “Precisely.”

  She put her fingers to her lips, her eyes wide. “You are fond of me?” That balance between intelligence and naïveté charmed him.

  “Felicity, I would not have proposed if I were not, at the very least, fond of you. Come with me,” he held out his hand, not surprised by her hesitation.

  She gripped the arms of the chair. Just a touch and she relinquished her hold, took his hand as he helped her to stand before him. “That’s my girl.”

  “I am not a girl.”

  The mulishness in her tone matched the lift of her chin, countered by a refusal to look in his eyes.

  “You are right, you know.” He murmured, more to himself than to her. “I have been remiss in broadening our relationship.” He tugged her closer.

  Shallow and quick, her breasts lifted with each thin inhalation and shimmied with each uneasy exhalation. As he pulled her into his arms, he could feel the quick tattoo of her heart.

  “Has anyone died from a kiss?” Sweet innocence.

  “I promise you will not die, my little sparrow.” He understood the fear, felt the edge of a precipice, about to fall himself, as his lips brushed her forehead, trailed down to the pounding pulse at her temple.

  Her knees buckled. He took advantage, wrapped an arm around her waist, steadied her, pulled her flush against his body with one arm as he lifted the other hand to tilt her chin.

  “Do you understand now, how all-consuming this sort of thing can be?”

  Unfocused, she looked to him.

  Slowly, so she could pull away if she chose, though he did not think he would survive that, he pressed his lips to hers. The tremble in those soft lips surged through him on a wave of heat.

  He wanted her. Now. Here. Because of a simple, innocent kiss, a tidal wave of sensation roared through him. He pressed her tighter against him, lips settling more firmly against hers, nudging the parting until she allowed him access.

  And he was lost. Lost to her innocence. Aware of his own. Having stepped straight into a desire he’d never known. Passion, need, swirling through him, blinding him from reality. Life, joy, enthusiasm rushing through him, breaking through the crust of mourning.

  He was alive, wanted, needed. He was alive. Every nerve in his body sang with a heady craving that could not be sated standing, no matter how fiercely he held her to him. How eagerly she clung to his neck.

  Reality.

  They were in her father’s study, a place anyone could enter.

  Stunned, shamed, he eased his hold, lifted his head, unable to focus as he fought the raging throb of blood pounding in his veins.

  This woman, this young girl, barely a woman, lowered her arms, her hands on his chest. He wanted to hold her still, but she pushed away, a gentle but firm shove. On unsteady legs, she stepped back, dipped her head.

  “Do you see, Felicity, why I thought it prudent to wait?” he rasped.

  She put her fingers to her lips, eyes wide even as tears filled them.

  His mind raced to comprehend what those brimming eyes could mean she whispered, “This is what you share with others.” and turned away as though shamed.

  “No!” Panicked, he tried to pull her around, to assure her, but she refused, had shut him off.

  “Please, don’t.”

  Don’t what? Be swept away by a kiss? Find, in the brush of lips, the one woman who could awaken him from the dead.

  “Felicity, it is not like that, will not be like that.” He was too shaken to know what to do.

  Felicity reached the door Rupert had closed upon leaving, put her hand to the knob. “Please, Lord Andover.” Formal, as though they hadn’t just shared the most profound of moments. “Don’t make promises you cannot keep.”

  “Felicity, wait.” He reached her as she opened the door.

  “They will be waiting for us, up in the nursery.”

  “Please, let us discuss this. It was not my intention to offend your sensibility.”

  “There is nothing to discuss. I must marry you. I know that, but wish to God it weren’t true.”

  She didn’t want to marry him because of the kiss? They would marry even if they hadn’t felt anything for each other, even if the attraction was dull, but they had felt something, damn it. The attraction was powerful. Completely undid him and, he suspected, undid her as well. Why would she deny it, fight it?

  Andover sat in the corner of the darkened nursery and watched as Felicity traced one silhouetted shadow after another. The children used their fingers to form shadows of animals and objects on the walls.

  It was a high time for all. All but him and, he suspected, Felicity. His betrothed, and he refused to think of her in any other fashion, would not show disquiet, or any feeling, for that matter. As Rupert had said, still waters. They do run deep indeed.

  So what put her off? Not the kiss. He’d be damned before he believed that. She was as much a part of it as him, delightfully so, until she pulled away. Shaken by the physicality of their attachment, as was he, but not repulsed.

  The revelation was in her avoidance. She could not look in his eyes. In the past weeks she had drawn him out with mere glances, from across a room, or when their companions said something outrageous. There would be that look of laughter or amusement or astonishment. Any number of shared reactions to a situation, they would look to each other and share that moment as a private understanding.

  Today she refused eye contact. Even in the past few days, through this whole sordid mess, she had never avoided looking at him. Being near him, yes, but she was not shy of talking to him, joining in conversation when he was present.

  This afternoon she was.

  Rupert left Bea and headed toward Andover’s private little dark corner. This was serious, as Rupert never strayed too far from Bea’s orbit. No doubt Lady Bea refused to have anything to do with Andover.

  Rupert stood over him, which was an easy thing, as Andover was in one of the children’s small chairs. “After seeing you in the library, I would have thought we didn’t need my sister’s help after all, but now here you are sulking. What happened?”

  “I kissed her.” Was all Andover was willing to offer.

  “Does that mean your reputation as a lothario is ill-matched?”

  “Stop,” Andover snapped. “And sit down, Rupert. You’re giving my neck a strain.”

  Rupert eyed the chair with caution as he lowered himself onto the small seat. “What went wrong with the kiss?” he whispered.

  “It was a bloody damned good kiss,” Andover whispered back, completely out of sorts because it wasn’t the kiss that had gone wrong. That had, in fact, gone as right as a kiss could.

  “I don’t know about that, Andover. You kiss her and she closes up. Doesn’t sound like your wiles worked.”

  Andover shot him a glance. “You noticed how she is changed? She isn’t that easy to read.”

  “Bea noticed. If looks could kill, my dear friend, you would be pushing
up daisies right now.”

  “Blast it, it’s that vixen, Vivien.”

  “Watch the language, Andover, we are in the nursery after all.”

  Andover rose. “And I’m not fit company for children right now.”

  “Or any one,” Rupert confirmed.

  He got as far as the door, needing air, space, a place to organize his courtship, because that was what he had to do. He had to court Felicity again.

  He turned to see her. From this angle she was silhouetted, a beautiful silhouette, and he realized he didn’t have anything of her, not a miniature, no profile, no lock of hair. He could use such a thing, to have her close in some way, when she was so distant in others.

  At the dinner gathering that night, silhouettes were passed around for all to admire. Even the children were allowed in the salon full of excitement, proudly displaying their own likenesses. Each and every one was exquisite, for Felicity had done more than copy silhouettes for the others to cut out. She had taken a small knife and scored out sections to show strands of hair, the outline of a ribbon or cravat. True representations of the sitters.

  All but Felicity’s. Hers was a good representation, but without the cutouts. Like a callow youth, he coveted that silhouette, though Bea now owned it. He didn’t try to get it from her, for he knew she would not part with it. Especially to him.

  Lady Westhaven stood alone watching the excitement as everyone huddled over the portraits. Andover took advantage of the rare opportunity and approached her.

  “Andover.” She greeted him.

  “I don’t suppose there are any other silhouettes of Felicity.”

  Keen-eyed, she studied him before answering. “Actually, I have one on my dresser.”

  “Do you?” He looked to the group, now dispersing, seeking to calm his racing anticipation. “I would offer the earth for that silhouette,” he said, before turning to watch as she took her time in responding.

  “I would rather exact a promise from you,” she finally said.

  “What would that be?”

  “That you be good to my daughter.”

  His turn to study her, a shrewd woman.

  “I know,” she went on, adjusting the fan in her hand, “that my husband has talked with you at length about our responsibilities and yours to Felicity. But you men tend to talk in financial terms. I do not.”