by Darcy Burke
Or maybe it was because of the kiss.
She averted her gaze to her plate. Where had that come from? She hadn’t thought of that in weeks. And it would probably be best if she didn’t think of it at all, ever.
“We’re going for a ride this afternoon,” Felix said, depositing himself in the chair at the head of the table next to Sarah.
Anthony inclined his head toward Felix. “Good.”
Felix’s eyes widened. “No argument? I was prepared to do battle.” He picked up his napkin as the footman came in.
“Would you care for anything, my lord?”
Felix looked toward Sarah’s plate and frowned. “Tell me you ate more than toast?”
“All right. I ate more than toast.”
He rolled his eyes at her and looked up at the footman. “Bring a basket of Cook’s rolls.” He glanced at Anthony’s food. “I see Anthony was smart enough to at least try one.”
The footman left, and Felix continued, “You’re both wasting away. We’re having a massive feast this evening, and I won’t let either of you leave until I’m satisfied your clothing is too tight.”
“That sounds rather uncomfortable,” Sarah murmured. She appreciated his concern. And his humor.
Felix turned toward them, his gaze turning more serious. “I’m so glad you’re both here. We’re going to have a marvelous time.”
“I’m still a bit surprised you brought us here,” Anthony said. “You never invite me here.”
“Not never.”
“Seldom, then,” Anthony corrected.
The footman returned and deposited a basket on the table. Felix reached for a roll. “True.”
“Why is that?” Sarah asked. She understood why Felix never would have invited her, but Anthony?
Felix shrugged. “No reason.”
She studied him, wondering why she didn’t believe that. “Thank you for inviting us now.”
He gave her a warm smile. “I suppose I was just waiting for the right time.”
Something inside her loosened. It was only for a moment, but she felt a brief sense of contentment and maybe even a spark of something she hadn’t felt in weeks: hope.
Chapter 7
What had started as a lovely ride across the estate had been utterly ruined when Felix had encountered his uncle. He knew he’d have to see the man, but on his first day in residence? And now Uncle Martin, his son, and—even more unfortunately—Felix’s aunt were coming for dinner.
Felix wished he could have come down with an ague.
Instead, he found himself trudging to dinner as if he were heading to be drawn and quartered. Upon consideration, that might have been preferable. Spending time with his aunt and uncle was nothing short of torture. He could only hope they would be on their best behavior for Sarah and Anthony.
And if they weren’t, well, then Sarah would have her answer as to why he rarely invited people to Stag’s Court. The only reason he’d done it this time was because they’d had to leave London, and because taking them to Oaklands hadn’t been an option.
Anthony arrived in the dining room first. “Is no one here yet?” he asked.
The question didn’t require an answer, so Felix didn’t give one. Instead, he said, “The faster we eat, the faster they’ll leave.”
“That’s important to you, I gather.” Anthony arched a brow in question and, at Felix’s bare nod, continued, “Consider it done.” He moved closer to Felix and spoke quietly. “You rarely speak of them. I never realized it was because you didn’t like them.”
“It’s not that I don’t like them,” Felix whispered. However, before he could say more, Uncle Martin, Aunt Bridget, and their son Michael arrived.
Uncle Martin was shorter than Felix with thick hair so overtaken by silver as to appear several shades lighter than the dark brown he’d sported even five years ago. His eyes were a bit too large for his face, which gave him the impression of intensity and made him look obsessively curious. Michael had inherited those eyes, along with his mother’s coffee-colored hair. He was the same height as his father, but sported a more slender build. Felix just then realized that Uncle Martin had been putting on weight over the last few years and was now verging on plump. Aunt Bridget, however, seemed to be defying age. She had hardly any gray hair, and her form was that of a woman who had never had children instead of delivering three. Michael, who was just nineteen, had two older sisters who were already wed.
“Why, Felix, it’s been an age,” Aunt Bridget said, gliding into the room and offering her cheek to Felix.
He lightly kissed her cool flesh, trying to remember the last time he’d seen her. Last summer, at least. “Good evening, Aunt. I’m glad you could come for dinner.” That was a bald lie. While he’d hoped to avoid Uncle Martin, who lived in the dower house, he hadn’t expected to see her at all. She spent most of her time in Bath or York with one of her sisters, alternating between the two. Anything to stay away from the husband she despised.
“Yes, it was quite fortunate I was here. I’m only visiting for a few days on my way to York for the rest of the summer. Michael is coming with me.”
Felix looked toward his sallow-faced cousin and thought he really ought to invite the poor boy to London. “Now that you’re finished at Oxford, you’ll come stay with me in London soon.”
Michael’s eyes lit. “I should love that above all things.” His mother made a clicking sound with her tongue, and Michael shot her an apologetic glance. “Except for going to York. I’ve been looking forward to this for some time.”
Felix didn’t believe him for a moment but didn’t say anything. He couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to because Sarah entered just then, dressed for the evening in a stunning gown of dark purple silk. She wore a cunning feather affixed to a jeweled brooch-type accessory that was pinned into her upswept hair. He’d no doubt she’d designed it. Since learning of her passion for hat making, he found he paid special attention to her headwear.
Or maybe since he’d kissed her, he paid special attention to her.
His heart pounded for a moment until he pushed the memory from his mind. He hadn’t thought of it in weeks, and he was far better off forgetting about it entirely.
Uncle Martin and Michael had met Sarah and Anthony that afternoon when they’d come across Felix’s relatives who had been visiting a tenant. Uncle Martin had managed the estate since Felix’s father’s death—a role Felix was content to have him continue to fulfill. Aunt Bridget, however, had not met them, so Felix conducted the introduction, hesitating before he referred to Anthony as Viscount Colton. Anthony gave him a subtle nod, and Felix went ahead.
“And this is Miss Sarah Colton,” Felix said. “Sarah, this is my aunt, Mrs. Bridget Havers.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Aunt Bridget said as she cast a glance toward Felix. “He calls you Sarah?”
“We’ve known each other a very long time. Almost my entire life, actually.”
Felix didn’t remember their first meeting. He’d only been eight. He recalled the specific visit to Oaklands because there had been a tree house in which he and Anthony had spent every possible moment. Other than that, it was a distant memory.
He tried to think of his first memory of Sarah. She was maybe five or six, and she carried a doll. No, two dolls. And they’d both had hats. He smiled to himself.
“That’s right.” Aunt Bridget looked between Sarah and Anthony. “I forgot you are the friends who live nearby. At Oaklands, is that right? How are your parents?”
“Bridget.” Uncle Martin took her by the arm and guided her toward the table. He lowered his head and whispered in her ear.
She sucked in a breath and then swatted him away before glaring at Michael, who rushed forward to help her take her seat.
Felix moved to help Sarah sit, offering the chair beside his. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“It’s fine.” She looked at Anthony, whose expression was stoic. He took the seat next to Sarah after she sat down.
With Aun
t Bridget across from Anthony and Uncle Martin at the other end of the table, Michael took the only remaining seat to Felix’s right. Once they were all situated, a footman poured wine while another served the soup.
“How was your Season?” Aunt Bridget asked. “Full of splendid activities, I’m sure.”
“Felix organized a tournament of races,” Sarah said.
“What sort of races?” Uncle Martin asked before Aunt Bridget could do so. She’d opened her mouth, but Martin had rushed to speak first. It had always been thus. Felix groaned inwardly and took a long drink of wine.
“Phaetons, mostly,” Sarah answered. “It was very exciting.”
“I always wanted a phaeton,” Aunt Bridget said with an overly sweet smile. “But my husband says they’re frivolous, despite the fact that we could well afford one.”
“You’ve no idea what we can afford,” Uncle Martin scoffed. “Besides, you spend more than your allowance as it is.”
Were they not even going to try to be pleasant in front of guests?
Felix sought to rein in the conversation. “Uncle Martin, what is new on the estate?”
He blinked at Felix. “Haven’t you been reading your monthly reports?”
Oh, for God’s sake, of course he had. Just because he allowed his uncle to oversee an estate that Michael would one day inherit didn’t mean Felix was oblivious. But since he wasn’t Martin, he didn’t say that out loud. Instead, he stretched a smile across his lips. “Promptly. I was merely trying to make pleasant conversation.”
Aunt Bridget made that disapproving click with her tongue again. “Really, Martin. You’re so quick to think the most negative thing you possibly can.”
Uncle Martin sent her a fuming glower as he sipped his wine.
Felix chanced a look at Sarah and Anthony, who were both almost comically interested in their soup. If nothing else, this disaster of a meal would maybe at least push their own troubles to the recesses of their mind. For that reason alone, Felix would suffer through the evening. Lord knew he preferred to toss his aunt and uncle out. Not that he ever had. No, he always suffered through their sniping and mutual disgust. He looked toward Michael, who seemed as if he wasn’t even aware of their behavior. He was, probably, immune.
“I would have liked to see the races,” Michael said a bit wistfully.
“He may organize them again next year,” Sarah said. “They were quite popular. He even had a tournament for women.”
“How wonderful!” Aunt Bridget exclaimed at the precise moment Uncle Martin said, “How horrid!”
Aunt Bridget threw him an acidic stare. “Women racing is perfectly acceptable.”
“If they’re loose,” Uncle Martin grumbled.
Felix resisted the urge to tell him that some of their women friends had raced. Sarah, however, did not. “My dear friend the Marchioness of Northam raced her new vehicle. And my friend the Countess of Dartford won. It was exhilarating.”
“Do you race?” Aunt Bridget asked, her eyes sparkling before she briefly narrowed them toward her husband.
Felix downed the rest of his wine, and the footman quickly refilled his glass before moving to do the same for Anthony.
“I don’t,” Sarah said. “I like to ride, but driving fast is not something I aspire to do. I did wager on the races, though, and that was quite diverting.”
“Oh, splendid!” Aunt Bridget said as she dipped her spoon into her soup. “I may want to attend these races too.” She turned to Felix and suggested he organize a tournament in Bath.
Uncle Martin rolled his eyes at her. “You don’t have enough money to wager.”
“You’ve no idea what I have, dear.” Again, her voice was sickly sweet.
“No, I suppose I don’t, and I’m quite happy with it that way.” He lifted his glass to her and offered a taunting smile that made his aunt glare at him as if she were tossing daggers in his direction.
She turned her attention to Sarah and Anthony, who were still doing their best to ignore the hostility between Martin and Bridget. “You’re both fortunate to be unwed. I recommend staying that way, if you can.”
“I would second that,” Uncle Martin said in a rare show of agreement with his wife. “Although, with your title, you have a duty. Unless you’ve got a relative to inherit like Felix has.”
“Uncle Martin, Aunt Bridget, let us not burden the Coltons with our family…concerns. They have their own troubles at present.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Aunt Bridget said. “I must apologize for my comment earlier. I didn’t realize your parents had been murdered.”
Felix watched, helpless, as color leached from both Sarah’s and Anthony’s faces. He saw Anthony’s hand tighten around his utensils, his knuckles turning white. And Felix noticed the slight tremor in Sarah’s hand as she picked up her wine. Rather than draw attention to their discomfort, he turned toward Michael and asked him about his final term at Oxford. This led Felix to draw Anthony into reminiscing about their days at Oxford, and they were thankfully able to keep Aunt Bridget and Uncle Martin relatively quiet.
And so they managed to endure the meal and his aunt and uncle’s company. Afterward, Sarah said she was tired and bid them good night. Aunt Bridget said she didn’t want to go to the drawing room alone, and so she insisted Martin and Michael accompany her to the dower house, for which Felix was exceptionally grateful.
Not five minutes after they left, he and Anthony were in his study with their coats discarded, cravats untied, and a bottle of whisky on a small table between the chairs in which they sprawled.
“Good Christ, those are miserable people,” Anthony said. “I begin to understand why you never invited me here. Have they always been like that?”
“Mostly, yes.”
“And you let him run the estate?” Anthony shook his head. “I knew you allowed him to live in the dower house and that he looked after things when you were in London, but I didn’t realize he was your de facto steward.”
“I have a steward.”
“Then you don’t need your uncle.”
This was another reason he didn’t invite people to Stag’s Court. How he ran his estate—his life—was no one’s business, not even his best friend’s. “His son is going to inherit someday. Why not let him oversee things? I’m quite content with this arrangement.” He gave Anthony a cool look before taking a long draw from his whisky glass.
Anthony pressed his lips together and lifted his glass. “My apologies. I know you don’t plan to marry. I just assumed that would change and that you didn’t really mean to have your cousin inherit. Clearly, I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I can see the benefit of not marrying—many of them, actually.” Anthony sipped his whisky. “However, I do not have a male first cousin. I’ll have to do some digging. Bound to be someone along the line.”
“As my aunt said, marriage isn’t for everyone.” It certainly wasn’t for them.
“Was their marriage arranged?” Anthony asked before shaking his head. “And they have three children?” At Felix’s nod, he laughed. “I presume they didn’t always hate each other.”
“My father said they did. Since they had two daughters before Michael, I have to assume they fucked each other through their mutual hate just to have a son.”
“Why does that sound vaguely arousing?” Anthony said, laughing. “Mutual hate fucking, I mean.”
“Because you had four glasses of wine at dinner and are nearly finished with a first glass of whisky.” Felix didn’t want to encourage him to get drunk, not after he’d had such a good day, but the fact was that Felix was already more than halfway drunk himself, and going all the way sounded pretty damn good at present.
Almost as good as mutual hate fucking. Or just fucking. An image of a woman wrapped in dark purple silk vaulted into his mind. He drained his glass and poured another. Before he set the bottle down, Anthony held his glass out for a refill.
“Looks as though we’re getting completely ste
wed,” Felix said.
Anthony held up his glass in a toast. “No one I’d rather do it with.”
Felix had no idea of the time when he helped Anthony up to his bedchamber. They were both stinking drunk, but Anthony was nearly unconscious. His arm around Anthony’s waist, Felix tried to open Anthony’s door without losing hold of him. He failed miserably. Anthony hit the floor with a thud, drawing his valet to rush to the door.
“I’ve got him,” he said, helping a muttering Anthony to his feet.
“Sorry about that,” Felix said, wincing. “Take good care of him.” He pulled the door shut with more force than necessary, causing it to slam. “Shit.”
He turned too fast and leaned back against the door to steady himself.
The door across the hall opened, and standing at the threshold was a goddess. Dark hair plaited over her shoulder, with curls that extended down over her breast, Sarah tied the sash of her dressing gown as she stepped out of her chamber.
“Felix?”
“’Tis I.” He stepped forward and swayed.
“My goodness. You’re foxed.”
“Felix is foxed. I think I shall say that three times fast. Felix is foxed. Felix is foxed. Fox is felixed.” He grinned and took another, far steadier, step toward her.
“I take it my brother is in the same condition?”
“A bit worse, actually.”
She frowned at him, and he took another step toward her until he was right in front of her.
“Don’t do that. Frown, I mean,” he whispered, lifting his hand to touch her lip.
The connection made her gasp, and she took a small step back.
“You looked beautiful tonight.” He waved a hand over his hair. “Your feather was stunning. You made it, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Her gaze was hooded, wary. And a bit seductive.
God, he was growing hard standing there looking at her in a state of undress. He realized he was in the same state—his coat and cravat were downstairs, and his waistcoat was completely unbuttoned. He wanted to touch her again, to kiss her.
“You should sleep,” she said. “Good night, Felix. Or Fox. Whatever your name is.” Her voice was cool and her gaze even icier. She turned and stepped into her room, closing the door firmly behind her.