by Anne Stuart
“And is that how you see yourself with me?” he queried curiously, apparently unmoved by her rejection. “You think that I would destroy you?”
“Oh, I don’t doubt you would regret it tremendously. But not enough to leave me alone. And destroyed I certainly will be, unless you do so.”
He stood motionless for a long, silent moment, staring down at her with an unreadable expression on his dark face. “There is more than one definition of destruction, Gilly. Some would call a blameless life sacrificed on the altar of family duty destruction, but I will have to leave it up to you. If you should ever change your mind you know where to find me.” Abruptly he released their arms, and with a graceful, mocking little bow, he left them, striding down Bond Street without a backward glance, leaving the two Redfern ladies staring after his tall, elegant figure with amazed chagrin.
“I admire your resolve, Gilly,” Felicity said after a long moment, and her voice was subdued. “I certainly could never have sent him away.”
“I wasn’t precisely aware that I had done so,” Gilly admitted ruefully. “But I can only be thankful that he has been so easily discouraged. No doubt it will save me a great deal of future embarrassment.” If she looked rather more shattered than thankful, her niece exercised her infrequent tact and forbore to mention it.
“I suppose this means we must forgo Gunters?” she inquired innocently. Sweets were Felicity’s downfall, and despite her slender curves she was able to consume a startling amount, almost rivaling her once-slender mother.
With a belated start Gilly pulled her scattered wits together. “I should say so! I have no intention of rewarding you for today’s behavior. You will kindly explain to me, Felicity, the reason for your inexplicably vulgar behavior, clinging to Lord Marlowe’s arm like that, and being so very pushing! I could scarcely believe it.”
Felicity shrugged. “I thought I might excite his interest. If Liam knew that such a desperate character was casting out lures to me, he might relent and run away to Gretna Green.”
“Felicity, dearest!” Gillian shook her head sadly. “You have no sense whatsoever. Lord Marlowe would never be taken in by such obvious measures.”
“He most certainly would have been, if he wasn’t so busy staring at you. And despite your protests, I never in my life saw a more jealous expression on anyone than on your face when you came out and saw us together. I thought you told me you had no interest in him.”
“I lied,” she admitted flatly. “And do not think you may repeat that, for I will only lie again. I am old enough to know better, and if I have a trace of romantic weakness then I don’t doubt but what your mother is right, and that it comes from reading too many French novels.”
“That was a curious thing he said about Mama, was it not?” Felicity mused. “About knowing her far too well? What do you suppose he could have meant by that?”
“I have no idea, and I don’t suppose we shall have the chance to find out. I shouldn’t expect to see Lord Marlowe again, except from a distance. I can congratulate myself on having made my feelings clear to him,” she said mournfully.
Felicity smiled, feeling suddenly far wiser than her innocent aunt. “Actually, I think he’s full aware of your feelings, Gilly. And I have little doubt we shall be seeing him again, very soon.”
“Well, then, I shall simply have to stiffen my resolve. I cannot allow myself to grow too fond of him.” She put a hand to her head. “It must be this wretched headache that makes me feel so unhappy.”
“Headaches will do that every time,” her niece agreed, suppressing a smile. “If you care to rest this afternoon, I will endeavor to make sure that everyone leaves you alone.”
“That would be lovely,” Gillian sighed. “I find there is nothing I long for more than a few hours’ peace and quiet so that I can rest and reflect.”
“And shed a few private tears?” Felicity suggested.
“Don’t be absurd. I have nothing to cry for,” Gillian replied sharply, feeling quite desperately sorry for herself. “Indeed, I cannot imagine a more fortunate creature in all of London.” She strode on ahead, ignoring her niece’s knowing smile, keeping her head high all the way to the Redfern mansion.
Chapter Twelve
NO SOONER HAD Felicity managed to get the miserable Gillian safely ensconced in the fastness of her bedroom than she leaped into action. With the muffled sounds of Gilly’s strangled tears in the back of her head, she stripped off her fashionable pale primrose dress and attired herself in her plainest dark brown frock. The riot of dark curls she pinned severely to her head, the thin kid slippers were replaced by sturdy leather boots. There was nothing she could do about her shining blue eyes or the flushed complexion that contributed to her notable beauty, but then she was counting on those assets to work in her favor. This would be Liam’s last chance before she put her desperate plan into motion. To be sure, Lord Marlowe had proven tiresomely uncooperative, but she hadn’t despaired of achieving some good for her aunt out of the ensuing melee. If Liam and her parents forced her into it, of course.
Wednesday was a busy day for all classes of London society. Not only was it the day for Almack’s tedious subscription balls, it was also the day Mr. Blackstone’s mission provided free soup and stale bread to whomever sought it—the only day that Felicity could be reasonably sure of a welcome. She wasn’t about to wait another week to find out how bold she must be, and she wasn’t about to have her maid Marjorie trailing along behind her. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Felicity was ready.
It proved slightly more difficult obtaining a hackney without a servant to attend to it. More than one sped by her, spraying her with dust and mud and heaven knew what else and forcing her to jump to safety at the last minute. Finally one driver took pity on her woebegone state and pretty face. The conveyance smelled of stale cigars and cabbage, the seat was frayed, with springs sticking into her anatomy no matter how she shifted. But a light rain had begun to fall, despite the earlier sunshine, and Felicity leaned back gratefully, breathing through her mouth and holding a lawn handkerchief to her nostrils. The smell at the mission would be far worse, but it always took her a bit to get used to it.
Liam was nowhere in sight when she entered the crowded confines of the mission. A disreputable old slattern with the unpromising name of Leaky Sal greeted Felicity with the ease of an old acquaintance.
“Looking for ‘is nibs, are ye?” She wiped her nose on her filthy sleeve and pointed with the soup ladle. “Happen he’s in the back storage room. He didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“He didn’t know.”
“He’s not too happy, miss. Some high and mighty types have been ferretin’ around all day long. Left just a short while ago, but he isn’t happy. Not one bit, he ain’t. You might see if you can cheer ‘im up.”
“I’ll do my best, Sal,” she promised, hanging Marjorie’s second-best cloak on the peg provided and heading off in search of her true love.
The dim confines of the small room directly behind the kitchens were illuminated with the sparse light of the rain-drenched afternoon as it fought its way through the spotless window high up on one wall. Liam’s back, tall and straight and infinitely dear, was turned to her as she entered the room on silent feet. She shut the warped door behind her with a quiet click that made him whirl around, and for a moment his expression was all she could have hoped for. Naked love and longing were on his handsome face, and a look of such joy in his usually anguished eyes as he took an involuntary step toward her, his arms outstretched.
It was all the encouragement she needed. “Liam,” she breathed, and ran into his arms before he could drop them in sudden guilty remorse.
The feel of her soft, warm body against his was far too much for one of his sternly repressed, passionate nature. With a groan of despair his arms went around her, and his mouth came down on hers in
a kiss of such burning desire that Felicity’s scattered intellect deserted her completely, and she melted against him willingly, too caught up in the tide of their passion to demur. Until, with a groan, Liam suddenly thrust her away from him.
“How could I?” he demanded of himself, his beautiful voice filled with loathing as he straightened his collar. “How could I be so led astray by my bestial passions? And I, a man of the cloth?”
“I would hardly call them bestial passions,” Felicity said huffily, pulling the once demure neckline of her dress up. “It’s entirely normal. You love me. I love you. Why shouldn’t we . . . ?”
“It’s shameful! We cannot marry. Your father has refused his consent, and rightly so. We could hardly afford to live on the pittance I earn, even if your father was disposed to look charitably upon my suit. We know we must deny ourselves, and yet what did I do? I was so overcome by my animal nature that I allowed myself to forget every vestige of propriety.”
“I wish you’d stop talking about animals,” Felicity said feelingly, her upset stemming more from frustrated passion than anything else. “You make me sound like a sow in rut.”
If she hoped to shock him she did so, even though a temporary flash of humor lightened his face for a moment. “I suppose I must blame myself for that, too,” he said heavily. “You know better than to use such terms.”
“Fustian! You didn’t used to be so prudish when you had the living in Sussex. Much good you would have been to the farm folk if you’d pokered up the moment someone mentioned the laws of nature.”
“There’s a great deal of difference between Leaky Sal talking about her manner of earning a living and a well-bred young lady talking about sows in rut,” he snapped. “If I hadn’t so forgotten myself—”
“Liam,” she interrupted him, and her voice was calm and sure, her blue eyes shining in the dim afternoon light. “I love you. I only wish you’d forget yourself more often.”
It would have taken a saint to rise above such encouragement, and Liam Blackstone, for all his efforts, was no saint. With a stifled groan he pulled her back into his arms, and proceeded to kiss her with a ruthless force that Felicity, for all her compliance, found immensely gratifying and just the tiniest bit frightening. A new plan was forming at the hazy edges of her consciousness, one that involved the not regrettable exigency of seduction on the storage room floor. Though who would do the seducing and who would be seduced remained to be seen. Liam had pressed her willing body back against the wall, and his hands were roaming quite delightfully over her slender young curves when the storage room door was flung open. Two men stood there in the dim light, their expressions ranging from outraged horror to tolerant amusement. Liam jumped away from Felicity as if scalded, his handsome face pale with horror.
The amused gentleman spoke first, and Felicity saw his clerical garb though a horrified haze. “Sorry to interrupt you, my boy, but there was one matter we still had to check. I wonder if we might see you in private. That is, if the lady could spare you.”
“Of course, sir,” Liam said hastily, thrusting Felicity behind him in a vague effort to shield her from their curious faces. “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”
“Outrageous!” snorted one gentleman. “I’ve never been so appalled in my entire life. If this is the sort of thing that goes on with our young curates, I don’t know what the church is coming to.”
“Don’t be silly, Riddington. It’s a perfectly healthy thing, and it is obvious to me that the two are in love,” the first voice replied, unperturbed. “If I have no objections, I fail to see why you should.”
“Riddington!” Felicity echoed in horror, unfortunately out loud, and at the sound of his name the blustery gentleman turned back and peered at her through the gloom.
“Who is it?” he demanded, as Liam tried to push Felicity’s body behind him.
“I must ask that the lady’s anonymity be preserved,” he said desperately. “If there’s to be any investigation I must bear the brunt of it. This was entirely my fault; I took advantage of the girl.”
This was too much for Felicity. She could hardly hide behind him while he destroyed his career in order to protect her wicked, selfish ways. Ducking under his arm, she faced her accuser squarely. “Don’t pay him any heed, Mr. Riddington. He is only trying to protect me. I sought him out—it’s entirely my fault.”
“Who is it? Good God, it’s the Redfern girl!” Riddington exclaimed in tones of horror that possibly reached the club he frequented with her father. “I can’t believe it. That a child of Derwent Redfern’s would be so lost to propriety that she would—”
“That’s enough, Riddington,” the first gentleman spoke reprovingly. “I have little doubt that this seems far worse than it actually is. I have too much respect for a man of Mr. Blackstone’s integrity to jump to insulting conclusions. You and Miss Redfern are doubtless engaged to be married.”
“Yes,” said Felicity eagerly.
“No,” said Liam. “Her father has refused his consent.”
“You see!” Riddington crowed, his face red with outrage.
“Dear, dear,” said the clerical gentleman. “That does place things in a different light. And does the lady’s father disapprove of you? I cannot imagine that he could.”
“He feels my prospects are not good enough for his daughter,” Liam said stiffly. “And indeed, he’s right. I am scarcely worthy of this fine lady’s attention. I had determined to remain celibate and devote my life to the poor.”
“Very worthy,” the kindly old gentleman soothed with a trace of a twinkle in his faded blue eyes. “But had you forgotten that Saint Paul said that if the unmarried cannot control themselves they should marry. Better be married than burn with vain desire.”
“He would put it that way,” Felicity said with disgust.
“You don’t care for Paul, my child?” he inquired with a trace of laughter.
“Not usually,” she confessed. “But in this case I agree with the thought, even if I don’t care for the way he phrases it. And so I’ve been trying to tell Liam.”
“Enough!” Riddington stormed. “I would be failing in my duty if I let this distasteful and blasphemous conversation continue. I owe it to my friend Redfern to escort his daughter out of this—this brothel before anything more happens. Where is your maidservant, young lady?” he demanded of her.
“I came alone. And I’m not ready to leave. I wanted . . .” Before she could finish Mr. Riddington had caught her arm and began dragging her toward the door.
“Unhand her!” Liam said in a murderous voice, and everyone stared at him. “I said, take your filthy hands off her. She’ll go with you if you ask, but if you don’t let go of her I’ll be forced to forget my orders even more than I already have and plant you a facer!” This was said between clenched teeth, and there was no doubting he meant every word of it.
“Fine talking,” sneered Riddington, releasing her quickly. “Seems to me you’ve already forgotten what was due your position long ago.”
“I will not go with him,” Felicity fumed. “I need to talk with you, Liam.”
“I don’t need to talk with you. I have already disgraced myself and you. I won’t add to it. It is my fondest hope that you never have to see my miserable face again,” he said woodenly.
“But I want to!” she wailed.
The kind gentleman took her arm in his gentle grasp and led her toward the door. “Come along, my dear. Mr. Blackstone and I have a great deal to talk about. Things are not as bad as they seem. Trust in the Lord, and everything will come out all right.”
“Yes, but can I trust in Mr. Riddington?” she inquired with a great deal of practicality.
“Most likely not. But I will visit your father myself and see if I can’t make things a bit more acceptable to him. I have high hopes for young Mr. Blacks
tone.”
“You are far too kind, Bishop,” Liam mumbled, and Felicity stared at the unprepossessing little gentleman in belated amazement.
“Bishop?” she echoed.
“Go along with Mr. Riddington, child, while I try to talk some sense into this foolish young man.”
“I only hope you can, sir,” she said miserably.
He smiled at her, putting her in mind of a cheery elf. “I have been accounted to have some success in these matters,” he said modestly. “Leave your young man to me. And I might add, Mr. Riddington . . .”
The large, bad-tempered man turned back with an air of disapproval. “Yes, sir?” There was a grudging respect in his voice.
“I think it might be best if you could refrain from informing Mr. Redfern where you found his daughter this afternoon. I will visit with him in a few days and acquaint him with the particulars I feel he might need to know. There is no need to burden him with other worries. I am certain we can accept Miss Redfern’s promise that she won’t come down here again.”
“But . . .” Felicity protested, but the bishop squeezed her hand.
“You must give me your promise, my child. Surely you can see this isn’t at all the thing. For you or for a man in Mr. Blackstone’s position.”
Guilt, an uncomfortably novel sensation, assailed Felicity as she surveyed Liam’s shadowed figure. “You are right,” she said quietly. “You have my word.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Riddington began to bluster once more.
“If her word is good enough for me, Mr. Riddington,” the bishop interrupted gently, “then it is surely good enough for you.”
“You’re far too trusting, Bishop,” Riddington grated out. “But who am I to say I know better. I’ll drop her off outside her house and keep my thoughts to myself. But I don’t like it. I don’t like it one tiny bit.”