Regency Rogues: Talk Of The Ton

Chapter Eight

‘Now hear this, young lady, and hear it well.’

Lady Katherine stalked up and down her bedchamber, gesticulating. Until this very minute, Felicity had not dreamed she might fail in her attempt to avoid marriage to Lord Stanton. She sank onto a chair by the window, her legs unaccountably shaky, as her mother continued to pace.

‘You asked me to find you a husband.’

‘Yes, that is true, but—’

‘No buts. I have found you an eminently eligible man, one who must be far beyond anyone you could have hoped for.’

‘Yes, but—’

Her mother quelled her with one look. A feeling of unreality washed over Felicity. This determination in her normally persuadable mother was new, and she knew who to thank for it. Why, oh, why did Mama marry that man?

‘I have spoken with the duke this morning—yes, already, at this unearthly hour—and he has confirmed his belief that you and Stanton will suit. He knows you both. He will hardly match one of his closest friends with someone unsuitable.’

‘I do not believe Stanton and I will be compatible, Mama.’

‘I have discussed this with Farlowe...’

Felicity sprang to her feet. ‘I might have known he was—’

Her mother continued as though Felicity had not spoken. ‘...and we are agreed. You have a choice.’

‘A choice?’ Felicity stared at her mother, hope stirring. ‘Who?’

‘Not who. What. Our conversation last night left me vastly unsettled, Felicity, and I was still awake when my dear Farlowe retired. I told him of your stubbornness, and he suggested—’

‘Did I hear my name mentioned?’

‘Farlowe. My darling. Such a valiant but wasted effort on your part, searching for this wretched girl. But no matter, for she is here now, and I am about to reveal her options.’

Felicity caught Farlowe’s smirk. Cold sweat prickled over her back. He wanted her out of their lives as much as she did. What was her mother’s alternative? A nunnery?

Oh, please. We are not living in the pages of a Gothic novel. ‘Very well, Mama. What is my alternative?’

‘You said you wanted a family and we have found you a perfectly eligible suitor. You either accept Stanton or you will never wed. You will end your days living with us as my companion and, after I have gone, you must depend on the charity of your dear brother. You will forever be the poor relation.’

Felicity’s knees threatened to buckle. She grabbed the back of a chair.

‘You cannot prevent me finding a husband of my own,’ she said.

‘And you have proven yourself oh-so successful in that endeavour to date, have you not, Felicity?’ Farlowe said. ‘And do not think you will be permitted to squander good money on those urchins and thieves you are so fond of. You will have no need of such a generous allowance as your mother’s companion.’

She could not win. In order to find herself a husband, she would have to allow herself to be courted. She must risk her heart whichever way she chose. The alternative: remaining with her mother and Farlowe—to have to endure his leers and his constant crude remarks about virgins—was simply intolerable. And she would not even have the release of involvement with Westfield.

She must capitulate. Her choice was, in reality, no choice. But she would move mountains in order to protect her heart. On one thing she was adamant: she must never fall in love with Lord Stanton.

Richard turned from his contemplation of the portrait hung over the mantel and watched Felicity approach.

‘Lady Felicity. I am honoured you have consented to hear my address.’

He scanned her features. She looked no more enthusiastic than she had earlier. Her eyes refused to meet his as she curtsied.

‘The honour is all mine, my lord.’

Richard gave himself leave to doubt that. The hopeless resignation in her voice matched her whole demeanour. He felt a scowl crease his brow and hastily smoothed it away. Not that she’d noticed; her eyes were fixed on a point somewhere beyond his right ear.

Why not end this farce now? There are plenty of girls available who would swoon at the idea of marrying you. Why tie yourself to a woman who doesn’t want you? Haven’t you experienced enough rejection from your own mother?

Was it the challenge? Part of his determination to marry Felicity was precisely because of her indifference. The other part... In his mind’s eye, he saw Felicity struggling against Farlowe’s grip. Could he really abandon her to life with that rogue?

She was well born, compliant and desirous of a family. Leo was convinced they would suit one another and Dominic—Leo’s twenty-year-old son and heir, who had arrived home earlier that afternoon—had even sung Felicity’s praises, assuring Richard there was more to her than might be apparent on the surface.

He thrust aside his doubts. There would be time enough once they were wed to discover what she feared. She would not be here if she was completely averse to him personally. Would she?

He took Felicity’s hands: fragile, the bones delicate in his grasp, the skin chilled. He felt a tremor wash through her, and squeezed reassuringly. Whatever her doubts, she was not shy, she had proved an entertaining conversationalist, and the way she had returned his kiss suggested she would be neither afraid nor reluctant to explore the physical side of marriage. That kiss! His loins stirred as his gaze dropped to her mouth without volition. He studied her full, shapely lips. She was not as insipid as he had first thought—Leo was right, she merely did not show to advantage beside her mother. She had a neat figure and her smile was infectious, lighting her whole face.

He was sure this marriage was the right decision for him, and that he and Felicity would rub along well together. His life was full and satisfying. He boasted a wide circle of like-minded friends with whom he shared an interest in a variety of sports. And, once he was wed, his mother would remove to the Lodge and he would happily spend more of his time at Fernley attending to the estate.

What he was less certain of was if it was the right decision for Felicity, standing quietly, her hands limp in his. Richard focused on her.

‘Lady Felicity, would you do me the very great honour of accepting my hand in marriage?’

Her features appeared carved out of rock. Not even an eyelash flickered.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

Her voice was as colourless as her complexion. His jaw clenched. He moved closer. She stepped back. He tightened his grip and tugged until her body was pressed full length against his. Another tremor ran through her as he wrapped one arm around her waist. But she did not look away. She held his gaze as he lowered his lips to hers.

Her lips were sweet and soft and relaxed as he kissed her and they opened readily enough. She allowed him to explore her mouth but she made no attempt to kiss him in return. She merely permitted the kiss. Dissatisfied, Richard was about to tear his lips from hers when he registered her tension. It was as though he held a statue in his embrace. Despite his earlier thoughts, he wondered if she was, after all, wary of the intimate side of marriage.

‘Relax,’ he whispered against her lips. ‘This is meant to be enjoyable.’

He feathered butterfly-light kisses over her cheeks, her brows, along her jaw then nudged her head to one side to nibble at her earlobe. Suddenly, she exhaled with a whoosh, and the long rigid muscles down her back softened under his hands. Her body relaxed against his and she lifted her hands to his chest and pushed.

‘I am sorry. This is hard for me. I wonder...might we wait until after we are married? Someone might come in.’

‘We are newly betrothed, Felicity. We should be allowed a celebratory kiss, do you not think?’

Again, her expression eluded him as she wiped her hands down her skirts. Nerves? He would give much to understand what was going through her mind right now.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We will wait until after the wedding. Speaking of which, I am minded to wed as soon as possible, if that is agreeable to you?’

He quashed the thought he was being unfair. He couldn’t escape the feeling that, if given time, Felicity would renege on her acceptance, and he was suddenly determined not to afford her the opportunity.

‘If you return to Bath tomorrow, I shall call in the Bishop’s Office at Wells on my way through and procure a Common Licence. We will not then have to wait for the banns to be read, and we could marry by the end of the week.’ His sense of fair play intervened, forcing him to add, with reluctance, ‘Or do you need more time to prepare?’

Felicity straightened. ‘No. That will not be necessary.’ Finally, there was a hint of conviction in her tone. ‘I shall go and inform Mama of our plans. Thank you for understanding,’

Understanding? Richard wasn’t sure he understood anything about his bride-to-be.

Chapter Nine

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen.’

The hubbub of conversation faded as the assembled guests turned their attention to the plinth set up at one end of the huge ballroom to accommodate the musicians. That evening had seen the surrounding families invited to Cheriton Abbey for a ball. Felicity had dressed, with a little more attention to her appearance than usual, in her favourite evening gown of primrose silk, knowing all eyes would be on her at some point during the evening.

The duke stood impassively on the plinth, awaiting the undivided attention of his guests whilst Stanton cupped Felicity’s elbow and guided her to the front and side of the throng. Despite her fears, Felicity could not suppress a frisson of excitement at the thought of marrying such a man. He was in his element, here in the ballroom. It was unfortunate she was not.

Her mouth dried as Cousin Leo began to speak and heads turned in her direction. Her lips clung to her teeth, foiling her attempt to smile.

‘You might at least attempt to look happy.’

Stanton’s breath scorched her ear. Felicity inhaled, his spicy male scent pervading every cell of her body. She pushed her thick tongue between her lips and her teeth in an attempt to moisten them. She was vaguely aware of a murmured exchange between Stanton and Cousin Cecily, who stood nearby. A glass was thrust into her hand.

‘Here. Take a sip. It will help.’ A large hand settled—comfortingly—at the small of her back, its heat penetrating the delicate silk of her dress, warming her even as a shiver of awareness snaked down her spine.

She registered only an occasional word of Cousin Leo’s speech as she sipped the punch. She glanced sideways at Stanton and smiled her thanks just as Cousin Leo said, ‘I am sure you will all join me in wishing them every happiness in their life together.’

A low hum swept the room and then people were surrounding them, smiling, congratulating, shaking Stanton by the hand but also eyeing Felicity: speculating, slightly incredulous. She stood tall, steadying her nerves, aware this was but a tiny taste of the attention she would experience in London. She had a choice to make; a choice that might inform the future of this union with Stanton.

She could either shrivel or she could bloom.

She inhaled, braced her shoulders and curved her lips as she responded to their many well-wishers, grateful for the comforting presence of Stanton by her side, deflecting much of the attention away from her, protecting her, until people were distracted by the musicians tuning their instruments.

‘Well, Fliss. It’s official now. You are to be a married lady.’ Felicity spun round in delighted response to the familiar voice in her ear.

‘Dominic! I did not see you there.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It still feels unreal. I never wanted to marry...oh! I dare say I should not have said that.’ She glanced round apprehensively.

Stanton, engaged in conversation with Cecily, appeared not to have heard.

Dominic, Lord Avon, laughed. He was a younger version of his father: tall, elegant and suave with the same black hair and silver-grey eyes. ‘Well, I think it will be the making of you.’ He raised his voice. ‘Congratulations, Stan. Mind you take care of my favourite cousin.’

‘Oh, I will,’ Stanton said as they shook hands.

‘Have you come down from London, Dom?’ Felicity asked. ‘It is such an age since I was there. Tell me, how do they go on at Westfield?’

‘What, and where, is Westfield?’ Stanton enquired.

Felicity’s mother and stepfather joined the group at that moment and, hearing Stanton’s question, Lady Katherine immediately claimed his attention.

‘Oh, it is merely some nonsense of Felicity’s, Stanton. Nothing for you to concern yourself with for I am persuaded Felicity will have vastly more important matters to occupy her once she is married.’

Before Felicity could respond, Stanton said, ‘You may indeed be confident of Felicity’s future preferences, my lady—and I bow to your superior knowledge of your daughter —but I do find in myself a desire to know what Felicity has to say on the subject.’

His voice held the perfect hint of apology, and Felicity could not be quite sure if he had just delivered a most elegant setdown to her mother. As she pondered, he glanced at her and she caught the devilish glint in his eye. She pursed her lips, trying to suppress the laugh that bubbled in her chest.

‘My dear, would you care to enlighten me?’ Stanton’s voice and expression were suitably grave as he tilted his head and raised a brow. ‘I asked you about Westfield, if you recall.’

‘It is a haven for thieves and pickpockets,’ Farlowe interjected. ‘That is what it is. A waste of good money. It shouldn’t be allowed, that’s what I say.’

Her stepfather had never struck Felicity as a perceptive man, and now he sank to new depths in her estimation. How could the man be so blithely oblivious to Stanton’s scowl?

‘It is my allowance, sir, and I spend it how I please,’ she said.

‘Felicity! Do not put dear Farlowe down in that unbecoming manner. Why, whatever will Stanton think—’

‘Stanton,’ interrupted a silky-smooth voice, ‘thinks his future wife has her own opinion and should be allowed to voice it without interruption.’

‘Oh, good man, Stan. Well said,’ Dominic said, laughing.

‘Dominic—’ Cecily grabbed her nephew’s arm ‘—the dancing is about to start. Would you be so good as to stand up with your elderly aunt for the first?’

‘Oh, transparent, dear aunt. Come then, let us leave the newly betrothed and their relatives to play at happy families.’

Cecily led Dominic away and Felicity breathed easier, knowing he was more than capable of adding further fuel to an already fraught situation.

‘Westfield—’ she turned to Stanton ‘—is an asylum in Islington for orphans and destitute children. I’ve supported it for five years, and Dominic became involved about a year ago.’

‘And will you tell Stanton where you find these orphans and destitutes?’ Farlowe’s voice rose in anger. ‘The criminals you willingly consort with?

‘I tried to talk some sense into her, Stanton, I promise you, but the provoking girl would not listen to me. Mayhap you will have more success in curbing her wayward tendencies.’

‘Wayward tendencies?’ Dark brown eyes turned to Felicity, appraising her. Heat washed over her skin. He bent his head, his lips close to her ear. ‘I am intrigued, Felicity Joy. Positively intrigued.’

Felicity suppressed her tremor as the small hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, swallowing past the sudden constriction in her throat.

‘They are children.’ She struggled to keep her attention on Farlowe, ‘They cannot help the things they must do to survive.’

‘Pshaw!’

‘Well, what would you do, Mr Farlowe, if you were starving?’ Felicity’s customary caution vanished. ‘Might you not be tempted to steal a loaf of bread? Or pick a coin from someone’s pocket?’

Farlowe bristled. ‘Might I remind you, miss—’

‘Come, my darling.’ Lady Katherine, after one look at Stanton, tugged at Farlowe’s arm. ‘Let us dance.’ She pouted and cajoled and finally succeeded in dragging her husband to join a reel forming in the centre of the room.

Felicity’s heart sank. Why on earth had she risen to Farlowe’s provocation? She glanced up at Stanton. Would he be appalled by her lapse in manners? He was staring after his future parents-in-law, his expression a study in perplexity. He switched his attention to her and raised one dark brow.

‘Thieves and pickpockets, Felicity Joy?’ One corner of his mouth quirked up. ‘Might I enquire what other dens of iniquity you frequent?’

Chapter Ten

He was neither appalled nor, it seemed, dismayed that Felicity had argued with Farlowe. It appeared he was diverted.

Felicity swallowed her giggle. ‘Do not tease me, Stanton, I beg of you.’

She could cope with Stanton in this playful mood. But when his voice deepened, and his eyes fixed on her in that particular way...intense...the heat of promise swirling in their depths...another shiver caressed her skin as her insides looped in a most peculiar way. She willed her voice not to tremble.

‘Did you ever hear such nonsense? What infuriates my dear step-papa, of course, are the donations I make to the school. He even, would you believe, suggested I should pay him rent for living under his roof instead of contributing to the living costs of the children.’

‘His roof?’

‘Indeed. As soon as he and Mama wed he made it very clear to me upon whom my future depended. Which is why—’

‘Which is why you are willing to marry me?’ Stanton looked around the ballroom, then grabbed Felicity’s hand. ‘Come. Let us go somewhere quieter. I am curious to discover something of those wayward tendencies your mama warned me about.’

Felicity’s insides swooped again but the thought of being alone with Stanton made her hang back. She wasn’t ready. She needed to harden her heart against him, prepare herself for the intimacies to come. He stopped and looked round. Studied her face, then smiled, his eyes crinkling as he shook his head.

‘Felicity Joy, whatever am I to do with you? Come. Shall we dance?’ He sketched a bow and, at her nod, led her to join a nearby set.

The energetic country dance afforded them scant opportunity or, indeed, breath to talk further and it was not until supper that they continued their conversation. The other guests—in a rare show of consideration—allowed the newly betrothed couple to eat their food in relative privacy.

‘We have much to discuss.’ Stanton deposited a plate piled high with food in front of Felicity.

‘I find I am not very hungry, sir,’ Felicity said, her stomach clenching at the sight and smell of the food. ‘What do you wish to discuss?’

‘The wedding itself is in hand. Leo and I met with your mother and Farlowe earlier and it has been agreed the wedding will take place on Thursday morning, as long as the rector is available to perform the ceremony. Will that give you enough time to prepare? Your mother was anxious about your dress.’

‘I have a suitable dress I can wear, my lord.’

‘Good. Farlowe has undertaken to speak to the rector as soon as you arrive home tomorrow and, as I already told you, I shall call on the Bishop of Bath and Wells to procure the licence on my way to Bath. As long as the rector has some spare time before noon on Thursday there is no reason why we cannot be married on that day. If not, we shall have to wait until we can be fitted in.’

It all sounds so businesslike and unromantic.

Of course it is, you fool. It is an arranged marriage. Sentiment and romance do not come into it.

She buried any hint of regret deep inside. She did not want love. It was her decision. Love hurt. Love destroyed. She watched as Stanton played with his wine glass, his long fingers stroking the stem. Was he not quite as composed as she imagined? He must be like granite if he did not feel some emotion. Marriage, even a marriage of convenience, was not to be entered into lightly.

And yet, here they were, two virtual strangers, planning their wedding. She gazed around the room. The chatter of the other guests intruded, dispersing the haze of unreality that had enveloped her.

‘Will you tell me more about Westfield? How did you become involved in such a place?’

She tensed. Would he disapprove? His question reminded her of the power this man would wield over her. He was, surely, more open-minded and charitable than Farlowe? She gripped her hands in her lap.

‘It was established by my childhood friend, Jane Whittaker, and her husband, Peter, who is a schoolmaster. Jane inherited a large house and some money from her great-aunt, and they set up a school to help the children of the poor better themselves.’

‘It is a school, then.’

‘That was the original intention, but Mr Whittaker’s brother is a magistrate and he told them how many orphans were brought up before him, so they decided to provide a home for orphans too. The children are taught their letters and numbers and, as they get older, we find them placements with tradespeople and in households, where they are trained to become useful members of society.’

‘Which trades?’

There was no denying the genuine interest in his voice.

‘Any and every trade you may imagine. Shoemakers, coopers, butchers, tailors, milliners—we try to match the child to some trade they have an interest in or aptitude for. That, I must confess, is where both Dominic and I can help, as well as collecting donations, of course. We can be most persuasive. We seldom meet with a flat refusal to take a child.’

‘I was astonished to hear of Avon’s involvement.’

‘He was very young when his mother died and that experience nurtured in him a kinship, of sorts, with children who are orphaned. However painful his loss, how much worse would it be to lose both parents and to have no family or wealth or position to fall back on? When he heard about Westfield, he was eager to help.’

Felicity paused, studying Stanton’s expression. She might as well tackle the subject now. It would ease at least one of her worries.

As if he could read her mind, Stanton said, ‘I should like to visit this place with you, after we are married, Felicity. And, in case you were worrying I might be of the same opinion as Farlowe, allow me to set your mind at rest. I shall not raise any objections to your involvement with Westfield, as long as you do not put yourself in any danger.’