Regency Rogues

August 2019

Outrageous Scandal

September 2019

Rakes’ Redemption

October 2019

Wicked Seduction

November 2019

A Winter’s Night

December 2019

Unlacing the Forbidden

January 2020

Stolen Sins

February 2020

Candlelight Confessions

March 2020

Rescued by Temptation

April 2020

Wives Wanted

May 2020

Disgraceful Secrets

June 2020

Talk of the Ton

July 2020

Exotic Affairs

About the Author

JANICE PRESTON writes sensual and heartwarming historical romance. Although all her novels are standalone reads, she loves to write stories set in the same Regency world, and many of her books include book-hopping characters. When Janice isn’t writing she enjoys reading, swimming, pottering in the garden when the sun is shining, and travelling when she can. She fuels her imagination with endless cups of coffee, is far too keen on unhealthy food, and is an expert procrastinator.

Regency Rogues: Talk of the Ton

From Wallflower to Countess

Janice Preston

Scandal and Miss Markham

Janice Preston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90767-9

REGENCY ROGUES: TALK OF THE TON

From Wallflower to Countess © 2015 Janice Preston Scandal and Miss Markham © 2017 Janice Preston

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

From Wallflower to Countess

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Epilogue

Scandal and Miss Markham

Back Cover Text

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

About the Publisher

From Wallflower to Countess

Janice Preston

To my friend, Morton Gray.

We’ve shared an exciting, unpredictable journey

since we first met on the steps of Birmingham

Library. Thank you for your generosity, your

support and your wonderful imagination!

Prologue

August 1810

The single state had much to recommend it, Lady Felicity Weston mused as she crossed the landing of Cheriton Abbey on her way downstairs for dinner. She was beholden to no man: no man to criticize her appearance; no man to dictate her activities; and, most important of all, no man to threaten the barriers she had erected around her heart.

Her life was content.

As she reached the head of the imposing staircase, Felicity froze. A man, dressed in shirt and breeches, was bounding up the stairs two at a time. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing tanned, muscular forearms. He wore no neckcloth, his open shirt collar exposing the strong column of his neck. With his thick brown hair wet and dishevelled he looked virile and slightly dangerous. Felicity’s mouth dried. Just two steps down from where she stood, he glanced up and slammed to a halt.

Felicity’s stomach flipped as she recognized the Earl of Stanton.

One of the most eligible bachelors of the ton, Stanton was a catch coveted by zealous mamas and ambitious daughters alike. And admired even by disregarded, unprepossessing spinsters who had watched his star from afar and had once—for one brief, uncharacteristic flight of fancy—wondered what it might be like to catch the attention of such a man.

Of all the men in the ton, it was Stanton who had drawn her eye, time and again, during her come-out five years before. But he had never noticed her.

Never asked her to dance.

Never escorted her to supper.

And that had suited her—even then—perfectly. She had seen little of him in the intervening years but she might have guessed Stanton would be amongst the guests at Cousin Leo’s house party. They were close friends.

His chest expanded as he hauled in a breath, his chocolate-brown eyes regarding her with apology but no hint of recognition.

‘I beg your pardon.’ His voice was a rich baritone. ‘I’m aware I am a little late, but I did not think anyone would be coming downstairs for dinner quite yet.’

He swept long fingers through his hair then climbed the remaining stairs to Felicity’s level. Up close, he smelled of rain and horses and leather...and very male. Felicity stepped back involuntarily. His lips twitched.

‘I apologize for my unkempt appearance. I was drenched coming up from the stables and I left my coat downstairs, where it might drip with impunity.’ He sketched a bow. ‘Stanton, Miss...?’

A craven impulse to proffer a false name was swiftly quashed. Much good that would do her if they were to spend the weekend at the same gathering. Besides, Felicity was in no mind to turn into a simpering miss over an attractive gentleman in his shirtsleeves. Her gaze lowered without volition, drinking in the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of those arms. She raised her eyes to his, and caught his expression of wry amusement.

She straightened, lifting her chin. Arrogant wretch. She would do well to remember arrogance was a trait that often went hand in hand with wealth, status and a handsome face.

‘Felicity Weston, my lord.’

She was unsurprised by his perplexed frown. She attended society events rarely now and knew she had faded from memory. She had become accustomed to such a reaction upon introduction and it no longer embarrassed or hurt her, it simply was. People inevitably struggled to place her within the Weston family, not quite believing she was so closely related to her handsome parents and siblings.

Her sense of the ridiculous bubbled to the surface, prompting her to bestow a kindly smile upon his lordship.

‘It is a thankless task, I fear, to try and second-guess my position within the Weston clan. Allow me to enlighten you: I am the sister of Ambrose, Earl of Baverstock.’

‘Sister?’

‘I am afraid so. Quite shocking, is it not?’

‘Not at all,’ came the swift rejoinder. ‘My apologies for my shocking lapse in memory.’

‘Oh, I do not take offence, I can assure you. Yours is a reaction I am quite accustomed to. Indeed, I believe I should almost miss it if I failed to provoke such a response. For otherwise, you see, I might be quite overlooked.’

Stanton held Felicity’s gaze in silence, then his eyes narrowed. ‘You are—’

‘Unbecomingly frank?’ Felicity tilted her head and raised her brows.

‘Frank, yes. Unbecoming?’ He stepped closer, his gaze locked on to hers. His voice deepened. ‘Hmmm. Unusual, perhaps.’

Felicity battled her instinct to retreat, ignoring the flutter deep in her belly, knowing this kind of intimate verbal sparring was a game to men like Lord Stanton.

‘I shall accept that as a compliment, my lord. After all, one would not wish to be considered in the common way.’

His eyes crinkled as he laughed. ‘No, indeed, Lady Felicity. No doubt I shall see you later, when I am more appropriately attired. My apologies once again for my appearance.’

‘Unnecessary, I assure you, although...it did cross my mind to wonder...’

He raised one dark brow.

‘...is it the new mode for gentlemen to dispense with neckcloths? I am quite out of touch, I fear. And also—’ she added quickly as his mouth opened, ‘—is the rolled-up sleeve now quite the thing? Or might they both, perhaps, be an affectation restricted to sporting gentlemen, much like the Belcher neckerchief?’

Stanton’s lips firmed. For a split second, Felicity feared she might have prodded his lordship too far. After all, many men did not take kindly to being teased, but then she recognized the glint in his—quite beautiful, now she came to think about it—velvety-brown eyes. A muscle in his jaw bunched, then he threw his head back and laughed. Felicity’s gaze snapped to the dark curls exposed by the open neck of his shirt. An involuntary shiver trembled through her.

‘I shall add incorrigible to unusual, Lady Felicity. If you wish to know why I am more déshabillé than the mere removal of my coat might indicate, why not ask?’

‘Sir!’ Felicity raised the back of one hand to her forehead in mock horror. ‘How could you suggest such a thing? It would be most improper for a lady to quiz a gentleman she barely knows about his activities.’

‘Indeed it would. However, as you have made so bold as to raise the subject, I shall enlighten you. I was assisting my groom in the stables with a poultice.’

Felicity sobered. ‘One of your horses is lame? I am sorry to hear it. I hope he will soon recover.’

Stanton smiled. ‘Thank you. It is merely a precaution. I am sure there is no cause for alarm.’ He bowed. ‘My apologies once again, Lady Felicity.’

‘That is quite all right, Lord Stanton, you were not to know I would have the audacity to appear before the allotted time for dinner. You may rest assured your lapse in standards will not become public knowledge.’

Felicity bent a gracious smile upon his lordship and then sailed down the stairs, her head high. One thing she had learned during her brief sorties into polite society was to do the unexpected and, always, to walk away first. That way, she was never the one left standing, open-mouthed.

Chapter One

Late August 1811—Bath

‘Mama, I should like you to arrange a marriage for me.’

Felicity held her breath as she leant back against the solid strength of her mother’s sitting-room door. Lady Katherine Farlowe reclined upon a rose-coloured sofa, clad in a pale pink chiffon robe trimmed with swansdown. Her already huge blue eyes widened as she stared at her only surviving daughter.

‘Oh, my darling girl. I am so happy for you.’ Lady Katherine arose elegantly and wafted across the room to Felicity. ‘Who is the lucky man?’

Felicity braced herself as her mother enveloped her in a scented embrace. ‘I don’t know.’ Her voice was muffled against her mother’s breast; the swansdown tickled her nose. ‘That is why I am asking you to arrange it.’

Lady Katherine released Felicity and stepped back, a frown creasing her soft white skin. ‘But...I do not understand. Why? What about love? Do you not want to be happy in your marriage?’

Felicity bit back her cynical riposte. Her mother was an incurable romantic. Felicity knew better. Love, particularly unrequited love, was agony. She had seen it with her sister. She had lived it with her mother—a woman who was adept at closing her eyes and her mind against all unpleasantness. No, she was determined to never feel anything for her husband other than friendship. She would not, like the other women in her family, fall victim to the heartache of unrequited love.

Besides, at four-and-twenty, and after having been on the marriage mart for nigh on six years, the chances of Felicity making a love match were close to zero. She could not recall any man showing her particular attention, despite being the daughter of an earl and possessing a respectable dowry. She had lived her life overshadowed by the beauty of her mother and of her older sister, Emma, before she died.

‘I would like my own household,’ she said, in reply to her mother’s incredulous questions, ‘and, eventually, children.’

She felt the heat building in her cheeks as she said the words. She had never admitted that dream out loud before, not even to Beanie, her old nursemaid, but at least her desire for children made this previously unthinkable decision more tolerable. She would wed—if her mother could find her someone suitable. Marriage had become the best of a poor set of options available to her.

‘Come and sit by me, Felicity.’

Mama was clearly overjoyed, despite the further proof of her daughter’s lack of feminine attributes. She had long despaired over Felicity’s sad lack of looks, of her inability to make the best of what she had and of her consistent refusal to pander to the mores of society and the expectations of a young woman by seeking a husband. As time had passed, and as Felicity had aged, Lady Katherine had expected less and less of her. And that had suited Felicity perfectly.

Until this past year.

Felicity banished all thought of her new stepfather, Mr Quentin Farlowe: the sole reason for this drastic step. She could never admit that to her mother—the slightest criticism of the latest love of Lady Katherine’s life would be met with tears and reproaches and, ultimately, stubborn denial.

Lady Katherine took Felicity’s hand, turning it over in her own lily-white hands.

‘Tsk. I declare, Felicity, if only you would use Bloom of Ninon on your skin, as I have begged you to do, time without number, you would have hands to be proud of. Like mine,’ she added, with satisfaction, as she extended her arm and splayed her plump, bejewelled fingers. ‘You will want your husband to be proud you wear his ring, will you not?’

Will I? ‘Well, Mama? Will you arrange a marriage for me?’

Lady Katherine sighed. ‘How I can have given birth to an unromantic soul like you, my darling, I have no idea. Even your dear Papa, God rest his soul, was more romantic, and that is not saying a great deal.’

Felicity pondered this observation of her late father’s character. She had watched her parents’ marriage: her mother, hopelessly besotted; her father, benignly indulgent of his wife—as long as she did not interfere with his pleasures. Her mother had been deeply hurt by her father’s careless neglect and by his affaires. And now, as for her mother’s new husband... Felicity clamped down her stewing resentment. It seemed it was the way of aristocratic gentlemen—to pursue their own pleasures, including other women, without regard for the pain it caused.

‘Now, who is there?’ Lady Katherine tapped one finger against her perfect Cupid’s bow. ‘There’s young Avon. You’ve always been close, and he is heir to the duke.’

‘No! I beg your pardon, Mama, but I should prefer an older man. Not only is Dominic younger than me, he is like a brother. I could never marry him, even if he were ready to settle down, which he is not. No, I do not want young, or handsome, or popular. I want ordinary.’

I cannot marry a man I might fall in love with. I will not risk that.

She could not delude herself that her husband would love her. If neither Mama nor Emma, with all their beauty, could engender such feelings in the men they had loved, what chance did Felicity have?

Felicity watched as her mother visibly swallowed her disappointment. ‘Well, it all sounds most unsatisfactory. However, I am sure you know your own mind, Felicity. You always have been an odd girl. Not like my poor, dear Emma...’ The all-too-ready tears brimmed over, spilling down Lady Katherine’s smooth cheeks. She heaved a sigh, raising a hand to her chest as it swelled. ‘Very well, Felicity. I shall consult with the duke. He will surely know of someone. I shall write to him immediately.’

The Duke of Cheriton—Cousin Leo—was Felicity’s joint guardian, together with her mother, until such time as she married or reached the age of thirty, whichever came sooner.

Felicity must hope he would find some pleasant, unremarkable gentleman with whom she might be content.

Chapter Two

‘Stan. Good to see you.’

Leo Beauchamp, Duke of Cheriton, clasped the hand of Richard Durant, Earl of Stanton, in a firm grip as they met in the elegant hall at Fernley Park in the County of Hampshire, Richard’s family seat.

‘Your Grace,’ Richard said, grinning, fully aware Leo hated his friends to stand on ceremony. ‘Have you come up from Cheriton today?’

‘No. Bath, as a matter of fact.’

Richard raised his brows. ‘Bath? I had not thought you were in your dotage quite yet, old chap.’

Leo cuffed Richard playfully on the ear. ‘Enough of your cheek, pup,’ he said, although he was only seven years older. ‘I was not there to partake of the waters.’

‘Care to enlighten me as to why you went there?’

‘I was summoned by my cousin Baverstock’s widow on family business.’

Richard knit his brow. ‘Baverstock? Oh, yes...quite the beauty, his widow, if I remember rightly.’

‘Yes, she was...is... She remarried in April. Farlowe.’

Richard whistled. ‘Went to welcome him into the family, did you?’

Leo snorted. ‘Hardly. I tried to warn her off, but she was as determined to have him as he was to secure her. Her income alone will be enough to allow him to live like a nabob.’

‘Fortunate fellow, falling on his feet like that. I could wish Charles such luck. Mayhap a wealthy widow would remove him from my back.’

Charles Durant, a distant cousin, was Richard’s heir, and regularly applied to Richard to settle his debts. Richard thrust aside his momentary qualm at the thought of Charles ever inheriting the title and the estates. He was fit and healthy and had every intention of living a long time.

A footman opened the salon door as they approached and they dropped the subject as they joined Richard’s other guests—gathered for the first evening of a shooting party. It was an all-male event, as Richard’s mother was away from home, visiting an old friend.

The messenger arrived as dusk fell on the second day of the shoot. The weather had remained fine, the birds were plentiful, and beaters and shooters alike were happily exhausted after a successful day. The news of the death of Lord Craven—an old school friend of Richard’s—in a fall whilst out hunting shook them all but, for Richard, it was particularly painful, resurrecting the dark, agonising time when his older brother, Adam, had been killed in a shooting accident sixteen years before. Richard had been away at school at the time and, poignantly, it had been Craven who had comforted him when he heard the news.

He had returned home to find his parents changed beyond recognition: his father almost mad with grief, scarcely eating or sleeping, and his mother bitter and withdrawn. His parents had barely communicated with each other or with him. Richard had inherited the earldom at the tender age of seventeen, after his father had followed Adam into the grave and, since then, it seemed to Richard that his mother’s only interest in him was as a means to secure the succession of the title.

Many an argument had raged over his refusal to contemplate marriage to protect the title and estates, but he had held fast. He was one of the most accomplished sportsmen in the ton. He led a full and active life and was universally admired and feted for his prowess on a horse, his precision with the ribbons, his expertise with an épée, his shooting skills, and even his invincibility in the ring. He was in no hurry to don leg shackles. The only obstacle to his contentment was his mother’s persistent harassment about the risks he took, and her refusal to retire to the dower house until there was a new mistress to run Fernley Park.

But now...Craven’s death made Richard question his stand. If he did nothing, might his mother’s great fear of Charles laying waste to the estates be realized?

The atmosphere after dinner that evening was sombre. Most of his guests settled down to play cards after dinner, but Richard declined to join them, in no mood to play the convivial host. He wandered into the library, where he found Leo, alone, pushing chess pieces around a board in a desultory manner.

‘Care for a game?’

Richard shrugged, and pulled up a chair. Preoccupied and uneasy, he found it nigh on impossible to concentrate on the game, his thoughts dominated by his mother’s diatribes about sporting activities and premature death.

He moved his bishop and cursed under his breath as Leo swooped with his knight to seize the piece. He looked up to meet Leo’s quizzical gaze.

‘Things on your mind, Stan?’

‘Craven; hard to believe, isn’t it?’

‘Sad business. It must bring back unpleasant memories for you.’

‘It does.’

Leo had been a close friend of Adam’s and a frequent visitor to Fernley Park during his youth. He had supported Richard through those lonely years after his father’s death, having experienced for himself the pressures of inheriting such power and wealth at an early age. They had been friends ever since.

Richard reached for a bishop, hesitated, then withdrew his hand. Moving it would expose his queen.

‘How old was he? Thirtyish?’

‘Two-and-thirty: the same age as me. We were at Eton together.’ Richard fell silent, still contemplating his next move. He reached for a pawn. ‘It’s brought home my responsibilities, though. There’s no shying away from it: I’ve decided it’s time to settle the future.’

Now the words were out in the open, Richard, paradoxically, felt better. The tension that had plagued him throughout the evening began to dissipate.

Besides, marrying will have the added bonus of removing Mother to the Lodge.

The thought of Fernley Park without his mother made even marriage seem appealing. Her presence constantly reminded him of his failure as a son and he was conscious he avoided coming home, leaving more and more of the business to Elliott, his bailiff. Remorse filled him at his antipathy towards his own mother: all he could feel for her was filial duty and responsibility. Since Adam’s death, she had withdrawn any hint of affection for him. And then his father had... He swallowed hard. If only he had tried harder. Been a better son.

Could I have stopped him? Would he still be here?

His father’s death had rocked what remained of their family and shifted their world on its axis. Scandal had been avoided but neither he nor his mother had been the same since.

‘Much as I like Charles,’ he added, placing his pawn on a square at random, ‘I cannot risk him running the estate to ruin.’

‘Indeed. He is a somewhat profligate young man.’ Leo moved his queen, capturing the pawn Richard had just moved. ‘I hear the duns are sniffing at his heels again.’

‘So soon? I only bailed him out last year. I thought his debts were all cleared.’

‘I have no doubt they were. I believe I cautioned you at the time not to throw good money after bad.’

‘You did, and I should have heeded your advice. You’ve never steered me wrong yet.’

Leo smiled. ‘I like to think I still have some uses,’ he murmured, moving a rook. ‘So, you are thinking of marriage. Might I enquire as to the identity of the lucky lady?’

Richard huffed a mirthless laugh. ‘I have no idea. There is no one who springs immediately to mind. As long as she’s well born, is of an amiable and compliant nature, and is not minded to interfere with my life, I am sure I can find someone to suit.’ He picked up his bishop, hesitated, then took one of Leo’s pawns.

‘Aha,’ Leo said, with satisfaction, as he swooped on Richard’s queen. ‘Mine, I believe.’

Richard sighed. His mind was definitely not on the game. They had barely begun but, studying the pieces left on the board, he could see he was in trouble.

‘A marriage of convenience?’ Leo said. ‘Are you certain that is what you want? A compliant wife?’

‘Why ever not? I have no interest in a love match and, if I crave excitement, I can find plenty outside my domestic arrangements. No. A nice, compliant lady, content to run a comfortable household and to look after my children—that will suit me very well.’

‘In that case,’ Leo said, ‘I might know just the girl for you.

‘Checkmate.’

Chapter Three

Mid-September 1811

Felicity sat before the mirror in her bedchamber at Cheriton Abbey as the maid loaned to her by Cousin Cecily—the duke’s younger, unmarried sister, who had raised his children after the death of his wife—dressed her hair. It was hard to garner any enthusiasm over Anna’s efforts, although Felicity did silently admit—with a twinge of guilt at her disloyalty—that the result was an improvement on poor Beanie’s usual effort.

Miss Bean, nursemaid to all three Weston children, had acted as Felicity’s maid since her sixteenth birthday, but her advancing age and failing eyesight had made travelling to Cousin Leo’s estate impossible. It was time, Felicity had finally accepted, for her beloved Beanie—more of a mother to her than her own mother had ever been—to retire.

The house party had been organized for the duke’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Olivia, in preparation for her début the following spring. A party of fourteen, plus the family, Cecily had told Felicity when they arrived from Bath an hour ago. Felicity was stomach-churningly aware, however, that she was also to meet her prospective husband.

‘There, milady, you’re ready,’ Anna said. ‘I must go now and help Lady Cecily—the family usually gather in the drawing room at six o’clock.’

‘Thank you for your help, Anna. Have all the guests arrived?’

‘I believe so, ma’am.’

Felicity’s palms turned clammy and her stomach seemed to rise up. How she wished she could simply turn up at church one day to find a stranger awaiting her at the altar. Surely that would be preferable to this wretched charade? She forced her thoughts away from the ordeal to come, recalling that Dominic, Lord Avon—Cousin Leo’s eldest son and Felicity’s childhood playmate—would arrive tomorrow. Buried in Bath, as she had been for the past six months, she was eager for news from Westfield, the orphan asylum in London both she and Dominic supported whenever they could.

A thought struck her. What if her husband disapproved of her charitable activities? Might he ban her from involvement with Westfield, as her stepfather had tried? He would have that right—the right to command and control her. A chill raced over her skin, raising gooseflesh on her arms.

It is nerves. You will feel better once you have met him.

Fretting over something to come was the worst part: it was the lack of action—the sense of being tossed and turned by events without any control, like a piece of driftwood caught in a current—that allowed such fears to tease her. She could stay alone with her thoughts no longer. Dragging in a breath, Felicity left the sanctuary of her bedchamber and headed for the stairs.

At the head of the magnificent staircase, she looked down and pictured that scene a year before. Stanton. A pleasurable feeling coiled in her belly at the mental image of his lordship in his shirt sleeves and breeches. Would he be here this weekend? It was likely, she realized, with a shiver of anticipation she swiftly banished. Despite their encounter on the stairs, Stanton had barely noticed her again as he had flirted with and charmed the other guests during the remainder of that weekend, living up to his rakish reputation.

Whoever her prospective husband might be he would be bound to show to disadvantage against the earl. Most men did.

And is that not precisely what you want? Did you not stipulate a quiet, ordinary gentleman for your husband?

She swallowed the nerves playing havoc with her insides as she descended the stairs and entered the drawing room to await the other guests and her future.

Leo ushered Richard to one end of his magnificent library, where a small leather-upholstered sofa and two matching armchairs were placed invitingly around a stone-carved fireplace in which logs crackled merrily.

‘Well? Are you going to tell me who she is?’

All through dinner Richard had been trying to guess the identity of his prospective bride. Why on earth had he not demanded to know before travelling all the way to Devon? All he knew was that she had asked her mother to arrange a match for her.

Leo’s silver-grey eyes gleamed. ‘Patience, dear boy.’

Richard glared at Leo, who met his look with raised eyebrows and a bland smile. He’s enjoying this, the wretch. They had been friends for fifteen years—Richard knew that look. Biting back his irritation, he sat on the sofa whilst Leo poured them both a brandy before settling into one of the armchairs. Richard tipped his glass, savouring the warmth of the fiery spirit, waiting.

‘My ward, Lady Felicity Weston.’

As he digested Leo’s words, Richard conjured up a mental image of Lady Felicity. They had not been neighbours at dinner and so had not conversed, but she had appeared monosyllabic and subdued throughout. Perhaps it was nerves, knowing she was to meet her future husband? He dredged up the memory of their encounter last year, but this girl had shown none of the spark and wit she had exhibited then.

Her mother, in contrast, was the life and soul of the gathering, but too loud and foolish for his taste. The other daughter—she had died young, he recalled—had inherited her mother’s beauty, but not so Lady Felicity. No wonder she had jested about being overlooked, for it was no more than the truth. Certainly, next to her flamboyant parent, she slipped into anonymity.

A further image arose, from his perusal of the occupants of the drawing room before the meal. Lady Felicity—head to one side, eyes bright, hands animated—had been chatting with Leo’s sister, Cecily, who had clearly found it hard to contain her giggles. Then Felicity had looked up. Their eyes met, and immediately all her liveliness had leached away. He had barely noticed at the time.

He chose his words with care. Leo, he knew, was fond of her.

‘She is a little insipid, is she not?’

An image of his mistress of the past year materialized in his mind’s eye. Harriet—now there was a woman: curvaceous, experienced, uncomplicated, fun. He frowned into the amber liquid swirling in his goblet. What had been his stipulations for his future wife? Well born, of an amiable and compliant nature, and not minded to interfere with my life. He had said nothing about appearance and, indeed, why should her looks matter? She was not ugly. She was...plain.

‘She doesn’t show to advantage next to her mother,’ Leo said, ‘but she’s a good girl, she has a kind heart, she wants a family, and she’s the daughter of an earl. And Lady Katherine’s father was a marquis, so her breeding on both sides is impeccable. Or have you changed your mind, and now desire a love match?’

Richard glared at Leo, who met his eyes with a grin. He leaned forward and gripped Richard’s knee.

‘Are you sure you want this, Stan? Neither Felicity nor her parents know your identity, and need never know if you do not wish to proceed.’

Was he sure he wanted this?

No. He had not thought to wed for several years to come.

But Craven’s death weighed on his mind, as did the premature deaths of his father and his brother. He was loath to agree with his mother but, if anything should happen to him... It was not about what he wanted any longer.

It was his responsibility.

His duty.

His decision.

‘My mind is made up. I must secure the future of the title and estates.’

Leo leaned back. ‘So, given that you are still minded to wed, how do you wish to proceed? Is it to be Lady Felicity?’

He had a choice. He could either choose to settle the matter now or he must seek another bride. The thought of suffering the matchmaking efforts of determined mothers and importunate fathers during the coming months in London was enough to bring him out in hives. Which left...

‘She is very young.’

‘She is almost five and twenty; older than she appears.’

Richard felt his brows lift. He had thought her younger. At least she had a spark of personality, although her dress sense was appalling—that pale-pink gown she was wearing tonight had done her no favours, and her figure, probably the reason he had thought her so young, was almost boyish. But, on balance, would he prefer someone like her mother—beautiful, but empty-headed and fluttery? No, that would drive him demented in a trice. At least Felicity had demonstrated a sense of humour and a down-to-earth manner he could countenance.

As long as she did not entertain girlish notions of his falling in love with his own wife, he thought Lady Felicity Weston would suit nicely.

‘Very well, Lady Felicity it is. At least I can deal with you, and not Farlowe, over the settlements and so forth.’

Leo grinned and gripped Richard’s hand. ‘Welcome to the family, Stan. I will go and extract Felicity and Katherine from the throng, hopefully without causing too much speculation.’

It was not long before he returned with Felicity and her mother. Richard stretched his lips into a smile as he stood up, pushing a hand through his hair, smoothing the unruly curls back.

He hoped he concealed his true feelings with more success than Lady Felicity. Her expression as she came through the door, and their eyes met, was one of sheer horror.

What was so very special about Lady Felicity Weston to suggest the Earl of Stanton was not a good enough match for her?

Chapter Four

Richard had no further opportunity to study his bride-to-be. Lady Katherine sailed past her daughter and captured his hands, standing so close her floral scent made his nostrils twitch. She gazed up at him through fluttering eyelashes. Already knocked off balance by Felicity’s reaction to him, Richard’s muscles quivered with the effort not to snatch his hands from her mother’s soft, moist grasp. From the corner of his eye he caught the resigned look that passed between Leo and Felicity. Mayhap he was not the only person who found Lady Katherine a touch overwhelming.

‘My dear, dear Stanton. Such joy...oh!’ She giggled breathlessly. ‘How droll am I? Joy is my dear girl’s middle name: Felicity Joy. Does that not suit her a treat, Stanton? I am certain she will bring you as much joy as she has brought to me and her dearest papa—God rest his soul—and now to my beloved Farlowe.’

Richard extricated his hands. ‘Indeed.’ He shot a baleful look at Leo, who shrugged and grinned before manoeuvring Lady Katherine to the sofa facing the fire. He then proceeded to engage her in conversation, leaving Richard to get to know his intended.

Which proved to be as difficult as drawing blood from the proverbial stone. Felicity, her face quite colourless, had taken her place beside her mother, her attention firmly on the flames as Richard sank into the nearest chair. Her expression was hard to read but her rigid posture and tight fists told their own story. Something—something about him, he must conclude—was not to her liking. Contrarily, her seeming reluctance fanned his determination to proceed with the marriage.

‘Well, Lady Felicity, who could have guessed when we met on the stairs last year that we would be here now, discussing our forthcoming marriage?’

‘Indeed, my lord.’ Still she avoided eye contact, staring into the fire.

Richard, momentarily nonplussed, continued to study her. Nondescript was the most fitting adjective he could conjure up. She was a touch taller than average, with a slight build. Another woman of her stature might be described as willowy, but, somehow, Felicity was not quite tall enough, and not quite slender enough, to earn that accolade. Her features were regular, her complexion dull. Her oval face was a shade too long and her chin a touch too determined, for delicacy. Her nose was straight, but a little too strong to be considered dainty, and her mouth was... Richard paused in his appraisal. The compression of her lips did little to disguise their rosy fullness. They, at least, could be declared alluring.

Her brown hair was pinned up in the Grecian style, with curls—already wilting—framing her face. Her eyes were a striking amber and, at this moment in time, they stared dully ahead as Felicity sat straight-backed, her hands white-knuckled in her lap.

What was she thinking? According to Leo, Felicity had asked her mother to find her a husband, but her reaction to Richard almost suggested she would be entering the union against her will. Richard hoped not. Now he had made his decision he was impatient to proceed. He vowed to win her over.

‘It’s a pleasant evening, Lady Felicity. Would you care to stroll on the terrace?’

She looked directly at him for the first time since she entered the room. Try as he might, he could not read her expression. Before she could answer him, though, Lady Katherine intervened.

‘Of course she would, Stanton. Go along, Felicity. I am sure you do not need chaperoning if you are with your intended. I declare I have never been so happy in my life—except, of course, when my dear Farlowe proposed. Who would have thought that I would be mama-in-law to the Earl of Stanton. I shall be the envy of everyone. I cannot wait to see their—’

‘Mama, please.’ Felicity cut across her mother’s monologue as she stood up.

Richard rose to his feet with a guilty start. He had been on the brink of becoming mesmerized by Lady Katherine’s inane chatter.

Felicity, cheeks splashed with colour, shot a glance at him before lowering her gaze. ‘Thank you. I should enjoy a breath of fresh air.’

She took his arm and they left the library via one of the French doors. It was dark outside on the terrace, but lamps at intervals along the balustrade cast weak pools of light to soften the shadows.

Richard placed his hand over Felicity’s, where it lay on his arm. It was chilled, despite the mildness of the evening.

‘You are chilled, Lady Felicity. Shall I fetch your shawl?’

‘I am warm enough, thank you, my lord.’

‘Richard. Please. We need not stand on ceremony with one another; unless, of course, you have doubts about our marriage?’

Her eyes flicked to his face, then returned to their contemplation of the flagstones at their feet. Richard stopped beneath one of the lamps and took her hands in his.

‘Forgive my blunt speaking, but you do not appear happy. Am I ousting a preferred suitor?’

‘No, there is no other, although I had not thought... I did not realize... Oh, heavens, I cannot find the words.’

Felicity tugged her hands free and turned to stare into the darkness of the surrounding gardens. Her arms were wrapped around her waist and she looked somehow very vulnerable, standing there alone. It crossed Richard’s mind that she was self-contained: she gave the impression she was used to relying on her own resources. He shook his head in self-deprecation. Harriet would be impressed. She was forever castigating him about his lack of insight and yet, here he was, analysing his bride-to-be as though he had known her for years. He thrust away all thought of his mistress. It felt, somehow, disloyal to think of her whilst in the company of his future wife.

He put his hands on Felicity’s shoulders, the bones fragile beneath his fingers. ‘Try. I won’t bite, you know. I should prefer to start off with honesty between us, if we are to live together with any degree of comfort.’

Her shoulders tensed as she inhaled. Then she turned, and regarded him, her eyes as rueful as her smile.

‘This is ridiculous. You are right. If we are to wed, we need to understand one another. And, I admit I have doubts. Not about you. Well, that is...’ She paused, her brows drawn together in a frown. ‘No, that is untrue. It is about you, but it is about me, also. You and me. Together. You see, I hadn’t thought...I never presumed to be presented with such a...such a...catch, if you do not object to my calling you that?’

Richard bit back a smile. He had been called a catch many times, he was aware, but never to his face before. And never by an earnest-faced female who appeared to believe herself unworthy of a ‘catch’ such as he.

‘You may call me what you will,’ he said, ‘as long as you promise not to use such insultingly offensive terms that I shall be forced to take umbrage.’

She laughed, revealing a glimpse of white teeth. ‘Umbrage? I always thought that to be a state applied to elderly dowagers. Do you sporting gentlemen consider it a fittingly masculine trait, my lord?’

This was better. The spirited girl he remembered from last year had surfaced, her face alive with laughter, her eyes bright.

‘Perhaps umbrage does not quite convey the precise meaning I hoped to convey,’ he conceded. ‘Which word, in your opinion, should I have used, if I am to portray a suitably manly image to my future wife?’

Disquiet skimmed her expression, then vanished. Had he imagined it? Was it the bald reminder that she would be his wife that had disturbed her? Her countenance was now neutral, but her eyes remained watchful and she made no attempt to answer him.

‘Would you have preferred me to use “offence” perhaps, or “exception”?’ He leaned closer to her, and said, ‘I do not, you notice, suggest “outrage” for that, I fear, would not meet with your approval any more than “umbrage”. It is too synonymous with spinsters, would you not—?’

Felicity stiffened. ‘Do not make fun of me, sir. I may be a spinster and, therefore, in your eyes, a poor, undesired thing, but I have feelings and I have pride.’

‘Felicity, I promise I intended no slight. The thought never crossed my mind that you might think I was making fun of you. I was...I was... Oh, confound it! Come here.’

He had run out of words. He clasped her shoulders and drew her close. A finger beneath her chin tilted her face to his. He searched her eyes. They were shuttered. She was rigid in his arms. Was she scared? Had she never known a man’s kiss? The thought, strangely, pleased him: knowing his wife had never experienced another man’s touch. But he must take care not to frighten her. He lowered his head, slowly, and put his lips to hers.

He almost recoiled in shock. He had expected ice. What he felt was fire.

Chapter Five

Felicity’s heart clamoured in her chest as Richard’s lips claimed hers. One arm swept around her back, the other hand cupped her head. His lips were warm, surprisingly soft and tasted of brandy. They slid, slowly, tantalizingly, over hers and she felt her own lips soften and respond. A tingling thrill shot through her, all the way to her toes. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve as her belly squeezed in a strange but not unpleasant way. That kiss ended too soon for Felicity and as the reality sunk in—that this man would indeed be her husband, would be entitled to kiss her and caress her and much more—her heart faltered.

How could she resist falling in love with such a man? She was under no illusion that he might ever love her. Unrequited love had caused far more beautiful women than she to suffer. She saw an image of her future—lonely and desperate—stretching before her.

Richard smiled down at her. She searched his face. It confirmed her fears. Even in this dim light, she could read the amusement that lurked in the depths of those velvety eyes. And why would he not be amused? A naive spinster and the experienced man about town: would that not set the precedent for their marriage? Could she protect her heart? Through the lit windows of the library she could see her mother and the duke, deep in conversation. She must tell them as soon as possible that she could not marry Lord Stanton. She peeked at him again. He looked bored. That settled it, then.

‘Perhaps we should go back inside. Mama will be wondering where we are.’

His lips twitched as he glanced through the window. Felicity felt a lick of heat, deep inside, remembering their warm, silken caress.

‘I suspect your mama has forgotten our existence for the moment.’

Nothing would prevail upon Felicity to admit he was right. ‘Nevertheless, I think we have been out here long enough.’

Richard sketched a bow. ‘As you wish, my lady.’

Felicity studied him surreptitiously as she took his arm. Starkly handsome, his close-fitting black tailcoat and trousers emphasized his masculinity. Not only was Stanton one of society’s most eligible bachelors, but Felicity was aware he was also widely acclaimed for his sporting prowess. The hard muscle of his arm under her hand attested to his strength.

He seemed not unkind.

He had a sense of humour.

He was nigh on the perfect man.

Just not for her.

Felicity wrapped her shawl closer around her and knocked on her mother’s bedchamber door. She glanced along the corridor, praying no one would see her. The sick dread churning the pit of her stomach would not go away. She must speak with Mama and tell her of her decision, or she would never be able to sleep that night. The sooner she halted Lady Katherine’s inevitable runaway enthusiasm for this match, the better.

She heard a faint voice from within, and entered. Lady Katherine was in the massive four-poster, reclining in a sultry pose against the stacked pillows. When she saw her daughter, she sat up, pouting.

‘Felicity. I thought you were my darling Farlowe. What is it? Will it take long?’

Thank goodness her stepfather was still downstairs with the other men. It would be hard enough to persuade Mama to understand without Farlowe there to stir the pot.

Felicity perched on the edge of Mama’s bed.

‘Mama, I cannot marry Lord Stanton.’

‘What?’

Felicity flinched, her mother’s piercing shriek loud in her ears.

‘I am sorry...’

‘Sorry? You are the most ungrateful little... Why? You asked me to arrange a marriage, and I have set up an alliance with the most eligible bachelor of our acquaintance, and you have the boldness to suggest he is not good enough for you? Oh! Where are my salts? You infuriating, stubborn girl...’

Lady Katherine’s face was pink with fury. Felicity found her mother’s smelling salts and watched her wave them beneath her nose.

‘Mama, I am sorry to distress you, but if you will listen to me—’

‘Listen to you? I listened when you asked me to arrange your marriage. Finally, I thought...finally, Felicity is behaving as a modest young woman ought. But I was mistaken. You still imagine you are too good! Too good for the likes of Stanton, of all people.’

‘I do not believe I am too good for him,’ Felicity said, heart sinking. Once Lady Katherine had worked herself into such a state, she was unlikely to heed anything other than her own point of view. How Felicity wished Beanie was here to confide in.

‘Well, I should think not. Now, if it was poor, dear Emma who had caught the eye of such a man...mayhap she could believe herself too good for him.’

Felicity thrust down the pain of once again being unfavourably compared to her sister.

‘May we discuss this in the morning, Mama?’ When you are calmer. ‘I am sorry to upset you, but I would try to make you understand why I must refuse Stanton.’

Lady Katherine straightened in the bed, sparks shooting from her blue eyes. ‘I do believe you are serious, you ungrateful chit. You always were stubborn, and unbecomingly forward with your opinions. Well, we shall see what Farlowe has to say about this.’

‘My stepfather can have no opinion on my betrothal,’ Felicity retorted. If only you had never married him, I wouldn’t be obliged to marry anyone. ‘The decision is mine. You cannot force me to accept Stanton.’

‘But why, Felicity, darling?’ Her mother changed tack, wheedling. ‘I don’t understand. Most girls would swoon at the thought of catching such a man.’

‘The problem is that he is too good a catch, Mama.’

‘Too good? How can a man be too good a catch?’

Felicity struggled to find the words. How could she possibly explain without insulting her mother and dragging Emma’s name into the argument? Her mother would—and not for the first time—accuse her of jealousy.

‘I wish for a quiet, retiring gentleman, Mama. Lord Stanton is popular. He is always the centre of attention. Please try to understand.’

I am afraid I will fall in love with him.

The words she could not say near choked her. A man like Stanton, in an arranged marriage, would develop the same carelessness her father had demonstrated towards her mother; the same indifference Farlowe was now beginning to demonstrate, a mere six months into their marriage. Such indifference in a marriage of convenience would be tolerable. But that same indifference, if she were to fall in love with her husband... A handsome face with warm brown eyes materialized in her mind’s eye and her lips tingled in memory of his kiss. She could never resist him. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.

Stanton was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen, with his dark brown, wavy hair, his deep, soulful eyes, and his fine figure. Since their encounter last year, she had added those strong, muscular arms and the glimpse of dark chest hair to the tally of his attractions. And now she had experienced his kiss—how could she ever withstand such an onslaught? She might be inexperienced, but she suspected that kiss had triggered only the merest hint of the passion buried deep within her. No, she dare not expose her heart to such a man. That way, for sure, would result in heartbreak and despair.

‘Well, I do not understand, you provoking girl. Oh, where is Farlowe when I need him? I need his support. No one understands my trials.’

‘Please, Mama, may we speak again in the morning, before the betrothal is announced?’

‘The duke and Lord Stanton have agreed to announce the betrothal after dinner, tomorrow evening. But do not think the delay will favour your case, my girl, for my mind is quite made up. Just think, I shall be the envy of all, when our news becomes known.’

‘Mama, I cannot marry a man merely in order that you can boast to your acquaintances.’

‘Oh! You would make me sound the most uncaring parent in the world, Felicity. Have I not always put your welfare and happiness at the very top of my priorities?’ Lady Katherine sank back against the pillows and waved her salts beneath her nose again, her eyes closed. Then they snapped open and she sat up, nailing Felicity with a triumphant stare. ‘The duke has approved the match. He believes you and Stanton will suit very well. Do you dare to question his authority?’

If her mother was to start invoking the duke’s authority, Felicity knew she must concede her argument for now and try again tomorrow.

‘Goodnight, Mama. I hope you sleep well. I shall come to see you in the morning. Please try to understand—I want to be content in my marriage but I cannot believe Stanton will prove a comfortable husband.’

She bent and kissed her mother.

‘Do not think I shall yield on this, Felicity. There are times when you must realize that your elders have more worldly experience than you and know what is best.’

Chapter Six

A bright morning saw Felicity up and about early, her determination not to wed Lord Stanton stronger than ever. He had prowled through her restless dreams, stirring strange and unwelcome yearnings deep within her. She had woken from those dreams, her heart racing, her skin hot and damp. And that was merely the result of a single kiss.

As she made her way downstairs it was apparent there was no one else up, other than servants, but that suited Felicity: the only person she wished to speak to was her mother, unlikely to be awake at this hour. Felicity crossed the library and let herself out on to the terrace, where she had strolled with Lord Stanton the previous evening.

She paused at the spot where they had kissed. Her pulse quickened at the memory even as the ever-present fear wormed through her belly. Unrequited love. She could not, would not risk it. It was unrequited love that had so wrecked Emma’s life that she had climbed to the roof of Baverstock Court and...

Felicity turned abruptly from the spot and headed for the flight of stone steps that led down into the garden, laid out in a formal style dissected by stone-flagged paths. There were gardeners already at work, weeding and collecting leaves, so she did not linger but followed the central pathway to an arched gap cut into a tall beech hedge. Through the gap was another pathway, and she turned left, knowing the stables were to the right. They, like the garden, would be a beehive of activity at this time of the morning.

A short distance along the path she reached the small rustic gate she remembered from her childhood. It led to a grass path that wound through a copse of ornamental trees before opening on to a vista of Cousin Leo’s lake. Water always soothed her. When she eventually wed she would have, if not a lake, then at the very least a pond, preferably near to the house, so she could see it every day; a large pond, with water lilies, and fish, and a bench to sit on. Daydreaming pleasantly, Felicity continued towards the lake.

‘Good morning, Felicity Joy.’ The deep voice startled her from her reverie.

‘Oh!’ Her heart leapt into her throat as she looked around.

Lounging at one side of the path, broad shoulders propped against the trunk of a copper beech, was Lord Stanton.

Felicity felt her face heat. Why must I blush now? She could never blush prettily, like her mother or Emma. Then she gritted her teeth. Why should she care how she blushed? She could never impress Stanton with her appearance, and she was not about to try. Besides, had she not already decided he was not for her?

‘Good morning, my lord. You are up early. I had not expected to see anyone out and about quite yet.’

‘I am sorry if I startled you. I had a restless night. It is not every day a man meets his future wife for the first time.’

Felicity eyed him with suspicion. Was he poking fun at her? ‘It is not too late to change your mind.’

His dark brows snapped together. ‘And what, precisely, do you mean by that, Felicity Joy?’

He pushed away from the tree and prowled towards Felicity, his attention never leaving her face. She resisted the urge to retreat.

‘You sound as though you might welcome a change of heart.’

‘Why were you leaning against that tree?’ Felicity asked. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

‘You.’ Stanton was close now, gazing down at her.

She held his gaze, her heart pumping a little too fast to be explained away by her walk. He was so handsome. Too handsome.

‘What do you mean?’ Her voice sounded breathless. It reminded her of her mother, which fuelled her irritation. She had no wish to flutter every time a man paid her any attention. She cleared her throat. ‘You could not possibly have known I would be walking here.’

He grinned. ‘I was returning from a stroll by the lake. I saw you coming from a distance, so I thought I might wait for you. And see when—indeed, if—you would notice my presence. It seems I am not the only one who is preoccupied. You, too, appear to have much on your mind, and not all of it pleasant, judging by your expression.’

‘And if I maintain that is my normal expression?’

Stanton crooked his arm. It would surely be churlish not to take it. They continued towards the lake.

‘Then I should say that your life is, perhaps, not very content. I should like to see a smile on your face always, Felicity Joy.’

He halted, tugging her around to face him. He lifted her chin with one finger, and Felicity was instantly transported back to the night before. She tensed. Was he going to kiss her again? His sensual lips curved, and she tore her gaze from them with an effort. His head dipped. If she was not marrying him, she should pull away, and yet...without volition, she swayed closer, relishing the heat radiating from his body. Her entire body softened as she breathed in his scent: a heady mixture of soap, fresh air and maleness.

He studied her, his expression serious.

Goodness, what must I look like? She really had not expected to meet anyone this early. She had splashed cold water on her face, pulled on the closest gown to hand and dragged a comb through her hair before roughly plaiting it, too preoccupied with her dilemma to worry about her appearance. How she wished it was possible to return to her childhood, when she had visited Cheriton Abbey and spent many carefree days exploring the grounds without a care as to how she looked.

The gentle sweep of Stanton’s thumb beneath her eye broke into her thoughts.

‘It appears I was not the only one who slept ill last night. What is it that troubles you? I can tell you are not overjoyed at the prospect of marrying me, but I confess I am at a loss to understand it. It seems to me we should make a successful partnership. We both, as I understand it, want children. Will you not confide in me about your doubts? I have no wish for a wife who feels she has been pressured into a union she actively dislikes.’

Her heart stuttered. ‘It is not that I would dislike being married to you.’ Far from it, if she was truthful. She recalled her words to her mother the night before. There was enough truth to sound believable. ‘I have seen you enough times in London, sir. You are popular. You are always at the centre of attention. I specifically asked Mama to find a quiet, retiring gentleman for my husband.’

Stanton’s brows drew together. ‘Do you mean you wish to retire to the country entirely?’

‘No. I enjoy country life, but I also enjoy spending time in London as I have interests there. I take little pleasure in society balls and parties, however.’

‘Then I see no reason why our union should not prove mutually beneficial, Felicity. I would never insist we live in each other’s pockets, particularly once an heir is born. Many marriages are conducted in such a fashion, with discretion. I would be happy for our marriage to be the same.’

But I would not. Not with you.

She was so afraid she would grow to love him, particularly now, when he had shown such gentle—and unexpected—understanding. And his words—his expectations of their marriage merely reinforced her fears. She was to be used as a vessel to produce an heir. And, without doubt, a spare. Like a brood mare. None of which she really objected to. Indeed, it was what she wanted: a quiet husband to live on the periphery of her life. But Stanton was not, and never could be, he.

‘What do you say, Felicity Joy? May I pay my addresses to you? I should like to propose in the customary manner —and to hear your reply—and not just drift into an understanding.’

Chapter Seven

Felicity bit her lip. She would regret her decision either way, but better to suffer disappointment now, and be done with it, than to live in lonely suffering and heartache for the rest of her days. She did, however, need to talk to her mother again first.

‘I am sorry to be indecisive, but might I give you my answer later? I should like time to think about what you have said.’

Stanton stepped back and bowed. ‘Of course you may. I would not for the world wish to rush you. It is a momentous decision.’

‘Thank you. If you do not object, I shall return to the Abbey now. And I will give you my answer later this morning, if that will suit you?’

‘Of course.’

Felicity walked back along the path through the trees. She rounded the bend, and her heart sank. Her stepfather, Quentin Farlowe, had just stepped through the gate into the copse. It was too late to turn back, for he saw her almost immediately.

‘There you are, miss,’ he called.

Felicity cursed under her breath. He strode towards her, frowning, his thin lips barely visible.

As he reached her she lifted her chin. ‘I am on my way to see Mama. There was no need to search for me.’

‘I disagree. You have worked your mother into the devil of a state. What can you possibly object to in Stanton?’

‘I will discuss it with Mama and my guardian.’

Farlowe’s fingers bit into her arm. ‘We will settle this now. I will not have your mother upset.’

No, of course you won’t. No doubt it disturbed your sleep. How Felicity longed to throw those words at her stepfather, but she refused to stoop so low. ‘I have no wish to upset Mama either. I am sure we will reach some accord.’

He dragged her close, glaring down at her through narrowed eyes. Felicity coughed as a wave of Farlowe’s pungent hair oil pervaded her nostrils. The sickly smell contrasted sharply with Stanton’s fresh, spicy scent.

‘You’ve been a thorn in my side ever since I married your mother, looking down your nose at me. Why do you not want Stanton?’ He bent his head close to hers, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered in her ear. ‘Is he too much the man for you, miss? Are you scared of your wedding night? Mayhap I can be of assistance? Provide a little tutoring so you will not—’

‘Let me go!’ Felicity struggled against his viselike grip on her arm. ‘When Mama hears what you—’

Farlowe laughed. ‘But she won’t find out, will she? You forget—I know you, Lady Felicity. You won’t say a word to your mama because you hate to upset anyone—’

‘Farlowe!’ Stanton’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

Farlowe looked round, but did not release Felicity as Richard strode towards them, fury pounding his veins.

‘Merely a familial misunderstanding, Stanton; nothing for you to concern yourself with.’

The rogue didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. Richard wondered what he had whispered to Felicity. Judging by her expression, he had not been sharing a friendly word of advice.

‘Oh, but I am concerned, Farlowe. Anything that distresses Felicity distresses me. Take your hands from her.’

‘We have not finished—’

‘Yes, we have.’ Felicity twisted her arm free. ‘I told you, sir, that I will discuss the matter with my mother and the duke. They are my guardians, not you.’

Richard levelled a long look at Farlowe, who blanched. Good. The savage anger in his breast must be reflected in his expression. He would have dearly loved to draw the scoundrel’s cork, but would not do so in front of Felicity. Next time they met, though, Mr Quentin Farlowe would have a few questions to answer.

Glancing at Felicity, Richard was struck once more by her forlorn expression. Much as he would like to place all the blame for her dejection at Farlowe’s door, he could not deny she had been troubled even before the incident with her stepfather. Was Leo mistaken? Was a marriage of convenience not Felicity’s choice, but at the instigation of her parents?

‘Would you be so good as to escort me to my mother, Lord Stanton?’

‘My pleasure, Lady Felicity.’

When she took his arm, Richard noticed she leant on it a little more heavily than before as they headed back to the Abbey.

‘Are you quite well, Felicity? Farlowe...he looked a little rough back there.’

Felicity’s fingers tightened on his sleeve. ‘He is not a particularly nice man,’ she said. ‘It is one of the reasons I asked Mama to find me a husband.’

So it was her choice. Her doubts, then, were definitely about him.

‘Your mama is happy with him, though? He is not...cruel in any way?’

The faintest of sighs murmured past his ears and he had to tilt his head to catch her words. ‘No, not overtly cruel. But there is cruelty and there is cruelty.’

Richard pondered that statement. After half a minute, when he was no wiser, he said, ‘I fear that statement is a little obscure for this early in the morning. What do you mean?’

Felicity’s head snapped round, her eyes stricken. ‘Oh,’ she gasped, ‘I am sorry, I had quite forgot...that is...what I mean is that Mama has high expectations of my stepfather. I do not think he has the character to meet those expectations. Does that make sense?’

‘I suppose it does. Your mother, if you will forgive me for saying so, is a lady who would require her husband to dance attendance on her. I surmise, from your explanation, that Farlowe does not view his role in quite the same way?’

‘No, indeed. His role—in his opinion—is to live as high as possible, doing precisely what he wishes, with Mama’s money. Oh! I do beg your pardon. That was most unbecoming in me... I’m afraid my stepfather brings out the very worst in me, despite my best intentions to let his shortcomings fly over my head without comment. Somehow—’ she smiled, ruefully ‘—my basest nature seems to rear its head whenever he is involved. I think we shall never live comfortably together.’

‘Which is why, as you say, you seek a husband. And, yet, you seem reluctant to accept my suit. I am beginning to feel quite deflated, Lady Felicity.’

‘Oh, no.’ She stopped walking and turned to Richard, her eyes big with concern. ‘Please, no, I do not want you to think...to believe... Oh.’ Her protestations ceased and her eyes narrowed. ‘This is quite ridiculous as well you know, my lord. We both know very well that no other woman would view your suit with the slightest hesitation. The reasons for my indecision are...well, they are... Oh, I cannot say more than I have already. You said you would wait for my answer until later this morning, and I must ask you to honour that.

‘Thank you for your escort. I shall be quite safe from here.’

Richard stood at the bottom of the main staircase, watching as Felicity climbed the sweep to the next floor.

‘Good morning, Stan. Enjoying the morning air with your betrothed?’

Richard did not turn to look at Leo. ‘I am not sure “enjoying” is quite the right word, Leo. And neither, if I read the lady correctly, is “betrothed”. I must confess to a certain bemusement. Lady Felicity—if I have understood our, at times, quite muddled conversation correctly—is about to turn me down flat.’

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.’

Felicity’s tension eased. ‘Thank you.’

Chapter Eleven

On her wedding day Felicity rose early, unable to sleep despite the exhaustion of travelling up from Cheriton the day before. She sat by the window, mind and stomach churning with equal intensity.

The ceremony did not worry her. But the afterwards...the afterwards was the rest of her life. That did not merely worry her, it terrified her.

A tap at the door broke into her reverie and Beanie’s familiar, smiling face, deep cracks fanning out from the corners of her faded brown eyes, appeared.

‘You are awake,’ she said, shuffling into the room, followed by the kitchen maid carrying a tray. ‘I said you would be. There you are, Nell, put the tray down and off you go. Did you manage to get any sleep, my lamb?’

Felicity’s throat tightened at the familiar endearment. How would she manage without Beanie? She had raised Felicity, been more of a mother to her than her own had ever been. And the other servants were like members of her family.

‘Are you sure you won’t come with me...us, Beanie?’

‘Bless you, dear. If only I was ten years younger. But I am too old now to get used to a new home and fresh faces and strange ways of going on. I am content here in Sydney Place. I shall miss you but at least it will oblige you to take on a trained lady’s maid at last.’

‘Oh, Beanie, as if I care for that. You know I would much prefer you. Do not forget, I shall be in an unfamiliar place full of strangers, too.’

‘Ah, but you will be the mistress. And you will have your new husband by your side. And you are young. No, my lamb, I will not change my mind, but I shall enjoy seeing you when you visit. Come now, drink your chocolate and try to eat some bread and butter.’

Felicity picked up the cup of chocolate and wrapped her hands around it. ‘This will be enough. I cannot face—’

‘Or I’ve brought up a slice of Cook’s apple cake, if that might tempt your appetite?’ Beanie picked up the plate and followed Felicity to her chair by the hearth. ‘I know you, Lady Felicity. At the first hurdle, your appetite flies away with the fairies. You must eat something. You do not want your stomach gurgling in the church because you haven’t eaten, do you?’

Felicity burst into laughter. ‘Oh, Beanie, I am going to miss you. Gurgling stomach, indeed.’ But she did as she was bid and, after sipping the warm chocolate, she nibbled on the cake and the hollow swooping inside eased to a flutter. Not perfect, but better.

After Felicity bathed and dried her hair by the fire, Beanie helped her to dress. Her gown was of fine white muslin and she would wear a lace-trimmed cap on her head. Her delicate silk shawl, white shot with primrose, and a pair of dainty primrose slippers, would complete the ensemble.

‘You look lovely, my dove.’

Later, after Beanie had dressed her hair, Felicity stood before her mirror scarcely able to believe what was happening. She...Felicity...always the plain, overlooked member of the family...was about to wed society’s most eligible and desirable bachelor. She pinched at her cheeks to bring some colour to her face. That was better. She tried a smile. Better still. As long as she did not forget to smile, she could at least look attractive for her wedding, and for Stanton.

‘Darling.’

Felicity started. She hadn’t heard her mother come in, so lost in her thoughts had she been.

‘Let me look at you.’

At Lady Katherine’s prompting, Felicity twirled a circle.

‘You look very well, my dear. Oh, to think of it. Lady Stanton. I never dared to believe you would make such a match, Felicity. Now, if had been Emma...’ Her voiced faded into silence and she sighed before continuing in a determinedly bright tone: ‘Still, it is your future we must look forward to now, dearest. Except...’ She moved closer and began to fiddle with Felicity’s hair. ‘Oh, dear, I knew I should have sent Wilkins to you but, as dear Farlowe said, who then would have helped with my toilette? It is important I should look at my best, as mother of the bride. We do not want Stanton to think he is marrying into a family of peasants, do we?’

Felicity stepped back, out of the reach of her mother’s fidgety fingers. ‘Please, Mama, do not fret about my hair.’

‘Oh, you have ever been a tiresome girl, Felicity. Tiresome and stubborn. Now, the carriage will be outside in twenty minutes—darling Farlowe bespoke it last night after he saw the rector. What a truly attentive and selfless stepfather he has been to you, has he not?’ She paused, regarding Felicity with raised brow.

‘Indeed, Mama.’

Words cost nothing, particularly as she would no longer reside under the same roof as Farlowe. That was reason enough for the step she was about to take. She was rewarded with a glorious smile.

‘Mama, there is something...before we go. Tonight...’ Felicity hesitated, feeling her cheeks glow. She had never spoken on such intimate subjects with her mother before. ‘Tonight...what will it be like? What should I do?’

‘Do?’ Lady Katherine’s cheeks grew pink. ‘Why, Felicity, I cannot believe you wish to discuss such matters with me. It is for your husband to instruct you. Do as he says and, remember, it is your duty to please your husband at all times in such matters. That is all you need to know.’

Richard sat in the front pew of the Abbey Church next to Leo. The rector was searching through the Bible on the lectern, the sound of shuffling pages loud in the near-empty church.

Richard reviewed the messages he would send the minute their nuptials were complete. The Bath Chronicle and The Times would publish formal announcements and he had written letters ready to be taken by courier to his mother at Fernley Park and to the London address of his heir, his distant cousin, Charles Durant.

He had also penned a more personal letter to his mistress of the past six months, Harriet, Lady Brierley. Harriet’s image formed in his mind’s eye—soft, voluptuous, enticing—and a pang of regret speared him at the knowledge he would never again... He cursed silently, then cast a guilty look at the rector. Thinking about his mistress on the morning of his wedding was bad enough but blasphemous thoughts in church...? He offered a silent apology to God and vowed to exercise tighter control over his thoughts.

His letter to Harriet, besides informing her of his marriage, had ended their affaire. The impulse to walk away surprised him—had he not deliberately sought a marriage of convenience in order not to change his life? Harriet was discreet and their affaire was not common knowledge but still he had felt honour-bound to end it out of respect for Felicity. He consoled himself with the thought he could always take another mistress in the future, once his heir was born.

‘You are quiet.’ Leo’s voice dragged him from his thoughts.

‘Merely ensuring I have not forgotten anything,’ Richard replied. ‘Announcements and so forth.’

‘You are still minded to leave for Fernley Park immediately after the ceremony?’

‘I am. I apologize for the lack of a wedding breakfast, but the thought of accepting Farlowe’s hospitality...’ Richard shuddered.

‘Indeed. And it would be a poor start if you knocked your new father-in-law senseless before the ink is dry on the register, would it not? Do you intend to travel all the way home today?’

‘I do. I want our first night as a married couple to be under my...our...roof. I have no wish to spend our wedding night in some inn by the wayside.’

‘You will both be exhausted by the time you arrive, after travelling all day yesterday as well.’

The bells began to strike the hour and the door at the back of the church creaked open to admit Lady Katherine. She wafted down the aisle, alternately smiling and tearful, flourishing a delicate, lace-edged scrap of a handkerchief with which she dabbed at her eyes. As she settled in the pew opposite his, Richard bent his head, concentrating on his hands, clenched into fists between his knees. The fuss and the flutter eventually subsided and he looked up in time to see the rector signal to someone at the back of the church.

This is it.

His insides quaked in an unfamiliar way and he experienced a sudden urge to flee which he quashed ruthlessly. He was doing the right thing for all the right reasons.

‘Nervous?’ Leo’s whisper was accompanied by a steady hand on his shoulder.

‘No.’

He stood up and turned to watch his bride glide down the aisle on her stepfather’s arm. His breathing—which only now did he realize had quickened—steadied and slowed. As Felicity neared, her attention fixed firmly on the rector, Richard recognized that his brief attack of nerves must be as nothing compared with hers. He willed her to look at him and was rewarded when, only a few feet away, she did.

Her eyes were shadowed, and her lips compressed. Doubt emanated from her and Richard’s own doubts re-emerged. If the match was so distasteful, why was she here?

And yet...and yet...he recalled their conversations; their kiss. She was not indifferent to him. She wanted—she had said as much—to wed, and to get away from her stepfather. He would make sure she did not regret their union. She was to be his wife.

His. To have and to hold. He would protect her, and care for her.

He would fulfil his part of the bargain.

He reached for her hand, to reassure her. She flashed a grateful smile, transforming her face, and his own nerves settled. Her fingers twitched within his grasp, then curled around the edge of his palm. As one, they turned to face the rector.

Chapter Twelve

A small crowd gathered around the three carriages as they lined up outside the Abbey. Richard and Felicity emerged to a muted cheer, followed by a swell of speculation as Felicity’s name was passed from onlooker to onlooker. The crowd pressed closer, and Richard heard Leo’s name mentioned, followed by his own as the speculation got louder.

Leo, Lady Katherine and Mr Farlowe were close behind them, followed by the few friends and servants who had been in the church to witness their wedding.

‘How handsome you looked, walking down the aisle, Farlowe.’ Lady Katherine’s voice rang out. ‘And you, dearest Felicity, you looked very nice, as you came into the church. It is a shame you were seen to such disadvantage next to your stepfather, do you not agree, Stanton?’

‘My love, I beg of you,’ Farlowe interjected hastily. Richard had caught the man’s eye and glared at him with such intent that Farlowe had paled. ‘This is Felicity’s day—’

‘Oh, Felicity is used to me running on, aren’t you, darling? She isn’t a girl to take offence.’

‘I take offence,’ Richard said quietly. Blast the woman. Why must she continually undermine Felicity? She clearly believes the only characteristic of any virtue is beauty. ‘If you will excuse us, my wife and I have a long journey ahead of us.’ He held out his hand, smiling at Felicity. ‘Come, my dear.’

Felicity shot Richard such a furious look, he stared. Did she not want him—her husband—to speak out and protect her? A glance at Leo only elicited a resigned shrug.

‘She is my mother. She loves me in her own way,’ Felicity hissed before turning to her mother, who rushed to embrace her.

‘Oh, Felicity, I did not mean anything by it, you know I did not. You know how I rattle on sometimes. I shall miss you so much, my darling.’ Lady Katherine’s eyes brimmed with tears as she flung her arms around her daughter.

‘And I shall miss you too, Mama.’ Felicity’s voice was thick with emotion.

Not for the first time Richard realized that his upbringing, and his current relationship with his mother, had ill prepared him to understand the subtleties of other people’s families. He only had to think of Leo’s large, boisterous brood to comprehend what he had missed in his childhood. Mayhap Richard could learn something of family from his new bride, and top of that list appeared to be forgiveness. Richard vowed that, as his wife, Felicity would get all the support and kindness she deserved. Then his own children would grow up secure and happy in a contented household such as every child surely deserved.

Felicity said her goodbyes to the rest of the congregation, speaking to each one in turn. The last, an elderly, stooped lady, got a hug and a kiss.

‘Stanton?’ Felicity beckoned him.

Richard felt his brows contract. Stanton? She should call him Richard. Everyone else called him Stanton.

An uncertain expression crossed Felicity’s face and Richard smiled, to show her he was not annoyed. How little they knew of each other—negotiating their relationship at the moment was akin to walking over swampy ground, not knowing where the soft, treacherous patches might lie. He must be more mindful, pick his way more carefully, until he knew her better.

‘Yes, my dear?’

‘May I present Miss Bean? She was our governess and, since we all grew up, she has shouldered the thankless task of being my maid.’

‘Oh, nonsense, Lady Felicity; I mean, Lady Stanton,’ the old lady quavered. ‘You are the least demanding person I know.’ Her eyes were red and swollen; as she stared up at him, Richard recognized the milky cast that spoke of failing sight.

He clasped her outstretched hand. ‘I am pleased to meet you,’ he said, and was rewarded by a grateful smile from Felicity.

‘You see, Beanie? He is quite normal, and I shall be quite safe with him.’

A tear tracked down Beanie’s cheek as she clasped Felicity’s face between her gnarled hands and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Goodbye, my dove.’

On the brink of mounting the steps into the carriage, Felicity turned to her mother. ‘Mama, promise me you will take care of Beanie.’

‘Why, Felicity, of course I shall. Hurry along, now. Whatever will Stanton think of you, keeping him waiting over your maid’s welfare?’

Richard thought, but did not say, that he was rather proud of his new wife for caring for the elderly woman. He handed Felicity into the carriage, and climbed in behind her, after shaking Leo’s hand. They waved, and soon left the City of Bath behind.

After a few lacklustre attempts at conversation, Felicity said, ‘I do apologize, Stanton, but...’

‘Richard,’ he said.

A rueful smile crossed her face. ‘Ever since my come-out I have known of you as Stanton. I fear it will take me some time to get used to calling you Richard, but I assure you I do not intend any slight if I forget once in a while.’

‘In that case, I shall promise not to feel slighted. What were you about to say?’

We are as two strangers, the politeness in the way we converse, the way we glance at each other and look away as if fearful of catching the other’s eye.

‘I was about to say I am so weary I fear I shall be quite unable to keep up my end of any conversation. Would you think me dreadfully rag-mannered if I try to sleep?’

‘Not at all. We shall stop for refreshments at the Old George at Salisbury. I shall wake you then.’

He was, if anything, relieved. He settled in the corner of the carriage, then beckoned. Her eyes rounded.

‘You will be perfectly safe, Lady Stanton. I am not about to ravish you in a moving carriage, no matter how well sprung.’

Felicity’s lips twitched. ‘Such a relief.’

‘Come, sit here, next to me. You can rest your head on my shoulder. It will be more comfortable.’

A slight hesitation, then she shifted along until their thighs touched. Richard put his arm around her shoulders, manoeuvring her until she was leaning against him. Several minutes passed.

‘You can relax, Felicity Joy. I shall do nothing other than hold you, you have my word.’

A few more minutes and then a quiet huff of breath, followed by the softening of the wooden figure next to him indicated that she had, at last, relaxed.

After several weary hours and only one brief stop after Salisbury, other than to change the horses, the carriage drew to a halt. Richard stirred, biting back a groan as pins and needles coursed through his arm. He peered through the window. Fernley Park. Stiff muscles forgotten, he disentangled his arm from Felicity and eased her upright.

‘Welcome to your new home, Lady Stanton.’

‘What? I mean, I beg your pardon?’ Her voice was muffled and, from what he could see of her face in the dim light cast by the oil lamps either side of the steps leading up to the front door, she looked bleary-eyed.

‘We are home,’ he repeated. ‘Fernley Park.’

‘Home?’ She straightened and her hands flew to her head, patting at her hair. ‘Where is my bonnet?’ Felicity’s bonnet, and a warm cloak, had been placed in the carriage before their wedding, ready for their journey.

Biting back a grin at her agitation, Richard grabbed the bonnet from the opposite seat.

‘Allow me,’ he said, and she sat obediently whilst he pinned the hat on to her head and tucked stray hairs neatly away.

The carriage door opened. Beyond the coachman, Richard could see Trick silhouetted in the front entrance. He climbed out of the carriage, stretched, then turned to hand down his wife.

His wife. How strange that sounded.

‘Trick, this is your new mistress, Lady Stanton. My dear, this is Trick, the butler.’

‘Good evening, Trick,’ Felicity said with a smile.

‘Good evening, milord, milady. I trust you had a pleasant journey.

Richard laughed. ‘“Pleasant” is not quite the word I should choose, but it was uneventful.’

‘Which is all one can hope for,’ Felicity commented as she entered the hall and gazed around.

‘Indeed.’ Richard eyed his bride. It was their wedding night. She looked exhausted and he felt no less fatigued. ‘Is my mother in the salon?’

‘Yes, milord.’ Trick crossed the foyer and entered the salon. Richard led Felicity in his wake. ‘His lordship and Lady Stanton have arrived, milady.’

His mother, impeccably dressed as always, stood to greet them, poker straight, unsmiling. Richard silently mocked himself for daring to hope his marriage might have softened her; might have, somehow, bridged the chasm that had yawned between them ever since his father’s death. She had never been a relaxed and loving parent—a result of her strict upbringing—but neither had she been this aloof.

How had they become virtual strangers?

‘Stanton. You are home.’

His mother scrutinized Felicity from head to toe and Richard knew, with a sinking certainty, she would find much to disapprove of in his actual marriage, despite her constant nagging at him to wed.

As Felicity’s fingers tightened on his, the familiar, complicated muddle of emotions he always experienced in his mother’s presence continued to churn deep in his gut.

Chapter Thirteen

Felicity battled her fatigue, sensing this first meeting with her mother-in-law could be crucial to their future relationship. Lady Stanton, tall and slim, her steel-grey hair scraped back from her face, stood erect and unsmiling, her eyes raking Felicity. Determined not to be intimidated, Felicity squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

‘Mother, I should like to present to you my wife, Felicity. Felicity, this is my mother, Lady Stanton.’

Felicity curtsied and smiled. ‘I am pleased to meet you, my lady.’

‘You may address me as Mother.’ No words of welcome. No congratulations. No smile. ‘You had better sit down.’

Mother! Something close to hysteria bubbled and swirled inside and Felicity clamped her teeth shut lest it escape. Richard squeezed her hand, and she steadied. Was her mother-in-law really so indifferent to her son’s marriage? Cousin Leo had suggested Lady Stanton would be delighted her son had finally wed, but the reality appeared somewhat different.

‘We have come to pay our respects, Mother. Felicity is exhausted and will retire immediately. There will be time tomorrow for better acquaintance.’

Felicity stared at Richard’s clipped, formal tone. Why were they so awkward and formal with each other?

‘Come along, my dear.’

Felicity resisted Richard’s attempt to turn her around. Despite her tiredness, she had every intention of establishing her own relationship with her mother-in-law: she would not become a mere extension of her husband, with no opinions of her own.

She held the dowager’s steely gaze. ‘Goodnight, Mother,’ she said. ‘I apologize, but Richard is right. I am very tired and I am, I fear, incapable of conversing in anything approaching an intelligible manner tonight. Please forgive me.’

She then allowed Richard to escort her to the door.

‘One moment.’

They paused. The dowager glided towards them. ‘Stanton. There is a matter I wish to discuss, before you retire.’

‘Of course, Mother. Allow me to ensure Felicity is cared for first.’

A kind-eyed, middle-aged woman awaited them in the hall.

‘Mrs Jakeway, please take Lady Stanton to the Countess’s suite. My dear, Mrs Jakeway is the housekeeper here.’

Mrs Jakeway bobbed a curtsy. ‘Welcome to Stanton, my lady.’

Felicity smiled, murmuring her thanks.

‘Your luggage arrived an hour since, milady, so it is all unpacked ready for you. Would you like a bite to eat in your room? Shall I ask Cook to send something up?’

Mrs Jakeway glanced at Richard as she spoke, and he said, ‘I am sure her ladyship can manage a little something. Please do so.’

While Mrs Jakeway sent a message to the kitchen, Richard drew Felicity aside. She suddenly realized, with a resounding thump of her heart, that it was her wedding night and that this man could now visit her in her bed whenever he pleased. Her suddenly sensitive skin glowed, and her mouth was sucked dry as fear and anticipation swirled in a heady mix.

‘Felicity?’ Richard bent his knees, bringing his face level with hers. ‘I will see you soon.’ He held her gaze until she nodded her understanding. He smiled, lifted her hand and pressed warm lips against her skin.

As Felicity followed Mrs Jakeway up the long, curving sweep of the stairs, she glanced behind her. The dowager had joined Richard in the hall and they stood face to face, postures identically strained. They made no attempt to lower their voices.

‘Where is her maid?’

‘Indisposed.’

‘Shocking! Jaunting around the countryside without a maid in attendance. Do you expect one of the household staff to fill the gap?’

‘For a day or two only, Mother. I shall send to Winchester tomorrow to appoint a lady’s maid. I am sure the house can spare one of the maids for so short a time.’

Felicity paused on the landing. It was wrong to eavesdrop, but they were being so indiscreet she had no compunction in listening to more.

‘Lady Felicity Weston. Baverstock’s daughter. And how old is she? Not in the first flush of youth, by the look of her.’

Her mother-in-law’s voice dropped, but Felicity still caught some of her comments.

‘...expected you to do better...dab of a girl...well bred, I suppose...’

‘That is enough! You will kindly not criticize my wife, either to me or to anyone else.’

They disappeared inside the salon. Felicity joined Mrs Jakeway, waiting along the landing.

The Countess’s bedchamber was spacious, decorated in restful shades of cream and blue, with tall, south-facing windows. The fireplace had a carved oak surround and the room was furnished with elegant rosewood furniture. The bed itself was massive, as wide as it was long, with posts at each corner, and a tester overhead, but no hangings to draw around for privacy and warmth as there would have been in earlier times. The bed dated, Mrs Jakeway informed Felicity, from the sixteenth century, and countless generations of Countesses of Stanton had slept there.

Two doors led from the bedchamber and Mrs Jakeway led her first to an adjoining sitting room with a chaise longue by one of the three windows and a sofa before the fire. There was a delicate escritoire, for correspondence, and a small round table with two chairs was set before the centre window.

‘When the old master was alive, Lady Stanton spent much of her time up here,’ Mrs Jakeway said.

‘I do hope Lady Stanton was not obliged to vacate these rooms on my account?’

‘Oh, no, milady. Don’t you be fretting about that. Her ladyship moved out after the old master passed away, and insisted his lordship moved into his father’s apartments immediately. He was barely seventeen, poor lad. It was...’ The housekeeper clamped her lips shut. ‘Come, I will show you the bathroom.’

She led the way across the bedchamber and through the other door into a small antechamber, dominated by a large bathtub, half-full of water. Steam gently curled into the air, scenting it with violets and a fire flamed in the grate, a wooden airer hung with towels nearby.

Felicity eyed the warm water longingly. ‘Is that for me?’

‘His lordship’s orders,’ Mrs Jakeway said. ‘He sent word from Bath as to what time to expect you. The bed is aired and ready, however, if you prefer not to bathe tonight?’

‘Oh, no, Mrs Jakeway, it is just what I need. Thank you for going to all this trouble. Could you send a maid to assist me, please? I’m afraid my own maid was unable to travel.’

‘No need for that, milady. I shall help you tonight.’

Felicity was soon undressed and sank with muscle-soothing gratitude into the bath. She leaned her head back against the rim and closed her eyes, sighing with pleasure.

‘My hair was washed this morning, Mrs Jakeway, so I can manage now, thank you.’

‘Very well, milady.’

Felicity heard the door open and close again. Her mind drifted, veering away whenever her thoughts ranged near Richard and the coming night. She did not want to think. She simply wanted to be. She slipped a little lower into the water, every inch of her from the neck down bathed in scented heat. She felt underwater for the linen washcloth and spread it, sopping wet, across her face. If only she could remain here and if only the water would stay this warm. She breathed slowly and deliberately, the washcloth moving in time with her breaths. It was already cooling. Reluctantly, she reached for it and pulled it from her face.

A tap at the door behind her brought her crashing back to the here and now.

‘Who is it?’ Please let it be Mrs Jakeway or one of the maids.

‘Would you like your back scrubbed, Felicity Joy?’

Her heart scrambled into her throat. Her arms thrashed, attempting to cover her nakedness, even though she knew he could see nothing.

Yet.

He had only to step a little further into the room. Her stomach churned as her flustered brain sought an escape, but there was no cover within reach.

Nothing.

Chapter Fourteen

‘Felicity!’

The sharp command penetrated Felicity’s panic and she stilled.

‘If I had wanted to spy on you in your bath, I could have done so,’ Richard said. ‘However, I did, as you will recall, knock at the door.’

He sounded amused, but was that also a hint of exasperation in his tone? Felicity peeked over her shoulder. He was in the open doorway, shoulders propped against the jamb, arms folded across his chest. He smiled at her, shaking his head.

‘I am not your enemy, Felicity. I did not intend to scare you. I met Mrs Jakeway on her way to fetch your supper and I came to see if you required any help.’

His voice and his words were patient and soothing, much as one might speak to a horse set into a panic. Had she overreacted? From Richard’s point of view, no doubt she had done exactly that. They were man and wife. And yet...and yet...

‘Thank you.’ Her voice croaked and she coughed. ‘I believe I can manage.’

‘Shall I pass you a towel?’

‘I am not yet ready, thank you. I have not finished washing.’ Truth be told, she had yet to begin.

‘I shall ask again, in that case. Would you like me to wash your back for you? I can avert my eyes, if it will make you easier.’

‘I don’t...’ Felicity’s voice failed.

‘You don’t trust me? Very well.’

There was a rustle and a muffled grunt behind her. Felicity risked another glance over her shoulder. Richard held her gaze as he tugged his neckcloth from around his neck. Oh, my goodness. Surely he is not...? He closed the door and held the neckcloth out, grinning.

‘Here. You can tie this around my eyes so I cannot cheat.’

A squirm of heat snaked from the pit of her belly to the juncture of her thighs and she felt her nipples harden. Heavens. If the mere thought of him being close to her naked body could prompt such a reaction, how would it feel to lie together?

The water sloshed around the bath as Felicity sat up. She hugged her knees close to her chest. ‘Very well.’ This time, her voice squeaked. From a frog to a mouse, she thought wildly, clamping down the urge to laugh, certain it would sound hysterical were she to allow it to escape.

Richard shrugged out of his coat, and knelt by the bathtub, presenting his back. He lifted the neckcloth to cover his eyes and then reached behind his head to offer the ends to Felicity. She grasped them and tied a firm knot. He swivelled round to face her, and rolled up his sleeves. Felicity eyed his hair-roughened arms with hungry fascination. They were sinewy and lightly tanned—so different from her own pale, thin limbs.

‘Hand me the soap, Felicity.’

His voice was husky. He reached out, palm up, and Felicity gave him the soap. Then he groped for, and found, her back and she saw his lips stretch into a sensual smile. Excitement spiralled through her body and her heart pounded as he began to stroke, his hand gliding over her wet, soapy skin.

‘So very delicate,’ he murmured, running one finger down her spine.

Her lids drifted shut as Richard lathered her back, fingers spread, palm flat and gentle as he traced her ribcage around, under her arm, until the tips of his fingers rested against the gentle swell of her breast.

‘Relax.’ The whisper danced across her moist skin, raising gooseflesh.

Relax? How could she relax? She wanted...she needed...she did not know what she wanted, aware only that her mind was at war with her body.

She heard him move, and his lips were on her hair. They traced a path to her ear and, with the tip of his tongue, he outlined the shell before soft lips nibbled at the lobe. Her head tilted, and he trailed warm, open-mouthed kisses down her neck to her collarbone as his hand slid across her torso, brushing the sensitive skin beneath her breasts.

The urge to lie back was strong. Was she really about to succumb to his seduction so readily? But why should she not? If her body could take pleasure in his lovemaking, why should she not relax and enjoy it? It did not mean she must relinquish her heart.

Her sigh murmured as she relaxed back, her thighs parting of their own volition. He could not see her. He had all the experience. Let him teach her of the pleasures of the flesh.

‘Give me your hand.’

He pressed a kiss to her palm before washing her arm from wrist to shoulder, his touch gentle, mouth firm with concentration. As his hand moved across her chest, Felicity closed her eyes. He soaped each breast in turn, kneading. Her back arched, pressing into his touch, an unusual sensation tugging deep inside. Long sweeps of his hand soaped down the side of her body, along her ribcage, over the jut of her hip and down the length of her thigh. She drifted in a sensual haze, aware only of his touch, as he raised each leg in turn to soap them before lowering them back into the water. He lifted her foot, stroking the instep until her foot arched. Each toe in turn was enveloped by warm lips, and sucked gently.

A breathy groan sounded loud in the quiet of the room. Hers. Felicity tensed.

‘Ssssshhhhh, relax.’ The soothing murmur hung in the air and her body responded.

A large hand circled her stomach, the pressure increasing fractionally each time it neared the triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs. Her need climbed. His hand drifted up again, skimming around her breasts, barely touching the peaked, aching nipples. Despite the cooling water, Felicity’s blood pumped hot. Then he took one nipple between finger and thumb and rolled it, gently tugging. Desire streaked through her, setting her blood aflame, and she shifted restlessly.

His lips were on her face again, feathery, butterfly-light kisses caressing her skin as his hand slid over her belly again to slip between her legs, caressing and probing the swollen folds. Her body arched, pressing into his touch. He stroked, and she whimpered.

Then Richard leaned towards her. ‘Kiss me.’ A request, not a demand.

Dreamily she half-rose from the water and met his lips. Soft, searching, sensual, his kiss inflamed her further. It was exquisite but it was not enough. Not nearly enough. She wanted passion. She needed passion...and she needed...need.

His need.

She wanted him to feel the same urgency that gripped her. She cupped his face in her hands and took control. He started in surprise, then responded and deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping between her parted lips. She wound her arms around his neck, urging him on wordlessly. One arm swept around her, half-lifting her, moulding her wet, naked body to him.

The fine lawn of his shirt did nothing to shield her from the heat of his skin. Felicity tangled her fingers through his hair, her fingertips exploring the solid strength of his skull. She hesitated over the knot in the neckcloth that still covered his eyes, but she did not loosen it. She felt a strange kind of power, being naked with this man, this stranger, with him unable to see. She need not feel shame, or doubt, or inadequacy. She could just enjoy. For the moment.

Her thighs opened wider as his fingers caressed and stroked the sensitive flesh between. Her head fell back as she abandoned herself to the sensations that whirled and intensified inside her until she felt she would shatter if she didn’t move, and shatter if she did. She trembled as hot lips nibbled the delicate skin of her neck then froze momentarily as Richard’s finger circled her entrance and dipped inside. Goodness. His finger slid full length inside her, withdrew, and was joined by another and Felicity abandoned herself to pleasure.

As his fingers began to move Felicity kissed him again, clinging as she urged him on. His tongue and his fingers joined in rhythm, driving Felicity on, spiralling ever higher. He pressed lightly with his thumb and she gasped, the sound swallowed within the joining of their lips. All thought suspended as her spiralling passion wound tighter and tighter. She reached and reached, yearning, straining.

‘Let it come, sweetheart.’ The whisper barely registered but the gathering, squeezing sensation at her very core climbed...building...building...until it peaked, exploding in wave after pulsing wave of pure ecstasy.

Strong arms swept her out of the water and Felicity was dimly aware of being cradled like a baby as Richard stood up. Her eyes stayed tight shut as she clung to his neck. He was moving—striding—across the room. His eyes could no longer be covered. Even as the final waves throbbed at her core, she shivered, cringing, as her mind caught up with reality. A door clicked open then banged shut.

A peep through her lashes confirmed they were in her bedchamber. The bed loomed large, dominating her restricted view. What would he do now? She could barely take in what had just happened to her. She had never imagined—how could she?—such ecstasy could exist. And now...would he want to take his own pleasure with her, straight away? She had a vague idea of what would happen—shortly before she died, Emma had confided her shame and heartbreak at having been seduced and abandoned by the man she loved. Nausea mushroomed from Felicity’s chest into her throat. She swallowed convulsively, banishing all thoughts of her sister, focusing her attention on to her husband.

Chapter Fifteen

Richard moved again and heat from the flames caressed her skin. Slowly, he released her, her damp skin clinging to the fabric of his shirt as her toes stretched for the floor. He steadied her, his warm hand splayed between her shoulder blades. Then she felt the sweep of a towel across her shoulders and around her back: enveloping her, swaddling her, shielding her from his gaze. She forced open her eyes. He was smiling down at her. Her belly performed a twisty loop and her mouth flooded with saliva.

‘Felicity Joy.’

His voice was a deep, comforting purr. He removed the pins, one by one, from her hair until it flowed loose. He swept her hair from her face, then bent to kiss her still-tingling lips. Her legs quaked and her knees sagged. He chuckled, scooped her up and placed her in one of the chairs by the fire.

Only then did Felicity see the tray of food on the table next to the chairs.

‘You must be hungry,’ he said, sitting in the other chair. ‘I know I am. Come, let us eat.’

‘I thought...I thought...’

‘There is no hurry, sweetheart. We have all night.’

Felicity’s stomach swooped again, and the flesh between her legs pulsed in an echo of pleasure.

‘You have much to get used to, and I wish to discover what pleases you.’ He reached for a plate, and selected a pastry. He leaned forward and held it to her lips. ‘Taste, tell me, help me to learn.’

Does he mean the food, or...? Nerves jangling, she bit into the pastry, and buttery sweetness flooded her mouth: honey, almonds, and a hint of cinnamon.

‘Mmmmm.’ She savoured the sweetmeat as Richard popped the remainder in his own mouth.

They sat by the fire and ate their fill of the bread and cheese, delicate pastries and fruit, washed down with wine. Felicity began to relax, the mundane activity of eating distracting her from what was to come. Eventually, Richard sat back with a sigh, glass in hand, and gazed into the flames. Felicity took the opportunity to study him as the firelight played across his features. He was so very handsome. She felt as though she were in a fairy tale, the handsome prince having whisked her away from her humdrum life. But this was real life, and soon... As though he could hear her thoughts, Richard switched his attention to her, his eyes penetrating, a half smile playing around his sensuous lips.

‘Have you had enough to eat?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Some more wine?’

Felicity held out her glass, and he filled it, then stood, holding out his hand. As if in a dream, Felicity placed her hand in his. He led her to the bed and took her wine glass, placing it on the bedside table.

He smoothed her hair from her face and pressed warm lips to her temple.

‘I will snuff the candles. You get into bed, and we will drink our wine together, you and I.’

He swept the bedcovers down before crossing to the fireplace to snuff out the candles. Felicity released her grip on the towel and slid into the bed, pulling the covers right up to her chin. The room now in semi-darkness, lit only by the fire, Richard rounded the bed and began to undress. That chest. Broad, tantalizingly sculpted, dusted with dark hair.

He reached for the buttons on his trousers. She groped blindly for her wine glass, hand trembling as she raised it to her lips. The bed dipped as he sat on the edge then bent forward to finish taking off his trousers, his broad back smooth, muscles rippling. Her blood raced around her body, heart thundering in her ears, nipples tight and aching, the flesh between her thighs yearning for his touch.

She put her glass down and reached for him.

A hair’s breadth from the skin of his back, she hesitated, registering the heat of his body as it warmed her palm. Should I? Will he be shocked? Disgusted? The wine made her bold. She splayed her fingers, and placed her hand on his back. He stilled. She waited.

‘It’s all right to explore, Felicity Joy.’ His back vibrated with the deep rumble of his voice. ‘I certainly intend to explore you.’

Her insides quivered. Her fingers trickled down his spine. He did not move. Emboldened, she knelt; crept a little closer; swept both hands up the solid planes of his back until her fingers curved over his shoulders. She kneaded with her thumbs.

‘Aaaaaahh, that feels good. You have magic in your fingers, sweetheart.’ He stretched his torso, rolling his shoulders.

How had he pleasured her? His neck. Shuffling closer still, until the tips of her breasts brushed his back, she pressed her lips to the side of his neck. Musky maleness flooded her senses. She was rewarded by a deep shudder and a quiet groan. She took his earlobe into her mouth and sucked. Then nipped.

‘Ooh. You little...’

Laughing, he turned his head. His lips were inches from hers. Warm, wine-scented breath fanned her skin, raising a frisson of pleasure. She closed the gap, pressing her lips to his, reaching for his chest. Rough hair teased her fingertips as she stroked, fascinated by the difference between his skin and hers. She played with his nipple, and he moaned, deep in his chest. She slicked her tongue over his lips: they parted, tongues met, entwined, withdrew, touched again.

He swung round, took control, cupping her head as he eased her down. He lay beside her, half covering her, as he deepened the kiss. His arousal pressed into her thigh. Felicity closed her eyes, concentrating on what was happening rather than on who was stoking this wonderful, exciting, glorious maelstrom of need. Every other sense was on heightened alert. She luxuriated in his scent: spicy, musky, arousing; the texture of his hair-roughened skin as he moved over her; the moist heat of skin against skin; every inch of her—caressed by skilled fingers and questing tongue—a thousand times more alive than ever before.

‘Touch me, sweetheart.’ His voice was ragged, urgent with need.

She reached, marvelling at the silken skin that slid over his hot, solid length. She closed her fingers, heard his intake of breath, squeezed. His hand covered hers, guiding her even as long fingers penetrated her most intimate place. She arched, whimpering, and then he moved, covering her, easing her thighs wider. She felt the nudge at her entrance, and tensed.

‘Ssssshhh. Relax. It might hurt this first time, but not for long. I promise.’

A steady push, and she stretched, and stretched until she could take no more. He was too big, she was too small, how...?

‘Richaaaard.’

Her protest lost in a cry as he forged into her, the pain sharp, but brief. He lay still. Impaled, she waited. Then he began to move, and the yearning ache grew and grew, radiating out from the place they were joined until every muscle in her body strained to reach the pinnacle that seemed forever just beyond her reach.

Frantic fingers clawed at broad shoulders. Lips kissed and teeth nipped at every inch of skin within reach. Legs wrapped, and held, urging him on. He took her mouth in a searing kiss as he reached between them, and stroked. She flew over that pinnacle in a glorious burst of ecstasy that cascaded through her, shaking her to her core.

He began to move faster, penetrate deeper. Cool air washed between them. She cranked open a weighty eyelid. He was braced up on corded arms, eyes closed, his face a mask of concentration until, with a primal roar, he reached his release. She felt his seed empty into her and he collapsed on to her, rolling a little so as not to crush her, panting. They lay together, his leg straddling hers, arm across her waist. Felicity—tired, sated, content—could have stayed like that all night.

‘Are you all right?’ His breathing had slowed and he caressed her cheek as he spoke.

‘Yes. Of course.’

What should one say, at a time like this? His question dissolved her pleasant haze of exhaustion as the sun disperses early morning mist. Words formed in Felicity’s head, but were dismissed as too trite or too grateful; gushing, even. One could hardly thank one’s husband for... She bit at her lip. Was there an etiquette for such an occasion? She felt awkward and unworldly and stiffened, her eyes screwed shut.

‘Felicity. Look at me. Please.’

She did. Read the compassion in his eyes, but also the laughter that lurked in the background. Well, mayhap he was justified in finding her amusing.

‘There is no need to be embarrassed. Not with me. What we have just done is natural. It is meant to be enjoyable. For us both.’ He smiled, lines radiating out from the corners of his eyes. He kissed her on the forehead, then in one swift movement, he got out of the bed, and turned to tuck her back in. ‘You sleep now. You must be exhausted. I will see you in the morning.’

The bed felt very big, and cold, and empty. Felicity wished he had stayed.

Chapter Sixteen

Felicity awoke with a start. It was early, judging by the light creeping around the edge of the curtains. She lay in bed and relived the day before, fingers twisting the gold band on the third finger of her left hand.

Married.

Well, and was that not what she wanted: a home of her own and a family? Richard was not quite what she had bargained for, but he was what she had. If she only thought of him as a means to an end, surely she could keep her heart safe?

She quivered with the memory of their lovemaking, and her hand crept between her thighs, where her flesh was still tender. Excitement flitted through her veins and her heart leapt at the thought of seeing Stanton...Richard...again.

Determinedly, she settled her thoughts, crushing the bud of happiness attempting to unfurl in her heart. This would never do.

Once she was with child he would continue with his interests and leave her to hers. That was their bargain. She must protect her heart. If she could ensure that intimacies such as last night remained in the bedchamber...would that not suffice?

It would not be easy.

In need of distraction, she threw the covers back, tucked her feet into her slippers and wrapped her shawl around her. Her bedchamber was huge, with three tall windows spaced along the wall opposite the bed. She drew open the curtains to let the light spill in but did not linger at the window. She would explore the gardens of her new home later. Her home. It was strange, knowing she would be living here, yet knowing so little about the place or the people who lived here, not even her husband. A shiver spread across the surface of her skin and she hugged her arms around her body, pulling the shawl tight around her shoulders.

There was a light tap at the door, and it opened to admit a maid, carrying a wooden box.

‘G’morning, milady; I’m sorry your fire wasn’t lit ready for you.’ She cast an anxious look at Felicity.

‘Don’t be troubled, I did wake very early. What is your name?’

‘Tilly, milady.’ The girl, round-faced and pink-cheeked, bobbed a curtsy.

‘Well, Tilly, when you have finished here, could you send up some hot water, please? I should like to get dressed.’

‘Of course, milady.’

Finally alone—fully dressed and ready to face her new life—Felicity paused with her hand on the door handle, butterflies dancing around inside. She turned back and drifted around the room, examining sundry objects, before stopping by the window. In the garden below, a man was raking leaves from the vast expanse of lawn. Beyond the grass, the contours of the land dipped to reveal a glimpse of blue. A lake. The butterflies settled. She could not skulk upstairs all day. A pleasant walk to the lake would be her reward for braving breakfast.

About to turn from the window, a movement caught her eye: Richard, dressed in riding clothes, was striding along the path towards the house. He glanced up, and Felicity jerked away from the window, her pulse skittering as her breath caught.

Stupid! Why dodge out of sight as though you’ve been caught in some wrongdoing?

She peered out of the window again, but Richard was no longer in sight. Hands clasped to her chest, Felicity gazed unseeingly at the view as she willed her heart rate to slow. If he had seen her, she must go downstairs. He would think her a complete ninny if she remained closeted up here. Still she dallied, until a peremptory knock forced her to open the door.

Richard stood outside. He brought with him the smell of outdoors, fresh and tangy. He was hatless, his dark brown curls windswept. His skin glowed and his eyes sparkled.

‘Good morning, Felicity Joy. I trust you slept well and are fully refreshed?’

His rich baritone did strange things to her insides. She remembered the times she had sneaked a sip of brandy from her father’s decanter after a cold ride. Richard’s voice spread through her with a similar intoxicating warmth. Images of the night before flooded her brain and she felt her cheeks heat.

‘Good morning, Lord St...Richard.’ Her voice came out as a breathless squeak.

Richard grinned. ‘I’ve just returned from my morning ride. Have you breakfasted yet?’

‘No. I...I was just about to...to—’

‘In that case, would you care to join me for breakfast in the parlour? Unless you prefer to take breakfast in your room, as my mother does?’

She straightened her back, striving for calm.

‘Yes. Thank you. I should like to join you.’

Richard patted her hand as she took his arm to go downstairs. ‘Don’t worry; you will soon become accustomed to your new home.’

At least he seemed to understand how awkward she felt in this strange house. Not a guest, but not yet at home.

The food was laid out on a sideboard for them to serve themselves. Richard helped himself to thick rashers of bacon and eggs and placed it in front of the chair at the head of the table, big enough to seat eight. A second place was set at the opposite end, and Richard pulled the chair out for Felicity. ‘Would you like coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’ Felicity set down her plate, with its slice of toast and boiled egg.

Richard poured them both coffee, sat down and began to eat.

‘I always seem to eat twice as much when I’m down in the country,’ he remarked. ‘It is the fresh air and the exercise. I like to ride before breakfast as a rule, as long as the weather isn’t too inclement.’

He paused, his eyes on Felicity. Heat erupted and her skin tingled. Would she ever become accustomed to him?

Richard watched his new wife surreptitiously as they breakfasted together. Her eyes glued to her plate, she picked half-heartedly at her food.

How little I know of her. Who is she, behind the mask? What are her interests? Her dreams? Her fears? Why was she so reluctant to accept me? Was it a ploy, to pique my interest, or was...is...there some deeper reason?

His jaw set. Why plague yourself with such questions? Did you not merely require a wife who would fit in with your life? You have no need to know the whys and the wherefores.

He focused on his bride. ‘Do you ride, Felicity?’

Her amber eyes came alive. ‘Oh, indeed I do. I love to ride. Do you have a lady’s mount in your stables?’

‘Not at present: my mother has not ridden for many years. Do you have a favourite animal at Bath, or at Baverstock? I can send a groom for it, if it would please you?’

‘Unfortunately, no. The mare I used to ride became permanently lame, and I was forced to retire her to Baverstock. Then my stepfather...’ resentment soured Felicity’s tone ‘...declined to meet the stabling costs for another horse. He believed hiring a job horse was sufficient should I wish to ride out with friends.’

It was something he could remedy very easily; something to make his new wife happy. ‘I shall instruct Dalton to find you a suitable mount.’

‘I’m sorry...Dalton?’

‘My head groom.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

Silence reigned once more.

‘If you would like it, I will show you around the house and gardens today. It will help you find your bearings.’

What had happened to his intention to spend the morning with Elliott, inspecting the estate ledgers to ensure his bailiff had overseen estate affairs properly in Richard’s all-too-frequent absences? One more day would not hurt, however, and it would be a worthwhile sacrifice to help Felicity settle into her new role and become accustomed to him. She had reacted like a startled fawn when he had entered her bathroom last night. Covering his eyes had been inspired; she had relaxed and responded, revealing her hidden passion. He would hate to have a wife who was indifferent to or—even worse—disliked the marital act.

‘I do beg your pardon, my dear. I’m afraid I was wool-gathering.’

He had completely missed Felicity’s response to his offer.

‘I said “thank you but that will not be necessary”. You no doubt have important duties. There is no need for you to trouble yourself—I shall ask Mrs Jakeway to give me a tour of the house and, as for the gardens and grounds, I shall be quite content to explore them on my own.’

Chapter Seventeen

Richard placed his knife and fork on to his empty plate, biting back an irritable retort.

‘I have put the day aside especially for you, Felicity.’ A touch inaccurate, perhaps, but at least he had made the gesture. Whereas she... ‘I thought we would spend it together.’

A flick of her eyebrow spoke volumes. ‘We have a marriage of convenience, Richard. There is no need for pretence.’

‘Pretence? Is it so wrong to wish for a comfortable relationship?’

‘Comfortable? Oh, no, of course it is not. But may we not be comfortable without living in one another’s pockets?’

Why did those words chafe? The uncomfortable conclusion was that although he did not wish his marriage to change his way of life, he had—hypocritically—assumed he would be the centre of his wife’s world.

‘I have annoyed you. I am sorry. That was not my intention. I wished to reassure you I will not be a wife who expects or desires your constant attention. That was not our bargain. I am accustomed to relying on my own resources for entertainment.’

Bargain? Richard expelled his breath in an audible huff. ‘The fault was mine. I made assumptions. I wish only to ensure we have a contented marriage.’

‘As do I. I promise I do not refuse your company out of churlishness. I simply wish to ensure you do not spend time with me from a sense of duty.’

How to respond? Their marriage had only taken place because of his sense of duty. Had that same sense of duty prompted his offer to show her around Fernley?

In his mind’s eye he saw Felicity in her bath, felt again her silky skin, heard her soft sighs. His blood stirred. His new wife might not be as buxom as his usual preference, but her pert, springy breasts had excited him every bit as much as fuller, pillowy mounds had ever done. And those lean thighs...her taut belly...her enthusiastic responses...

He studied her face, animated with discussion, her eyes shining with sincerity.

‘I promise I will never do that,’ he said. ‘I will summon Mrs Jakeway to show you the house.’

The morning sped by. To Felicity’s reeling senses, it seemed Mrs Jakeway left no corner of the huge house unvisited and no history of the Durant family untold. Who would have thought touring one house could be so exhausting?

Mrs Jakeway opened a door leading off an upstairs landing and ushered Felicity through into a long, narrow, portrait-lined room. ‘The gallery—the family are all in here.’

Felicity bit back a sigh, anticipating a long story to accompany each portrait, but as they stopped before the very first painting, the door at the far end of the gallery opened.

‘There you are.’ Richard strode the length of the gallery towards them. Felicity fixed her attention on the portrait, willing her fluttering pulse to steady. ‘Thank you, Mrs Jakeway. You may return to your duties.’

‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Jakeway. You have been most informative.’ Felicity smiled at the housekeeper then said to Richard, ‘It is a magnificent house, but I had no notion of how big it is. I feel as though I have walked miles.’

Richard laughed. ‘You will be ready for some refreshment, then, to replenish your energy.’ He held out his arm, and she took it with some relief. ‘I am pleased you approve of your new home, Felicity Joy.’

She gritted her teeth against the tremor that sped through her at his deepening tone. Felicity Joy, indeed.

‘Oh, I do,’ she said. ‘Your mother has the most exquisite taste; everything is beautifully decorated and furnished.’

‘You must feel free to make any changes you wish, especially in your own chambers,’ Richard said. ‘Whatever you wish for, Felicity, you may have.’

Whatever I wish for...? Hmmph. ‘You are most generous, but I have seen nothing yet I would care to change.’

They strolled along the dim gallery. Felicity cast around for a subject to break the silence.

‘Your mother—’

‘Will be moving to the Dower House in the very near future.’

That had not been what she was going to ask. ‘You do not appear very...well, very close.’

A bitter laugh was quickly bitten off. ‘You might say that. My mother has never hidden the fact she would have preferred my brother to succeed to the title.’

‘Your brother?’ Felicity searched her memory. ‘I had forgotten. He was older than you, was he not?’

Richard indicated a portrait of a youth with a much younger boy. ‘By eight years.’ The youth was a serious-faced lad with the same brown, wavy hair as Richard. ‘That is Adam and me as children. For a long time, my parents gave up hope of having more children. Then I came along. Adam was always the favourite. My parents were inconsolable when he died.’

‘How could they be otherwise? He was their son.’

Richard shot her a dark look, then strode on. Felicity trailed in his wake, her mind spinning. They had the death of a sibling in common then.

At the door leading from the gallery to the upstairs landing, Richard paused. ‘My father died four months after Adam. He lost all interest in life. I was barely seventeen when I inherited the title, a position I never expected. Nor desired.’

His knuckles shone white on the door handle. He started when Felicity tentatively touched his hand. ‘You suffered two grievous losses in a cruelly short time. I do understand. I lost my father when I was fourteen and then my sister, Emma, two years later. She was only eighteen.’

‘Eighteen. So very young.’ Richard lifted his hand to her cheek. ‘You must miss her.’

‘I do.’ Felicity’s throat tightened. ‘It was...’ She paused. She could not divulge Emma’s disgrace, or her mother’s culpability, or her own guilt at the anger she still harboured towards her mother. After Papa had died, her mother had been inconsolable. Following her year of mourning, however, she had launched into a round of gaiety and parties, with the excuse of Emma’s come-out. But Mama had become too intent on her own needs and pleasures, and her naive and innocent daughter had paid a heavy price.

Determinedly, Felicity buried those memories. ‘It was a dreadful time, as it must have been for you and your poor mother after Adam and then your father died.’

‘After the initial shock, my mother coped admirably, as she always does. She did not allow...’ Richard fell silent. ‘Well, that is of no import. Come. Let us go and eat and, afterwards, if you will allow, I should like to show you round the gardens.’

She choked back her instinct to refuse, mindful of that glimpse of pain when he spoke of his family. ‘Thank you.’

He smiled, and Felicity’s pulse quickened. She spun round and headed for the stairs. As they descended, Lady Stanton was crossing the marble-floored entrance hall. Glancing up, she stopped. Richard’s features were set in grim lines and, eyeing the dowager’s haughty demeanour as they neared the foot of the stairs, Felicity felt a moment of sadness for them both. Two people, bound by blood and by common grief, should find succour in one another. All she could read here was resentment, in Richard’s case, and indifference in his mother’s; although...there was a glimmer of fear in her mother-in-law’s eyes whenever she looked at her son that Felicity could not understand. What did she fear?

A footman held the door, and they sat at the table where luncheon—a selection of cold meats, bread and butter, pickles, salads and fruit—was laid out.

The dowager helped herself to a slice of beef. ‘Did you find the Countess’s suite to your liking, Felicity?’

‘Thank you, yes. It is most agreeable.’

‘I moved out of there when Richard’s father died, into my current bedchamber.’ Her gaze flicked towards Richard. ‘I have sent the servants over to the Lodge to prepare.’

‘The Lodge?’ Felicity looked from her mother-in-law to Richard and back again.

‘Fernley Lodge is the Dower House. Mother will move there now we are married.’

‘We shall have to discuss which servants I may take with me, or do you wish me to hire new people?’

‘Not at all, Mother. You may take your pick. I shall hire any replacements I need.’

‘You will be happier with familiar people around you, I am sure.’ Felicity ignored her mother-in-law’s haughtily lifted brow; she was part of this family now; she would not sit quietly when family—and household—matters were discussed.

‘Speaking of servants,’ the dowager said, switching her focus to Felicity, ‘I must insist you hire a lady’s maid without delay. It is completely unacceptable—’

‘It is in hand, Mother,’ Richard interrupted. ‘I have sent a message to Truman in Winchester to find suitable candidates for me to interview.’

‘I should prefer to select my own maid.’ Felicity pretended she did not notice the outraged stare of the dowager or Richard’s amusement at her interjection.

‘Then so you shall,’ he replied.

‘Thank you.’

‘You are most free with your opinions,’ the dowager remarked.

Richard’s eyes were fixed on her, a distinct challenge in them. She pressed her lips together. Start as you mean to go on.

‘I apologize if you think I speak out of turn, Mother,’ she said, ‘but I am, am I not, the Countess of Stanton? I am mistress of this house now, and I therefore believe I am entitled to express my opinion.

‘What do you say, my dear?’ she added, directing a searching look at Richard, who laughed.

‘I have no objection to you expressing your opinions, Wife,’ he said, ‘just as long as they concur with mine.’ The twinkle in his eyes confirmed he was teasing.

‘I shall try and bear that in mind, Husband,’ she murmured, narrowing her eyes at him before focusing on her plate once more.

Chapter Eighteen

This is what happens when you allow sympathy to overthrow your good intentions.

Felicity sat in a secluded arbour overlooking the lake, resentment scouring her brain. She had discovered the spot on her solitary exploration of the gardens and grounds. Her husband had been so easily dissuaded from spending time in her company, she could almost laugh. She had only accepted his offer to show her the gardens because she felt sorry for him. Well, maybe she’d been a tiny bit flattered he had confided in her about his brother’s death and—possibly—she had been foolish enough to hope...but no! She was deluded. This neighbour...some crony of Richard’s—she was so cross she could not even recall his name—had called on his way into Winchester, and Richard had jumped at the opportunity to accompany him, with no thought for her or for his promise.

Why so angry? You refused his company only this morning. Surely you are not already infatuated with him after only one night of passion?

She resumed her march around the lake. It was too cool to sit for long: dark grey clouds scudded across the sky, playing hide-and-seek with the sun much as her anger flirted with images of their lovemaking from the night before.

Richard had behaved in perfect accord with their bargain. Was that not what she wanted from their marriage? She should thank him for not encouraging her silly, missish longings.

She completed her circuit of the lake, and made her way back, to explore the flower gardens.

But...if only he had not been so tender...so loving...so—seemingly—appreciative last night. Her thoughts, as she wandered, sparked a myriad of unwelcome emotions. Surely this intensity...such pleasure...such ecstasy...would not—could not—last? In time, their lives would settle into the humdrum. Their paths need not cross during the day and, at night, Richard would visit her bed and service her until they had produced enough children to secure the earldom. He would then leave her alone. Unromantic, maybe, but those sentiments were exactly what she had planned for her marriage and exactly what she needed to bring her down to earth.

Why, then, did she feel so wretched?

She returned to the house to consult with Mrs Jakeway. The sooner she occupied her mind with the everyday matters of running of the household, the better.

‘I’ve appointed a lady’s maid for you. She arrives next week.’

Felicity froze in the act of setting a stitch. Slowly, she looked up at Richard, newly returned from Winchester, a satisfied smile on his lips.

‘You agreed I might select my own maid.’

‘Yvette comes highly recommended, Felicity. She will make you an excellent maid.’

Of all the high-handed... Felicity bit her lip and bent her head to continue with her embroidery.

‘Truman told me—’

‘Who is Truman?’

‘He is my man of business in Winchester. I needed to consult him over additional staff for Fernley Lodge and I mentioned your need for a lady’s maid.’

‘I see.’

‘I met the girl. She is in need of employment and her references are impeccable. Dalton will collect her on Tuesday. I am certain you will approve of her.’

Is she pretty? The words stole uninvited into Felicity’s thoughts, her father’s penchant for comely maidservants still fresh in her memory even after all these years. She concentrated fiercely on her stitching. ‘I reserve the right to refuse her.’

She glanced up. Richard was frowning. ‘Do you not trust my judgement, Felicity?’

Start as you mean to go on. ‘I do not know you well enough to answer that. Staff appointments, however, are part of my jurisdiction and the matter of my personal maid is of particular importance to me, as you might imagine.’

‘Very well. I ask only that you reserve judgement until you have met Yvette. I am certain you will like her.’

Richard watched Felicity push the food around her dinner plate with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. As far as he could tell, not a morsel had passed her lips. She had withdrawn into herself; was she fretting about the night to come? With his mother present, he could say nothing to ease her uncertainties.

‘Is the food not up to your usual standards?’

Felicity’s head jerked up at his mother’s question.

‘It is delicious, Mother, but I am afraid I am not very hungry. Please do pass my regrets to Cook,’ Felicity added, directing her comment to Trick, who stood to one side of the room, ‘I should not wish to cause any dismay in the kitchen. The fault is not with the food.’

‘Well, really, Daughter. Why should kitchen servants care about your appetite, pray?’

‘Mother.’

His mother ignored Richard’s warning, her attention on Felicity, their gazes locked. A mental image arose of two fencers, each on the alert for any hint of vulnerability in their opponent. Richard sipped at his wine, settling back to await the victor.

‘It may well be they would not be concerned about my lack of appetite,’ Felicity said. ‘But I, you see, do care that their work should not go unacknowledged. If I cannot express my thanks by eating the results of their labour, it costs me nothing to pass on a few words of reassurance.’

His mother stiffened. ‘Well!’

Silence reigned. He could almost hear the wheels spinning in his mother’s brain.

‘I suppose there is no harm in it,’ she eventually conceded. ‘You are sending such a message only because it is your wish to do so, and not under any sense of obligation to the lower orders.’

First round to Felicity.

‘I will move to Fernley Lodge as soon as the servants have made it ready,’ Mother said, ‘but I shall leave Trick and Jakeway here. You will need them to maintain the standards to be expected in a house such as Fernley Park.’

‘That is most generous,’ Felicity said. ‘Do you not agree, Richard?’

‘Richard? Why do you not use your husband’s title? He has been Stanton since his father’s death fifteen years ago.’

‘Richard specifically requested that I call him such, Mother. And I know you will agree a wife should always obey her husband.’

Richard bit back a smile as his mother inclined her head, indicating her approval. He detected the mischievous glint in Felicity’s eye and the laughter that warmed her voice, nuances that passed his mother by.

‘I am sorry we will have so little time to become acquainted,’ Felicity said.

‘Fernley Lodge is barely half a mile distance, Daughter. You may walk over and visit me whenever you are at home.’

‘And you, Mother, will be most welcome to visit us here at Fernley whenever you choose,’ Felicity said promptly. ‘Is that not so, Richard?’

‘Indeed.’

Dare he hope to forge a better relationship with his mother, now he was wed? It was hard to remember the time—before Adam’s death—when their bond had been warm and relaxed. He had tried to excuse her rejection but, over the years, his understanding had withered away, stunted time and time again by her condemnation of him.

‘Besides,’ he added, ‘even if Mother were to remain longer at Fernley, we will not be here.’

‘Will we not? Are we going away? You said nothing about a journey this morning.’

No, he had not, for he had only that very minute decided. He had racked his brains for ways to help Felicity adjust to her new life...to him. He recognized her skittishness around him, despite her efforts to conceal it. She appeared to believe that reducing the time they spent together—as per their bargain—was the answer. He begged to differ.

‘It was to be a surprise,’ he said smoothly.

It had occurred to him, as they talked about Fernley, that she would become more quickly accustomed to him—and to the idea of being his wife—in a more intimate establishment.

And he knew just the place.

‘I have a small fishing lodge in the Welsh Marches. We will leave after Mother has moved to the Lodge,’ he said. ‘On our honeymoon,’

‘Honeymoon?’ Two bright patches of colour stained Felicity’s cheeks.

‘Honeymoon. The lodge is isolated, surrounded by beautiful countryside. It will give us time to get to know one another.’

There was a prolonged silence. Richard watched as various expressions swept Felicity’s face.

She cleared her throat. ‘If we are to go away, might I request we visit London instead?’

Chapter Nineteen

‘London? For our honeymoon?’ Any other bride would have been overjoyed at such a romantic setting as a fishing lodge on the River Wye.

‘I...yes, if you please. I would welcome the opportunity to visit Westfield again.’

‘Westfield? What is Westfield, pray?’ the dowager interjected.

‘It is an orphan asylum and a school for destitute children.’

‘And you were involved with such a place as an unmarried woman? Shameful.’

Mutiny gleamed in Felicity’s eye.

‘It is hardly shameful, Mother, to help those less fortunate than ourselves,’ Richard said. ‘If it is your wish to go to London, Felicity, then we shall. I am interested to visit Westfield myself, and it will be an opportunity for you to have some new gowns made.’

‘Thank you.’ She flashed a smile in his direction. ‘It is a very respectable establishment, Mother, run by Mr Peter Whittaker and his wife, Jane. You must not fear I shall run the family name into disrepute.’

His mother rose to her feet. ‘If you have finished your meal, Felicity, we shall retire to the salon and you may tell me more about this place. We shall leave Stanton to his port.’

Richard had no wish to remain there alone, but he acquiesced, as he so often did in response to his mother’s edicts. She was his mother, after all, and he had no intention of quarrelling with her over what was, to her, an inviolable custom. Once she had removed to the Lodge, he would establish his own customs. He stood as the ladies left the room.

His mother’s voice floated back through the still open door. ‘Now, would that be the Hertfordshire Whittakers?’

Richard eyed the two women in his life with mounting frustration. Somehow, in the time he had taken to visit the kitchen and arrange for a few tempting morsels and some wine to be laid out in Felicity’s bedchamber, his wife had persuaded his distant, disapproving mother into a genuine interest in her work with the orphans.

‘Your mother,’ Felicity had informed him with a sunny smile as he sauntered into the salon, ready to persuade her to retire early, ‘made her début with Mr Peter Whittaker’s mother. Is that not a coincidence?’

The tea tray came and went and still Felicity lingered, seemingly oblivious to his hints. Did she genuinely not realize he was longing to take her to bed?

Finally, he stood up. ‘If you will excuse us, Mother, I am very tired and wish to retire.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come, Felicity.’

His wife’s flaming cheeks spoke volumes. He caught his mother’s amused glance at Felicity and felt a jolt of disbelief.

Amusement? From his mother? How was she so relaxed in Felicity’s company, yet so stiff in his own? She had only known Felicity one day. It was as though a guard had been lowered in Felicity’s company and yet, in his, that guard was constantly and insurmountably in place. He dismissed his stir of resentment with impatience.

‘It is time I retired too.’ His mother rose to her feet. ‘Goodnight, Felicity; Stanton.’

Richard grabbed Felicity’s hand and tugged her to her feet as his mother left the room. He could feel her trembling.

‘Look at me, Felicity.’ She did, her amber eyes round, the gold flecks in her irises reflecting the candlelight. ‘I thought you enjoyed our lovemaking last night? There is nothing to fear, and no need to be embarrassed.’

A spark of...something...flashed in her eyes and her chin tilted up. ‘I am not afraid.’ She leaned forward, coming up on to her toes, and pressed her lips to his. ‘I am not afraid.’

He swept her into his arms, lifting her with ease, deepening the kiss. Slender arms wrapped around his neck as he nudged the door open with one foot. A footman on duty in the hallway stared stonily ahead as Richard mounted the stairs, Felicity still cradled in his arms, their lips fused together as their tongues entwined.

He kicked the door of the bedchamber shut behind them, having dismissed the waiting maid with a jerk of his thumb. His blood was up, heart hammering, as he deposited Felicity on the bed and ran his fingers up her leg, stroking past the bare skin of her thigh to the moist heat at her core as he tugged down her neckline, exposing one small, firm breast, and sucked her nipple deep into his mouth. A gasp, cut short, inflamed him further.

Slow down. He wrenched away, shrugging out of his coat and discarding his neckcloth before approaching the bed again.

Felicity remained as he had left her. Spread-eagled, skirts rucked up to reveal smooth, slender thighs. His eyes roamed her body, lingering over her tiny waist, her heaving breast, the peaked nipple still glistening, to her face. Eyes glinted through half-closed lids as a pink tongue tip slaked across parted lips.

Little minx. With a growl that vibrated through his entire body, he launched himself on to the bed.

‘Do you hunt, Lady Stanton?’

Felicity eyed her questioner. Lady Rowling was the local squire’s wife—a handsome brunette with dark flashing eyes. Felicity disliked her already, seething all through dinner as her hostess had monopolized Richard, seated to her right, and ignored the vicar on her left. The newlyweds, together with the dowager and some other neighbours, had been invited to dine with Sir Timothy and Lady Rowling.

‘No. I love to ride, but the hunt is too fast and furious for me, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, I love to hunt. You do not know what you are missing. Why, we have had many a splendid run, have we not, Stanton?’

‘We have indeed.’ Richard had joined them, the gentlemen having returned to the ladies after the port. Felicity felt his hand settle at the small of her back, sending shivers dancing up her spine.

Lady Rowling sidled up to Richard. ‘Do you recall that hedge, the last time we were out? The rest of the field queued for the gate, but we were not so cowardly, were we? Thor is such a fine animal—he flew that hedge, and my Duchess followed on his heels.’ She laughed, showing—in Felicity’s opinion—teeth reminiscent of a horse: long and yellowing. ‘My Duchess would follow your Thor anywhere, I do believe.’

Felicity gritted her teeth at such blatant flirtation, but before she could think of a suitable riposte, they were joined by Sir Timothy and Richard’s mother.

‘Then I must urge you to exercise better control over her,’ Sir Timothy said. ‘She is a fine animal, but she does not have Thor’s scope. He is magnificent, Stanton. I should like to see him pitted against my Brutus in a race across country.’

‘Name the time and place,’ Richard said promptly. ‘Your Brutus won’t see our heels for dust.’

The dowager swayed, the colour leaching from her skin, before she visibly rallied, saying, ‘I do wish you would not, Stanton. Think of the danger...your responsibilities. You have your wife to consider.’

‘Oh, I am certain Lady Stanton can spare her husband for so short a time,’ Lady Rowling said. ‘Why, you would not care to interfere with your husband’s pleasures, would you, my dear lady?’

What could she say? She had no more wish to see Richard risk his neck than her mother-in-law, but neither could she stand against him publicly so soon after their marriage. The challenge in Lady Rowling’s eyes settled her response.

‘I have no wish to curtail my husband’s activities,’ she said.

The squeeze of Richard’s hand at her waist almost made up for the daggers in her mother-in-law’s eyes.

‘Saturday?’ Sir Timothy said. ‘We’ll do a circuit of the parish, starting and ending here.’

In the carriage on the way home, the dowager berated Richard. ‘The animal is unpredictable. You’ll be thrown and injured. Even killed. You never consider the risks...you will get yourself killed. Like your brother.’

‘His name was Adam. Why can you never call him by his name?’

Felicity heard the faint hitch in the dowager’s breath. She reached in the dark, and clasped her hand.

‘Please, Richard. Your mother is upset.’

‘Have you seen Thor, Daughter?’

‘Why, no.’ She had seen little of her husband during daylight hours. Following their bargain.

‘He is so huge, so strong—’

‘I can handle him, Mother. You need not fear I will die before I do my duty and provide for the estate.’

Bony fingers dug into Felicity’s palm at those bitter words.

‘I am sure Mother did not mean...’

The carriage had pulled up in front of Fernley Park. Felicity’s words faded as Richard flung open the door and jumped out. As he handed her down, he hissed in her ear, ‘You do not know what you are talking about. I have lived with this since my father and brother died. It is all she cares about—the succession.’

He turned to help his mother from the carriage and into the house. Felicity followed thoughtfully.

Chapter Twenty

The following Tuesday Felicity made her way to Richard’s study, having been informed by Trick that his lordship wished to see her. She had woken late and breakfasted alone. Richard had, according to Trick, been up since the crack of dawn. How did he find the energy? She was exhausted after a night of the most... She felt her cheeks bloom and, conscious of passing servants, forced her thoughts away from the night before.

She hesitated outside the study door. Raised voices sounded from within.

‘She is totally unsuitable.’

‘We must agree to differ in this instance, Mother. Yvette is a most experienced lady’s maid.’

‘Yvette. And French, too,’ the dowager added in tones of disgust. ‘And her appearance—’

‘The decision is for Felicity to make.’

‘No lady would countenance such a creature in their employ. I am astonished Truman had the effrontery to present her.’

‘I reviewed all the available candidates. She was the best by far.’

‘You should spare Felicity the distress of meeting such a woman.’

Richard’s voice grew clipped. ‘Yvette possesses all the necessary skills for a superior lady’s maid.’

Does she, indeed?

‘She has excellent credentials.’

Hmmph. No doubt she has.

What was so special about this Frenchwoman that Richard was so very eager to employ her? She was no doubt beautiful and flirtatious, as Frenchwomen were known to be. Felicity determined to dislike her on sight, and to send her back to Winchester and ask for some good, solid English girls to be presented for her approval.

She squared her shoulders, rapped on the door and walked in.

‘Ah, Felicity. Yvette has arrived, for the post of lady’s maid. She is in the parlour, if you would care to come and meet her?’

Richard urged her to the door, his hand warm at the small of her back. A shiver danced across her skin at his touch, further annoying her. She had her righteous indignation to maintain, she had no wish to be distracted by memories of the night before.

‘Stanton!’ The dowager’s peremptory command stopped them in their tracks. ‘I insist you forewarn Felicity about—’

‘There is no need. Felicity is not a child to be protected.’

His hand urged her onward. Suspicion swelled. Would he try to coerce her into accepting this Frenchwoman? He would find she was made of sterner stuff than he imagined if he thought she would meekly submit. At the parlour door, Richard cupped her chin and looked into her eyes.

‘All I ask is that you employ an open mind, Felicity.’

Felicity held his gaze, staring into deep brown eyes as open and honest as she could wish for. Was he really so false? All guileless innocence on the surface whilst hatching plans to bring a doxy into the house under the guise of a servant?

She stalked into the room.

A woman stood by the fire, her back to the door. She wore a plain black dress, her hair tucked neatly out of sight under a straw bonnet; medium height with a narrow back and arms so thin the sleeves of her dress hung in folds. She turned, head high, as Felicity entered.

Felicity bit back her gasp, quickly schooling her expression. So this was Yvette, the Frenchwoman she had mentally accused Richard of having designs upon. Her mind whirled as she rethought Richard’s motives, shamed by her suspicions. This would teach her to judge. Not an attempt to introduce a pretty maid into the household—quite the opposite. Her husband climbed several notches in her estimation.

She studied Yvette’s face as she crossed the room to greet her. Two scars, one above the other, marred her left cheek. The higher, longer one—silvery pink—curved from her mouth—where it puckered her top lip—to her temple, just missing the corner of her eye. The second, shorter scar angled across her jaw. The effect was exaggerated by her cheekbones, stark above hollowed cheeks. Dark shadows smudged her eyes, which were green and watchful, a hint of defiance in their depths. It was impossible to ascertain her age—she might be five-and-twenty or she might as easily be twenty years older. Those eyes certainly gave the impression of a long, eventful life.

‘Good morning,’ Felicity said, before Richard could perform any introductions. ‘I am Lady Stanton.’

The woman curtsied, bowing her head. ‘Good morning, my lady. I am Yvette Marchant.’

French accent. Not too strong. Well modulated. Yvette looked up again at Felicity and then her gaze flickered uncertainly towards Richard.

Poor thing. But pity was no reason to employ someone. Richard was watching intently. Was this a test? Is that why he hadn’t warned her? To gauge her reaction? To see if she reacted in horror, with a scream, averting her eyes from Yvette’s scars? Mayhap that should infuriate her but it actually intrigued.

Felicity smiled at Yvette, and gestured towards a chair.

‘Please, take a seat, Mademoiselle Marchant. Will you tell me about yourself?’

The green eyes exuded pride and defiance. This was a woman who had been hurt and—evidenced by those hollow cheeks—she was a woman in dire straits. Was she as experienced as Richard had claimed? But he was no fool, to take on a maid with no skill to attend to his wife.

‘Where are you from?’

‘I was born in Paris, milady. I came to England when I was seventeen years old.’

‘To escape the troubles?’

Yvette nodded. An émigrée, then. There had been many during those horrendous times in France.

‘I see. Do you have experience as a lady’s maid, mademoiselle?’

‘But yes, or his lordship, why would he have brought me here to you? I was the lady’s maid to Lady Ashcroft until the last year, when she died.’

Lady Ashcroft—a mental image of the baronet’s wife arose: always immaculately dressed and coiffured, skin glowing, even at her advanced age.

‘I have the reference.’ Yvette held out a couple of sheets of paper. Her hand trembled. ‘Milady wrote them for me when she was ill. Sir Humphrey, he gives me the letter, too. He has no need for lady’s maid now. He lives now in the country all the time. He is, I think, not well either. He misses milady.’

Felicity took the papers. They were creased and smudged in places, as though they had been handled many times.

‘Have you worked since Lady Ashcroft died?’

Yvette’s shoulders dropped as a quiet huff of expelled air revealed she had been holding her breath. ‘No. I have...this.’ She gestured at her face. ‘You do not say so, but you see it. No lady likes a maid they cannot look in the eye.’ She stood, and held out her hand for her references.

‘Wait. Please.’ Felicity clasped Yvette’s outstretched hand. ‘I would never reject you merely on account of your looks but, equally, I would not employ you because of them either.’ She was conscious of Richard’s scrutiny, but he maintained his silence. The decision was hers. ‘I wish for a maid with skill, mademoiselle. I knew Lady Ashcroft, although not well, but I recall she was ever beautifully turned out...oh!’ She laughed. ‘Now I have made her sound like a horse, have I not?’ A muffled snort sounded from the vicinity of the door, where Richard stood. ‘Please, mademoiselle, be seated again whilst I read your references.’

Yvette sat, and Felicity read both documents. As she suspected—for Richard would not have presented Yvette unless he was impressed—they were glowing.

She smiled at Yvette. ‘Welcome to Fernley Park, mademoiselle.’

‘You will call me Yvette,’ the Frenchwoman pronounced, pure delight shining in her eyes, ‘for that is my name.’

After Mrs Jakeway had taken charge of settling Yvette—for her worldly belongings were packed into a valise she had brought with her—Richard said, ‘Am I forgiven for bringing only the one applicant for you to interview, Felicity?’

‘Indeed you are, although I wonder whether Yvette might regret taking the position when she sees what unpromising material she has to work with.’

Richard frowned, then strode across the room, taking her by the shoulders.

‘Do not belittle yourself. You are the Countess of Stanton. You have the correct number of arms and legs, eyes and ears, do you not? Your body works as you wish it to work, and you are unscarred, unlike poor Yvette. If you do not judge her by her appearance, why do you judge yourself? You have a good heart and a bright and enquiring mind. And...’ his eyes bored into her ‘...you are an attractive, passionate, vital woman.’

As his head lowered, sick fear clutched Felicity even as her blood heated and her treacherous lips parted, ready for his kiss. This was not their bargain. Lust was urging him to kiss her. Nothing more. She felt it too, that lust. But already her heart skipped a beat whenever she saw him, or heard his voice. She must confine their intimacies to the bedchamber, where they belonged, or she would be lost. During the day, all she required was polite co-existence.

About to claim her lips, Richard hesitated. His eyes searched hers. ‘What is it? What is wrong?’

Felicity tore from his grasp. Oh, she wanted him. But how would she survive when—as was inevitable—he turned his attentions elsewhere? Her bed would feel deserted and cold enough but if she had become accustomed to his attentions during the day as well, that would be too much to bear. She dragged in a breath, hardening her heart even as she stretched her mouth into a smile, holding her courage against his stormy expression.

‘Nothing is wrong, Richard. You are right, I should hold myself in higher esteem. You do not need to kiss me to bolster my confidence. Your words were more than adequate. Thank you.’

She hurried from the room, willing her legs to stop shaking.

Chapter Twenty-One

Two days later

Richard grabbed Felicity’s hand as she reached for the door handle.

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’ Felicity tugged her hand free.

Richard paced the library, hot anger surging through his veins. He came to a halt in front of his wife. ‘Did I wed twins? You are a different woman by night and by day. I cannot fathom you.’

He had come into the library, and Felicity had been seated by the window, reading. He had smiled; made small talk; invited her to walk with him by the lake. She had been cool, monosyllabic, polite as she had rebuffed his every overture. Then he had reached to stroke her hair and she had flinched from him. Flinched. What did she imagine he might do?

She had stood up. He had taken her in his arms, but she had ducked, evading him, and made for the door. Which is when he had grabbed her.

He studied her expression. ‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Nothing. I am not afraid. We have a bargain.’

‘And my part of that bargain is to leave you entirely to your own devices all day every day?’

She nodded.

His teeth clenched so hard he feared they might crack. ‘Very well. There is no need for you to go. I shall leave you in peace.’

He stormed into his study and strode to the window where he stared unseeingly at the view, his temper still simmering. His bride was an enigma. They had been wed a week and, by night, she was passionate, willing and generous: all soft gasps and breathy screams. But, by day, she held him at arm’s length, shunning intimacy and shunning, it seemed, friendship and companionship too. Was it merely lust she felt for him? But, if so, where did that lust disappear to as the sun rose every morning?

Her confidence in her appearance was low—thanks to her mother—but she discouraged any attempt to bolster her self-esteem. Was he too impatient? Expecting her to change overnight, when she had spent many years seeing herself through her mother’s eyes?

Women! Who could understand them?

Exasperated by his circling thoughts, Richard strode for the door. He was in dire need of fresh air and physical exercise and he needed to keep Thor fit for the race on Saturday.

Felicity sat in the library, her restless fingers drumming a tattoo on the arm of the chair as her equally restless mind pondered her marriage. What was she to do? It would be so easy to accept Richard’s attentions and intimacies, but it would be all too easy to become accustomed to them. They had no meaning to him, despite his anger—they were empty words and empty gestures calculated to smooth the path of their marriage of convenience. He was being kind. Nothing more.

She had only to remember her mother, and poor Emma, to know what pain and despair lay ahead if she failed to protect her heart. It would be easier once in London, with more distractions. If she could just hold her nerve until she was with child, mayhap she could survive with her heart intact.

The telltale bustle of arrival in the hall roused her from her brooding. Visitors—just the thing to take her mind off the conundrum of her marriage. It was not long before a knock at the door announced Trick.

‘My lady, his lordship’s cousin, Mr Durant, has arrived. I have shown him into the salon.’

Richard’s cousin? She had no recollection of meeting a Mr Durant during her rare forays into society.

‘Thank you, Trick. Where is Lady Stanton?’

‘She is in her sitting room, my lady. I have sent Peter to inform her.’

‘And do you know where his lordship is?’

‘He went out riding a little over an hour ago.’

‘Thank you, Trick.’

No doubt out on Thor again. She had now seen for herself the spirited stallion, and could understand her mother-in-law’s fears for Richard’s safety, but he seemed to delight in the challenge of mastering the animal.

When Felicity entered the salon, Mr Durant greeted her with a twinkle in his eye and a wide smile. ‘I take it I have the pleasure of meeting the new Lady Stanton?’

‘You do indeed, Mr Durant. I am pleased to welcome you to Fernley Park.’

He was around Richard’s height—six foot—but there the resemblance ended, for Mr Durant was as slender as a whip, with blue eyes and fair, curly hair. He extended an exaggerated leg and bowed low.

‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, my lady.’ He glanced past Felicity and his grin widened. ‘And my dear aunt—you are well, I hope?’

The dowager swept past Felicity and Mr Durant and sat, ramrod straight, in her favourite chair by the fire. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Durant. I do not believe we were expecting you, were we? To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?

‘Mr Durant is a distant cousin,’ she added, looking at Felicity.

Uncomfortable with her mother-in-law’s frostiness, Felicity said, ‘Welcome to Fernley Park, sir. I look forward to becoming better acquainted. Am I to understand you are a friend of Richard’s as well as his kinsman?’

‘I like to think so and, as we are now cousins—albeit distant—I beg you will call me Charles.’

‘I have no objection,’ Felicity said, warming to him. ‘And I would be pleased if you will reciprocate and call me Felicity.’

‘Indeed I shall. I can see we shall get on famously, Felicity. My cousin is a fortunate man.’

Felicity sat on the sofa. Charles immediately sat beside her.

‘You were about to enlighten me as to the reason for your visit, Mr Durant,’ the dowager said.

Charles appeared impervious to the dowager’s inhospitable tone. ‘I was knocking around town at a loose end, dear Aunt, and thought I’d pay my favourite cousin a visit. Nothing whatsoever,’ he added, with a surreptitious wink at Felicity, ‘to do with my eagerness to inspect his new bride, I do assure you.’

Felicity returned his infectious smile as two maids entered the room carrying trays laden with tea and cakes.

‘I am sorry Richard is not here to welcome you,’ Felicity said to Charles. ‘He is out riding, but I expect him to return very soon.’

‘Yes, so I was informed, on that crazy stallion of his. And I hear he is racing it on Saturday.’

Felicity tried to ignore the squirm of apprehension in her belly at the thought of that race.

‘I do wish you might do something to curb Stanton’s penchant for taking risks, Felicity,’ the dowager said, in a faint voice.

‘I beg you not to fret, dear ladies,’ Charles said. ‘The stallion is highly strung, but Richard is an excellent horseman. I very much doubt he will come a cropper.’

‘I am all gratitude for your unwavering faith in my abilities, Charles—’ came a dry comment from the doorway ‘—but I fear neither my mother nor my wife are likely to be reassured by your words.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

Richard had tried to shake himself free of his unaccustomed fit of despondency with a fast and furious gallop on Thor but as soon as he turned for home his frustration with Felicity’s inconsistent behaviour had resurfaced with a vengeance. She had been reluctant to wed him from the first and, despite the ‘bargain’ of their marriage, her rejection hurt.

He entered the salon, cheered by the news of Charles’s arrival, only to hear his cousin inadvertently fuelling the fears of Mother and Felicity over that blasted race.

‘Stan.’ Charles leapt to his feet and hurried across the room to clasp Richard’s hand. ‘You must believe I had no intention of scaring the ladies... Oh, you know me, Coz—my mouth runs before my brain at times.’

‘Worry not, Charles, they were both in a fret about it before ever you arrived. It is good to see you.’

‘I am relieved to hear you say so. I did wonder...with your so recent nuptials...if I am in the way, you only have to say.’

‘You are welcome, Charles. I see you have made Felicity’s acquaintance.’

‘I have, and we have been getting along famously, is that not so, Felicity? Oh, do not take offence, dear fellow. I begged your lady’s permission before making free with her name.’

Richard glanced at Felicity, whose eyes were firmly fixed on Charles. His temper flared.

‘My wife is nothing if not accommodating.’

Ah. Now he had her attention. Her amber eyes clung to his face, then travelled slowly down to linger on his clenched fists. Swearing silently, he loosened his fingers.

‘I trust you enjoyed your ride, my dear?’ Felicity turned to Charles before Richard could respond, continuing, ‘A vigorous ride is so very soothing if one is feeling a trifle out of sorts, would you not agree, Charles? Oh, not that I am suggesting for one moment that Richard was in any way out of temper, of course.’ Guileless amber eyes turned on Richard. ‘It was merely an observation.’

‘My ride was exactly how I expected it to be. I find consistency in all things so very essential. Do you not agree, my sweet?’

Felicity lifted her chin. ‘I find consistency overrated, Husband. It can so easily result in ennui, don’t you find?’

Richard felt his mouth twitch and his prickly temper slowly subsided.

‘I am not certain I followed that exchange, Coz,’ Charles said, in a peevish tone. ‘No doubt I shall, in time, become accustomed to interpreting such pointed asides. Although why you married couples needs must talk in riddles quite escapes me, I am sure.’

‘It does not escape me,’ the dowager said, tight-lipped. ‘Quarrelling within earshot of others is most unbecoming. I am surprised at you, Stanton. I suggest you apologize.’

‘Oh, no, Mother, it is I who should apologize,’ Felicity said quickly. ‘I am afraid I provoked Richard beyond endurance earlier, and I am sorry.’

‘And I too, my dear.’

‘And now we are all friends again, might I ask what time dinner is served?’ Charles asked. ‘I’m famished.’

‘Well, really.’ Richard’s mother rose. ‘You too, Mr Durant, could do with a lesson in good manners. I shall rest in my bedchamber before dinner.’

‘Well?’ Charles looked from Richard to Felicity and back again. ‘Do you intend to enlighten me about dinner, or must I beg?’

‘This is an abomination, milady.’

The words jolted Felicity from her reverie. She stared at Yvette.

Abomination? ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘This, milady.’ Yvette marched across the room to the wardrobe and flung the door wide with a dramatic flourish. ‘It is an abomination.’

Felicity sank on to a nearby chair. She had been preoccupied with Richard—it took her a few minutes to disengage her thoughts and concentrate on Yvette’s words, and then a bubble of amusement lodged in her throat. She should be offended and take Yvette to task for her impertinence, or her lack of respect, or whatever else her mother-in-law would find to deplore in her maid’s behaviour, but Felicity was, instead, diverted. The Frenchwoman was undoubtedly passionate and sincere.

‘What, precisely, do you find to be an abomination, Yvette?’

‘All of it.’ Yvette flung a dismissive arm towards the open wardrobe. ‘What are you to wear for dinner tonight, milady?’ Yvette turned tragic eyes towards Felicity. ‘There is a guest. And when we go to London? This?’ She snatched out a white muslin dress and flung it on the bed. ‘This?’

‘Yvette!’

The maid stopped in the act of dragging another dress from the wardrobe.

‘I am happy that you care about my appearance, but please understand that I have worn those same garments for some time now, and I have survived, have I not?’

‘Ah, but, milady, then you did not have me. I have the reputation.’

Felicity bit back a smile. ‘What are your objections to my clothes, might I ask?’

‘The colours, they are mal. They make you—how you say, sickly. Your lips, your cheeks, they go bleu. You need the strong, the jewel colours, to make your skin alive.’

‘Well, in time, Yvette, I shall purchase new dresses, and I shall rely on your help. But, in the meantime, I am afraid I have no choice but to continue to wear my existing gowns.’

Yvette continued to grumble as she helped Felicity dress for dinner. She arranged her hair, brushing it thoroughly then twisting and pinning it up in a way that softened and framed her face rather than accentuating the sharpness of her features.

‘I make the lotions for your skin, it will be soft and smell delicious, for your lord, and he will not be angry with the bills from the modiste. And your hair—with my own recipe I will make it glow with the health. You will see, milady. You will not regret employing Yvette.’

Her fingers suddenly stilled on Felicity’s hair. ‘I have the idea, milady. You will wait there.’

The maid flew from the room. As Felicity waited, her thoughts turned yet again to Richard and, as if the thought had conjured up the man, a soft knock at the door heralded his arrival.

‘I thought to escort you down to dinner, Felicity,’ he said, sauntering into the room, starkly handsome in his evening clothes, his brown eyes appraising her. He held out a jewellery case. ‘By way of an apology for my behaviour, and a token of my esteem.’

He opened the lid, and Felicity gasped. Guilt flooded her. She did not deserve gifts. She would try to find some middle ground in their everyday dealings.

‘They are beautiful, Richard. Your mother—?’

‘Never wears them.’ He placed the case on the dressing table in front of Felicity. The ruby-and-diamond necklace and matching eardrops, cushioned on white velvet, glowed blood red and white-hot in the candlelight. ‘They are part of the Stanton collection and, therefore, yours to wear whenever you please. If you wish to have any of the jewels reset, you need only to say. Some of the styles are too old-fashioned for today—they would swamp your delicate neck.’

Tingles raced through her as long fingers feathered the side of her neck.

One black-clad arm reached over her shoulder and lifted the necklace from the box. ‘Allow me.’

The flesh between her thighs leapt in response to his deepening tone. Her teeth sank into her lower lip.

He bent to fasten the catch.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose as his warm breath played across her skin and, in the looking glass, the quickening rise and fall of her chest was emphasized by the glowing jewels. His face appeared over her shoulder, reflected next to her own as he rubbed his freshly shaved cheek against hers.

‘You smell lovely,’ he murmured and a delicious sensual awareness washed over her skin.

His head tilted and a warm tongue trailed up the side of her neck to her ear. Gentle teeth nibbled. Then he reached for the eardrops and hung one from her lobe. He nibbled his way around the nape of her neck to her other ear. Shivers raced up and down her arms and she trembled as her nipples grew hard and her bones turned soft.

‘There.’

She could remain still no longer. She rose to her feet, and turned. Straight into his arms.

‘It is dark outside, Felicity Joy,’ he murmured, his lips inches from hers. ‘It is our time.’

He claimed her lips with a deep-throated ‘mmmm’ that made her bones melt.

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