Emily Greenwood (13 page)

He sighed. He was going to have to find enthusiasm for an MP’s life somewhere if he was going to repair the image of the Collington family that Charles had left in people’s minds. Meanwhile, he could only hope that the honorable Thomas Block could not stay long at the all-too-eventful estate of Tethering.

***

When Felicity returned to the library and her father, her hair was secured neatly at her nape and she was somewhat collected, though her gum was still throbbing from the bark. Her father was seated at the table where he had been all morning, though her view of him was obscured by several tall piles of books.

“If that’s you, Felicity dear,” her father’s voice called out, “could you bring the flowers over to me?”

“Yes, Father,” she said, grateful she’d remembered his request on the way up to the house. Glancing down at the pale pink roses in her hand, her eye was caught by the sight of her still-unbuttoned gown. She had just finished hastily doing the last button when he stuck his head around the pile of books.

The sunlight caught a smudge of dust in the corner of his spectacles, and his white tufty hair, too, looked the worse for having been clutched with dusty hands. He must have been looking into some of the older, infrequently used volumes.

“Wasn’t that Crispin I saw out there, in the wood?” he asked.

“Crispin? No, I don’t think so.”

“I think it was, dear,” he insisted. He moved the pile of books slightly to his left so that he could see her better and leaned across the desk, steepling his fingers. “You know, I believe he admires you.”

She merely blinked at him, astonished that her oblivious parent should have noticed such a thing.

Mr. Wilcox hesitated, cleared his throat. “In fact, I didn’t want to say anything earlier on—I have never liked to pry into others’ affairs—but I see now how very remiss I have been in not doing so.”

“Oh, no, Father, really.”

He held up his hand. “No, my dear, these things must be discussed. I have a fine view of the estate from here, and, well, I noticed earlier today, while you were in the orchard, that Crispin took your hand rather urgently.”

“Goodness, Father,” she said, feeling creeping panic, “I’m sure it would have been hard for you to see anything from the library.”

Her father gave her a look. “You forget that I am a poet, my dear. Reading the meaning behind a man clasping a young lady’s hand is child’s play. He has proposed to you, hasn’t he?”

“Well,” she began, still trying to adjust to her father’s sudden and growing interest in her romantic life. While Felicity’s mother had sometimes talked about marriage and the future with her, when she died, any discussion of such things stopped, because Mr. Wilcox never said one word to Felicity about men or marriage. He’d never shown any interest in her social life or desire to interfere, and that had suited her perfectly. Oh, why, now that things were getting so complicated, must he start to show an interest? Drat that Lady P-S!

Her father waited patiently for her to answer. He was wearing a black and gold striped waistcoat over a white shirt trimmed in red, doubtless put on at random that morning, as usual. Oddly, his garish clothes never detracted from a quality of dreamy sincerity she associated with her father. She couldn’t outright lie to him.

“Yes,” she admitted. “He has proposed.”

“But that is wonderful news, my dear!” he cried. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“Because I don’t want to marry him.”

Mr. Wilcox’s brows drew together in astonishment. “But whyever not? I would be pleased to see you married to such a fine young man!” He gave her an encouraging look. “And I don’t mind telling you that having your future secured would be a weight off my fatherly shoulders.”

She hated the idea that she might be a burden to her father. When they had had Tethering, she hadn’t been. If anything,
she
had been supporting
him
.

“I truly have no wish to marry, Father,” she said. “But I will see about helping out at the village school in the fall.”

His face clouded. “What’s this? Not marry? But you might have your own house and children. I’m certain I should love some grandchildren. Crispin Markham would make you an admirable husband.”

She mutely shook her head, her heart sorer by the moment.

“Surely you don’t want to be an old maid? You are lively. You should be around other young people.” He shook his head. “This is my fault. I have allowed you to take on far too many tasks in recent years. Lady Pincheon-Smythe was right.”

“Oh, bother Lady Pincheon-Smythe!” she exclaimed in exasperation.

“Felicity!” her father said sternly. “She is right. You ought to be married. You’ve had one offer now, and a good one it is, and the chance of another offer, if I don’t miss my guess, from Mr. Godfrey, Lady Pincheon-Smythe’s nephew, whom you are to meet at tea. Lovely though you are, I am afraid that not many eligible young men are likely to be found around Longwillow village, and as we cannot afford to journey anywhere, you’ll have to pick from either of them.”

“Oh, Father, no!”

“Oh, my dear, yes. I am afraid I must be firm on this subject, for your own good.” He paused, oblivious to her horrified expression. “Of course,” he mused, staring into space, “there could be the possibility of an offer from Mr. Collington.”

She could take no more. “Father, I beg you will say nothing further.”

“All right, my dear. But you have heard me. You will have to make a match, and soon.”

Felicity took extra care dressing for dinner that night, and not just to ensure she looked very different from Mirabelle so that Mr. Block and Aunt Miranda wouldn’t realize they were the same person. Even if she and her father were outside of what was fashionable, they could still present themselves well.

She put on the nice black satin gown again, liking the weight and fit of it as it hugged the curves of her waist and bosom. She twisted her hair into a neat, upswept style at the back of her head, leaving several strands to fall gently against her cheeks and neck, and tucked a few tiny pink roses into it. Her mother’s pearl necklace again sat at the hollow of her throat.

Mr. Wilcox was waiting for her in the cottage foyer, looking handsome in his dark evening clothes, which fortunately had very little ornament on them. The only sign of the dated origins of his attire were the charming little red heels on his evening slippers, which made her smile. The red heels were meant to be the final detail for a man who wanted to be at the height of fashion. In 1760.

When she and her father entered the drawing room at Tethering, James and his guests were already standing about, talking and drinking sherry. She was surprised to see Crispin there, but then she remembered that James had invited him to the dinner party when leaving the church garden fete. With a sinking feeling, she realized that Crispin’s deciding to come likely had more to do with her than any amicable feelings toward his host.

James stood near the door with his aunt and a very fashionably dressed woman, whose dramatic gown looked out of place in Tethering’s unostentatious drawing room. As he made introductions, Felicity’s heart pounded with fear that his aunt or Mr. Block would recognize her. But Aunt Miranda showed no sign of having seen her before, save a brief initial wrinkling of her forehead. And Mr. Block, she soon realized, was a person of scattered attention.

The lady with James was Mrs. Lila Pendleton, a widow. She had raven-black hair and exquisite alabaster skin, and her slender figure showed to perfection in her very low-cut gown of crimson. Felicity noticed, much to her displeasure, that Mrs. Pendleton stood close to James’s side and frequently touched his arm.

The other guests were James’s cousins: Lady Josephine Dunlop and Viscount Roxham. Lady Dunlop’s husband, Sir Robert Dunlop, a baronet, was also present, and the couple had two beautiful little girls, Lydia, who was five, and Alice, seven, who were taken away by a maid after they had been presented. For being aristocrats, James’s family was remarkably unstuffy. Quite the opposite, in fact; Viscount Roxham winked at her when they were introduced, and Lady Dunlop smiled warmly. Her husband seemed shy.

Felicity found herself in a group with Mr. Block, James, and Mrs. Pendleton.

“And how is business at the bodega, James?” Mrs. Pendleton asked. She held herself in a composed, erect manner, as if she would not be induced by anything to smile too much, laugh too loudly, or ever allow a dab of gravy to cling to her lip.

“It’s going very well, actually,” James replied. “I just received a note from my agent in London to confirm that shipments are moving as they should.”

Mrs. Pendleton looked at him rather as though she wanted to do something with him; kiss him perhaps, consume him in some way. Instead, the lady said, “Well, when you are back at Granton Hall, you must give a ball. It will be the best way of announcing your intention to stand for Parliament.”

“Parliament?” Felicity repeated.

Mrs. Pendleton turned to address her with a look that said
she
was well established in James’s inner circle. “James is going to be an MP. Isn’t that right, Thomas?”

Mr. Block was nodding. “He’s just the sort of fellow we need in Parliament. Great political lineage and all that. Gets things done.”

“Yes,” purred Mrs. Pendleton. “Just like his brother and his father before him.”

Felicity was watching James. So, more plans. An MP. Of course. He would do very well in Parliament. It took no effort to imagine him steering policy and making deals and speeches. She guessed he would find that supremely rewarding. Only he didn’t look at all pleased by the discussion of his future. His face held a tight, closed-off expression.

He’d do well as MP married to someone like Mrs. Pendleton. They’d be two perfect people. They could revel in one another’s perfect company and have some perfect children.

She looked away and pushed down a memory of the vulnerability she’d heard in his voice the night before, when he’d told her she shouldn’t have come out to haunt. There’d been so much more than admonishment behind his words. But none of that mattered at all. She could see that so much clearer now.

Viscount Roxham turned to Felicity. “You must come and look out the window with me, Miss Wilcox,” he said.

“Must I, my lord?” she replied, but she let him take her by the elbow and lead her over to the window that gave onto the front lawn. They stood together gazing out over the hillside, down to the stone facade of Blossom Cottage, which was gradually being obscured as dusk gave way to evening. The window was open, letting in the heady scent of the rose bushes blooming just outside.

“Mr. Collington’s family must be very well known and respected,” she said. She was watching a moth crawl along the windowsill, making its way into the house.

Beside her, the viscount shrugged. “They have at times been important members of Parliament. But James’s brother was very far from the eminent personage Lila presents. Lila likes what she thinks is going to be fashionable, and she wants to get her hooks into James. He’s been out of circulation for a while, off in India and then Spain.”

The viscount was very, very handsome in what struck her as an exceptional way. He had wavy, short blond hair and a freckle off to the side of his mouth, and his blue eyes were speckled with green and gold so that they looked lively. And full of mischief—there was a slant of teasing wickedness there that she expected women of every age must find irresistible. It made her want to smile; she liked him already. She rather supposed it would be impossible for her, as a woman, not to.

He smiled back, creating devilish little sideways dimples—clefts?—behind his mouth. “But never mind about them, Miss Felicity Wilcox,” he said, his blue-green eyes twinkling. “How is it that I have never seen
you
in London?”

“Quite simply because I have never been there, my lord,” she said. She smiled in spite of the dull feeling in her stomach.

“You must call me Hal, lovely girl, or I shall think my dear departed father is standing behind me.”

He spoke of his dead father so cavalierly and so lightly. “Heavens, what on earth sort of son are you, sir?”

“Oh,” he said cheerfully, “the very worst sort, I assure you. Went in for all the naughtiest of boyhood pursuits: snipped little girls’ pigtails, scandalized the maids by putting frogs in the beds and swapping Dr. Pitt’s loosening draught for the treacle. An awful tease, I’m afraid.”

She laughed, scandalized and amused at the same time. Here was a careless rogue indeed. “I’m sure the household must have been relieved when you grew up and matured.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, young men can get into quite a bit more scandalous behavior than boys.” He arched an eyebrow suggestively, and she found herself laughing more.

“Oh dear. Whatever did your parents think of you?”

“Couldn’t stand me, of course.” His glance wandered to a spot behind her a second before she heard James’s voice.

“Quite right they were, too,” James said, coming to stand next to her. She glanced at him and was pleased that the glamorous Mrs. Pendleton was not with him.

The viscount excused himself to go speak to Aunt Miranda. As soon as he was gone, James leaned in close to her so that, with their backs to the window, only she could hear him. His words came out in a tone of dark honey.

“You had better behave yourself tonight, Felicity, if you know what’s good for you. No visits from Mirabelle, and let me remind you that Lovely Annabelle is not to make an appearance either while my guests are here. I’ll have every reason not to keep your secret if you cross me on this.”

She couldn’t ignore the threat in his tone, though scared was not exactly how she felt. His warning touched her somewhere deeper, in the part of her that liked to play too much.

His hand stole around behind her and skimmed up her back before coming to rest, hot and large, on her bare nape, just staying there. His threat of exposing her was real—she saw it in the intensity of his dark eyes.

All right, he was deadly serious about not being made a fool of in front of these people. But this was James, and his hand still felt like forgotten heaven, and she wanted to press against it and be enveloped by it.

“I want you to promise me you won’t haunt while my guests are here,” he said low.

“I, um, I,” she said. Trying to think with him so near, and with that hand on her neck that made her want so much more that she couldn’t have, seemed impossible. She forced herself to focus, and to step to the side so that he had to drop his hand or risk being seen touching her. She was sorry when his hand fell away, but also grateful.

Why was he so very concerned about her disturbing his guests? She glanced around at them, skipping over his aristocratic cousins, who seemed to be on very amicable terms with him. Her gaze came to rest on Thomas Block. An MP. James wouldn’t want to have something happen while an MP was there. And Mrs. Pendleton, too, she thought as she caught some strains of Mrs. Pendleton gossiping. Felicity’s gaze returned to James, who was watching her.

Ah. He didn’t want his guests bothered because he didn’t trust some of them not to make a public story of strange doings at his house.

“Felicity?” he said with a warning note, his brow lowering.

She scowled at him. “I understand what you want,” she said.

His features relaxed and he leaned near her ear to whisper, “Thank you, sweet witch,” the soft wisps of his breath tantalizing her ear and neck.

Hal was coming back toward them then, and James moved discreetly farther from her. She watched him laughing at something his cousin had said, his white teeth flashing in a boyish grin that brought out those crinkles at the corners of his eyes that
did
something to her. By the stars, but he made her heart flutter. His touch, even the feel of his breath, made her senses sing.

She had to be honest with herself. She loved jousting with him, loved disrupting his plans. If he left Tethering, he would take all the fun with him. And if he stayed much longer, it was easy to imagine making herself ridiculous over him. He was a very wealthy gentleman who enjoyed taking risks and having adventures. He was going to be an MP and marry someone like Lila Pendleton. Felicity was the daughter of an impoverished member of the very minor gentry whose clothes weren’t even from the current century. Her family had fallen in stature to almost nothing. And why was she even allowing herself a fantasy of truly being with James—of marrying him? She knew she could never marry. In a saner moment, she had taken that vow to remain unmarried. It had been the right and honorable thing to do, and it still was.

James leaving Tethering was the best thing for the future of her family, and for her heart. She had all but agreed not to haunt while his guests were there, but as soon as they were gone, she must redouble her efforts. Her shoulders sagged slightly. She had just about lost her taste for Lovely Annabelle’s antics.

A servant came by with a tray of food to nibble. Felicity and James declined, but the viscount selected something and popped it in his mouth.

“Excellent!” he pronounced. “I must compliment you on your cook, James. For a bachelor, you are setting up a household well.”

“But you must give your compliments to Miss Wilcox, Hal,” he said, turning toward her. “She is the one who recommended Cook.”

She blushed at this undeserved praise. “Um…” she began as she glanced at his eyes and read there that he knew what she had tried to do. He must have experienced something awful from Cook’s hands. Well, a small victory. “I am glad you have found that she suited.”

“Doubtless you are,” he said, and something flickered in his eyes that said
touché
. “And you’ll be pleased to know how delighted I am with the talents of my diligent new housekeeper as well.”

“You are?” She couldn’t help her shocked tone. Mrs. Withers was being praised as a virtuous worker?

“Very much so, but surely that’s not surprising to you, Felicity, since you recommended her as well.”

She smiled as guiltlessly as possible and was saved from the necessity of a reply by the arrival among their group of Mrs. Pendleton, Mr. Block, and Crispin.

“There you are, darling James,” the widow drawled, linking her arm with his. He gave her a smile full of charm.

“Say,” Mr. Block said to Crispin with a dawning grin, “you’re the local vicar, aren’t you? Don’t suppose you know that minx Mirabelle? I’ve a mind to pay her a visit before I leave.”

Felicity blanched.

Crispin looked quizzical. Before he could speak, Mrs. Pendleton asked, “And who is Mirabelle?”

Mr. Block winked at James. “James knows her. Introduced us this afternoon.” He turned to Felicity, his head cocked. “Funny thing is, she looks a bit like Miss Wilcox.” He bobbed his head contritely. “Begging your pardon, miss, if you know her. Different sort of person. Not a lady.”

“Oh, ah, no, I don’t know her,” she stammered. Was Mr. Block playing a game with her? But the look in his eyes was completely sincere. “Perhaps she’s from one of the farms.”

“I don’t know her either,” Crispin said tightly, giving Felicity a surprisingly stern look, as though he knew what she’d been doing. But how could he?

“Well, I don’t know why we’re talking about her if she’s not of good society,” Mrs. Pendleton said. “Is she, James?”

“Ah,” he began. Felicity stole a glance at him. Would he give her away?

“She is from a good family that has fallen on hard times,” he continued. His eyes shot little sparks at Felicity. “But I am sure she will soon put her feet on the right path, if she knows what’s good for her.”