The Perfect Bride (25 page)

"Just
how
well do you know this Mr. Frakes?" Amanda asked weakly, taking
a sip of the frigid tea.

"Well
enough to know that I wish to spend my life with him," Felicity declared
passionately. After a pause, she added, "I have told no one except you.
You do see the difficulty?"

Setting
the cup down with a clatter, Amanda swept from the bed.

"Difficulty?
I should say so," she said with a shaky laugh. "You are about to have
a London Season, during which your betrothal to England's foremost war hero
will be trumpeted before all the
ton
. Meanwhile, your father has taken
himself off to Mayfield, entrusting me with the task of ensuring that the
proprieties are met in his absence. And now, in terms that give me no
confidence as to the condition of your virtue, you inform me that you mean to
marry a man I have neither heard of nor met."

Amanda
threw open the wardrobe and ripped from it the first day dress she encountered.
"Yes, Felicity. I see a number of difficulties, indeed I do."

Felicity
reddened. "My virtue is intact, Amanda," she insisted. "I cannot
believe you would think otherwise — unless it is because you once had the bad
judgment to allow Claridge to have his way and can only see men as ill-intentioned
schemers driven by base desires." The moment the words were out, Felicity
put her hand to her mouth. "Oh! I am sorry, Amanda."

She
could not know the truth of her angry words, Amanda thought. That the person
corrupted by base desires was her own trusted chaperon, who had offered herself
yet again to Thornton or Sommersby — or whoever he was — heedless of the fact
that he was Felicity's betrothed.

Felicity
could not know that Amanda was still a wanton woman — for that was the
realization that hit her in the middle of the night and kept her staring at
that warlike painting opposite her bed until dawn crept in through the window
and forced her to see how terribly she had wronged her cousin and family.

"Felicity,"
Amanda began miserably, "there is something you should know."

Instantly,
Felicity was at her side. "Do not, Amanda. Do not put yourself through the
ordeal of speaking about that episode with Claridge again. It is bad enough
that because of me you are forced to endure the presence of that evil man here
in the castle."

"Claridge
is not the problem." Amanda took a deep breath. "It is Lord
Sommersby."

"The
earl
?" Felicity stared at her cousin. "Never say that Lord
Sommersby forced his attentions on you! Oh, dearest — were you harmed?"

"No,
no," Amanda said quickly. "It was not like that. Indeed, it was
rather the other way around. You see..."

But
Felicity, upon hearing that Amanda had suffered no harm, clapped her hands in
glee. "Wait until Papa learns of this! He will not force me to marry a man
so despicable that he tried to seduce you!"

"No,
Felicity. It was not — "

"How
wonderful!" Felicity trilled happily. "I will be free to marry
Stephen."

"Stop
it!" Amanda cried, firmly grasping Felicity's hand. “Listen to me. Lord
Sommersby did not try to seduce me. It was I who dangled myself before him like
a piece of suet before a flock of birds. To his credit, he rejected me quite
honorably." She elected to omit the part about the earl's masquerade as
Thornton on grounds that it would further muddle the situation. At all events,
the earl’s behavior wasn’t the issue — it was her own betrayal of Felicity.

Stunned,
Felicity stared at her. "I do not believe it."

"I
have trouble believing it myself, but there it is, Felicity. I am a weak woman.
I betrayed you, my uncle's kindness, and my own good sense by throwing myself
at your betrothed. How can you ever forgive me? I know I shall never forgive
myself."

A
look of almost morbid fascination swept Felicity's delicate features. "I
cannot imagine how you could be so bold with a man like Lord Sommersby,"
she said in an awed tone. "He is quite handsome, of course, but so large —
and fierce. What if he — that is, what if he had not behaved honorably? Were
you not afraid?"

Amanda
blinked. She and Felicity obviously differed in their impressions of the earl. Rather
than fearing him, Amanda had yearned to be folded into that fierce, manly
embrace. "The point," she said firmly, "is that I behaved
dishonorably."

"What
of it?" Felicity said airily. "I am not going to marry the earl
anyway.” She caught Amanda’s hand. “Oh, Amanda, do come with me now to meet
Stephen. You will adore him! You must help me persuade Papa to sanction the
match. Otherwise, we shall have to run away."

"But
what do you know of this man?" Amanda demanded. "A man who would
elope against your family's wishes could not have your best interests in
mind."

"Eloping
was my idea," Felicity replied. "I know that Stephen is pure of heart
and noble of spirit. And that he loves me. That is enough for any
marriage."

After
that eloquent declaration, Amanda had not the heart to point out the more
practical aspects of marriage with a penniless scholar.

"Very
well." She sighed. "I will go and meet this Mr. Frakes. But I cannot
promise anything will come of it. Have you thought of going to the earl and
telling him everything? He would surely release you from your betrothal and
perhaps even intervene with Sir Thomas." Privately, however, Amanda
shuddered to think of Lord Sommersby's reaction to news that his efficient
marriage plans had unraveled under his very nose.

Felicity's
eyes widened. "I could never talk to Sommersby, Amanda. You must be the
one to tell him. Or Papa can, if he returns soon. I hope it is soon. I do not
think I can wait much longer."

Amanda
offered a silent prayer that it would not fall to her to inform Lord Sommersby
that his betrothed had fallen in love with the young man in his library.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When
Simon walked into the parlor, he found his betrothed weeping like a watering
pot. The red state of her nose and eyes suggested that she had been doing so
for some time. Miss Fitzhugh stood beside her, grim-faced but dry-eyed, which
presumably meant that Miss Biddle herself was the victim of whatever calamity
had just occurred.

Simon
imagined he was supposed to do something. Females doubtless expected their
future husbands to offer comfort in such situations. He could not see what was
required of him, however, as Miss Fitzhugh was doing a fine job of making
soothing sounds to her cousin.

The
fact that there was no obvious need for his assistance made it all the more
strange when both women shot him expressions ranging from apprehension to pure
horror. The latter reaction came from his fiancée, who regarded him as if he
were about to loose a dozen plague-ridden rats into the room. As for Miss
Fitzhugh, Simon had never seen her show anything remotely approaching
apprehension in his presence. Thus, he figured something was truly amiss.

"May
I be of service?" he inquired politely, uncertain how one went about
dealing with female crises, as this one appeared to be.

This
query caused Miss Biddle to weep more loudly into her handkerchief.

Miss
Fitzhugh frowned. "We must talk to Lord Sommersby sooner or later,"
she told her cousin in a matter-of-fact tone. "Indeed, I believe you might
take this as a propitious opportunity."

Warily,
Simon watched as the two women exchanged a meaningful look. Secrets between
females — especially these females — made him uneasy.

He
had not seen Miss Fitzhugh since she had learned the truth about his masquerade
and defiantly offered herself to him anyway. Simon had never known a woman
capable of such forthrightness. In his experience, women were coy creatures who
rarely spoke their minds and deferred to men at every turn. Simon had difficulty
reconciling his image of Miss Fitzhugh, who seemed to defer to no man, with the
timid and malleable maiden Julian had described in that brandy-induced talk
after their fencing match.

"I
cannot, of course, speak for the present state of the lady's virtue,"
Julian had drawled, "but she left Vauxhall that night as innocent as ever
she was. She has since become quite a thornback, of course. I believe she would
sooner box a man's ears as allow him to touch her."

Was
he speaking of the same woman who had kissed him with such wild and inviting abandon?
The woman who now met his gaze so unflinchingly? And although there was now no
invitation within her brown eyes, he found her courage strangely erotic.

Simon
forced his gaze away from Miss Fitzhugh's somber features and to Miss Biddle's
reddened ones. It struck him that while Miss Biddle was the perfect bride for
him, Miss Fitzhugh was far better suited to his temperament — not to mention
his passions.

But
passion was not everything, and no one knew that better than he. Men who threw
themselves on their opponents' swords in the fervor of battle ended up dead,
their shredded flesh rotting on the battlefield long after the smoke had
cleared. There was no glory in letting passion control reason. Battles were not
won with fervid exhortations and the venting of bloodthirsty urges. They
required dispassionate planning and a methodical approach.

Since
he had used both to arrive at the choice of Miss Biddle, he had great
confidence in his decision. While he had become rather...absorbed with Miss
Fitzhugh, he could never take her to wife even if he wished to. In one
important area she fell woefully short. She was no longer young; there was no
guarantee that a woman her age could provide her husband with a brood of the
size necessary to secure the line.

Simon
was not about to let his title and lands revert to the Crown. He had not wanted
an earldom, but now that he had it, he would fulfill his duty and submerge the
passions Miss Fitzhugh stirred in him.

And
yes, Miss Biddle was quite lovely in her pale pink frock with delicate lace
around the shoulders, whereas Miss Fitzhugh had evidently purchased every bolt
of mud-colored fabric in England and had it made into an unlimited supply of
frocks. Miss Biddle was doubtless born with the profusion of curls that framed
her pretty face, whereas Miss Fitzhugh simply pulled every strand of her hair
into a tight knot that gave no quarter.

Side
by side, there was no comparison between the two ladies’ appearance, at least
by the standard of the day. All eyes would immediately go to Miss Biddle, and
linger there.

Simon,
however, could not keep his eyes from returning to Miss Fitzhugh. He wondered
whether her thoughts were on that heartstopping moment in his study when,
except for the control he had summoned, they might have become lovers.

In
the past, he had never experienced a moment's doubt as to the honorable course.
It was only in Miss Fitzhugh's presence that honor became a tiresome burden,
that desire threatened to undermine his good intentions.

Had
he sunk so low that he no longer embraced the tenets that had guided him his
entire life? Even if he had wished to risk the future of his family on Miss
Fitzhugh's breeding abilities, it was too late. He was betrothed to Miss
Biddle. A man did not break such a promise, nor fail those who depended upon
him. Simon put all rebellious thoughts from his head.

"What
did you wish to speak with me about?" he asked Miss Biddle.

His
betrothed sobbed anew. "I cannot,” she cried, burying her face in her
handkerchief. “This is unspeakable.”

"It
is not unspeakable, Felicity," Miss Fitzhugh said sternly. "Indeed, I
believe you must speak it this very moment or risk having Lord Sommersby think us
candidates for Bedlam. The man is your betrothed. You owe him an
explanation."

When
these ominous words penetrated his mind, Simon focused anew on his weeping fiancée.
"Miss Biddle?" he inquired gently.

"He
has gone," she blurted out.

Simon
frowned.
Who
had gone? He could not imagine that Miss Biddle was in
despair over the departure of Sir Thomas. Suspicion swept him. Julian had left
Sommersby just this morning. Though the man had spent most of his time in the
castle searching for the papers to prove his legitimacy, Simon wondered whether
he had not also found time to worm his way into Miss Biddle's affections.

"I
am afraid I do not understand," he said. When Miss Biddle did not
immediately enlighten him, Miss Fitzhugh eyed her cousin reproachfully. But
Miss Biddle only continued to sob into her handkerchief. With a sigh, Miss
Fitzhugh turned to him.

"Felicity
is referring to the young man who has been cataloguing your books and
weapons," she said.

A
vague image of an earnest young man with thin, curly hair came to Simon’s mind.
Since hiring him last month, Simon had been only dimly aware of his presence in
the castle. What was the man's name, anyway?

"Mr.
Flake?" Simon asked.

"
Frakes,
"
Miss Biddle corrected tearfully. "Stephen Frakes." She blew her nose
and seemed to make an effort to collect herself. "He was not in the
library when I took Amanda to meet him. Mr. Jeffers said he had left word that
he would not return to his duties at the castle."