Miss Felicity's Dilemma

  Miss Felicity’s Dilemma

  Drake’s Rakes Series

  Eileen Dreyer

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Also by Eileen Dreyer

  FREE Short Story!!

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Eileen Dreyer

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

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  Cover Design and Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.

  For all my readers who patiently waited.

  Chapter 1

  1815

  It was Miss Felicity Chambers’ considered opinion that more time needed to be spent cleaning beneath beds. She came to this conclusion when the urge to sneeze overtook her as she crouched under the bed of her host, her heart pounding and her eyes squeezed shut.

  “You haven’t seen her?” a voice rumbled above her.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” answered the sultry tones of a woman.

  A very sultry woman. Felicity wished she had the knack for sounding so interesting, rather like she thought a siren might sound when calling sailors to their doom. Sadly, she merely sounded like the new teacher of piano and deportment at Miss Manville's Academy for Superior Girls she was. Well, that she had been before the surprise correspondence had come from the man who was standing four feet from her twitching nose. Lord Flint Bracken.

  Flint, Felicity thought with a scowl. What kind of self-respecting duke named his son after quartz? Shouldn’t his name be Reginald, or Cyril? But then, from the sound of his voice, she doubted very much that he resembled a Cyril of any kind.

  “It was my father’s request,” he was saying, sounding bored. “Bring the chit here and tell her of the bequest.”

  Felicity almost bumped her head on the underside of the bed. Bequest? Her eyes popped open. What was he talking about? Who would leave her anything? She had no one but the other teachers at the academy and the few classmates she still kept in touch with from boarding school. She doubted she would even hear from the family for whom she governessed. Her tenure had not been a stellar success, no matter how much she had loved her pupil.

  As for the Brackens, the name was familiar, but then, she had attended school with girls of some of the highest families. And since arriving here, she had seen only a variety of servants. If she had seen anyone else in the last four days—or if any of the servants except the head groom, who only conversed of horses, had deigned to speak to her—she might not have begun searching rooms for evidence of why she had been summoned. She might have stayed out of this room in particular.

  “Once I find her,” he was saying, his voice now a purr that seemed to thrum right through her, “you and I can continue our own…explorations.”

  A pair of pink satin slippers crossed Felicity's field of vision, topped by a glimpse of delicate ankles, just the kind she would imagine to be attached to the feet that filled those slippers. Felicity closed her eyes again, as if it would keep her better hidden. The price of those shoes alone humiliated her. She didn't belong in the same house with those shoes much less the very costly silk dress that matched them.

  At least her nose had stopped burning.

  Something was going on above her. Something she was certain she had no business witnessing, even with her eyes closed. She heard murmurs and the rustle of fabric, and then, finally, a throaty feminine chuckle.

  It wasn't until she heard the door close that she breathed a sigh of relief. Time to escape unnoticed.

  “Aren’t you growing cramped under there?” Lord Flint suddenly asked.

  Felicity’s eyes flew open to find an upside-down face where the boots had been. Her heart dropped like a stone.

  “Not at all,” she said, proud at how composed she sounded. “I am quite petite. But you really should have someone sweep under here. The dust balls are the size of wolfhounds.”

  He reached a hand under the bed. For a moment Felicity just stared at it, unable to move. Even in the shadows it was a beautiful hand, with long, elegant fingers and a strong wrist. And she noticed beautiful hands. She was also, after all, the substitute art teacher.

  “I'm getting a crick in my neck,” Lord Flint growled, wiggling his fingers.

  Felicity gave up and took hold. And gasped. It felt as if she'd been rubbing her stockinged feet on the carpet on a cold winter’s day and gotten a shock. She had heard of such a thing, of course, in every Minerva Press novel she had ever secreted under her pillow. But she had always thought it a literary device. A myth.

  That was no myth tingling up her arm.

  Before she had a chance to do more than stare at the offending member, Lord Flint grasped her tightly and pulled her out from under the bed. She came out in a tangle of arms and legs, dragging dust after her.

  How mortifying, she thought, brushing madly at her sensible gray kerseymere skirts.

  “Er....”

  She looked up and forgot what she was going to say. She forgot her name.

  He was beautiful. Tall and lean and russet-haired, with eyes the color of spring leaves and a humorous cant to his mouth. Chiseled features, square shoulders, slim hips. Hard and sharp as quartz.

  Suddenly his name wasn’t so funny.

  He was brushing at the front of his hair. Felicity frowned. What was he doing? His hair was perfect, thick and well-cut, with just a little curl to make him look a bit mischievous. He shot a pointed look at the top of her head. Instinctively she brushed at her crown and came away with another shower of dust.

  “See what I mean?” she demanded, feeling the unlovely red of a blush creep up her cheeks. “You need to speak to your housekeeper.”

  He didn't look particularly upset. “Do you always hide under beds?”

  She couldn't quite meet his gaze. She kept brushing as if the dust hadn't all been quite vanquished. “Only when I am caught in the wrong place.”

  “And you were in the wrong place because?”

  But she had lost her train of thought again. Turning around, she crouched back down. When she had been brushing dust off her bodice, she’d realized she was missing something. The locket little Mary Lassiter had bestowed on her upon leaving her post as Mary’s governess. It was nothing much, something Mary said she'd picked up at a county fair for Felicity's birthday, probably pinc
hbeck. But it was Felicity’s only piece of jewelry.

  His voice rumbled over her head. “I beg your . . .”

  But she didn’t answer. On her hands and knees, she pushed her head back under the bed.

  There it was, caught on the bed leg. She must have snagged it when she'd been pulled out. Gently disconnecting the chain from the bed frame, she edged back out and knelt on the floor, the chain draped over her fingers, the oval metal gleaming dully in the light.

  She fought an odd tightness in her throat. The catch was broken. Well, of course it was. Her only piece of jewelry, her only memory of a little girl who had come looking for her every morning to share some new discovery when no one else would talk to her, and it was broken. And she lacked the funds to fix it. Why should she expect anything else?

  “What is that?” his lordship asked, his hand out again.

  Felicity instinctively clenched her own hand around the locket. “Nothing.” Pocketing the necklace, she took his hand and let him help her back to her feet. “A locket I wear. I must have caught it.” She brushed her dress out again. “You were speaking of something.”

  There was a short pause, as if he wasn't ready to accept her answer. In the end, though, he moved on. “I was asking why you were someplace you weren't supposed to be.”

  That got her eyes up. “Because I was forced out of my place of employment—”

  “Forced? No one forced you. It was a request.”

  She scowled up at him. “A duke’s son may see it as a request. The headmistress of a girls’ academy that relies on the good will of the aristocracy takes it as a royal command. I hadn't even time to pack a trunk before I was hustled into that great traveling barge you call a coach and driven twelve hours to this place, where I have been locked up for four days without explanation or company.”

  He frowned. “Don't be absurd. You weren't locked up. You were free to go at any time.”

  She tilted her head, becoming quite impatient with the direction of the conversation. Her ankle hurt from where she'd had to bend it to fit under the bed, her necklace was broken, and she was hungry. And this absurd man was standing here telling clankers. “And how was I supposed to do that? I'm not even certain where we are.”

  “Outside Gloucester, of course.”

  Of course. She waited in silence. He seemed to be assessing her, his features creased, as if she were as big a puzzle to him as he was to her.

  “Well?” she finally demanded, hands on hips. “Why am I here?”

  Now he really did look confused. “Did no one tell you?”

  “No! I have spent four days wandering this drafty pile with no company but the head groom and the kitchen cat, both of which are singularly uncommunicative. So, if you do not mind, please tell me why a penniless teacher would receive a summons from the Duke of Lynden, or for the love of all that is holy, send me home. I have classes to teach. If I am not there to do it, they will be given to someone else, and I cannot afford to let that happen.”

  He was smiling again, as if he knew the biggest joke in the world. Felicity was on the verge of screaming.

  “You are Miss Felicity Chambers?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course. Since you have not bothered to introduce yourself, may I assume you are Lord Flint Bracken?”

  His expression froze a bit. “Rather forward for a teacher, aren't you?”

  “Rather out of patience and desirous of my luncheon, my lord.”

  And much preferring to be carrying on this conversation anywhere but right next to this gentleman's bed. But she couldn't tell him that. That would be too forward.

  “A luncheon you will enjoy in your room,” he said.

  It was Felicity's turn to look skeptical. “Because?”

  She had to admit that there was some enjoyment to seeing such a self-possessed man actually blush. “Because I had not been told you were already here, so I brought company.”

  She nodded. “Ah. The siren.”

  He stared. “The what?”

  She made a general motion toward the door. “The lady in pink.”

  “Er...” He actually turned that way, as if to reacquaint himself with the woman. “Yes. And others.”

  Finally, her visit threatened to become interesting. “A bit warm for the likes of me, are they?”

  This time she got a full-blown scowl, with dark brows almost meeting in the center of his forehead. “That is not for you to ask, young lady.”

  She couldn't help it. She chuckled. “I am not thirteen, my lord. If you wish me to stay away, I will be delighted. As long as I am assured of a few of Cook’s brambleberry tarts, of course.”

  “Extortion now?”

  “Until I can get an answer, yes. There should be some reason for me to stay.”

  This time he chuckled, his features suddenly easing, his hands on his hips. His slim hips, Felicity couldn't help noticing. His blasted elegant hands.

  “Oh, there are reasons for you to stay.”

  She sighed. “And am I ever to find out what they are?”

  “In time.”

  “No,” she retorted, finally losing what patience she had left. He was too distracting for her own good, and she knew better than to believe in miracles or myths. “I think not. Either I know or I go. Now that I have learned where we are, it should be possible to find transportation back north. Hopefully I can reach the school before my position is given away.”

  And with that she gathered every ounce of courage she possessed and attempted to walk past him out the bedroom door.

  She should have known she would fail. Just as she came abreast of him, he caught hold of her arm.

  “You are going nowhere.”

  She sharply lifted her head. “I beg your pardon?”

  Blast him if he wasn't grinning again and her arm wasn't tingling again. “It will be much to your benefit to stay, Miss Felicity Chambers.”

  “Not unless you have a wife and six children tucked away somewhere in need of instruction or a brace of girls who require deportment lessons in order to make their come-out.” She was even angrier that her voice suddenly sounded so breathless. “Please let go.”

  He did, which surprised her. He was still blocking the door, though, which frayed her determination to get past him. There was just too much of him, and that too much seemed to throw off the most amazing heat. She thought she might be blushing again. And he’d gone very still. Even more oddly, he seemed to be staring at her as if he couldn’t look away

  Felicity froze, suddenly feeling like a rabbit caught in a dog's sight. Her breath seemed to seize. She couldn't move; couldn't look away from the hypnotic green of his eyes. She couldn't believe it, but he looked surprised. Maybe as surprised as she felt?

  She never had the chance to ask. With one fluid movement, he cupped her face in his hands and bent to kiss her. She never even got the chance to protest or agree or even catch her breath. Suddenly she was surrounded by him; by his scent, his strength, his just-callused hands. His delicious mouth.

  And it happened again. That flash of light, the shock of electricity that lit the room. A sweet, melting something that robbed her breath and set her heart pounding.

  Before she could comprehend any of it, he pulled back. She blinked. Then she blinked again, caught in between breaths, her body in turmoil. What had happened? What had he done to her? Did he feel even a fraction of what she did?

  Obviously not. Instead of blinking as if finding his body rearranged, he stepped away, easily letting her go. And when she stumbled a bit on suddenly shaky knees, he grinned.

  “Damme if the duke doesn't have better taste than I gave him credit for,” he mused, suddenly sounding quite merry.

  Felicity feared she was gaping. “Pardon? The duke?”

  “The very one. You are quite correct. The command came directly from him, even though in my hand. He wished you to present yourself here for my perusal. At least he was that kind about it.”

  Felicity feared she wasn't breathing. “Perus
al?” she demanded. “For what?”

  “Why to see if you'd do, of course.”

  Suddenly she was afraid. She took a step back and bumped into a table, making something rattle. She couldn't even find the words to challenge him. Her comprehension seemed to have disintegrated in the space of a kiss.

  “Don't you want to know why?” he asked.

  “For heaven’s sake, Bracken,” came a familiar voice from the hallway. “Just tell the girl.”

  Felicity almost groaned aloud. The Siren. That was the last thing she needed, she thought in despair. The woman was more glorious than even those ankles promised. Blond, voluptuous, with deep blue eyes and a birthmark by her mouth, for heaven's sake. The sight of her managed to douse any fire Felicity might have thought she felt, leaving her quite miserable and even more confused. At least the strength flooded back into her knees.

  “Tell me what?” she asked, already knowing she didn't want to know.

  “Genève,” Lord Flint objected, not smiling anymore. “You are not helping.”

  The siren's smile was even more glorious. Did anyone truly have such straight white teeth? Felicity mourned, instinctively running her tongue over her left canine, which slightly overlapped its neighbor.

  “Well, you're not doing all that well by yourself,” the beauty drawled. “Ask him again, my dear.”

  Felicity closed her eyes, awash in humiliation. “Very well, if it will get me out of here. What, my lord,” she asked, “is this mysterious bequest?”

  He chuckled. “Why, me, of course.”

  Felicity's eyes flew open. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am usually more fond of blonds,” he admitted. “But I imagine I could learn to like brunettes quite well.”

  Felicity stopped breathing altogether. “For what?”

  She just hoped her voice sounded as ominous as she intended.

  It obviously didn't. He was smiling again, his head tilted as if assessing her reaction, his hands back on his hips. “Well, marriage, of course.”

  She knew she was staring, but suddenly she felt numb and stupid. “Marriage.”