Miss Felicity's Dilemma Page 11

  The glass slipped out of her hand and thunked on the floor. She thought she might have stopped breathing. There was a ragged little hole in the material, right where she'd felt the plucking. Exactly at the level of her heart.

  “That's ridiculous,” was all she could think to say, her voice thin and wavery.

  He let go of her and reclaimed his drink. “Tell me about Teesdale,” he repeated.

  She had dropped her brandy, she realized distractedly. Another stain on the carpet. She had to clean it up. She had to wipe off her dress. She bent over to retrieve the empty glass and tried to get to her feet.

  “Sit down.”

  She sat. She stared at the empty glass in her hand, oddly intent on the prism the sun shattered through it onto the floor. Beautiful colors dancing across the softly hued carpet and to the sleek hardwood floor beyond, the dark masculine room all but disappearing into the shadows. A beautiful room. A room in which she was certain she had no place. A room that had been tidy and neat and gleaming before she arrived. She would have to ask Mrs. Windom to thank the maids. Apologize for getting brandy on the good rug. Tell her about the blood...

  “Felicity.”

  She looked up, startled to realize she had wandered off. She took a long, shuddery breath, trying valiantly to pull her spinning thoughts back into line.

  Shot. Yes. A bullet meant for her.

  She shook her head. “I don't understand...”

  “Neither do I,” he said, setting his own glass on the desk and reaching forward to retrieve hers from her nerveless fingers. Probably afraid she'd drop it again, she thought bemusedly, maybe break it this time. “Please. Tell me what you know of Teesdale.”

  She looked up to see that his eyes had softened. She thought he might have been exerting a significant amount of restraint over his emotions. She couldn't understand why.

  She couldn't understand any of this.

  “I...only know him through the Lassiters. He visited during school holidays. He was a friend of Eddie....young Mr. Lassiter.”

  She shrugged, wondering why her brain suddenly felt so foggy.

  “Did you interact with him?”

  “Not really. I was up in the nursery with the younger children.”

  Except for that one time. The time in the hallway. The time Eddie surprised her. Or had she surprised him? She had stepped out of her room to find them there in the servant's wing. He had been standing there talking to Bucky, bent close. Intent on some papers Bucky held.

  Eddie had startled. He'd smiled. He'd stepped up to ask her to go riding, standing far too close. And Bucky...what had Bucky done? She remembered him interrupting only after she’d been forced to drive her knee into the part of Eddie that had obviously been doing his thinking. Offering a rueful smile at Eddie’s howls of outrage and sending her on an errand to get her clear of Eddie’s wrath. She remembered being ushered out of the house the next day.

  “Why do you call him by his nickname?”

  She shrugged, still distracted. “Everyone did. One just...did.”

  “Why, after all this time, would he come looking for you?” Flint asked, fully dragging her attention back. “And how would he know where you are?”

  Oddly enough, Felicity's temper began to rise. “I have no idea. I told you. I rarely saw him when I worked for the Lassiters and haven't since leaving. And how are you so positive it was me? What about the line of women parading through your servants’ quarters? The ones no one knows anything about?”

  This time he looked straight at her. “No one asked for them by name.”

  Finally panic began to bubble up in her chest.

  Wrong. This was wrong. It had to be.

  “What else?” Flint demanded. “There has to be something else.”

  She was already shaking her head. “Nothing. I was the governess. I did not interact with any of the adults except to bring the children down in the evening for the requisite viewing. No one spoke to me. I ate alone. I made my report to Mrs. Lassiter once a week in her sitting room. I didn't even make up an even number at dinners, since Mrs. Lassiter's aunt lived with them.”

  “Then how did you know Brent visited?”

  “He would be there sometimes in the evening. He and Mr. Lassiter enjoyed debating...oh, I don't know. Philosophy. Politics.”

  “What kind of politics?”

  She shrugged, trying to remember. “I was more focused on making certain the children behaved. Mr. Lassiter was a Tory, but he always seemed unhappy with the government. Bucky did a lot of nodding. Other than that...” She shrugged again and looked up for some reassurance. “Sometimes the children would stay to hear Bucky play. He is a very talented pianist. That is all. Truly.”

  “That's all? You sure you're telling me everything?”

  “Why wouldn't I?”

  “That's what I need to find out. If you don't know why you were almost shot, then who does? And if we don't find out, then you're still in danger. Everyone on this estate is in danger.”

  She wanted to get up and pace, but she wasn't certain her knees would hold her. “You're bleeding again,” she said, pointing to the new blood staining the linen.

  “I'll live. There must be something you know, Felicity. Something that would cause someone to come after you. I want to know what it is.”

  Felicity looked up at him, even more off balance. “And you believe I don't? Who do you think I am?”

  “I don't know, damn it!” That seemed to stop him cold. He seemed to lose color. He opened his mouth as if to speak and then shut it.

  Felicity lost her breath. He was up again, shoving a hand through his hair.

  “Well,” she said, her voice still unforgivably weak. “At least that makes us even. I don't either.”

  He waved her off. “Of course, you do. You might be an orphan, but you have had twenty years to form your own character. To have your own experiences and make your own opinions.”

  “And yet, here we are with no answer.”

  He swung around again, and she was struck by the intensity of his eyes, the green eerie, like clouds presaging a summer storm.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  She was on her feet without realizing it. “I'm nobody!” she all but shouted back. “A school teacher. Nothing more.”

  He was just as suddenly standing over her. “Not nothing more. If it were nothing more, you wouldn't be in danger. If it were nothing more, I wouldn’t….” He stopped abruptly, looked away. Took a breath. “I think Teesdale is the key. Your time in that house. You must know something, or you saw something you obviously don't remember.”

  “Something what?”

  He shook his head. “I don't know. Something illegal. Something treasonous. Something....unsavory that could be used to blackmail someone. One of the Lassiters might know.”

  “The Lassiters left for the Continent not long after I was let go.”

  That seemed to bother him even more. He nodded absently. “Could you have left with something that didn't belong to you?”

  She shook her head. “No. The Lassiters were very careful about that. No thieving governesses for them.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Because my portmanteaux were sitting on the front step. I decided it would do me no good to let them go without me.”

  That stopped him. “Why?” He’d obviously run out of patience.

  She refused to look away. “Because Mrs. Lassiter had it in mind that her bastard of a governess was trying to seduce her son.”

  Flint went perfectly, coldly still. “Did he touch you?”

  Her smile was dry. “Only once.”

  “What happened?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Suddenly he was right in front of her, his hands wrapped around her arms. “Stop that!”

  She froze. “What?”

  He shook her. He actually shook her. “It does bloody matter. Everything matters. Don't you understand?” he demanded, his eyes suddenly d
ark and hot. “I'm responsible for you. I brought you here. If something happened to you...”

  “If you want to be specific about it,” she said, trying so hard to ease the tightness in her chest, the frantic beating of her heart. “Your father brought me here.”

  “But you're my responsibility! And you could have been killed today!” He kept shaking his head, as if he couldn’t understand himself. “I couldn’t have borne that.”

  And as if she hadn't been disoriented enough, suddenly Felicity found herself crushed to him, his mouth on hers, his arm around her back, his body taut as a bow.

  She never had the chance to protest. She never remembered that she should. His mouth felt like fire, his arms safe harbor, his body heaven. She lost her wits, her resolve, her hesitation. Before she knew it, she found herself bowed back, her mouth open beneath his sweet assault, her tongue sparring with his. Heat flooded her, light and soul-deep satisfaction, as if her own body had to tell her that this was the place she was supposed to be, caught in this man's embrace, savoring his strength, his solid comfort, his wicked sensuality.

  She was melting like warming wax, glowing, she swore, like starlight. Drinking in a life she thought had been forfeit. She was about to abandon every shred of good sense, and she didn't care. She reached up and wrapped her arms around Flint's neck to hold on.

  He flinched and cursed.

  Felicity jumped back, appalled that she had forgotten his injury. “I'm so sorry...”

  He stared at her as if she had slapped him. “Don't be absurd. I kissed you. I shouldn't have. It wasn't fair.” He stepped back, his good hand raking through his hair as if it could reorder him.

  “Fair?” Her hands shook as she smoothed down her own skirt. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

  “No.” He scowled. “I'm trying to marry you.”

  She didn't want her heart to skip around just because he sounded sincere. She didn't want to be confused by the warring emotions those words ignited in her chest. Life had been so simple for so long. She knew who she was, and more importantly, who she wasn't. She knew her path, and made it a point to never expect more.

  If only any of this made sense. She was trying so hard to maintain her composure. And he was taking hold of her shoulders and pulling her close.

  “I realized today,” he said softly, “that I don't want to lose you.” He rested his forehead against hers. “I think it might kill me.”

  Chapter 12

  Felicity swore she had frozen on the spot. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. Oh, sweet Lord, he couldn’t mean it. He couldn’t want her so much. No one wanted her so much.

  For the longest moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t think past the fact that he had hold of her, that their foreheads met and she could feel the agitated wash of his breath against her cheek. She couldn’t bear to think that he was as serious as he seemed. It would mean too much. It was too great a distance to fall.

  “You plan on locking me in the larder if I refuse to stay?” she asked, trying again to be light-hearted and only sounding breathy with shock.

  His smile was heartbreaking. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  He looked so serious. His expression was intense, his eyes gleaming green in the shadowy room, his hands firm around her arms. She felt his words sink deep where old dreams lingered.

  The mood in the room shifted, sweetened. She couldn't breathe, suddenly, as if he were sapping her strength with just his eyes.

  “We’ve only known each other for three days,” she protested, her breath unforgivably weak and uncertain. “How could you possibly know?”

  “Not really three days,” he said, his voice very quiet. “Pip wrote me, too, you know.” Could that smile get any sweeter? “She was always talking about her roommates.”

  Felicity was holding on to control by her fingertips. She couldn’t leap into his arms. She couldn’t admit that meeting him in person only solidified what she had suspected since she was eight years old. That this was the man she would love her whole life. He would be the ideal by which she measured all other men. If he left her, he would leave her with no heart at all.

  But she couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not before she was certain of him. Not before they both knew what was going on in this house.

  Even so, she fought tears. She pulled back and stepped out of his hold, as if that would help. It didn’t. It only made her feel so cold all she wanted to do was nestle right back where she belonged. Where she wanted to belong.

  “You really do need to get your wound looked at,” she said, not sounding appreciably better.

  He frowned. “Felicity...”

  Now she was the one shaking her head. She had almost died when she’d realized he’d been shot. She needed to step farther away from that. She needed to pull some sense out of the swirling chaos. She had to give her heart a chance to settle. Right now, it felt as if it would stumble right out of her chest.

  “I can’t go this fast,” she protested, and lifted her gaze to see the sudden pain in his. “Please.”

  “I want to marry you, Felicity.”

  She smiled and knew how sad she looked. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m afraid I simply cannot go from inconvenient embarrassment to Lady Flint Bracken in less than a week. That only happens in fairy stories. And I have been nowhere near fairies my entire life.”

  “Will you at least think about it?” he asked so gently it hurt. “I mean, really think about it.”

  “It is all I’ve been doing.”

  I love you. I will love you until my dying breath. But I know better than to think I am the woman you need. Not when you walk ducal halls and I pace the corridors of second-rate schools. Not when I have no name to bring to you.

  But how could she leave? He still needed her to help unravel the mysteries here. At least she could stay that long.

  Instinctively she reached up to take hold of her little locket, as if to resettle herself in the world. It wasn’t there.

  Her locket.

  “It’s funny,” she said with a stiff little laugh as she walked over to the bell-pull. “I just remembered something. I did bring something away from the Lassiters’ with me. I didn’t think of it because I didn’t take what wasn’t mine.”

  She pulled the bell for Mrs. Windom.

  Flint stayed perfectly still. “What is it? How did you come by it?”

  “My pupil Mary. When I left so quickly, she ran down the drive after me and gave me a trinket she said she got at a local fair. A locket.”

  She shook her head, the image of Mary’s tear-streaked face before her. “They shouldn’t have,” the little girl had kept saying, her hand clasped in Felicity’s. “I don’t want you to forget.”

  There was no way Felicity could ever forget. Mary had been the first person who had needed her.

  “Do you have it?” Flint asked.

  Startled, Felicity looked up. “In my room. It broke when you pulled me from under the bed, remember?”

  For half a minute she thought he might have smiled back at her. “Please. Go get it. I have to be sure. Quick. And Felicity.”

  She turned.

  “We will finish this conversation. That is a promise.”

  She could do no more than nod and open the door.

  On her way out, she asked the arriving footman to have Mrs. Windom see to Flint's wound. Then she went to retrieve the locket she prayed would mean nothing to anyone but her. After all, if it did, she might lose it.

  It hadn’t begun life as a locket, she admitted, as she opened the small jewelry case her friends Fiona and Mairead Ferguson had given her on their graduation. She imagined it had begun life as a watch fob, a gold-colored metal oval bearing a surprisingly well-etched lion rampant. Felicity had spent precious funds to attach it to a good chain.

  Little Mary said she’d seen the trinket in a booth. Felicity smiled as she palmed the cool metal. It wasn’t much, Mary had said, but it had reminded her of her dear Miss Chambers, fi
erce and protective. Felicity thought she would go to her grave without a finer compliment.

  She paused there, her eyes misting as she thought of that little girl and wondered where she was right now. Venice? Rome? Felicity hoped so much that Mary was enjoying her adventures. She didn’t want her to ever regret a thing.

  If she could have, she would have handed that locket back to the little girl to remind her that she, too, was like a lion and should never forget it. But Mary had insisted that the locket was meant for Miss Felicity. After all, she’d said, the opposite side was inscribed with a large, ornate C. For Chambers.

  “Don’t you see?” the little girl had demanded, breathless from running to catch her. “It was always supposed to be yours.”

  It was. Even hours later bouncing along in a mail coach to London, when Felicity had looked more closely to see that the C was actually a G.

  By the time Felicity returned to the library, the little necklace draped from her closed fist, it was to find Mrs. Windom laying out her supplies on a towel she'd spread on Flint’s desk alongside his discarded cravat. He was faced away from the woman, struggling to get his shirt over his head, but Mrs. Windom didn’t seem to notice that his torso was exposed up to his neck.

  Felicity was sure she should feel relief at the small size of the wound on his arm, or distress at the remaining evidence of his other brushes with death, nicks and a slash that transected his flank. But truly she couldn't take her eyes off his magnificent back. Lean, taut, not an ounce of fat.

  Breathtaking.

  “Miss Felicity?”

  She startled, realizing she'd shuddered to a stop at the door. Blinking, she saw that Mrs. Windom was gesturing to where Flint was trying to get his shirt over his head past his wounded arm.

  Felicity almost flinched. The housekeeper wanted her to help?

  Mrs. Windom glared at her. The housekeeper did want her to help.

  Pocketing the necklace, she took a steadying breath, stepped up behind Flint and almost fainted. His back. His side. His chest. Just as lean and muscled, dusted in hair the same deep auburn as his head. Glistening a bit from the sweat of his ride. Felicity reached up to help pull his shirt over his head and deliberately took in a slow breath. She smelled horse and clean sweat and a tang of evergreen and sunlight. She felt smooth, tight skin beneath her fingers. She heard the small gasp he let out when she inadvertently touched him.