‘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 … 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.

AUTHOR NOTE

I first met Richard, Earl of Stanton, many years ago, when he was a drop-dead gorgeous secondary character in my first ever attempt at writing a Regency romance. That attempt has not yet seen the light of day, but I always knew Richard would have his own story. I had no idea which lucky lady would share his journey, until one day he ran up the stairs in his shirtsleeves and came face-to-face with an unprepossessing but sparky spinster who had absolutely no intention of ever getting married.

One year on from that meeting Lady Felicity Weston’s fear of unrequited love is as strong as ever, but her circumstances have changed. She begs her mother to find her a quiet, unremarkable gentleman with whom she might be content, little realising she will end up with society’s most eligible bachelor.

I hope you will enjoy reading about the arranged marriage between Richard and Felicity, and about how they help each other to reveal and ultimately resolve their emotional conflicts on their journey to true love.

I had a lot of fun writing their story, and I’m sure both Richard and Felicity will pop up from time to time in my future Regencies.

From Wallflower to Countess

Janice Preston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JANICE PRESTON grew up in Wembley, North London, with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. In the past she has worked as a farmer, a police call-handler and a university administrator. She now lives in the West Midlands with her husband and two cats and has a part-time job with a weight management counsellor (vainly trying to control her own weight despite her love of chocolate!).

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!

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

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

Extract

Copyright

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?’

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