An Independent Miss (18 page)

“What? There is nothing wrong for a
betrothed couple to kiss.” His smile a dark thing that sparked in his eyes.

“We will not suit.” She wrapped her
shawl tight, swaddling to comfort herself, as one would comfort a babe.

“But we will, I’ve just proven it.”
But she could see he knew exactly what she meant, and that he agreed.

“We could go our own ways.”

“And you would be ruined?”

“I don’t give a wit about society!”
She snapped her fingers, to show how little she cared. Rattled as she was, they
did not snap, merely slid against each other.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” He
adjusted his coat. “For I don’t care to be tarnished by that brush, nor will
your sisters, brother, parents.”

Her breath hiccupped, as she fought
the onslaught of tears that had threatened all day.

She could not be married to him,
tasting the carnal pleasures he promised. She did not want a man who would hate
her and, by his tamped anger now, he was close to doing just that.

But what did he have to lose? A man
had every right to expect a wife to conform to his design of a happy life. He
abhorred the most important part of who she was, but had the power, in his sex,
to forbid her living it.

“If there is another, you’d best let him
go tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped,
then smoothed her voice. “Medicine is my life. I could not bear to part with
all I love.”

“A woman died…”

“ But would have lived if she’d
taken the tonic as it was meant to be imbibed.”

His jaw clenched. She sighed. “My
own fault, I never should have gone to your room.” She’d been naïve and foolish
and so much younger, just a few weeks past.

But it had been the right thing to
say, for he eased out of his darkness, softened, smoothing an escaped lock from
her forehead.

“All for a kiss,” he murmured,
stunning her as he neared again, “Kisses I would have missed if you were not
mine.”

Oh, Lord, he slayed her. What power
he held over her, to undo her so quickly.

“You are mine, Felicity.” A half
step away, he leaned in, drew a line of kisses along her jaw, until his words
became a soft brush of air in her ear, like a butterfly touch that cascaded
deep inside. “You are meant to be mine. I’ve thought of little else but your
kisses, having you by my side, in my home.”

“You will hate me,” she said,
wishing it didn’t sound like a wail of sorrow. But it was such a thing. A deep,
deep sorrow of longing. She wanted him, but could not have him. Impossible.

“Never.”

“Or you will kill me, by forbidding
me to be me.”

“Never,” he claimed, though he
released her, stepped back. Their only connection his hands on her arms,
holding her steady. “How could you say such a thing?”

If only he could kiss away their
troubles. “We won’t suit and I don’t want to be like so many couples, who
barely see each other.”

“Then we won’t be.”

“I want love.”

He released her, his eyes losing
the warmth they’d held. “I will be good to you.”

Which wasn’t at all what she asked
for.

“We won’t suit.”

“Living alone, or as the spinster
aunt in your brother’s home, the pariah? Not respectable enough to have sway
over nieces? Not allowed near your sisters when they come out? That is
preferable to the respectability I offer?”

He spoke of nothing but bleak
reality.

She turned away.

“Think about it, Lady Felicity.
Think about our union.”

“I will.”

“And remember how eagerly you come
into my arms.”

She would, forever, think of that.

“Come.” He offered his arm, “We shall
go to the ball.”

“I think not.” She told him.

“Felicity,” he held out his arm.
“You look lovely tonight, dressed for dancing. Let’s face the tongue-waggers,
turn our backs on them, united. Join me in this.”

If she did, she would be telling
him, telling the world, they were to wed.

“And if, after this evening, we
decide we do not suit?”

“We will tell the world you threw
me over for some mad scientist.”

She laughed, feeling lighter in the
resurgence of friendship, a friend, someone she could always hold dear.

“Let’s slay the gossips, shall we?”

She took his arm.

CHAPTER 19 ~
WEIGHTED REQUESTS

Lady Andover sat in the small salon
and waited for Mrs. Comfrey. Despite what her son thought, Mrs. Comfrey
existed. She even planned to visit this very night.

Or morning, if you looked at a
clock.

The dear woman even explained why
she must visit in the wee hours, although Lady Andover couldn’t quite remember
what that reason was. Everything was still so foggy, except that it had
something to do with Andover’s resistance to the tonics she was being given.

Perfect sense, even in her muddled
state. Andover hated anything of a medicinal nature, always had, even as a
child he would suffer rather than take a curative. His grandmama didn’t help,
with tales of beautiful witches who stole a man’s will, made fools of them when
playing the doctor.

She never should have allowed
Andover to spend so much time with her mother. She hadn’t been right in the
head after her fall from the horse. As a little boy, Andover thrilled to the
stories and now, with real life offering its own reason to disdain healing
mixtures or doctor’s orders, he grew worse. Her own weakness complicating the
whole issue.

She tried to honor his concern,
allowed him to take all her medicines and tonics away. Kept the doctors at bay.
She failed. Miserably.

No, Mrs. Comfrey had the right of
it. Her son wouldn’t approve her series of special tonics. He wouldn’t
understand the hope offered in simple drafts. That his mother would believe a
promise, if she did everything required, good health and a clear mind would
follow.

It was the stout warning recovery
would not be easy, which assure her the promises were genuine. Good things were
never easy.

This hadn’t been.

Thank goodness for Nellie and Mary,
the maids Andover found, and their willingness to follow Mrs. Comfrey’s written
instructions, keeping the schedule a secret from everyone—Andover,
doctors, everyone.

Appalling such basic, ordinary
tasks had been so difficult to perform they needed to be retaught. As though
she were an obstinate child. Simple as they were, she fought them.

Rise by eight in the morning, no
naps until two in the afternoon, and then only one before nightfall. Hot,
steaming, herbal baths three times a day. Men might perspire and women glow but
those tortuous baths had her beyond a lady like glimmer. She’d balk and hold
back, but the ruddy, stocky farm lasses coaxed and maneuvered until her skin’s
dead pallor gave way to a hint of pink not often found in a woman of her years.

She wiped a tear, settled herself,
took another sip of Mrs. Comfrey’s prescribed tea and waited. Calm in her own
skin for the first time in months. Today she wore no gloves to protect from
scratching, for she no longer needed them. Nor did she feel like a horrid swarm
of bees chased jarring eels deep in the pit of her. All illusions subsided.

She was better, for her son, the
only love left in her life. She would see him marry, with children. If she
continued to improve, as she was, she would oversee his new wife take on
responsibilities once second nature to her. Now daunting obstacles.

Once he settled with his own
family, she would give in to the mourning, let go of the fight, sink past the
pain.

One bottle, of the original
dreaming tonic, remained hidden in a Chinese vase. One bottle. Enough to free
her from this life.

For now, she would wait for the
fascinating Mrs. Comfrey to arrive.

****

Felicity swirled around the dance
floor in her brother’s arms, next in line to Upton and Lady Bea. Surrounded by
family. Not that she needed moral support from that quarter. Andover smiled.
The tattle-monger’s tales were laid to rest the moment they walked into the
ballroom, Felicity’s trembling hand upon his arm, to be greeted by her Grace,
his mama’s cousin, and Lady Westhaven’s closest friend.

For all Felicity claimed not to
give a wit for society she’d grown so very quiet, still as marble, in the
carriage. He wished to sit beside her, but that wouldn’t have been proper, so
he gave way to her mother, who did not stop speaking about trousseaus and a
hurried wedding, compounding Felicity’s quiet.

It would be all right, how he
hadn’t a clue, but there was something that happened to him when she was
around. He felt hope. Her quiet composure contrasting wide, fearful eyes,
soothed him.

She made him feel strong. Made him
want to care when he did not want to care. Could not afford to care. And still,
he welcomed it, for she brought life back in palatable doses.

He envied her father, sitting
beside him, facing Felicity, reaching over to pat her knee. Offered a smile she
returned. A weak thing, but a smile despite her discomfort, her worry.

It needed to be done, to face the
very people who had turned their backs on her. Worry enough without the added
fear of marrying. She was not at all sure they would suit. There was no other
option, there, either. He forced her hand on two issues this evening. To face
the censures and to be locked into marriage.

They all knew, though Felicity
denied it, that the witnessed kiss in the garden bound them for life. He could
take the blame for that, at least, ease the guilt from her shoulders.

They would be married soon. She
would be his wife. He feared it as much as she, but not for the same reason.
She feared they would not suit. He feared they would suit all too well.

He did not want to feel. Would have
to guard against it.

Distance was the answer, though he
would hold to his promise. He would be a good husband. He would take care of
her, offer all sorts of amusements and children. God willing, she could have a
babe to care for within the year.

He looked up, frowned.

“Oh don’t look so serious.” Lady
Jane slipped her arm into his, reminding him of where he was.

“Where did you come from?” he
asked.

“The Atherton’s route.” She
tightened her hold beyond propriety. “An awful crush. Tedious. Though we’ve
been here for awhile.” She looked up at him. “But I’m too late for this dance.
Walk with me?” she asked.

He didn’t want to. Looked over at
the sea of swirling couples and found Felicity watching them. He smiled. She
twirled away with a swish of skirts, in her brother’s arms, though she’d danced
with many a partner that night.

He’d partnered her twice already.
Didn’t dare do so again until the last dance, so he watched the parade of
smiles and gallant attention aimed at his betrothed, though they didn’t provoke
the same raw emotion as Robbie holding her hands, prompting promises he had no
business requesting.

Robbie spurred a tidal wave of
determination to make Felicity his Andover couldn’t seem to shake.

His
.
Not some country boy from next door or the doctor Thomas goaded him with back
at Ansley Park.

Doctor Henry.

Lady Jane tapped his arm with her
fan, chastisement for attending his thoughts and not her. “They’ll be a quarter
of an hour at least. Come, walk with me.” And she tugged him away from the edge
of the dance floor, toward the tall doors opened wide to ease the heavy air of
an overcrowded room.

He couldn’t stop thinking of the
doctor. A man who shared Felicity’s interests. He had been there, in London, that
very day, returning the book Andover saw, sitting on a side table in the
reception room where he and his mother waited for Felicity.

Only Felicity had not been there.
She’d been out climbing trees.

Lord Westhaven had stepped up to
Andover, as he studied the tome. “Doctor Henry returned Felicity’s book.” As
though Andover’s heart wasn’t near beating from his chest.

The page was open to valerian. Had
the two of them, Felicity and this sawbones, bent their heads over the
illustrations? Had they discussed his mother?

He’d read the little notes.
Valerian, good for hysteria and melancholy.

He flexed his fist. Damn the man
for being her ally.

He wanted to toss the book across
the room.

“Doesn’t this worry you,” he
demanded of her father, “That she studies such dangerous things?”

“Worry me?” her father quizzed, as
though confused by the question, as though Andover’s concerns were unwarranted.
“Not in the least. She acquired this book, her skills, from my mother. These
books have been passed down through the female line of my ancestors. The first
book was written by a Lady Veri in the thirteenth century.” Pride, he felt
pride for these women. “Felicity is intelligent and educated. Her patients are
safe.”

A woman died, he wanted to cry out.
Instead, he’d nodded, turning away from the morbid fascination that drew him to
look in the first place. He’d never realized she even held an interest in such
things, let alone was so deeply steeped, bound with the power of ancestry.

“So tense.” Lady Jane rubbed his
arm, a brisk wake-up to the moment. “How awful for you, to be obliged to such a
woman.” Her words unwittingly appropriate. Only he didn’t feel awful, or
obliged, when he should.

“It’s this weather,” he lied. “It’s
a worry, for the crops.”

“Crops this, crops that, is that
all you gentleman can discuss? At a ball? Surely there are more important
things than rotting seeds to draw your interest! You aren’t in the country
where one is doomed to boredom.”

Felicity understood the worry, the
consequences of blossoms not blooming. But he must not think of Felicity now.
Rude of him, with another lady on his arm. He would have a lifetime to think of
Felicity.