Doomsday Brethren, Book 04: Entice Me at Twilight (4 page)

Mason was in love with her.

Bloody hell!
How had she missed it?

The air was suddenly gone from her lungs, and she tried to gasp for a breath. “H-how long have you felt this way?”

He hesitated, heaved a reluctant sigh. “Almost from the beginning. I-I wanted to give you plenty of time and space to truly know me, be certain I would never hurt you, before—”

“You think learning that you kept your feelings from me for years doesn’t hurt?” Betrayal and panic overwhelmed her. Her one safe haven had become the very thing she feared most.

What the devil was she supposed to do, now as a houseful of wedding guests awaited them?

He inched forward, cupped her cheeks. Shoving against his chest, Felicia backed away. “Don’t. Just … don’t.”

“You’re panicking, and there’s no need. This is
me
! You know everything about me, from my favorite songs to the sorts of socks I prefer.”

Yes, she had known everything about Mason … except what was in his heart. The fact that he’d spring this on her now made her wonder how much he really understood her or respected the agreement they’d made.

Most women would be thrilled with his sudden revelation, but it terrified Felicia. She didn’t need a psychologist to understand why an orphan would crave a family of her own. She’d wanted one, provided she didn’t have to risk her heart. Now? She clenched her fists, dread coiling in her heart.

As she tried to grapple with a world gone topsy-turvy, Mason grabbed her and pressed a quick kiss to her lips, startling her all over again.

She pulled away. “Don’t do this.”

“I thought I could keep my feelings to myself, but …” With a solemn stare, he shook his head. “I want all of you, not just the parts you’re willing to share. I’m sorry I’m changing everything we agreed to, but with time, I know you’ll love me back.”

“Mason, I don’t think I’m capable of reciprocating and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You
are
capable. In time, you’ll see I’m right.” His expression softened, imploring her—something his adversaries
in court never saw. “The ceremony starts in a few minutes. Please be there with a smile. Everything will work out, I promise. At the stroke of midnight, we’ll start a new year and our new lives together.”

He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek and left the room. Felicia watched him, anger and fear tangling inside her. For weeks now a voice had been niggling in the back of her head, asking her if marrying Mason was a mistake, and she’d been denying it. He was a wonderful man, would make the most attentive of fathers. They wanted the same things. How could they lose, right? They’d agreed that love wouldn’t enter into the equation. But now …

What if she ended up hurting her best friend?

Felicia swallowed. That was the last thing she wanted to happen. What the devil should she do to prevent it? Backing out now would pain him. But if she married him to spare him, would he wake up one day, after they’d had a child or two, and realize his love would always be unrequited? How much more would that hurt?

Her first instinct was to break the engagement, but Mason was the first person with whom she shared any accomplishment or problem. The one who told her—before anyone else—of his triumphs and disappointments. Mason’s voice was the one she most looked forward to hearing each morning, and the one she needed to hear when nightmares of Deirdre plagued her. If she broke the engagement, and broke his heart, would he ever speak to her again? What would they do without each other?

Her stomach seemed to drop to her toes. She either had to accept his feelings or call off the wedding—and she must decide quickly.

Before she could puzzle it out, Mason spoke in the hallway outside her bedroom. “Hello, Mother.”

“Mason!” the Dowager Duchess of Hurstgrove and Felicia’s future mother-in-law exclaimed, shocked. “Were you—” she sputtered. “Did you see Felicia before the ceremony?”

“I did, and she looks lovely. Did you need something?”

His voice made a hundred emotions collide inside Felicia.

Resisting the urge to cry, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She’d sought marriage to a friend who would care about her, work with her to build a solid future. A good husband, a nice job until the children came, a house in a quiet suburb, weekends in the park, holidays at the shore.

With a few words, Mason had changed everything. That fact was like a hot knife to the chest. Her future had become a frightening chasm.

“Have you seen your brother?” the dowager asked.

“
Half
brother,” Mason muttered. “The freak.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d heard Mason’s opinion of His Grace. She’d met the man once, just yesterday, so Felicia couldn’t comment except to say he deserved his status as England’s most eligible bachelor. He was titled, rich, and dangerously good looking. Many women fancied themselves in love with him. For a chance to win His Grace’s heart, these stupid cows gave away their bodies and opened up their hearts. Felicia shuddered to think how many of them he’d crushed under his very expensive boots.

“Mason,” his mother chastised. “He
is
your brother.”

Except for their similar coloring and eyes, Felicia would have never guessed it. The brothers’ personalities were night and day.

Mason sighed. “No, I haven’t seen him. I told you he wasn’t reliable.”

Thoughts racing, Felicia bit her lip. If His Grace failed to appear for the ceremony, perhaps they’d have to postpone it. That would buy her time to think about her dilemma with
Mason.

“Hello, dear.” The Dowager Duchess peeked her head inside the room. “You look lovely, but terrified. Smile.”

Felicia glided toward her on numb legs and did her best to comply, though it felt wooden. When Mason edged closer, he saw through her façade. His stare asked what she was going to do. She didn’t have a clue.

The dowager turned and wagged a bejeweled finger in Mason’s face. “Simon will come, and when he does, you boys will get along. No fighting. Do I make myself clear?”

Mason slanted his mother a long-suffering smile. “Indeed. What shall I tell him?”

“I need him in the sanctuary right away.”

“Of course,” Mason put a hand to the small of his mother’s back and escorted her to the stairs. “I’ll send him straight on.”

The dowager looked at her younger son over the shoulder of her beaded, pale blue dress. “Come. You’re not supposed to see the bride before the ceremony. It really
is
bad luck.”

“Give me one moment,” he pressed, his understanding smile disappearing the moment she fell from view. Then he faced Felicia. “Why did I let her talk me into this silly notion that we’d achieve instant family harmony if I asked Simon to be my best man?”

Because Mason tried to please his mother, and no one could fault him for it. Down to his core, he was good and decent. Over the years, he’d comforted her during some of her lowest moments. Felicia could almost believe they could salvage their future together. Almost. Why couldn’t he be content to remain her friend?

Mason cursed. “Simon must stop shagging his tarts long enough to get presentable and greet our guests.”

Felicia had read the tabloid accounts of His Grace’s
very
active dating life, the lewd suggestions. No proof, but there were always pictures of him with beauties at this function or that. Of course he had no trouble finding women willing to have sex with him. His Grace had even made her belly flip when she’d first met him. Their handshake had given her a jolt—literally. One touch, and her skin had heated, her heart stuttered.

Sophisticated, gorgeous, insanely masculine—everything about the man sent up her danger signals.

“Tart
s
, plural?”

“Indeed. He once shagged four women to exhaustion in less than thirty-six hours.”

The tabloids had never mentioned
that
.

“His thirtieth birthday present to himself,” Mason sneered. “In the middle of the party, he sneaked upstairs with his girlfriend. As the party went on, they were rutting away. My poor mother tried to make excuses. He never did blow out his candles. And a few hours later, he—”

“Hours?”

“Indeed. His supermodel of the moment, Cara, actually passed out, and Simon lurched down the back stairs into the kitchen, half-mad. He grabbed another woman—my French tutor, of all people! They disappeared for more than a few ticks of the clock. At the end of the party, a few women still loitered, I think hoping to be nearby when the very eligible Simon Northam appeared again. And they were. And still he kept rutting, even through an odd sort of earthquake that brought the upstairs roof down. He barely even noticed!”

Since there was no stench or nausea, Felicia knew what Mason said was true. Many women were bubble-headed enough to care only about His Grace’s pretty title, face, and bank balance. On one level, she understood. Something about him was … compelling. But Simon Northam clearly
took advantage of his appeal. What sort of man treated women so disrespectfully? A selfish wanker who led a life of privilege and assumed no one was as important as he. A practiced seducer accustomed to having his every whim fulfilled, with little care whose heart he broke. The type of cad who had been Deirdre’s death knell.

By contrast, Mason was a good man. He’d never use and discard women like toothpicks. Even so … could she marry him, knowing he had vastly different expectations for their union? She
did
care for him. Was it fair to walk way without trying to love him? If she married him, he would do his utmost to treat her well. If she left now, eventually she would have to date. The singles scene would be filled with sharks like Hurstgrove. What the devil was she going to do?

“Felicia, darling.” He grabbed her hands. “Stop worrying. I know your concerns. I’ve no doubt your mind and heart are racing madly—”

The door behind her fiancé opened, and Mason whirled around at the intrusion. The Duke of Hurstgrove lurched into the hall, looking utterly disheveled.

Felicia gasped. Her heart jumped in her chest.

Dark hair fell into his unshaven face, which looked as if it had been used as a punching bag. One eye was blackening. A cut rent his lip. His bow tie sat askew, and his shirt gaped open, exposing flashes of a bronzed chest. He swayed on his feet, gripping the door frame for support, his knuckles bleeding. Every muscle in his torso rippled. Distress and heat washed over Felicia.

He and Mason had the same glossy brown hair, chocolate eyes, and strong jaw. Despite the dozen years between them, they looked the same age. But the resemblance ended there. Rather than Mason’s boxer’s nose, a strong, aristocratic one bisected Hurstgrove’s face. A cleft dimpled the duke’s square
chin. High cheekbones slashed each side of his face. When he wasn’t arguing a case, Mason exuded an affable charm. His Grace put off something darkly riveting, an air of mystery. And charisma. The man oozed sex. Just looking at him caused electricity to sizzle across Felicia’s skin.

Damn it, she refused to be attracted to him, even in passing. He was the sort of man she detested—lascivious, selfish, completely unaware of the pain he left in his wake. Her odd, visceral reaction to him made little sense.

“You’re late,” Mason spat to his brother. “You’ve been … fighting? Bloody hell! Shave and get dressed so we can carry on.”

Hurstgrove grabbed Mason by the lapels and shoved him against the wall. “I need a list of every guest attending and every person working this wedding.”

Mason pushed him away. “What you need is to piss off and get dressed. You can’t go anywhere like this. You look like a ruffian.”

His Grace’s fists tightened in Mason’s lapels. “I need that list.
Now!”

Felicia frowned. What the devil was wrong with the man?

“I’m getting married and spending the rest of my life being happy,” Mason growled back. “You might try doing the same before you disgrace all of us.”

“I’m not letting go until you get me the damn list!”

“I have it,” Felicia hissed at Hurstgrove. “I’ll give it to you, if you’ll take your hands off him.”

In an instant, he released Mason and turned all his formidable attention on her, his gaze heavy, hot, burning. Fury and impatience and something she couldn’t identify hit her. She swallowed and stiffened her spine, resisting the urge to step back.

“Get it,” he snapped. Then, to her surprise, he added
more gently, “Please.”

Felicia cast a glance at Mason, who nodded. Rattled by fury and a dark thrill she couldn’t explain, she stepped past the men and entered the bedroom she’d used to dress. Inside her tote she found her master lists. Why would His Grace want them? To make certain she hadn’t invited the paparazzi? Lord knew they hounded the man. Whatever the reason, if surrendering the list kept him from strangling Mason, she’d do it. Then she’d give him a piece of her mind.

As soon as she figured out whether she should continue with the wedding.

When she returned to the hall, another man had crowded into the little landing area, this one tall and blond, wearing muddy jeans and boots. His authoritative air and razor-sharp gaze gave her pause.

“The bride, Miss Safford,” Hurstgrove said to the newcomer.

She waited, but His Grace didn’t bother to introduce his friend to her. Not that it mattered. But did the man think her beneath him and his chum? Felicia gritted her teeth, shoving the thought away. Reconsidering her pending marriage to Mason was far more important.

“She has the list,” he told the blond man as he grabbed it from her and began to scan.

“Stop.” Mason’s demand was low, cold. “It’s one thing for you to be rude to me. We’re hardly best mates anymore. But you will not behave so badly to my wife.”

“My deepest apologies, Miss Safford.” He looked directly at her with those dark eyes that made her shiver. Then he turned to Mason. “She’s your
fiancée.
”

“A quarter-hour will change that.” Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you
dare
think differently. I know you too well.”

Hurstgrove raised a haughty brow.

“Leave Felicia alone, or I swear I will never speak to you again, Mother be damned,” Mason threatened.