The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) (31 page)

The Right Honorable The Viscount
and Lady Whitingdon
request the honor of your presence
at the mariage of their daughter
Miss Felicia Abigail
to
The Right honorable
The Viscount Stiller
on Wednesday, June ninth
eighteen hundred and seventy-nine
at eleven o’clock
FairboroughThall chapel

“You do realize . . .” Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, drew a deep breath and chose his words with care, sending a silent prayer of gratitude toward the heavens that, at the moment, he was more shocked than angered, although he suspected anger was not far off. He tried again. “You do realize Fairborough Hall is filled nearly to overflowing with guests of your family’s and mine?”

“Of course I do.” Felicia waved off the comment.

“And each and every one of them is expecting a wedding.” Win stared. “Tomorrow.”

“I realize that as well.” She shook her head and sighed. “It is most awkward.”

“Awkward?” His voice rose. “Awkward?”

“If you are going to take that tone with me, Winfield Elliott, I shall leave this house at once.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And you shall have to deal with this awkwardness without me.”

Win clenched his jaw and tried to remain calm. “Then perhaps you could desist referring to all this merely as awkward.”

“Very well.” She shrugged. “How would you prefer I refer to it?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “I have never been told on the day before my wedding by my intended, that while she was quite fond of me, she much preferred to marry someone else, thank you very much!”

“Goodness, it’s not as if I have left you waiting for me at the altar. That would be most embarrassing.”

“Ah well then, I do thank you for that.”

“Sarcasm, Winfield, will not make this any less difficult.” Her brows drew together over her sapphire eyes. “And I should think you would indeed be grateful for that.”

“Grateful?” He sputtered. “
Grateful?
” In his twenty-five years he didn’t think he’d ever sputtered. Never imagined he could. Why, his father sputtered. And Colonel Channing from Millworth Manor sputtered. And a number of older gentlemen at the club in London his father had insisted he join, as his grandfather had belonged and his father before that, sputtered. Indeed, Winfield Elliott was the kind of man who caused others to sputter in disbelief or surprise or, on occasion, shock, but he certainly never sputtered himself. “Grateful that you did not actually leave me standing at the altar?”

“Well, yes.” She tucked a stray strand of midnight-black hair back into place. “I had hoped to make this as painless as possible.”

“For whom?”

“For both of us,” she said sharply. “This is not exactly what I had planned, you know.” She turned away and meandered around the perimeter of the library in a manner entirely too casual for the occasion. As if the topic of discussion was of no more importance than whether they should picnic near the lake or by the rose garden. It was as disconcerting as the discussion itself. “I fully intended to marry you.” She trailed her fingers over the edge of the desk. “I certainly wouldn’t have allowed all these preparations otherwise.” She glanced at him. “And I am sorry.”

“Well, as long as you’re sorry.”

Her brow furrowed and she stared at him. “You’re really quite surprised, aren’t you?”

“Surprised is the very least of what I am.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Come now, Winfield, it’s not as if you were in love with me.”

“I was not . . .
not
in love with you.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means that I fully expected to love you someday. I expected love between us to grow.” Somehow, that didn’t sound quite as good as he’d thought it would. “I like you a great deal.” Oh yes, that was much better. “I thought we were well suited to one another.”

“Yes, well, there was that.” She cast him a pleasant smile. “I must admit, the idea of spending the rest of my days with you was not the least bit daunting. Indeed, it had a great deal of appeal.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Nonsense, Winfield , of course you do. You’re simply letting the . . . oh, I don’t know . . . sentimentality of the moment confuse you.” She continued her casual progress around the room. “But even you admit you and I were never a love match.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“So, although we do like one another—and make no mistake about it, I do like you—”

“Imagine my delight,” he muttered.

She ignored him. “Our marriage was more of a practical matter, almost a business arrangement, really.”

He stared. “That’s rather cold.”

“Granted, it’s not quite that callous and, as I said, I do like you.” She thought for a moment. “But I’m certainly not in love with you, nor are you in love with me.”

“I could be,” he said staunchly.

“But you’re not. Tell me, Winfield.” She pinned him with a firm look. “Does your heart flutter when you hear my voice or your eyes meet mine?”

“Well, no but—”

“And when I kiss you, do your toes curl?”

“Not that I have noticed but—”

“Nor do mine. And Winfield . . .” Her gaze met his firmly. “Can you imagine living the rest of your life without me?”

“No,” he snapped.

She raised a brow.

“Perhaps,” he muttered.

“Of course you can. This would be an entirely different matter if we were in love with one another, but as we aren’t . . .” She shrugged.

“Are you in love with him then?” He strode across the room, yanked open the bottom drawer of the desk where his father had long hid a bottle of his favorite Scottish whisky, as his mother did not especially approve of hard spirits. He grabbed the bottle and one of two glasses stored with it, and poured a glass.

“It’s rather early in the day for that, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t.” He took a long swallow. “Indeed, on the day before your wedding when your fiancée informs you there shall be no wedding, I don’t believe there is any such thing as too early in the day.” He glared at her. “Do you?”

“I suppose not.”

“And you have yet to answer my question.” He wasn’t sure why he cared, why it seemed rather important to him. And yet it did. “Are you in love with him?”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? I’m no more in love with him than I am with you, but I am confident I will be one day. I suspect he is in love with me, which is a delightful idea.”

“One wouldn’t think he would come all the way here to propose marriage on the day before your wedding to another man if he wasn’t.” He considered her for a moment. “Unless, of course, he is interested in your inheritance.”

“Nonsense. He already has an impressive fortune and is heir to a dukedom. If anything, I am interested in his prospects, not the other way around.” She shook her head and sighed as if he was entirely too simple-minded to understand. “Even in this modern day and age, women like myself of good family are expected to make the best match possible. It’s the way women improve themselves. And as Harold’s uncle is a duke, and he is his uncle’s only heir, his elderly uncle, it only makes sense for me to marry him as you will only ever be an earl.”

“So you have found a better way to improve yourself than by marrying me?”

“Exactly.” She cast him a satisfied smile. “Besides, he claims to love me, whereas you only plan to love me. All in all, Winfield, even you must admit Harold is a much better choice.”

“You do realize you have broken my heart,” he said in a manner even he knew was perhaps more dramatic than necessary.

“Nonsense, I don’t believe that for a moment. If I did . . .”

“If you did, what?” He sipped his whisky and studied her.

“If I did . . .” She drew a deep breath. “I probably wouldn’t have had the courage to break it off with you directly. I didn’t have to, you know. I simply could have failed to appear at the wedding or sent you a carefully worded note. But your affections are not overly engaged and you well know it.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“It’s your pride that is, well, not broken exactly but bent a bit, wounded perhaps. As is to be expected.” She considered him thoughtfully. “Therefore if you wish to let it be known that the cancellation of our wedding was my doing, I would certainly understand, although . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, I would much prefer if the rest of the world did not know I was the one who broke off things between us to marry a man with better prospects.”

He snorted. “In spite of the fact that you are.”

“I know that and you know that, but there’s no need for others to know.”

“I daresay people will notice when you marry Mr. Hedges-Smythe.”

She waved off his comment. “Oh, I have no intention of marrying Harold any time soon. We shall wait a suitable period.” She frowned. “I should think three months would be long enough, don’t you?”

“No.” He huffed.

“Perhaps you’re right.” She considered the question. “Six months would be better. I would hate to appear shallow.”

“We wouldn’t want that.”

“Sarcasm, Winfield.” She shook her head. “It would reflect poorly on you too, you know. My being seen as shallow and preferring one man over another simply because of his title. Why, you might even be viewed as somewhat pathetic. At the very least, people will wonder whatever were you thinking.”

“I’m beginning to wonder that myself,” he said under his breath. Still, there was no need to make this worse. He drew a deep breath. “I would propose then that we simply let it be known that by mutual agreement, we have decided not to wed.”

“That will do nicely.” She paused. “I do appreciate it, Winfield.” She hesitated. “This is not as easy for me as it might appear. I am exceptionally fond of you as well. I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to marry you otherwise. But I do have to think of my future and, well, you have my sincere apologies.”

He stared at her for a long moment. She was as beautiful as she had always been, as charming and amusing as well. And she was right.

He had no doubt he would have loved her one day, but he certainly didn’t love her now. His heart was not broken, although it did feel a bit chipped. Still, that might well be his pride.

Felicia was perfect for him and would have been a perfect Countess of Fairborough one day. She did seem to be everything he had ever wanted. Or everything he had ever thought he had wanted. But perhaps this was for the best.

Did he really want to marry a woman who was only his because nothing better had come along?

“It’s amazing to me how quickly guests take their leave when there is the possibility of becoming embroiled in something awkward.” The Countess of Fairborough swept into the library and sank into the nearest chair with a sigh of exhaustion. “It’s only slightly less amazing than those who wish to linger and view the destruction firsthand. Like those people who flock to fires only to see the ruin they have wrought.”

Win stood near the fireplace, yet another glass of whisky in his hand. He and his father had retired to the library late this morning shortly after Felicia and her parents had departed, accompanied, of course, by Mr. Hedges-Smythe. Perhaps Felicia had had the courage to face Win directly, but facing anyone else was a different matter entirely. Indeed, her entourage had been prepared to flee the moment she’d called off the wedding, leaving Win and his family to deal with the guests and all else that accompanied cancelled nuptials. They had made a brief announcement to those who had gathered for luncheon, and his mother had spent the rest of the day bidding farewell to guests and agreeing that yes, it was a shame, but it was probably for the best. Win and his father had taken refuge—some might say hidden—in the library.

He glanced at his father seated in the chair that matched his mother’s, a glass in his hand as well. “Why does every female here insist on calling this awkward? Awkward is the very least of what this is.”

Father shrugged. “Perhaps because if they were to use words like devastating or disastrous it would seem so much more . . .”

“Devastating?” Win raised a brow. “Disastrous?”

“Perhaps a little less sarcasm . . .” his mother said under her breath.

Win stared at her.

“Oh dear, I am sorry.” She ran her hand over her forehead. “Forgive me, dearest, none of this is your fault. It’s been a very long day and not at all the day I expected, and I might be a bit, oh, out of sorts.”

His father snorted.

Mother continued without pause. “Indeed, I think your wit is most amusing. I can’t imagine any woman who wouldn’t think so. You are charming and handsome and dashing, you’re quite clever and really all any woman could possibly want.”

“Unless she wished to become a duchess someday,” his father said in a cool tone.

“There is that,” Win muttered and took another sip. He had resisted the inclination to drink steadily through the course of the day and drown his sorrows as it were. The realization that he wasn’t as much sorrowful as annoyed tempered that desire. Indeed, the thought had already crossed his mind that not marrying Felicia was a better idea than marrying her, even if it had not been his idea.

“Well,” Mother began in a brisk voice. “What do you intend to do now?”

Win raised his glass.

She frowned. “You cannot spend the rest of your life with your head in a bottle, dear.”

“Good Lord, Margaret, leave the boy alone,” his father said sharply. “A man who has been thrown over on the day before his wedding has earned the right to seek solace in oblivion for, oh, a week at least, I would think.”

“I doubt that I will need that much time, Father,” Win said with a wry smile. “Apparently I am not as crushed as one would expect. Disappointed, yes—my pride has definitely been wounded—but all in all . . .” He thought for a moment. “I believe I am escaping relatively unscathed.”

His parents traded glances.

“Then you were not in love with her?” Caution sounded in his mother’s voice.

“I liked her a great deal. I believe now I might well have been infatuated with her and we were well suited to one another. I can think of any number of couples who do not have that much. I assumed love would come in time.” Win considered the question for a moment. “I suppose I thought, given as everyone else thought we were the perfect match, that we, well, were.” He chuckled. “And we probably would have been for the rest of our lives had not a better catch come along. I expected to love her, sooner rather than later really, but, no, I was not in love with her.”

“That’s something at any rate.” Mother blew a relieved breath. “I do hope you do not allow this to discourage you, dear. There are any number of charming young ladies who would be most interested should you do little more than glance in their direction. Why, I can name a dozen off the top of my head. After a suitable interval—”

He laughed. “And what is suitable in circumstances such as this?”

“I’d say about the time her engagement to another man is announced to be more than long enough,” Father muttered.

Mother cast him an annoyed glance. “Long enough that it does not appear you threw her over for someone else.” Her lips pressed together in a prim line. “I don’t know why you wish for everyone to think calling off the wedding was by mutual accord. I think she should be known for the . . . the . . . the opportunist she is.”

“First of all, I would much prefer not to be the object of pity,” Win said firmly. “And there is much less chance of that if this is seen as being amicable.”

“Still, people will talk. There’s bound to be a certain amount of gossip.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “Why, no doubt, conclusions will be drawn as to your behavior. They’ll assume you did something dreadful. You do have a reputation for fast living, you know.”

“Excellent.” Father nodded. “I would much rather it be thought that my son did something unforgivable in the eyes of his fiancée rather than that he was nearly taken in by a girl who was little more than a fortune hunter.” He aimed a pointed look at his son. “Most women, interesting women that is, especially those suitable for a man of your prospects, are most intrigued by a man whose reputation is not entirely spotless. A bit wicked, as it were.”

Mother gasped. “Roland!”

“Come now, Margaret, you must admit you were initially attracted to me because I was considered entirely too dangerous for a young lady of good breeding.”

“I was not!” Indignation sounded in her voice. “Why, I never—”

“Oh, but you did, Margaret,” Father said with a smug smile. “You most certainly did.”

Win looked from one parent to the next. That was a story he had never been told. And one he wasn’t sure he ever wished to hear. There were some things about the past lives of one’s parents one should probably never know.

He cleared his throat and continued. “Secondly, Mother, consider this for a moment. If you had a daughter, would you not want her to make the best marriage possible?”

Mother sniffed. “Not at the expense of other people’s happiness.”

“Do you really think I would have been happy with someone who cared so little for me that they would cast me aside for someone with a larger fortune and grander title?” Win shook his head. “In truth, I think I have had a narrow escape and I feel quite lucky at the moment.” He grinned. “Indeed, this is entirely too good to waste. I believe I shall head to London tomorrow and try my hand at the gaming tables.”

“Well, next time, you shall have to choose someone—”

“Next time,” Win said in a no-nonsense tone. This was not up for discussion and the sooner his mother realized it the better. “Next time is very far away and not something I wish to consider at the moment.”

“Permit him to recover from this time first.” His father’s gaze met his. “Even though he is taking this debacle in stride, such things are never as easy as they look.”

“Thank you, Father.” Win smiled.

“I suppose,” Mother murmured.

“Oh and, Father, you had mentioned something about it being past time I learned management of the estate and the family’s business interests.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I agree. I know you had originally planned to divide those responsibilities between Gray and myself but, as we have no idea when he’ll return from his pursuit of success in America . . .” Win shrugged. “I am prepared to take it all on. Indeed, I look forward to it.”

“Then we shall begin at once. Well . . .” A slow, decidedly knowing smile spread across his father’s face. “When you return from London, that is.”

“No more than a week or so, I would think.”

“Take as long as you wish, Winfield.” Father nodded in a sage manner. “And do enjoy yourself.”

Again, Win was struck by all the things he didn’t know about his parents in their younger days. Still, from the few stories he had heard through the years, he had always suspected his father had indeed been something of a rake in his day. And the current Earl of Fairborough probably knew far better than his wife what it would take for his son to recover from his cancelled wedding.

His father would probably understand as well that there was an odd ache somewhere in the vicinity of Win’s heart. Not that Win would ever admit such a thing. No, this dull pain was a secret he doubted he would ever reveal to anyone. Besides, what could he say?

Did he ache for what he had lost?

Or for the shattered promise of what now would never be?