The Making of a Gentleman (15 page)

Once again, Felicity was tugged in front of the full-length mirror, and she had to admit with the gloves, the ribbon, and the new coiffure, she looked entirely presentable. She smiled at Gertrude in the glass. “The ribbon is perfect, Gertrude. I think I shall actually blend in.”

Gertrude snorted. “You’ll do more than that, miss. You’ll turn heads, I wager.”

“Yes, well, let’s not be that optimistic.” But inside she was hoping there was at least one comte who would take notice.

“You’d better hurry, miss. The carriage is still waiting, and the dowager’s note did say posthaste.”

Felicity took a deep breath. “Thank you for your help, Gertrude.”

The maid snorted again. “It was nothing. The next time I get summoned to a fancy party, you can help me.”

Felicity grasped her hand. “Count on it.”

She stepped out of her room and was surprised to see several servants, including Mrs. Eggers, the housekeeper, waiting on her. Within a matter of moments, she was pronounced acceptable and whisked down the stairs and into the carriage. As usual, the London streets were packed with conveyances. The carriage moved very slowly, and it was three-quarters of an hour before she finally climbed out of the carriage and stood before Lady Spencer’s door. Lady Spencer was truly a neighbor of the Valères’, and Felicity suspected that had she walked, she would have been at the door within five minutes. She smiled, thinking of the horrified reactions had she shown up on foot.

The door swung open, and a footman greeted her. “Welcome.” He moved aside, and Felicity stepped inside. Lady Spencer’s vestibule was not as grand as the Valères’, but it was tasteful and well-appointed. She was goggling at the huge chandelier above her when she heard a man clear his throat.

She blinked and stared into the eyes of the butler. “Good evening,” he said.

Felicity smiled. “Good evening.” She peered past his shoulder, hoping she might catch a glimpse of the dowager or the duchesse. She was
not
looking for the comte.

“How might I assist you?” the butler asked, and Felicity brought her attention back to him. She could see the problem immediately. He did not recognize her, and he was being careful not to offend her by asking who she was and why she was there. It seemed butlers always knew who did not belong.

“The dowager duchesse of Valère asked me to join her party. If you could tell me where I might find them?”

His expression changed completely, his eyes lighting and the dour tightness of his mouth vanishing. “Ah, you must be Miss Bennett. Right this way.”

Felicity had no time to ask how he knew her name or where they were going. She was led through a maze of rooms, all packed shoulder-to-shoulder with men and women dripping silk and diamonds. As she passed, their eyes touched on her, most showing little interest. After all, who was she?

The farther the butler led her, the more people Felicity encountered. Who were all of these men and women? The duchesse had said they would attend intimate affairs. Such a crush of people would surely have alarmed the comte. Was that why she had been called? Had the comte been overwhelmed?

Finally they reached the music room, and Felicity saw a pianoforte was in the center, circled on all sides by chairs. A few of the seats were taken, but most were empty. Strange, she thought. Had she already missed the musical portion of the evening? She glanced at those seated in the chairs but did not see the dowager or any of the Valères. She was about to repeat her request to be taken to the dowager, when the butler bowed and said, “Lady Spencer, I present Miss Bennett.”

The butler moved aside, and a woman of forty or so, dressed in a crimson gown with matching rubies, raised her eyebrows. She was a small woman and a handsome one, her dark hair showing only the faintest traces of gray. She notched her brow higher, and Felicity belatedly realized she should curtsey.

She did so, clumsily, and said, “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

“Yes,” she drawled. “I was told you can play and play well. Is that true, Miss Bennett?”

Play? For a moment, Felicity was confused, and then she saw the vacant pianoforte behind Lady Spencer. “Ah, if you mean play the pianoforte, yes, I do play. I cannot vouch for my skills, however.”

“That has already been done. I’d like you to play a variety of pieces, something slow to start with, then more lively in the middle. Some Mozart might be nice.”

Felicity stared for a moment. “You want me to play?”

Lady Spencer looked at her.

“You want me to play for your guests?”

The woman looked bored. “Yes, of course. Why do you think you were summoned?”

Yes, why had she thought she’d been summoned? Because the dowager hoped to introduce her to the
ton
? Because Armand—no, he was the comte, most definitely only the comte to her—had asked for her?

Ridiculous. She could see that now. She had been called to perform for the aristocrats. Nothing more, nothing less. To serve them was to be her lot at present, and if she was disappointed now, it was her own fault.

“Are you able to play, Miss Bennett? If not, then I fear I shall have to send everyone home. The maestro I had hired for the evening is in bed with a fever, and one cannot exactly host a musicale without any music.”

“I see.” And she did see now. She saw perfectly. “Of course, I shall play.” She was already unbuttoning her gloves. “Would you like me to begin now?”

“Yes. I will gradually have everyone move into the music room. No point in making some grand announcement when the entertainment is one of the Valères’ servants,” she mumbled. “And Miss Bennett?”

Felicity stopped in her stiff-necked path to the pianoforte.

“If my opera singer deigns to make an appearance, I assume you can accompany her.”

Felicity nodded, her neck cracking with the effort. “I shall do my best, your ladyship.”

She sat at the pianoforte and tried to block out the noise, the tinkle of glasses, and the harsh sound of laughter. She was not nervous. She was too angry to be nervous. Why had the dowager not mentioned in her note that she would be playing? Then Felicity might have thought to take some of her sheet music along. Now she would have to play only pieces she knew by memory.

Across the room, Lady Spencer threw her an impatient scowl, and Felicity raised her hands. When she set them down on the keys, the sound was as angry as her emotions.

***

Armand could not breathe. He needed to find a way out of the masses of people before his hard-won control broke and he pushed them aside in an effort to escape. Beside him, Sarah talked away. She had introduced him to more women than he could count, and he had dutifully bowed and spoken of the weather to each. He did not have anything else to say to these women with their false smiles and their rouged skin.

He wanted to take off his shoes and rip the necktie from his throat. How could any man breathe in all of these clothes? And where the hell was the music? If the music started, then everyone might be distracted enough to allow him to escape. If he could only find a door…

“Lady Georgiana,” Sarah was saying to another of the tight-lipped women, “might I present my brother-in-law, the comte de Valère.”

The woman held out her hand, and Armand took it. He bowed, aware he was sweating now. He needed to escape. “A pleasure, Lady Georgiana,” he said.

“Oh, but I adore your accent, my lord.” The woman giggled, blinking at him six or seven times in rapid succession.

“Do you have something in your eye?” he asked.

“Armand,” Sarah said, laying a hand lightly on the sleeve of his coat—a sign, he knew, he had said something inappropriate. “Lady Georgiana’s country home is but a few miles from your brother’s in Southampton. We are neighbors.”

“Yes,” the woman said, blinking again. “And now that we have been introduced, I shall have Mama invite you over for tea.”

Armand did not particularly care to be invited for tea, so he said nothing. The silence dragged on a moment, and Sarah squeezed his sleeve again. Armand sighed. “Nice weather we are having,” he said mechanically.

“Oh, but isn’t it? Why just the other day I bought the most beautiful spencer, and now I wonder if I shall ever have the opportunity to wear—”

The first strains of a pianoforte sounded, mercifully interrupting the woman’s babbling. Armand turned quickly to be certain the music was not his imagination. Others were craning their necks, as well, which meant they heard it, too. Now was his chance to escape. He needed to get out of this stifling room, but more than that, he wanted to go home, to make sure Miss Bennett was well. He had been away too long. What if she was hurt or in danger?

“Ah, it sounds as though the music has finally begun,” Sarah said. “Armand, come and sit with me.”

He whipped his head back to stare at her. Damned if he was going to be imprisoned inside this dungeon of people any longer. Even the music was not enough to calm him at this point.

“You go ahead,” he ground out. “I will join you.” He began to move away, but Sarah was in front of him.

“I think you will be interested to see the pianist tonight. Please, come and sit with me.” She was hissing at him, so he hissed back.

“I don’t care who is playing. Get Julien to sit with you.” And he tried, once again, to step around her.

Once again, she danced in front of him. Her smile was huge and fake for the benefit of others who might be watching. “I insist you come and sit with me. Your mother will have saved us two seats.”

She took his hand, and though the pain of her touch annoyed him, he allowed himself to be pulled along. Once they were seated, he could escape and be home, in his garden, in a matter of minutes. His mother was waiting for them just inside the music room, and she pointed to two empty seats beside her. Armand frowned when he saw they were right next to the pianoforte. He did not like to have so many people behind him. Sarah tried to pull him forward, but he resisted. If he had to sit here, he would sit in the rear, his back against the wall. That was the only way he would feel comfortable—if comfort was even an option in this small room crushed with people.

But as soon as he began to retreat, the music changed. Something about it seemed familiar, and he glanced at the player.

His heart stopped for a full second when he saw her. She had that effect on him each time he came across her after any length of absence. And now, in a dress that was as blue as her eyes, she was even more beautiful than he remembered.

She was here, and she was safe. And he wanted her. The Rules be damned. He could not follow them any longer. Would not.

Tonight he would have her.

Felicity sensed a change in the air as soon as the comte entered the room. She didn’t know how she knew he had come in, but somehow the temperature grew warmer, the colors more vivid, the sound of the keys more sonorous.

She looked up and met his eyes just as he saw her. He had been in the process of backing out of the room, but as soon as their gazes held, he paused. She could feel her cheeks heat at the look he gave her. No wonder the room was so warm. His eyes burned into her with a fierceness that made her blood race through her veins.

Did he look at every woman that way, or was it just her? For the moment, she wanted to believe that look of passion was for her alone.

Pulling her gaze away was one of the most difficult tasks she had ever faced, but she knew she must do so if she were to finish the piece without mistakes. She couldn’t even remember what she played anymore, but she knew the next section was difficult, and she must concentrate.

That was easier said than done when, in her peripheral vision, she saw the comte take his place beside the dowager and the duchesse. With those eyes on her, burning into her, she could hardly breathe, much less concentrate on the music. Was he aware that he was sitting in the midst of so many people? She knew he hated to have anyone stand behind him, and he hated to be stuck indoors almost as much. Was he improving, or were these concessions to his comfort made for her?

She finished the piece to a smattering of applause and began the next. She chose only fast pieces now, to match the rhythm of her heart and because she wanted this performance to be over as quickly as possible. She wanted to speak with the comte, to be near to him.

The applause grew as she finished each piece, and she noticed gradually that the room was full. Several men, including the duc, lingered about the edges of the room, where there was now only space to stand. She thought playing for such a large, distinguished audience should make her nervous, but only the gaze of the comte
could accomplish that tonight.

Finally, she played what she considered her final piece and rose to curtsey quickly, but Lady Spencer had other plans. She ushered in a lavishly dressed and coiffed woman of twenty-five or so, introducing her as the newest opera sensation.

“And I just know Miss Bennett will be thrilled to accompany such a virtuoso as this!”

Felicity sighed and sank back down on the bench. She was not at all thrilled to accompany an opera singer—virtuoso or not. She had not wanted to play in the first place, and now all she could think about was the comte.

But she dutifully conferred with the woman on the selections—mercifully, the singer had brought her own sheet music—and began the first piece. The opera singer was good, but Felicity heard little to nothing of her singing. She could not stop glancing at the comte, could not stop praying he would not leave yet. She knew the crowds were difficult for him. But if he could just hold out a little longer…

Then what? What exactly was she expecting to happen?

She knew what would most likely happen—she would be thanked for her services and sent back to the duc’s town house while the comte stayed and flirted with more of the women deemed appropriate for him. Felicity could express her anger and outrage at having been used so, but would that accomplish anything more than making her feel better for a few hours?

She glanced at the comte again, felt the heat coil in her belly. Despite her best efforts, she was becoming more attracted to the comte each passing day. She would like nothing more than to kiss him, be held by him… go to bed with him?

Yes, if she was truly being honest, she wanted that, as well. And surely that would be the end of her position and, when she had to explain to Charles, the end of her betrothal. She did not think he would care—as long as she could pay him.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the opera singer began her last aria. Felicity played it diligently, but her heart was not in it, and she was relieved when the performance was finally over and the singer curtseyed and blew kisses.

Felicity intended to escape while the crowds descended on the singer to congratulate her, but as soon as she rose and moved away from the bench, she found herself encircled by men and women eager to heap praises on her. With the pianoforte behind her, there was nowhere to escape. She was trapped with what now appeared to be an adoring public. Had she really played that well? She did not care. She craned her neck in an effort to spot the comte, but she could not see him.

Curses! He had probably fled, and now she would have no opportunity to see him tonight.

She tried to smile and look pleased at the congratulations the crowd about her thrust upon her, but she could barely hear the accolades. She wanted to escape and had a moment of sympathy for what the comte must feel.

And then, at the back of the crowd around her, she noticed a commotion. Several people were being jostled, and someone was raising his voice.

Felicity’s breath caught in her throat as she realized exactly whose voice that was—the comte. As she watched, he shouldered his way through the crowds, elbowing anyone who did not move aside quickly enough. The look on his face was almost feral when he finally caught a glimpse of her.

“No, my lord,” she breathed, even though she knew he could not hear over the din of the crowd. “I am fine. I’m not hurt.”

But he either could not see how she waved her hands at him to stop, or he was too bent on rescuing her to care, because he continued forward, finally reaching her and grasping her hand.

“My lord, I’m fine. No one meant any harm. They were congratulating me.”

“Come with me,” he demanded, but Felicity dug in her feet.

“No, my lord. That would not be—”

“I don’t care about your rules. I don’t want another wife. I want you. Come with me now.”

Felicity could only imagine the gossip that would already be circulating tonight. If she left with the comte, it would be ten times worse. She might not even keep her position through until the morning.

She looked him in the eye, prepared to resist, prepared to tell him in no uncertain terms that, under no circumstances, would she run away with him. But as soon as their eyes met, she knew she could not refuse him. She knew she loved him. All of her feeble protests were nothing more than lies to herself. She loved this man, and she knew she would do anything for him.

“I’ll go with you.” She put her hand in his, saw the way his eyes registered at first disbelief and then a male smugness that must be instinctual. He clasped her hand tightly in his and tried to pull her forward, but the crowds were interested in more than just the talented pianist now. They wanted to see what the comte de Valère was going to do with her.

The comte tried pushing them aside, and he made some progress that way, but he could not pull Felicity through with him. She was lost in the sea of bodies that closed in behind him, only their hands remaining locked against the wave of encroaching humanity.

Finally, he turned, parted the sea once again, and came to stand before her. Felicity was not certain what he was going to do, but the look in his eyes was enough to have her shaking her head. “No, my lord. No!” She barely eked out the last word before he swept her up into his arms and tossed her over his shoulder.

Felicity let out an undignified oomph and tried to catch her balance as her world spun upside down. She heard a gasp and a scream, and then she was bouncing through the crowds, which she noticed, parted quite easily at this point. She saw a swirl of faces, among then the dowager duchesse’s. To her surprise, the woman did not look shocked. She looked almost pleased with what she saw. Felicity closed her eyes in understanding. The dowager had not arranged for her to be here because she cared whether Lady Spencer’s musicale was a success. She had wanted Felicity and her son together. Perhaps she had even wanted this scene, the outcome of which would link Felicity and Armand together forever in the eyes of the
ton
.

The comte arrowed for the nearest exit and then through the French doors to the garden. Felicity blinked as the cool night air swirled around her. The lights from Lady Spencer’s town house faded away, and she began to struggle.

“Let me down.”

“Not yet. You’re coming with me.”

“Yes, well obviously you’ve given me little choice in that matter. You know you have broken the rules irreparably this time, don’t you?”

“I don’t care.”

At the moment, Felicity did not care either. He swung her down, setting her on her feet but keeping hold of her arms. When her head stopped spinning, she looked about and noted they were standing at the back gate to the Valères’ garden. The Spencer town house had been even closer than she had judged.

She looked up at the comte, saw his eyes glitter in the dark. “So beautiful,” he said and reached out a hand to trace a lock of hair that had come loose from her coils. Actually, she could feel her hair tumbling down her back and curling in the breeze. It must all be loose.

“Your brother is going to be furious,” she whispered as his hand slid down her neck. But she knew it would be some time before the duc and duchesse managed to escape Lady Spencer’s. The gossip would have to be dealt with, the carriage called, and the return to the town house could take an hour in the crowded streets.

“So beautiful,” the comte said again, and now he latched one finger under the satin material at her shoulder and pushed it down, revealing that shoulder and her upper arm.

“My lord,” she breathed.

“Armand,” he said, meeting her eyes. He caressed her shoulder, sending delicious shivers up her spine. “Felicity.” Oh, how she loved the sound of her name on his tongue. He bent to kiss her, and she heard him whisper, “Mine.”

As their lips met, she knew tonight she would be his.

***

This was what he had wanted. Armand knew the moment his mouth slanted over hers, that this was what he had wanted his whole life. He had thought he desired freedom, independence, land in the country. But now he knew none of that could compare to the feel of Felicity’s mouth on his, her skin under his fingers, her soft moan when he pulled her close. She was not his wife, and this might be breaking The Rules, but he did not care. He had had enough of Rules forever. Enough of women who smiled at him with their lips but not with their eyes.

And he had had enough of crowded rooms and tight clothing and people at his back. He needed air and space—and he needed the woman in his arms. He was taking her.

He lifted a hand and ran it through her hair. He had wanted to touch that yellow hair for so long. It was far softer than he could have imagined—softer than his pet rat had ever been. And it was heavy. He fisted a hand in it, liking the feel of the softness against his skin. Touching Felicity never caused him pain, and he could not get enough of her.

Gently, he pulled her head back, giving himself better access to her mouth. He parted from her for a moment, pulled away just to look at her. With her head thrown back and her eyes closed, she looked more beautiful than he had ever imagined in his dreams. He wanted to kiss her mouth, her eyes, her face—every inch of her.

But not here. Not standing in the open garden. There were still men keeping watch on the house and the garden, and he wanted to be far away from their eyes. During the summer, he often preferred to sleep outside. In the back of the garden was a circular white structure. He had heard Sarah call it a gazebo. It was sheltered by trees and far enough away from the house that no one would see them. Putting his hand on her back, he led Felicity toward it.

“I was afraid you might leave before I finished playing,” she said quietly as they moved toward the back of the garden. “I was afraid I wouldn’t see you tonight.”

“I couldn’t leave without you,” he answered simply. It was the truth. No matter how desperately he had wanted to escape that crowded house, he knew he must take her with him.

“Did you remember everything I taught you? I forgot to explain courtesy titles for the daughters of dukes.”

He had no idea what she was speaking of, but he could see in her eyes she was concerned. “I did everything you said.” They had reached the shadowy gazebo, and he pulled her close. “You ask Sarah.”

“Somehow I doubt the duchesse will be too pleased with me after this.” She moved into him, put her hands behind his neck, and stared into his eyes. Her face was a mixture of white flesh and shadows from trees. “But I don’t care. All I want is to be with you. It’s all I could think about tonight.”

He leaned forward, kissed her lightly. His body was urging him to hurry, to move quickly to take what it needed, what it wanted, but he forced himself to move slowly. Everything about her seemed new and fascinating to him tonight.

“Did you kiss many women’s hands tonight?” she asked, her lips whispering against his.

“Too many,” he said honestly.

She pulled back, her eyes slanted in anger, and he knew that was the wrong response.

“I see. I’m sure it was a great hardship—all those rich, beautiful women vying to meet you.”

He had definitely made her angry, though he did not know precisely what he had said or done. “You are beautiful,” he said, coming back to the one word he knew very well.

She raised a brow. “Not more beautiful than those women.”

He didn’t understand exactly what she was saying, but he thought he knew her feeling. Jealousy? He almost laughed. “I do not want those women. Only you.” And to prove it, he reached up and slid the material off her other shoulder so now both of them were bare and seemingly asking him to kiss them. He slid his hands up from her back until they touched the bare flesh of her shoulders. He knew they were white as snow, but tonight the shadows danced over them. Slowly, he pressed his mouth to one of the shoulders, let his lips explore the silky skin. He had never felt anything like Felicity’s skin. Even in all of his time in prison, all the times he had dreamed of soft beds and soft clothing, he had never imagined a softness like this.

She moaned quietly and tilted her head away from him. That left her neck open, and he had the urge to kiss it, too. He could almost see where her blood beat beneath the white skin. There was so much he wanted to feel and to taste, and he hardly knew where to start.