The Dangerous Lord (26 page)

He waited until he saw the doubt flicker in her eyes before he released her. “So no matter what you threaten, we
will
be married. Is that understood?”

She stared at him white-faced, but he could see the look of defeat in her eyes.

“Felicity?” he prodded sternly.

With a sigh of exasperation, she nodded.

His triumph tasted like the bitterest wormwood; he wished he could have gained her some other way. On impulse, he drew off his signet ring to press it into her cold palm, closing the fragile, ink-stained fingers around it with a twinge of guilt. “Present this if any more of your creditors come to call. I'll notify you of the arrangements for the wedding once I've procured the special license.”

When she merely stood there woodenly, he released her hand. But as he left her behind him in the drawing room, her words stayed with him.

If you force this upon me, you'll have to force the other upon me as well
. Damn the obstinate witch to hell—he'd do whatever was necessary to prove her wrong.

I
t was Christmas Eve morning, and Felicity and Mrs. Box had been up since dawn. With two hours left before the wedding, they were in Felicity's bedchamber. She stood stiffly on a stool with arms outstretched as Mrs. Box altered her mother's bridal gown for her.

“'Tis well that gowns were less fitted in your mother's day,” Mrs. Box commented, “or you'd have to wear a corset with this. I know how you dislike corsets.”

I'm glad you don't wear those abominable corsets
, Ian had said.
When we're married, you must wear nothing but your chemise when we're alone
.

Married. They were going to be married. Heat spread through her breasts and loins at the thought. “Damn his hide,” she muttered under her breath.

“Come now, luv, don't be like that. It ain't the end of the world.” Pinching up a fingerful of satin bodice, Mrs.
Box stitched through the fold. “You're marrying a viscount, for heaven's sake! He'll be takin' the boys under his wing—”

“Hah! He won't even let me celebrate Christmas with them tomorrow!”

“Can you blame him? Who'd want four boys underfoot during his honeymoon? He could send 'em all off somewhere, but he ain't. He only wants a week with you to himself, so's he can show you 'round his estate. 'Tis a pity the week crosses Christmas, but you should've thought of that before you let the man bed you yesterday morn.”

She glared at Mrs. Box. “And he's closing the house up—my home!”

Shoving Felicity's arm up higher, Mrs. Box made a gather beneath her arm and tacked it quickly in place. “It ain't your home no more, thank the good Lord. What was you plannin' to do after you married? Live here? Separate from your husband?”

“It's a thought,” Felicity grumbled.

The housekeeper laughed. “Don't you lie to me, luv. You don't want to live separate from that great strappin' stallion, and you know it.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, damn,” she whispered, fingering the heavy signet ring that hung from a slender chain around her throat. It was true. Despite Ian's dreadful missive stating his “plans”—really a list of commands—for the wedding, and although she'd done nothing but complain about it for the past day and a half, she was secretly giddy at the thought of marrying him. She couldn't wait for him to be hers. To belong only to her and to care for her.

She sniffed. Care for her, indeed! The man didn't know the meaning of the word! Him, with all his wretched talk about advantages and generous allowances. And yes, his heir. He was willing to pay a high price for his dratted heir. Well, he'd soon discover that her performance as a brood
mare was contingent upon his willingness to trust her.

Unfortunately, that meant keeping him at arm's length until he came around. A bitter tear escaped her eye. As if she could manage that. Ian need only hint at seduction, and she turned into a blithering idiot. Another tear rolled down her cheek to fall headlong from her chin and onto the gown, darkening a tiny spot of shimmering blue satin.

“Here now, don't you be weepin' all over your mother's pretty wedding dress!” Mrs. Box produced a handkerchief and dabbed at Felicity's eyes. “'Tis a miracle that the gown survived until this, and now you're like to ruin it before the wedding!”

“Good! Then I can wear what I really want—sackcloth and ashes!”

“The sackcloth I can arrange,” Mrs. Box said tartly. “But I won't be puttin' no ashes in your hair after I had to go halfway across London to find orange blossoms.”

“I don't know why you bothered. It would serve him right if I had no flowers and an ugly gown because he couldn't be bothered to consult me on the date of the wedding.”

“He
did
consult you, and you told him you wouldn't marry him. So what else was the man to do?”

“Accept my refusal like any decent man would have.”

“No decent man would let a woman go on as you have. Not if he cared for her.”

“Care for me! He doesn't care for me! He just wants any woman who'll agree to be his wife, and I happen to be handy.”

“Poppycock. Men don't know what they want, luv, and they sure don't know how to ask for it. They put their brains away when a woman's around. So you got to regard their actions, not their words. Take your viscount: you spoke badly of the man in your writin', and you near tossed him out of the house, yet he came back for more and here he is payin' off all your debts and sendin' James back to
that school the boy loves. What more proof do you need that he cares for you?”

She needed honesty. Trust. But she couldn't tell Mrs. Box that. The housekeeper wouldn't understand. “None of that counts because it's mere money. Money means nothing to him. He's only opening his purse because he has a substantial one to open.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he's opening his purse 'cause he don't know how to open his heart. Let him do the first, luv, and one day he'll feel easier about doin' the second.”

If only she could believe that. But she doubted he'd ever open his heart—he kept it buried so deeply beneath his past. If she could only learn what tormented him, she might see how to reach him. But no one knew the truth except him. And perhaps Miss—

She straightened. Yes! Miss Greenaway!

“I forgot,” she told Mrs. Box in a rush, “I've got to go. I've something to attend to before the wedding.”

“What? His lordship's carriage is callin' for us in less than two hours! There's a hundred things to do before then!”

“I know, but this is important. I must go
now
, before Ian whisks me out of London.” Felicity reached back for the top buttons of the gown. “Help me get this off!”

“You've lost your mind, that's what it is.” Mrs. Box shook her head, but did begin unbuttoning the gown. “Runnin' off two hours before your weddin'! The very idea! If you don't make it to the church in time, his lordship'll have my head!”

“It won't take long, I swear.” Felicity leapt from the stool and swiftly dressed herself in an old gown. “I'll return before you even know it. But if I'm not here when it's time to leave, go on without me and bring the gown. I'll meet you at the church.”

Less than a minute later, she raced out of the town house and flagged down a passing hackney.
Oh, God, please help
me
, she prayed as she climbed inside. She gave the man the address in Waltham Street, then sat back, lifting her gaze heavenward. She hadn't entreated the Deity since He'd deserted her at the Worthings, but she needed him now.
Let the woman be home, God. Make her agree to talk to me. And don't let me be late for the wedding. Please, I beg you, do this for me
.

He must have been listening, for twenty minutes later when she knocked on Miss Greenaway's door, the woman herself opened it, her baby cradled in her arms. “You!” she exclaimed, then tried to slam the door in Felicity's face.

Felicity thrust her foot through the opening to block the door, wincing when it crashed against her boot. Lady's footwear obviously wasn't designed to serve as a doorstop.

“Go away!” a voice called through the aperture. “I've nothing to say to you!”

“Please, Miss Greenaway, let me in, just for a moment!” When the woman only kicked at her foot, Felicity called out, “I'm Ian's fiancée!”

A sudden silence came from the other side of the door. Then Miss Greenaway leaned around the edge, clutching her baby to her chest. “You? His fiancée?”

“I'm afraid so.” Unclasping the chain holding the signet ring, Felicity held both out to the woman. “I really am.”

With a wary expression, the woman shifted her baby to her shoulder and took the ring. But as she studied the object, confusion replaced wariness. “I don't understand. Master Ian—I mean, Lord St. Clair—did tell me yesterday that he was marrying a Miss Felicity Taylor, but he didn't say you were also—I mean, I never imagined—”

“He'd be marrying Lord X? No, I wouldn't have thought it myself a few weeks ago.” So Ian had already been here to tell Miss Greenaway of the marriage. That would increase her jealousy if not for one thing—the woman seemed surprisingly undisturbed by the idea. And would a mistress call a man by his childhood appellation? “But I
am
Felicity Taylor and I
am
engaged to be married to him. In fact, the wedding is at eleven, so I don't have much time. Would you please let me in? I truly must talk with you.”

The woman hesitated only briefly before opening the door. “His lordship will be furious if he learns of this.”

“Then let's not tell him,” Felicity said as she stepped over the threshold.

Miss Greenaway surveyed her curiously. “All right. Let's not.” She gestured to a coat stand. “You can put your cloak there, then come with me into the parlor, if you please. I have Walter's crib in there while the maid is at market, and I was about to put him down for his nap.” She glanced at her son's little head, with its golden baby fuzz. “Though I think he's started on it already.”

The glow of love on the woman's face heightened the flawlessness of her china-doll features. How could any one woman have such perfect beauty? Felicity thought, unable to squelch her envy. Only the faintest brush of tiny lines at the corners of Miss Greenaway's eyes revealed her to be older than Felicity. And though the woman dressed in a practical wool gown that hid every inch of skin, it did nothing to hide her matchless figure. A quick stab of jealousy went right to Felicity's heart.

As they walked down the corridor, Felicity said, “I'm sure you're wondering what I'm doing here—”

“Not at all.” The woman cast her a sidelong glance. “You're here to learn whether I'm really Lord St. Clair's mistress as you postulated in your column.”

Heat climbed up Felicity's neck to her cheeks. “No, I…That is…well, I—”

“Trust me, I'd do the same thing if I were in your place. But let me set your mind at ease. I am not—nor ever wished to be—his mistress or anything else.”

An enormous sigh whooshed out of Felicity before she could prevent it. Ian had proclaimed a hundred times that
Miss Greenaway wasn't his mistress. Sara had been nearly certain of it, and Lady Brumley even more so. But until Felicity had heard the words from Miss Greenaway's own mouth, she hadn't quite believed it. And though she supposed the woman could be lying, she could see no reason for that.

“Thank you,” Felicity whispered as they entered a small parlor.

“You're welcome.” With a little cooing noise, the woman laid her son in a wooden crib that sat near a large chair. “It would be churlish of me indeed to repay his lordship's kindness by misleading his future wife.” She gestured to a pretty white sofa. “Please sit down, Miss Taylor.”

Felicity complied, feeling awkward. The woman was being very gracious, considering the situation. “Before I go any further, I must apologize for my article. I shouldn't have speculated so publicly about your association with Ian. He's made me see it was wrong to do so, especially when it might…harm your reputation.”

Miss Greenaway chuckled. “My reputation?” With a grace and posture only a governess could manage, she lowered her posterior in a vertical line onto the chair beside her son. Felicity had never seen a woman's spine remain quite so elegantly straight. She certainly had never managed it herself.

“I thank you for your concern,” the woman went on, “but it's unnecessary, I assure you. You didn't mention my name or Walter's, and my reputation was damaged long ago. Besides, your assumption was logical, given the circumstances. And as you well know, Lord St. Clair rouses speculation wherever he goes.”

“That's true.” Felicity swallowed. “It's the real reason I'm here. You see…I hear a great many rumors in my profession. And…well, I've heard some particularly nasty ones about Ian. I was hoping you might tell me what is truth and what is lies.”

“I see. What have you heard?”

Under different circumstances, Felicity might have been more delicate about presenting her situation, trying to assess how best to elicit the truth from her companion. But she had no time for such subtleties today; she was forced to be blunt. Fortunately, Miss Greenaway's earlier frankness made it easier.

As briefly as possible, Felicity related the two conversations she'd had at the Brumley ball. Though Miss Greenaway's expression altered somewhat at the mention of Ian's uncle, she kept silent throughout Felicity's tale.

“So you see,” Felicity finished, “I don't know what to believe, or if either of these tales is true at all. I hoped you might tell me why Ian left England. And why he and his uncle are in conflict over his marrying.” “What does his lordship say?”

Sarcasm laced her voice. “That I'm merely jealous. That it's nothing to worry my pretty little head about.” She tilted up her chin. “He won't tell me anything. And as his future wife, I think I have the right to know.”

“I agree,” she said gently. “I will say this—his lordship's uncle can't be trusted. But beyond that, I can't tell you anything else. Lord St. Clair swore me to secrecy the day he brought me here, and I owe him too much to betray his trust.”

No!
Felicity thought as despair knotted in her belly. This was like one of those garden mazes she hated, where each turning only led to more turnings. Sheer frustration drove her to her feet. “Then how am I to know I'm not making the biggest mistake in my life by marrying him?”