The Dress of the Season (4 page)

“I . . . we did not always live there, of course.” Felicity forced herself to continue, bringing her mind back to the massive bedchamber with the heavy drapes, the rain, the stricken housekeeper. “My father was a solicitor in London, and he met my stepmother when I was but a babe. My stepmother—Sylvia, was her name—was cousin to Lady Osterley, and they were very close. So when they married, my parents moved us here. We all grew up together . . . almost as cousins.

“As my father had no close family, and getting on well with the elder Lord Osterley, his lordship agreed to serve as guardian to my brother John and I, should anything happen to my family. My father passed when I was thirteen, and my brother John was already of age then, so the elder Lord Osterley’s guardianship was fairly nominal. After all, Sylvia and I stayed in our little house, while my brother went about completing his medical training. We wanted for nothing.”

Mrs. Smith’s breath hitched, her eyes shining with wetness. “But the epidemic came,” she sighed, all of her world-weary starch gone.

“Many died. As many as half the village of Whitney.”

“I was told that his lordship’s parents died of the disease. Did your brother—”

“Yes.” Felicity replied roughly. “He . . . my stepmother contracted the disease, and insisted that my brother and I be sent away to avoid becoming ill. But John, then a doctor, insisted on staying. Apparently he tried everything to save Lord and Lady Osterley, but . . .” Felicity cleared her throat, trying to keep her emotions in check. “Then my brother contracted the illness, too. Anyway, that is how I became the current Lord Osterley’s ward. Whether or not he has mentioned having one. Feel free to ask around the village. This is as much my home as his.”

“M-Miss Grove,” Mrs. Smith began, in a stutter. “I apologize profusely. I had absolutely no right to make such assumptions—or even to speak like that to a guest. Although, you’re not a guest, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Neither do I,” Felicity replied wryly. “Honestly, Osterley is the least lascivious man in the world.” Which made his recent actions—buying a gown for Mrs. Grace, and last night’s odd behavior toward her—all the more astonishing. “Do you know what they call him in town?” She asked Mrs. Smith, pitching her voice low, conspiratorially. “‘Austere Osterley.’”

Mrs. Smith gave a relieved smile, and nodded. “I well believe it. I’ve been working for him for two years and have yet to see him slouch.”

“I’ve been his ward for four and from what I can tell, his spine is not capable of bending.”

The two women laughed together. Then, meekly, Mrs. Smith asked, “So, you will not tell his lordship about my grievous mistake?”

Felicity regarded her. The woman seemed younger now, although gray still came in at her temples and lines fanned out from her eyes. But there was vulnerability in her posture. Felicity got the impression that life had not been easy for her—and even from her quick walk through the house she could tell Mrs. Smith was a good housekeeper. Everyone deserved to have a second chance, she thought. Besides, Felicity’s normal sense of fun and enjoyment in life would not allow her to be the ruination of another person’s.

“Only if I feel like he needs a laugh,” Felicity replied, with a twinkle in her eye, her normal bounciness returning to her. “His most marked feeling for me is indifference. No one who knows us would ever think that Osterley could have romantic intentions toward me!”

Chapter Five

Supper was served promptly at eight—much later than the country house staff was used to, but Osterley’s clothes were the problem. Namely they had to be dried before a fire, before he could put them back on. Thus, the meal was served later than usual. He could kick himself for leaving his valet in London—Daniels would have thought to at least pack a small valise. But then again, it was foolish to make the old man travel when Osterley had intended to be back in London that very same evening.

And he would be little worse for wear when he arrived back in London on the morrow. Although his clothes would still not be up to Daniels’ fastidious habits, he suspected.

A supposition that was confirmed when Felicity joined him at the dinner table, freshly scrubbed and warmly dressed in a high-neck muslin gown and shawl.

“If Daniels could see you now,” she said, shaking her head.

“Yes, he’ll take a certain delight in reprimanding me tomorrow.” Osterley smiled. He couldn’t help noticing that Felicity was being very proper with him, very correct. Normally she was a . . . bouncy sort of girl, even though she was on the slighter side, physically. She had always had massive amounts of energy, served with a side of mischief. The young ladies in her social circle were known to flirt outrageously, and dance vivaciously. But to see her sipping her soup so quietly, with such propriety, it baffled.

Unless of course, she was trying to prove herself docile, in a bid to have him bring her back to London tomorrow.

“The soup is very good, is it not?” she supplied as conversation. He observed she had not eaten much of it.

“Yes,” he replied, watching her closely. “I recall that split pea was one of your favorites, and told the cook so.”

“Not since I was a child,” she wrinkled her nose at him.

“Really?” his brow came down.

“Of course it is very good, and I shall endeavor to enjoy it”—she shrugged, still ladylike, but a bit of the casual child she was seeping through—“but it has been ages since I counted it among my favorites.” She tilted her head to one side, one deep brown curl sliding against the soft skin of her throat as she did so.

So caught was he by that curl, he almost missed what she said next.

“When is the last time you took a meal with us?”

When was the last time . . . ? Why, Felicity and Bertha lived in his house! He ate with them all the time! Although, to be fair, he was often out of town—Croft Park and Whitney had a fair bit of work still to do . . . And he was known to take advantage of his club, eating there after a long day in the House of Lords. But it was not wholly his fault, of course—during the Season—regular and Little—Felicity and Bertha were often not to be found dining at home.

Perhaps she wasn’t being polite and graceful in an effort to impress him, he thought, strangely bereft. Perhaps he had just not observed when she had become a polite and graceful individual.

“Point taken, Felicity,” he said acknowledging her with a raise of his wine glass. “Well, I am certain you and cook will be able to sit down and work up a menu to your liking.”

“Yes, that will be a task for tomorrow. Mrs. Smith and I have already spoken of it.”

“You and Mrs. Smith have taken to each other, it seems,” he answered approvingly. A gleam of humor lit her eyes, but for the life of him he could not see the joke.

“Yes. We have,” she replied. Then, slowly, “She told me of the damage to my family’s house. The roof was blown off in a storm?”

Her eyes . . . they were accusing him. Of what, he had no idea.

“Not blown off,” he hastened to reassure. “A tree fell through a weak point, the morning room is closed off. I promise you, it is being well looked after.”

“Perhaps money would have been better spent on assessment of the roof, rather than refurbishing your bedroom,” she replied quietly.

“What on earth are you going on about?” Osterley asked, his brow coming down. He felt his voice become cold, and watched her cheeks go warm in embarrassment.

Felicity seemed caught, emotions played across her face. She had something on her mind obviously, but was being very careful. It was almost more wearying than when she spoke her mind in its entirety.

“Out with it, Felicity,” he commanded. She jumped in shock, but then, her eyes narrowed and she turned on him.

“It’s just that I don’t understand why you would spend money refurbishing your master bedchamber—especially when nothing could be that old, having been replaced four years ago, and you could not take the time to look after my house properly.” Her face burned with embarrassment, with anger, but wet, huge eyes met his, and she powered on. “I had hoped we would become better friends on this holiday. And . . . I understand if you are looking to take someone to wife, that you would wish to impress them—although if it is Mrs. Grace I shall never understand—but it’s my home! It’s all I have left.” He voice became a bare whisper. “It’s my home.”

Osterley could feel the tick in his jaw start in full force. It was all he could do not to throw down his napkin and walk out of the room. “You think I have neglected my responsibilities toward your property,” he stated coldly.

“No . . . just . . .” she tried weakly. But it was no use.

“I think that you will find your property well kept, Miss Grove,” he replied, his speech becoming clipped by its starch. A deep well of ice had begun to form in his chest. “In fact after the epidemic, it was one of the first things I made certain was functioning again. Sadly, not even a house made of steel and stone could have stood up to the tree a fickle Mother Nature sent into its path last month.” He narrowed his eyes at her, not caring that her face burned in agony. “Nor have I spent funds willy-nilly redecorating. Your mistake is in assuming that the house had been refurbished after the epidemic. I only just last winter managed to balance the accounts properly to allow for my own home to be refurnished.”

“But . . . but I thought you had funds . . .” She blinked at him.

“I am not destitute. But the epidemic had lasting effects. Crofters, tenants, everyone lost people—the crops that year and the next suffered because there were not enough people to tend them. I couldn’t charge rents on people who had lost so much already. I wouldn’t. It has taken a good bit of time and effort to get this place back on its feet.”

“But you are always so generous with me and Aunt Bertha . . .”

“I would not let you want for things, Felicity,” he said, through clenched teeth. “And as for us ‘becoming better friends’ on this holiday, you needn’t worry about that. I’ll be heading back to London tomorrow morning.”

Felicity looked up at him, shock apparent on her face. “Beg pardon?”

“I thought you understood that.” He shot her a quizzical look. “I cannot be long from my work—Parliament is just now entering its session.”

“You’re leaving me here, alone?” she asked, a thread of panic in her voice. “But . . . but what about chaperonage?”

“Aunt Bertha refused to come, so I wrote a note to Aunt Mildred,” he replied, watching her cringe. “She should be here in a few days. You’ll be fine until then, I’m sure. After all, you and Mrs. Smith have struck up a good friendship. And you can’t get into any trouble here. At least, not like you can in London.”

Osterley ducked his head, returning his attention to his soup. He would not look up at her, not let himself get lost in her eyes, her hurt, her embarrassment. Instead, he focused on his rightful anger—how dare she think him negligent!—and his soup.

Until he heard a scrape of her chair and her light footfalls as she ran out of the room, just as a sob escaped her lips.

*  *  *

It was the second time in two days that Felicity had run from the room in tears, and she could not be more horrified with herself. A cathartic cry once in a while was one thing—mind and soul clearing, all that rot—but twice? It smacked of flightiness. It ran counter to her (generally) happy state of being.

Thus, this time, she refused to sit on her bedroom floor and cry her eyes out. No, this time, she had shed a tear or two, but by the time she reached the bedchamber that had been made up for her, her face and eyes were dry.

The room that Mrs. Smith had rushed around like a madwoman to prepare for her was the Blue Room, a favorite guest chamber, as its windows faced the parks to the north, and the lake in the distance, and its fireplace was particularly large and warming. Right now, the fire purred merrily in the hearth, but it was the color of the room that matched her mood, as did the pounding rain outside.

She had embarrassed herself, and Osterley, with her ham-fisted interrogation about her house. How stupid of her to not realize that he would put himself very last! That Croft Park was only now returning to its full beauty. But of course, that embarrassment was not the only thing occupying her mind.

He was going back to London. He was leaving her here, in this graveyard of memory, her sentence to be served out in solitary confinement.

Loneliness was not something Felicity had been raised to accommodate. She was not a great reader—popular novels were more in her line. Still, hours spent by herself in a library were a last resort. She was not given to rambles through the woods by herself, contemplating nature. She liked people. She liked life. She needed the noise and dramatics other people offered, to keep the coldness of the past at bay.

A housekeeper was not good company. They had work to do, and if Felicity tried to help, she would only be a hindrance. And Aunt Mildred! She was Aunt Bertha’s cousin by marriage, and little better than a hermit. Even if Felicity had been known to Whitney’s social circles, Aunt Mildred was without a doubt not going to want to escort her out to meet with them.

If Osterley stayed, then perhaps . . . perhaps they could have bridged the gap that had grown between them in the past four years. The unknown cause of which frustrated Felicity to no end.

At one point in their lives, he had just been Harris. Her brother’s lope-around best friend, sun-streaked blond hair, dark eyes, and a ready smile.

One who
had
dared her to jump in the lake, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

But it was not to be. Osterley was leaving. And she would be alone.

Felicity, resigned, began to unpin her hair, shaking out the simple coiffure that had been done after her bath. She had missed the signs. She thought Osterley traveled without a valise because Daniels was following the next day with a trunk full of clothes for him and Felicity’s maid. But no, he had brought nothing with him beyond the money in his pockets—he hadn’t even intended to stay the night and see her settled. Instead, he intended to turn around after he had deposited her, and ride the quick five hours back to London.

She shook out her hair, and stripped herself of her comfortable muslin gown—the buttons to which were in front, thankfully. She was in no mood to call for a girl to help her undress. She felt exposed enough for one day.

She stepped to her wardrobe, painted a robin’s egg blue, blending in almost perfectly with the wall behind it. Throwing open the doors, she went through her meager wardrobe. That was a sign she missed, too—her wardrobe having been ready for her, and not his. Although now she wondered about her maid. Perhaps she was staying to attend Aunt Bertha, and Felicity was expected to pick a girl here to serve as her lady’s maid?

But she would have to worry about that tomorrow. Tonight she simply wanted to go to bed. She wanted to find her night rail and crawl into the turned down bed. She wanted . . .

Her fingers brushed the unmistakable feeling of silk and lace. Her silver dress. How had that gotten into her trunk?

She pulled out the gown, its beauty obvious, even in the dim light of the fire and rain. But not ostentatious. Graceful. Just as daring as it needed to be. As her fingers trailed the lace, she thought over the past few days, and how circumstance, and this lovely dress, lead her to her current spot.

She could not hate the costume. She could not look at the silver sensation and think of anything other than its loveliness. She just wished . . . oh, she wished.

She wished she could go back to London and all scandal had passed.

She wished everything could go back to the way it was.

She wished she had not mucked things up so badly with Osterley that he thought she didn’t trust him, and that he could not trust her.

But more than anything, as her fingers traced the swirls of lace along the neckline . . . she wished that she would not be left here alone.