Emily Greenwood (12 page)

Afterward, she’d refused to speak of what happened, save to let him know when time had passed that there had been no consequences. She knew he hadn’t been happy about her refusal to discuss it, but it had been for the best. And though she had lost much that night—her virginity, her chance for marriage—she’d also gained so much, because what happened had shocked her into taking up the mantle of responsibility that her mother had left behind.

Thinking of that time now brought back a ghost of that long-ago despair, along with confirmation that she’d made the right decision in moving past what had happened with Crispin. She hadn’t loved him, and she had discovered so much as she learned to manage Tethering. Now she just needed to convince him that the past must not have any bearing on their future.

“It hasn’t affected me and it won’t,” she said, “especially since I don’t intend ever to marry.”

His eyes flew open wide. “Don’t be ridiculous. Marriage is exactly what you need.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I have Father and Simon and Tethering to look after.”

He gave her a hard look. “You don’t. Collington has Tethering. You’re just the gardener.”

She flinched.

He frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to have to speak so bluntly to you, but I know you can be stubborn.” He reached out and took her hand. “The truth is that I care very much for you.” His voice deepened. “I think about you all the time.”

She was speechless. Here was Crispin, her vicar now, a man grown. Handsome, young, strong, the late-morning sunlight glinting off his golden hair. He dropped to one knee and her heart fell.

“Felicity, darling, would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”

Weighted seconds passed. She so wished he hadn’t said any of this. “Oh, Crispin,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“Before you answer,” he broke in, his voice husky, “know how much joy it would bring me to take you away from all this.” He swept an arm wide, indicating the orchard, Tethering—her whole life. Or at least the life she had had until a month ago, the life she had chosen.

And found so compelling. What did she really have at the moment? Now, without Tethering, she had that terrifying future of a too-quiet life at Blossom Cottage. There would be her father, but he mostly wanted his books, and Simon, who would come home on vacations but before long would leave to make a family of his own. Without the estate, she would have no challenge, nothing meaningful. She didn’t know how she would survive the stillness and the empty days.

All right, Crispin could be an escape from that. He was the one man she could in good conscience marry. But she didn’t really need to consider his offer. She hadn’t loved him years ago, and she still didn’t. And she didn’t want to be taken away from her falling-apart life—there was still hope. All might still be righted, and she wasn’t going to give up yet.

She tugged on his hand to urge him upright and looked into his earnest, handsome face. “I thank you for the honor you do me, Crispin. You are all that is generous and good. You have ever been a good friend to me, even if we have not always been wise.”

His brows lowered at her tone and he looked about to speak. She pressed on. “But no, I thank you, I can’t marry you.”

“Felicity,” he said urgently, pressing her hand with his, “you speak as though we were merely friends doing favors for one another. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was in love with you three years ago, and I—I love you now.”

Her stomach lurched at his words. She respected and cared for him, then as now. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him.

“You will forget me,” she said gently to him. “You must.” She pulled her hand from his. “We were different then, younger, less formed. Thrown together often and not well guided. It is no wonder we formed attachments.”

His face darkened. “It is not attachment I feel! It is something far earthier and more real.”

“I understand what you are saying. But you deserve the wholehearted love of a good woman, and I cannot give you that.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” he demanded. And she did wonder at herself, because she had no doubt about how she felt. And she knew why. Her assurance came from what she’d been experiencing since she first met James. With him, she’d felt things she’d never felt for Crispin or any other man.

He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “I’ve surprised you,” he said in a shaking voice. “I see that. Don’t give me an answer now.”

“But—”

He held up his hand. “Just give yourself a chance to consider this carefully, the advantages, and… everything we have talked about.”

“Crispin,” she began just as a twig snapped nearby. They turned in that direction and there was James, coming from behind a group of trees. Oh God, how much had he heard?

“Well,” he said as he drew near them, his long, black-clad legs eating up the short distance, making her heart beat faster with every step, “it doesn’t look as though much work is getting done in this corner.”

Crispin glared at James as he came to stand among them, and James returned his look with a hard one of his own.

“Collington,” Crispin bit off. “This is hardly appropriate, expecting Miss Wilcox to do actual labor. It’s bad enough asking her to oversee the orchard. She is a gentlewoman.”

“I don’t notice Miss Wilcox complaining,” James said, lazily turning a glance toward Felicity, a look freighted with something dark.

“Besides, she handles her responsibilities admirably. Why shouldn’t I hire her to do
whatever’s
needed?”

At the suggestiveness in James’s words and tone, Crispin’s eyes shot open and his eyebrows slammed together. James remained cool, though she sensed that for some reason, he was deliberately antagonizing Crispin.

“Crispin,” she said quickly, “you must remember how much I love the orchard. I want to be here. It reminds me of Mother as nothing else can.”

Crispin focused on her, his jaw square with clenching. He inhaled sharply, and then, nodding abruptly at her, said in a tight voice, “Felicity, Collington. Good day,” and strode out of the orchard.

“Well, that was interesting,” James drawled.

She crossed her arms tightly. She really didn’t need to see James again so soon after all that had happened the night before. “Just what are you up to?”

He held up his hands innocently, though with his dark beauty, he could hardly have looked more like a devil. His brown eyes held a dangerous glint.

“Why, nothing at all. The young vicar seems touchy about matters concerning you, my dear. I wonder why that is?”

“If he is, it’s no business of yours.”

“Ah, but I do want to know what’s going on between you and Markham.” It was not a request.

“You don’t have any right to know.”

“Don’t I?” His eyes dropped to her bosom, leaving a trail of heat meant to remind her of what she’d allowed him to do only hours before. “After all, as the owner of this estate, I am responsible for the welfare and protection of those who live on it. That includes you, Felicity.”

“Well, don’t include me. I don’t need—or want—your protection.”

He looked at her, his eyes hooded. “He’s too young for you, you know. What is he—twenty-two or -three? But a callow, romantic youth. Probably fancies himself in love with you.”

She clenched her teeth. “You are without a doubt the most arrogant man I have ever met.”

He smiled in wicked satisfaction, as if she’d complimented him.

She marched off up the hill, wishing with all her might that she hadn’t promised her father she would help him in the library that morning. What she really needed at the moment was several hours alone in a quiet room.

When Felicity reached the library, her father was of course already at work. If Oliver Wilcox was in the midst of composing poetry, he thought about it nearly every moment, and she hid a small smile when he greeted her with an abrupt “Good morning” and immediately handed her a sheaf of poems to read back to him. Having her listen to his poems was an essential part of Mr. Wilcox’s creative process, and she was always pleased to play this role. This morning even more so. She needed the distraction from her racing thoughts, and focusing on words with her father was just the thing to provide it.

They got down to work. At lunchtime a servant arrived with trays of food for them. She looked with mingled appetite and dread at her portion of game pie, knowing that she had recommended the unsuitable Mrs. Bailey to James. She poked at the pastry with her fork. Her father, who was already tucking into his own lunch, glanced at her.

“Aren’t you hungry, my dear?”

“I’m not sure I am, actually.”

“Well, that’s too bad. All the meals I’ve had here have been delicious, and this pie is no exception.”

She had to admit the pie did smell good. But it might still be terrible. Her father did not have the most discerning of palates, especially when he was immersed in working. Well, she might as well taste it anyway, if only to have the satisfaction that her plan to ruin James’s meals was going well. She took a cautious bite.

She might have known. The pie was excellent.

What had happened to the drinking problem that had gotten Mrs. Bailey dismissed from her last three jobs? The pie bore no evidence that its preparer was too drunk to cook properly. The vegetables were diced in perfect cubes, the pastry was tender, and the sauce delicious. Maybe Mrs. Bailey had simply not found the spirits yet. Well, there was always hope. In the meantime, she thought, sighing, no sense in letting a good lunch go to waste.

As she ate, she looked around the library. It slowly dawned on her that the room was exceptionally tidy. All the books were put away with their spines neatly lined up, and there was not a speck of dust to be seen. She frowned. She’d anticipated at the very least to see signs of neglect today. She had even dared to hope for a domestic crisis, perhaps ruined laundry or angry accusations of laziness. Something.

Dismay stabbed her. Was this part of her scheme not going well either? Bother it all! None of her plans had worked so far.

But she would not give up. She had no choice. Though she was going to have to think up some additional means of troubling the waters here. Something different that would have more certain consequences.

She had her chance soon after lunch, when her father asked her if she would go out and pick him a bouquet of wildflowers to contemplate.

As she was emerging from a copse by the stream in front of the manor, where she had been looking for wild roses, she caught sight of James and two guests, a fashionably dressed man and woman, and realized his visitors must have arrived. They were standing about twenty feet away, on the grassy hill leading up to the house, talking. Felicity ducked behind a weeping willow and thought. An idea quickly formed, and before she could surrender to caution, she crept down to the stream and began dabbing her dress with mud.

She would make him look bad in front of his guests. That would give him the feeling that he would never be able to trust his neighbors at Blossom Cottage—who knew what they might do? She needed him to feel unsure, uncomfortable, unhappy at Tethering.

For now, she would create for his guests a picture of James’s country lover. She pulled out her hair ribbon and shook loose her hair, arranging it to hang across one side of her face, then undid the top buttons of her gown. Spying a small piece of bark loose on the ground near her feet, she picked it up and pressed it in front of her left front tooth.

She suffered a brief attack of hysteria at the insanity of what she was doing, before finally emerging from behind the tree. Tormenting James was leading her into the most bizarre and unseemly behavior imaginable. But needs must, she told herself, and marched out boldly toward where he stood talking with his guests. They were facing away from her, toward the dower house, and James was sweeping his arm out expansively, as if gesturing at his domain. They couldn’t see her coming, so she called out as she approached.

“Oy, James, love,” she began. They all turned at the same time, obviously startled. She came briskly toward them swinging her arms in as unladylike a manner as she could.

As she drew closer, she noted a satisfying look of astonishment on his features. His companions, a handsome, auburn-haired gentleman who looked to be in his thirties and an older lady with salt-and-pepper hair, appeared very surprised as well. A good start.

Felicity came to stand next to James, much closer than was appropriate, and smiled broadly. His eyes widened as he took in her “missing” tooth and unbuttoned bodice, and he scowled at her before glancing at his companions, who were regarding her with interest.

“Yes?” he said impatiently.

She winked at him, feeling like the comic relief in some awful small theater production. “Don’t you remember me, sir? Poor Mirabelle what was so good to you yesterday?” She glanced at his guests and was both gratified and horrified by their silent watchfulness. They were definitely interested in what Mirabelle and James had been doing. Stirring up her courage, she asked, “Ain’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

Silence. His eyes had thunder in them.

“Yes, do, James,” the gentleman said with an eager smile.

James sighed. “All right. Thomas Block, may I present Mirabelle…?” He was waiting for her to fill in a last name.

“It’s just Mirabelle, sir.”

“Right. Mirabelle. You’ll want to remember Mr. Block. He’s the MP for Longwillow area.”

Oh, heavens! What had she done?

Mirabelle curtsied in an exaggerated manner as Felicity struggled to stay in character.

James cleared his throat. “And may I present Miss Miranda Claremont, Mirabelle,” he continued, finishing the introductions. “My aunt.”

His aunt. The nice one. Aaagh, she thought, weakening with panic, she would probably see these people at dinner tonight. Well, she’d just have to do this right, so that she would not seem at all the same person later when they were introduced properly.

Mirabelle curtsied again. She smiled excessively. “You didn’t say last night, James—when I saw you late last night,” she said as cloyingly as possible, “that you was to have real quality here.”

“Didn’t I? How remiss of me.”

His aunt spoke. “I’m pleased to meet any friend of my nephew,” she said, without the least hint of anything but polite interest. Her eyes were friendly.

Felicity wanted to run off right then and abandon her absurd plan. But she kept a hold of herself. This was all in the cause of getting Tethering back. She couldn’t quit now, even if this aunt was the nicest woman ever to walk the earth. Felicity’s panicking mind raced, thinking up more inappropriate behavior for Mirabelle.

“James,” she said in a wheedling voice, leaning over to rub her upper arm against his, “you haven’t forgotten about the present you promised me, have you?”

She didn’t look up at his face, not wanting to see his expression. He was probably horribly angry by now—she was embarrassing him in front of his aunt and an MP, for goodness’ sake—but that was just as well.

But his voice, when he replied, was cool enough. “Remind me, Mirabelle dear, what it was I promised to give you.” She glanced upward quickly and saw that his chocolate eyes held a wicked light.

“Jewelry,” she said outrageously, figuring that was a likely enough gift for a doxy.

“Ah, yes,” he agreed in a smooth, deep voice. “A reward.”

Her face flamed at the suggestiveness of his tone. She knew very well that he intended to remind her of their passionate kiss the night before.

Mr. Block coughed once and said, “Jewelry. My word.”

“Some of the gentlemen what I have known is not as generous as my lord. They doesn’t keep their promises.”

His aunt was nodding. “That’s true, my dear. You must look out for yourself and make sure that gentlemen,” she cast a stern look at James, “keep their promises.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Of course. Mirabelle knows that she will definitely get what’s coming to her.”

That did not sound good. She’d done enough here—it was time to leave.

“Well, now that that’s settled, I’ll be going.” His aunt said good-bye to her and wandered off to inspect a heavily blooming pink rose bush. Mr. Block, on the other hand, was now regarding Mirabelle with entirely too much interest.

“But you’re not going to run off, are you, dear girl, when we’ve all just met?” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to give me a tour of your neighborhood. I’d be pleased to meet with more of my… constituents.”

Her stomach flipped over at this disastrous idea. The eager look on Block’s face suggested he wanted to get to know her in a most unsuitable way.

“Yes, Thomas,” James said, “that sounds like an excellent idea. I’m sure Mirabelle would be glad to… entertain you.”

Mr. Block grinned at Felicity.

“Oh—er,” she stumbled, looking to James for help.

He smiled innocently, as if he had no idea how she was squirming. “Shall I give him your direction?” he asked her.

“No—no thank you,” she said hurriedly, blinking and smiling like an idiot. “Must be going. Good-bye, then.”

“You’re not going to leave without a farewell kiss, my dear, are you?” James asked.

“Oh—” was all she could reply before he grabbed her arm firmly and planted a kiss right on her lips. The bark on her tooth poked a bit as his mouth came against hers, and she could feel him smiling evilly against her lips.

“You’d better run fast,” he whispered against her mouth before releasing her.

“Good-bye, Mirabelle,” he said louder, giving her backside a surreptitious squeeze and a brisk shove as she turned. Already almost running, she waved good-bye to his bemused guests over her shoulder and fairly sprinted into the woods, her heart racing.

She didn’t stop until she was well away and hidden among the trees, where she could lean against a large maple and catch her breath.

Dear heaven above, had she really just done that? Her chest heaved with exertion and excitement. How on earth had she, a nice gentlewoman, had the nerve to be doing things like that in broad daylight? What would her mother have thought of the lengths Felicity was going to in order to regain the estate?

And could she truthfully tell herself that scene had only been about Tethering?

The pull of James enticed her. Something about him invited play and risk.

But she hated risk, she reminded herself.

And yet she felt so alive.

***

Unseen behind a tree, Crispin stood with his mouth dropped open in astonishment. He had come back, wanting to talk to Felicity again but not sure what to say, and stopped among the trees to think. And, hidden from view, he had come upon the scene he had just observed.

What on earth was she doing dressed like—like some kind of tart!—and showing herself to Collington and those other fashionable people? He hadn’t been able to hear what was going on, but he could see that she had let her hair down and unbuttoned her gown quite low. Collington might have been able to see down her gown, he thought with an angry twist of his lips, never mind that the man had kissed Felicity and, from the angle where Crispin stood, seemed to have groped her bottom. What the devil was going on?

He knew himself to be at that moment a sham vicar, because he wanted to stride over and plant Collington a facer. And more!

A calm voice of reason whispered to him that Mr. Collington could hardly have asked Felicity to dress in such a manner—she had done that on her own. And maybe Collington didn’t recognize her, since she looked different with her hair down across her face. And she seemed to have done something to her teeth.

She had told Crispin she meant to get Tethering back, and he knew she was deeply attached to the estate. But had she decided to sacrifice everything—her very respectability—in pursuit of it? She certainly had the capacity to be whimsical, which he knew from experience did not always work out well. But this—this—charade was taking things too far! Didn’t she realize what she was doing?

Crispin strode in silent frustration among the trees toward the front gate, knowing he wasn’t ready to talk to her now. He needed time to think.

She’d been carrying too much responsibility for too long, and now she was taking wild chances. He was beginning to wonder if she could be trusted at all not to do something totally reckless. He knew one thing. He wouldn’t sit by and watch her ruin herself.

***

James watched Felicity escape into the woods. Damn. She was going to cause real trouble at this rate. Ever unjudgmental, Miranda wouldn’t care a bit about Mirabelle, but Block was an MP. What if he noticed there were strange doings at Tethering—if he realized that the gentlewoman living in the dower house was pretending to be James’s lover, or heard about Lovely Annabelle—and made a news item out of it? Though from what James knew of Mr. Block’s powers of concentration, he was hopeful that when Block did meet Felicity, he would not recognize her. But he couldn’t count on it.

“Eh, James,” Block said, shading his eyes as he searched the trees for Mirabelle, who fortunately had disappeared effectively. “That’s one your brother Charles would have appreciated. Take after him, do you, heh, heh? Just hope you don’t share all his traits, heh, heh, or the funds might not be safe.”

James closed his eyes as irritation surged, but he said nothing. Catching Block’s eye, he looked pointedly at his aunt, trying to shame the man into dropping this line of conversation. Block was apparently slow in taking hints.

“Know any more like her, do you? Wouldn’t mind a tour of the area, I say, not at all.”

James clenched his teeth. Thomas Block was a successful fool, well-spoken when he needed to be, affable, and powerful, but lacking in any discernible moral conviction. A politician of a stripe not unfamiliar to James, who had grown up around politicians, some he respected and some he plain disliked, but all of whom had to be tolerated and treated well. He had never liked many of the aspects of politics that his father and brother so clearly enjoyed—the jockeying for position, the glad-handing, the negotiating of compromises with devilish people. James could succeed in politics—he knew what he would have to do, and he was personable enough. He only wished he felt more enthusiasm for the undertaking.