Читать книгу From Wallflower to Countess - Janice Preston - Страница 12

Richard had no further opportunity to study his bride-to-be. Lady Katherine sailed past her daughter and captured his hands, standing so close her floral scent made his nostrils twitch. She gazed up at him through fluttering eyelashes. Already knocked off balance by Felicity’s reaction to him, Richard’s muscles quivered with the effort not to snatch his hands from her mother’s soft, moist grasp. From the corner of his eye he caught the resigned look that passed between Leo and Felicity. Mayhap he was not the only person who found Lady Katherine a touch overwhelming.

‘My dear, dear Stanton. Such joy...oh!’ She giggled breathlessly. ‘How droll am I? Joy is my dear girl’s middle name: Felicity Joy. Does that not suit her a treat, Stanton? I am certain she will bring you as much joy as she has brought to me and her dearest papa—God rest his soul—and now to my beloved Farlowe.’

Richard extricated his hands. ‘Indeed.’ He shot a baleful look at Leo, who shrugged and grinned before manoeuvring Lady Katherine to the sofa facing the fire. He then proceeded to engage her in conversation, leaving Richard to get to know his intended.

Which proved to be as difficult as drawing blood from the proverbial stone. Felicity, her face quite colourless, had taken her place beside her mother, her attention firmly on the flames as Richard sank into the nearest chair. Her expression was hard to read but her rigid posture and tight fists told their own story. Something—something about him, he must conclude—was not to her liking. Contrarily, her seeming reluctance fanned his determination to proceed with the marriage.

‘Well, Lady Felicity, who could have guessed when we met on the stairs last year that we would be here now, discussing our forthcoming marriage?’

‘Indeed, my lord.’ Still she avoided eye contact, staring into the fire.

Richard, momentarily nonplussed, continued to study her. Nondescript was the most fitting adjective he could conjure up. She was a touch taller than average, with a slight build. Another woman of her stature might be described as willowy, but, somehow, Felicity was not quite tall enough, and not quite slender enough, to earn that accolade. Her features were regular, her complexion dull. Her oval face was a shade too long and her chin a touch too determined, for delicacy. Her nose was straight, but a little too strong to be considered dainty, and her mouth was... Richard paused in his appraisal. The compression of her lips did little to disguise their rosy fullness. They, at least, could be declared alluring.

Her brown hair was pinned up in the Grecian style, with curls—already wilting—framing her face. Her eyes were a striking amber and, at this moment in time, they stared dully ahead as Felicity sat straight-backed, her hands white-knuckled in her lap.

What was she thinking? According to Leo, Felicity had asked her mother to find her a husband, but her reaction to Richard almost suggested she would be entering the union against her will. Richard hoped not. Now he had made his decision he was impatient to proceed. He vowed to win her over.

‘It’s a pleasant evening, Lady Felicity. Would you care to stroll on the terrace?’

She looked directly at him for the first time since she entered the room. Try as he might, he could not read her expression. Before she could answer him, though, Lady Katherine intervened.

‘Of course she would, Stanton. Go along, Felicity. I am sure you do not need chaperoning if you are with your intended. I declare I have never been so happy in my life—except, of course, when my dear Farlowe proposed. Who would have thought that I would be mama-in-law to the Earl of Stanton. I shall be the envy of everyone. I cannot wait to see their—’

‘Mama, please.’ Felicity cut across her mother’s monologue as she stood up.

Richard rose to his feet with a guilty start. He had been on the brink of becoming mesmerized by Lady Katherine’s inane chatter.

Felicity, cheeks splashed with colour, shot a glance at him before lowering her gaze. ‘Thank you. I should enjoy a breath of fresh air.’

She took his arm and they left the library via one of the French doors. It was dark outside on the terrace, but lamps at intervals along the balustrade cast weak pools of light to soften the shadows.

Richard placed his hand over Felicity’s, where it lay on his arm. It was chilled, despite the mildness of the evening.

‘You are chilled, Lady Felicity. Shall I fetch your shawl?’

‘I am warm enough, thank you, my lord.’

‘Richard. Please. We need not stand on ceremony with one another; unless, of course, you have doubts about our marriage?’

Her eyes flicked to his face, then returned to their contemplation of the flagstones at their feet. Richard stopped beneath one of the lamps and took her hands in his.

‘Forgive my blunt speaking, but you do not appear happy. Am I ousting a preferred suitor?’

‘No, there is no other, although I had not thought... I did not realize... Oh, heavens, I cannot find the words.’

Felicity tugged her hands free and turned to stare into the darkness of the surrounding gardens. Her arms were wrapped around her waist and she looked somehow very vulnerable, standing there alone. It crossed Richard’s mind that she was self-contained: she gave the impression she was used to relying on her own resources. He shook his head in self-deprecation. Harriet would be impressed. She was forever castigating him about his lack of insight and yet, here he was, analysing his bride-to-be as though he had known her for years. He thrust away all thought of his mistress. It felt, somehow, disloyal to think of her whilst in the company of his future wife.

He put his hands on Felicity’s shoulders, the bones fragile beneath his fingers. ‘Try. I won’t bite, you know. I should prefer to start off with honesty between us, if we are to live together with any degree of comfort.’

Her shoulders tensed as she inhaled. Then she turned, and regarded him, her eyes as rueful as her smile.

‘This is ridiculous. You are right. If we are to wed, we need to understand one another. And, I admit I have doubts. Not about you. Well, that is...’ She paused, her brows drawn together in a frown. ‘No, that is untrue. It is about you, but it is about me, also. You and me. Together. You see, I hadn’t thought...I never presumed to be presented with such a...such a...catch, if you do not object to my calling you that?’

Richard bit back a smile. He had been called a catch many times, he was aware, but never to his face before. And never by an earnest-faced female who appeared to believe herself unworthy of a ‘catch’ such as he.

‘You may call me what you will,’ he said, ‘as long as you promise not to use such insultingly offensive terms that I shall be forced to take umbrage.’

She laughed, revealing a glimpse of white teeth. ‘Umbrage? I always thought that to be a state applied to elderly dowagers. Do you sporting gentlemen consider it a fittingly masculine trait, my lord?’

This was better. The spirited girl he remembered from last year had surfaced, her face alive with laughter, her eyes bright.

‘Perhaps umbrage does not quite convey the precise meaning I hoped to convey,’ he conceded. ‘Which word, in your opinion, should I have used, if I am to portray a suitably manly image to my future wife?’

Disquiet skimmed her expression, then vanished. Had he imagined it? Was it the bald reminder that she would be his wife that had disturbed her? Her countenance was now neutral, but her eyes remained watchful and she made no attempt to answer him.

‘Would you have preferred me to use “offence” perhaps, or “exception”?’ He leaned closer to her, and said, ‘I do not, you notice, suggest “outrage” for that, I fear, would not meet with your approval any more than “umbrage”. It is too synonymous with spinsters, would you not—?’

Felicity stiffened. ‘Do not make fun of me, sir. I may be a spinster and, therefore, in your eyes, a poor, undesired thing, but I have feelings and I have pride.’

‘Felicity, I promise I intended no slight. The thought never crossed my mind that you might think I was making fun of you. I was...I was... Oh, confound it! Come here.’

He had run out of words. He clasped her shoulders and drew her close. A finger beneath her chin tilted her face to his. He searched her eyes. They were shuttered. She was rigid in his arms. Was she scared? Had she never known a man’s kiss? The thought, strangely, pleased him: knowing his wife had never experienced another man’s touch. But he must take care not to frighten her. He lowered his head, slowly, and put his lips to hers.

He almost recoiled in shock. He had expected ice. What he felt was fire.