Читать книгу From Wallflower to Countess - Janice Preston - Страница 14

A bright morning saw Felicity up and about early, her determination not to wed Lord Stanton stronger than ever. He had prowled through her restless dreams, stirring strange and unwelcome yearnings deep within her. She had woken from those dreams, her heart racing, her skin hot and damp. And that was merely the result of a single kiss.

As she made her way downstairs it was apparent there was no one else up, other than servants, but that suited Felicity: the only person she wished to speak to was her mother, unlikely to be awake at this hour. Felicity crossed the library and let herself out on to the terrace, where she had strolled with Lord Stanton the previous evening.

She paused at the spot where they had kissed. Her pulse quickened at the memory even as the ever-present fear wormed through her belly. Unrequited love. She could not, would not risk it. It was unrequited love that had so wrecked Emma’s life that she had climbed to the roof of Baverstock Court and...

Felicity turned abruptly from the spot and headed for the flight of stone steps that led down into the garden, laid out in a formal style dissected by stone-flagged paths. There were gardeners already at work, weeding and collecting leaves, so she did not linger but followed the central pathway to an arched gap cut into a tall beech hedge. Through the gap was another pathway, and she turned left, knowing the stables were to the right. They, like the garden, would be a beehive of activity at this time of the morning.

A short distance along the path she reached the small rustic gate she remembered from her childhood. It led to a grass path that wound through a copse of ornamental trees before opening on to a vista of Cousin Leo’s lake. Water always soothed her. When she eventually wed she would have, if not a lake, then at the very least a pond, preferably near to the house, so she could see it every day; a large pond, with water lilies, and fish, and a bench to sit on. Daydreaming pleasantly, Felicity continued towards the lake.

‘Good morning, Felicity Joy.’ The deep voice startled her from her reverie.

‘Oh!’ Her heart leapt into her throat as she looked around.

Lounging at one side of the path, broad shoulders propped against the trunk of a copper beech, was Lord Stanton.

Felicity felt her face heat. Why must I blush now? She could never blush prettily, like her mother or Emma. Then she gritted her teeth. Why should she care how she blushed? She could never impress Stanton with her appearance, and she was not about to try. Besides, had she not already decided he was not for her?

‘Good morning, my lord. You are up early. I had not expected to see anyone out and about quite yet.’

‘I am sorry if I startled you. I had a restless night. It is not every day a man meets his future wife for the first time.’

Felicity eyed him with suspicion. Was he poking fun at her? ‘It is not too late to change your mind.’

His dark brows snapped together. ‘And what, precisely, do you mean by that, Felicity Joy?’

He pushed away from the tree and prowled towards Felicity, his attention never leaving her face. She resisted the urge to retreat.

‘You sound as though you might welcome a change of heart.’

‘Why were you leaning against that tree?’ Felicity asked. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

‘You.’ Stanton was close now, gazing down at her.

She held his gaze, her heart pumping a little too fast to be explained away by her walk. He was so handsome. Too handsome.

‘What do you mean?’ Her voice sounded breathless. It reminded her of her mother, which fuelled her irritation. She had no wish to flutter every time a man paid her any attention. She cleared her throat. ‘You could not possibly have known I would be walking here.’

He grinned. ‘I was returning from a stroll by the lake. I saw you coming from a distance, so I thought I might wait for you. And see when—indeed, if—you would notice my presence. It seems I am not the only one who is preoccupied. You, too, appear to have much on your mind, and not all of it pleasant, judging by your expression.’

‘And if I maintain that is my normal expression?’

Stanton crooked his arm. It would surely be churlish not to take it. They continued towards the lake.

‘Then I should say that your life is, perhaps, not very content. I should like to see a smile on your face always, Felicity Joy.’

He halted, tugging her around to face him. He lifted her chin with one finger, and Felicity was instantly transported back to the night before. She tensed. Was he going to kiss her again? His sensual lips curved, and she tore her gaze from them with an effort. His head dipped. If she was not marrying him, she should pull away, and yet...without volition, she swayed closer, relishing the heat radiating from his body. Her entire body softened as she breathed in his scent: a heady mixture of soap, fresh air and maleness.

He studied her, his expression serious.

Goodness, what must I look like? She really had not expected to meet anyone this early. She had splashed cold water on her face, pulled on the closest gown to hand and dragged a comb through her hair before roughly plaiting it, too preoccupied with her dilemma to worry about her appearance. How she wished it was possible to return to her childhood, when she had visited Cheriton Abbey and spent many carefree days exploring the grounds without a care as to how she looked.

The gentle sweep of Stanton’s thumb beneath her eye broke into her thoughts.

‘It appears I was not the only one who slept ill last night. What is it that troubles you? I can tell you are not overjoyed at the prospect of marrying me, but I confess I am at a loss to understand it. It seems to me we should make a successful partnership. We both, as I understand it, want children. Will you not confide in me about your doubts? I have no wish for a wife who feels she has been pressured into a union she actively dislikes.’

Her heart stuttered. ‘It is not that I would dislike being married to you.’ Far from it, if she was truthful. She recalled her words to her mother the night before. There was enough truth to sound believable. ‘I have seen you enough times in London, sir. You are popular. You are always at the centre of attention. I specifically asked Mama to find a quiet, retiring gentleman for my husband.’

Stanton’s brows drew together. ‘Do you mean you wish to retire to the country entirely?’

‘No. I enjoy country life, but I also enjoy spending time in London as I have interests there. I take little pleasure in society balls and parties, however.’

‘Then I see no reason why our union should not prove mutually beneficial, Felicity. I would never insist we live in each other’s pockets, particularly once an heir is born. Many marriages are conducted in such a fashion, with discretion. I would be happy for our marriage to be the same.’

But I would not. Not with you.

She was so afraid she would grow to love him, particularly now, when he had shown such gentle—and unexpected—understanding. And his words—his expectations of their marriage merely reinforced her fears. She was to be used as a vessel to produce an heir. And, without doubt, a spare. Like a brood mare. None of which she really objected to. Indeed, it was what she wanted: a quiet husband to live on the periphery of her life. But Stanton was not, and never could be, he.

‘What do you say, Felicity Joy? May I pay my addresses to you? I should like to propose in the customary manner —and to hear your reply—and not just drift into an understanding.’