From Wallflower to Countess. Janice Preston

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.’

       Chapter Seven

      Felicity bit her lip. She would regret her decision either way, but better to suffer disappointment now, and be done with it, than to live in lonely suffering and heartache for the rest of her days. She did, however, need to talk to her mother again first.

      ‘I am sorry to be indecisive, but might I give you my answer later? I should like time to think about what you have said.’

      Stanton stepped back and bowed. ‘Of course you may. I would not for the world wish to rush you. It is a momentous decision.’

      ‘Thank you. If you do not object, I shall return to the Abbey now. And I will give you my answer later this morning, if that will suit you?’

      ‘Of course.’

      Felicity walked back along the path through the trees. She rounded the bend, and her heart sank. Her stepfather, Quentin Farlowe, had just stepped through the gate into the copse. It was too late to turn back, for he saw her almost immediately.

      ‘There you are, miss,’ he called.

      Felicity cursed under her breath. He strode towards her, frowning, his thin lips barely visible.

      As he reached her she lifted her chin. ‘I am on my way to see Mama. There was no need to search for me.’

      ‘I disagree. You have worked your mother into the devil of a state. What can you possibly object to in Stanton?’

      ‘I will discuss it with Mama and my guardian.’

      Farlowe’s fingers bit into her arm. ‘We will settle this now. I will not have your mother upset.’

      No, of course you won’t. No doubt it disturbed your sleep. How Felicity longed to throw those words at her stepfather, but she refused to stoop so low. ‘I have no wish to upset Mama either. I am sure we will reach some accord.’

      He dragged her close, glaring down at her through narrowed eyes. Felicity coughed as a wave of Farlowe’s pungent hair oil pervaded her nostrils. The sickly smell contrasted sharply with Stanton’s fresh, spicy scent.

      ‘You’ve been a thorn in my side ever since I married your mother, looking down your nose at me. Why do you not want Stanton?’ He bent his head close to hers, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered in her ear. ‘Is he too much the man for you, miss? Are you scared of your wedding night? Mayhap I can be of assistance? Provide a little tutoring so you will not—’

      ‘Let me go!’ Felicity struggled against his viselike grip on her arm. ‘When Mama hears what you—’

      Farlowe laughed. ‘But she won’t find out, will she? You forget—I know you, Lady Felicity. You won’t say a word to your mama because you hate to upset anyone—’

      * * *

      ‘Farlowe!’ Stanton’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

      Farlowe looked round, but did not release Felicity as Richard strode towards them, fury pounding his veins.

      ‘Merely a familial misunderstanding, Stanton; nothing for you to concern yourself with.’

      The rogue didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. Richard wondered what he had whispered to Felicity. Judging by her expression, he had not been sharing a friendly word of advice.

      ‘Oh, but I am concerned, Farlowe. Anything that distresses Felicity distresses me. Take your hands from her.’

      ‘We have not finished—’

      ‘Yes, we have.’ Felicity twisted her arm free. ‘I told you, sir, that I will discuss the matter with my mother and the duke. They are my guardians, not you.’

      Richard levelled a long look at Farlowe, who blanched. Good. The savage anger in his breast must be reflected in his expression. He would have dearly loved to draw the scoundrel’s cork, but would not do so in front of Felicity. Next time they met, though, Mr Quentin Farlowe would have a few questions to answer.

      Glancing at Felicity, Richard was struck once more by her forlorn expression. Much as he would like to place all the blame for her dejection