From Wallflower to Countess. Janice Preston

of conversation faded as the assembled guests turned their attention to the plinth set up at one end of the huge ballroom to accommodate the musicians. That evening had seen the surrounding families invited to Cheriton Abbey for a ball. Felicity had dressed, with a little more attention to her appearance than usual, in her favourite evening gown of primrose silk, knowing all eyes would be on her at some point during the evening.

      The duke stood impassively on the plinth, awaiting the undivided attention of his guests whilst Stanton cupped Felicity’s elbow and guided her to the front and side of the throng. Despite her fears, Felicity could not suppress a frisson of excitement at the thought of marrying such a man. He was in his element, here in the ballroom. It was unfortunate she was not.

      Her mouth dried as Cousin Leo began to speak and heads turned in her direction. Her lips clung to her teeth, foiling her attempt to smile.

      ‘You might at least attempt to look happy.’

      Stanton’s breath scorched her ear. Felicity inhaled, his spicy male scent pervading every cell of her body. She pushed her thick tongue between her lips and her teeth in an attempt to moisten them. She was vaguely aware of a murmured exchange between Stanton and Cousin Cecily, who stood nearby. A glass was thrust into her hand.

      ‘Here. Take a sip. It will help.’ A large hand settled—comfortingly—at the small of her back, its heat penetrating the delicate silk of her dress, warming her even as a shiver of awareness snaked down her spine.

      She registered only an occasional word of Cousin Leo’s speech as she sipped the punch. She glanced sideways at Stanton and smiled her thanks just as Cousin Leo said, ‘I am sure you will all join me in wishing them every happiness in their life together.’

      A low hum swept the room and then people were surrounding them, smiling, congratulating, shaking Stanton by the hand but also eyeing Felicity: speculating, slightly incredulous. She stood tall, steadying her nerves, aware this was but a tiny taste of the attention she would experience in London. She had a choice to make; a choice that might inform the future of this union with Stanton.

      She could either shrivel or she could bloom.

      She inhaled, braced her shoulders and curved her lips as she responded to their many well-wishers, grateful for the comforting presence of Stanton by her side, deflecting much of the attention away from her, protecting her, until people were distracted by the musicians tuning their instruments.

      ‘Well, Fliss. It’s official now. You are to be a married lady.’ Felicity spun round in delighted response to the familiar voice in her ear.

      ‘Dominic! I did not see you there.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It still feels unreal. I never wanted to marry...oh! I dare say I should not have said that.’ She glanced round apprehensively.

      Stanton, engaged in conversation with Cecily, appeared not to have heard.

      Dominic, Lord Avon, laughed. He was a younger version of his father: tall, elegant and suave with the same black hair and silver-grey eyes. ‘Well, I think it will be the making of you.’ He raised his voice. ‘Congratulations, Stan. Mind you take care of my favourite cousin.’

      ‘Oh, I will,’ Stanton said as they shook hands.

      ‘Have you come down from London, Dom?’ Felicity asked. ‘It is such an age since I was there. Tell me, how do they go on at Westfield?’

      ‘What, and where, is Westfield?’ Stanton enquired.

      Felicity’s mother and stepfather joined the group at that moment and, hearing Stanton’s question, Lady Katherine immediately claimed his attention.

      ‘Oh, it is merely some nonsense of Felicity’s, Stanton. Nothing for you to concern yourself with for I am persuaded Felicity will have vastly more important matters to occupy her once she is married.’

      Before Felicity could respond, Stanton said, ‘You may indeed be confident of Felicity’s future preferences, my lady—and I bow to your superior knowledge of your daughter —but I do find in myself a desire to know what Felicity has to say on the subject.’

      His voice held the perfect hint of apology, and Felicity could not be quite sure if he had just delivered a most elegant setdown to her mother. As she pondered, he glanced at her and she caught the devilish glint in his eye. She pursed her lips, trying to suppress the laugh that bubbled in her chest.

      ‘My dear, would you care to enlighten me?’ Stanton’s voice and expression were suitably grave as he tilted his head and raised a brow. ‘I asked you about Westfield, if you recall.’

      ‘It is a haven for thieves and pickpockets,’ Farlowe interjected. ‘That is what it is. A waste of good money. It shouldn’t be allowed, that’s what I say.’

      Her stepfather had never struck Felicity as a perceptive man, and now he sank to new depths in her estimation. How could the man be so blithely oblivious to Stanton’s scowl?

      ‘It is my allowance, sir, and I spend it how I please,’ she said.

      ‘Felicity! Do not put dear Farlowe down in that unbecoming manner. Why, whatever will Stanton think—’

      ‘Stanton,’ interrupted a silky-smooth voice, ‘thinks his future wife has her own opinion and should be allowed to voice it without interruption.’

      ‘Oh, good man, Stan. Well said,’ Dominic said, laughing.

      ‘Dominic—’ Cecily grabbed her nephew’s arm ‘—the dancing is about to start. Would you be so good as to stand up with your elderly aunt for the first?’

      ‘Oh, transparent, dear aunt. Come then, let us leave the newly betrothed and their relatives to play at happy families.’

      Cecily led Dominic away and Felicity breathed easier, knowing he was more than capable of adding further fuel to an already fraught situation.

      ‘Westfield—’ she turned to Stanton ‘—is an asylum in Islington for orphans and destitute children. I’ve supported it for five years, and Dominic became involved about a year ago.’

      ‘And will you tell Stanton where you find these orphans and destitutes?’ Farlowe’s voice rose in anger. ‘The criminals you willingly consort with?

      ‘I tried to talk some sense into her, Stanton, I promise you, but the provoking girl would not listen to me. Mayhap you will have more success in curbing her wayward tendencies.’

      ‘Wayward tendencies?’ Dark brown eyes turned to Felicity, appraising her. Heat washed over her skin. He bent his head, his lips close to her ear. ‘I am intrigued, Felicity Joy. Positively intrigued.’

      Felicity suppressed her tremor as the small hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, swallowing past the sudden constriction in her throat.

      ‘They are children.’ She struggled to keep her attention on Farlowe, ‘They cannot help the things they must do to survive.’

      ‘Pshaw!’

      ‘Well, what would you do, Mr Farlowe, if you were starving?’ Felicity’s customary caution vanished. ‘Might you not be tempted to steal a loaf of bread? Or pick a coin from someone’s pocket?’

      Farlowe bristled. ‘Might I remind you, miss—’

      ‘Come, my darling.’ Lady Katherine, after one look at Stanton, tugged at Farlowe’s arm. ‘Let us dance.’ She pouted and cajoled and finally succeeded in dragging her husband to join a reel forming in the centre of the room.

      Felicity’s heart sank. Why on earth had she risen to Farlowe’s provocation? She glanced up at Stanton. Would he be appalled by her lapse in manners? He was staring after his future parents-in-law, his expression a study in perplexity. He switched his attention to her and raised one dark brow.

      ‘Thieves and pickpockets, Felicity Joy?’ One corner of his mouth quirked up. ‘Might I enquire what other dens of iniquity you frequent?’