The Dress of the Season (3 page)

His other hand moved to her thigh, letting his fingers move lightly over the thick fabric.

“They will remember the way your skin looked, the swell of your breasts rising . . .”

He was so very
close to her
. Felicity could not take her eyes off his. Dark blue, almost black in the night. Rather than the drunken blur she expected, they had sharpened, focused. There was a sound—a sharp intake of breath. Was it hers or was it his? She did not know. One thing she did know, as her heart felt like it was going to beat through her chest: she could not move—could not back down.

If she moved, either forward or back, it would be the end of her.

After the longest time, just at the moment that Felicity finally realized that this was torture she was being subjected to—yes, that was why her pulse moved like a hummingbird’s wing, and the very tips of her fingers were giving off heat—did she feel Osterley’s hand leave her back. He started, blinking, as if he had been staring into the sun, and only now could tear himself away. He shrank back, to the other side of the couch, ducking his head into his hands.

“That is what I . . . that is what
men
will think,” he growled. “You worry about swaying the gossip of women, and you cannot do anything about how men think.”

Felicity remained still—she doubted she could move in any case. She felt—exposed. Even in her neck-high, plain night rail and robe.

“H . . . Harris?” Her voice was little more than a breath on the air. If he realized that she had called him by his given name, he did not acknowledge it, simply keeping his hand threaded through his thick golden hair. Then he brought his head up, his dark gaze staring long into the space in front of him, that slight tic at the corner of his mouth, the only sign he was still in the room with her.

“You should sleep. We leave at first light,” he said, not turning to look at her.

This time she did not argue. Rising to surprisingly shaky legs, Felicity turned and left the room without a word.

Chapter Four

The trip to Croft Park in the district of Surrey, in southeastern England, was generally a pleasant one. There were relatively good roads in that part of the wood, and it was not too far removed from London to make the trip an arduous, multiday adventure with stops at spotty inns to change horses and rest, leaving the travelers to hope that the bed linens were not infested with bugs. In fact, the trip itself could take less than five hours, weather permitting.

Unfortunately, the next morning, the weather was not very permitting.

They had gone nearly two miles, and were just reaching the edges of what one might call London proper when the heavy clouds that had shielded dawn from brightening the sky began to pour out their contents across the land.

And it didn’t stop.

At first, Osterley thought perhaps it was simply a spring downpour, and after twenty minutes it would stop. It was April, after all. Thus he told the coachman to continue on. He and Felicity were comfortably ensconced in his box carriage, and the coachman had a good coat. But after the first hour of rain, and the sky no lighter, Osterley had to acknowledge perhaps Mother Nature had other plans for them.

Or he would have, if he hadn’t been so stubborn.

“It’s fine,” he said aloud, some four hours into the trek. “I’m sure it will clear up any moment now.”

He glanced at Felicity, expecting her to send him a look of exasperation, or to mention again that it was likely the coachman was soaked to the skin and shivering, but instead her eyes were glued to the window and the small village they were passing.

“Is . . . is that the Miller’s Creek Crossing?” she asked, her face devoid of its usual pink cheerfulness. Indeed she looked as if she had seen a ghost.

“Yes. Why? Do you wish to stop? Felicity, are you feeling well?” Osterley’s voice sounded harsh to his own ears. But he felt a surge of concern run through him. She really did look pale. Perhaps it was carriage sickness. Perhaps it was worse. He shifted up from his facing seat, and came to sit beside her. Miller’s Creek Crossing had to have a physician, did it not?

“No. I mean, yes, I feel fine. No I do not wish to stop.” Felicity said quickly, assuaging his concern. He was inordinately relieved, until she continued. “Miller’s Creek Crossing is the last place I saw John, is all.”

It was as if Osterley had been gutted. John. Her brother. His best friend. So Felicity
had
seen a ghost.

“He took me as far as the crossing, we had lunch at an inn, and then Aunt Bertha’s carriage met us, and took me to London. Four years ago. Next Michaelmas it will be five.” Her voice was lost to memory. “He told me everything would be fine, and I would be back in a few weeks.”

But it wasn’t,
he thought. And she hadn’t gone back. She’d been in London, thriving, living, while John rotted in the ground, along with so many others, Osterley’s parents included. And he—he’d gone on living, too.

Osterley wanted to shake himself. He did not want these memories, any more than Felicity did. He, of course, had the advantage of having come back to Surrey in the four years since. He’d faced down the past, and had been working to bring Croft Park, and the nearby village of Whitney into the present. But seeing Felicity’s pale face, her frozen posture, it was as if he was reliving his own pain through her. For the hundredth time in the past twenty-four hours, he cursed himself.

If only Bertha was here! If only
she
was the one to take this trip. After his actions in the dark library, the raging in his blood made Osterley absolutely certain that he should not be the one to take Felicity to Croft Park. Once Felicity had left him, he had marched up to Bertha’s room, raised his hand to knock on the door . . . and held.

What was the point? She would only refuse, unbending old woman that she was. Or worse, she’d ask why he was driven to waking her at two in the morning.

So, four hours later, he was dressed to go to Croft Park. As was Felicity.

She hadn’t acted surprised to see that it was him taking her, not Aunt Bertha. No, instead she’d simply been silent as he handed her up in the carriage, as if going to the gallows. And silent she had remained until now.

He had thought she was quiet because she was pouting over having to leave London. But now . . . perhaps it was not petulance. Perhaps instead it was dread, sadness.

As Felicity stared out the window at the retreating buildings of Mill Creek Crossing, Osterley didn’t know what to do. Or how to make it better for her.

“Er . . . we can stop,” he said gruffly, his entire body suddenly feeling awkward and over large next to her. “Not here of course, but in the next town or so. The coachman would likely enjoy a hot cup of coffee. And you can . . . get some air?”

“I’m not going to faint, Osterley.” Her expression remained the same, her eyes still on the window, but her voice had a hint of warmth to it. That particle eased his fears.

“Right. No air to be had in any case. It’s not as if you can take a stroll in this downpour,” he babbled. And then, for some inane reason, his brain pulled up a memory. “You’d likely get as soaked as if you jumped into the lake fully dressed.”

A small smile pressed itself against her lips, fighting to take over her face. “I only did that because you dared me.”

“No, I dared John. He was fourteen. You were six. Why would I dare a six-year-old?”

“All I heard was ���Grove—I dare you to jump into the lake.’ And since it was hot, and as a girl I have to wear a dozen more layers of clothes, I assumed you meant me.”

“And since you were wearing so many more layers, you fell with a splat into the mud.”

“And neither you nor John would come to get me,” she replied pertly.

“Well, it was awfully muddy,” he replied curtly. “Your head and shoulders were above water, you were fine.” He slid her a glance then. Her color was, if not back to normal, then at least, back in existence. A glint of old mischief sparkled in her eyes.

“You will be fine now, too,” he said, leaning in, his words a low whisper.

She nodded, then turned her eyes back to the window, and the passing countryside in the rain.

They drove on through the rain, letting the silence act as comfort now, Osterley occasionally leaning over and mentioning an old memory, calming Felicity’s nerves, and surprisingly his, too. Perhaps it was the rain that did it, or perhaps it was the stories. Or perhaps, it was the fact that, unbeknownst to them, sometime while passing through Miller’s Creek Crossing, Osterley had taken Felicity’s hand, holding it fast between them.

*  *  *

What would normally be a brisk five-hour journey was doubled by the inclement weather. Additionally, they did stop once to change horses, and make certain the coachman had not perished from the rain (a hale man, he was fine, and somewhat disapproving of such concern. Although he did seem glad for the hot mug of coffee). The rain stalled that process, too, and as such, they crossed the old stone bridge that marked the entrance to Croft Park nearly in time for supper that night.

Pulling up to the front of the gray stone manse, Osterley and Felicity moved quickly into the foyer, where dripping wet, they were greeted by the household staff.

“Ah, Mrs. Smith,” Osterley said as he shook the water off of his top hat, before handing it to a manservant. “May I introduce my ward, Miss Felicity Grove.”

Mrs. Smith was unruffled, and gave a polite curtsy, which Felicity copied. Then Mrs. Smith turned to Osterley. “You will have to forgive us, my lord. We only received your note this morning, and when you wrote of a ward, I assumed she would be a child. We’ve been preparing the nursery all day.”

“My apologies, Mrs. Smith,” Osterley said sincerely. “I sometimes forget you are unfamiliar with family history.”

“Yes, my lord,” Mrs. Smith said.

“There is no need to trouble yourself over me right now,” Felicity interrupted, trying earn a smile from Mrs. Smith. “I am certain the staff is busy preparing supper. You can put me in whatever room is most prepared for now, and move me tomorrow to a more appropriate venue.”

But Mrs. Smith was unmoved by such kindness. “I doubt you would very much like to sleep in a child’s bed, Miss Grove.”

There was a decided chill coming from Mrs. Smith toward Felicity. She turned her eyes to Osterley. It seemed he felt it, too, because the slight tic at the corner of his mouth started again.

“Mrs. Smith. Please take Miss Grove up to my room for the evening, and prepare a bath for her. I will take advantage of the butler’s quarters for my bath.” His voice was steel, his eyes dark with their conviction. “You have until this evening to prepare a proper room for Miss Grove.”

Mrs. Smith, blessedly, was not a stupid woman. She nodded to Osterley, dipped to a curtsy, and turned to Felicity.

“This way, Miss Grove,” she said stiffly, and headed up the main stairs, leaving Felicity to follow in her wake.

*  *  *

“He’s done a lot of work in here, hasn’t he?” Felicity murmured, turning in the expanse of Osterley’s master bedroom. It was a huge, ranging space, done over in his favorite velvets and leather chairs. A large copper tub was being dragged into the center of the room.

“Aye—new drapes were hung just over the winter.” Mrs. Smith replied, her voice as cool as ice water. “So I take it you’ve been here before?”

“Yes,” Felicity replied. When she had been a child, every room was free and open to their games of hide-and-seek. They had the run of the place—and old Viscount Osterley had encouraged it, finding the occasional child under the dinner table, or hidden in a wardrobe, put a smile on his gruff face.

Of course, that was before. Before the sickness. Before all the linens and drapes and furniture had to be burned, to stop the spread of disease.

She wondered briefly why Osterley would have replaced drapes and linens in the winter, when the old ones could be no more than four years old—after all, Osterley was not a spendthrift, especially not on himself. Indeed, while Felicity was kept genteelly fashionable, she was absolutely certain—although she doubted he realized anyone noticed, let alone Felicity—that he had been wearing the same pair of riding boots for two years.

The men hauling in the tub positioned it by the fire. Then, with a nod from Mrs. Smith, and a bow to Felicity, they quickly left the room.

“Come now, let’s get these wet clothes off of you,” Mrs. Smith sighed. “Doubt Lord Osterley would like to spend time in your company if you catch cold.”

“Yes—and I am certain he would like to have his room back, too,” Felicity replied.

Felicity wasn’t certain, but she thought she heard Mrs. Smith grumble, something to the effect of “. . . seems willing enough to share.”

“What did you say, Mrs. Smith?” Felicty inquired, freezing in the process of peeling off her sodden spencer.

“Nothing, miss. Only that I wonder why his lordship goes so far as to have a room made up for you.” Mrs. Smith sighed. “Telling us that he’s bringing down his ‘ward’ is one thing—can’t have the day staff spreading rumors around Whitney.”

Felicity looked up in shock. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Smith.”

“The last house I worked in, the house’s young man kept bringing in young ladies—friends, he called them, or long lost cousins, and his mother never said a word. It made for a very uneasy house, to tell the truth, and I was glad to leave it.” Mrs. Smith shook her head. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before it started happening here, though—his lordship being a bachelor and all.”

“You . . . you think I am . . .” Felicity choked out.

Mrs. Smith gave her a pitying look. “Well, what am I to think? He’s never mentioned a ward before. Then, you and he come in hand in hand, and he puts you up in his room, and you . . . you are far too old to be ward to a young man like Osterley.”

Ice ran down Felicity’s spine as she straightened.

“You are right. I am far too old. Or, rather he is too young.” Off Mrs. Smith’s look, she explained. “We were all too young when the epidemic hit. I was sixteen. He was four and twenty, I believe.”

“The epidemic?” Mrs. Smith repeated warily. The way her face went pale, Felicity knew Mrs. Smith realized that she might have made a mistake.

“How long have you been working for Lord Osterley, Mrs. Smith?” she asked, keeping her voice cool and inquisitive.

“Two . . . two years, miss.” The older woman replied, her mouth flattening into a grim line.

“Then you’ve been here long enough to know what happened.”

Mrs. Smith coughed into her hand. “They say in Whitney it was smallpox.”

“Yes.” Felicity regarded Mrs. Smith, a little more kindly. After all, regardless of how wrong the woman’s assumptions were, it would only cause difficulties if she suffered an apoplexy. “You know the little house with the rose garden, about two miles down the main road? Just past the bridge that is the entrance to Croft Park?” At Mrs. Smith’s nod, Felicity continued. “That is my home—I grew up there.”

“Is it?” the housekeeper replied. “Forgive me, but I thought it was part of his lordship’s property—after all, he’s the one who hired the workers when the roof was blown off in a storm and the tenants had to relocate.”

“Lord Osterley manages the property in trust for me, until I come of age next year.” Felicity let her eyes flit to the window, the rain smashing down against it. “I did not know about the roof.”

Panic lanced through Felicity, shockingly strong and swift. Her home was damaged? Had it fallen into disrepair? When they had driven past the house, Felicity had peered through the trees, trying to see its familiar gray stone façade. Her home. But the rain was too heavy, and the night too dark.

She had to force the fear to quell down. Of course she would. Even if it was falling down about her ears, her home was still there, it had to be. It was the one link she had to the life she once knew. As frightening as it was for her to come back here and see what she left behind, it would be ever more intolerable to come back and find nothing.

It was too lonely, too frightening a feeling.

But then her brow came down critically. Osterley had made a promise to look after her affairs. Why was her house’s roof falling down? Even if he cared nothing for her, certainly he cared about appearances.