Chapter Four
“You are breathtaking, Felicity!” Clara squealed as quietly as possible, guests filtering around the group of young ladies gathered in the foyer of Setherwell Court.
Ellen, hands clasped under her chin as if in prayer, nodded her enthusiastic agreement. She glowed in her lilac gown under the chandelier’s generous light, the angelic beauty to her younger sister’s vibrant handsomeness.
All of Felicity’s friends looked wonderful in their finest evening gowns for the Wheadon family’s first ball. Yet she was the one standing in the middle of their circle, neck long and head held high—no easy feat, considering the heaps of jewels Lady Eldmar had insisted on weaving into her hair.
“The viscountess remained true to her word,” Isabel said, green eyes tracing the delicate, golden embroidery over the cream silk of Felicity’s newest dress. “She truly is sparing no expense for your appearance now.”
“Oh, hush, all of you.” Felicity swatted a hand, not bothering to disguise her proud smile. “Has no one a kind word to spare for my sister? Her gown is as new and beautiful as mine, is it not?”
She waved a hand to her left, where Mercy had taken up a spot next to Lydia in Felicity’s circle of admirers. Despite being quite identical—and thus able to assume that any compliment to one’s appearance applied equally to the other—neither twin appreciated being treated as one merely to save someone else the effort of politeness. Felicity knew that not to be the case here among their lifelong friends, but she did not wish to acknowledge their true intent in singling her out for praise she could not help absorbing.
“We did pay dear Mercy our compliments when we arrived,” Lydia said, her peacock-blue gown a lovely contrast to the lighter shade of her observant eyes. “Or did you pay them no mind because they were not directed at you?” she added with a surprisingly teasing smile. Being married to Sebastian had already done wonders to ease the rigidity bred into Lydia by her austere mother.
“Come along now, all of you!” called kind Mr. Abbott from the foot of the wide staircase in the center of the foyer, surrounded by their waiting families.
Taking one last moment to adjust each other’s necklaces and pinch each other’s already rouged cheeks, the ladies followed the rest of their group up to the ballroom, whispering words of encouragement and tenderhearted hopes. All save for Felicity. She had no need for encouragement and she certainly harbored no tenderhearted hopes.
“You look so beautiful, I am sure Mr. Atticus Wheadon will end the night in love with you. Lady Swan shall be correct once more!” Clara whispered to Felicity, leaning in close as the ballroom doors opened before them. A cascade of music and laughter spilled out.
Felicity lifted her nose in the air and glanced at her friends from the corner of her eye. “On the contrary, Clara. In fact, all of you should heed my words. I am going to prove to you all that Mr. Atticus Wheadon and I would be the most ill-suited match to ever appear before an altar. He is so very…strained and…humble.”
She suppressed the giggle that bubbled to her lips at the memory of his strangely charming awkwardness, molding it into a grin that spread from ear to ear as the other ladies shook their heads at Felicity’s stubbornness. Their doubt only inspired greater confidence in herself. No matter how different Mr. Wheadon might seem from most gentlemen, she would not be a pawn in this inane, little ploy by some writer hiding behind anonymity with nothing else to occupy her time. Lady Swan’s scheme to throw together such opposites was no match for Felicity’s competitive nature.
Until she turned at precisely the wrong moment. The first person Felicity’s eyes landed upon was none other than Mr. Atticus Wheadon himself. He stared back from across the ballroom wearing that same wide-eyed expression as he had when she had nearly startled the life out of him.
Her heart…fluttered. No, it was a spasm. Surely, that was it. A thrill of anticipation for a lively ball with all her favorite country neighbors.
It could have nothing to do with Mr. Wheadon. It could have nothing to do with the fact that the very same sensation had seized her for the first time in her life that day in the gardens, nearly a week ago now. Not that Felicity had been counting.
She had nearly forgotten that strange feeling. She had been trying to forget it.
“Ah, there is the younger Mr. Wheadon.” Lydia subtly pointed to the corner, as far from the dance floor as possible. “And it appears he has already noticed you, Felicity.”
Felicity tore her eyes away and glared at her friends, their parents busy with greeting the host and hostess as well as the other guests nearest the doors. “He could be looking at Mercy for all we know. No one can tell one from another at this distance.”
“He is not looking at me, sister,” Mercy quietly rebutted. She lifted one shoulder in an apologetic shrug when Felicity rounded on her.
Of course Mercy knew how frustrating it was for her twin to endure the others’ good-natured speculation and coaxing in conjunction with Lady Eldmar’s efforts. She did what she could to remain on Felicity’s side, yet Felicity knew she would not lie if pressed.
“He will not remove his eyes from you!” Clara cried, nearly bouncing on her toes. At least the pearls in her light-red hair had been fixed quite firmly in place.
“‘Dearest Miss Reeve, I pray my gaze is communicating my ardent love to you across this vast distance that wickedly separates us.’” Isabel sighed, pitching her voice a touch lower in a poor attempt to mimic the man.
“I have already been swept off my feet, Mr. Wheadon!” Clara replied as she whipped her fan open and swished it before her face.
Taking advantage of the cacophony in the ballroom, Felicity let out a groan. She supposed the ladies had earned the right to turn her own dramatics and love for jests against her every now and again. As their families dispersed throughout the massive ballroom, ornately decorated in shimmering golds and fresh blooms, the group of friends turned its attention to the nearest sideboard, filling plates with sharp cheeses and succulent fruits.
“Do you still believe Lady Swan is mistaken after seeing the way Mr. Wheadon is watching you?” prodded Lydia.
Felicity bit down hard on the delicious strawberry she had been so looking forward to enjoying. A familiar pressure settled on the small of Felicity’s back, Mercy appearing at her side.
“It matters not if Lady Swan is mistaken,” Mercy replied as her twin chewed. “Felicity does not desire any shackles, no matter how well-fitting.”
Swallowing, Felicity nodded along. Just as Lydia opened her mouth to politely counter, Lady Swan’s praises no doubt on the tip of her tongue, Felicity’s eyes betrayed her once more.
How, in this expansive room brimming with all of Bainbridge, did they always land on him?
The crowd lingering nearest the enthusiastic musicians broke apart, providing Felicity a clearer view of the younger Mr. Wheadon’s slow approach. Mr. and Mrs. Wheadon had apparently captured their son in the corner and were now shooing him along to the area’s most promising potential brides.
Felicity straightened her shoulders. She had faced every challenge in life squarely. This one would be no different…even if the man’s wringing hands and round eyes were a little endearing. Only a little.
“Mr. Wheadon! Please do join us,” called Clara, their friendliest and most romantically inclined member, before Felicity could protest.
The gentleman’s only reply was a tight smile.
“Please offer our compliments to your parents on a beautiful evening,” Ellen added, her voice barely audible over the music and chatter.
“I-I certainly will. Thank you, Miss Gardiner.”
He lowered his head respectfully, though Felicity could not help noticing the fevered twitching of his fingers at his sides. How could he be nervous around Ellen, the sweetest soul to have ever graced this Earth?
With an unreadable expression that did not sit well with Felicity, Isabel stepped forward. “Have you enjoyed many dances thus far?”
Felicity’s mouth went dry at Isabel’s obvious glance and pleased air. She looked as though she were about to prove that Mr. Wheadon had been impatiently awaiting Felicity’s arrival, forsaking all others. Somehow, Lady Swan had convinced even practical and analytical Isabel that this complete stranger had already fallen in love with Felicity.
Mr. Wheadon chuckled, his gaze darting over each of the ladies’ faces, seemingly unsure where to look or how long to linger. “I must confess I am far too ungainly to make a respectable dancer. But I very much enjoy observing the skills of others.”
“Then you must dance with our Felicity!” Clara clapped, silk gloves muffling the sound. “She is the finest dancer of us all and easily makes up for any deficiencies in her partner.”
The air disappeared from their little assembly. Lydia’s mouth nearly fell open at Clara’s accidental insult while Mercy began sputtering an explanation.
Felicity did not hear it. Neither did Mr. Wheadon, it seemed. His gaze held hers, steady. His entire being was still.
“I have not had the pleasure of knowing Miss Reeve long, but I sensed the very same.”
Felicity’s eyes widened, a breath catching in her throat. Why would he say such a thing when he hardly knew her? When she had been clear not to display any of the genteel qualities men sought in wives? Why did he insist on surprising her? She was the one who did the surprising.
“Miss Reeve—”
He reached toward her. Fear seized Felicity’s heart. This should not be happening. She jerked back, his fingertips just barely brushing the bare skin of her arm above her long evening gloves.
Even that whisper of a touch singed. She took another half-step back, remembering too late the looming, white, stone column behind her bearing a tall vase of plump, yellow blooms.
The back of her head thumped solidly against the column’s rounded corner. Felicity’s entire world swam for one strange, glorious, aching moment. Her piles of curls and gemstones had done nothing to shield the blow.
“Miss Reeve!”
That voice, usually so timorous, called unwaveringly to her as if from a great distance, yet it rang in her ears at the same time, bouncing around her mind, separate from her yet part of her at the same time. Large, expressive, cornflower-blue eyes rushed toward her, full of concern.
For a fleeting, foolish moment, a vision flashed through Felicity’s blurry thoughts, as bright and clear as day. Falling asleep in a bed of cornflowers in late-afternoon sunlight. Would such a thing truly be so terrible?
One firm hand shot out with urgency and grasped Felicity’s arm while the other reached behind, steadying the precarious vase.
Felicity’s senses rushed back in an instant. She immediately became aware of Mr. Wheadon’s closeness, his outstretched arm creating a protective circle around her as he held the vase in place, drawing her against his chest.
She also became aware of the dull throbbing in her head, already fading with every passing moment. And the feeling of every gaze in the room on her, including those of her distressed friends and her quietly vexed mother.
Gathering her wits as best she could, Felicity forced herself to look up at Mr. Wheadon, the man who had just saved her from making an even greater fool of herself in the middle of a teeming ballroom. Yet had he not been the cause of Felicity’s misstep in the first place?
“Thank you,” she whispered.
That was all she could muster. He deserved that much, after all. Even if he did supposedly pose a threat to Felicity’s plans for her future, at least according to Lady Swan. Even if he did make Felicity’s heart do strange things.
“Are you injured?” Mr. Wheadon demanded. His earnest gaze searched her face for an answer, perhaps looking for a wince or the first sign of drooping eyelids.
Felicity carefully shook her head. The longer she stared at Mr. Wheadon like this, herself now the wide-eyed, tongue-tied one, the less she noticed any discomfort or anomalies resulting from her clumsy encounter.
“It seems we are destined to meet under strange circumstances,” he said with a quiet laugh.
Felicity laughed, too. “You hardly know the half of it.”
Mr. Wheadon’s thick brows furrowed, a crease appearing between them, in that same endearingly perplexed expression. “What do you—”
“Sister! Shall we send for a physician?”
Felicity felt Mercy’s presence by her side before she saw her. Turning, she found her friends cloistering behind Mercy, wanting to be near without crowding.
As if suddenly aware of the very public view of this intimate posture, Mr. Wheadon quickly released Felicity. He took a respectful step back, worrying at the cuff of his coat sleeve.
Felicity immediately missed the stability of his presence, both physical and emotional. Despite his awkwardness, the gentleman possessed a calming, steadying spirit that had been evident from their first meeting. Her knees wobbled.
Without a word passed between them, the Bainbridge ladies encircled Felicity. Mercy slipped an arm around her twin’s waist and Ellen did the same on the other side. The gathering dispersed and merriment resumed as Lydia led them toward a quieter corner, fanning Felicity’s flushed face all the while.
She had not yet managed to answer a single one of her friends’ overlapping questions when, without warning, Lady Eldmar appeared behind their protective wall.
“Daughter.” The viscountess’s voice cut through the babble, clear and steely.
“Mother.” Felicity rose from the chair Isabel had procured. Straightening her spine, she pushed past her friends.
Felicity had never allowed the older woman to see any weakness or fear. She certainly did not intend to start now.
“My poor, dear daughter, please tell me you are unharmed,” Lady Eldmar continued, the elegant lines of her figure softening into a mask of concern as she cupped Felicity’s face in both hands.
Only Felicity and Mercy could see the anger brimming in her dark eyes.
She did not wait for an answer before turning her attention to the gentleman lingering a respectful distance away, back pressed to the wall, and waving. The younger Mr. Wheadon answered the viscountess’s summons, though he appeared to be doing his best to avoid looking anyone in the eye for more than two seconds.
“Thank you, sir, for bravely coming to my daughter’s aid.” Lady Eldmar sighed as she dabbed at imaginary tears with a handkerchief. “I cannot begin to express how sorry I am that she has imposed upon you, and I shall be sure to repeat the sentiments to your parents as soon as I have finished tending to my precious Felicity.”
“T-Truly, my lady, it is never any trouble—”
Tucking her handkerchief away and snapping her reticule shut, Lady Eldmar excused herself and Felicity and began the long march toward the ballroom doors, Mercy following in their wake. To her credit, the viscountess accepted each sympathetic look and concerned inquiry with remarkable grace. One would never know that she disdained the very same child she doted upon in public.
Felicity’s head remained lowered as she followed her mother out into the hallway, patrolled by harried footmen. The moment the doors closed behind them, she lifted it. The subtle change in position sent a pulsing ache to the back of her head. It would remain sore for some days, no doubt, a vexing reminder of a night Felicity longed to forget yet knew she would repeat in her mind later—certain parts of it, at least.
Lady Eldmar spun to face Felicity. Every ounce of parental concern she had shown in the ballroom amongst their friends, neighbors, and acquaintances had evaporated. The woman’s fists clenched at her sides. Felicity braced herself.
“I swear, you have been determined to send me to an early grave from the very moment of your birth!” the viscountess screeched. From the corner of her eye, Felicity saw Mercy flinch.
“After all I endured for you, this is how you repay me? By humiliating me with your foolishness?” she continued, jabbing an accusatory finger at Felicity from across the hallway. Her growing fury prevented her from coming any nearer.
“Your exemplary education and training in deportment have proven to be an utter waste.” The viscountess threw her hands into the air and shook her head before rounding on the elder twin once more. “Are you truly determined to remain unmarried? Because you have surely sealed that fate tonight. No man in that room, nor anyone to whom those men might gossip, will accept you after that blundering display.”
Fire seared Felicity’s throat. She scoffed through the pain. “How nice of you to finally realize it, Mother. Yes, I am indeed determined to remain unwed. I shall live with Mercy when she inevitably marries, or with one of my friends as a companion. As I have said time and time again. Not that you have ever been near enough to hear it.” Felicity waved a hand toward the ballroom. “If this is what it takes to finally impress that message upon you, then so be it.”
Lady Eldmar gasped, pale skin taut, ashy curls quivering. “How dare you, you wretched—”
“Mother, please!” Mercy cried, rushing into the middle of the hallway between her mother and sister, slippers muffled by the plush rug. “Please return to the ball. Return to your friends and refreshments. I shall remain here with Felicity until she is recovered.”
At this, the younger twin shot a warning glance over her shoulder at the elder. Felicity clenched her teeth and gave a single grudging nod of agreement, ignoring the flames of fury coursing in her veins.
“Very well,” Lady Eldmar barked. Her chest, draped in glittering diamonds, heaved up and down. “I can no longer stand to look upon you,” she spat as she stormed past Felicity and Mercy. The ripple of air that accompanied her stung with chill.
Alone but for servants going about their missions, the twins groaned in unison. “Well, that was terrible.” Mercy rubbed at her temples while Felicity clenched and unclenched her fingers at her sides, collecting themselves.
After a moment, Mercy returned her attention to her older sister, taking one fist and easing it open enough to slip her hand in.
“The viscountess did not ask if you were well, not truly,” she said quietly. “Are you well, Felicity? Injuries to the head are not to be trifled with. Even minor injuries can be deceptive—”
Felicity interrupted her. “I am perfectly well, Mercy, I promise.” Her lips, pressed into a hard line, relaxed into a grateful smile. She adjusted her hand to thread her fingers through her twin’s.
Mercy fell silent. Her observant eyes—so different from the intensity of Felicity’s—searched for any trace of a lie. “But it did look like quite a hearty thump,” she pressed.
“It was more shocking than harmful, I rather think,” Felicity insisted with a chuckle. “Though I imagine I will be sleeping on my side for a few nights until this dreadful growth recedes.”
“Growth?!”
Felicity laughed, relishing the warmth and weightlessness of the feeling. She desperately needed some cheer after all that nonsense.
“I jest, my darling Mercy. There is no growth.” She reached up and forced a finger through the mess of intricate ringlets at the back of her head and hissed. “Only a bruise, thank goodness. And all my faculties appear as sound as ever—which is not necessarily the most comforting endorsement, now that I think of it.”
Glowering, Mercy dropped Felicity’s hand and thrust her nose up. “Then I suppose you will not mind if I comment on how heroically Mr. Wheadon behaved.”
In the blink of an eye, Felicity’s good humor vanished. She knit her brows low over her nose and frowned, mirroring Mercy’s expression.
Even her own twin, the other half of her mind, had taken up Lady Swan’s cause. Felicity crossed her arms and shook her head.
“Do you truly think I should have anything to do with someone so timid and apprehensive? You recall what he was like during the luncheon. He conversed with no one—not even me, after the garden—and looked more inclined to sink through the floor than participate in a simple card game. We cannot possibly share any common interests or inclinations.” She groaned.
Yet as the words left her lips, her heart twinged. Something was wrong. She was not being entirely fair to his character. But what did his character matter when Felicity had always known what she wanted? What could be more liberating than living the remainder of her days by her twin’s side, or under the roof of one of her dearest friends, with no one to command or criticize her?
To Felicity’s increasing frustration, Mercy averted her gaze and began twiddling her thumbs. “If Lady Swan clearly believes there is potential…”
Felicity’s mouth ripped open to demand to know when, exactly, Mercy had betrayed her. Behind them, the ballroom doors burst wide, illuminating the sisters in the light of innumerable candles. The one who rushed out took no notice of them.
Mr. Atticus Wheadon’s long legs carried him down the hallway faster than Felicity would have guessed possible. His head remained bowed all the while, eyes on the floor.
“What do you think might have caused that?” Mercy whispered as the gentleman’s broad-shouldered outline disappeared into the shadows.
“I have not the faintest idea,” Felicity lied.
Perhaps it was not a lie. Perhaps Felicity only thought she knew what had disturbed Mr. Wheadon. The almost-imperceptible voice in the back of her mind told her that she was not wrong, though she truly had no reason to be right.
She did know precisely what bothered him. But she had noticed, or rather sensed, his nervous habits from the moment they’d met. Tonight, the anxiety and overwhelming discomfort had been writ large on his face. He must have reached his threshold.
Without paying any mind to what she did, Felicity took a step.