Chapter Two
Safely ensconced in the family carriage, Felicity watched for the others through its window.
All in all, the evening had not gone as poorly as she had feared it would.
After all, her cooking had drawn the sweetest poem from a handsome, eloquent earl.
She couldn’t help but smile at the memory but still wondered how he would behave when he discovered her true identity, for the discovery was inevitable.
If not here in Binnocksbourne, then back in Town when they crossed paths at some festivity that Serendipity and Chance insisted she attend.
Perhaps by the time they met again, and she introduced herself properly, he would already be well on his way to becoming an ineligible gentleman with a future wife on his arm.
That thought made her sad and wonder if she should have listened to Marcie and Mrs. Amesbury about rejoining the party and chasing him down—not exactly chasing him down, but at least making herself known to him.
“Well, there is naught to be done about it now.” She propped her chin in her hand and continued staring out the window. Apparently, Merry had found somewhere other than the nursery to hide. Chance and Serendipity must be having difficulty finding her. She smiled again. “Good on you, Merry.”
As the two youngest of the seven sisters, she and Merry were closer to each other than the others. She didn’t know what she would do without Merry’s sparkling nature and spirited antics to make her laugh. Her sister made difficult days easier.
Felicity perked and sat straighter, stretching to see as far as she could up the curving driveway to the Atterleys’ front veranda.
That voice. She would know it anywhere. It was as rich and delicious as the perfect caramel licked from a spoon.
The deep laugh that followed made her shiver. How could any man sound so…so…
She sighed. There were no words.
As he strolled into view, she leaned back, watching from the shadows as she always did.
What a finely made man he was. Then a pair of last Season’s flighty young things swirled around him like silky moths to a flame.
Damn their eyes, fawning over him as if he were the last available man in all creation.
The surge of jealousy surprised her. She had no right. Well, yes, she did. Hadn’t the man recited a poem just for her?
The ladies on either side of him tittered like a pair of nervous birds, laughing at every word that fell from his lips.
The longer Felicity watched, the lower her heart sank.
Oh, why hadn’t she gone back out to the party as Mrs. Amesbury had suggested?
And now here she sat. In the carriage. In a gown she had purposely torn.
“I am such a fool.” She sagged back in the seat and closed her eyes, refusing to cry over an evening gone so terribly wrong, much to her own doing.
She should have gone back to the party and properly introduced herself.
Of course, she had no way of knowing if Lord Wakefield would treat her the same when he discovered she was a peer, but it might have gone well.
He might have been pleased to discover who she really was.
Another sigh left her. Now, she would never know.
More laughter from the ladies walking alongside him had her wishing they would either choke on bugs or stumble on the path and land face first in the roses.
Then she felt ashamed for harboring such horrid thoughts and truly hoped that Mama was so busy up in heaven that she hadn’t heard them.
Those girls were simply behaving as they had been trained by their marriage-minded mamas, while Felicity sat in the shadows of the carriage because she was a coward, the shy Broadmere mouse.
“Fool, fool, fool.”
The carriage door opened, and a slightly out-of-breath Merry popped inside. “Who is a fool?”
“I am.”
“Why?”
Felicity wasn’t ready to share all the evening’s details just yet. She turned and displayed her ruptured seam. “This.”
Merry frowned. “How does tearing your dress make you a fool? It was the dress’s fault. Not yours.”
“I should have been more cautious. Madame Couire will not be pleased. She warned me about this silk.”
“Madame Couire needs to learn some grace and curb her tongue. She also needs to remember that there are other modistes in Town, and also here. I do not like the way she scolds you when you need a dress repaired or seams adjusted. It is most rude, and I just might decide to speak with her about it at our next meeting.”
“Leave it, Merry,” Felicity said while risking another look out the window.
“Chance and Seri will be a moment longer. Lady Atterley didn’t seem quite prepared to bid them adieu. You know how she can be sometimes now that her daughter has married and moved to the Continent.”
“I hope Lady Frederica is very happy,” Felicity said while leaning forward and stretching to see the earl and his pair of adoring hens.
“Who are you watching?”
Felicity snapped back and straightened in the seat. “No one. Why?”
Merry stretched and stuck her head all the way out the window for a long moment, then pulled back inside and settled in place.
“Lady Carolee and Miss Maralee are making fools of themselves over that gentleman. Who is he? I have never seen him before. Did you happen to notice him before you escaped to the kitchen?”
“Mrs. Amesbury said his name was Lord Wakefield.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, because Mrs. Amesbury had asked him his name.
“Lord Wakefield,” Merry repeated, then wrinkled her nose. “Is he the one whose uncle died in the carriage accident and left him the title?”
“The very same, is my understanding.” Felicity hated lying to Merry, but the evening was still too raw to spill all the details and all the mistakes made.
“Hmm…” Merry stretched back out the window for another look. “He appears to be leaving. On foot. Is that not rather odd?”
Felicity shrugged while fighting the urge to hang out the window and see for herself. “It is a rather nice evening.”
“Yes, but to walk? Why did he not ride his horse? That would have been just as pleasing, and far less exertion in his best clothes and shoes.”
“Perhaps he likes to walk?” Felicity wished Merry would be quiet, but a quiet moment with Merry was a rare occurrence. “Any sign of Chance and Seri? I do not look forward to the ride home.”
Merry waved away her worries. “You know how it will be. Chance will sulk, and Seri will bathe us both in disagreeable looks and hissing sighs. Tomorrow will be worse. I am sure Chance will call one of his meetings of the flock.”
“His flock is shrinking fast, and I am certain our dwindling numbers have him champing at the bit.” Felicity pointed at her sister. “Best take care—since you have reached the ripe old age of one and twenty, he might not be satisfied with only one marriage this year.”
Merry wrinkled her button nose again. “Chance needs to be thankful for that which he already has.” She shook a finger. “And he also needs to remember that Seri must marry as well. When is he going to turn on her and hang her in the available-to-wed window along with the rest of us?”
“Seri knows how to handle Chance,” Felicity said. “She discreetly steers him in whichever direction she wishes him to go. I very much doubt he will turn on her until you and I are gone.”
“Well, I am not ready yet.” Merry gave a curt nod, making her blonde curls bounce. “I wish I could get the babies without having to deal with finding the right sort of husband. They are all so…so…irritating and full of themselves, expecting us to fawn all over them and place them on a pedestal.”
“Mama placed Papa on a pedestal,” Felicity gently reminded her.
“That is because Mama adored Papa as much as he adored her.” Merry’s smile turned sad. “And Papa was never a pompous arse with her. He listened and took her thoughts to heart.”
“Would it not be wonderful to find a man like that?” Felicity wondered if the earl might remotely satisfy that requirement.
“It would be heavenly,” Merry said.
*
Drake Pemberton, the secretly impoverished and fake seventh Earl of Wakefield, walked home from the Atterley dinner party, claiming the night much too glorious for riding in a carriage and his Thoroughbred much too spent after escaping the stall earlier in the day.
In truth, his carriage was in dire need of repair, and his Thoroughbred was yet to be properly re-shod because he had barely scraped together enough blunt to pay the farrier, who had refused to grant the Wakefield estate any more credit.
Hands in his pockets, a heavy sigh escaped him as his footfalls thudded and crunched on the crushed stone of the roadway. The balmy evening did nothing to comfort or lift his spirits. Old Uncle George had surely drawn him into a fine kettle of fish, and he was about to drown in it.
Heaven help them both if anyone discovered that his uncle, the sixth Earl of Wakefield, was still alive and hopefully safely hidden away at Wakefield Manor, which was actually Drake’s property that he had inherited from his father.
Uncle George had gambled away the original Wakefield Manor, then coerced Drake into agreeing that it could be released from entailment to pay other household debts that had been ignored.
Drake had no choice. It was either that or Uncle George would be dragged away to debtor’s prison; therefore, the barring of entail had been done to satisfy at least a few of his uncle’s creditors.