Chapter Eleven
On their way back to the Den, Tristan bought her a Cornish pasty. She’d hoped he’d do more than buy her a treat, but he was quiet and contemplative. She would have worried, but he didn’t sit across from her when they returned to the carriage. He sat beside her the whole way and held her hand.
Such a simple gesture, the holding of hands, and yet that innocent touch had warmed her to her toes.
Not the way his kisses did—this was different.
Like sunlight inside her, gentle, healing, comforting.
They parted ways when they arrived at the Den.
Tristan had to meet with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and Felicity needed to get ready for tonight.
The sensation of his hand around hers did not end when he let go.
The feel of him stayed with her, and while she knew she shouldn’t be loving his attention so much, she couldn’t help it.
He’d become medicinal to her. Whatever hurt, whatever was aching and sore in her thoughts, body, or heart, he made it better.
Without saying a word, he made her better.
She wanted to repay him for today and she had a few ideas how. She thought of them while Milly did her hair. After a light dinner, Felicity was ready to meet Tristan in the ladies’ area. But Milly arrived to inform her that Mrs. Dove-Lyon requested her presence.
Wincing on the inside, Felicity grabbed her mask and headed in the direction of her parlor. She knocked lightly at the door, hoping that Tristan would be the one to answer, but instead she heard Mrs. Dove-Lyon answer.
“Enter.”
Felicity opened the door and stepped inside. “You wanted me?”
“I know you want to choose your spouse, and I still support that idea, but I have a candidate that I think would suit you well. He is thirty-eight and not yet married. He has a very serious character and an eye for politics. He’s not rash or entertained by parties and the like. He gives to charities.”
“Oh? How good of him.”
“Lord Hugstead has a modest estate in Marylebone. He’s a baron and comes from a respectable lineage.”
“Why hasn’t he married?” Felicity asked.
“Because he works too much. He’s put no effort into finding a wife. Which makes him the perfect match for you. A quiet life of purpose.”
He did sound like the perfect man on paper, if all Mrs. Dove-Lyon said was true. But Felicity couldn’t find the excitement she should have.
“I invited him to attend tonight. He is aware I have him in mind for a potential match, but he won’t specifically be looking for you.”
Felicity’s heart sank and chills spread over her body. “How will I know who he is?”
“He’ll be wearing a gold clover pin in his cravat. For luck.”
Felicity thought she saw her lips curve up in a smile, but then Mrs. Dove Lyon dipped her head and picked up her quill.
“Good luck tonight, Miss Brandon.”
Felicity left the parlor and headed toward the stairs.
That was where she collided with Tristan.
He caught her by the elbows, holding her steady as she gathered herself together.
But when she met his gaze, his teasing smirk sending heat right to her belly, she couldn’t stop herself from throwing her arms around him and kissing him like he was the only shelter in a storm.
His arms came around her slowly, his hands molding to her back and up to the bare skin of her shoulder blades.
“Flick,” he said between kisses, “this isn’t the place for this,”—kiss—“much as I’d like to spend the evening doing nothing but this,” he finished.
Felicity touched her forehead to his shoulder. “I know.” She peeled herself away from him.
His hands dropped to her hips as if they belonged there, like they’d always been the hands allowed to touch her body. The only hands she wanted on her body.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She wanted it to be him. She wanted Tristan to be the man she would marry. He had no title, no money, no social status or power here in London, but he had everything else she needed. Everything that mattered to her.
“No, I’m just out of sorts and not looking forward to this evening.”
“I’ll make it worth your while afterward, if you’re a good girl.”
Her whole body lit with white fire. “I beg your pardon?”
“Have I told you yet how beautiful you are? This dress is meant to inspire impure thoughts. Where is your cloak?”
“White is the color for innocence.”
“Corrupting innocents is the ultimate temptation, Flick. You’re going to drive them mad tonight.”
Felicity couldn’t answer as she put on her mask. He helped her tie the ribbons behind her head and then they were on their way to the gaming floor.
“Is something wrong?” he asked as they reached the stairs.
“Later, if you’re a good boy.”
He straightened, putting the appropriate distance between them. Their only physical touch was her hand on his forearm.
“Oh, love, I’m not, but I have ways of making you spill all your secrets.”
Their banter lightened her mood, and she was able to put on a genuine smile as cheers for Lady Luck filled the air.
Tristan grumbled beside her which only made her smile more.
He might not realize it, but it had become obvious to her that he was jealous.
His mood always soured as men talked to her and tried to engage her in playing the games.
Even more when they tried to take her arm and separate them.
Tonight was no different. They took a few laps around the room before more familiar faces, Sir Elliot and Mr. West, invited her to play a game of cards.
“I don’t know how to play I’m afraid, and I have nothing with which to bet.”
“The Den allows more than blunt to bet,” Sir Elliot said in his usual affable demeanor. “It can be a boon or a promise or—”
“Take off your mask, if you lose.” Mr. West said.
Tristan stood at her side, just behind her, conversing with someone, and yet she was aware of his sudden stillness.
She looked over her shoulder at him and he shook his head.
Felicity smiled at him. Only a few days ago, this would have frightened her. She would have ended her night right here. But some of these men she thought she knew, on some superficial level. As friends.
“I accept,” she said. A cheer rose through the crowd and a gentleman vacated a chair for her. She sat down and Tristan leaned over her chair to push it in.
“Are you mad?” he asked in a grumbling whisper.
Felicity patted his shoulder. “It has to happen sometime.”
The dealer shuffled the cards and went over the rules of the game. The best of three would win. Felicity thought she understood the rules of Whist for the most part. Sir Elliot agreed to be her partner.
“She’s watching,” Tristan said from close behind her chair.
“Of course she is,” Felicity said as nerves turned her stomach. So many eyes were on her, including those of The Lyon herself. Felicity scanned the crowd around her, but she did not notice a gold clover pin.
The cards were dealt, and Felicity studied the faces, trying to remember the values.
The first round, she and Sir Elliot won, and all credit was given to sheer luck.
She didn’t know how she managed it. The second round they lost, but she thought she had a better handle on the rules.
For the final round, Mr. West and his partner, Wickstone, must take the turn.
Mr. West seemed wary of his cards, his smile less enthusiastic than before.
Was she going to win? Then she wouldn’t reveal her face after all.
A wall of eager gentlemen surrounded them as Mr. West put down his card.
The room quieted, her pounding heart and the suspense in the room turning her stomach uncomfortably.
Regret flashed through her mind, but it was too late.
She had to keep her word, whatever happened next.
She couldn’t hide behind a mask forever.
It wasn’t as though they would know her true name or her face when she came from such a small, impoverished village.
Wickstone set down his card and the room erupted. He leaned back in his chair, a bit pale.
Felicity leaned forward to view his card.
“Mr. West and Lord Wickstone win this round, my lady,” The dealer said.
Felicity stared at the cards, her senses dulling. She couldn’t feel the chair beneath her anymore. Was she floating? A hand touched her shoulder.
“You don’t have to do it,” Tristan said in her ear.
“I do. I agreed to it.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
She didn’t realize she’d reached for his hand and was squeezing his fingers in . . . shock.
Everyone was staring at her. The weight of their expectation was pressing in on her and there truly was only one way out of this.
She knew it. She let go of his hand and pushed to her feet.
Tristan held out his hand, intent to lead her away.
But Felicity reached for the ties of the mask and pulled the knot free, lifting the mask from her face.
She was blushing madly, she knew. It couldn’t be helped.
She didn’t think she was exceptionally attractive, and it only occurred to her right now, in this excruciatingly humble moment, that these gentlemen might be disappointed she wasn’t a great beauty.
Sir Elliot stood and bowed dramatically.
The crowed clapped and some even whistled.
Felicity smiled nervously at everyone, but she didn’t know what to do with herself now.
Murmurs spread and she overheard that her identity had been bet on, and she lived up to none of the wagers—opera dancers, notorious widows, even a Russian ballerina.
“Well, I think I’ve reached the pinnacle of my evening, gentlemen. I bid you goodnight.
“So soon?” Mr. West said.
She felt Tristan press close to her back.
“I’m afraid so. My day was busier than usual.”
A man turned toward them, locking eyes on her. He put a hand on Mr. West’s shoulder.
“West, would you care to introduce me to your acquaintance?”
Tristan cursed softly behind her.