Chapter Eleven #2
Felicity studied the man. He had light brown hair, a clean-shaven square jaw, and light green eyes. He had a bit of silver around the temples, but his face was still youthful.
“Lady Luck, I’d like to introduce Lord Hugstead. Lord Hugstead, the ever-enchanting Lady Luck. We’ve had the pleasure of her mysterious company for nigh on a week and now she has revealed her lovely face.”
Felicity dipped her head. “Thank you for the complimentary introduction, Mr. West.”
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Hugstead?” Sir Elliot asked. “I wasn’t aware you were a member.”
“I was issued a special invitation by the widow this morning,” Lord Hugstead said.
“Lady Luck, when will you reveal your true name?” Wickstone asked.
“Likely never,” Felicity said, trying not to stare at Lord Hugstead.
This was him. The man Mrs. Dove-Lyon deemed a perfect match, and Felicity had to admit she might agree.
He had a calmer, serious aspect that drew her.
Did he know who she was already? He had a fine face and nice form.
He stood taller than her, a little taller than Tristan, and had a slender frame.
She didn’t want to like him, but of all the gentleman she’d met thus far, he was just the right fit for her.
She could sense it, but she wanted to reject him immediately because he had one fatal flaw: He wasn’t Tristan.
She could continue to extricate herself and leave, but she knew Mrs. Dove-Lyon was watching and she was expected to make conversation with him and judge his character.
“What do you normally do for enjoyment, my lord?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I’m rather boring. I work too much, and in what little time I have I usually read or ride my horse.”
Felicity smiled demurely.
“Would you like to sit and share a glass of wine with me?” he asked.
Felicity hesitated, her stomach balling into a rock. “Yes, thank you, my lord.”
“Good evening, Sir Elliot, Mr. West, Wickstone.” She left them staring after her, likely curious why all of a sudden Lord Hugstead was allowed her undivided attention.
Lord Hugstead offered his arm, and she placed her hand there, just barely touching him, as if doing so would be the beginning of betraying Tristan.
She could sense him behind her, a dark cloud of silent jealousy.
They left the main gaming floor and Helena appeared to direct them to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private parlor. Felicity swallowed. Tristan was already left behind. She glanced back at him, and he stayed by the door, his expression unreadable.
“What do you like to drink?” Lord Hugstead asked as he handed her to her chair.
“I prefer not to drink wine, or any alcohol for that matter. What would you recommend?”
He pressed his lips together and his brow furrowed. “If wine and spirits are not your preference, we can have a pot of tea.”
“I would appreciate that, thank you.”
He ordered for them and silently they watched each other.
“Mr. Chase might murder me for stealing your attention. I’d surmise half the men out there would.”
“Mr. Chase is charged with my safety,” Felicity said. “He takes his job seriously.”
“Ah, logical, given your presence in a gambling den.”
Felicity bit her lip. “This is all rather odd, isn’t it?”
“May I ask you a question?”
“Please.”
“I was invited here specifically to meet you, wasn’t I?”
Felicity raised her brows. “You don’t know?”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s invitation was cryptic, as usual. She said I’d meet her special guest, and there was certainly something special about you and your grand reveal.”
Felicity hesitated. What was she supposed to say?
“I’m aware that Mrs. Dove-Lyon engages in matchmaking for special clients,” he continued. “We have a politically advantageous alliance, she and I. Would I be right in assuming you are one of those prospective clients?”
Felicity knotted her fingers together, her palms sweaty. “Yes. May I be so bold as to ask whether you agreed to come here because you are in need of a wife?”
“I wouldn’t define it as a need. She approached me with a solution to a problem I’ve been plagued with, though now that I’ve met you, I think I’m getting the better end of the deal, which isn’t like Mrs. Dove-Lyon at all.”
Felicity blanched. “Am I that solution?”
He chuckled. “No. I’m too busy to look for a wife, to be honest, so her offer to match me was fortunate to my schedule.” He frowned. “Saying that out loud sounds rather depressing.”
Felicity smiled reassuringly. “It depends on what you are busy doing. Some of the men here are here every night—not a worthy use of their time. But you are busy with important issues, or so I was told. You’re involved with charity?”
He brightened. “It is a particular passion of mine, yes, and it is time consuming, negotiating, bargaining, sometimes outright begging for affluent noblemen—who clearly have so much fortune that they can waste it—to give something for the greater good of others.”
Felicity smiled genuinely now. “I’ve done charity work myself, but not to such a degree.
I sew, cook, and give medical care to those less fortunate.
” She bit her tongue, her fears telling her not to reveal anything about herself, but if this was her one chance, she had to take it, no matter how much it hurt.
“My father is a vicar in a small village. We don’t have much to give, but we do what we can to serve others. ”
His eyes brightened. “That is all any of us can do.”
Felicity nodded once. Their tea arrived, and they continued to discuss his various charity work. Felicity revealed, vaguely, that her father and mother were still alive, and she had two sisters, and that was it. When their pot of tea was finished, she bid him goodnight.
He stepped closer to her, not scandalously so, but so he could speak quietly.
“Could I be so bold as to ask for your name?”
Felicity wavered. He seemed supremely kind, intelligent, and trustworthy, she was certain.
“I must ask,” he said, “given the nature of my work, why you are here. How . . . drastic is your reason for needing Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s assistance?”
Felicity nodded. This would have happened at some point. Wouldn’t it? What man would marry a woman with zero knowledge of her background?
“I am under her protection. My father insisted I marry a cruel man, and I refused. My father is . . . devout in his religious beliefs. Traditional, one might say.”
“Might one say his beliefs are archaic?”
Felicity nodded. “I was not the subservient daughter I was raised to be, which was a surprise even to me. I know what is right and what is wrong, and being forced to marry is wrong.”
He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I’d agree.”
“That is the why I am here, and my name is a secret, but if you must have it, my name is Miss Felicity Brandon.”
He took her hand and bowed over it. “Thank you for trusting me. I bid you goodnight, Miss Brandon, and I promise you I will not reveal your name or your presence here.”
“Thank you, Lord Hugstead.”
He left her standing there and paused at the doorway to speak to Tristan. When he left, Tristan made his way toward her.
“Are you ready to retire?”
Felicity nodded. “I am.”
“You look pale,” he said quietly. “Did he upset you?”
“No, I—I just feel so vulnerable now, without my mask, like things are changing faster than I can comprehend.”
His jaw flexed and he offered her his arm.