Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Novels are not as awful an influence upon young minds as some would have us believe. Can anyone deny the inspiration of Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe or the caution against pride that is the entire plot of Pride and Prejudice?
Even John Pilkington has his price.
With a frown, Felicity slapped The Mysteries of Udolpho down on her lap.
Drat it, why must Ian’s insidious threats about Pilkington plague her even while she read a novel?
At home with the boys underfoot, she seldom got to indulge her love of reading.
Now she’d been given a few hours to herself, and he had to intrude.
A chill hung in the air of the Worthing’s card room, made all the more harsh by the lack of a fire.
Felicity tugged her heavy wool shawl more closely about the simple day dress she’d kept on instead of dressing for dinner.
Sara had told her no one ever used this room, which is why she’d come here while the others were dining.
She’d excused herself from attending the meal by telling Sara she was too embarrassed to face Lord St. Clair.
The Blackmores were here, and Ian was with them for the first time in three days.
But the truth was—she was a coward. The prospect of eating dinner across from a man determined to ruin her life—and invade even her thoughts—was unendurable. He would surely see how his parting words to Sara worried her. And how could she keep from blurting out some revealing statement?
Worse, how in creation could she keep from remembering those kisses he’d given her?
No, stolen from her. He’d stolen more than kisses—he’d stolen a long ago dream of experiencing a man’s passion.
Now that she’d seen how easily men could feign it, she could never trust a man’s kisses again.
So dining with Ian tonight was unthinkable.
Besides, she had another perfectly good reason for avoiding him.
The man was clearly bent on revenge. Why else make that statement to Sara?
And why else accompany the Blackmores to dinner at Worthing Manor tonight?
He’d been noticeably absent when the Blackmores had come for luncheon the day after his conversation with Sara.
Then he’d gone off to London on business the next day, prompting her to congratulate herself on being rid of him.
But he was back, and now she was worried. Why had he gone to London in the midst of a country visit with close friends? What business could be so compelling? And why had he returned?
She could guess some of the answers. It could have something to do with her column. She’d sent it in an express to Mr. Pilkington Monday, so it had undoubtedly appeared in the Gazette while Ian was in town. If so, he must have seen it.
Unless he’d succeeded in preventing it from being published at all.
She turned his words over again in her head.
The only meaning she could extract was that he’d intended to bribe Mr. Pilkington into either censoring her words or refusing to publish her columns.
The question was, what would Mr. Pilkington say to such a despicable offer?
Surely he wouldn’t cut her off. Why, Mr. Pilkington always professed she was his best correspondent.
Then again ... even John Pilkington has his price.
She lifted her eyes to the heavens. “Can’t you give me a hint?
” she muttered at God. “Ian must have some plan in mind. Lord knows—I mean, You know—Ian has enough money to make Mr. Pilkington salivate. I hardly think my literary prowess would sway the publisher if the wealthy Viscount St. Clair bombards him with gold.”
“To whom are you speaking?” asked a familiar female voice from the doorway, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
The countess entered the room with the rest of the party behind her—Sara’s husband Gideon, both of the Blackmores, and worst of all, Ian. Only the Drydens were absent, and they’d probably already retired for the evening.
Felicity sprang to her feet, her book sliding off her lap and onto the floor with a thud.
“I wasn’t speaking to anyone!” Heat flooded her face.
Oh, to be acting like such a ninny in front of this crowd, especially him!
How much had they heard? How much had he heard?
“I-I mean, I have this bad habit of talking to G- ... to myself sometimes when I’m distracted. ”
“Are we distracting you, Miss Taylor?” Ian asked as he sauntered past Sara.
With a quick motion, he picked Felicity’s book up off the floor.
When she reached for it, however, he ignored her outstretched hand and tucked the volume under his arm.
“We didn’t mean to do so.” Amusement laced his voice.
No doubt he’d guessed precisely why she’d not been at dinner.
Guessed, and was pleased about it. Indeed, he looked abominably self-assured and handsome, with his tail coat of cobalt saxony fitting the broad shoulders to perfection, his pantaloon-trousers of fine kerseymere hugging thighs too muscular for a nobleman, and his cravat simply tied, as if he had more important things to do than wait for a valet to engineer a complicated knot.
Next to him and his finely dressed friends, she looked like the drabbest creature in the realm in her muslin day dress and old woolen shawl.
“We’re so pleased to see you up and about,” Ian continued. “We thought you were ill. A headache. That’s what Sara told us.”
“Yes, Miss Taylor had a most monstrous headache,” Sara hastened to say.
“You should have seen her earlier. She nearly fainted while we were out walking.” Sara’s apologetic glance at Felicity held a wealth of meaning.
I’m sorry I didn’t know you were here. I’m sorry I had to invent a headache to explain your absence at dinner.
It touched Felicity, increasing her already enormous guilt over misleading the countess about what had happened the night of the ball.
Felicity hadn’t meant to mislead her. When Sara and Lady Brumley had caught her at the writing table in her room penning her angry column, she’d tried to get rid of them.
But it had been fruitless. Felicity should have known that the kindly countess wouldn’t let a woman’s tears go unremarked.
And when in a burst of angry feeling, Felicity had implied that Ian had done more than kiss her, Sara’s inordinate indignation had made Felicity want to bite off her tongue.
But she hadn’t dared take back the words, not in front of Lady Brumley.
Still, she hadn’t expected Sara to banish Ian from the house for it.
Apparently, Felicity had underestimated the countess’s fierce sense of protectiveness toward all unmarried women.
After several discussions about reform and the community the Worthings were building on a remote island, Felicity knew the woman better, and now she understood precisely how Sara must have regarded Felicity’s claims about Ian.
Which only tripled her guilt. And her reluctance to admit the truth to the woman.
Well, at least she could support the countess’s story now. “I did have a headache. But after I slept a while, it abated, so I wandered downstairs to find a book to read, and I discovered this lovely little card room.”
Emily, the other countess present, glanced at the barren fireplace, where servants now layered cords of wood with kindling. “You shouldn’t have sat here without a fire, Miss Taylor. You might catch a chill to add to that headache.”
Belatedly remembering that Emily had a penchant for physic, Felicity murmured, “I didn’t want to trouble the servants. And I don’t take chill easily.”
“All the same,” Sara said firmly, “we don’t wish to disturb your solitary pleasure. We’ll understand if you’d like to retire with your book now—”
“Retire?” Ian interrupted in a crisp tone. “We’ve finally gained her company and you’re banishing her to bed? That’s inhospitable of you, Sara.” He didn’t seem to notice Sara’s look of reproach. “Besides, I’m sure your guest won’t object to spending a few minutes with us. Will you, Miss Taylor?”
Felicity met his gaze, her heart thumping faster at the challenge glowing in his devil’s eyes.
He wanted her to stay, which should send her bolting from the room faster than a hare startled by a wolf.
Because if she stayed, he would pounce. Somehow he’d strike back at her for her column and her tale to Sara.
Yet if she fled, he’d run her to ground another way. At least here she had Sara on her side. “I’d love to stay, Lord St. Clair, especially now that I’m feeling better. Besides, you’ve taken my book prisoner, so I can’t very well leave, can I?”
“Ah, yes, your book.” Ian held it at arms’ length and read the spine. “The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe. A novel—how interesting.” He smiled coolly at Felicity. “I must say I’m not surprised to discover that you like fiction.”
Felicity crossed her arms over her chest. “Of course I like fiction. What else would I read when my head pains me? Dry works of science or business?”
Ian shrugged. “At least they’re full of facts and the truth. These novels are some person’s invention, and how can reading false tales help anyone?”
The man simply wouldn’t relent. Felicity snatched the book from him, heedless of his laughing gaze.
“Fiction is truth, no matter what you say. Where do you think novelists get their material? From real life, not from some scientist’s speculations about what life might be.
Novels can better prepare us for life’s difficulties than ancient history.
Indeed, I encourage my brothers to read them whenever possible.
They often provide a truer vision of society than all the supposed facts printed in other books. ”
“Or in newspapers?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
As his gaze locked with hers, full of meaning, full of threat, her fervor drained out of her. This was it. His next assault. She waited for it with heart pounding.