Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Rumor has it that a certain duchess did not appreciate her husband’s birthday gift of je ne sais quoi stays.
Upon being presented with the corset constructed to prevent male access to the female body, she tossed it into the fire, then informed him he could better keep men away by staying at home more.
Felicity hurried up the wide staircase to her room, wondering how she’d survived the past hour. Ian a war hero? A liar, yes, about his Miss Greenaway, and surely a calculating scoundrel when it came to women. But still a hero.
That thought had tormented her in the awkward minutes following her and Ian’s skirmish. Despite Sara’s attempts to steer the conversation toward an innocuous subject, there’d been nothing but fits and starts and one uncomfortable silence after another.
She’d nearly cried with relief when Gideon had suggested that the men retire to his study to look at the blueprints of a ship he’d just acquired.
One more minute in Ian’s presence and she would’ve betrayed her flood of feelings.
She’d remained in the card room long enough to be sure Emily and Sara no longer suspected her of being Lord X’s accomplice, before excusing herself to go to bed.
Not that she could sleep. Her hand tightened on the banister. How could she, with Ian’s condemning look branded in her mind? She’d deserved it, she knew, no matter how much she tried to rationalize it away. Her retaliation had been far too excessive—she must acknowledge it.
Stifling a sob, she tucked her book more securely under her arm and raced up the last few steps, anxious to reach the sanctuary of her bedchamber.
He wouldn’t let the insult pass—she knew him too well to think otherwise.
Oh, how could she have let matters progress so far?
How could she have let her feelings overwhelm her good sense?
In her precarious situation, she should not have provoked a viscount.
She reached the top of the stairs, then swept along the hall past silk-shot tapestries and imposing pillars designed by Papa.
If only Papa were here. He could tell her what to do.
He’d always been adept at managing men of lofty position.
It had never been her forte. Thankfully, after the birth of the triplets and Mama’s death, Felicity had been needed to care for the babies, which had put an end to trips with her father.
She’d been able to avoid further contact with Papa’s patrons, except for when he brought them home.
Home. Thank God she’d be home tomorrow. After the tumult of these last hours, she would endure, even welcome, the worst the boys could throw at her.
She couldn’t wait to unburden herself to Mrs. Box.
The woman would soothe her guilty conscience and understand what had prompted Felicity to behave so rashly.
Yes, and Mrs. Box would help her figure out a way to prevent Lord St. Clair’s revenge.
With a heavy sigh, she swung open the unlocked oak door to her room, grateful to see that the servants had already laid a cheery fire in the hearth, turned down the velvet coverlet on the massive tester bed, and lit enough candles to cast a faint glow about the room.
Absorbed by her morose thoughts, she shut the door and strolled to the oak bureau, tossing her book atop the bed as she passed.
She removed her shawl, then opened the bureau to put it away.
Her gaze fell on the frilly dressing gown Mrs. Box had packed. It had belonged to Mama, given to Felicity when she was sixteen and full of hopes for the future. At that age, she’d imagined a husband who would see her in it, his eyes shining with approval the way Papa’s had shone on Mama.
But that would never happen, would it? Papa’s wild living and subsequent death had ended those hopes, had thrust her into this awful position where she could only survive by writing things that locked her into combat with the likes of Lord St. Clair.
More tears crowded her eyes. She stroked the lacy wrapper as she swallowed back her sobs. She wouldn’t cry over this. There was no point.
Forcing her attention to the silky confection before her, she fingered one intricate flower.
Mama, whose prowess with a needle always awed her daughter, had done the delicate tracery work.
Felicity lifted the gown and crushed it to her cheeks, breathing in the faintest scent of the rosewater Mama had been wont to wear.
Needing to feel a connection, any connection, to her mother, she determined to wear it tonight.
Impatiently, she stripped off her day dress and dispensed of her hose, garters, corset, and petticoat.
Then she pulled the lovely wrapper over her chemise.
Her hair tumbled down in the process, and she shook it out, heedless of where the pins fell.
Walking to the harewood dressing table that stood between the two pointed windows of the large bedchamber, she gazed at herself in the oval mirror that hung above it. For a moment, all she saw was a scantily dressed young woman with red-rimmed eyes and a lost look on her face.
Then a movement in the reflection made her breath halt in her throat. Behind her a man leaned against the wall near the closed door. Ian. Good Lord, Ian had come for his revenge.
His muscled arms were crossed over his chest, and his intent gaze held such dark power that for a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t blink, like the glassy-eyed victim of a mesmerizing magician. “Go on.” His eyes insolently drank in every aspect of her appearance. “Don’t let me stop you.”
That released her from his spell. She whirled to face him, clutching the gaping ends of the wrapper tightly to her chest. “How dare you! How long have you—”
“I’ve been waiting for you ever since I left the card room. Gideon and Jordan think I returned to the Blackmore estate. But I couldn’t leave without speaking to you.”
“Not here, not like this! Go downstairs, and I’ll meet you—”
“Meet me?” He laughed—a hollow, ominous sound. “You think I trust you to meet me? Before I could reach the stairs, you’d be screaming for Sara to throw me out.”
“What makes you think I won’t scream now?”
“You won’t, not while you’re dressed like that.” He shot her another devouring look, exactly like the sultan in her painting determining how to punish his houri.
It shook her, and yet threaded with the fear was a cursed heat that traveled from her head to her breasts to her loins. Damn him for that.
“Besides,” he added, “if you scream and Sara rushes up here demanding an explanation, you’d have a damned sight more trouble convincing her of your innocence than you did last time.”
He had an excellent point. She should have paid attention when she entered the room. But then she hadn’t expected the wretch to waylay her in her own bedchamber.
Outrage helped to banish her fear. Tossing her head back, she surveyed him for some sign of his intentions.
With the sconce protruding from the wall a few inches above his head, he was illuminated most perversely, his face and body a study of shadows in the flickering candlelight that accentuated his size while playing hide-and-seek with his expression.
Still, she needn’t see his face to read his mood.
For the first time since they’d met, his voice showed every nuance of feeling, the clipped tone blatant in its fury.
And this invasion was ample proof that she’d provoked him once too often.
No man entered an unmarried woman’s bedchamber at night uninvited ...
and certainly no man stood silent while that woman undressed, not unless his intentions were less than honorable.
She’d expected retaliation, but not this. Good Lord, not this.
A brief flash of terror blinded her courage, for she’d experienced the unwelcome advances of too many of Papa’s patrons not to know what came next.
But she’d always managed to fend them off before they went too far.
Ian would be impossible to fight off. He was too big, too sure of his strength. Too justified in his anger.
Her heart sank. Trying not to look obvious, she scoured the table’s green surface behind her for a weapon, but spotted nothing more helpful than a hairbrush, a comb, and a tangle of ribbons. Unless she wanted to groom him to death, she was defenseless.
But she would still fight him somehow. She met his gaze once more, summoning whatever resistance she could muster.
“You didn’t come here only to talk, or you wouldn’t have watched me undress.
” She added with an accusing air, “Have you now advanced to assaulting women in their bedchambers? Gideon will be so disappointed—he seems to think you’re a hero. ”
His lips tightened grimly. “We both know how deceived he is in that opinion, don’t we? I’m merely living up to your image of me. According to your carefully researched column, I’m a liar, even a debaucher. A man with no honor.”
Each crisply spoken word was like a blow of a hammer upon her conscience. “I didn’t quite call you a liar,” she said defensively. “I merely ... questioned certain statements you made about your past.”
“Statements I never wanted published.”
“Why not? Gideon says you’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”
“But you don’t believe that, do you?” he said bitterly. “No, you’re much too clever to be fooled by the claims of a man’s friends.”
He cocked his head, unwittingly exposing more of his rigid features to the candles. Amber light glinted off the snapping black eyes and taut chin. Oh, yes, he was angry, furious even. The sight was awe-inspiring and terrifying at the same time.