Page 51 of The Dangerous Lord

But it was the truth. Felicity had stirred something primitive in him, something he thought he’d suppressed long ago. Excitement. Passion. The sheer enjoyment of kissing a woman he truly desired. Just when he’d resigned himself to doing his duty no matter the cost, she’d burst into his life like a fireworks display against a midnight sky.

Now he was addicted to the brightness she showered around her whenever she swept through a room. He ached to possess that brightness, to make it his own. He needed to possess her in every possible way. And he could only do that by marrying her.

His gaze shot back to Sara. “Well? Have I given you enough information? Will you help me win her? Or do you still think Felicity and I won’t suit?”

“Oh, I begin to think you’ll suit each other nicely.” She cast him a blazing, but enigmatic smile. “Yes, I’ll help you. Sit down, Ian. It’s time we made some plans.”

Chapter Twelve

Lord Hartley has strict requirements for his heir’s prospective wife, particularly that she have ‘a striking appearance and a presentable wit.’ One only hopes that the heir apparent recognizes what his father does not—that a woman with a presentable appearance and a striking wit is far more interesting.

Lord X, The Evening Gazette, December 21, 1820

Felicity scowled at the pale-cheeked face in the huge mirror over her dressing table. Fool! Ninny! Ridiculous dreamer!

She had no reason to be so somber, and certainly no reason to let her listlessness show in her face. In the week since her return from the country, she’d gone to four Christmas balls, three parties, and a special concert. She’d provided Mr. Pilkington with six good columns for which he’d paid her decently. Tonight she was attending Lady Brumley’s annual St. Thomas’s Day party, the most prestigious ball of the season, with London’s most interesting characters, who would provide her with ample material for even more columns. So why did her malaise persist?

Because of him, of course. That false-hearted viscount with the roving eye.

He would attend tonight, too, dancing with one woman after another, seeking out a wife with blithe nonchalance. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She’d refused him, after all. What did she expect him to do—pine for her?

Precisely. That’s what she’d expected, fool that she was. But she should have known better. Why should he pine after her? She’d done nothing but torment the man since the day she met him. Not that he didn’t deserve it, because he did. Still ...

Glancing back at the mirror, she scowled again. No wonder he’d given up on her so easily. Look at her colorless face and dull expression. She looked exactly like the common-born woman she was.

Furiously, she dabbed rouge onto her cheeks, then just as furiously, scoured it off. No respectable woman wore rouge these days. Mama had done so in her day, but it was acceptable then.

Why did she care what he thought of her, anyway? They were quits now. She needn’t worry overmuch about him.

“Lissy, what’s that red stuff you’re playing with?”

It was Ansel, but all her little tin soldiers were ranged at her back, having invaded her chamber en masse this evening. James sat cross-legged on her closed trunk, keeping his posture meticulously erect as he’d been taught at Islington Academy. Devoid of such training, William and Ansel sprawled on their bellies across her bed with their heads resting on their hands and their bare feet kicking idly in the air. And George, true to form, wandered the room in search of mischief.

“I’m not playing with it.” She set her mother’s old rouge pot firmly aside. She would not give Ian the satisfaction of seeing her appear all rouged and plucked like some tart. Then he’d know how she regretted refusing his proposal.

Regretted? Hah! She did not regret refusing to marry a man for whom women were merely an amusement and a wife was a manufacturer of dutiful children. Marry a man with a mistress? A man who within a day of her refusal was courting every eligible female thrown his way? Never!

“Do you have to go to a ball tonight?” Ansel asked, his golden head cocked to one side as he watched her latch Mama’s paste ruby necklace about her neck.

“Yes, Lissy, do you have to?” Georgie put in. “You’ve been going to parties all week. Don’t see why you can’t stay here with us tonight.”

James supplied an answer for her. “Lissy’s got to have something to write about, lads, so she has to go to parties. You know that. If she doesn’t, then we shan’t have enough money for Christmas goose. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

The triplets shook their heads in unison, and Felicity bit back a smile. “Tomorrow I promise to spend the entire day with you. Mr. Pilkington sent over tickets to Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks Exhibition. It’s in the Strand again. Would you like to go see it?”

Even James took notice of that. “Can we, Lissy, truly? You’ll take us?”

“I most certainly will.” She’d seen the exhibition often as a girl and looked forward to discovering what Madame Tussaud had added to the collection.

“Can we go into The Separate Room?” Georgie asked in a hushed whisper.

Felicity frowned at his mention of the notorious collection of death masks from the French Revolution that had started Madame Tussaud on the path of such a strange profession. “Indeed, you may not! It’ll give you nightmares.”

“No, it won’t!” Georgie protested. “Nothin’ scares me, Lissy!”

She cast a dirty look into the heavens, questioning God for his wisdom in making little boys so fearless in theory and craven in practice. The triplets were generally all bluster and bombast ... until nighttime brought the usual childhood nightmares.

“We’ll see,” she said noncommittally.