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Chapter Ten
December 21, 1817
Felicity hummed snatches of a carol traditionally sung during the Christmastide season as she went about her task of answering Mrs. Grayson’s correspondence. She performed her work by rote, for her mind was firmly filled with the memories of that kiss—as well as more than a kiss—with Bartholomew yesterday afternoon.
Good heavens it had been the most glorious thing to ever happen to her. No wonder ladies were advised against finding themselves alone with a man if such pleasures were what awaited. Heat filled her cheeks and slipped languidly through her veins as she recalled each time he’d claimed her lips, remembered every pass of his hands on her person. How was it possible he’d pulled such feelings from her until she’d acted this side of being a wanton and reclined upon her father’s desk?
And what was more, she’d heartily regretted that a tradesman had come to call at the office for she’d wanted the opportunity to explore the captain’s body as much as she would dare. The entirely too naughty thoughts sent tingles of need dancing down her spine and her nipples to tighten slightly.
Oh, dear.
It seemed now that she’d been awakened to carnal knowledge and shown what else life could hold, there was no turning back. Did that mean she’d been compromised, ruined? Was she soiled goods, a wanton, then? If so, she truly didn’t care. Those precious few moments had been the best she’d spent in the whole of her adult life, and she certainly wouldn’t demand Bartholomew leg-shackle himself to her. He had his life; she had hers.
But she would remember those fleeting moments well into her lonely dotage, and the man who’d been kind enough to make her experience them.
“What the devil are you thinking about over there, girl?” The sound of Mrs. Grayson’s querulous voice yanked her from her musings. “You’ve been staring off into space so long, I wouldn’t doubt you’ve gotten ink blots on your stationery.”
Felicity glanced down at the letter of acceptance she’d been penning. Sure enough, a few ink drops now marred the line of writing she’d finished. “Drat.” Quickly, she returned the pen to its holder and then shoved the paper to the other side of the small secretary. That would need to be fixed later. “My apologies, Mrs. Grayson. I’m merely woolgathering. Don’t mind me.”
“Then come over here and tell me what’s got you building castles in the air. I’m bored and I want you to entertain me.”
Without anything to use as a valid excuse, Felicity rose, shook out her brown skirts, and then approached the widow’s sofa. I cannot very well tell you I entertained a compromising position with your son, can I? The hilarity of that caused her lips to curve into a grin that she promptly tamped lest the woman feel she’d done it in jest. “I suppose I’m thinking about the upcoming Christmastide season. My father adored it so and I want to carry on in that same tradition.” At least it was a truth, but not the one the widow probably wanted.
Mrs. Grayson harrumphed as Felicity sank into a nearby chair. “Such poppycock. You might be thinking about the holiday, but that’s only a veneer. What has you mooning about?”
Did other women know when someone had been quite thoroughly kissed? Her heartbeat kicked up a notch as she attempted to ignore the heat rising into her cheeks. “I’m not mooning, have nothing in my life to warrant such a thing.”
Except the press of his lips against hers, the brush of his calloused fingers against her breasts had been quite wonderful.
“I’ve been alive on this Earth for many years longer than you, young woman, and I know things about people.” Mrs. Grayson pointed a forefinger at her. For once, her knitting needles were silent upon her lap. “And what I know is there’s a sparkle in your eyes that hasn’t been there before.”
“Such gammon.” Felicity glanced away and wished teatime wasn’t two hours away. “I’m merely looking forward to Christmastide events.”
“Ha! Liar.” The widow wagged her head. Unaccountably, a grin flirted with her thin lips. “You’ve been woolgathering and humming. Both are not like you at all.”
“Can a woman not feel happy due to a season?” She waved a hand to encompass the fir boughs and other holiday decorations that brightened the room. “The orange and clove scents along with the evergreens are quite uplifting.” Under no circumstances would she let her employer see how embarrassed she was, but she should have known better. Nothing escaped the widow’s notice.
Mrs. Grayson snorted. “If I were a wagering woman, I’d say you have a suitor.”
Oh, good heavens! “Now that is stretching the truth. I have no such thing.” A couple of kisses exchanged with the captain didn’t a suitor make. Though Bartholomew would make a lovely life companion…
“Then why are you suddenly so distracted? And humming!”
“As I’ve told you before, my father’s business is proving a bit vexing to me.” Though now that Bartholomew had given her a few insights, she felt more confident she might be able to handle the accounts better. As for convincing the men in charge of shipments, that was another story. It would depend on what would happen once the captain and his friend threw their weight around. “As for the humming.” How to explain. “I’m just… happy. There’s no explanation needed.”
“Mmhmm.” Mrs. Grayson narrowed her eyes. “Young woman, you need a man in your life. Then you’ll have other priorities, and you can give up the notion of working a trade.”
“Oh, not this subject again. I’m perfectly content with the work I’m doing now.” Wasn’t she? The unexpected friendship with Bartholomew certainly helped that along, to say nothing of his kisses that made her feel as if she could fly.
As if, for one fleeting moment in time, a man had wanted her.
“There’s a look in your eyes, girl. It’s what a woman does when she’s longing for a man.” Mrs. Grayson pointed her finger at Felicity. “A man will give you a life and babies. You’re a woman who needs young ones about.”
Pain gripped Felicity’s heart and tightened her chest. Whether or not she could produce offspring remained to be seen, but if her mother’s fortune as well as her grandmother’s, was any indication, that would come with heavy heartache. As best she could, she hid her distress, lest Mrs. Grayson lecture her on that too. “I’m perfectly fine with you for the moment.”
“Taking care of an old, contrary woman?” Doubt rang in the tones. “There’s no life, no adventure, there.”
“Perhaps, but that’s just it. This is my life.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “And I like it,” she added in a softer voice.
