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Chapter Twelve
Since Felicity had finished the monogrammed handkerchiefs for Luke and she was nearly done with a set for Bartholomew, she wasn’t compelled to drag out the handiwork this evening. Especially since it was quite cozy and pleasant in the drawing room with the Graysons gathered there. To say nothing of the glorious crimson silk gown that had been delivered earlier that afternoon. Between its arrival and the congenial dinner, Felicity had all too easily let herself pretend she would forever belong in this place, could pretend they were her family.
Pretend there was someone in her life that loved her. Mrs. Grayson, for all her blustering, had never outright said she appreciated Felicity’s presence, and though she’d given her gifts over the years, she rather doubted they were prompted from love.
Then there was the captain. He was nice and proper, of course, and his kisses had completely turned her head as well as the man himself, but that’s as far as their relationship could go.
Still, she wouldn’t forget that silly, single kernel of hope that insisted on blooming deep down in her soul.
Surreptitiously, she studied Bartholomew as he sat on the floor near the fireplace. He and Luke were embroiled in yet another game of Spillikins. Currently, Luke bested him five games to four. Before that, they’d made ships out of newspaper the captain had promised would float in water. A promise was made to try them out on the Serpentine the next day that was fair.
Was there ever a more handsome man? He’d shed his jacket, cravat, collar, and cuffs after the ship making, for sitting so close to the fire was no doubt overly warm. Luke had quickly followed suit. That was enough to send her heartbeat ticking into a rapid tattoo, but what caught and held her attention was the sight of his forearms, bared due to his rolled-up sleeves. Light brown hair lay sprinkled over the skin, and on the inside of his left forearm, there was a black tattoo of an anchor.
Never had she known anyone who’d had their body marked by ink, and it was fascinating. Had it hurt when he’d consented to the artwork? How long had it taken? Was that the only tattoo he possessed?
Then she caressed the breadth of his shoulders with her eyes. Had they always been that remarkable or were they made more evident now that his jacket had been removed? As if he sensed her regard, Bartholomew raised his gaze to hers. Questions clouded those blue depths, but there was also genuine fondness at the backs.
For her or for the situation?
In confusion, Felicity returned her focus to the book in her lap, but she couldn’t concentrate on the words of poetry. What she wouldn’t give to smooth her fingers along that tempting skin at the base of his throat where the placket of his shirt gaped open. Would his skin feel hot to the touch? What would he do if she were to explore the sharpness of his jawline, place a few baby-fine kisses there merely to feel the contrast between the smooth skin of his neck and the dark stubble just beginning to form on his face?
Such naughty thoughts awakened the butterflies in her belly and sent tingles down her spine. Again, she tried to read the next passage in the book, and again, the words blurred as her imagination ran away with her. All too soon she saw the two of them in her mind’s eye, kissing in the dark, perhaps on his ship, as he slowly drew down the bodice of her gown and—
“Miss Cowan!”
Mrs. Grayson’s sharp exclamation wrenched Felicity from her delicious ruminations. In bewilderment, she glanced across the low table at the older woman. “Yes?”
“I’ve been attempting to catch your attention for the past three minutes, young lady, but you’ve been too busy woolgathering to take heed.” Her employer’s knitting needles clacked together as she furiously kept pace despite the admonishment. “What is so fascinating in that book that you’ve shut us all out?”
With a frown, Felicity glanced at the book listing like an injured ship in her hand. “Uh, it’s merely poetry, and I wasn’t paying that much attention to it, truth to tell.” Both Bartholomew and Luke stared at her. “Did you need me for something specific?”
“Of course I did.” Mrs. Grayson waved a hand. “I want you to play the pianoforte for all of us. We’ll sing some carols and perhaps teach Luke the words. He’s old enough to learn them.”
“I… Well, I haven’t played in quite some time.” She peered at Bartholomew, who shrugged. “There’s been no need, since you rarely entertain.”
“Don’t blame your lack of progress on me, young woman.”
“Excellent idea, Mother.” The captain shot Felicity a wry grin. “Perhaps I should ring for some rum punch while we get things sorted. Make a real celebration out of it.” As he picked himself up from the floor, the play of his muscles beneath his lawn shirt captured her attention.
“Sounds like a bang-up party!” Luke beamed his approval while he gathered the Spillikins sticks.
“Indeed, it does.” Then the captain was before her chair offering a hand. His eyes twinkled with mischief. Another wave of awareness tingled over her skin. “If you tell me where the pianoforte is, I’ll fetch it if you’ll ask the butler about the refreshments.”
As soon as she slipped her fingers into his palm, warmth danced up to her elbow. “I haven’t played it since my first year here. After that your mother ordered it to the parlor, I think, due to it collecting dust.”
“Of course it’s still there. We rarely use the parlor, and I don’t need you to entertain me like that,” Mrs. Grayson snapped.
“Very well.” Bartholomew dropped her hand as soon as she’d gained her footing. “Come, Luke. We shall help the fair maiden.”
The child looked her up and down then he winked. “Ain’t maidens supposed to be beautiful?”
“If you can’t see Miss Cowan is exactly that, then I’ve failed already in your education.” Then with a quick apology, Bartholomew took hold of the boy’s upper arm and marched him from the room.
With twitching lips and warmth in her cheeks, Felicity crossed the floor and yanked upon the bell pull. Then she caught Mrs. Grayson’s eye. As well as her scowl. “What? Out with it You’ve something to say about all of this, I’m sure.” Had she discerned what had already transpired between her and Bartholomew?
Her employer narrowed her gaze. “What was that delivery you received this afternoon just before my nap?”
“Uh, a gown from a dressmaker in Brook Street. For your Christmas Eve ball.” It was a small victory she didn’t blush at the end of the statement, but at least it was the truth. The parcel had indeed contained a gown… the crimson one Bartholomew had admired.
