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Chapter Fourteen
December 24, 1817
Felicity remained in a temper all day yesterday. She refused to come out of her room, told Mrs. Grayson to excuse her from duty due to a megrim, wouldn’t speak to the captain no matter that he sent the butler up every hour without fail with a small token gift of flower posies, boxes of fine French chocolates, pretty fine-milled soaps that had been pressed into shapes of shells, trinket boxes, exquisite blown glass ornaments, or whatever else he could apparently think of. She’d even told Luke through the closed door she didn’t feel like talking to anyone and to come back later.
Her dander was up, that much was true. However, what Bartholomew had done hurt her deeply. He’d known how much her father’s business meant to her, yet he’d made plans to buy it out from beneath her feet as if she hadn’t mattered.
As if her father—or her memories—or her attempt to learn said business hadn’t mattered.
And for what? All in a bid for the captain to find purpose in his own life now that he’d retired from the Navy? She couldn’t know that for certain, but it sounded plausible.
Even now, more than four and twenty hours later, his high-handed attempt still burned within her chest. Did what they’d shared mean so little to him that he couldn’t bring himself to approach her and ask her opinion of possibly buying the business or even partnering with her? For that matter, did he assume that he could send a few gifts her way, flash his charming grin, and that she’d forgive him?
What he’d done was beyond the pale, and perhaps it was time she left the Grayson household for good. Without having to cater to the widow’s wishes, she could concentrate on the shipping business and perhaps keep it from ruin—without Bartholomew’s guidance.
Yet, she was dreadfully inexperienced, and she really could use his guidance and connections to make a go of the business.
Drat the man.
With more of a flourish than she usually used, Felicity signed her name to the resignation letter she’d spent the bulk of the day creating. As soon as she dressed for the ball, she would leave it in the widow’s bedroom. Despite her annoyance with the captain, she was vain enough to want to attend the Christmas Eve ball. It might well be the only time she might mingle with some of London’s movers and shakers or dance with fine men. And even though Bartholomew had given her that lavish gown, it was beautiful and would be a shameful waste if she didn’t wear it at least once.
Too bad the very act of receiving it from him was so scandalous. For one tiny moment, she allowed herself to remember what it had felt like being in his arms, exchanging kisses with him, the heat created between them, before she shoved all of that to the back of her mind. It was nonsense, of course, and the musings of naught but a silly spinster.
She didn’t need a man in her life; hadn’t the only one she’d managed to attract shown her what arses they could be?
Two hours after the ball had begun, while Felicity’s stomach fluttered with nerves, she paused on the stairs. From the floor below, sounds of merriment and revelry drifted up from the drawing room. The silk gown was cool against her skin. Its rich folds draped elegantly over her body and made her figure seem not as lacking as she suspected. One of the maids had done up her hair in an upswept style that had taken the better part of thirty minutes to complete. Tucked amidst the ordinary pins keeping the tresses in place was one containing a tiny red enamel rose—the last remembrance she had of her mother. Normally, it was kept deep in her armoire beneath her unmentionables, for there was never an occasion to wear it.
She’d already left her resignation letter in Mrs. Grayson’s bedroom, so there was no reason to linger between floors. Ignoring the pull of muscles in her belly, Felicity descended. The crush of guests had spilled out of the drawing room, and they happily lingered in the corridor on their ways to a refreshment room or cards room in the parlor, which slowed her progress. Among the throng were many military men, all resplendent in their uniforms for the various branches they represented. Though she’d addressed every single invitation that had gone out, she couldn’t match names to the faces.
Then she pushed into the drawing room where the carpets had been rolled up and the furniture removed, for dancing would soon be underway. As the crowd shifted, her gaze fell upon Bartholomew, and oh how resplendent he was tonight! Clad in the requisite black evening clothes that were de rigueur for all men at society functions, but his waistcoat of red satin embroidered with silver stars set him apart from all others. An emerald stick pin glimmered from the snowy depths of his cravat. Why had he not worn his uniform? When he saw her, his eyes lit, and he grinned. The delicate skin at the corners wrinkled from the genuine emotion.
Despite the lingering annoyance she had for him, Felicity’s heart fluttered, and the brush of butterfly wings tickled through her lower belly. She raised a gloved hand to her throat as he slowly made his way toward her and was all too concerned that the low bodice of the gown revealed far too much of her décolletage. Candlelight shimmered off his chestnut hair as well as the silver buttons on his jacket, and she was powerless to move lest the spell he cast dissolve. With every step, her heart beat a tad more quickly.
He paused before her and executed a half-bow from the waist. “Good evening, Miss Cowan.”
“Hullo, Captain Grayson.” Approaching from behind him, his mother would be upon them in mere seconds. “I hope tonight proves fruitful for you.” She refused to waste time mentioning anything that had transpired yesterday, for it wouldn’t matter beyond tonight. After the new year, she would no longer be part of this household.
“As do I.” As if he knew a particularly amusing secret, his sensuous lips curved in the grin that always set her at sixes and sevens. He leisurely raked his gaze up and down her person, and Felicity swore she felt that notice as if he’d caressed his fingers along her skin. “I knew crimson would suit you. I’ve never seen a woman more magnificent in a gown that color.”
Heat smacked her cheeks. “Fine feathers only, Captain. Beneath, I’m merely a drab sparrow mingling amongst songbirds for a few hours.”
“No.” Confusion flitted over his handsome face, and a muscle ticced in his left cheek. That tiny hint of vulnerability tugged at her chest. “I… I’m heartily sorry for what occurred the day before yesterday, Miss Cowan, and if you’ll allow me to talk with you, explain what I—”
“Well, it’s about time you decided to show your face, Miss Cowan. If I were a wagering woman, I would have bet against you.” Whatever he would have said was lost when his mother interrupted. “I hope you’re over your snit.”
“Not quite, but it seemed a shame to waste this gown or all my hard work in pulling together your event for the night.” Felicity briefly narrowed her eyes on her employer, but then with a sigh, softened her reception. “You look wonderful in that silver satin, Mrs. Grayson.” Her eyes were drawn to a diamond broach pinned to her gray velvet turban. “You have much to be proud of tonight.”
“I should hope so.” The widow sniffed. “I expect you to make the rounds, young woman. I’ve thrown this ball in the hopes you might find a man as much as my son might make a match.” She waved her free hand to encompass the guests assembling as a young lady sat herself behind the pianoforte. “Come, Bartholomew. Dance with me.”
“I shall, of course, but right now I’d like to speak with—”
“Don’t argue with me, boy. I’m an old woman and don’t have the stamina to stay up until all hours waiting for you to have a free spot in your schedule. I’ll probably retire early as it is and leave the party for the younger set.” She laid a hand on his sleeve. “They’re setting up for one of the less vigorous reels.”
Bartholomew’s mouth twitched but he didn’t smile. “You’ll outlive us all, Mother.”
“Be that as it may, I desire a dance with my son. I’m sure Miss Cowan can easily find a partner. That striking color she’s wearing tonight is certainly attracting attention.”
The heat in Felicity’s cheeks intensified. Not for worlds would she glance about to see if that was true. “It’s quite becoming, I’ll admit.”
