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“O’Mara is sufficient, Your Grace.”
“I am not Your Grace. I am, as Mr. Bates so helpfully pointed out, an honorable, and despite being the lowest of ranks, it accords me a level of respect that has been denied me from the outset of my dealings with all of you! Do not chuckle, Duke. I loathe chuckling.”
“I have never chuckled in my life.” He blinked at her slowly, and if the novels Jemima insisted she read had the right of it, seductively. “In actual fact—”
Felicity cut across him. “How dare you make a spectacle of me before the entireton, how dare you waltz with me only to abduct me? How dare you threaten to court me, to marry me?”
O’Mara leaned forward, murmuring.
“Desist with your tranquilizing tones,MissO’Mara. I am enraged! I am justified in my rage. I had a plan. I had ambitions.”
“Well may you scoff, sir.” She turned on Bates, who had done no such thing. What he did do was drop his chin to his shoulder, exposing the side of his neck to her, as he had done with the duke. “A low-ranked, unwed woman of society must yearn only for the solace of husband and family. Not I. I had dreams, and now they are crushed. All that effort spent on Himself, wasted. What will he come to without me?” She turned back to the duke. “If only you’d thought beyond your own ends, perhaps you would have considered that more than one future would be destroyed by your selfishness. And how dare you push these horses beyond their strength? I insist your coachman slow down, straightaway.”
The duke nodded; Bates thumped on the roof of the coach and the speed decreased to a trot. Felicity wedged herself into the farthest corner of the carriage and presented her back to the author of her downfall.
The carriage now rocked at a brisk rather than ruinous pace. Felicity fought to sit up straight, as she had been exhorted to do since she could remember being sat on furniture, but here, there was no one to scold her, no one to impress—why should a ruined, aging virgin not let herself relax? She leaned against the side of the conveyance and allowed her spine to curve, her head to loll against the wall, her weight to fall on her right hip, and she slumped against the velvet squabs. It was a feeling of such bodily freedom, she sighed and sank further into the corner.
As she rocked to and fro, she gave her mind free rein, and thinking back, realized that she’d seen more than she’d thought as the duke swept her onto the dance floor: Jemima’s face, white with shock, to a degree that seemed all out of proportion to the event; Odious’s gaping dismay was overwrought in the circumstances—was he in cahoots with Waltham? Was he angling for a percentage of her nonexistent bride price? Why would he think she had a dowry when, as her Uncle Ezra said, she did not? If Bates had heard the rumors, then her own cousin was apprised. Her eyes fluttered shut… That horrible, wonderful day when her uncle told her the truth about her future… She stifled a yawn… How uncharacteristic of Uncle Ezra it was to address her about anything at all…
* * *
A beleaguered footman told of her the summons: her uncle had arrived at Templeton House from Town and was desirous of her presence in her father’s study. As she rushed down the stairs, she could not fathom what had brought him to the place he openly despised more than any other in the whole world. This loathing for her father’s ancestral home was demonstrated by the meager funds provided for the wages of the reduced staff and her own provender. She used her grandmother’s legacy to feed her mother’s mares and chafed at the lack of warning that her uncle had descended; there was no opportunity to warn the stable lads to hide the herd in the holiday field.
At the bottom of the stairs, she took a breath, composed herself, and went into the study.
“Good day, Uncle.” Her curtsy was rather perfect if she did say so herself, which she had to, not anticipating compliments from her relation.
She stood, her head bowed by the weight of his stare. Her mother often laughed when speaking of her brother’s stern demeanor, putting it down to the pressures of his work in the City and his determination to secure the Purcell family fortunes for posterity. To Felicity, it was intimidating. Avuncularity never entered into any of her cursory dealings with him, and today, so soon after the death of her father, his presence was more oppressive than ever. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the beloved portrait of herself and her parents, painted in her youth, the day itself a blur of color and cuddles that had gone some way to alleviate the boredom of sitting still. Each time she saw the picture, she remembered her mother speaking of how active Felicity had been in the womb, which made mama blush and papa’s eyes twinkle. The sound of her mother’s voice and the vision of her father’s bright eyes were fading; grief overwhelmed her anew, and she struggled to take courage from the joyful, painted faces and the sweet remembrance of her childhood.
“You will put aside your mourning,” her uncle announced, shifting in her father’s chair. Her heart pulsed with anger—that he should sit there as though he belonged—and shock at his announcement.
“It has been a mere three months, Uncle. It would be disrespectful to do so.” A mistake, inferring that he was unaware how to go on. For someone with as much disdain for formalities as he professed, her uncle was as high a stickler as Lady Jersey. Of whom she knew only from the tonnish ladies magazines. Which she devoured with gusto despite having no real place in society.
“You will do as you are told.” He heaved his bulk out from behind the desk. Refusing to cede her ground, Felicity stood firm as he paced around her. “You are to be placed on the Marriage Mart,” he said. “That is what you people call it, is it not? Such terms do trickle down to lowly Cits like myself.” He gurgled; she assumed it was a laugh of some sort, a chuckle perhaps.
“One wonders at the notion you should be snapped up,” he continued. “Did you know your father left you without a dowry? I see you did not. Was it because he thought you so lovely that the young bucks would not require incentive to ask for your hand?” He gurgled again. “Perhaps, on the contrary, he reckoned that all the money in Christendom would not suffice? You are less than ladylike—”
“If only you would allow me a finishing governess, Uncle,” Felicity began.
“—and I do not know that you will snare a husband with hay in your hair. How you can remain true to the very beasts that killed your mother—”
“It was not Calliope’s fault!” Felicity knew better than to go over this ground; she’d heard her father and uncle arguing for weeks after the terrible event. “The course had not been inspected properly by that old sot Lord Millington, and she spooked at an uncleared ditch—she hadn’t expected it and panicked.” Her throat closed, and she grieved for her mother, grieved for the horse that had been put down the same day, and once more regretted her mother’s penchant for horses with the purest of bloodlines. Would a less spooky mare have handled that ditch with greater aplomb? Would a more sober, steady beast have managed to get them both through safely?
“As if an animal was of equal account as my sister.” He stood before her, and she lifted her gaze, held his. “I’d like to know where those beasts got to. That bunch of mares she cultivated? They seem to have disappeared. Were they sold? And if so, why was the fee not reverted to me, as your guardian? Are they still on this property?”
Felicity’s brow misted with perspiration even as she wrinkled it in confusion. “I would be more than pleased to walk with you around the grounds, Uncle. But will your gout allow? I take it to understand that you suffer from the disease of kings?”
“I’m sure you’d like nothing more than to lead a sick, elderly man on a wild goose chase.”
“I accord you nothing you do not fully deserve.” She lowered her eyes and let him chew on that. A quiet part of her mind chided her for her brazen manner; she blamed the horses, having become more assertive every day she worked with them. Could she get word to the yard if he did insist on touring the estate? She had one or two allies left in the house since her uncle had cut the staff and replaced the pensioners with his own people. The boot boy was always willing to run messages for her—
“Do you understand what I’ve told you?”
Devilment!“No, sir.” She’d incited enough discord for one day, and she folded her hands at her waist to project a humbled air.
“Stupid girl.” He moved to sit behind the desk once more, and picking up a piece of parchment, waved it in the air. “I waste time making this known to you, but your father’s will”—he waved the paper again—“makes no provision for you should you marry. You are dowerless.”
Felicity remained motionless; within, it was if every bone in her body had turned to water. “But, my mother’s jewels? They were to be left to me—and she said I would receive an endowment that would set me above all other girls, far greater than a common inheritance.”
