Much Ado About You

  “Because if Mr. Felton had kissed you—” Annabel said.

  “It’s a good thing Miss Flecknoe isn’t here,” Josie said. “This whole conversation would be an unpleasant revelation.”

  “It’s just as we said to Imogen,” Tess said, looking straight back at Annabel. “Kisses do not indicate a man’s inclination to marry. And if Mr. Felton had made such an improper gesture toward me—” She raised her hand in Josie’s direction. “I said if, Josie, so there is no need to make a sarcastic comment, if Mr. Felton had offered me a kiss, it matters little, because the Earl of Mayne made his intentions quite clear, did he not?”

  Annabel nodded. “I noticed that the earl all but told Felton directly that he was going to propose.”

  “And Mr. Felton did nothing to stop him,” Tess said, dismissing the rather hollow sound in her voice.

  “What a disappointment,” Annabel said. “No wonder the man has managed to remain single, with that enormous fortune acting as a beacon to every unmarried woman in the British Isles. I expect he will never marry.”

  Tess did not feel herself able to prophesy on that subject. In fact, even thinking of that subject made her feel queasy.

  “If Mr. Felton kissed Tess, and did not offer for her,” Annabel continued, giving her sister a sharp glance, “then I shall have nothing to do with him.”

  Tess rested her chin on her knees and tried not to think about why Annabel’s pronouncement made her feel so relieved. After all, she herself was promised to an entirely appropriate earl, who—who was entirely appropriate.

  “Well, I think that Mayne is far more handsome than Mr. Felton,” Josie said, putting her book aside.

  “I agree,” Annabel said promptly.

  It was a moment before Tess realized that they were all looking at her expectantly.

  “Oh, so do I!” she said, feeling queerly late on all counts.

  Chapter

  16

  Tess walked down the stairs, her fingers trailing on the polished mahogany of the stair rail. She was wearing Annabel’s dark ruby dress, rather than her own blue dress with the more risqué bosom; Annabel would be exposing an exuberant amount of décolletage this evening. Tess obviously had no need for sartorial prodding, since Mayne sprang the question while she was wearing her old riding habit. Clearly, an extra inch of exposed bosom made no difference to him.

  When she entered the sitting room, it was to find that Annabel had not yet made her appearance. Neither, for that matter, had anyone else, other than Mr. Felton, who was precisely the person that Tess least wished to see.

  He was wearing an exquisite coat of dark, dark green, so dusky it was nearly black. It made Tess wonder how on earth Annabel had missed that air he had: one of command, one that said: I might own the very air you breathe. Really, for someone as driven to marry well as Annabel, she was remarkably unobservant.

  “I understand that congratulations are in order,” he said, with a deep bow.

  But Tess saw no reason for prevarication. “You knew that,” she said, giving him a direct look. He could not pretend that he had not known his friend’s intentions and, even more, that he had not stepped aside in the most obvious way, at the racecourse.

  “You’re quite right, of course,” Mr. Felton agreed. “I am happy for you and Mayne.”

  “I suppose relief does make one feel happy,” Tess said, wandering over to examine a large walnut cabinet against the wall. It was old, with bow-fronted glass doors, and crammed with what appeared to be ancient silver boxes.

  He appeared at her shoulder as she peered through the dappled glass.

  “Goodness, you walk quietly!” she said, a little pettishly, looking up at him.

  There was something in his eyes. “You turned down my proposal,” he said to her. “I assure you that I feel no relief.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Tess said. “You mustn’t pretend that you really meant to ask me to marry you. Imogen is the only one of us who can defend a claim to be experiencing anguish.”

  “True, I do not feel anguish.”

  She was learning to read him, even though he was as expressionless as a puppet. He was amused. Tess pulled open a door of the cabinet with rather more force than was called for. “How lovely,” she said flatly, pulling out a box for the sake of having something to do.

  “My emotions, or the box?”

  “The box.”

  “A marriage box,” he told her. “Around a hundred years old, from the looks of it.”

  “Marriage box?” she repeated stupidly, staring down at the box in her hand. It wasn’t much larger than the palm of her hand, engraved with little scenes on all sides. The cover showed a man’s hand holding a woman’s.

  “An old custom,” Felton said, pulling off the cover. The box was lined in tired red velvet. “The groom would fill the box with gold coins, I believe, and give it to his bride. You see here”—he pointed to the top—“they hold hands. And here”—he pointed to one side—“they are presumably courting, since he stands below her window. Perhaps he sings to her.”

  Tess was excruciatingly aware of Mr. Felton’s body, just inches from hers. His hair had fallen forward from its normally sleeked-back position and swung on his brow. His hand was much browner than hers, and fully three times as large. As large as his shoulders. And he smelled—oh—wonderful. Not perfumed, just—

  “Here,” Mr. Felton said, “we probably have a scene from early married life. You see, they are seated at the breakfast table.”

  “Ah,” Tess said, barely paying attention. The box sat in his hand now, the silver glowing against his honeyed skin.

  “Surely a fraught occasion,” he said, and she caught the thread of amusement in his voice again.

  “Why so?”

  “One’s first breakfast.” Their eyes met. “After all, one is so used to eating quite separately. And suddenly, one is faced with a spouse across the table.”

  “I am not accustomed to eating in a solitary fashion,” Tess put in, not quite certain where this conversation was leading. It appeared to have a double entendre to it somehow, although she wasn’t sure what the second meaning could be. “My sisters are lively breakfast companions.”

  “A first wedding breakfast is probably quite silent,” he said, and there was that strain of wicked laughter in his voice again. “Fatigued, as they are.” He bent his head, pretending to look closer. “Is it my fancy, or is she leaning back against her chair in a posture that could be interpreted asutter…exhaustion?”

  That was mischief on his face. Tess knew it, even though another person likely would have found his face noncommittal. “I expect you’re right,” she said, with just the right air of calm. “A tiring day, one’s wedding.”

  “Here—” he said, turning the silver box, “one has a scene approved from ancient times. An allegorical reference.”

  Tess blinked at it. From what she could see, it depicted a field of rabbits.

  “A fertility talisman,” his voice said, deep and certainly amused. “Rabbits are so very prolific.”

  “Poor woman,” Tess said tartly, putting the little top back onto the box. “Rabbits!”

  “But you do wish to have children, don’t you, Miss Essex?” He was putting the box back into the cabinet and not looking at her.

  “Why did you kiss me in that Roman bath?” she asked impulsively.

  His hand froze, and then he withdrew it and closed the cabinet. He countered with his own question: “Are all Scotswomen like yourself, Miss Essex?”

  “Naturally,” she said, raising one eyebrow, just in Lady Griselda’s manner.

  “I wished to kiss you,” he said. His eyes were a fierce blue. “I simply wished to, Miss Essex. Naturally, I know that a gentlemen never bows to such an impulse, but—”

  Tess held her breath, not thinking, not breathing, not moving.

  His hands curled around her shoulders. His head bent, and his mouth pressed against hers. It was frustrating. She had always, rather dimly,
thought of horses and men in the same way. She knew in a moment when her father was irritated, or exhausted, or fairly choking with choler, before he even spoke. It was all written on his face. But Mr. Felton’s tight grip over his expression was aggravating. Exasperating, even.

  But his mouth spoke to her. She could taste something simmering under his kiss. Desire? She knew little of that famed emotion. But his kiss scorched. It talked of—something.

  Tess was feeling a little dazed, a little dizzy. Very curious. So she opened her mouth to ask any number of things. Why are you kissing me? Another good question: why are you kissing your friend’s betrothed? A third: why did you let me go? But she was casting about for a less plaintive way to formulate that question…

  She opened her mouth to try, but he was there. Kissing Felton was like talking to someone who showed more expression on his face, Tess thought dimly. She could taste everything he was thinking: hunger, desire, a fierceness that made her shake, made her knees feel weak, made her yearning and bold all at once.

  “Tess,” he said, his voice dark as midnight. She didn’t answer. He growled it: “Tess.”

  She broke away from his mouth and looked up at him. Her mouth was stung to a lush red, her eyes rather dazed—and yet, there was no timid virgin’s fear in her eyes.

  “Yes?” she gasped.

  And Lucius couldn’t think what he wanted to ask her. Of course, he had to say that they could not kiss. That he was a man of honor, and she a gently born lady, and yet he was nothing more than a loathsome snake to kiss his friend’s betrothed.

  But the words all died in his throat, because there was something in her eyes, a sultry question.

  “I cannot offer you enough,” he said to her, forcing his body to stay still and not gather her into his arms again. “I once asked a lady to marry me, but I recognized the truth to it before we wed. I haven’t the heart for marriage.”

  “The heart? Are you in love, then?”

  Her face had wiped clear of those traces of sultry pleasure and turned to polite inquiry, as if she were questioning the reasons behind his attachment to carrots, rather than cabbage.

  “I never have felt that emotion. I do not seem to feel as deeply as many men.” There was no kinder way to put it. “Someone like yourself, Tess, you deserve a man who will love you with passion of soul as well as of body.”

  The fire in her eyes was banked now. They were slightly narrowed, thinking. He felt an awful longing to give in and marry her. To tell her that he would take her away from Mayne and keep her for himself, and the devil with what she expected, or deserved in the way of emotion.

  “Don’t give it a thought,” she told him with an airy wave. “I did not say that I wished to marry you. In fact, as I recall, I already refused your request.” Her voice was light, a trifle amused.

  Lucius’s back stiffened. He had actually spoken aloud his deepest fear, that he had only shallow emotions at his command, and she laughed at him?

  She did. That luscious red mouth curved upward even as he watched her face.

  “Do you always assume that young ladies are so ardent to marry you, sir?”

  She had a dimple in her right cheek. Lucius felt a feverish wave of rage. He should kiss that supercilious laughter from her face. “It was, perhaps, a natural error on my part,” he said with a savage edge. “I am not used to young ladies who kiss with such enthusiasm as you do. But England is, of course, a hidebound culture in comparison to our neighbors to the north.”

  Tess’s heart was beating so quickly that she could scarcely breathe; it was taking all the control she could command to keep her face as expressionless as his. “I fear that it is true that Scottish ladies are unlikely to beg you to marry them, sir.” She patted his arm. “Luckily, from what you say, there are Englishwomen who will take on the task.” The slight tone of disbelief in her voice was exquisitely pitched to indicate utter unbelievability.

  “I see,” Lucius said, bowing. “I have been inexcusably rude. I apologize.”

  “I do think that Mayne may be rather less than pleased with your affability toward his affianced wife,” Tess observed. Her heart was slowing, and she was beginning to feel chilly.

  He bowed again. “I will offer him my apologies.”

  Tess looked at him and felt another surge of rage. How dare he kiss her, and then announce that he wasn’t fit for marriage? And all the time he was doing nothing more than making her unfit for her very appropriate marriage to the earl? How dare he? “Please don’t bother with apologies,” she said airily, drifting away from him. “I consider this nothing more than a—a taradiddle. There’s naught important about it.” When she was beside herself, just a hint of Scottish rhythm slipped in her voice, for all their father had coached that accent away.

  And when he spoke, his voice had deepened to a dangerous purr. “Whether I inform my friend that his wife is a light-heeled wench…now there’s a moral question, wouldn’t you say?”

  Tess turned in a swirl of her skirts. She had caught sight of herself in a great gold-leafed mirror to the side of the room. Her color was high, her eyes were glittering, and her bosom looked magnificent. “You must please yourself, sir.”

  “Please myself?” He was beside her again, staring down at her. “Please myself, Tess?”

  “Yes,” she said, suddenly seeing a double meaning there.

  She knew, and he knew, what was about to happen.

  “I shall please myself, then,” he said.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He pulled her slowly up against his chest and pressed his mouth over hers. For a moment Tess was too startled by the aching heat in her body, her instant response to his touch, to notice more than that. But then she found that this time he tasted of anger and frustration. Of desire too, of course.

  But the frustration—yes. And hurt too. She’d hurt him. He was punishing her mouth for it now, as if he knew that his kisses were likely to make her deranged, a fit punishment…for what?

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she said into his lips. It was as if the words formed in his mouth rather than hers. Somehow her hands had found their way to his chest, and she could feel his heart beating under her palm.

  Of course she couldn’t read anything in his face. “There is no question of that,” he said.

  But Tess had discovered something very important about kisses—about kissing Lucius Felton, anyway. Kisses were like horse’s faces: they didn’t lie. She knew it with the same instinct that told her that the weakness in the back of her knees, and the ragged way her breath felt in her chest signaled trouble. “I apologize for dismissing your reasons for remaining a bachelor,” she said, backing away.

  He bowed but said nothing. The gleam of frustrated longing was gone from his eyes. There was nothing to be read in his face but a kind of well-bred indifference.

  The door opened, and Lady Griselda rushed into the room in a babble of words. “Tess, darling!” she cried. “You will be wretched at my news, but my brother has hied off to London on an errand. He will do his very best to return in time for dancing this evening.”

  “Dancing?” Tess asked, feeling not in the least wretched at the news of her betrothed’s departure.

  “Merely an informal affair amongst ourselves,” Lady Griselda said, “ourselves and the Maitlands, of course. I asked Brinkley to find us a trio or some such, and the estimable man has done just that.” Sure enough, footmen had followed her and were beginning to clear a dancing floor toward the end of the long sitting room.

  Tess suddenly remembered Griselda’s plan to arrange waltzing, and thereby encourage a proposal from Mr. Felton. The relief she felt on remembering Annabel’s decision not to woo Mr. Felton was quite out of proportion.

  He had moved away from them and was staring out the window at the dark courtyard. She could see his face reflected in the dark glass: a lucid, austere face. The face of a man who valued restraint and breeding.

  That was no angel, as she’d thought o
n first seeing him.

  Chapter

  17

  A moment later, the room was crowded. Lady Clarice and Miss Pythian-Adams entered, cooing over Miss Pythian-Adams’s reticule; Imogen followed with her hand on Rafe’s arm. She appeared to be regarding him with a doting expression, perhaps in an effort to force Lord Maitland into jealousy as Annabel had suggested. Rafe looked rather desperate. He probably needed a drink. Imogen could be overwhelming, as Tess knew well.

  “I have arranged for a lovely surprise!” Lady Griselda was telling Lady Clarice with great enthusiasm. “A small orchestra. After all, dancing is the food of the gods, as Shakespeare said.” She stopped for a moment. “Or is music the food of the gods? I always forget.”

  Lady Clarice put an arm on Miss Pythian-Adams’s arm. “My dear, if you would be so kind?”

  “If music be the food of love, play on,” Miss Pythian-Adams said obediently. “Twelfth Night.”

  “What an accomplished young woman you are,” Lady Griselda said, as Lady Clarice beamed like a proud mother.

  Miss Pythian-Adams simpered at her, and said, “Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die. Still Twelfth Night.” In diametrical opposite to her behavior of a few days ago, she was clinging to her betrothed’s arm. “You, sir, would make a wonderful Duke Orsino,” she told Maitland. “When we are married, it will be my first action to stage the entire play with yourself in the leading role!”

  “Memorizing isn’t my forte,” Maitland stated. Tess had no doubt but that he was absolutely correct.

  “Ah, but memorization is so easy!” Miss Pythian-Adams cried. “Why, I know all of Duke Orsino’s speeches.” She let go of his arm and struck a declamatory pose. “That strain again! It had a dying fall. Ooooooo, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound, that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing and giving odor.”

  Tess watched for another moment before she realized what was happening. Miss Pythian-Adams had obviously decided to use heavy artillery on her betrothed, a fine effort to make him cry off owing to an excess of poetry.