“Are you not sleeping well?” she asked.
“I’ve been too busy for sleep.”
“You needn’t come with me then. Return and rest.”
He sighed. “Miss—”
“Felicity. Please. I give you permission to use my given name. We’ve spent too much time together to revert to such formalities. I live in a gaming club, after all. Hardly the height of propriety.”
“Regardless of the residence you occupy, I’d be remiss in my duties if I were to overstep the bounds of propriety.”
“Tristan,” Felicity pleaded. He was one of the few people she knew in this city. She didn’t want to lose him just because now she was deemed to be something fragile. “Why does my name change anything between us?”
His lips thinned. “Your name has changed, as has your status, but my job has not. My purpose is to protect you. That is my job.”
Ah, so that is all she was to him. A job. Felicity bit her tongue. If that was all she was, she didn’t need to continue embarrassing herself further. Her hands felt sweaty, and she pulled off her gloves, twisting them in her hands as she stared out the window instead of at him.
The carriage came to a stop, and Tristan leaned forward to open the door and step out. Felicity caught a whiff of his cologne, soap, or whatever it was he used—a scent that reminded her of spiced punch. Orange, cranberry, and cloves. A rare delicacy reserved for Christmas day back home. He turned and presented his hand stiffly. Felicity set her hand in his, shocked by the feel of bare skin. Her gloves. She’d taken off her gloves. Her eyes met his, and he stared down at her. The warmth between their hands grew hot.
Felicity tugged her hand away and curled her hand into a fist behind her back, praying he hadn’t felt how damp her palm was.
He looked away from her. The back door of the brown, stone building opened, and a maid waited.
Felicity hesitated.
“Don’t be scared. It’s just a dress fitting,” he murmured.
“What would you know about dress fittings? You’ve never been stuck with a pin over and over.”
“Is that what they do?”
“It’s what my mother did when I or my sisters couldn’t stay still.”
In her periphery, she could see his frown. But as he’d made clear, they were not friends. She was alone. Felicity lifted her chin and entered the shop.
Chapter Two
Why the hellcouldn’t he bear to look at her?
It was simple. She was beautiful—too beautiful. Damned bonny, and when he looked at her, he wanted to touch. He wanted to tease, cajole, make her smile and blush. But he could not, would not, do that. She was above his station. Continuing as they were, which was nothing to begin with, was not feasible. Friends? Sure, they may have been friends in her mind. But he felt nothing friendly for Miss Smith, and Miss Felicity Brandon only made that more obvious. Hewantedher.
But he could never have her. She was above him in every way that mattered. He had nothing to offer a woman, other than copious orgasms. He definitely had nothing to offer avirginalwoman intent on marriage. He couldn’t marry. Not in his position.
Tristan opened his coat and unfolded his sister’s letter. He reread the lines over and over, pleased with her penmanship. But in his chest, the ache that lived there, the ever-growing chasm of despair, widened. He was no closer to his goals than he was when he started a year ago. He needed to get to Edinburgh and see his siblings for himself, make sure they were happy, and promise once again that they would soonbe together. Maybe that would brighten his outlook on the future, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon kept him busy. He couldn’t let his mind wander long over his siblings, his home, and the craggy hills of Inverness. He swore one day he’d see Lark Hall again, but that day was further than he’d realized when he made his bargain with The Lyon.
Miss Brandon had disappeared inside the shop, but she was stuck in his mind like a thorn. She claimed they were friends while she had kept her identity from him. He should have seen through it, but all he had seen was her bonny face. The fear in her eyes that melted away when she looked at him. The tentative smiles, the soft laughs. Every one of those moments had been a triumph for him, but then...
All that time he’d teased and cajoled her, she was meant to marry Alston. She’d gone to Alston House day after day knowing that, while he and Alston were left in the dark. She’d hoodwinked him, and he didn’t know what to make of that. He couldn’t get past that moment when he’d realized. He’d been angry, embarrassed, and then pushed out of the room. All those weeks they’d spent together, to then be shoved out the door when the truth came to light. She was keeping secrets. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was always playing matchmaker with her clients and desperate women who needed to marry, but Miss Brandon was different from them. Or so he’d thought.
Friends? No. They weren’t friends. They were strangers, and this time, Tristan wouldn’t let a pretty face muddle his thoughts. She was a job. A woman who needed to be guarded from some unknown threat that he was still not privy to. She didn’t even trust him enough to tell him what she was hiding from. How could they possibly be friends?
Tristan took out his timepiece. He didn’t know how long this appointment would take, and he had too many things to do. He ought to write his sister back and reassure her that soon—though he had no idea when—they’d all be home again. But that felt like a lie, and he couldn’t lie to them.
Something about Miss Brandon—Felicity, as she wished him to callher—had shaken him, tilted the axis of his world. He needed to find his footing again, but being in her presence would make that difficult. He had to push her away.
The door opened again, and Felicity darted out. She frantically looked around the alley.
“Where’s the carriage?”
