Tristan knew he could guarantee her happiness. Flick didn’t need fine things and parties. She needed warm fires and fresh bread. Laughter, flowers, sun, birds. She needed him.
Tristan looked away before he did something reckless like kiss her and beg her to run away with him.
He couldn’t give her the home he didn’t yet have back in his name.
“Are you ready to return?” she asked.
“No. But we should.”
She took his hand, knitting her fingers through his and Tristan felt it through his body, his soul, his heart. He watched their hands as they walked, and he knew what this affliction was.
Love.
Chapter Eleven
On their wayback to the Den, Tristan bought her a Cornish pasty. She’d hoped he’d do more than buy her a treat, but he was quiet and contemplative. She would have worried, but he didn’t sit across from her when they returned to the carriage. He sat beside her the whole way and held her hand.
Such a simple gesture, the holding of hands, and yet that innocent touch had warmed her to her toes. Not the way his kisses did—this was different. Like sunlight inside her, gentle, healing, comforting. They parted ways when they arrived at the Den. Tristan had to meet with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and Felicity needed to get ready for tonight. The sensation of his hand around hers did not end when he let go. The feel of him stayed with her, and while she knew she shouldn’t be loving his attention so much, she couldn’t help it. He’d become medicinal to her. Whatever hurt, whatever was aching and sore in her thoughts, body, or heart, he made it better. Without saying a word, he made her better.
She wanted to repay him for today and she had a few ideas how. She thought of them while Milly did her hair. After a light dinner, Felicity was ready to meet Tristan in the ladies’ area. But Milly arrivedto inform her that Mrs. Dove-Lyon requested her presence.
Wincing on the inside, Felicity grabbed her mask and headed in the direction of her parlor. She knocked lightly at the door, hoping that Tristan would be the one to answer, but instead she heard Mrs. Dove-Lyon answer.
“Enter.”
Felicity opened the door and stepped inside. “You wanted me?”
“I know you want to choose your spouse, and I still support that idea, but I have a candidate that I think would suit you well. He is thirty-eight and not yet married. He has a very serious character and an eye for politics. He’s not rash or entertained by parties and the like. He gives to charities.”
“Oh? How good of him.”
“Lord Hugstead has a modest estate in Marylebone. He’s a baron and comes from a respectable lineage.”
“Why hasn’t he married?” Felicity asked.
“Because he works too much. He’s put no effort into finding a wife. Which makes him the perfect match for you. A quiet life of purpose.”
He did sound like the perfect man on paper, if all Mrs. Dove-Lyon said was true. But Felicity couldn’t find the excitement she should have.
“I invited him to attend tonight. He is aware I have him in mind for a potential match, but he won’t specifically be looking for you.”
Felicity’s heart sank and chills spread over her body. “How will I know who he is?”
“He’ll be wearing a gold clover pin in his cravat. For luck.”
Felicity thought she saw her lips curve up in a smile, but then Mrs. Dove Lyon dipped her head and picked up her quill.
“Good luck tonight, Miss Brandon.”
Felicity left the parlor and headed toward the stairs. That was where she collided with Tristan. He caught her by the elbows, holdingher steady as she gathered herself together. But when she met his gaze, his teasing smirk sending heat right to her belly, she couldn’t stop herself from throwing her arms around him and kissing him like he was the only shelter in a storm.
His arms came around her slowly, his hands molding to her back and up to the bare skin of her shoulder blades.
“Flick,” he said between kisses, “this isn’t the place for this,”—kiss—“much as I’d like to spend the evening doing nothing but this,” he finished.
Felicity touched her forehead to his shoulder. “I know.” She peeled herself away from him.
His hands dropped to her hips as if they belonged there, like they’d always been the hands allowed to touch her body. The only hands she wanted on her body.
