“Ladies Bethany and Tabetha appear to be in need of an escort for their afternoon stroll.” And with that, he stepped out the door, glancing to the left and then the right.
Westerley had his fiancé pinned against the wall, and she seemed not to have any complaints in what ought to remain a private moment.
“So that’s what they call meeting with one’s father now, eh?” Mantis couldn’t help himself.
Miss Jackson hid her face, and Westerley shot him a scowl.
The left it would be.
Because he had an afternoon call to make, and today, he refused to accept defeat.
Felicity snippedthe thread and studied the fabric in her hands, a linen handkerchief, rounding out the dozen that she’d begun working on at the end of last season.
Because Jules had kissed her twice, once almost passionately, she’d presumed to embroider the Westerley crest onto twelve lovely linen handkerchiefs. She folded the last one into crisp quarters and added it to the small basket where she’d stored the others.
“I’m so pleased you didn’t destroy them,” her mother said.
The always serene Lady Brightley sat across from Felicity, embroidering small flowers onto a square that she would likely have framed. Looking younger than her seven and forty years, Felicity’s mother wore her blonde hair in an elaborate coiffure. A smile of content danced on her lips. She was either ignoring Felicity’s turmoil, or she was oblivious to it.
Nearly a week had passed since Felicity’s mother had caught Felicity poised to cut one of the handkerchiefs in half. She’d demanded Felicity give up the scissors at once. Such a vengeful display of temper was both unrefined and wasteful.
“Lady Westerley will appreciate such a thoughtful gift.” But her smile fell when she caught Felicity frowning. “Oh, come, dear, there are plenty of other eligible bachelors out there for you. They may not be as handsome as Lord Westerley or as wealthy but, be that as it may, I do wish you would set aside your melancholy.”
How many times had her mother dismissed her feelings like this? At the end of every season they’d spent in London, she’d promised that Westerley would make his offer the following year. Or the following. Or the following after that.
Felicity had waited. She had smiled through each disappointment, and for what? To be humiliated and betrayed.
But since being a good girl was so thoroughly ingrained in her, Felicity lifted the corners of her mouth. “I’m trying,” she answered, relieved to be finished with the last of the hankies.
And, indeed, shredding them would have been wasteful. Perhaps Bethany and Tabetha would like them. Although, Tabetha was coming out this spring and was likely to land a husband in no time at all.
No, not a husband, Felicity marveled. Tabetha insisted she was going to marry a duke.
Bethany, however, had been out nearly as long as she had. Bethany might make good use of them.
“Guests from Westerley Crossings,” Mr. Nelson, the butler who had worked at Brightland’s Manor longer than Felicity had been alive, announced from the door. “Lady’s Bethany and Tab—”
“But of course,” Felicity smoothed her skirts and glanced at her mother. “I think I’ll send the handkerchiefs back with them today.” She’d be grateful to never see them again.
Mr. Nelson disappeared, and her mother set her handiwork aside. “Splendid notion. You and I will visit Westerley Crossings tomorrow. Good manners demand we offer our felicitations to the new couple.”
Felicity had expected this, but not yet. It was too soon.
Usually, she would have taken turns visiting her friends. Then again, on a typical visit, she would not have had to face Westerley’s American fiancé. She would have imaginedherselfin that position.
Furthermore, she would not have had to face a gentleman that she’d—
She blushed at the memory and stared at her skirt, pretending to remove a non-existent piece of lint. Lord Manningham had not yet taken his leave from Westerley Crossings. She knew that because he’d called on her more than once.
And each time, she’d made up some excuse to avoid meeting with him.
Of course, he’d offered to marry her. He was a gentleman—albeit the gentleman she’d allowed between her legs. She winced.
It was all just too mortifying. Hearing footsteps, she touched her hair and sat up straight. Perhaps Bethany would have news that he’d returned to London. Yes. He couldn’t remain at Westerley Crossings indefinitely, could he?
Perhaps he could. Because as far as Felicity knew, gentlemen did pretty much whatever they wanted.
The door opened, and Tabetha all but flew in, blond ringlets dancing, bringing with her the freshness of the cool March air. Her dark-haired sister, Bethany, followed, showing far more restraint.
