Susan’s gentle comment only served to remind Felicity of how difficult the journey to London had been. Her mother, never comfortable when she herself was not the patient, had been overset, and when she’d asked her ailing daughter to ride in one of the coaches reserved for servants, Felicity hadn’t had the energy to argue.
And that arrangement had left her father’s valet to ride in one of the baggage coaches.
All in all, despite the lovely spring weather, the four-day journey from Leicestershire to London had been miserable for more than just herself.
“This is morning sickness,” Susan insisted. “You’re with child.”
“But I bled.” Not as much as usual, but blood meant she’d had her courses! Which proved that she’d not conceived. The trouble was, if she wasn’t enceinte, then what was the matter with her? Was she dying? She may have momentarily wished her death in the hours after Westerley jilted her, but she’d not meant it. Facing such a fate now had her sending off a quick prayer to negate previous feelings she’d had on the matter.
Of course, she hadn’t wanted to die! The idea of death had simply comforted her at the time.
Susan touched Felicity’s shoulder gently. “A lady’s body doesn’t always get the message right away.”
“It has to be something else,” Felicity moaned, partly because another bout of nausea threatened and partly because…
“You’re going to have to tell him.”
“I’ll wait. I have no wish to alarm the viscount prematurely. I’m expecting my courses again next week. If they aren’t here by Mayday, I’ll tell him then.”
“But that’s over two weeks away.”
“There’s plenty of time.”
“But, my lady…” Susan sighed, and Felicity closed her eyes. “Here. Having something in your belly will help.” A delicate slice of toast appeared in front of her. She made a most unladylike chuffing sound. If only a piece of toast could fix all of this!
Although, not quite an hour later, as she descended the staircase and caught a glimpse of herself in a convenient-looking glass, Felicity could not help but admit that the toast had done wonders.
Enough anyway, that she was capable of meeting with Bethany, who awaited her in the drawing room.
“You’re here! London has been even more tedious than usual without you, and I’m sure you can guess that Tabetha has near driven me to Bedlam.” Bethany rose and greeted her with a quick kiss near Felicity’s ear before dropping onto the settee dramatically. “If she doesn’t capture a duke, I may have to find one for her myself. Because I’ll kill her before submitting myself to another season of her preening and fussing.” Lady Tabetha was all set to enter society this year and was quite prepared to take the ton by storm. Bethany tilted her head. “Your color is off. You aren’t ill, are you?”
“I’m fine.” Felicity lifted the corners of her mouth a little higher.
“You’re not pining after my brother, are you? You needn’t worry about seeing them this spring, you know. They’re off touring Scotland for their honeymoon.”
Oddly enough, Felicity hadn’t thought about Westerley and his, by now, new bride, hardly at all.
But, shouldn’t she have? If she had been in love with him?
“I haven’t been pining.” She studied Bethany, who was not quite a year younger. Her friend had always been pretty but never drew attention to herself. “I know Tabetha is intent on husband-hunting, but what about you?” Discussing familiar topics such as this was precisely what she needed.
Normal. That’s all Felicity wanted—to feel normal.
“Oh, heavens no.” Bethany blushed and stared down at her hands. “I’m thinking of making this my last season. People already consider me to be on the shelf.”
“If you are, then I most definitely am.”
Bethany shrugged, drawing Felicity’s attention to the cut of her gown and the practical style of her coiffure. Most noticeable, however, was the look of hopelessness in Bethany’s eyes. Felicity may not be pining after Westerley, but Bethany was most definitely still pining for Lord Chaswick.
Was unrequited love worse than having never loved at all?
“It’s different for people like you.” Bethany wrinkled her nose with a chagrined smile. “But that’s neither here nor there. I need you to come with me to Cedric’s. Holden Hampden’s latest book was scheduled to be published over the winter. I’ve been dying to get my hands on a copy.”
Cedric’s Shop of Tomes, neatly tucked between a solicitor’s office and a tea house, was their favorite of all the shops on Bond Street. “Of course I’ll come with you, but what do you mean—people like me?” She scowled.
“Just… beautiful, confident people,” Bethany spoke as though this ought not be new information for her. “Your gowns are always fashionable but not pretentious, perfectly pressed and never too tight or too long, or too short. And then there is your hair, golden, even more perfectly golden than Tabetha’s, and let’s not even get started on your shape. In addition to all of that, you are always proper and graceful. I can’t remember you ever embarrassing yourself—over anything. You, my dear friend, and I say this with only a small amount of jealousy, are perfect.”
Bethany would be sorely disabused of this opinion if she’d seen Felicity outside after Westerley proposed to Miss Jackson. “I am not.” Far from it, in fact.
