“This is quite a tangle.” He wasn’t arguing with her, just commenting as his fingers worked in her hair.
She gulped, his scent catching in her throat and nostrils. It wasn’t as spicy as Jules’. It was more subtle, straightforward, and clean.
Jules!Her heart cracked.
Westerley had kissed her nine times in all. The first time had been at her coming out when she was just seven and ten, once each year after that, and then twice last spring. Eight years—wasted!
With the understanding that they would marry, she had waited out the best years of her life believing that her future was settled!
She’d trusted him. She’d trusted her father and mother. She’d trusted his parents.
And now, at five and twenty, none of that mattered becausesheapparently didn’t matter.
“What am I going to do? What will people think?”
“Hush.” He loosened a thorn from her hair and moved on to another one.
“My father gambled away my betrothal! I’m not even sure I still have a dowry.” All of it was mortifying. “I’m ruined.”
“You’re nothing of the sort.” He’d freed most of her hair and diverted his attention to the fabric of her skirts. “I’m afraid this gown is, though.”
His soft chuckle nearly set her off into a bout of either tears or laughter. She wasn’t sure which.
Both his arms wrapped around her now. If anyone were to discover the two of them outside, alone… Did it even matter? All she felt was the pain and emptiness of a future without Jules. “I loved him, Manningham. He was my world!” She hadn’t meant to confess this to anyone, let alone one of Westerley’s friends. “How could he do this to me?”
The sound of fabric ripping and then, “Forgive me. The thorn worked right through it. Lean forward and try sitting up. I think you are free now.”
The sizable viscount walked backward on his knees, taking his shoulder with him until she, too, could sit upright.
You are free now.
Horrible words. Felicity didn’t want to be free. A shiver ran through her and she wondered if she would ever feel warm again.
But Manningham wasn’t done with her yet. Handkerchief in hand, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a flask and uncorked it.
“You think drinking spirits is the answer?”
“Not what I had in mind, but feel free if you think it will help,” he chortled even as he poured some of the liquid onto the handkerchief and then handed her the flask. “I want to clean these deeper cuts.”
But how does one clean a broken heart?
Felicity stared at the container, catching a whiff of the liquor and scowling as though it might be poison. “Is itherwhiskey?” Whiskey was what had brought Miss Jackson into Westerley’s life. Her father, known as the American Whiskey King, had traveled with his daughter to England to meet with Scottish distillery owners.
Manningham jerked his chin, encouraging her to take a drink. “Westerley’s grandfather’s Scotch.”
So nothers.
Stinging from the first dab of the handkerchief, Felicity tipped back the flask and took a long—
“Oh!” She coughed, sputtered, then coughed again. At least she had a good reason for the tears streaking her face now. And it burned.
In her throat, her chest, and then it settled like a ball of fire in her belly.
The flavor left her mouth spicy and dry.
“It’s horrible.”
“An acquired taste.” His touch on her skin was surprisingly gentle for such a large man. “You should have sipped it.”
