“One does not measure honour when one is flirting with the throw of the cards, ma’am. The excitement lies in the heady game of risk.”
“Then you are no better than he!”
It did not need Mrs Summerhayes’ sharp intake of breath to bring Felicity to shame. Lord Lynchmere flinched only slightly, but his expression remained imperturbable. She put her fingers to her brow, pressing against the pain that had been imperceptibly growing there.
“I did not mean that. It is untrue. Unpardonable of me to say it.”
Dismayed to hear the huskiness in her own voice, Felicity kept her eyes closed, unwilling to face the cynical gleam that had been in Lynchmere’s gaze as he spoke.
She was rescued from the scourge of her own ill-thought words by the sound of someone entering the room. Felicity straightened, opening her eyes. But it was only the butler, armed with a tray which he set down upon the inlaid table near the window.
“Madeira, madam. And Ratafia, should miss prefer it.”
“Thank you, Maunder, but leave it. His lordship will serve us.”
The butler bowed and withdrew, and Felicity’s eyes were drawn to Lord Lynchmere’s tall figure as he rose to do the honours.
“I will take a drop of the Madeira, Raoul.”
He nodded, not troubling to look round. So cool, so unmoved he was. An irrational urge to prick him into something more attacked Felicity. She fought it. His unruffled air, while she was so wound up, annoyed her.
He looked across at her. “Ratafia or Madeira, Miss Temple?”
“Neither, I thank you.” She would kill for a cup of coffee! She struggled with the tempest rising in her bosom.
Lord Lynchmere poured two glasses from a decanter and returned to hand one to his cousin before retaking his seat and sipping at his own glass. He seemed utterly undisturbed, despite having a stray female thrown at his head.
The stray female, like an infuriated cat, wanted to scratch at him with her claws. Come, this would not do!
Felicity rose abruptly, crossing to the bureau. She picked up her valise, resisting the urge to throw it across the room with some violence, and set it down on the floor. Without a word, she sat down and picked up the pen, dipping it into the inkpot in the marbled stand. Then she sat, staring at the half-written sheet, reading the words but taking in nothing of their meaning.
She became aware of murmurs behind her. Then Mrs Summerhayes called out.
“You are not asking for your post back, are you?”
Yes, she was. At least, it was what she meant to do. She felt incapable of doing anything. Her determination to be gone notwithstanding, she was gripped with a frenzy of conflicting emotions that left her paralysed.
She half turned, glancing at her hostess. “I don’t know. I must — I must at least let Mrs Jeavons know what has happened. She will be thinking… Oh, I have no notion!” She set down the pen, spraying ink across the sheet. Giving way to the turmoil inside, she set her elbows on the writing slope and dropped her head in her hands.
“Good heavens, Raoul, the poor girl is in despair! I’ll ring for brandy. Or no, I will get my smelling salts.”
A rustle of skirts was followed by the opening and closing of the door. Felicity heard it only in the background of her mind as the pain in her head began to rise in concert with the churning in her breast.
A floorboard creaked, and then a warm pair of hands was set upon her shoulders, kneading gently. The sensation both soothed and made her conscious. She pushed herself upright but the hands continued to massage. It felt good. Her tense muscles began to relax and she sighed out a low-voiced “Thank you.”
Released, she opened her eyes and twisted on the chair, looking up into Lord Lynchmere’s countenance. For once there was no trace of cynicism there.
“How did you learn to do that?”
His lip curved. “A trick that works with my little sister when she threatens a tantrum.”
A rueful laugh escaped her. “You guessed I was about to throw a fit?”
He sank back a little, regarding her with a lurking twinkle. She had not seen that before. “I imagine your emotions at this point defy description.”
Felicity had to laugh. “They do. I confess I could readily have thrown something at your head for remaining so infuriatingly unmoved.”
The cynical gleam appeared. “A knack I have perfected. You should cultivate it, Miss Temple. You will find it endlessly useful.”
