“Smelling salts! I’ll fetch them, sir.”
“Felicity, wake up, I said!”
The voice was insistent. She forced her eyes open against the pull that wanted to drag her down, buried forever in blessed oblivion. But it was not oblivion, not ifhemeant to inhabit her dreams.
“Come, drink this.” Cold steel at her lips. “Open your mouth.”
She opened and pungent liquid slid across her tongue. She choked, becoming aware of a supporting arm across her back, pushing her upright. Coughing, she lifted a wavering hand to push away the flask she could now see in his hand. His hand? Revulsion overcame her and she uttered a cry, tugging away from him.
“Behave! I’m trying to help you.”
Familiar features came into focus. Relief claimed her and she sagged. “Oh, it’s you.”
Lord Lynchmere held the flask to her lips again. “A little more.”
“No, pray.”
“It’s only brandy. Another sip.”
She allowed him to tip another measure into her mouth. Ready for it this time, she swallowed the fiery liquid and sucked in a breath. The world around her came back into focus. Lord Lynchmere was leaning in beside her chair, a supporting arm around her, holding the flask ready.
Felicity gave him a wavering smile. “Thank you. I am better now.”
He seemed to study her face for a moment. Then he nodded and released her, straightening and setting the hinged stopper back on the flask. He slipped it into a pocket.
Felicity watched his motions as from a distance, still a trifle disoriented. Remembrance washed her mind and she shuddered. “How could he? He never confessed. Then to use me as he did!”
His lordship resumed his seat at the head of the table, pushing away his plate. Her own was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the landlady.
“Where is Mrs Dadford?”
“She went to fetch smelling salts.”
“Oh, dear.” She looked at him. “I was not out, I don’t think.”
“Not entirely. You were muttering.”
“Was I?” She drew a painful breath. “I don’t know how to deal with this.”
“Then don’t try.” He reached out a hand and laid it over one of hers. Felicity had not known her fingers were glued to the table. The warmth of his grip was balm. She looked at him.
“You are always coming to my rescue, Raoul.”
His lip quirked. “I am at your service, Felicity, didn’t you know?”
A tiny laugh escaped her. Realising she had used his given name, she withdrew her hand from under his, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I should not have…”
“Not have what?”
Felicity hesitated. She still felt quite odd, not at all herself, as if she had sustained a blow on the head. “Your name. Too informal.”
His smile twisted. “Don’t you think we are well enough acquainted now to dispense with formality?”
“Do you wish to?” Why had she said that? Her inhibitions appeared to have deserted her.
“I already have.”
Warmth invaded her from somewhere, but she was spared having to answer by the reappearance of Mrs Dadford, armed with a little vial she was waving in triumph.
