Blade’s face was aflame, which was ridiculous. Blade Winter did not flush, not with embarrassment, or otherwise.
“We love you,” Lady Pru Rawdon said after everyone’s chuckles had abated.
“And we are doing everything in our power to see you wed to Lady Felicity Hughes,” the Duchess of Coventry announced.
“Christabella!” A chorus of scandalized chastisements rose up from all the females in the chamber.
Save Gen, that was. She was still glowering at the chamber and suspecting everyone of a secret plot.
“He may as well know,” the duchess argued. “Else we shall be here all day, and I am getting quite hungry.”
“You just had breakfast,” grumbled Lady Aylesford.
“Grace!” snapped Pru. “Next you shall resort to pulling hair.”
Lady Aylesford rolled her eyes. “I have not pulled anyone’s hair in years, and you know it, reluctant though you may be to allow me to forget the actions I made when a child.”
Hell and damnation.The family meeting he had called was descending into chaos.
He cleared his throat loudly and made his announcement. “I want to marry Lady Felicity Hughes, and I need your help.”
Felicity was miserable.
She lay on her side in bed beneath the counterpane, Miss Wilhelmina against her, sleeping sweetly, her little tail curled around her body. She had not been able to sleep since Blade had escorted her to her chamber door. They had gone undetected, thank heavens. Her reputation was intact, as he had promised.
Her heart, however, was not.
It had been dashed to bits as she laid in the darkness, only her kitten’s comforting warmth and needy purrs to keep her from swirling deeper into the waters of despair. When Auntie Agatha had arrived at her chamber after eight o’clock, inquiring as to breakfast, Felicity had declined, claiming to have her courses.
Auntie Agatha had not argued. Instead, she had seen a tray of kippers and eggs sent to Felicity, which had done nothing other than make Felicity’s stomach churn. She could not abide by kippers, though her aunt swore eating them for breakfast was restorative, particularly at a certain monthly time.
Felicity had not eaten a bite. She had sent the tray away, untouched.
She did not know how she was expected to carry on, smiling and flirting, dancing and being led beneath the mistletoe, playing snapdragon and taking sleigh rides, when all she wanted was more of what she had experienced last night.
Her heart knew she could not have Blade Winter. Heavens, he had not spoken one tender sentiment to her. Had not Auntie Agatha warned her about him? Rakehells seduced and charmed, and then they disappeared into the darkness when the pleasure was over, just as Blade had.
She told herself she ought not be heartbroken over him.
But her heart had ideas of its own, and it was refusing to concede.
She sighed, giving Miss Wilhelmina’s head a scratch. “It is not fair, is it, darling? Why did he have to be so sweet and charming?”
And why had he confessed his Christian name to her?
Unless he had been lying, and they were the same words he gave all his conquests.
No. The moment the question entered her mind, she banished it, for nothing she knew of Blade suggested he was a dishonest man.
A sudden knock at her door interrupted her miserable thoughts.
“Who is it?” she asked, hoping it was not Auntie Agatha bearing a tray of cockles and anchovy next.
“It is a great number of Winter ladies,” called the crisp, patrician accents of her hostess, Lady Emilia Winter.
“Speak for yourself,” another voice said. “I ain’t no lady.”
The latter was undeniably Miss Genevieve Winter.
