Page 21 of The Luckiest Lady in London

Not entirely, in any case.

Chapter 5

Felix felt exposed.

The strange sensation crept upon him almost as soon as he left the picnic. With every passing hour it intensified, growing stronger and more undismissable. By bedtime he was literally uncomfortable in his own skin.

The nearest parallel in his experience had been as a child, after having offered a carefully prepared present to one or both of his parents, waiting those terrible minutes to see whether his father would pick it up and whether his mother would, this once, after all her theatrical cooing, take it with her to her room or again leave it behind in the tea parlor, to be cleared away the next time the maids came through.

But the comparison was ridiculous. He had not offered Miss Cantwell a gift. His proposition was a monstrosity, an affront to decency, an incendiary missile catapulted inside the very walls of her castle.

How could he, then, the one on the offensive, fall prey to feelings of vulnerability?

Because you have not been so much yourself in a long time. Because you have let her see more of you than anyone else. Because if she were to reject this offer—

He told the voice inside to shut up. If she were to eventually reject his offer, it would have little to do with him, personally. Everything in her upbringing stood in the way. As did their entire social structure, predicated on the purity of the female body.

He would think no more on his secret discomfort. Instead, he would concentrate on those confessions of hers, of being naked and subject to his will.

For good measure, he took himself to his estate for another week, so as not to seek her out and appear impatient. Even after his return, for several days he chose the masculine refuge of his club over garden parties and soirées musicales.

He did, however, bestir himself to attend Lady Tremaine’s ball, as otherwise the latter would have sent him a scathing note—they had been lovers at one point and had since settled into a solidly comfortable friendship.

At the ball, he danced with a half dozen young ladies, played a few hands of faro at the card tables, and spent some time by Lady Tremaine’s side, inquiring after her doings.

“I can tell you have been to one of your factories today,” he told her.

“Why? Do I still have machine grease on my face?” Lady Tremaine laughed. She was a glamorous and confident woman, entirely unashamed of her delight in manufactory and in the making of money.

“You radiate that sense of satisfaction that comes of either a spectacular lover or a spectacular income statement. And since I know you haven’t taken anyone to bed lately…”

“Perhaps your intelligence is faulty.”

“Never. Did you just find out that you are even richer than you were yesterday?”

She laughed again. “Yes. And by a good margin.”

He scanned the crowd below, looking for a now-familiar head of shining dark hair—even though he knew Miss Cantwell would not be in attendance. “Congratulations. How do you plan to celebrate?”

“A Swedish lover, perhaps,” said Lady Tremaine mischievously, “since I have already scheduled a tour of Scandinavia.”

He returned his attention to her. “When?”

“I leave day after tomorrow.” She shrugged. “I’m bored with London. Bored with the Season.”

“In that case, make the most of your trip. Try a Norwegian lover, too. And is Finland on the itinerary?”

“Not this time, but Denmark is.”

He drew back a little. “Lord Tremaine’s sister is married to a Dane, is she not?”

“Yes. In fact, I plan to call on her when I pass through Copenhagen—I have always kept on very good terms with my in-laws,” she answered, her tone defiant.

“Of course you have,” he said soothingly. “I shall expect a full account of your Scandinavian experience when you return.”

“That you will have.” She sounded relieved to move away from the topic of her in-laws—from any topic that might extrapolate to her husband. “And you, any interesting plans of your own?”

“No, I shall simply have to endure the tedium that is London without you. And then the dreariness of throwing the same old house party.”