Page 11 of Felicity Cabot Sells Her Soul (Scandalous Sisters #3)

Felicity woke slowly, as if she had emerged by inches from the thick of a fluffy cloud.

There was no dreadful ache in her neck from the settling of the down within her ancient, battered pillow which had compressed itself through the night.

She hadn’t found herself huddled up beneath the mound of threadbare quilts to conserve warmth.

Her toes were perfectly toasty. A brief sense of disorientation assailed her as she blinked her eyes open and saw not the narrow chest of drawers tucked up against the wall of her room, but a curtain drawn around the side of the bed.

For a moment, still half-trapped in the misty veil of sleep and cocooned within the warmth of the counterpane draped over her shoulders, she could only stare at it in mute confusion.

And then reality reared its ugly head once more.

She vaulted upright, chest heaving. Good lord, what was the time?

No one had come to wake her. Diving across the bed, she yanked at the curtains to pull them open.

Piercing light shot in; a grey winter day, but undeniably well-advanced already.

She had to have slept for hours upon hours—well beyond her usual five or six.

But there had been no pain in her back to rouse her toward consciousness in plenty of time to present herself at the breakfast table, no bitter cold to prick at her toes.

There had only been the feather-softness of the mattress, the warmth of the counterpane, the plush cushion of the pillows beneath her head.

And she had slept like the dead as if beneath a spell.

But she had not done it alone. The bed curtains had not been closed last evening when she had retired, and the counterpane was disturbed on the opposite side of the bed, as if it had been hastily cast off.

There was the faint impression of a head in the center of the pillow beside her own.

Evidence, some minutes removed—or hours, if she were to judge by the coolness of the mattress—of Ian’s presence.

Of course. It was his bed chamber, after all.

He’d made it one of his conditions that she sleep within it, beside him.

But she had not heard him enter. Had not heard him leave.

He’d simply come in, slept, and left again come morning, with her none the wiser.

The thought made her hands ball into fists, blunt nails scraping her palms. The slow simmer of the anger that had burned in the depths of her heart for over a decade now.

Sometimes just a few flickers of an ember, sometimes a raging fire—but always there , glowing beneath her breastbone.

He thought he had won, and perhaps it would appear that he had.

But she would make it a pyrrhic victory.

She had all the time in the world to affect it; he had seen to that.

With that thought in her head, she changed into a clean dress and crammed a handful of pins into her hair, hoping the severe, inelegant style would stand up to the mist of rain falling outside.

At least her clothing had been pressed and neatly hung up, given that she had stuffed them into her trunk evening last with little care.

The house was draped in an eerie silence as she crept out the bed chamber door at last. She couldn’t quite ascertain whether it was the natural state of the house, or whether she had simply become accustomed to the usual chatter of the girls in her care as a near-constant refrain in the daylight hours that such a profound quiet felt decidedly abnormal.

As she crept past the closed door of Ian’s study—just in case he happened to be inside—and descended the stairs, she caught sight of the butler speaking in hushed tones to a maid, and for a moment she felt nearly dowdy.

Though Ian clearly did not require his servants to dress in any formal livery, still they all seemed to be dressed better than she was.

“Ah, Mrs. Carlisle,” the butler said as Felicity arrived in the foyer, giving a nod to the maid, who scampered off to be about her duties.

“Is there something that I may do for you?” “Yes. I am going out this morning,” Felicity said, notching her chin higher.

“And every morning hereafter.” The first real test of whatever authority she might hold within this household.

Whether he had been instructed to disregard her.

“Of course,” he said, without so much as a blink.

“If I may be so bold, madam, I would not advise walking. The weather is ill-suited to it this morning, even with an umbrella. It will take a quarter of an hour to ready the carriage, however. Might I suggest a bit of breakfast in the meantime?” She had been braced for an argument, prepared to storm out the door in a snit if she had received even a hint of one.

The distinct lack of one disarmed her utterly.

“Mr. Carlisle has not got the carriage?” she asked.

“No, madam.” A slight twitch of his mustache.

“Mr. Carlisle is out this morning attending to some business, but he chose to walk against advice. I was given to understand that he meant to leave the carriage for your use, since his walk was not quite so long as yours.” “Oh,” she said.

“Then—then I suppose I will take breakfast.” “I’ll send a footman to inform you when the carriage is ready,” Butler said with a little bow.

“The dining room is just down that hallway, first door on your right.” Felicity made it perhaps five steps in the indicated direction before a thought occurred to her.

She turned swiftly, squaring her shoulders.

“Is there somewhere more private I might take my breakfast in the future?” she asked.

“I do not enjoy company in the mornings.” Perhaps it wouldn’t be an issue today, when Ian was already out—but she did not intend to give him a second more than she had sworn to, even if it was only sitting in silence at the breakfast table.

Butler’s brows lifted. “Of course, madam,” he said.

“There are several sitting rooms scattered throughout the house. You may have the use of any of them you please. But I assure you the staff is unobtrusive—” “It isn’t the staff which concerns me.

” “Ah.” Tactfully, Butler gave only a small nod of acknowledgement.

“Then you needn’t concern yourself,” he said.

“Mr. Carlisle rarely takes more than coffee and toast for breakfast, and always in his office.” “He does? But the maid—Mary—said that the breakfast service was to begin at seven.” And seven had long since passed.

“Yes, madam. For you. Mr. Carlisle informed the staff that with your duties at Mrs. Lewis’, you would be something of an early riser.

Should you prefer a later breakfast in the future?

” “No, I—I overslept.” Because of that damned too comfortable bed.

Because she hadn’t woken even once shivering beneath a bundle of blankets.

Because her head had sunk into the pillow as if she had laid it upon a cloud.

“But I really must be at the school no later than eight.” And she might well find it impossible to rise of her own accord.

“If someone might be sent to wake me should I fail to rise before seven…” “Of course, madam. The staff is at your disposal.” “Thank you—er, Butler.” Felicity winced.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s only that it feels almost as though I am addressing you by your position rather than your name.

” His mustache twitched again, in a tiny display of encroaching mirth.

“I suppose it must make it a sight easier to recall,” he said.

He added, conspiratorially, “We’ve got a kitchen maid by the name of Nancy Carver.

” Startled, Felicity issued a short laugh.

“And does she?” “Whenever the cook allows.” He smoothed away the last traces of his amusement.

“If you’ll excuse me, madam, I will send for the carriage.

” Felicity let the gnawing ache of hunger in her stomach guide her back toward the dining room in search of breakfast, relieved not to have found an adversary in Ian’s butler.

Only time would tell whether she had found an ally.