Page 21 of Felicity Cabot Sells Her Soul (Scandalous Sisters #3)

Whatever are you looking for outside, dear?”

Felicity jumped at Nellie’s voice, letting the curtain fall back into place as she dropped the corner she’d peeled up to peer out into the night. “Nothing,”

she said, and heard the faintly guilty inflection of her voice.

“I was just making certain the carriage had arrived for me.”

Nellie’s head canted in confusion.

“Hasn’t it always, by this hour?”

Of course it had.

But it hadn’t really been Ian’s carriage she had been searching for.

Instead she had been hunting for whatever else might be lurking in the darkness, for any sign of movement, any small indication that the man who had once pursued her had resumed his menacing activities.

That anxiety, which had been strangely absent the week she’d been ill, had come roaring back with a vengeance.

There had been no letters at all in the last week, but she was not so foolish as to believe that the threat had passed.

That demand would come—sooner or later.

Nellie paused beside Felicity’s desk to straighten a stack of papers; the letters Felicity had left unanswered, given that her hand had cramped up viciously halfway through the stack of them.

“Do you know,”

Nellie said softly, as she dragged her salt-and-pepper plait over her shoulder.

“you’ve run this school more capably from your sickbed than I have done these last few years.”

“That’s not true,”

Felicity said, staunchly loyal. “Nellie—”

“It is true,”

Nellie interrupted.

“Now that the danger has passed, I find it an easier thing to admit to. It’s grown rather wearying, you know, the management of such an enterprise. Oh, I love the school, never doubt that,”

she hastened to add as Felicity blanched.

“And I don’t want to leave it. But I find myself grateful to have turned over the management of it to you. I know it is in the best of hands.”

But was it? A gnawing ache settled in the pit of Felicity’s stomach.

Even the barest suggestion of impropriety could ruin the school, taint its good name.

And a woman living beneath an assumed name would give rise to all manner of questions.

How many parents would be willing to entrust the care and education of their daughters to a woman whose past was suspect, whose relations were something less than proper?

Would Nellie stand beside her, if the worst should come to pass? Or would she find herself abandoned even by the one person in her life who had stayed?

Could Felicity fault her for it, if she did? At a time when she had been badly in need of a home, Nellie had given one to her.

So that she might never have to leave the school she had come to love.

An institution whose reputation she might now have thrust into danger merely by existing within it.

An odd, strangled little sound eked from her throat, and she swiped at her burning eyes.

“Oh, my dear,”

Nellie said softly, and her thin arm curled about Felicity’s back in a fond embrace.

“What has brought this on?”

Felicity managed a little shrug.

“I don’t know,”

she lied.

“I’m in a maudlin sort of mood, I suppose.”

Nellie made one of those lovely comforting sounds, the sort that had always soothed her.

“You’ve been the closest thing to a daughter to me, you know. I could not have hoped for better.”

And Nellie had been the closest thing to a mother that Felicity could remember.

She’d been only three years old when her own mother had abandoned her family, and her clearest memory of the woman was her beautiful face wrenched into a scowl as Felicity had tugged at her skirt with her tiny hands, pleading with her to stay.

Don’t go, Mama.

Please don’t go.

She had no memories at all of hugs, or kisses, or even smiles.

Only that last dismissive look her mother had given as her dark, indifferent gaze had slid over the two daughters she’d borne, as if they had been of no value to her whatsoever.

That flat expression had seared itself into her young mind, burned into it an image that was still bright and vivid even so many years later.

A coldness, a callous disregard that provoked a shiver whenever she recalled it.

But Nellie—Nellie had always been warm and caring.

Felicity had been just fifteen when she had arrived at the school, so alone and frightened and anxious.

And Nellie had found a place for her, settled her into a routine and a stability that she had sorely lacked.

She had become more a mother to Felicity than her own had ever been.

“I’ve always been so glad you stayed.

So very glad,”

Nellie said, and her cheek pressed against Felicity’s.

“Let’s take tea tomorrow, just the two of us. It’s likely to be the last opportunity for a while, since the rest of the girls are expected back shortly.”

A knowing smile plumped her wrinkled cheeks.

“And then it shall be all chaos again, hm?”

“Yes. Chaos.”

Felicity sighed.

“You’ve kept the coachman waiting long enough, dear,”

Nellie said, with a last squeeze.

“I suppose I have,”

Felicity said.

“Good night, Nellie. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Better the chaos of the school than the chaos that had been made of her mind just lately, she thought as she reached for her coat and slung it over her shoulders.

Best to keep herself occupied.

It was a bit less time she’d spend peering out of windows into the unrelenting darkness, imagining some shadowy figure observing her from a discreet distance.

Less time still that she would spend agonizing over the ache of arousal that had become a perplexingly constant companion.

From the instant she awoke each morning, having migrated across the bed in her sleep to avail herself of Ian’s warmth, to the time she fell into an uneasy sleep at night, his words of a few nights past resonating in her brain as if they’d grown roots within it.

I would give my right arm to watch you again.

I’ll bargain with you for it.

A violent surge of arousal pebbled her nipples, stoked a lambent heat between her thighs.

Enough of that.

She was not so weak-willed as this.

She was not going to dwell upon such things, to give them any more credence than they deserved.

Shredding a curse between her teeth, she seized the key to the front door from the depths of her pocket, strode through the door, and locked it behind her.

For once, the chill of the winter air was a welcome balm to her suddenly overheated skin.

Again, that strange prickle of awareness—the feeling of being observed—slid over her, dousing her inconvenient arousal with the same effectiveness of a bucket of icy water.

A shiver slipped down her spine as she froze for a moment, her gaze darting about the empty street.

Or at least a street that appeared empty.

In a burst of anxious energy she dashed for the waiting carriage, her breath burning in her lungs until she had made it safely within.

∞∞∞

Ian watched Felicity crawl across her seat and noted the distinct tremble of her fingers as she reached for the curtains shielding the window of the carriage.

She hadn’t noticed him as she’d scrambled in, had slammed the door closed practically the moment she’d cast herself within.

What scant light had followed her inside had been smothered immediately, throwing the both of them into pitch darkness.

“Who are you watching for?” he asked.

Felicity shrieked, jerking away and shrinking back against her seat. It was a long, fraught moment before the rasp of her breath eased enough for speech.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

she asked in an odd, strangled wheeze.

“You frightened me out of my wits.”

“I have an engagement at the theatre this evening. I thought you might enjoy attending.”

She’d been tense lately. Her surliness he’d come to expect, but since she had returned to work she’d grown ever more jumpy and agitated. He’d thought she might welcome a diversion. He’d hoped, anyway.

“What?”

Felicity swayed in her seat as the carriage lurched into motion.

“The theatre? Since when do you attend the theatre?”

“I don’t, generally,”

Ian said.

“But a gentleman of my acquaintance wishes me to invest in his railway venture, and he’s hired out a box for the evening, presumably to impress me. I decided I would accept his invitation and hear him out. It seemed a reasonable use of my hour.”

Felicity braced one hand beside the window, stiffening her shoulders through a turn of the carriage as it carried them toward the center of town.

“I’m not dressed for the theatre.”

“No one would dare remark upon it.”

“I won’t make a good impression upon your friend.”

“He’s not a friend. I don’t have friends. I have business associates, rivals—even an enemy or two.”

Though none to his knowledge that would dare cross him by threatening his wife.

In business, absolutely.

But even those few rare men who harbored some resentment for him would have known better than to court the scorched earth and hellfire Ian would have rained down upon them if they had dared to threaten Felicity.

“You don’t have to impress him; he ought to be more concerned with impressing you.”

“I won’t be impressed.”

That stubborn little chin notched up; he saw the point of it in a slice of light that cut through the slit between the curtains.

Ian pressed his lips together against the wry smile that threatened. He hadn’t thought she would be. At least, he had never expected her to admit to it of her own accord.

“I’m not asking you to be impressed,”

he said.

“I only thought you might enjoy the opportunity to attend the play. It’s a performance of Much Ado About Nothing.”

Not one of his favorites…but it had once been one of hers. He fancied he could hear the indecision swirling about her mind.

A woman of her position—or the position which had once been hers—would have had precious few opportunities to attend such events, and certainly never in such a manner.

The sum she earned in wages was likely not so great so as to afford her the opportunity to attend the theatre even in the cheapest seats, much less a private box.

“Why?”

she asked, and he could hear the tension in her voice.

“You don’t enjoy the theatre. You don’t even enjoy this particular play.”

“I don’t have to enjoy it myself. It’s enough for me that you enjoy it.”

The carriage began to slow, and the city noise that collected around them told him that they had nearly arrived.

“Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face,”

he said.

“When did you last have the opportunity to attend the theatre?”

She made some vague, noncommittal sound beneath her breath, and Ian could only guess that she had elected not to argue further.

As the carriage pulled to a stop, he cast open the door, and Felicity briefly recoiled from the sudden advent of light, the burst of sound that poured inside from the people milling about outside the theatre.

For a moment she sat, still and silent, those vivid green eyes lighting upon the couples that passed in their elegant evening attire. Wariness and trepidation flitted across her face.

Brighton had long been a popular destination for the aristocracy and the otherwise well-heeled.

But she had never before been among them.

Women swanned by in silks and velvets and furs, and she had only a plain black dress and a battered grey coat.

“You look beautiful,”

he said as he climbed out of the carriage and offered her his hand.

“You always look beautiful. It doesn’t matter what you wear.”

She seemed to steel herself to plunge into the thick of the crowd, and at last she set her cold fingers in his and allowed him to help her from the carriage.

He didn’t fool himself that she stuck so closely to his side for any other reason than his obvious escort, the legitimacy his own evening wear lent to her presence here.

“You ought to visit a modiste and order some evening gowns,”

he said as he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“If you had them, you might feel more comfortable returning.”

Her head jerked toward his.

“Returning?”

“To the theatre. I’ve not attended frequently enough to make it worth going to the bother of purchasing a box.”

And he had little enough patience for the overblown dramas played out upon the stage.

“But if you enjoy it, I’ll acquire one for you.”

“I don’t need a theatre box.”

“No one needs a theatre box. But if you want one—”

Ah, hell. There was Mr. Jennings. And he’d brought company of his own. Ian gave a subtle jerk of his chin toward the man standing beside the door of the theatre.

“That is Mr. Jennings,”

he said.

“Our host for the evening.”

Felicity’s hand tightened upon his arm.

“Who is the woman with him?”

“His daughter, I believe.”

Or some other such relation.

Certainly she was not his wife.

Ian had met the woman, once, at a dinner party, and she had been a lovely woman—but she had also been at least fifty years old, and the woman standing at Mr. Jennings’ side was in her mid-twenties at most.

“She’s quite pretty.”

The words had an odd, hollow sound to them. Monotone in their delivery, as if she had stripped any predisposition to an emotional inflection away with her teeth as she’d spoken them.

“Do men generally bring their daughters on matters of business?”

Only if one had some sort of ulterior motive. Such as presenting a daughter of marriageable age to a potential match. It wouldn’t be the first time that a young lady had been cast at his head—but it would damned well be the last.

“Jennings,”

he said as they approached, clasping his hand over Felicity’s where it was tucked still into the crook of his elbow.

“My thanks for your kind offer this evening. My wife is quite fond of Shakespeare.”

“Your wife!”

Mr. Jennings’ jaw fell open in surprise.

“Did my solicitor not make mention of our marriage?”

Ian asked as a ruddy flush crawled into Jennings’ cheeks.

“Perhaps he assumed you knew already. Mr. Jennings, this is my wife, Felicity.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Carlisle,”

Mr. Jennings managed to say awkwardly, as Felicity murmured her own greeting.

“And this is my daughter, Louisa. She—she is also quite fond of Shakespeare.”

“I really am not,”

Louisa said, with an amiable smile, and Ian wondered if Felicity had taken note of the woman’s obvious relief at the announcement of their marriage.

“But I will be glad of the company. I can think of little more tedious than enduring endless discussions of business. Excepting, of course, Shakespeare.”

Caught off-guard by the approachable address, Felicity’s tight grip upon his arm loosened just a bit, and she muffled a small laugh with the tips of her fingers.

“I’m afraid I might make poor company,”

she said to Louisa as Mr. Jennings held the door for them.

“I truly do enjoy Shakespeare, and I’ve never had the opportunity to attend the theatre before now.”

“Oh, have you not? Well, the performances are always very fine indeed. And we shall have a magnificent view. It is just Shakespeare that bores me.”

Louisa gave a little sigh, shrugging out of her pelisse to hand over to one of the theatre attendants.

“I suppose I could constrain myself to chatting only at the interlude, if I might prevail upon you to nudge me awake should I begin to snore.”

“She’s in jest,”

Mr. Jennings spluttered, his cheeks going ruddier still.

“Your coat, Mrs. Carlisle?”

Felicity froze, one hand clutching at the collar of her drab grey coat, which lay over an ever more drab black dress. “Oh, I—I—”

“She’d prefer to keep it,”

Ian said to him, squeezing Felicity’s hand.

“My wife is headmistress at Mrs. Lewis’ Seminary for Young Ladies. Evening wear would hardly have suited her role there, and there simply wasn’t time, between the conclusion of her duties at the school and our evening engagement, to make the trip home to change.”

It was no one’s business but her own if she presently did not have better to change into.

Another soft, subtle release of the tension that had drawn her so stiff at the ready excuse provided for her. Her shoulders sank to a more natural slope, a slight sigh of relief whisking across her lips.

“Mrs. Lewis’,”

Louisa echoed, her brows lifting.

“I have got a cousin who attends. You must be familiar with her—Dorothea White?”

“Dorothea is your cousin? Yes, of course I know her.”

Felicity’s fingers slipped away from his arm as she took a step toward Louisa.

“She is—well, she’s—”

“A holy terror?”

Louisa suggested wryly as she threaded her arm through Felicity’s.

“I was going to say strong-willed,”

Felicity said sheepishly.

“Strong-willed!”

Louisa tittered behind her hand.

“What a talent you have for turning condemnation into flattery.”

“Oh, but she is a lovely girl,”

Felicity insisted.

“That is to say, when she is not—”

“Intent upon driving one utterly mad?”

By the soft laugh Felicity gave, Ian imagined she could only agree. But her smile was genuine now, unforced. As if she had forgotten the awkwardness of only a few minutes prior entirely.

“Will you mind terribly if I make off with your wife, Mr. Carlisle?”

Louisa asked.

“I would,”

he said.

“But she wouldn’t. And Felicity does as she pleases.”

“How delightfully accommodating of you,”

Louisa said approvingly.

“Would that all gentlemen were so obliging. Felicity—may I call you Felicity?”

“Oh—of course.”

“There’s champagne waiting, and ten minutes left until the curtain rises. If I am shortly to lose your company to Shakespeare, I would welcome the opportunity to chat for a few minutes in advance of it,”

Louisa said.

“Shall I show you to the box?”

“Yes. Please.”

The relief in her voice was a palpable thing. And as the two of them swept away together toward the stairs, Ian supposed he might as well let Mr. Jennings’ attempted matrimonial coup pass without comment, given that something good had come of it.

Felicity was going to enjoy herself after all. Perhaps she would even come away with a friend.