Chapter Twenty-Two
To my friend, Morton Gray.
We’ve shared an exciting, unpredictable journey
since we first met on the steps of Birmingham
Library. Thank you for your generosity, your
support and your wonderful imagination!
August 1810
The single state had much to recommend it, Lady Felicity Weston mused as she crossed the landing of Cheriton Abbey on her way downstairs for dinner. She was beholden to no man: no man to criticize her appearance; no man to dictate her activities; and, most important of all, no man to threaten the barriers she had erected around her heart.
Her life was content.
As she reached the head of the imposing staircase, Felicity froze. A man, dressed in shirt and breeches, was bounding up the stairs two at a time. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing tanned, muscular forearms. He wore no neckcloth, his open shirt collar exposing the strong column of his neck. With his thick brown hair wet and dishevelled he looked virile and slightly dangerous. Felicity’s mouth dried. Just two steps down from where she stood, he glanced up and slammed to a halt.
Felicity’s stomach flipped as she recognized the Earl of Stanton.
One of the most eligible bachelors of the ton, Stanton was a catch coveted by zealous mamas and ambitious daughters alike. And admired even by disregarded, unprepossessing spinsters who had watched his star from afar and had once—for one brief, uncharacteristic flight of fancy—wondered what it might be like to catch the attention of such a man.
Of all the men in the ton, it was Stanton who had drawn her eye, time and again, during her come-out five years before. But he had never noticed her.
Never asked her to dance.
Never escorted her to supper.
And that had suited her—even then—perfectly. She had seen little of him in the intervening years but she might have guessed Stanton would be amongst the guests at Cousin Leo’s house party. They were close friends.
His chest expanded as he hauled in a breath, his chocolate-brown eyes regarding her with apology but no hint of recognition.
‘I beg your pardon.’ His voice was a rich baritone. ‘I’m aware I am a little late, but I did not think anyone would be coming downstairs for dinner quite yet.’
He swept long fingers through his hair then climbed the remaining stairs to Felicity’s level. Up close, he smelled of rain and horses and leather...and very male. Felicity stepped back involuntarily. His lips twitched.
‘I apologize for my unkempt appearance. I was drenched coming up from the stables and I left my coat downstairs, where it might drip with impunity.’ He sketched a bow. ‘Stanton, Miss...?’
A craven impulse to proffer a false name was swiftly quashed. Much good that would do her if they were to spend the weekend at the same gathering. Besides, Felicity was in no mind to turn into a simpering miss over an attractive gentleman in his shirtsleeves. Her gaze lowered without volition, drinking in the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of those arms. She raised her eyes to his, and caught his expression of wry amusement.
She