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 straightened, lifting her chin. Arrogant wretch. She would do well to remember arrogance was a trait that often went hand in hand with wealth, status and a handsome face.
‘Felicity Weston, my lord.’
She was unsurprised by his perplexed frown. She attended society events rarely now and knew she had faded from memory. She had become accustomed to such a reaction upon introduction and it no longer embarrassed or hurt her, it simply was. People inevitably struggled to place her within the Weston family, not quite believing she was so closely related to her handsome parents and siblings.
Her sense of the ridiculous bubbled to the surface, prompting her to bestow a kindly smile upon his lordship.
‘It is a thankless task, I fear, to try and second-guess my position within the Weston clan. Allow me to enlighten you: I am the sister of Ambrose, Earl of Baverstock.’
‘Sister?’
‘I am afraid so. Quite shocking, is it not?’
‘Not at all,’ came the swift rejoinder. ‘My apologies for my shocking lapse in memory.’
‘Oh, I do not take offence, I can assure you. Yours is a reaction I am quite accustomed to. Indeed, I believe I should almost miss it if I failed to provoke such a response. For otherwise, you see, I might be quite overlooked.’
Stanton held Felicity’s gaze in silence, then his eyes narrowed. ‘You are—’
‘Unbecomingly frank?’ Felicity tilted her head and raised her brows.
‘Frank, yes. Unbecoming?’ He stepped closer, his gaze locked on to hers. His voice deepened. ‘Hmmm. Unusual, perhaps.’
Felicity battled her instinct to retreat, ignoring the flutter deep in her belly, knowing this kind of intimate verbal sparring was a game to men like Lord Stanton.
‘I shall accept that as a compliment, my lord. After all, one would not wish to be considered in the common way.’
His eyes crinkled as he laughed. ‘No, indeed, Lady Felicity. No doubt I shall see you later, when I am more appropriately attired. My apologies once again for my appearance.’
‘Unnecessary, I assure you, although...it did cross my mind to wonder...’
He raised one dark brow.
‘...is