left on the board, he could see he was in trouble.
‘A marriage of convenience?’ Leo said. ‘Are you certain that is what you want? A compliant wife?’
‘Why ever not? I have no interest in a love match and, if I crave excitement, I can find plenty outside my domestic arrangements. No. A nice, compliant lady, content to run a comfortable household and to look after my children—that will suit me very well.’
‘In that case,’ Leo said, ‘I might know just the girl for you.
‘Checkmate.’
Mid-September 1811
Felicity sat before the mirror in her bedchamber at Cheriton Abbey as the maid loaned to her by Cousin Cecily—the duke’s younger, unmarried sister, who had raised his children after the death of his wife—dressed her hair. It was hard to garner any enthusiasm over Anna’s efforts, although Felicity did silently admit—with a twinge of guilt at her disloyalty—that the result was an improvement on poor Beanie’s usual effort.
Miss Bean, nursemaid to all three Weston children, had acted as Felicity’s maid since her sixteenth birthday, but her advancing age and failing eyesight had made travelling to Cousin Leo’s estate impossible. It was time, Felicity had finally accepted, for her beloved Beanie—more of a mother to her than her own mother had ever been—to retire.
The house party had been organized for the duke’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Olivia, in preparation for her début the following spring. A party of fourteen, plus the family, Cecily had told Felicity when they arrived from Bath an hour ago. Felicity was stomach-churningly aware, however, that she was also to meet her prospective husband.
‘There, milady, you’re ready,’ Anna said. ‘I must go now and help Lady Cecily—the family usually gather in the drawing room at six o’clock.’
‘Thank you for your help, Anna. Have all the guests arrived?’
‘I believe so, ma’am.’
Felicity’s palms turned clammy and her stomach seemed to rise up. How she wished she could simply turn up at church one day to find a stranger awaiting her at the altar. Surely that would be preferable to this wretched charade? She forced her thoughts away from the ordeal to come, recalling that Dominic, Lord Avon—Cousin Leo’s eldest son and Felicity’s childhood playmate—would arrive tomorrow. Buried in Bath, as she had been for the past six months, she was eager for news from Westfield, the orphan asylum in London both she and Dominic supported whenever they could.
A thought struck her. What if her husband disapproved of her charitable activities? Might he ban her from involvement with Westfield, as her stepfather had tried? He would have that right—the right to command and control her. A chill raced over her skin, raising gooseflesh on her arms.
It is nerves. You will feel better once you have met him.
Fretting over something to come was the worst part: it was the lack of action—the sense of being tossed and turned by events without any control, like a piece of driftwood caught in a current—that allowed such fears to tease her. She could stay alone with her thoughts no longer. Dragging in a breath, Felicity left the sanctuary of her bedchamber and headed for the stairs.
At the head of the magnificent staircase, she looked down and pictured that scene a year before. Stanton. A pleasurable feeling coiled in her belly at the mental image of his lordship in his shirt sleeves and breeches. Would he be here this weekend? It was likely, she realized, with a shiver of anticipation she swiftly banished. Despite their encounter on the stairs, Stanton had barely noticed her again as he had flirted with and charmed the other guests during the remainder of that weekend, living up to his rakish reputation.
Whoever her prospective husband might be he would be bound to show to disadvantage against the earl. Most men did.
And is that not precisely what you want? Did you not stipulate a quiet, ordinary gentleman for your husband?
She swallowed the nerves playing havoc with her insides as she descended the stairs and entered the drawing room to await the other guests and her future.
* * *
Leo ushered Richard to one end of his magnificent library, where a small leather-upholstered sofa and two matching armchairs were placed invitingly around a stone-carved fireplace in which logs crackled merrily.
‘Well? Are you going to tell me who she is?’
All through dinner Richard had been trying to guess the identity of his prospective bride. Why on earth had he not demanded to know before travelling all the way to Devon? All he knew was that she had asked her mother to arrange a match for her.
Leo’s silver-grey eyes gleamed. ‘Patience, dear boy.’
Richard glared at Leo, who met his look with raised eyebrows and a bland smile. He’s enjoying this, the wretch. They had been friends for fifteen years—Richard knew that look. Biting back his irritation, he sat on the sofa whilst Leo poured them both a brandy before settling into one of the armchairs. Richard tipped his glass, savouring the warmth of the fiery spirit, waiting.
‘My ward, Lady Felicity Weston.’
As he digested Leo’s words, Richard conjured up a mental image of Lady Felicity. They had not been neighbours at dinner and so had not conversed, but she had appeared monosyllabic and subdued throughout. Perhaps it was nerves, knowing she was to meet her future husband? He dredged up the memory of their encounter last year, but this girl had shown none of the spark and wit she had exhibited then.
Her mother, in contrast, was the life and soul of the gathering, but too loud and foolish for his taste. The other daughter—she had died young, he recalled—had inherited her mother’s beauty, but not so Lady Felicity. No wonder she had jested about being overlooked, for it was no more than the truth. Certainly, next to her flamboyant parent, she slipped into anonymity.
A further image arose, from his perusal of the occupants of the drawing room before the meal. Lady Felicity—head to one side, eyes bright, hands animated—had been chatting with Leo’s sister, Cecily, who had clearly found it hard to contain her giggles. Then Felicity had looked up. Their eyes met, and immediately all her liveliness had leached away. He had barely noticed at the time.
He chose his words with care. Leo, he knew, was fond of her.
‘She is a little insipid, is she not?’
An image of his mistress of the past year materialized in his mind’s eye. Harriet—now there was a woman: curvaceous, experienced, uncomplicated, fun. He frowned into the amber liquid swirling in his goblet. What had been his stipulations for his future wife? Well born, of an amiable and compliant nature, and not minded to interfere with my life. He had said nothing about appearance and, indeed, why should her looks matter? She was not ugly. She was...plain.
‘She doesn’t show to advantage next to her mother,’ Leo said, ‘but she’s a good girl, she has a kind heart, she wants a family, and she’s the daughter of an earl. And Lady Katherine’s father was a marquis, so her breeding on both sides is impeccable. Or have you changed your mind, and now desire a love match?’
Richard glared at Leo, who met his eyes with a grin. He leaned forward and gripped Richard’s knee.
‘Are you sure you want this, Stan? Neither Felicity nor her parents know your identity, and need never know if you do not wish to proceed.’
Was he sure he wanted this?
No. He had not thought to wed for several years to come.
But Craven’s death weighed on his mind, as did the premature deaths of his father and his brother. He was loath to agree with his mother but, if anything should happen to him... It was not about what he wanted any longer.