In the silence that followed, Arthur added, “I should not have thought to use you.”

“No,” she said, angry enough not to let him off the hook. “You shouldn’t have.”

He gave another humorless laugh. “I suppose I’ve gotten what’s coming. After all, you’re not going to marry a rich duke. Or anyone rich for that matter. And you shouldn’t have to lower your expectations.”

Except now Felicity had told an enormous lie and ruined any chance of her expectations being met. And, in the balance, ruined any chance of her family’s future being secure. No one would have her now—not only was she stained by her past behavior, she had lied. Publicly. About marriage to a duke.

No man in his right mind would find that a forgivable offense.

Farewell, expectations.

“Expectations aren’t worth the thoughts wasted on them if we haven’t a roof over our heads.” The marchioness sighed, as though she could read Felicity’s thoughts from above. “Good heavens, Felicity, what would actually possess you?”

“It doesn’t matter, Mother,” Arthur interjected before Felicity could speak.

Arthur—always protecting her. Always trying to protect everyone, the idiot man.

“You’re right.” The marchioness sighed. “I suppose he’s disabused the entire ton of the notion at this point, and we are returned to our rightful place of scandal.”

“Likely so,” Felicity said, guilt and fury and frustration at confusing war in her gut. After all, as a female, she had a singular purpose at times like this . . . to marry for money and return honor and wealth to her family.

Except no one would marry her after tonight.

At least, no one in his right mind.

Arthur sensed her distaste for the direction of the conversation, and he set his hands on her shoulders, leaning in to press a chaste, fraternal kiss to her forehead. “We shall be fine,” he said, firmly. “I shall find another way.”

She nodded, ignoring the prick of tears threatening. Knowing that eighteen months had gone by, and the best solution Arthur had had was her marriage. “Go home to your wife.”

He swallowed at the words—at the reminder of his pretty, loving wife, who knew nothing of the mess into which they’d all landed. Lucky Prudence. When Arthur was able to find his voice, he whispered, “She can’t know.”

The fear in his words was palpable. Horrible.

What a mess they were in.

Felicity nodded. “The secret is ours.”

When the door closed behind him, Felicity lifted her skirts—skirts on a gown from last season, altered to accommodate changes in fashion rather than given away and replaced with something fresh. How had she not realized? She climbed the stairs, the dogs weaving back and forth in front of her.

When she reached the landing, she faced her mother. “Your dogs are trying to kill me.”

The marchioness nodded, allowing the change of topic. “It’s possible. They’re very clever.”

Felicity forced a smile. “The best of your children.”

“Less trouble than all the rest,” her mother replied, leaning down and collecting one long, furry animal in her arms. “Was the duke very handsome?”

“I barely saw him in the crush, but it seemed so.” Without warning, Felicity found herself thinking of the other man. The one in the darkness. The one she only wished she’d seen. He’d seemed magical, like an invisible flame.

But if tonight had taught her anything, it was that magic was not real.

What was real was trouble.

“All we wanted was a proper match.” Her mother’s words cut into her thoughts.

Felicity’s lips twisted. “I know.”

“Was it as bad as it sounds?”

You didn’t escape us; we exited you.

Finished Felicity. Forgotten Felicity. Forlorn Felicity.

You are too late for the duke; I’ve already landed him.

Felicity nodded. “It was worse.”

She made her way through the dark hallways to her bedchamber. Entering the dimly lit room, she tossed her gloves and reticule on the small table just inside the door, closing it and pressing against it, finally releasing the breath she’d been holding since she’d dressed for the Marwick ball hours earlier.

She crossed to the bed in darkness, tossing herself back on the mattress. She stared at the canopy above for a long moment, replaying the horrifying events of the evening.

“What a disaster.”

For a fleeting moment, she imagined what she would do if she weren’t herself—too tall, too plain, too old and outspoken, a proper wallflower with no hope of wooing an eligible bachelor. She imagined sneaking from the house, returning to the scene of her devastating crime.

Winning a fortune for her family, and the wide world for herself.

Wanting more than she could have.

If she weren’t herself, she could do it. She could find the duke and woo him. She could bring him to his knees. If she were beautiful and witty and sparkling. If she were at the center and not the edge of the world. If she were inside the room, and not peering through the keyhole.

If she could incite passion—the kind she’d seen consume a man, like magic. Like fire. Like flame.

Her stomach flipped with the thought, with the fantasy that came with it. With the pleasure of it—something she’d never let herself imagine. A duke, desperate for her.

A match for the ages.

“If only I were flame,” she said to the canopy above. “That would solve everything.”

But it was impossible. And she imagined a different kind of flame, tearing through Mayfair, incinerating her future. That of her family.

She imagined the names.

Fibbing Felicity.

Falsehood Felicity.

“For God’s sake, Felicity,” she whispered.

She lay there in shame and panic for a long while, considering her future, until the air grew heavy, and she considered sleeping in her gown rather than summon a maid to help her out of it. But it was heavy and constricting, and the corset was already making it difficult to breathe.

With a groan, she sat up, lit the candle on the bedside table, and went to pull the cord to summon the maid.

Before she could reach it, however, a voice sounded from the darkness. “You shouldn’t tell lies, Felicity Faircloth.”






Chapter Five

Felicity leapt straight into the air with a little scream at the words, spinning to face the far side of the room, cloaked in darkness, where nothing looked out of place.

Lifting her candle high, she peered into the corners, the light finally touching a pair of perfectly polished black boots, stretched out, crossed at the ankle, the shining silver tip of a walking stick resting atop one toe.

It was him.

Here. In her bedchamber. As though it were perfectly normal.

Nothing about this evening was normal.

Her heart began to pound, harder than it had earlier in the evening, and Felicity backed away, toward the door. “I believe you have the wrong house, sir.”

The boots didn’t move. “I have the right house.”

She blinked. “You most certainly have the wrong room.”

“It’s the right room, as well.”

“This is my bedchamber.”

“I couldn’t very well knock on the door in the dead of night and ask to speak with you, could I? I’d scandalize the neighbors, and then where would that leave you?”

She refrained from pointing out that the neighbors were going to be scandalized in the morning anyway, when all of London knew she’d lied.

He heard the thought anyway. “Why did you lie?”

She ignored the question. “I don’t converse with strangers in my bedchamber.”

“But we aren’t strangers, love.” The silver tip of the walking stick tapped the toe of his boot in a slow, even rhythm.

Her lips twitched. “I have little time for people who lack consequence.”

Though he remained in the dark, she imagined she could hear his smile. “And tonight you showed it, didn’t you, Felicity Faircloth?”

“I am not the only one who lied.” She narrowed her gaze in the darkness. “You knew who I was.”

“You’re the only one whose lie is big enough to bring down this house.”

She scowled. “You have the better of me, sirrah. To what end? Fear?”

“No. I don’t wish to scare you.” The man’s voice was heavy like the darkness in which he was cloaked. Low, quiet, and somehow clearer than a gunshot.

Felicity’s heart thundered. “I think that is precisely what you wish to do.” That silver tip tapped again and she turned her irritated gaze to it. “I also think you should leave before I decide that instead of fear, I shall feel anger.”

Pause. Tap tap.

And then he moved, leaning forward into the circle of light, so she could see his long legs, tall black hat on one thigh. His hands were uncovered by gloves, and three silver rings glinted in the candlelight on the thumb, fore and ring fingers of the right one, beneath the black sleeves of his topcoat, which fit his arms and shoulders perfectly. The ring of light ended at his jaw, sharp and clean-shaven. She lifted her candle once more, and there he was.

She inhaled sharply, ridiculously remembering how she’d thought earlier that the Duke of Marwick was handsome.

Not anymore.

For surely, no man on earth should be as handsome as this one. He looked remarkably like his voice sounded. Like a low, liquid rumble. Like temptation. Like sin.