“Hebert, like most businesswomen, is willing to work quickly for a premium.” He paused. “That, and she seems to like you.”

Felicity warmed at the words. “She made my wedding trousseau. Or, rather, all the clothes I brought with me to win myself a husband last summer.” She paused. “To lose myself one, I suppose.”

A beat, and then, “Well, without those, you would not have this gown. And that would be a proper crime.”

She blushed at the words—the most perfect thing anyone could have said. “Thank you.”

“The duke could not keep his eyes from you,” he replied.

Her jaw dropped and she looked over her shoulder. “He saw me?”

“He did.”

“And what now?”

“Now,” he said, “he comes for you.”

She swallowed at the promise in the words. At the vision they invoked, of a different man coming for her. No kind of duke. “How do you know?”

“Because he shan’t be able to resist with the way you look in that gown.”

Her heart pounded. “And how do I look?”

The question surprised her with its impropriety, and she nearly took it back. Might have, if he hadn’t replied. “Are you searching for compliments, my lady?”

She dipped her head at the soft question. “Perhaps.”

“You look just as you should, Felicity Faircloth—the fairest of them all.”

Her cheeks blazed. “Thank you.” For saying so. “For the gown.” She hesitated. “And . . . the other things.” He shifted in the darkness, and she was keenly aware of this secret spot—so close to all the world and somehow private for them alone. She didn’t know what one was to say after thanking a virtual stranger for undergarments. “My apologies. I’m sure we should not be discussing . . . those.”

“Never apologize for discussing those.” Another pause, and then he said, wicked and soft, “Are they pink?”

Her mouth dropped open. “I don’t think I should tell you that.”

He did not seem to care. “You like pink.”

She’d never been so grateful for the shadows in her life. “I do.”

“And so? Are they?”

“Yes.” She could barely hear the whispered word.

“Good.” The word came on a ragged growl, and she wondered if it was possible that he was as moved by the conversation as she was.

She wondered if he had thought of her wearing the clothes he’d sent half as much as she had thought of wearing them for him. Of him kissing her in them.

“Men seem to like the line,” she said, her satin-covered fingers running along the edge of the gown even as she knew she shouldn’t draw attention to it. Even as she wanted him to notice it. What did this man do to her? Magic. “My mother thought it was . . . unsuccessful.”

Immodest was the word the Marchioness of Bumble had used before insisting Felicity fetch a cloak immediately.

“Your mother is far too old and far too female to be able to judge the success or failure of that frock. How did you explain its arrival?”

“I lied,” she confessed, feeling as though it were a thing she should whisper. “I said it was a gift from my acquaintance Sesily. She’s quite scandalous.”

“Sesily Talbot?”

“You know her?” Of course he did. He was a red-blooded human male and Sesily was every man’s dream. Felicity did not like the thread of jealousy that coursed through her with the thoughts.

“The Singing Sparrow is two streets from my offices. It’s owned by an acquaintance of hers.”

“Oh.” Relief flared. He didn’t know Sesily. At least, not in the biblical sense.

Not that it mattered whom he knew biblically.

Felicity didn’t care.

Obviously. It had nothing to do with her.

“At any rate,” she said, “the dress is beautiful. And I’ve never felt so close to beautiful in my life as I do wearing it.” The confession was soft and honest, and easy because she spoke it to his silhouette.

“Shall I tell you something, Felicity Faircloth?” he said softly, taking a step toward her. The words wrapped around them, making Felicity ache. “Shall I give you a piece of advice that will help you lure your moth?”

Will it lure you?

She bit back the question. She did not want to lure him. The darkness was addling her brain. And whatever his answer was . . . that way lay danger. “I think I should go,” she said, turning away. “My mother . . .”

“Wait,” he said sharply. And then he touched her. His hand came to hers, and she would have given anything to have her golden glove disappear. Just once, just to feel his touch.

She turned back to him and he moved into the light, taking care that they were not able to be seen. She could see his face now, the strength of it, the slash of scar down his cheek, his amber gaze gone black in the darkness, searching hers before he raised his hand to her face, running a thumb along her jaw, across her cheek, his silver ring a cool counter to the warmth of his skin.

More, she wanted to say. Don’t stop.

He was so close, his eyes raking across her face, taking in all her flaws, discovering all her secrets. “You are beautiful, Felicity Faircloth,” he whispered, and she could feel the breath of the words on her lips.

The memory of their kiss on the streets of Covent Garden rioted through her, along with the aching frustration he’d left her with that night. The way she’d dreamed of him repeating it. He was so close—if she went up onto her toes, he might.

Before she could, he let her go, leaving her wanting it. Wanting him. “No,” she said, hot embarrassment flaring in the wake of the exclamation. She shouldn’t have said it. But didn’t he want to kiss her again?

Apparently not. He took a step back, the irritating man. “Your duke shall find you tonight, my lady.”

Frustration flared. “He is not my duke,” she snapped. “In fact, I think he might be closer to yours.”

He watched her for a long moment before saying, softly, “You can win every one of them. Any one of them. The aristocratic moth of your choosing. And you chose your duke the moment you pronounced him yours. When he is drawn to you tonight, you shall begin to win him.”

And if I do not want him?

If I do not want any aristocratic moth?

If I want a moth who belongs nowhere near Mayfair?

She didn’t say the words, instead saying, “How shall I win him?”

He did not hesitate. “Just as you are.” It was nonsense. But he did not seem to care. “Good night, my lady.”

And then he was moving, returning to the shadows, where he belonged. She followed him to the top of the stone steps leading down to the gardens beyond the house. “Wait!” she called, searching for something to return him to her. “You promised to help! You promised magic, Devil.”

He turned back at the bottom of the steps, white teeth flashing in the shadows. “You have it already, my lady.”

“I don’t have magic. I have a beautiful gown. The rest of me is entirely the same. You’ve sent a hog to the milliner. It’s a lovely hat, but the pig remains.”

He chuckled in the darkness, and she was irritated that she couldn’t see the smile that came with the sound. He didn’t smile enough. “You’re not a hog, Felicity Faircloth.”

With that, he disappeared, and she went to the railing, setting her hands to the cool stone to watch the gardens, angry and frustrated and wondering what would happen if she followed him. Wanting to follow him. Knowing she couldn’t. That she had made her bed, and if she or her family had any chance of surviving it, she must lie in it. Behatted swine or not.

“Dammit, Devil,” she whispered into the darkness, unable to see him and still somehow knowing he was there. “How?”

“When he asks about you, tell him the truth.”

“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

He didn’t reply. He’d placed her in full view of London, promised her a match for the ages, and left her alone with terrible advice and without making good on the promise. As though she were the flame he’d assured her she’d be.

Except she wasn’t.

“This is the worst mistake ever made. In history,” she said to herself and the night. “This is up there with accepting the gift of a Trojan horse.”

“Are you giving a lecture on Greek mythology?”

She spun around at the words, and found the Duke of Marwick standing not three feet from her.






Chapter Twelve

Because she wasn’t entirely certain what one was to say to a man whom one had proclaimed her fiancé, Felicity settled on, “Hello.”

She winced at the decidedly unmagical word.

His gaze flickered to the dark gardens where Devil had disappeared, then back to her. “Hello.”

She blinked. “Hello.”

Oh, yes, this was all going quite well. She was all flame. Good God. It was only a matter of time before he ran back to the ballroom, stopped the orchestra, and denounced her publicly.

But the duke did not run. Instead, he took a step toward her, and she pressed back to the stone balustrade. He stopped. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No!” she said altogether too forcefully. “Not at all. I was just . . . here . . . breathing.” His brows rose at the words, and she shook her head. “Breathing air. Taking air. I mean. It’s quite warm in the ballroom, don’t you think?” She waved a hand at her neck. “Very warm.” She cleared her throat. “Hot.”

His gaze slid to her wrist. “It was good foresight for you to bring something to combat it.”