Eight Years Ago

Grosvenor Square, London

 

 

As glittering debutantes danced below him, Felix Spencer pursued a different sort of glitter in the private bedchamber of Lady Dunmore, the newly married wife of Lord Dunmore, Earl of He Didn’t Give a Shite.

Their names and titles were of little importance to Felix. It did not matter to him who they were. It mattered what they had. And if the glimpse he’d caught of Lady Dunmore riding through Hyde Park two days ago was any indication, they had quite a bit.

She had been weighed down by so many jewels it was a small miracle she’d managed to stay on her horse. The poor woman was one more necklace away from ending up face-down in the dirt. All things considered, he was about to do her a favor.

“There ye go,” he murmured when the tumbler on the lock he’d been picking fell into place with a satisfying click. If there was a better sound in the entire world, he’d yet to hear it. Even a wench’s scream of pleasure did not compare. Although depending on the wench in question, it did come rather close.

He slowly opened the lid to Lady Dunmore’s jewelry box and let out a long, low whistle of appreciation when he saw the treasures she had hidden inside. Picking up a diamond choker set on a green velvet ribbon, he held it above his head, admiring its elegant beauty as silver moonlight reflected off each individual facet. Some said diamonds were cold, but for Felix they had always held the most heat.

He slipped the choker into the inside pocket of his coat where it was quickly joined by an emerald bracelet, sapphire earrings cut in the shape of a tear, two rings, and a ruby brooch the size of his bloody fist. There was more. There was so much more. But never let it be said he was a greedy bastard. He may not have given what he stole to the poor – bollocks on that – but he never took from those who could not afford it. 

When he was satisfied by the weight of his pockets, Felix exited the manor the same way he’d entered it.

Through the front door.

No one gave him so much as a second glance as he cut through the thick swath of ladies and lords in their fancy ball gowns and showy tailcoats. Servants were beneath their notice, and in his navy blue livery jacket and powdered wig he looked just like all the other poor blokes forced to stand at attention and serve watered down champagne to self-entitled nabobs.

He was nearly free of the ballroom when his gaze was inexplicably drawn to a delicate brunette standing beside her mother. They were at least fifteen paces apart from one another with half a dozen bodies between them, but even from a distance Felix could tell she was a beauty.

There was an elegance in the way she held herself. A soft, graceful poise that set her apart from every other young woman in the room. And unlike the other debutantes who had their noses stuck up so high in the air it was a wonder they could see where they were going, she looked nervous. Endearingly so.

For a moment he considered going to her. But even if his pockets weren’t filled with a small fortune in stolen jewels, he was a commoner and she was a lady. Worse yet, he was a commoner dressed as a footman.

The truth of it was there were some things even he couldn’t take, no matter how appealing they might have been. So with an amiable shrug he put the brunette out of his mind and set off on his way, content with his night’s work.

Little did Felix know that their paths would one day cross again…and when they did he would not walk away with a shrug, but with a kiss.

 

“Something you must always remember my dear,” Mrs. Atwood murmured as she stood beside her daughter in the crowded ballroom, “is that a woman is not defined by who she is, but rather who she marries.”

Felicity absorbed her mother’s advice with a stiff nod while she watched a couple swirl past, the soles of their shoes clicking in perfect unison on the tiled marble. The woman danced with an effortless grace, the lace hem of her rose colored gown barely sweeping the floor. The man’s movements were more precise and rigid, but no less impressive as the valse required perfection in every step. Without it pandemonium was certain to ensue which was one of the reasons Felicity had not yet ventured onto the dance floor.

There was a very big difference between practicing the waltz at home in the sturdy arms of her tutor and performing it in front of two hundred of her peers. While she was not prone to stumbling or losing her rhythm – she was, in fact, quite graceful – she still found the idea of being twirled about by a complete stranger rather daunting. 

What if she tripped and fell flat on her face? Worse yet, what if she caused her partner to trip? She would be humiliated and her first season would end before it ever really had a chance to begin! If only Scarlett were here. Her dearest friend would know what to do. Scarlett always knew what to do.  But having just recently become a bride she was away on her honeymoon and not due to return for at least another month, leaving Felicity completely on her own.

Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as a dog might a bone, she lifted her dance card and glanced down at the signatures she’d gathered upon her arrival. The first three lines were blank – traffic had been very cumbersome – but the fourth belonged to one Lord Ezra Whitten, Viscount of Ashburn. She vaguely recalled him as a tall, thin man with dark hair and dark eyes. Of all the names on her card his was the most promising. Not only because he was a viscount, but because he was the closest to her in age.

With only a small dowry and no one in her family of significant note or importance, Felicity knew she could not afford to be picky. But she did prefer her husband not be confused for her father or, worse yet, her grandfather. She shuddered ever-so-slightly at the thought and earned herself both a glance of mild reproof and a warning squeeze on her forearm.

“Young ladies do not fidget,” Mrs. Atwood said with quiet firmness. “Chin up, my dear. And do try not to look as though you are a small animal standing before the jaws of a lion. While men enjoy shyness to some degree, they do not want a wife who swoons at the drop of a hat.”

“I am not going to swoon,” Felicity protested. At least, she did not think she was going to swoon. Having never done so before she had no idea what the symptoms were. Was a pounding heart one of them? Pressing a gloved hand over her chest she felt an alarmingly fast bump, bump, bump beneath her fingertips, like an urgent fist knocking against a door.

Oh dear.

Her cheeks paled as she imagined slowly collapsing amidst a swirl of muslin and lace with everyone looking on. Now that would be humiliating and not something easily lived down.

Scarlett would certainly never let her forget it, and neither would the ton. She would become The Girl Who Fainted, and the moniker would follow her around until the ends of her days, proceeding every room she entered and every word she spoke.

“Of course you are not going to swoon.” Mrs. Atwood spoke very matter-of-factly, as if stating something out loud made it true. “That would be terribly unseemly. Unless,” she said, thoughtfully tapping her finger against the end of her chin, “you were to swoon at the feet of a duke, in which case it may go in our favor as he would be required to attend you.” Her eyes brightened. “Do you see any dukes about?”

“Mother.” Felicity regarded the petite brunette standing beside her with equal parts affection and exasperation. Were it not for the threads of gray in Mrs. Atwood’s hair or the lines that creased the corners of her eyes when she smiled, they might have been sisters. Both of them shared the same willowy stature, sleek hair dark as a mink’s coat, and violet eyes. Felicity’s were tip-tilted at the corners like a cat, adding a hint of exotic beauty to her English rose complexion.

“What?” Mrs. Atwood blinked. “Oh, do not look at me like that. It would not be the first time a young woman threw herself at a duke, nor would it be the last. How do you think Lady Evelyn managed to get a proposal out of the Duke of Willowbrook?”

“He fell in love with her?” Felicity ventured.

“Oh, my dear, darling girl.” Mrs. Atwood’s tittering laugh drew the attention of two wallflowers. The taller of the two briefly met Felicity’s gaze before they both ducked back behind a large potted fern. “No one marries for love.”

“You and Father did.”

“Well yes, that is true.” She pursed her lips. “Although given that it was an arranged marriage we could have just as likely despised one another. You never know with those things. Thank heavens they’ve fallen out of favor.”

It was nearly impossible for Felicity to imagine her parents at odds. She had never witnessed an unkind word spoken between them. On the contrary, they often acted more like newlyweds than a couple that had just celebrated their twentieth wedding anniversary. Their affection for one another was rather embarrassing – especially when they touched each other’s hands in public – but Felicity appreciated the fact that their marriage was unique. It may have begun as an arrangement, but over time it had blossomed into something so much more. Something she wanted for herself one day. Unfortunately, given the dismal state of her dance card, things were not looking very promising.

“Miss Atwood?”

Felicity visibly startled at the sound of her name and glanced to her left where she discovered Lord Ezra Whitten, Viscount of Ashburn, gazing down at her in wordless expectation.

The viscount had long sideburns and a narrow face. In fact, everything about him was quite narrow, from his jaw to his shoulders to his very stance. As a result his clothes were a tad ill-fitting, not that Felicity paid any mind to such things. She preferred to look to the heart of a person to find out who they were, not the cut of their waistcoat or the fabric of their trousers.

“Y-yes?” Mortified to have stuttered, she gulped in a mouthful of air, straightened her spine, and tried again. “Yes, my lord?”

The tiniest hint of a smile broke the severe line of his mouth. “I believe I have the next dance? If Mrs. Atwood has no objections, that is.” His gaze slid to Felicity’s mother who immediately shook her head.

“None at all, Lord Ashburn. None at all.”

But Felicity hesitated when he held out his arm. “Is the next dance a valse, by any chance?”

“Cotillion, I believe.”

Her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Excellent.”

Ashburn led her onto the dance floor. As the music swelled they stepped seamlessly into a circle comprised of three other couples. Despite her fear of falling flat on her face, Felicity moved flawlessly through the dance, switching partners with the airy grace of a winged fairy. When the cotillion ended as it had begun – in a circle – everyone bowed or curtsied. Her cheeks flushed a dull pink, Felicity turned towards Ashburn with a breathless smile.

“You dance very well, my lord.”

“As do you.” His own smile was much more reserved, but Felicity felt a thrill of pleasure at having managed to extract it, for she had a feeling Lord Ashburn was not a jovial man by nature. When he asked if she would care to take a turn about the room her pleasure deepened, as did the color in her cheeks.

“Yes, I would enjoy that very much.”

Ashburn dutifully held out his arm and she slipped her own through it, fingers resting lightly on the sleeve of his black tailcoat. It was the closest she had ever been to a man who was not a familial relation and butterflies swarmed her belly, their wings beating with equal parts excitement and nervousness.

She wanted to ask Lord Ashburn a hundred questions, but the rules of polite society dictated she wait for him to speak, and as Felicity was nothing if not polite she kept her lips pressed firmly together while he escorted her past a long line of glass doors that led out to a stone terrace. One of the doors had been propped open and a welcome breeze fanned across Felicity’s face as they walked by, bringing with it the scent of earthy soil, moonlight, and perfume.

It wasn’t until they had nearly completed their circuit that Lord Ashburn finally spoke, leading Felicity to wonder if he’d been summoning his courage or if he was merely a man of few words. Either way, she rather liked that he did not need to fill the silence between them with random prattle about the weather or hunting or whatever it was men liked to talk about when they had nothing to say.

“Is this your first London Season, Miss Atwood?” He kept his attention focused forward but she caught the dark sweep of his pupils as he glanced in her direction. Did he find her pleasing to look at? She hoped so. While Lord Ashburn was not as dashing nor as handsome as Scarlett’s husband Lord Sherwood, he had a quiet, pensive way about him that brought to mind a scholar or a poet. She liked that he wasn’t a foppish dandy like some of the other men circling the room. Men who were quick with a flowery compliment or an entertaining joke but were keenly lacking in depth and substance.   

“It is.” Her teeth sank into her bottom lip – a nervous habit no tutor had yet to quell – as she peeked up at him beneath her lashes. “Am I so very obvious?”

“Not at all.” A frown tugged at the corners of Ashburn’s mouth. “You… you conduct yourself quiet well, Miss Atwood. I would not have been surprised to learn this was your sixth season.” Immediately realizing his error, he hastened to correct himself. “Not to say you would ever need so many seasons as that to find a husband. I am sure any man in here would welcome your hand in marriage.”

Felicity bit back a smile. “That is the wish for every debutante, is it not?”

“One can only assume. Although I am convinced some attend merely for the dancing and the chance to sneak champagne while their chaperone is looking the other way. If I may be so bold…to which category would you place yourself in, Miss Atwood?”

“The former,” she said without hesitation. “To dance and socialize and sip champagne is all well and good, but I imagine it would grow wearisome after a time. I would much rather be at home with my husband.”

He stopped suddenly, so suddenly that had she not been holding on to his arm she surely would have stumbled, and turned to face her. To their right couples were beginning to flock into the middle of the floor, signaling the fifth dance was about to begin. Felicity paid them no mind. How could she, when Lord Ashburn was looking at her with such earnest intention in his deep, dark eyes?

“This is my third season, Miss Atwood. I have taken many turns about the room with many different women but I have never…that is to say I have not…”

“Felt like this before?” she breathed.

Ashburn’s face flushed a dull, mottled red. “Indeed. You are the rarest kind of woman, Miss Atwood. The kind who is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the out. It was never my intention to be so forward, but I fear if I do not say something now I will lose my chance and be burdened with the heavy weight of regret for the rest of my days. Might I have your permission to call on you tomorrow afternoon?”  

“Yes.” It was a marvelous example of considerable self-restraint that Felicity did not shout the word to the rooftops. The butterflies in her belly flew up and began to spin round and round as if caught by a wild gale. “Yes, you have my permission, Lord Ashburn.”

He did not smile. Not quite. But there was an unmistakable warmth in the hard lines of his countenance that had not been there when he’d first asked her to dance. Crossing his arm in front of his body, he bent forward into a rigid bow. “I dare look forward to the day you might call me Ezra, Miss Atwood.”

Felicity angled one dainty foot in front of the other and sank into a deep curtsy. “As do I, Lord Ashburn. As do I.”

 

Exactly four months later, with the blessing of Mr. and Mrs. Atwood, Lord Ashburn asked for their daughter’s hand in marriage. Six months after their engagement was announced – they’d wanted to wait until spring – Felicity and Ezra were wed. Two years into their marriage they welcomed a son they named Henry for Ezra’s grandfather. When Henry was four they became parents again, this time to a chubby-cheeked baby girl they called Anne.

And then, precisely one week before Anne turned two years of age, Ezra went to his wife and coldly informed her they were getting a divorce.