Chapter Four
For the second time that day, Nicholas found himself standing out on the front lawn of Tetbery Estate, lamenting both the frigid cold and his forced proximity to the most frustrating woman he’d ever known. He pulled his greatcoat tighter around him, tucking his navy scarf into the front folds, and did what any man did when faced with unpleasantness he could not cajole into agreement: he scowled.
Fiercely.
Not that Felicity paid him any mind. She sat on a bench about three feet away from him, calmly reading a large tome. He’d managed a glimpse at the spine—Ordinall of Alkimy, by Thomas Norton. That did not improve his mood.
He’d known before coming that Felicity continued to be fascinated by science. Aunt Margaret’s monthly letters to him and his sister over the years had always been full of praise for her clever ward’s experiments and advancement.
“It is bad enough Miss Fields insists she is a chemist, when everyone knows women cannot be such things,” Georgiana had sniffed at Aunt Margaret’s last letter, dated a week or two before she passed. “But for the countess to encourage her is deplorable. No man will ever stand for such a scandalous wife. If I had my way—”
He did not look forward to telling Georgiana that Felicity had passed from pure scientific inquiry into alchemy. He could almost hear his sister’s voice now, ranting about alchemy being only a step away from witchcraft.
Hell, for all he knew, Felicity was involved in witchcraft too. There was an active coven in Bocka Morrow. A few months ago, they’d freed his friend Teddy Lockwood’s beloved Claire Deering from an evil curse.
If the neighboring Castle Keyvnor was eerie, then Tetbery was downright sinister, with its cavernous rooms and dank passageways where no candlelight ever seemed to penetrate far enough.
He couldn’t fathom why Felicity loved it so much here. There was nothing warm or welcoming about the tall, thin black walls rising almost impossibly high, the weight of the stone supported by four pointed arched flying buttresses ornamented with taller, thinner orbs. Pinnacles, towers, and spires completed the exterior.
He knew all the correct names for them, because Felicity had once spent an hour droning on about the house’s architecture.
Funny, how the one time he wanted her to talk to him, she wouldn’t. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since stalking out of the atrium.
For a second, he considered heading back inside and leaving her to the arriving guests. He even started to turn around. Then there was the sound of rumbling carriage wheels, and the black traveling coach bearing the insignia of the Marquess of Blandford appeared in the distance.
Nicholas bit down upon a curse. Of course it would be Blandford, his most intense political rival. It wasn’t enough that the blackguard had burned his bloody bill in front of his face. Now the man intruded upon his estate. He shoved his hands in his pockets, fists clenched.
He’d have to hide his tinderbox. With his luck, Blandford would move on from burning bills to enflaming his house.
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of Felicity, disregarding him. His jaw clenched, but he sucked in a deep breath, and reminded himself that nothing good had ever come out of picking a fight with one’s rival, even if said rival was a gigantic jackanape of the first order, and apparently knew his childhood enemy a little too well.
In the course of a day, Nicholas had gone from a generally well-liked man to a man that apparently had people conspiring against him at every corner.
Tetbery.
The estate’s name echoed in his mind, as if it were the foulest of expletives. It was always Tetbery.
He made his way over to the carriage, arriving just as the footman pulled open the door. He prepared himself to greet Blandford—stiff upper lip, be a gracious host, pretend your life is good—but instead of the rapscallion, an ancient-looking woman with scraggly brown hair streaked with gray stepped out, leaning heavily on her maid’s arm for support.
Lady Henrietta Hughes. Well, that was unexpected. Felicity had said the guests were old friends of Aunt Margaret—he hadn’t realized Blandford’s family was in Margaret’s small circle.
Felicity stepped forward, greeting Lady Hettie with the rare warmth usually reserved for her closest friend, Tressa Teague, or Aunt Margaret herself. Devil take him, she actually allowed the old dragon to kiss her cheek.
“Dear girl,” Lady Hettie said. “You become more beautiful with each passing year.”
Nicholas stopped himself just in time from nodding in agreement. It was undeniable, the attractive effect happiness had on Felicity’s features—that pert nose wrinkling as she laughed at Hettie’s compliment, a pretty pink blush brushing across her high cheekbones.
Pretty blush? No, no, no. This would not do at all. He resolved to only describe Felicity from now on as "vexing," "difficult," or "seriously not right in the head."
Anything that reminded him she was trouble.
Because right now, with all that all-encompassing grin upon her lips and joy so radiant in her dazzling jade eyes, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He told himself it was because he was used to seeing her so sedate, and not because he wondered what it would be like to make her smile like that.
All he seemed to provoke from Felicity was irritation and ire.
The footman handed down another woman, as youthful and elegant as Lady Hettie was aged and disheveled. Blandford’s daughter, assuming he’d marked her age right at eighteen. He couldn’t quite recall her name, as he’d never seen her at any of the usual society events during the Season. From what he’d heard in the rumor mill, she spent all her time at her parents’ estate, Blenheim Park, in North Cornwall.
She was an outsider, then.
Just like Felicity.
He swallowed a groan. He already had his hands full with one societal misfit. The last thing he needed was another, and one related to Blandford at that. If Blandford learned how little control he, the Duke of Wycliffe of the illustrious Harding family, had over his aunt’s orphaned ward, Nicholas would never hear the end of it.
“Uh.” No, no, no. He would not be tongue-tied, not around the Marquess of Blandford’s spinster sister and daughter. “I am Nicholas Harding, Duke of Wycliffe. Please allow me to welcome you to Tetbery Estate.”
As one, all three women turned to face him, which he found quite frankly disconcerting. Two sets of gray eyes and Felicity’s sea-green, all watching him with such keen gazes he felt as though they had seen the innermost corners of his mind and found him wanting.
As if they knew just how much he floundered in daily life, when he ought to be exceling. Because he had everything—money, power, privilege—yet he couldn’t make sense of anything.
Lady Hettie’s eyes narrowed. “We have been here many times before, and never have we seen you, Your Grace, nor did Margaret ever mention you.”
Well, that answered his question about her friendship with his aunt, and also made him doubt his “beloved nephew” status. Perhaps he had not been favored by Aunt Margaret as he’d thought. “Ah, you see—”
His explanation was cut off by Felicity. “Nicholas inherited the estate, but he does not deign to visit us often.”
“I have many obligations that often keep me away from Tetbery.” He hoped that sounded smoother to them than it did to him—because to him, it sounded like a pithy excuse. He’d missed Aunt Margaret’s funeral, and he had nothing to show for it.
She’d deserved better.
The people murdered on Ratcliffe Highway deserved better.
He couldn’t change the past, but at least he could make it right with Felicity. “But soon, Miss Fields will be joining me in London for the Season, so I am certain you shall see much of both of us.”
“Really?” Lady Hettie’s eyes narrowed even more. He wondered how she could even see.
“Yes,” he said.
At the same time Felicity answered, “no.”
“Interesting,” Lady Hettie said, in that same way Felicity had of turning a single word into a bullet for a fully primed pistol.
Now he knew why Felicity was smiling so damn much: Lady Hettie had earned every part of her fearsome reputation.
“I’m delighted that you are here,” he said, in his most polite, I-am -fine-with-you-staying-here-even-though-I-am-not-at-all tone. “And I do so hope you find the estate to your liking.”
“Thank you.” Lady Hettie didn’t seem anymore convinced by his faux politeness than he was. He doubted much got past the old dragon.
“It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace,” Blandford’s daughter said, her tone amiable, as though this was all the most standard of interactions, and not an obvious familial dispute better left to closed quarters. “I’m Lady Mallory Hughes. Miss Fields has told me much about you.”
“All good things, I hope.” He only managed a tight grin, because he knew bloody well nothing Felicity said about him would be good.
“Absolutely.” Lady Mallory smiled, as Felicity let out a very loud, undignified snort that made Lady Mallory grin even more.
Nicholas decided he liked Lady Mallory, more for the things she did not say than for what she did.
He watched as the girl strode forward to Felicity. She moved with a certain innate grace, her pale gray eyes as dazzling and bright as her wide, welcoming smile. She stood a full head shorter than Felicity, all lush curves while the redhead was tall and lean, all sharpness and prickly points.
She was precisely the type of woman he usually found irresistible: demure, delicate-boned, and unabashedly feminine. Yet he felt no stirrings of desire for her.
Because he couldn’t stop looking at his aunt’s ward, standing there so rigidly, black covering her almost from head to toe. The flush of red upon her cheeks from the cold, making him think of other—far more pleasurable—activities that might pink her cheeks.
He shook his head. There had to be a simple explanation for this, something that did not include him being attracted to Felicity.
At least Lady Mallory appeared normal.
Until she embraced Felicity, and her eyes grew cloudy, becoming a milky gray that by no means looked natural. A shiver ran through the woman’s body, and she leaned forward, whispering something in Felicity’s ears.
Felicity scoffed, murmuring a reply. The girl nodded. Her eyes closed for a second, and when she reopened them, they were again dove gray and clear. Had his eyes deceived him? Pointedly, he looked at Felicity for some sort of clarification, and she just shrugged.
So she’d noticed the woman’s transformation—that wasn’t a surprise, she noticed everything—but she thought it was nothing to be concerned about.
Damned Tetbery.
Only here, in the wilds of Cornwall, would it be considered unremarkable for a woman’s eyes to change color, making her look like some sort of possessed demon.
Nicholas swallowed down his unease. He shook his head. Strange, vaguely supernatural occurrences or not, he had a duty. Show the guests inside, pretend he lived a stellar life above all reproach. “Shall we go in the house, then?”
The women set off without him. Their procession stopped only to gather up Felicity’s giant book from the bench. Neither Hughes remarked on this eccentricity.
Nicholas sent up a silent prayer for small miracles. He had a feeling he’d need all the help he could get this week.