“Felix. Oh my goodness!” Upon seeing Felix sitting beside her front door, his hair tousled and his lip bloody, Felicity gasped and ran towards him, nearly stumbling on a loose cobblestone in her haste to reach his side. She crouched down and, wetting her thumb, gently dabbed at the edge of his mouth. “What – what happened?”

“No need to look like I’m on death’s door, love.” He grinned, then winced when fresh blood trickled down his chin. “Just a little cut is all.”

Felicity frowned. “You may need stitches.”

“It’ll take more than this to get me in front of a leech.”

“Be that as it may, infection is not something to be taken lightly. You should…” She trailed off as she took note of the sliver of purple under his eye and the tear in his shirt. “You’ve been brawling,” she accused, jumping to her feet as compassion was rapidly replaced with disdain.

“Aye,” Felix said cheerfully. “That I have.” Standing as well, he brushed off his trousers before peering over her shoulder. “Where are the little nippers?”

“They are spending the afternoon with my mother.” After Felicity left Scarlett’s she had made a detour to Gracechurch Street where Mrs. Atwood lived. She’d moved there after Felicity’s father died, using the money he’d left her to purchase a modest one-bedroom townhouse. It was much smaller than the home Felicity had grown up in, but it more than suited the needs of a single widow and her yappy white Pomeranian. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Spencer?” she asked, her voice considerably cooler than it had been a few seconds ago. 

“Aye, that there is.” His head canted to the side, those whisky eyes hungrily devouring every inch of her as if they’d been separated for weeks instead of barely a day. “Ye can tell me why ye looked as though ye saw a ghost after our kiss yesterday.”

Of course he would ask her for the one thing she absolutely could not give him.

The truth.

If she told him what had happened to her, if she revealed what Rodger had done, then he would look at her in one of two ways. With either pity or disgust, neither of which she wanted. So she drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders, pressed her lips firmly together, and stepped past him to unlock the door, hoping her silence would make it clear their conversation had reached its end.

It didn’t.

“I haven’t seen ye wear this dress before.” Felix touched her sleeve, just a casual brush of fingertips against fabric, but it was enough to cause her to fumble and drop her key when she tried to pull it from her reticule. It struck the ground and then bounced beneath the front step, vanishing from sight.

“Now look what you’ve done.” Annoyed with him – and with herself – Felicity pursed her lips as she considered the best way to fetch her key without sticking her hand into dark, cobwebbed-filled uncertainty. She also wasn’t very keen on getting down on her hands and knees and sticking her rump up in the air with Felix watching.

“Having a spot of trouble, love? Step aside.” Flashing her a roguish grin, he pulled out a thin metal pin from behind his ear. Within seconds the door was unlocked and he gestured her inside with a gallant wave of his arm. “After ye, my lady.”

Picking up her skirts so as not to let the hemline drag on the step, Felicity walked past him with her chin held high. And a rueful smile tugging at the edges of her mouth.

How does he do it? She wondered as he followed her into the flat and closed the door behind him. How does he infuriate me and charm me all in the same breath? With Ezra there had never been such a tug and pull. Their relationship had been like the glossy surface of a pond. Smooth, with only the occasional ripple. But with Felix she felt as though she were in the middle of the ocean during a squall. One moment her head was above water, the next it was below. And no matter what she did she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing at the only chair in the room. “Your lip needs tending.” Going into the bedroom she poured some clean water into a basin and wet a strip of flannel. Ringing out the excess moisture, she returned to Felix and, using the skills she’d attained while mending Henry’s various bumps and bruises, leaned over him and began to clean the wound. He sat perfectly straight, the soles of his boots pressed flat against the floorboards, the palms of his hands pressed flat against the top of his thighs. He sat so still she would have thought he’d ceased breathing if not for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Who did this to you?” she asked softly.

“One of the other Runners.”

Her hand stilled in surprise. “One of the other Runners?”

“Aye. Grant Hargrave. I believe ye were introduced at Bow Street after the wedding.”

“Yes, I remember.” She recalled a tall, striking man with wavy brown hair and green eyes. If she wasn’t mistaken he was a peer. The son of a duke, no less. Although how he’d ended up on Bow Street she hadn’t the faintest idea. “He seemed like such a gentleman.”

Felix angled his head. “Looks can be deceiving, love.”

“Yes.” Didn’t she know that better than anyone? On the outside Ezra looked like the perfect husband. He had the title. The wealth. The impeccable manners. But beneath the thin veneer of perfection was a man whose heart was as dark and empty as a night without stars. He may have been a gentleman, but he was cold. As cold as a man could possibly be.

And then there was Felix.

Felix, who looked so wrong for her in so many different ways. Felix, who did not have a title or wealth or any discernable manners at all, let alone impeccable ones. Felix, who wouldn’t have been able to dance the valse if his life depended on it, and who would never be accepted by polite society.

Yet when she was with him none of those things seemed to matter. When she was with him all she could think about was their kiss. And the kiss after that…and the kiss after that.

“Yes,” she repeated, more to herself than to him. “I suppose they can be.”

A bruise was already forming on Felix’s chin, another under his eye. On any other man the marks would have appeared garish, but the smudges of deep purple and dark blue suited him. If anything they made him even more handsome. Like a pirate, she thought as she pressed the cool cloth against the swelling on his jaw. Or a knight of old. One who has just returned home to his beloved after defending his king and country on the fields of battle.

“I – I was wrong,” she whispered. 

“About what?” His fingers closed lightly around her wrist, the pad of his thumb pressing on the beat of her pulse. It thrummed wildly at his touch, a bird beating its wings against the gilded bars of a cage where the door was open, but the bird was too frightened to fly out.

You.

Us.

Everything.

“The cut on your lip.” She pulled her arm back and the damp flannel, stained red with his blood, fell to the floor. “It does not look as though it will need stitches after all.” Closing her eyes, she turned away.

Away from Felix. Away from her own emotions. Away from her own heart.

The chair creaked and she knew he was behind her even before he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her back against the hard plane of his chest.

“What are ye afraid of?” he murmured, the bristle on his jaw scraping against her cheek as he rested his chin on the sloping curve of her shoulder.

“I am not afraid,” she said, but they both heard the lie in her voice. She began to stiffen, to draw back, but on a soft, whispering sigh she let herself relax against him. After so many months – so many years – of nothing but coldness she needed warmth. Like an untended flower that had grown too long in the shade she desperately yearned for the sun.  For the heat it gave, and the comfort it brought. For no matter how deep the dark, the sun would always find a way to rise again. And when it did its light would be brighter and reach further than ever before.

“I am not afraid,” she repeated as tears gathered. “I am not afraid.”

“Ah, love.” Felix’s embrace tightened. He began to sway from side to side and she swayed with him, a dance where the only music came from the rhythmic beating of their hearts. “I know ye have no reason to trust me. No reason to believe a bloody word I say. But I want ye to know I’m not him. I won’t hurt ye. I would never hurt ye.”

“I know,” she whispered as a single tear spilled down her cheek. “I know.”  

 

Felix took her to the Kew Botanical Gardens. And she began to fall in love with him somewhere between the cornflowers and columbines.

How could she not? He was everything she had been warned against…and everything she needed. He made her feel safe. More than that, he made her feel treasured in a way Ezra never had.

Felix wanted her. Not because she was well-bred or well-mannered or any other matter of wells. He wanted her for who she was. He wanted her as she was. A divorced mother. A spurned woman. A ruined lady. Knowing that, feeling that every time he touched her, how could she not want him in return? How could she not try to reach for the sun?

She just hoped she did not burn herself in the process.

A thorn snared her skirt as she and Felix walked past a vibrant wall of Portland Roses. Named for the Duchess of Portland by renowned botanist Andre Du Pont, the rose had been created by crossing an Autumn Damask with a Crimson China. It was a match no one had ever thought to make for the two roses were so very different, but when they’d been brought together they had produced a deep, true red rose that flowered in even the harshest of conditions.

Not wanting her dress to tear, she stopped to untangle herself. But before she could coax the thorn from the delicate fabric Felix used a small knife to sever the branch from the bush, removed the thorns from the stem, and tucked the rose beneath her bonnet. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she scolded as she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. “We are going to be thrown out.” The gardens, while open to the public, were under the close scrutiny of half a dozen guards who did not take kindly to any flowers being touched, let alone cut. Frowning at Felix, she pulled the flower from her hair with the intention of tossing it off the path. Hide the evidence, such as it were. But at the last moment she put it inside her reticule instead.

The sentimental gesture did not escape Felix’s notice. He said not a word, but she could tell by the gleam in his eye that he was pleased she’d decided to save his token of affection.

“Shall we?” she murmured, and resting her hand lightly on his rigid forearm proceeded down the stone-lined path. Portland Roses soon gave way to sculpted boxwoods and neat clusters of pale pink peonies. Sweet Williams were just beginning to emerge from the freshly raked soil while towering hollyhocks stretched their blossoms towards a clear blue sky. It was a perfect day for a leisurely walk amidst such beauty, and Felicity was glad – albeit admittedly surprised – that Felix had suggested it. He did not seem like the sort of man who would enjoy such a leisurely pursuit and yet here they were, arm in arm, strolling through the stone-lined paths as if they were lord and lady of the manor instead of a disgraced divorcé and a thief turned Runner with bruises on his face.

An incredulous smile touched her lips as they stepped between two rows of towering hedges. If someone had told her eight years ago that this would be her future she would have laughed herself silly. Yet here she was…and truth be told there was nowhere else she’d rather be. But it did occur to her (as things often did when she was trying to turn off her mind and simply enjoy the moment at hand) that she knew next to nothing about the man beside her.

She knew he’d been a thief, and now he was Runner. She knew he had a quick wit and a ready smile. She knew that when he touched her she burned. But what else did she know?

You can always ask, she told herself practically. Surely there is no harm is asking a few sensible questions. After all, this is a man who – if things go accordingly – will be spending time with your children. It is perfectly acceptable to learn more about who he is, and where he’s come from. Just one or two general questions ought to do.

“Why did you kiss me in Scarlett’s bedchamber all those months ago?” she blurted.

Oh dear.

Oh dear, oh dear.

That wasn’t what she had intended to ask at all. She had wanted to inquire about his past. Where he’d been raised. If he had any siblings. If – her stomach turned queasily at the thought – he’d ever been married. Biting her lip she peeked up at him through her lashes, trying to gauge what he was thinking behind those tawny eyes.

“Why did I kiss ye…” he murmured thoughtfully. His fist bumped against his chin, knuckles rubbing over bristle as he considered his answer. “I suppose because I wanted to.”

“Ah,” she said, feeling foolish. What had she been expecting? A declaration of love? For Felix to get down on bended knee and recite a sonnet?  “That – that makes sense, I suppose.”

“And because I knew if I didn’t taste your lips right then and there I knew I was going to starve.” His amber gaze darkened. “Ye were the prettiest woman I’d ever seen. Sitting there in your chair all indignant like. Scolding me for stealin’ your friend’s jewelry when ye should have been trembling in your boots.”

The truth was Felicity had been trembling in her boots – or rather in her walking slippers. She’d been afraid he was going to kill her. But then he had kissed her instead and she’d begun trembling for another reason all together.

“You jumped out the window. I thought you were going to break your neck.”

His bruised mouth stretched in a smug grin. “Worried about me, were ye love?”

“I was worried about the azaleas,” she corrected.

“Liar.” He stopped and turned, putting them face to face, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Felicity let out a startled squeak when he spanned her waist with his hands and yanked her close. “Ye wanted me to kiss ye. Admit it.”

Butterflies danced in her belly. “I did not–”

“Admit it,” he growled, his mouth a hair’s breadth from her own.

“Yes,” she breathed, unable to deny the truth any longer. “Yes, I wanted you to kiss me.” Whether by accident or design – she honestly wasn’t sure which – her tongue darted out and skimmed across the swell of her bottom lip, drawing Felix’s hot, heavy gaze downwards.

“Aye,” he said throatily, the hard rasp of his voice causing the muscles in her abdomen to tighten and clench. “That’s what I thought.”

He is going to kiss me again, she thought dazedly. And this time – heaven help me – I want him to. But to her bemusement Felix abruptly released her, gravel crunching beneath the heels of his boots as he stepped back.

“What?” he asked when he saw the flare of disappointment in her eyes she wasn’t quite able to hide. “Ye didn’t think I would kiss ye here, did ye? For shame, Miss Atwood.” He clucked his tongue. “There are people all about. Ye wouldn’t want to besmirch my fine upstanding character, would ye now?”

“No.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “No, I certainly would not want to do that.”

He leaned in close and her gaze grew shuttered when he whispered, “When I kiss ye…when I slowly peel your clothes off your body and taste the sweet nectar of your skin…when I make ye slick with need…We’re going to be alone. Just the two of us, love. And you’re going to be sobbing my name by the end of it.”

It was a small miracle Felicity’s knees did not buckle then and there. “M-Mr. Spencer–”

“Lady Ashburn? Lady Ashburn, is that you? It is!” A woman’s high-pitched squeal had Felicity jumping away from Felix as though he’d suddenly caught fire. Pressing a hand over her racing heart and plastering a smile on her face, she turned to find Lady Eleanor Manheim, or Ellie as she was commonly known to her friends, rapidly approaching in a swirl of blue skirts and a haze of expensive French perfume.

Felicity had called her Ellie once, but now she greeted the brunette with a wary nod. “Lady Manheim. How nice to see you.”

Like the rest of her so-called friends (with the exception of Scarlett), Eleanor had given her the cut direct after the divorce. A slender woman with dark hair and a catty penchant for gossip, she had her thumb pressed firmly on the pulse of high society. She knew everything about everyone. Every salacious rumor. Every whisper of scandal. Every lurid affair. She gained her knowledge by whatever means necessary and then tucked it away like an ambitious squirrel storing nuts for the long winter ahead.

“I heard you had returned to town,” Eleanor trilled. “But I did not believe it until I saw you. Why, I was standing right over there and I turned my head and there you were! And I said to myself that cannot possibly be Lady Ashburn, for why would she ever return to London? But of course I just had to be certain, and lo and behold! Here you are.”

“Here I am,” Felicity said demurely.

“How are those lovely children of yours? Growing quickly, I imagine. What were their names again? They are right on the tip of my tongue! Hagrid and Amelia?” She pursed her lips. “No, that’s not it.”

“Henry and Anne.”

“That’s right! Henry and Anne. How very sweet. I often wonder why a father would not want to name his firstborn son after himself, but Henry is such a fine name.”

Felicity smile could have been carved from ice. “Which is why I chose it.”

Had she really ever considered this conniving, malicious woman to be her friend? It felt like a lifetime ago when they’d once sat across the table from one another at a dinner party, or stood together in the corner of a ballroom. She had never stooped to Eleanor’s level of pettiness, but hadn’t she stood silently by while Eleanor cut more than one rival to the quick? As long as it was not me, she thought as the bitter taste of shame flooded her mouth.

Well, no more.

Even if by some miracle she was welcomed back into the exclusive world that she’d been so ruthlessly cut out of she wouldn’t want to go. Not when she’d peeled back the curtain and caught a glimpse of what the ton was really like beneath its glittering surface.

“And who might this be?” Eleanor’s crafty gaze flicked to Felix as her eyebrows, thinly plucked and tinted with powder, arched towards the brim of her feather-tipped hat. “A new beau?” Her tinkling laugh set Felicity’s teeth on edge. “Why, you little minx you!”

“Lady Manheim, this is Mr. Spencer. Mr. Spencer, Lady Manheim.” Although Felicity managed to keep her smile in place, she had a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. Eleanor may have looked sweet and harmless to the untrained eye, but in reality she was more dangerous and deadly than a viper. Having seen firsthand what could happen when she sank her fangs into something – or someone – Felicity did not want her within twenty yards of Felix, let alone speaking to him directly.

“Mr. Spencer.” Dipping into a curtsy, Eleanor batted her lashes with such vigor that Felicity wondered if she did not have something stuck in her eye. “What a pleasure to meet you. Are you new to town?”

Watching Eleanor as one might a spider crawling up the wall, Felix slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and rocked back onto his heels. “I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Have you? What a wonder our paths haven’t crossed before. How long have you known our darling Lady Ashburn? It is still Lady Ashburn, isn’t it? I must admit I am not certain what social protocol dictates. It’s such a rare circumstance, isn’t it? Divorce,” she said in an exaggerated whisper. “I hardly dare to speak the word. You poor thing. What you must have had to endure! I can see it has taken its toll.”  

“Yes, well, I must admit I find it preferable to be divorced than to share my husband’s attentions with another woman. How is Lord Manheim, by the by? Staying busy, I presume?” Felicity may not have had fangs like Eleanor, but she still knew how to draw blood when the occasion demanded it.

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. She was not a woman who liked being put in her place, especially by someone who had no place. “My husband is quite well, thank you for your concern. This has been a splendid visit, but I really must be on my way. We should meet for tea sometime, darling. Catch up on old times.”

“Not too soon I hope. With the Season at full tilt I know how busy you must be.”

“Heavens, busy does not even being to cover it! Flitting from one ball to the next is really quite draining. How lucky you are, Lady Ashburn, that you have no engagements to attend.”

“Yes.” Felicity clucked her tongue in sympathy as she ran her gaze from the top of Eleanor’s hat to the polished tips of her leather shoes. “I can see that you are exhausted. But I am sure that with a little bit of rest you shall manage to recover in no time.” 

“My, my,” Eleanor said softly. “The little kitten has finally found her claws.”

“And this little kitten is not afraid to use them. Good day, Lady Manheim. It was so wonderful to see you again. Do give your husband my best. If he is not too busy with his mistress, that is.”

Eleanor’s mouth opened. Closed. On an incredulous huff of breath she snatched up her skirts and stormed off, leaving a nauseatingly sweet trail of perfume in her wake.