She had to get ahold of herself. Calm her rapidly beating heart. She had come here to find a husband, and one with funds enough to support her younger sisters in their debuts, to offer them a dowry so they could make proper matches. Not to flirt with unacceptable strangers.
“Going to give me my hand, or do you intend to keep it?” he queried wryly.
Her cheeks were on fire. She dropped his hand as if it were fashioned of flame too. It may as well have been. This man would burn her. Ruin her. She knew it then and there.
“Forgive me,” she mumbled, then busied herself with the business of collecting the books she had dropped in their impact.
Stupid Felicity. Two years on the marriage mart, and hailed a beauty, a fine marital prize. And yet, she had squandered every chance for a husband because she had so foolishly believed she had time. That Papa’s debts were not as monumental as they were. She had been waiting for love. Now she would have to settle for a comfortable income. And there was no surer way to lose this last, precious chance than to dally with uncouth rogues.
She had to think of Esme and Cassandra.
But Mr. Winter did not leave her to her misery. Instead, he sank to his haunches and helped her retrieve the books. Even his presence burned through her, along with his scent. He was so maddeningly attractive. It was not his face, but something indefinable about him. He possessed an air of mystery, charm, and mayhem that was unspeakably compelling.
For all the wrong reasons.
He handed the books to her, and she rose to her feet. “Thank you, sir.”
He stood with her, lingering. Not bowing and moving on. Just staring at her in that way he had. Assessing and yet…intimate. His stare was like a touch.
She ought to flee. To curtsy and go. They were in one of the massive halls of Abingdon House, alone, and anyone could come upon them. It would be quite disastrous, if innocent enough.
And yet, she stayed. Drawn to him. Icarus, flying too near the sun.
“Is there something else you wished to say, Mr. Winter?” she asked, cursing herself for the breathlessness in her voice.
His lips twitched. “Where is Miss Whistlewhiskers?”
His impertinent question wrung a laugh from her. “Whistlewhiskers?”
“Aye.” His grin deepened. “What was I thinking? That would be a spoony name for a cat, wouldn’t it, my lady?”
“Spoony?” She frowned at him, telling herself the dimple in his right cheek was not nearly as alluring as the warmth in her belly suggested it was.
“Crazy,” he elaborated.
“Are you suggesting Miss Wilhelmina is a crazy name for a kitten, sir?”
The dimple remained, taunting her. “I’d never.”
Drat the man, his rough accent—decidedly not aristocratic, hinting at his antecedents—was somehow intriguing. His voice was mellow and deep, pleasing to her ears. Even when he was being rude.
He was not being terribly rude at the moment, however, and it only served to heighten her confusion. And her attraction. When he chose to charm, good heavens…
“I think you are teasing me, Mr. Winter,” she said, clutching her books to her chest.
Auntie Agatha was probably looking for her. She was Felicity’s chaperone for this country house party. Rather remiss at her task, it was true. But eventually, she noted Felicity’s absence. She would likely be noting it by now.
Felicity really ought to go at once, instead of remaining here in this maddening man’s presence.
He leaned nearer, stealing her breath once more. “If I were teasing you,” he said slowly, lowering his head so that he was devastatingly close, “you would know it, Lady Felicity.”
He had gotten her name right that time.
But that wasn’t what was making her dizzy. Or what was making her sway toward him, until his breath coasted over her lips in the prelude to a kiss she wanted, no matter how much she shouldn’t.
It was the connection between them. She had felt it yesterday, in his chamber. A stunning sense of awareness, a remarkable difference, when their gazes had first clashed. She had told herself it was impossible. She had blamed her response on the blow she had taken to the head when she had rapped it beneath his bed.
She realized she had been wrong. Because it was still here, simmering between them. Growing bigger and more pronounced with each passing second.
“You are terribly forward, sir,” she murmured, as if it were an insult.
It was not.
She wanted him to be more forward.
To kiss her.
No, Felicity. You must not. Remember why you have come here, Esme and Cassandra. You need a husband. This beautiful scoundrel is not what you need.
“I pride myself on it,” the devil said with a smirk.
A smirk that told her he knew the effect he had upon her.
She blinked, forcing herself from whatever spell had settled over her. She could not afford to make a mistake. To be ruined. Felicity clutched the books to her chest as if they were a shield.
“I have no doubt you do,” she managed, dipping into a passable curtsy.
If Auntie Agatha had witnessed it, she would have scolded her. The form was all wrong. Then again, if Auntie Agatha had witnessed any of Felicity’s behavior just now, she would have likely packed them into the first carriage headed back for London.
Reminding herself of her duty, Felicity skirted Mr. Winter and continued on her way to the library, feeling his too-blue gaze on her with every step she took.
Chapter Three
“I did tell you not to bring that cat, did I not, my dear girl?” Auntie Agatha asked, pinning Felicity with an imperious frown.
Sigh.
Felicity hugged Miss Wilhelmina to her and faced her august aunt. Auntie Agatha had insisted upon inspecting her morning toilette before she headed to the breakfast table. She was father’s older sister, widowed, white-haired, and given to prodigious churlishness. Mayhap the cause of that was the arthritis that often kept her bound to her chair, if not relying heavily upon her cane.
“But she is my companion,” Felicity argued.
“She has escaped thrice,” her aunt countered, disapproval dripping from her voice. “And how shall you snare yourself a husband when you are covered in cat fur?”
Felicity glanced down at her bodice, which did indeed have a few strands of gray fur stuck to it. “I shall change before breakfast.”
“It is best you should.” Auntie Agatha cast a dismissive glance over her. “This gown makes your bosom look far too large and your hips too wide.”
But her bosom was large, and her hips were wide.
Felicity bit her tongue, quelling the urge to offer a retort. Miss Wilhelmina offered a purr of commiseration.
“At least you do not have your mother’s face. Rounder than a saucer of tea is not an attractive shape. Esme and Cassandra, however…they shall need more help, I fear. The finest dresses to distract from the rest of them.” Auntie Agatha raised a brow, making an expansive gesture that was somehow elegant and rude all at once. “Why do you not wear more ivory, my dear? Daffodil makes everyone look sallow, yourself included.”
“Yellow is a cheerful color,” Felicity dared to argue, for it put her in mind of happier days and summer sun, flowers blooming in spring.
The promise of renewal.
Hope, which was becoming increasingly fleeting for Felicity with each day that passed.