An Independent Miss by Becca St. John

champagne.
    “Robert?” Felicity asked the
stricken footman, just as Andover rallied from his own shock to declare, “You
have the wrong rooms.”
    Robert started to turn when Vivien
cooed in her most seductive voice, “Don’t be a spoilsport, Andover. Tell him to
bring it in. I’m certain Felicity could use a nice glass of bubbly, couldn’t
you, dear?”

 
    CHAPTER 7 ~
CONSEQUENCES
     
    The Earl of Westhaven was not
familiar with dawn. Given his preference for late nights of study, he was not
familiar with being woken before noon at all. Felicity could well imagine
Humphrey scratching at her father’s door right about now, waking him and, as
her parents unfashionably slept together, her mother.
    She knew this because Humphrey had
stopped by her father’s study to inform Felicity that he had, indeed, found her
note.
    Of course, it was not proper for
her to be slipping through the house at all hours and pushing notes beneath
Humphrey’s door, but nothing about this situation was proper. There was no need
for the butler’s stiff sniff to tell her that.
    If it had been possible, she would
have bypassed him and gone straight to her parents’ room and slipped the
missive under their door. But then the scullery maid, or some other maid
carrying a tray of coffee and hot chocolate, would have found the note.
    Humphrey was both an earlier riser
and fanatically protective about the family’s business.
    At least he had seen to the fire
and delivered a pot of tea. No doubt there would be another tray with slices of
toast, once Humphrey knew her father was there. And her mother, of course. Her
mother, who had no say in who she married, but chose, unfashionably, to share a
bedroom with him. Did she have a choice in that as well?
    Felicity stared out at the blustery
morning, feeling as cold inside as the world looked beyond the window.
    How could he? How could Andover
propose to her and entertain her … her …aunt?
    “Cissy?” Her father’s gentle, thoughtful
voice.
    Oh
no… She was going to cry and she promised herself she would not.
    “Cissy?” Her father tried once
more.
    The soft click of the door closing
let her know his back was to her, gave her a moment to wipe her eyes before she
turned to face him.
    “I suppose mother will be here
soon.”
    “Of course she is coming, Cissy.
You are not one for hysterics or commands in the wee hours of the morning.” He
moved toward her in the same way he approached an agitated horse in need of
gentling. How many times had she admired his way with creatures? He had a knack
for knowing just what they needed.
    Perhaps that was what he did with
Mother, that made her come around to the smiling, happy wife she appeared to
be.
    But his knack was off at the
moment. She was far too fragile for him to take her hands, which she was sure
he meant to do. If she cried, he might actually hold her, and then she would be
totally undone.
    Neatly, she avoided any touch, as
she moved around his desk to the standing globe, idly spinning it.
    “Ah,” he said, and uttered nothing
more, leaving her to let him know just why she had summoned him, to his own
study.
    “It was a mistake, the betrothal; I
don’t believe we will suit after all.”
    He didn’t respond. She feared
turning around, to see just what was on his face. His strong, square face, with
those gentle brown eyes. Perfectly fine for a man, but terribly boring for a
woman—which is what she was and how she looked. The squareness of her jaw
softened, making more of an oval, but still much like his. She was all broad
jaw and muddy browns.
    Unlike her brother, Thomas, a
dashing example of her mother’s kin, with light eyes and hints of fire in his
hair. It would have suited him just fine to look like their father, such a
manly look.
    She stopped the globe from its
spin. It was all so unfair. No one was ever anxious about Thomas finding a
spouse. He could take his time for all of that. His looks weren’t important. As
a female, she