An Independent Miss by Becca St. John Page A

was absolutely dependent on her appearance, because one couldn’t
find a husband when lost in a crowd of wallflowers.
    She touched her mouth, vividly
aware that if she looked like her Aunt Vivien, Andover would have kissed her by
now. Of course he would have. But he hadn’t, and that told her so very much.
Married to a man like Andover, one would always worry about faithfulness. She
would rather not have that on her plate.
    Her
own aunt . She shivered.
    A scratch at the door announced a
maid with—as Felicity had predicted—a tray. She glanced over her
shoulder, to determine there was toast on that tray, startled to find she was
starving. Not surprising, as she had been awake all night.
    When the maid left, her father
poured a cup of tea, added milk and held it out as an offering. She took the
cup, looked at her father, and wondered what she never would have thought to
wonder before. Had her father ever strayed? She couldn’t imagine it. He adored
her mother, as did everyone.
    “Your mother mentioned you were
questioning things.” He spread jam on a toast point. “What has brought this on?
We both thought you were quite happy with the situation.”
    “I was, or thought I was.” She
licked her lips, fought for words she spent hours preparing. They fluttered
away, chased by more thoughts than her tired mind could cope with.
    Whatever she said, she would never
tell them about the incident in Andover’s chambers. It was far too humiliating
and she didn’t want to explain why she had gone to his rooms.
    Instead, she chose a new topic, an
idea that was just taking seed.
    “Perhaps marriage doesn’t suit me
at all,” she argued, wondering if it weren’t true. “My work is too important.”
Or it should be, except she had actually considered easing back for him.
    For him, the only man she would do
that for.
    Head bowed over his toast, as if to
study it for some clue, her father asked, “Not marry at all, Cis?” That’s when
he looked up and she realized the idea hurt him. “No grandchildren from my
little girl?”
    She hadn’t thought of such things
as grandchildren. This was the first inkling that his main focus, in her
getting married, had always been about having little ones about.
    “The others will give you
grandchildren someday.”
    He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be
the same.” and busied himself pouring another cup of tea. “But it makes me
wonder if this isn’t something your mother can help you with. Perhaps…” Soft
and mild, his words gentled the moment, “…it’s the getting of children that makes
you question marriage.”
    A blush ran clear to the roots of
her hair. Before she could even form a reply, there was another rap at the
door. Grateful for the interruption, she looked to her father, who was watching
her. Closely, too closely. An astute man.
    “No,” he answered his own question,
“no, I don’t think that is the problem.” And without hesitation, called out,
“Come in.”
    Andover stood on the threshold,
grim and handsome, and, as far as Felicity could tell, not surprised to see her
there.
    “May I join this conversation?” he
asked, with a slight bow to them both.
    Again, her father watched her, and
she knew he wanted her permission before he answered, but she didn’t know what
she wanted. He was there, they could get it over with, but then again, perhaps
her father could take care of the nasty business.
    “I will go upstairs,” she told them
both.
    “No, you will stay here until we
finish,” her father said.
    “Which,” Andover interrupted,
“concerns me, I would imagine.”
    That brought Westhaven’s head
around, his eagle eyes now on Andover. “You know what this is about?”
    “Yes, I believe I do, and wish to
have a few moments with Lady Felicity, if I may.”
    “Cis, do you want to talk to the
man?”
    “No.”
    Her father looked back at him, with
an “it’s up to her” expression.
    Andover moved into the room,
leaving the door open, should she