An Independent Miss by Becca St. John Page B

send him packing.
    “Please, Lady Felicity, if you
would allow me a few words, I promise I will not take much of your time.”
    “Cis,” her father chided gently,
“can you give him that?”
    She knew what he was saying, that
it was a point of honor, that if she wasn’t going to marry the man, the least
she could offer was a few moments to hear him out.
    Honor was not what her barely
tamped-down temper wanted, but she had learned that bad humors were not always
the best judge.
    “Very well.” She could not face
him. Not yet. She let the wild weather pull her to the window, focus on
raindrops trailing down the panes.
    “Good.” Her father rose from his
chair. “I will see what is keeping your mother.”
    There was no need to see Andover’s
reflection in the glass, the feel of him coming up behind her, as tactile as a
touch. Then he did touch her, put his hands firmly on her shoulders, as though
to hold her there.
    Everything in her tightened fought
the onslaught of sensation that slight contact afforded. Rather than put him
off, her reaction earned a gentle brush of his thumbs along the back of her
shoulder. A tender, enticing lure, as intimate as a kiss. Why now, when it
would have meant so much before? Now, when she knew it was not personal. Such
tender stroking was not limited to his betrothed.
    Nor was the soft brush of his
breath, as he leaned in and whispered, “There is no turning back time. If I
could, I would. You did not deserve or warrant that scene last night.”
    No argument there. “Are you saying
it is better not to know?”
    “No. As a gentleman I am not at
liberty to explain last night. It is a point of honor. You deserve more than
that wall of silence, or the machinations that had you facing what you did. We
were both victims, Felicity, you must believe me on this.” His lips brushed her
ear, his breath caressed. She tilted her head but he followed. “We can move
forward. We can move past this.”
    No, she could not move past it. She
wanted a marriage like her parents’ marriage. That was not what he offered. He
made no promises of fidelity. That gave her the courage to pull free and face
him. “There is no need, Lord Andover. You are free to share your affections
where you will, to find another unwitting girl to be your bride.”
    He reached for her hands, but she
stepped away. “It is over,” she told him, amazed at the calm in her voice, when
inside a tidal wave of emotion throttled her.
    “It is not over!” Lady Westhaven stormed into the room, slamming the door
behind her. “You!” She pointed at Andover, “better have something to say for
yourself and you ,” she turned the
temper she was famous for not controlling, at Felicity, “have some explaining
to do.”
    With that, she slumped into a
chair, as Lord Westhaven slipped back into the room.
    “I cannot believe what the servants
are talking about,” Elizabeth told her husband.
    The room went silent. Lady
Westhaven fanned her face as though that could ease the heat of her fury. Both
Felicity and Andover stood absolutely still. He watched her, Felicity felt it,
though she dared not look at him. Instead she watched her father, who was
taking it all in.
    “It seems as though I am the only
one who does not know what you are talking about, Elizabeth.” He shut the door
behind him. “Would you care to enlighten me? Or perhaps Andover might explain?”
    Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.
    Felicity spun around, pressed
against the window, as if that were a route of escape, unable to bear the world
knowing the whole sordid mess. And the world would know, because what was spoken of below stairs would carry
upstairs and every ladies’ maid and valet there with a guest would soon be
whispering all about Felicity’s humiliation. She wanted to curl up and die. To
run away to some hidden cottage somewhere and live her life where no one knew
her.
    “Felicity?” Andover stepped toward
her, but she didn’t want him, tried to wave him