A Damsel for the Wounded Earl
Preview
Chapter One
Chapter One
The English Countryside, Lanwood, Summer 1816
“I was thinking,” Beatrice Langley said, in a light, off-hand tone that was almost certainly rehearsed, “that we could have a few people round for tea. What do you think, Arthur?”
Arthur set his teacup back onto the saucer, trying to ignore the way it rattled. Everybody else ignored it, too. It would be bad manners to draw attention to the light tremor in Arthur’s hand. It wasn’t always there.
“I… I am uncertain if I possess the fortitude to attend a soiree, Mother,” Arthur said, as gently as he could manage.
As expected, Beatrice and his distant Cousin Lucy threw meaningful glances at each other. She was still mostly in black after her father’s death, but Beatrice and Arthur had contented themselves with armbands. It seemed strange to deeply mourn a man he’d never met.
But then, Arthur was now living in his house and running his estates, so fair was fair.
The house was, naturally, huge. The late Earl of Lanwood was known for his love of socialising, and his parties were – Arthur had been assured – truly unforgettable. In a good way.
It was explained to him – along with lavish descriptions of the famous Lanwood balls – that the Langley family had always been a pillar of society, and the life of any gathering.
Hints were made that Arthur would continue that tradition, throwing balls and parties and soirees, masked balls, picnics, and so on. Arthur had smiled and nodded politely, and gradually the hints had stopped, when it became clear to everybody that the new Earl of Lanwood was not going to follow in the footsteps of the old one.
It was clear that the house and its many modernisations had been created with the purpose of entertaining – a vast, cavernous ballroom which was permanently shut up, long lawns, terraces running around the house, no less than four parlours, a cloakroom able to take a thousand cloaks and coats and shawls, and so on.
A waste, really. Since Arthur and his mother had moved in, a good half of the house was shut up.
He felt guilty about that, especially since Lucy – Lady Lucy Langley, the late Earl’s daughter and now Arthur’s ward – had watched her home being shut up without a single word of complaint.
It was a fine house, but too large for Arthur. He wished he could live somewhere else, anywhere else. There was a Dower House just under a mile away, but his mother had told him severely the Earl of Lanwood could not move into the Dower House.
“It’s just that I have already sent out the invitations,” Beatrice said, all in a rush. Colour was rising to her cheeks.
This wasn’t an absolute surprise, but a flash of irritation curled in Arthur’s gut all the same.
“You sent out invitations to a party at my house, without telling me? Without asking my permission?” He said, pleased that his voice was level and not angry. “That was wrong of you, Mother. Very wrong, and I think you know it.”
Mrs Beatrice Langley was generally considered to be a fine woman for her age. She was still beautiful, dressed well, and had retained her figure. She followed fashion a little too diligently, and currently wore her hair in the many-ringleted style, curls clustering around her temples. She was youthful in more ways than one and could easily be taken for ten years younger.
She was not a sensible woman, exactly, but she was Arthur’s mother, the one he’d called for when he lay delirious on an army stretcher, covered in blood and mud and worse. They’d fallen low, over the years, and risen high, and Beatrice had been by his side for it all.
“I knew you would say no if I asked,” Beatrice said, sounding a little pleading. “Pray forgive me, but once all guests have arrived and arrangements are settled, you shall have no need to concern yourself. I assure you, Lucy and I will see to everything- simply relax and enjoy the festivities.”
The forked scar on Arthur’s left cheek, running from his hairline to his cheekbone, throbbed warningly. He swallowed dryly.
“Mother, I want you to call it off. When did you send out the invitations?”
She lifted her chin a little defiantly. “I’ve already gotten replies, Arthur. Everyone is coming. It’s just a soiree – a little dancing, a little dining, and all you have to do is turn up and smile. It is the simplest of tasks, only requiring minimal effort.”
Arthur fervently disagreed but couldn’t quite manage the words to say so. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying in vain to ward off the oncoming megrim.
Strange to think that he’d rarely had so much as a headache before the war. He didn’t even remember the events that had led to him lying on a stretcher with a broken head and an agonising megrim. He was lucky to be alive, naturally, but the memories refused to stop coming. He’d thought he was dead, long before the final blow was struck.
And now, whenever things were too much or he was too anxious, agonizing pain descended, blurring his vision and making him sick. It wasn’t unusual for Arthur to vomit during his megrims, and nothing soothed it except for going somewhere cool and quiet, closing his eyes and hoping for the best.
Right now, with Beatrice’s constant chatter, the megrim was only getting worse and worse. Arthur’s stomach clenched.
He tried not to imagine it, the halls crowded with people, full of heat and noise and chatter. He imagined himself beset by countless neighbours, all keen to ask him about the war and his amorous affairs and his plans for the future. Mammas trying to introduce their eligible daughters, loudly wondering whether Arthur intended to ‘keep it in the family’ and marry his distant Cousin Lucy or whether she was deemed too much of a bluestocking for his tastes.
No to the first, no to the second. Arthur liked Lucy, found her intelligent, but marrying her felt deeply wrong.
That wasn’t the point. Beatrice was still talking. Arthur heard that fateful name, Miranda, and couldn’t quite help a shudder.
“Mother…” he managed hoarsely, and that was all.
Mercifully, Beatrice stopped talking, and tilted her head anxiously at her son.
“Arthur? Oh, you’ve gone quite pale. Pray forgive me, I have grievously erred in my approach. I am prone to speaking out of turn.”
“Arthur?” came Lucy’s cool, calm voice, sounding as if it were from very far away. The pain in Arthur’s temples peaked, almost blinding him, and he staggered to his feet. He knocked against the coffee-table and heard the cups and saucers clink and jingle loudly, no doubt slopping tea over the delicate rims into the saucers.
No time to worry about that now. Shaking his head, Arthur stumbled out of the parlour, letting the door swing behind him.
“Oh, dear,” he heard Beatrice say. “What a mess I’ve made.”
What a mess I’ve made, Arthur thought miserably. He didn’t go back.
***
Beyond the windows, the heavens wept. A gentle, balmy summer shower, yet persistent. Droplets cascaded from the eaves of the veranda, encircling the manor, and the lush foliage in the distance was veiled in a translucent haze.
That was another part of the wretched house and wretched earldom that Arthur was unsuited to inherit. The gardens, beautiful and well maintained, were too much for him. Beyond his skills.
It was almost comical.
He strode along the terrace, head down, hoping for a little breeze on his forehead to cool the pain. Not that it ever did much. Summer months were always more unforgiving than winter.
He walked until he was fairly sure Beatrice wasn’t scurrying after him, then let himself jerk to a halt. Leaning against the stone wall, he let himself slide down it, sinking to the ground, and pulled his knees up to his chest.
It was a rather pathetic situation for a man to be in. Arthur was not yet thirty, not for another ten months. He was a tall, well-built, a real soldier. His scar was testament to that. He’d been described as handsome, before. He had dark hair and steel-blue eyes, which he still had, but now apparently the scar ruined the whole effect.
He’d never been vain, but it certainly hurt to be considered so… so broken, when he’d once been called handsome.
He kept his eyes closed, waiting for the pain in his temples to subside. The soft pat-pat of slippers on stone approached. He kept his eyes closed.
“Mother, I really don’t wish to…”
“Can I join you?” came Lucy’s cool tones, and Arthur opened his eyes.
Cousin Lucy, as they’d taken to calling her, was twenty-seven years old. By Society’s standards, she was well past marriageable age, which was naturally unfair. Not that Lucy cared much about that. She had dark hair and grey eyes and judging by the large portrait of the late Earl which hung in the dining room, she strongly resembled her father. The two had been close, as far as Arthur could tell, with the late Earl feeding and encouraging Lucy’s love of knowledge and research. They had the largest library he had ever seen, and he felt rather ashamed to confine himself to the novels and fiction section.
Lucy was not, as it was commonly said, a beauty. She had an interesting face, a long nose, and eyes that seemed to smile even when her mouth did not. She was quiet and had never expressed any sense of unfairness that Arthur had inherited everything that she had once had, beyond a modest yearly allowance that was hers.
Beatrice had taken to her immediately, and Arthur flattered himself that Lucy was perfectly happy here with them.
“May I sit?” Lucy repeated, when Arthur didn’t immediately respond. He nodded numbly, and she lowered herself to the ground beside him, back resting up against the stone.
They sat in silence for a moment or two.
“We should have told you about the party,” Lucy said at last. “I didn’t agree with keeping it from you, but neither did I tell you the truth. I encouraged Beatrice to organise it. I should bear at least some of the blame. So, I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have reacted so badly. I can’t expect to keep you both in seclusion here forever. You must miss your friends, Lucy.”
Lucy bit her lip. “I haven’t seen much of my friends since I’ve been in mourning. I know I’ve stayed in black for longer than I should have, and I daresay it’s annoyed you.”
“It certainly has not. We would never tell you how to grieve, Lucy. It wouldn’t be right.”
She flashed him a quick, grateful smile. “Well, I was thinking of throwing off mourning at last for the party. I know how you feel… well, that’s not true, I don’t know how you feel. But I imagine that spending time in company is difficult for you. I don’t have megrims like you, but I see the pain on your face. But perhaps… perhaps building some relationships would help. You’ve been in Lanwood for months now, and you hardly know anyone. I have many friends I’d like to introduce to you. Perhaps you might enjoy yourself. You can always retire if your head aches.”
Arthur bit the inside of his cheek. He felt guilty, and selfish. How unkind was he, keeping his mother and Lucy away from Society because of himself?
“The truth it,” he said hesitantly, “I thought I would be better by now. The doctors all said that the megrims would fade in time. But the pain seems every bit as bad as when I first felt it. And the dreams…”
He broke off, shaking his head. Going to war had been portrayed as something wonderful, something glorious and patriotic.
It was a muddy, bloody business, something that haunted his dreams and would not let him sleep. Some nights, Arthur scarcely dared lay his head on the pillow at all, since the battlefield would be waiting for him. He had deliberately chosen a room in the opposite wing to Beatrice and Lucy, in case his screams woke them in the night.
It was all well and good to tell somebody having a nightmare that it wasn’t real. The trouble was that the things in Arthur’s head were real. He’d seen them, even participated in them, and now they would not let him sleep.
I often wish I could have died out there, he thought bleakly. That would have been better for everyone, would it not? Better for me, certainly. Easier on Mother. Fairer to Lucy. After all, who would have missed me?
He was jerked out of his reverie by Lucy, laying a warm hand on his shoulder.
“Arthur, Beatrice and you are the only family I have left,” she said, quiet but firm. “I care about you. I believe that this party might be good for you. You should at least try. It’s good for us to be around people, you know.”
He gave a tired smile. “If you say so.”
Lucy hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “Beatrice told me about Miranda.”
Arthur flinched and avoided Lucy’s eye. “I thought she might.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”
“No? My fiancé left me because of the man I’ve become.”
“That’s not it at all,” Lucy said, with surprising vehemence. “I’m sure Miss Sinclair is not a bad person, but she simply had no understanding of what war does to a person. She wasn’t prepared to handle it. I suppose we can’t blame her for that, but we certainly should not blame you.”
Arthur closed his eyes. In an instant, he was back in the drawing room of their old house in London, before he received the notice that his distant third cousin or something had died and he was now an Earl.
“I… I don’t know who you are now, Arthur,” Miranda said, tears sparkling in her impeccably blue eyes. She was wearing a pink, frilled dress with bows on the hem, and Arthur found himself wondering why she’d chosen that dress to tell him the engagement was over.
“I can change, Miranda,” he heard himself say, bleakly and without confidence. “I’ll be better, I promise.”
It was already too late. Miranda shook her head, daintily wiping away a teardrop and avoiding his eye.
Was it the scar? That had occurred to Arthur, more than once. It was unsightly, he knew that. He’d gazed at his own face in the mirror, tracing the line of raised, vivid-pink flesh crawling out from under the hair at his forehead, streaking down like a lightning-bolt to his cheekbone. The bone underneath had been cracked, he knew that much, and the doctors had not believed he would live. His brain had not been damaged, they said, but then where had the megrims come from?
Some nights he dreamed of the scar coming undone, splitting open like a seam, revealing white bone underneath, and when the bone cracked too, the pinkish-grey mess of brain matter.
He shuddered.
As if she knew what he was thinking, Miranda turned her back. She’d already handed him back the engagement ring he’d given her. He had it curled in his palm, a cold circle against his skin, the prongs of the stone a little too sharp.
“Miranda, please…” he tried again. What would he tell his mother? She’d been so happy to hear that he was getting engaged, right before he left for war. She’d pressed them to marry before, rather than wait till he came back.
Now, Arthur was glad they hadn’t married before he left. He suspected Miranda was glad, too.
“Just go,” she said, her voice wobbling. “Please. It would be easier for me.”
So, he closed his mouth with a snap and did as she asked him.
Back in the present day, Arthur gave his head a little shake to rid himself of the memories. He opened his eyes to find Lucy watching him, her expression thoughtful, as if she knew what he was thinking.
“You might meet somebody else,” she said, quietly and firmly. “Have you thought of that?”
“What, with this scar?”
“You think too much of that scar. It’s dashing, you know. Ladies won’t mind.”
“Ladies like you won’t mind. Society belles want husbands who will impress others, not invalids who get struck down with megrims whenever somebody talks too loudly.”
She sighed. “You are not kind to yourself, Arthur.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. I am not going to sit here and listen to you talk so unkindly about yourself. Would you ever say such things to me, for example, or one of your army friends? To your mother?”
“No, of course not.”
“There you have it,” Lucy said, with a tinge of triumph. “We speak to ourselves in a way we would never speak to others, and it’s not fair. Come on, now, Arthur, you didn’t finish your tea. Come inside, won’t you?”
“Please don’t treat me like an invalid, Lucy.”
Arthur was aware that he sounded somewhat pettish now, like a child. Lucy didn’t take offence. Chuckling, she climbed to her feet, primly shaking out her skirts. She turned back to him, holding out a hand.
“Come inside. There’s cake,” she added with a grin.
“You know, if I had a sister,” Arthur said reflectively, “I would want her to be like you.”
Lucy smiled properly at that, dimples appearing in both cheeks. He took her hand and hauled himself to his feet, dusting down his clothes. The pain in his temples had mostly faded. It was still there, a determined throb-throb, but nothing like the blinding pain he’d experienced before. The attacks sometimes only lasted a few minutes, but a few minutes was entirely too long to be in such pain.
“So, you’ll give us your blessing for the party?” Lucy asked hopefully.
He nodded. “Of course. This is your house as well as mine.”
“Excellent, I’m so glad to hear it. You needn’t stay all the time – we’ll keep the library off-limits, so you can rest there if need be. Everyone will be so glad to see you. Beatrice will be so happy, too.”
That was something. Arthur was vaguely aware that his mother worried about him, that she wanted him to have a better life than the one he had, a different life, and he was failing her repeatedly. Failing to be healthy, failing to be happy, failing to be sociable.
Fail, fail, fail. It was all he did lately.
They walked back along the terrace, hand in hand. It occurred to Arthur that if this party went badly, he would likely spiral down into another deep well of melancholy, and this time there might be no getting out of it.
And what then? He thought, helplessly. I wasn’t born to be an earl. This place isn’t mine. What will I do if I never fit in here? After all, there’s nowhere else for me to go. This is my last, last chance.
It was not a pleasant thought.
Chapter Two
The Thornhill Estate
Gingerly lifting her lace-hemmed skirt – a poor choice for today, but no matter – Felicity crouched down in the dirt to get a better look at the tiny plant.
She didn’t recognise it, and none of the botanical books she’d consulted in the library contained the plant. It was small, growing low to the ground, with feathery pale green leaves and tiny purple flower petals. At first glance, it looked like a weed – or rather, what uneducated fools would call weeds.
Felicity, naturally, knew that every plant had a purpose and a use, and the only difference between dandelions and roses were that one was carefully cultivated and the other uprooted unceremoniously.
Oh, and you couldn’t eat rose leaves.
Forgetting about her skirts, she knelt properly on the ground, gingerly lifting up a leaf to look underneath. She knew the plants were poisonous – the pigs had been eating them – but naturally that didn’t mean she was going to take a bite. She had a theory about which plant this was, but she wasn’t about to make a guess without the evidence to back it up.
The Thornhill gardens were remarkable among the town of Lanwood. They had a tremendous amount of land – most of farmland, of course, but a fair amount was used as gardens – and boasted no rose gardens whatsoever. It wasn’t that Felicity minded rose gardens; it was just that they weren’t quite so useful. Most of the garden was given over to her, to plant whatever she liked, and she prided herself on not allowing an inch of space to be wasted.
“I thought I might find you here,” a familiar voice said, laughing.
She glanced up and smiled. “Hello, Daniel. Can you take a look at this plant and give me your thoughts? I can’t find it mentioned in any of the books.”
Her cousin, Daniel, was a tall and handsome man, much admired by the local ladies, and generally considered the catch of the county now that he was orphaned and left as Lord Thornhill. The two could be mistaken for siblings rather than cousins – the same large green eyes, the same chestnut hair, the same pale, oval faces. Although Daniel’s recent travels had left him somewhat sunburnt.
“It was my mother who was the botanist, not me,” he said, laughing, but obediently crouched down to take a look. “That reminds me, I picked up a few more botany books in Scotland last week, from Mother’s old house. I’ll bring them for you.”
Felicity swallowed. “I feel guilty, taking all of Aunt Rose’s books. You’re her son, you ought to keep them.”
Daniel didn’t look at her, a sure sign he was struggling to keep his emotions in check.
“Mother and you shared a great deal,” he said neutrally. “Not least of all your love of natural science and botany. Mother was always disappointed I didn’t have a flair for gardening. You and she spent many hours together, studying and gardening, and I think she would like you to have those books. I would like you to have those books.”
Felicity bit her lip. “As long as you’re sure.”
Daniel patted her shoulder. “Of course I’m sure. And no, I don’t recognise that wretched plant. Did you think I would?”
“I just wanted another pair of eyes on it. It’s not like I can ask Papa and Mama.”
“That reminds me,” Daniel said, with a touch of guilt in his voice, “Aunt Harriet collared me as I went through the house. They want to talk to you.”
Felicity’s heart sank. She might have known she wouldn’t be permitted to enjoy all day free in the garden. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Mrs Thornhill had been watching her from one of the windows, her lips pressing tighter and tighter together as they did when she was especially angry.
“How long ago was that?” Felicity said, trying to sound light and unconcerned. She didn’t quite succeed.
“Only ten minutes ago. You might want to… to spruce yourself up a little before you go down.”
Felicity stood up, glancing down at herself. Her hair was coming out of the simple knot she’d pinned it into, tendrils of chestnut falling around her face, disordered and tangled. Her gown was smeared with wet earth, two round stains on the front where she’d been kneeling. Her hands were dirty from where she’d been digging around in the earth, and Felicity was fairly sure there was a smudge of dirt on her face somewhere.
“I might wash my hands,” she said uncertainly. “And perhaps brush my hair.”
“A good idea,” Daniel agreed. “I’ll go down to the drawing room and keep them talking while you change. Don’t take too long. Aunt Harriet seemed a little… well, a little peeved today.”
“I told her I didn’t want to join the Season this year.”
Daniel blinked. “You told her what? Oh, Felicity, why?”
“I am twenty-three years old,” Felicity said firmly. “I’ve endured four Seasons, and this will be my fifth. I’m starting to look silly. I don’t enjoy it, and I don’t particularly care to be married. I was very polite and firm about it, and rehearsed what I would say in advance.”
Daniel sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Unlike his blowsy cousin, Daniel followed the fashions, and was currently wearing a very Dandy-ish blue suit, coupled with a canary-yellow waistcoat that was frankly hurting Felicity’s eyes. He’d cropped his hair into the Brutus style, and it suited him rather well. He’d set all the local girls aflutter again, Felicity prophesied.
“And what did Aunt Harriet say?”
“Well, she flew into a rage, of course,” Felicity muttered. “Said that I would do the Season regardless. I think I might be going after all, but not without a fight.”
“So my stay here will be a pleasant and peaceful one?” he countered.
“Stop complaining,” Felicity retorted, “or I’ll give you a hug. Then I’ll get mud all over that lovely waistcoat of yours, see how you like that.”
“You, madam, are a scandalous wretch.”
“Bold words for a man who is too bright to look at.”
They moved back towards the house together, talking and laughing. Felicity almost forgot about the upcoming meeting with her mother, and the tongue-lashing she was sure to get.
They parted ways when they reached the house, and Felicity’s heart sank down into her stomach again. Hurrying up to her room, she began to wash with a vengeance, and combed the knots painfully out of her hair.
Better not give Mama anything to complain about, Felicity thought.
***
A freshly scrubbed, combed, and changed Felicity waited outside the door to the morning room, building up the courage to knock. Her muddy dress lay crumpled on the floor of her bedroom, waiting for the poor maid to come and do battle with it.
The morning room was Mrs Thornhill’s domain. It was one of the brightest rooms in the house, designed in the latest fashions, and a remarkably pretty if uncomfortable room. One did not go in without knocking. Felicity tried not to go in at all.
She could hear the low murmur of voices – Daniel first, then Mrs Thornhill, responding.
Don’t be a coward, she chastised herself. Get it over with.
Lifting a hand, she rapped smartly, and heard all conversation end inside the room.
“Enter,” came her mother’s clipped tones. Felicity drew in a breath and obeyed.
Mrs Thornhill, resplendent in pearls and blue-grey satin, held court in the centre of the room, with Daniel perched on a low sofa opposite. They both got to their feet as Felicity entered, and Mrs Thornhill glided towards her. She leaned forward, and another person might assume she meant to kiss her daughter, but Felicity knew better.
Dutifully, she held out her hands for inspection, and Mrs Thornhill eyed them suspiciously, checking for dirt under the nails.
“Humph,” she muttered at last. “Your hands are getting coarse, Felicity.”
“Sorry, Mama.”
“Sit down and pour some tea for us all. I want to talk to you.”
Felicity obeyed, dutifully sinking onto the sofa beside Daniel, and carefully poured three cups of tea. Usually, Mrs Thornhill had one of the servants do it, but she preferred to see Felicity doing domestic chores whenever she could.
Apparently, she did not do enough.
Mrs Thornhill’s embroidery lay beside her, carefully laid down so as to display the rich colours and skill, but also seeming almost careless, as if she hadn’t intended to display it.
It was almost funny. Felicity thought of her own embroidery, with the rough stitching and patchy parts, and suppressed a smile.
“What are you laughing at, Felicity?” Mrs Thornhill said, voice sharp. “I saw you digging around in the gardens this morning like an animal. It is truly shocking, I must say. I was ashamed for Daniel to see you in such a state.”
Felicity’s cheeks burned, but she was careful not to react.
She’s only doing it because she cares, she reminded herself, although it was getting harder and harder to see it.
“And what’s that smell?” Mrs Thornhill theatrically sniffed the air. “The herb garden is not doing you any favours. You smell like a farm kitchen.”
“There are worse things to smell of,” Felicity muttered, before she could stop herself.
Mrs Thornhill pressed her lips together. “Why can’t you use rosewater, like other ladies? Oh, it hardly matters. I have some good news, Felicity.”
Felicity finished pouring out the tea and sat back. She didn’t dare hope that it was actually good news.
By way of answer, Mrs Thornhill pushed a gilt-edged invitation across the table towards her, not quite able to hold back a smile.
“Well?” she said, expectantly. “What do you think?”
“It’s from Lanwood,” Felicity responded, leaning over it. “We’re invited to a soiree.”
“Yes! Isn’t that exciting? They’ve asked us to stay for a few days, in fact, since we were such particular friends of the old earl. Oh, Daniel, I’m not sure if you are up to date on all of this. Poor old Lord Lanwood died – the earl, you know – and naturally there was no son, only that ugly old spinster daughter of his. So, the title and the estate went to some distant cousin, some soldier that nobody has ever heard of. The county was in quite a flutter, I can tell you.”
“I can imagine,” Daniel said, keeping a firm smile on his face. “Can I assume he is unmarried?”
“He is,” Mrs Thornhill said, barely able to contain her excitement. “An earl, naturally, is quite a catch. Indeed, all the neighbouring ladies shall undoubtedly be captivated by his charm, leaving poor Felicity without a chance. Nevertheless, it is of little consequence. The Langleys were always so social, always throwing soirees and balls. It was a good opportunity for a lady looking to be married, since they knew just about everyone. See, Felicity? If you can find somebody before the Season starts proper, you might not have to join.”
Felicity bit her lip. She wondered, briefly, if there was any point saying that she didn’t want to go to the soiree.
Soirees and balls were, in her opinion, a resounding waste of time. They were too crowded to really enjoy conversation. If you liked dancing – which she did not – you could dance through your slippers if you so wished. Ladies were there to be looked at, and Felicity did not much like that.
People were never interested in her favourite subjects. If she told people she was interested in botany and gardening, they would invariably point out the flower arrangements on the tables, as if those were the same thing.
“We’re going, I assume?” Felicity managed. She hoped she didn’t sound too miserable, but apparently not. Mrs Thornhill’s face hardened.
“Daniel,” she said curtly, “Do give me a moment with my daughter.”
Daniel hesitated, as if he didn’t much want to leave Felicity alone.
There was of course nothing he could do but reluctantly got to his feet and shuffled off, closing the door behind him.
It was suddenly very quiet in the morning-room, with only the heavy ticking of a grandfather clock to break the silence.
“Your father and I have remarkably understanding of your… foibles,” Mrs Thornhill said at last. “Digging in the dirt, preparing tinctures for the servants, endlessly with your nose in a book, wasting away in the library. You don’t practice your pianoforte, you don’t paint, I can scarcely get you to embroider two stitches together. How do you intend to get a betrothed, Felicity?”
She nibbled her lip, staring down at her hands, folded in her lap.
“Would it be the worst thing if I never found a betrothed, Mama?”
Mrs Thornhill recoiled as if her daughter had slapped her.
“Really, Felicity! Do you need to ask?”
“I will have a great deal of money when I marry,” Felicity tried again, desperation creeping into her voice. “If I could have it now, I could live an independent life, I could…”
“Don’t talk of money, Felicity, it’s unbelievably vulgar, and quite unforgivable in a young lady.”
Silence bloomed between them again. Felicity scarcely dared speak in case she said the wrong thing – something which happened quite frequently. She was careful to keep her spine straight – Mrs Thornhill was a great advocate for Proper Posture – and didn’t allow her mouth to turn down at the corners or anything like that. A lady, Mrs Thornhill said, must always be composed and placid, always ready to be Fascinating, whatever that meant.
Actually, that wasn’t true. Felicity knew what Being Fascinating did not mean. It did not mean talking about oneself or one’s own interests, if one was a woman.
“Have you considered,” Mrs Thornhill said abruptly, switching tack, “that your refusal to settle down and behave properly reflects badly on Daniel?”
Felicity flinched. “What do you mean, Mama?”
That was nonsense. It had to be. Gentlemen’s reputations were sturdy things, able to weather just about anything. A lady’s reputation was like wet paper, crumpled into smithereens after one unchaperoned conversation. Even balconies were frowned upon – it was exhausting.
Mrs Thornhill pursed her lips, inspecting her nails.
“It won’t do him any good to have a positive harridan as a cousin. Besides, there are rumours about the two of you. That Daniel intends to get the rest of the Thornhill fortune by marrying you, which is why he is not married, and why you do not concern yourself with acting like a proper woman – you know your marriage is all arranged.”
Felicity recoiled. “People can’t possibly think that. Marrying Daniel would be like marrying a brother.”
“Yes, well, I think on that, at least, we agree. But you must see my point, Felicity? People are beginning to talk. You don’t want to end up like Lady Lucy, do you?”
Felicity curled her fingers into tight fists, pressing until her nails left red crescent-moons on her palms.
“Lucy is my friend, Mama. I know you don’t think well of her, but…”
“But what, Felicity? Lucy was once the foremost lady of Lanwood, and now she’s reduced to a guest.”
“That’s not true. She’s written to me often and says that the new Lord Lanwood and his mother are very kind. She’s part of the family, she said.”
Mrs Thornhill gave a derisive snort. “You are a fool, Felicity. Now, listen. Think. Lucy has a small amount of her own money, but she is heavily dependent on her new benefactors. They can make her life very uncomfortable, if they wish.”
Felicity swallowed hard. She would be lying if she hadn’t thought of this before. The late Earl had doted on his daughter, and Lucy had adored him in turn. Now, she was thrown on the mercy of strangers, with a portion waiting for her only if she married. If she chose not to marry, she would be in a difficult position indeed. What about if and when the new earl married? What would her position be then?
Heaving a sigh, Mrs Thornhill moved from her armchair, plumping down on the sofa beside Felicity.
“I know you think I am too hard on you,” Mrs Thornhill said quietly. “And it’s even more obvious by your father, who can’t bestir himself to even join us at mealtimes. He’s not a bad man, but… my point is, Felicity, if I hadn’t married your father, I would be nobody and have nothing. In our world, women marry. That is the only choice left open to them. I have seen it again and again, when spinsters are turned out of their homes when their fathers die, thrown on the mercy of unfeeling relatives, forced to live on a fraction of the income they are used to, removed from their friends and the lifestyle they are accustomed to. It can happen far too easily, Felicity. You have no brothers to care for you. You are wasting time.”
A lump rose to Felicity’s throat. To her surprise, Mrs Thornhill took her hand in a cool, loose grasp.
“You are going to the earl’s soiree,” Mrs Thornhill spoke again. “You will act like a lady. You will apply yourself to finding a match. If you do not, your father and I will be forced to take extreme measures to make you pay attention. Your books will be taken away. You will not be allowed to go into your garden. If you continue to be stubborn, I will have all of your plants pulled up and burned. Do you understand me?”
Felicity’s hand lay in her mother’s like a dead fish.
“Yes,” she whispered, her tongue heavy in her mouth.
“Good,” Mrs Thornhill gave her hand one last squeeze and let it go. “And your hands really are getting too coarse. I’ll pick out a balm for you to try.”
Chapter Three
Nobody could talk about anything but the upcoming Lanwood soiree. Only the Thornhills had been invited to stay for a few days, on Lucy’s particular request, and there was no shortage of jealousy.
For the first time, Felicity wished she was a little more active in the gossip circles. She learned, with a measure of surprise, that the new earl was shockingly reclusive. Nobody had been to the house since the funeral, and even Lucy did not invite people over.
I hope they are taking care of her, Felicity thought, with a shiver. Lucy was so softly spoken, so kind, and it hurt to imagine her surrounded by cold strangers.
Daniel had tried to find out what Mrs Thornhill had said, but Felicity had neatly avoided the questions as best she could. She didn’t particularly want to repeat what her mother had said, especially about Lucy’s fate.
What would happen to me if Papa died? Felicity wondered, more than once. She’d assumed that she would simply receive her portion, as she would if she was married, but now she had doubts. What legal safeguards were in place? What would the executor of her father’s will decide?
Perhaps I’d just end up poor, with a tremendous fortune just beyond my reach, a mere wedding ring’s width between us.
That was not a particularly pleasant thought.
They waited in the carriage for Mrs Thornhill to join, Felicity and her father sitting in companionable silence. Daniel was travelling to Lanwood House separately.
“I hear your mama had a word with you earlier,” Mr Thornhill said, after a long pause.
Felicity swallowed. “She said if I didn’t apply myself to proper behaviour and find a betrothed, she will take my books and my gardens away from me.”
Mr Thornhill sighed. “It seemed extreme to me, but your mother generally knows best about this sort of thing, you know.”
Felicity pointedly said nothing. Her father shifted uncomfortably, and she found herself wondering whether this meeting had been set up deliberately, so that she could know that her father was united with her mother, and that there would be no appeal and no escape if Felicity did not oblige.
“Marriage is the best thing for a woman, you know,” Mr Thornhill said, looking more and more uncomfortable with each passing minute. “You’re twenty-three, and soon enough gentlemen won’t be interested in you. Younger girls are coming out every year, pretty, naïve young debutantes, some with fortunes of their own. The world isn’t designed for ladies, my dear.”
Another silence.
“The medicine worked, by the way.” Felicity said, and her father frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the tea I made up for Susanna, who gets such awful megrims. I spent weeks researching it. I tried it on myself half a dozen times, but I don’t really get enough headaches to test it properly. I gave it to Susanna just the other week, and she told me that it worked. Within half an hour, her megrim was gone. It tastes vile, she says, but it worked. She asked me to make up some more, a dried mixture, so she can make it herself next time she has a megrim. Cook asked for some, too. It works, Papa.”
Mr Thornhill seemed to get even more uncomfortable.
“Well, well, very nicely done. If only you were a boy, my dear, you could become a doctor or an apothecary.”
“Yes,” Felicity murmured. “If only.”
Then Mrs Thornhill appeared, trailing silk and strings of pearls, sailing out of the front door, down the steps, and across the gravel towards the waiting carriage.
“Here I am, here I am,” she breathed, clambering up into the seat beside Felicity. “Come, Felicity, sit up straight. That pink satin becomes you very well, I must say. Now, I expect you to try your best to get gentlemen to dance with you.”
“How am I to do that? Should I ask them?”
“Don’t be silly. You must apply yourself, Felicity. I shall be watching,” she added, in a cool tone.
Felicity swallowed.
***
Lanwood Manor was much the same as it had always been. Felicity noticed a few changes as they rolled up the drive. The garden was less manicured than before, for one, more natural. She liked it better that way.
Then the carriage lurched to a halt and it was time to get out. She did so, pointedly not looking at the hedges at one side of the carriage, in case she saw an interesting plant.
She would compliment the gardens, she decided, but in a light, casual, general sort of manner.
Yes, that might work.
“Welcome, welcome!” chirped a bird-like woman standing at the top of the steps, smiling. She was young-looking for a woman of her age – Felicity assumed that she was the new earl’s mother – and dressed well and fashionably. Lucy stood beside her, and Felicity was relieved that her face looked smooth, calm, and content. Not at all as if she was being locked in her room and treated like a burden.
“I am Mrs Langley,” the woman said, smiling. “Arthur is my son. Lord Lanwood, that is. I’m afraid he’s a little indisposed at the moment, but I hope he’ll join us soon. What a pleasure to meet you all!”
Introductions went around, with Daniel riding up at the perfect moment to join them. It was all very smooth and polite, and Mrs Langley chattered along so easily and in such a friendly manner that Felicity felt at ease soon enough. She watched the tension leak out of her mother’s spine as she laughed at Mrs Langley’s comments.
“Come along, come along,” Mrs Langley said, good-humouredly herding them along a passage which Felicity recognized as leading to the good parlour.
“If you don’t mind, Beatrice, Felicity and I will take tea in my parlour,” Lucy spoke up, taking Felicity’s hand. “We haven’t seen each other in so long.”
Mrs Thornhill frowned, but before she could voice an objection, Mrs Langley gave a tinkling laugh.
“Oh, of course, Lucy! How thoughtless of me, I never rang for tea in your parlour!”
“Not to worry, Beatrice. We’ll see you soon.”
Lucy looped her arm through Felicity’s and led her away.
“Is it the same room you had when your father was alive?” Felicity asked in a low voice.”
“It certainly is,” Lucy said, grinning. “I have just as much space in the house as I did when Papa was here. More, almost – Arthur took it into his head that I should have a private study, too, and had one of the storerooms converted. It’s a lovely little place, although I never use it.”
“So they’re… they’re kind to you?”
“Very kind. Ah, here we are.”
Felicity knew Lucy’s parlour like the back of her hand. It was a small room, white-painted, furnished for comfort rather than style. A little fire was burning in the grate, and Lucy threw herself into a comfortable, well-worn armchair.
“It seems like forever since we’ve had guests,” she said, with a sigh. “A lifetime ago. What have I missed?”
Felicity blinked down at her friend. Lucy lifted an eyebrow.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. You just seem so… so… happy.”
“Would you rather I be in floods of tears? I can assure you, I’ve shed plenty of tears for Papa.”
“No, no, of course not! It’s just… well, this must be difficult for you. Living here, with them.” Felicity sank down into a seat, shaking her head. For the first time, she realized just how bone-tired she was. “Mama is trying to pressure me into marrying. She threatened to take away my books.”
“Oh, that’s horrid!”
Felicity shrugged wearily. “There’s not a great deal I can do. She told me what it’s like for an unmarried woman as she gets older. She held you up as an example.”
Lucy bit her lip, looking away. Felicity cursed herself for being so thoughtless.
Mama was right, she thought sourly. I never do look before I leap.
“Lucy, I didn’t mean…”
“No, no, I’m not upset. The truth is, Mrs Thornhill isn’t wrong. I don’t have a great deal of money. I lost my father, which was awful enough, but I lost my protector, too. But I’m no pauper, Felicity. I’m not alone in the world. I’m fortunate that Arthur and Beatrice are so kind. She has no daughter, you see, and likes to pretend that I’m hers. I can scarcely remember my mother, but I like to imagine she was like Beatrice. Arthur supplements my allowance and has doubled the portion I’ll get if I ever marry. They’re good people, Felicity.”
A flash of guilt stung Felicity, and she sank lower in her seat.
“I’m sorry, Lucy. I have not had the pleasure of your company in quite some time, and now I find myself making a blunder in my attempt to reconnect with you..”
“Don’t have such thoughts. I’m thrilled to see you. Ah, here’s the tea.”
The butler appeared – the same faithful old Mr Podge who’d served the late Earl for years, which seemed like a good sign to Felicity – and placed down a tea-tray. He bowed officiously and left, closing the door softly behind him.
For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed between the two women.
“What is he like, then?” Felicity heard herself say. “The new earl, that is. I’m hearing all sorts of thrilling rumours. That he’s got some kind of hideous deformity, or a wife in the attic, and of course he’s the most eligible man in the county. Poor Daniel will be tipped off his perch.”
Lucy took a thoughtful sip of her tea. “Well, I can assure you there’s no wife in the attic. As to the deformity, do you mean his scar?”
You idiot, Felicity!
She winced. “I was only repeating gossip. I didn’t mean to imply… I didn’t know he had a scar.”
Lucy nodded. “It’s rather nasty. He got it in the war, I believe. He’s a hero, if you believe Beatrice, but I think he would rather have not gone at all. Poor man. I like him very much, Felicity. A few neighbours have paid calls, and dropped hints that he should marry me – to set things right, they said – and I fairly died of mortification. I have no intention of marrying the poor man, but I daresay he’ll be a target. He’s barely thirty, and quite handsome, scar notwithstanding.”
Felicity sipped her tea quietly for a few moments. They sat in companionable silence, each woman wrapped in her own thoughts. A weight had lifted from Felicity’s shoulders that she hadn’t even realized was there.
Her friend was safe, and happy. She wasn’t alone. She was still grieving her father, naturally, but it was clear that Mrs Langley cared for her, and the Earl had taken on the role of her protector.
I had nothing to worry about, Felicity thought, feeling just a little silly.
“I’ve missed you,” Lucy said, breaking the silence. “Beatrice told me I could have guests over, many times. I even wrote out the notes more than once. But…” she trailed off, and Felicity frowned.
“But, what?”
“Well – and please don’t repeat this – Arthur is somewhat reclusive. He wasn’t always like this. He’s never been fond of society, but Beatrice tells me that he came back from the war a different man. He can’t bear too much noise, too much excitement.”
“How will he manage the soiree?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. We decided to have a few guests over first, to get him used to it – that’s where you all come in – and he’s promised to try. Beatrice is worried about him, and so am I. He’s a good man, and he doesn’t deserve to suffer.”
Lucy stirred her tea with a little too much energy, clanking the spoon off the side of the cup.
She changed the subject from Arthur after that, talking instead about what had happened in the county, about the upcoming Season – Felicity didn’t much want to talk about that, but it seemed to interest Lucy, so she forced herself – and various other topics.
They’d been sitting in the parlour for a full hour, their tea gone cold, by the time Lucy finally glanced at the clock, sighed, and got to her feet.
“We should go back and join the others, I suppose.”
“Oh, naturally. I was wondering if I could get that book from your library first, though?”
The book in question was a volume on botany, of course. The late earl had promised Felicity she could have it, but had died before she could pick it up. Of course, then all thoughts of the book went out of her head, and she’d only remembered recently.
Lucy chuckled, eyes misting over with a memory. “Of course you can, dear. Meet me back in the main parlour, won’t you?”
“I will.”
Felicity knew the way to the library, of course she did. The Lanwood library was larger even than theirs, with books from all over the world. There was a whole section on botany, which Felicity had read through at some time or another. There were books on natural history, on literature, on every conceivable subject and science.
The Lanwood library was less well-read than the Thornhill one, but that was hardly the point.
Humming to herself, Felicity all but skipped down the halls. It felt good to be back here again, the house which had felt like a second home to her. She had no sisters, so Lucy had always felt as close as a sister. They had that in common – they were both only children, with all the troubles that entailed.
The library door was a huge, arched thing, made of carved wood and shockingly heavy. Nobody used that door, of course. A smaller door opened up in the side, which Felicity ducked to get through and then she was inside.
Light spilled generously into the library, the bookcases set out almost haphazardly, like a maze, with chairs sitting at random. A huge fireplace dominated the wall nearest the door, although it was unlit. The sun warmed the library enough for most of the day, and the bookshelves were carefully turned away from the window to prevent the covers fading.
She stopped for a moment, breathing in the delicious, dry scent of paper and furniture wax, watching dust motes dance in sunbeams. It was really picturesque. If Felicity had any talent with drawing or painting, she might try to capture it.
No time to waste, she reprimanded herself. Remember what Mama said about making a good impression, or else there’ll be no books at all.
She hurried across the room, heels clunking on the rough wooden floor, to the section marked Botany. Fingers skimming over the spines, she looked out for the title she was here for. She would just grab it, dart up to her room to secure it, and then…
A floorboard creaked behind her, and Felicity froze.
Holding her breath, she risked a glance over her shoulder.
A man stood there, tall and dark and severe-looking, with a pixie-like nose and smooth, handsome features that were marred by a vicious-looking scar. The scar was vivid red and raised and went from his hairline to his cheek. Felicity had never seen a person with such a nasty mark.
He cleared his throat, and she realized she was staring. Colour leapt to her cheeks. With her fingers around the spine of the book she wanted, Felicity began to wonder whether she should have secured Mrs Langley’s permission first.
Did he think she was stealing?
“I… I thought nobody was here,” she heard herself say, thinly and nervously.
The man didn’t smile. She had already guessed who he was, even without the tell-tale scar.
What is the Earl of Lanwood doing in here, hiding, instead of greeting his guests? She thought.
He didn’t speak, and she licked her lips nervously.
“I… I am Miss Felicity Thornhill. Who are you, might I ask?”
“I am Lord Arthur Langley,” he said, his voice a deep, disapproving rumble. “I am the earl of Lanwood. I don’t think you should be in here, Miss Thornhill.”
I hope you enjoyed the preview of my new novel“A Damsel for the Wounded Earl It will be live on Amazon soon…
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Loved the first few chapters. When will the book be released?