Page 31 of Felicity Cabot Sells Her Soul
Felicity shrieked, jerking away and shrinking back against her seat. It was a long, fraught moment before the rasp of her breath eased enough for speech. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked in an odd, strangled wheeze. “You frightened me out of my wits.”
“I have an engagement at the theatre this evening. I thought you might enjoy attending.” She’d been tense lately. Her surliness he’d come to expect, but since she had returned to work she’d grown ever more jumpy and agitated. He’d thought she might welcome a diversion. He’d hoped, anyway.
“What?” Felicity swayed in her seat as the carriage lurched into motion. “The theatre? Since when do you attend the theatre?”
“I don’t, generally,” Ian said. “But a gentleman of my acquaintance wishes me to invest in his railway venture, and he’s hired out a box for the evening, presumably to impress me. I decided I would accept his invitation and hear him out. It seemed a reasonable use of my hour.”
Felicity braced one hand beside the window, stiffening her shoulders through a turn of the carriage as it carried them toward the center of town. “I’m not dressed for the theatre.”
“No one would dare remark upon it.”
“I won’t make a good impression upon your friend.”
“He’s not a friend. I don’t have friends. I have business associates, rivals—even an enemy or two.” Though none to his knowledge that would dare cross him by threatening his wife. In business, absolutely. But even those few rare men who harbored some resentment for him would have known better than to court the scorched earth and hellfire Ian would have rained down upon them if they had dared to threaten Felicity. “You don’t have to impress him; he ought to be more concerned with impressing you.”
“I won’t be impressed.” That stubborn little chin notched up; he saw thepoint of it in a slice of light that cut through the slit between the curtains.
Ian pressed his lips together against the wry smile that threatened. He hadn’t thought she would be. At least, he had never expected her to admit to it of her own accord. “I’m not asking you to be impressed,” he said. “I only thought you might enjoy the opportunity to attend the play. It’s a performance ofMuch Ado About Nothing.”
Not one of his favorites…but it had once been one of hers. He fancied he could hear the indecision swirling about her mind. A woman of her position—or the position which had once been hers—would have had precious few opportunities to attend such events, and certainly never in such a manner. The sum she earned in wages was likely not so great so as to afford her the opportunity to attend the theatre even in the cheapest seats, much less a private box.
“Why?” she asked, and he could hear the tension in her voice. “You don’t enjoy the theatre. You don’t even enjoy this particular play.”
“I don’t have to enjoy it myself. It’s enough for me that you enjoy it.” The carriage began to slow, and the city noise that collected around them told him that they had nearly arrived. “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face,” he said. “When did you last have the opportunity to attend the theatre?”
She made some vague, noncommittal sound beneath her breath, and Ian could only guess that she had elected not to argue further. As the carriage pulled to a stop, he cast open the door, and Felicity briefly recoiled from the sudden advent of light, the burst of sound that poured inside from the people milling about outside the theatre. For a moment she sat, still and silent, those vivid green eyes lighting upon the couples that passed in their elegant evening attire. Wariness and trepidation flitted across her face.
Brighton had long been a popular destination for the aristocracy and the otherwise well-heeled. But she had never before been among them. Women swanned by in silks and velvets and furs, and she had only a plain black dress and a battered grey coat.
“You look beautiful,” he said as he climbed out of the carriage and offered her his hand. “You always look beautiful. It doesn’t matter what you wear.”
She seemed to steel herself to plunge into the thick of the crowd, and at last she set her cold fingers in his and allowed him to help her from the carriage. He didn’t fool himself that she stuck so closely to his side for any other reason than his obvious escort, the legitimacy his own evening wear lent to her presence here.
“You ought to visit a modiste and order some evening gowns,” he said as he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “If you had them, you might feel more comfortable returning.”
Her head jerked toward his. “Returning?”
“To the theatre. I’ve not attended frequently enough to make it worth going to the bother of purchasing a box.” And he had little enough patience for the overblown dramas played out upon the stage. “But if you enjoy it, I’ll acquire one for you.”
“I don’t need a theatre box.”
“No oneneedsa theatre box. But if you want one—” Ah, hell. There was Mr. Jennings. And he’d brought company of his own. Ian gave a subtle jerk of his chin toward the man standing beside the door of the theatre. “That is Mr. Jennings,” he said. “Our host for the evening.”
Felicity’s hand tightened upon his arm. “Who is the woman with him?”
“His daughter, I believe.” Or some other such relation. Certainly she was not his wife. Ian had met the woman, once, at a dinner party, and she had been a lovely woman—but she had also been at least fifty years old, and the woman standing at Mr. Jennings’ side was in her mid-twenties at most.
“She’s quite pretty.” The words had an odd, hollow sound to them. Monotone in their delivery, as if she had stripped any predisposition to an emotional inflection away with her teeth as she’d spoken them. “Do men generally bring their daughters on matters of business?”
Only if one had some sort of ulterior motive. Such as presenting a daughter of marriageable age to a potential match. It wouldn’t be the first time that a young lady had been cast at his head—but it would damned well be the last. “Jennings,” he said as they approached, clasping his hand over Felicity’s where it was tucked still into the crook of his elbow. “My thanks for your kind offer this evening. My wife is quite fond of Shakespeare.”
“Your wife!” Mr. Jennings’ jaw fell open in surprise.
“Did my solicitor not make mention of our marriage?” Ian asked as a ruddy flush crawled into Jennings’ cheeks. “Perhaps he assumed you knew already. Mr. Jennings, this is my wife, Felicity.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Carlisle,” Mr. Jennings managed to say awkwardly, as Felicity murmured her own greeting. “And this is my daughter, Louisa. She—she is also quite fond of Shakespeare.”
“I really am not,” Louisa said, with an amiable smile, and Ian wondered if Felicity had taken note of the woman’s obvious relief at the announcement of their marriage. “But I will be glad of thecompany. I can think of little more tedious than enduring endless discussions of business. Excepting, of course, Shakespeare.”
