Page 19 of Felicity Cabot Sells Her Soul
He simply hadn’t expected this particular wound to hurt quite so much. Probably it had only been catharsis for her, the cleansing by fire of this small reminder of a time she would rather forget. Probably if she had had any idea it would wound him so, she would’ve waited for him to be present.
Ian crossed the room to tuck the scrap of paper within the drawer of his nightstand. She’d eaten the cheesecake at least—but then, it had always been one of her favorites. Her wedding ring sat there beside the plate, still untouched, as if she had not even noticed its presence.
Perhaps one day it, too, would receive a baptism by fire. And he—he would just have to make his peace with that. She’d earned the right to her enmity. A grudge unsatisfied for ten years left its marks upon a person.Hehad made her into the angry, bitter, wounded woman she was. He’d hurt her in a way that transcended the ordinary. In a way that had left gouges upon her heart, changed her from the shy little dreamer she had been into the distrustful, guarded woman she had become. Scraped away the softness he had adored, fashioned her into a tougher, sharper version of herself, one strong enough to survive the blow he’d dealt to her.
Strong enough to harden that wounded heart. Strong enough to weather on without him. And she had, admirably, until her position had become untenable. Until she had had no other place to turn.
It would be a half an hour at least until the room was sufficiently warm again. Ian reached for the corner of the counterpane that clung to the foot of the bed and yanked it back up, gingerly spreading it across the bed. Felicity shivered as the fabric slid over her, huddling beneath it for a moment. And then, as it began to warm with the heat of her body, at last she gave a low sigh and stretched out once more, flopping onto her back and draping one arm above her head.
In that moment, with the last echo of that sigh still on her lips, she looked just as she had ten years ago. Those sharply-winged brows now soft, her full lips smooth and without the slightest hint of a pinch to them. Instead of hollowed in anger, there was a tiny crescent of a dimple in her cheek.
He sank down at the edge of the bed, one hand lifting to rub at the spot over the ache in his chest. This was what he’d given up any right to ten years ago. Coming to bed to find her waiting there for him. The right to breach that sacred space in the center of the bed which served as a barrier between them.The right to touch her, and to know that it wouldn’t earn him a swift rebuke.
Instead his hands fisted impotently in his lap.
If he climbed into bed now, he’d spend an hour or more staring at the ceiling thinking of nothing but her. The soft, even cadence of her breath. The warmth emanating from her side of the bed. The drape of her thick, dark plait across the pillows. The mounds of her breasts beneath the counterpane.
Christ. Ian vaulted off the bed and made for the door in long, swift strides. Another hour of work, then, before bed. And a glass of something particularly strong to numb his brain enough for sleep.
Chapter Seven
Felicity blew out an exasperated breath and used the sleeve of her coat to scrub the mist of condensation from the window of Ian’s carriage as it carried her away from the school and back toward his home once more.
Nothing yet from Charity, nor even from Mercy. Nothing at all, in the nearly two weeks now that she had been married. Charity was not a particularly faithful correspondent; she tended to write only when she had some particular news to impart. In point of fact, the last letter that Felicity had received from Charity unprompted had been regarding their father’s death. But Charity had also never failedto promptly respond to a letter which had been sent to her. Mercy, at least, had the excuse of being a relatively new mother to a young daughter. But still—two weeks without even a letter, when she had begged her sisters’ help.
The headache she had been nursing most of the day burned behind her eyes. It had been a long and difficult day. According to Miss Hargreaves—the new deportment teacher—Dorothea had been caught in possession of a note from one Elias Marchant, though God alone knew how she had received it, since nothing had come through the post for Dorothea just lately. Naturally, Miss Hargreaves had confiscated the note and passed it along to Felicity immediately upon its discovery.
But upon questioning, Dorothea had merely tipped up her exceptionally long nose and refused to utter a word about it. And no amount of pleading, of Felicity’s explanations that she owed a duty of care to every girl enrolled, or of stressing that she was only concerned for Dorothea’s well-being and reputation had held even the slightest sway over the girl.
Felicity had had no choice but to restrict her to the house for the rest of the Christmas holiday, which had, of course, made Dorothea deliriously angry. At the very least, Felicity could be certain that the staff would keep a close watch over the headstrong girl.
These problems were now hers to manage, and yet it felt rather hypocritical of her to do so in this fashion, given that in heryounger days she had successfully nipped out of the house more times than she could count, with Nellie none the wiser for it. But who better, she supposed, to guard the girls in her care from such mistakes than one who had already made them?
Her stomach churned as the carriage took a turn and the lamps lining the street streaked past her eyes in a dizzying, frenetic blur. It had been well over a week since she’d last received one of those queer, vaguely-threatening letters—but she’d felt rather morewatchedlately than usual. She’d been more grateful for the use of Ian’s carriage than she had wanted to be, if only because the distance from the door of the school to the safety of the carriage—which could always be found parked upon the street directly in front whenever she was done with her duties—was a short one. So much shorter than the walk to Ian’s house would have been, and far less fraught with the shadows that had seemed, in recent days, to grow increasingly ominous.
Anything might have lurked within them. Anyonemight have lurked within them. She didn’t think she had been followed since that first night she had returned to the school from Ian’s home, but she could still remember the shape of the man she’d seen so briefly. Somehow it was worse that she had not been able to clearly see his face. He’d been built like a dockworker, but that was true of any number of men. She could have passed the man a dozen or more times upon the street and been none the wiser for it.
Another disorienting shift of the carriage as it turned once more down Ian’s quiet street. Felicity braced her feet on the floor, prepared to vault out of the carriage the moment it came to a stop.
She cast open the door even before the driver had managed to climb down from his perch, and the light pouring through the windows of the house seared her aching eyes. Her knees trembled as she climbed out onto the pavement.
“Evening, Mrs. Carlisle,” the driver called.
“Yes,” she said. “Good evening.” She still wasn’t certain what his name was, but then she’d only met a handful of Ian’s staff. Many of them performed their duties during the daylight hours when she was away at the school, and had been relieved of their duties by the time she returned home.
Butler, however, was a constant, and he had clearly been waiting for her return. The door opened before she had even reached it, and Felicity breathed a sigh of relief as she made the house at last and the door closed behind her.
“You look like hell.”
Felicity shrieked, and the sound sailed around the high ceiling, careened down hallways and reverberated back to her ears. One hand clutched at herchest as if she might calm her racing heart with the pressure of it. “You frightened me out of my wits,” she accused in a hiss as she caught sight of Ian standing beside the door. “I thought you were Butler. Where is he?”
“Taken ill,” he said. “There’s some sort of sickness going about. Half the staff is afflicted. As a result…” Ian paused to slip his hand into his pocket and remove a paper-wrapped item, which he tossed to her.
Felicity caught it one-handed. “What is this?”
“Dinner. I’m afraid our cook is ill as well, and the kitchen staff besides. I wasn’t certain whether or not you’d eaten at the school, but I didn’t care to leave it to chance. It might not be hot any longer, but it should at least be moderately warm.”
It was hot enough still to warm her fingers through the paper. Carefully Felicity peeled back the wrapping, and a tiny burst of steam carried the yeasty scent of bread redolent with rosemary and garlic toward her nose. A beef pasty. Despite herself, her mouth watered. They’d been a rare treat years ago, and had somehow become rarer still lately—even if she had the funds to afford them, she’d so rarely had the time to obtain them.
