Page 56 of A Damsel for the Wounded Earl
“I can be silent no longer, Arthur.”
“Miss Sinclair, please, you are entirely too close. We should not even be in here together.”
“I don’t care. You cannot, my dearest Arthur, be insensible of my intentions. I have loved you for…”
“Please, stop,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. There was no room to duck away from her, and short of pushing her roughly away, no way to put some space between them. “You don’t love me, Miranda. You never did.”
Her beautiful eyes narrowed, just for an instant, then took on a doleful expression.
“Oh, you are as hard-hearted as ever. How could you say that to me? You know how I adored you. If you resent me over breaking our engagement…”
“I do not resent you.”
“Well, then why will you not admit your feelings for me? I thought I was doing the right thing. I have regretted it often, Arthur.”
He smiled grimly. “That, I can believe. Miranda, I am not a fool. Perhaps I loved you once, or perhaps I simply convinced myself that I did. Both of us are different people now, with different aims and wants. I know you wish to marry, and I hope with all my heart that you are able to find a man you can truly love. But that man is not me. I can’t make you an offer, Miranda.”
For a second, anger flitted across her face, hastily hidden. She surged further forward, if that was possible, placing her palms on his chest and standing up on her tiptoes in an attempt to kiss him.
Arthur put both hands on her arms, intending to push her away. In a moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity, he glanced over her shoulder and saw Felicity Thornhill.
She was standing just outside the alcove, staring straight at him, her expression blank. A maid stood behind her, looking equal parts appalled and thrilled.
“Felicity,” he gasped, the name coming out of him in a rush of air. Miranda stepped back, turning to face their audience, seeming entirely unashamed.
“Do excuse me,” Felicity said, her voice stiff and uneven. “I…”
“This is not what it seems, Felicity.”
She barely seemed to hear him. “I did not mean to interrupt. Please… please accept my congratulations. Do excuse me.”
She turned on her heel, hair still falling untidily around her shoulders, and all but ran out of the ballroom, pursued by the maid.
Pushing past Miranda, Arthur hurried after her.
“Felicity, please!”
He ran out into the hallway, but it was no use. She had already gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Lord Vincent wants an audience with you,” Mrs. Thornhill said shortly, simmering with barely suppressed excitement. “He’s waiting in the good parlour.”
Felicity lifted her head from her pillow with an effort.
It was morning again, and the events of the disastrous ball the previous night almost seemed like a dream.
Not a dream, of course. She remembered it all in painful detail – the chandelier crashing down, screams, glass in her hair.
Miranda and Arthur, inches between them, clearly about to kiss.
She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to swallow down the feeling of disappointment and misery.
How could I have been so foolish? Miranda tried to warn me off. Twice, in fact. If I’d only had eyes, I would have seen how close the two of them were.
Curling up in bed, she pressed her face deeper into the pillow.
“Felicity?” Mrs. Thornhill said, sounding a little more annoyed now. “Get up and dress at once. He won’t wait forever. You have fifteen minutes before I will have you dragged out of bed.”
