“You aren’t going to hurt me,” he said.
Felicity didn’t like how well he seemed to understand her bravado was just that. “You seem terribly sure of yourself for someone who does not know me.”
“I know you, Felicity Faircloth. I knew you the moment I saw you on that balcony outside Marwick’s locked conservatory. The only thing I did not know was the color of that frock.”
She looked down at the dress, a season too old and the color of her cheeks. “It’s pink.”
“Not just pink,” he said, his voice dark with promise and something else that she did not like. “It’s the color of the Devon sky at dawn.”
She didn’t like the way the words filled her, as though she might someday see that sky and think of this man and this moment. As though he might leave a mark she could not erase.
“Answer my question and I will leave.”
Why did you lie?
“I don’t remember it.”
“Yes, you do. Why did you lie to that collection of unfortunates?” The description was so ridiculous that she nearly laughed. Nearly. But he didn’t seem to find it amusing.
“They aren’t so unfortunate.”
“They’re pompous, spoiled aristocrats with their heads shoved so far up each others’ asses, they haven’t any idea that the world is quickly moving on and others will soon take their place.”
Her jaw dropped.
“But you, Felicity Faircloth.” He tapped his stick on his boot twice. “No one is taking your place. And so I will ask again. Why did you lie to them?”
Whether it was the shock of his description or his matter-of-fact way of doing the describing, Felicity replied, “No one wishes my place.” He did not speak, and so she filled the silence. “By which I mean to say . . . my place is nothing. It’s nowhere. It was once with them, but then . . .” She trailed off. Shrugged. “I am invisible.” And then, because she couldn’t stop herself, she added, softly, “I wanted to punish them. And I wanted them to want me back.”
She hated the truth in the words. Shouldn’t she be strong enough to turn her back on them? Shouldn’t she care less? She hated the weakness he’d exposed.
And she hated him for exposing it.
She waited for him to reply from the darkness, strangely reminded of the time she’d visited the Royal Entomological Society and seen an enormous butterfly trapped in amber. Beautiful and delicate and perfectly preserved, but frozen in time, forever.
This man would not capture her. Not today. “I think I shall call a servant to come and take you away. You should know my father is a marquess, and it is quite illegal to enter a home of the aristocracy without permission.”
“It’s quite illegal to enter anyone’s home without permission, Felicity Faircloth, but would you like me to tell you I am duly impressed by your father’s title, and your brother’s, too?”
“Why should I be the only one who lies tonight?”
A pause, then, “So you admit it.”
“I might as well—all of London will know it tomorrow. Flighty Felicity with her fanciful fiancé.”
The alliteration did not amuse him. “You know, your father’s title is ridiculous. Your brother’s, too.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said, for lack of anything else.
“Bumble and Grout. Good Lord. When poverty at long last ensnares them, they can always become apothecaries. Selling tinctures and tonics to the desperate in Lambeth.”
He knew they were impoverished. Did all of London? Was she the last to discover it? The last to be told, even by the family that intended to use her to reverse it? Irritation flared at the thought.
The man continued. “And you, Felicity Faircloth, with a name that should be in a storybook.”
She cut him a look. “I did so wonder about your opinion of our respective names.”
He ignored her set-down. “A storybook princess, locked in a tower, desperate to be a part of the world that trapped her there . . . to be accepted by it.”
Everything about this man was unsettling and strange and vaguely infuriating. “I don’t like you.”
“No, you don’t like the truth, my little liar. You don’t like that I see that your silly wish is false friendship from a collection of poncy, perfumed aristocrats who cannot see what you really are.”
She should be a dozen kinds of out-of-sorts with him so close and in the darkness. And yet . . . “And what is that?”
“Better than those six by half.”
The answer sent a little thrill through her, and she almost allowed herself to be drawn in by this man who she might be convinced was made of magic with more champagne. Instead, she shook her head and put on her best disdain. “If only I were that princess, sirrah—then you would not be here.” She moved to the wall, ready to pull the cord again.
“Isn’t that the bit everyone likes? The bit where the princess is rescued from the tower?”
She looked over her shoulder. “That’s supposed to be a prince doing the rescuing. Not . . . whatever you are.” She reached for the cord.
He spoke before she could pull. “Who is the moth?”
She whirled back to him, embarrassment flaring. “What?”
“You wished to be a flame, princess. Who is the moth?”
Her cheeks blazed. She hadn’t said anything about moths. How did he even know what she had meant? “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”
“I shouldn’t be sitting in your dark bedchamber, either, love, but here I am.”
She narrowed her gaze. “I take it you are not the kind of man who pays attention to rules.”
“Have you known me to follow any of them in our lengthy acquaintance?”
Irritation flared. “Who are you? Why were you skulking about outside Marwick House like some nefarious . . . skulker?”
He remained unroused. “A skulking skulker, am I?”
This man, like all of London, seemed to know more than she did. He understood the battleground, had the skill to wage war. And she loathed it. She sent him her most withering look.
It had no effect. “Once more, love. If you are the flame, who is the moth?”
“Certainly not you, sir.”
“That’s a pity.”
She didn’t like the insolence in those words, either. “I feel quite satisfied with the decision.”
He gave a little laugh, a low rumble that did odd things to her. “Shall I tell you what I think?”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she snapped.
“I think your moth is very difficult to lure.” She pursed her lips but did not speak. “And I know I can get him for you.” Her breath caught as he pressed on. “The one whose wings you’ve already bragged to half of London about singeing.”
Felicity was grateful for the dimly lit room, so he couldn’t see her red face. Or her shock. Or her excitement. Was this man, who had somehow found his way into her bedchamber in the dead of night, actually suggesting she had neither ruined her life nor her family’s chances for survival?
Hope was a wild, panicked thing.
“Could you get him?”
He laughed then. Low and dark and barely humorous, sending an unwelcome thrill through her. “Like a kitten to the saucer.”
She scowled. “You should not tease.”
“When I tease you, love, you shall know it.” He leaned back again, stretching his legs out, tapping that infernal stick against his boot. “The Duke of Marwick could be yours, Felicity Faircloth. And with London never knowing the truth of your lie.”
Her breath grew shallow. “That’s impossible.” And still, she believed him, somehow.
“Is anything truly impossible?”
She forced a laugh. “Besides an eligible duke choosing me over every other woman in Britain?”