The voice was familiar enough that she hesitated in her movement, turning instantly to meet Natasha Corkwood’s bright eyes, glittering with interest as she waved from the top of the stairs, bobbing and weaving to keep contact with Felicity. She turned to say something to her companion, and Jared, Lord Faulk, looked over his shoulder to follow her gaze, recognition and something else flaring in his eyes. Something predatory.
Felicity looked away immediately, redoubling her movements up the stairs.
When she reached the top, Natasha called out again, closer than Felicity would like. “Felicity!”
“Darling, we should stop. Lady Natasha and Lord Faulk are your friends.” As simple as that, her mother swept the past away, as though eighteen months of shame and sadness and confusion was nothing.
Friendship is not always what we think.
Devil’s words echoed through her, tempting her to turn her back and leave them there, in front of every Londoner whose good opinion they courted. Instead, she turned to face them.
“Felicity!” Natasha said, breathless, face full of a false smile. “We’ve been waiting for you!” Her hand settled on Felicity’s arm.
Felicity’s gaze settled on the offending touch for long enough that Natasha removed it, at which point Felicity looked up and said, “Why?”
Color washed over Tasha’s cheeks and she blinked, a little nervous laugh accompanying her surprise. “Why—because we have missed you!” Her eyes flickered to her brother. “Haven’t we, Jared?”
Lord Faulk grinned, revealing large teeth, nearly too big for his mouth. “Of course.”
As though the past had never happened. As though they’d had a vague disagreement after too much champagne instead of the lot of them pretending that Felicity did not exist for eighteen months. As though they were still her people.
As though she ever wanted them to be again.
Unfortunates.
Devil’s word again, low and dark, whispering in her ear, its memory bringing her strength.
“Your gown is stunning.” Natasha was still talking, and Felicity’s hands moved of their own volition to her skirts, full and fuchsia, as pink as pink came. The gown had arrived that morning from the dressmaker Madame Hebert—along with a little note from the Frenchwoman, thanking Felicity for her business with once and future dukes . . . and any others who might happen along and enjoy you in pink.
And it was stunning, lavish beyond anything she’d ever worn before, with a low-cut neckline revealing a wide expanse of shoulders, along with magnificent pink skirts shot through with deep eggplant silk thread, the whole thing giving the gown the look of sunset.
Or better, the Devon sky at sunset.
She wished Devil could see it.
Devil would see it, of course. The moment she finished with the duke, whom she could not find in the crush of people. The thought set her heart pounding, and Felicity went looking for her fiancé, pressing further into the ballroom.
“Thank you, Natasha—you always look so beautifully turned out, as well,” the marchioness offered at the edge of her attention, filling the silence when Felicity did not.
Tasha dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, my lady. And my congratulations to you as well—on your soon-to-be son-in-law!”
The marchioness tittered.
Natasha tittered.
Jared grinned.
Felicity looked from one face to the next and said, “Am I mad, or are you attempting to befriend me once more?”
Color rose high on Natasha’s cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”
“Felicity!” her mother interjected.
“I’m quite serious, Natasha. It seems as though you would like to pretend that we never fell out. That you never exited me from your group—isn’t that what you called it?”
Natasha’s mouth opened and then closed.
Felicity ignored her former friend, remarkably uninterested in her—for the first time in possibly ever. She searched the sea of revelers headed for the ballroom. Freedom. Without farewell, she said, “I must find the duke.”
“Oh, of course she must,” the marchioness said overexcitedly, for some reason all too eager to keep their hangers-on hanging on. Sotto voce, she added, “Engaged couples wish to be in each other’s company as much as possible, you must know.”
“Oh, of course,” Natasha fawned for the benefit of all assembled. “We’re still so impressed you managed to land him! After all, Felicity isn’t exactly the kind of wife a duke comes for.”
“I didn’t land him,” Felicity said absently, pressing forward.
Natasha took on the look of a wild barn cat, mouse in sight. “You didn’t?”
Silence followed, then her mother’s too loud laughter. “Oh, Felicity! What a jest. Of course, the banns have been read! There was an announcement in the News!”
“I suppose so. Well, either way, I would not take such interest in it, Tasha . . .” Felicity said, turning a cool gaze on the other woman, “as even if I did land him, you’d never be welcome in our home, anyway.”
Tasha’s mouth fell open at the words, and Felicity’s mother gasped her horror at Felicity’s rudeness. Blessedly, Felicity was saved from having to continue by the discovery of her fiancé, a blond head taller than anyone else in the ballroom, on the other side of the mad crush. The moment she saw him, her heart began to pound. She broke away from her unwelcome companions, weaving through the crowd to get to him.
To get free of him.
He was alone when she reached him, stick-straight and staring aimlessly at the crowd. She placed herself directly in front of him. “Hello, Your Grace.”
His gaze flickered to her, then back to the ball. “I asked you not to call me that.” He paused. “Who is that woman?”
She looked over her shoulder to find Natasha simpering nearby, playing the wide-eyed victim.
“Lady Natasha Corkwood.”
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her she’d never be welcome in our home.”
He met her eyes. “Why not?”
“Because she hurt me. And I find I’m through with being hurt.”
He shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“Not that it matters, as we shan’t share a home.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it’s a fine figure of speech, and I’m sure it helped get your point across.”
She took a deep breath. “That’s not what I meant, though.”
He looked to her, and she saw understanding in his gaze. Understanding and something else. Something like . . . respect? “What is it?”
It seemed fitting that an engagement begun in front of all the world ended in front of it. At least Felicity was ending it to the duke’s face, instead of to a collection of maddening gossips. “I’m afraid I cannot marry you.”
That got his attention. He watched her for a long moment, and then said, “May I ask why?”
Half the world was watching, and Felicity found she did not care. But surely the duke cared. “Would you like to find a place where we might . . . talk?”
“Not particularly,” he said.
That gave her pause. “Your Gr—” She stopped. “Duke.”
“Tell me why.”
“All right,” she said, her heart pounding. “Because I love another. Because I think he could love me. All I have to do is convince him that I want him more than I want this world.”
He met her eyes. “I don’t imagine your father will be thrilled with your decision.”
She shook her head. “I don’t imagine so. I was something of a last hope for him.”