Tempting Fate Read online

  When Fabian ran his fingers over Maryanne’s lips, Felicity echoed the motion on her own mouth, tickling the edges of the sensitive nerves with her fingertip. Agitated, she drew her touch down her chin and the delicate skin of her throat, then fiddled with the braiding at her bodice, right above her tightened nipples.

  Even her hair seemed to stand on end as she smoothed down the silk panels of her ribs, now lifting with the quickening pace of her lungs.

  Her hand hesitated on her belly and her thighs clenched as she gorged on words both carnal and confounding.

  Here the descriptions became flowery and opaque… the entire scene eventually fading behind a closed door.

  The book mentioned that Fabian had used his hands and mouth to create inevitable spasms inside of Maryanne.

  Inside? With his mouth?

  Certainly, Felicity understood the allegorical depictions of carnality between men and women. The mechanics of it. She and Mercy had stolen numerous medical texts on anatomy from Titus, and then she’d done her level best to fill in the gaps with her own romantic literature.

  But what did this mean? What could a man’s mouth do to a woman’s insides?

  Perhaps she’d work up the bravery to ask Nora…

  Except she didn’t want to picture any sort of wickedness between Nora and Titus. The very thought made her clap her hands over her eyes and groan with unnecessary chagrin. If Mercy were here, she’d be bold enough to ask anyone.

  Maybe she knew herself, now that she was married.

  Maybe… if Felicity found a husband she liked, she could ask him to show her.

  The idea made her entire belly flop over with a squeamish yet giddy anxiety. She draped the entire book over her face, inhaling the familiar fragrance of paper and ink dusted with age and perfumed with the pressed tea rose she used as a bookmark.

  Oh, but she couldn’t take it. It was too much. Too delicious. The very fibers of her muscles seemed to be alive. Awake and aware in a way they’d not been before today.

  Perhaps because, in her mind’s eye, Fabian had adopted a very real shape. The descriptions of his dangerous masculinity. Of his threatening posture and his graveled voice and wealth of long, dark hair… well, she couldn’t help but superimpose Mr. Severand’s general presence onto the man.

  It wasn’t like he would even know, she justified to herself.

  And she’d not done it on purpose or anything, she’d just begun reading and— there he’d been, looming in her mind’s eye.

  Felicity felt flushed and feverish, and fought a familiar disquieted sensation. One she often felt on sleepless nights when she lurked at her window, looking out into the dark.

  As if haunted by longing, plagued by a yearning that did not entirely belong to her.

  Or maybe it did, what did she know?

  Taking one last enormous breath fragranced by her book, she lifted it from her face and let out an embarrassing squeak as the enormous shadow in the doorway startled the tar out of her.

  Limbs flailing, she managed to struggle into a proper sitting position, a bit flummoxed to be caught in such a strange and inappropriate posture. Reclined with one leg bent.

  “Oh! Mr. Severand… hello.” She smoothed at her hair, her dress, crossed her ankles and pressed her thighs together against that place, hoping to be able to ignore a strange pulse there whilst in his presence.

  No such luck.

  “Goodness, forgive me! I was… lost in a book and forgot that I’d left the door ajar.”

  “Lost?” he echoed in that dark, low timbre that did little to settle the tumult in her belly. Or lower. “It seemed to me you were actively trying to crawl inside it.”

  “How I wish I could,” she chuffed breathlessly. “It’s ever so interesting in there, and I have so many unanswered questions.”

  As he stood across the room in the doorway, she could more sense than see his discomfiture.

  “Have you… changed your mind about supper?” he asked.

  “What?”

  Shifting, he drifted past the threshold only a few steps. “It’s three quarters past eight, Miss Goode. I wondered if you’d rather reschedule—”

  “Oh! Oh dear.” She popped to her feet and spun this way and that, searching the table, the chair, and the carpets for her bookmark. “No, of course, we’ll have dinner directly. You must be starving. I still haven’t recovered my watch or my spectacles so I’m barely a functioning human being.” She could have sworn she left the pressed flower on the arm of her chaise.

  “Might I help you find something?” he offered.

  “No, thank you.” She peeked behind the settee, finding it frustratingly clean.

  “Does your staff not alert you to the meal?”

  “They must have forgotten…” She crouched to her knees, searching beneath the chaise, to no avail.

  “Is that something your servants are allowed to do? Forget you?”

  She stood, shaking out her skirts. Oh, there it was! Somehow, it’d been trapped in her petticoats. Good thing she’d thought to preserve the blossom in wax parchment or it would have disintegrated.

  “I don’t run a very tight ship, I’m afraid,” she admitted with only a little chagrin as she reluctantly placed the bookmark against Fabian and Maryanne’s amorous encounter. “The very idea of admonishing my staff causes me— well, I wouldn’t even know how to do it, if I’m honest. Usually, Mrs. Winterton takes care of such things, but I don’t know if she’s returned from seeing to her family. As you can tell, the day quite got away from me.”

  He stared at her for a moment, and she read an alarming amount of disapproval in the lines of his posture. The man had dressed for dinner, she noted with approval, donning a white tie, gloves, and waistcoat beneath a jacket large enough to engulf two of her at least.

  His tailor must charge extra for material.

  “Your companion abandons her post on such a day, without a by-your-leave?”

  Felicity puffed out her cheeks. It did sound rather amiss when he said it like that. “She knows I would grant her any leave, especially when a family member is involved.”

  Quick steps clacked down the hall as young Billings hauled coal to set by the fires for the night.

  Mr. Severand turned and filled the doorway, effectively halting his progress. “Is your mistress’s evening meal prepared?” His question was not a demand or a reproach, but when Gareth Severand spoke— even in such sonorous tones— the authority in his voice was unquestionable.

  “It’s um… I’ll ‘ave to check,” Billing’s voice squeaked from that place in between boyhood and youth.

  “What industry are you and the rest of your staff in?” Severand asked mildly.

  “Service, sir.”

  “And whom do you serve?”

  “Miss Goode, of course. She’s the lady of the ‘ouse.”

  “Then are the staff, as people employed in service, fulfilling the obligation for which they are being recompensed?”

  “N-not at present, no.” As the boy still stood in the hall, she couldn’t see his face, but his voice wavered and cracked with shame. “I-I did bring her coal for the fire… that’s my duty, sir, not the kitchens. I’d not see Miss Felicity go cold. Not me. Not ever.”

  “Indeed. At least you’re a good lad.” Mr. Severand stepped aside to make enough room for the boy, who tiptoed past the threshold to her parlor.

  Scurrying to the fireplace, he abandoned the coal on the hearth and bowed to her.

  Twice.

  “Forgive the late hour, Miss Felicity. I am confident dinner is being prepared for you directly. But if not, I’ll give ‘em a right kick in the chops, see if I don’t. You shouldn’t go ‘ungry.”

  “I very much doubt a kick will be necessary, Billings, but thank you for checking on their progress.” She almost pitied the boy as he scooted out of the room, giving Severand a wide berth.

  The man in question stood straight as a royal yeoman. “Forgive me if I was too bold, but it’s importa
nt that you are fed. That you maintain your strength, especially considering the stress you’ve been subjected to.”

  She lifted a shoulder, oddly touched that her nourishment meant something to him. “You saved me from having to be bold. And, if I’m honest, I am rather hungry.”

  Finding his presence intense after she’d only just caught herself harboring inappropriate thoughts about him, Felicity turned to her bookshelf, sliding her novel in its place.

  “May I ask what you were reading?” His question was cautious, almost shy, which stymied her.

  This man had an air of someone who asked permission from no one. He was built roughly, with barbaric dimensions. He addressed her staff with unerring composure and confidence.

  Even when he moved, it was with the motions of a man who claimed the ground he stood upon and dared anyone to challenge that claim. Who owned and carefully chose his actions to flawless effect.

  Addressing her, however, seemed to cause him a bit of bother.

  “I’m reading The Gilded Sea by Daphne Crane.”

  “I’ve not heard of that one,” he admitted, again sounding oddly sheepish.

  Damned if it didn’t charm her.

  “It’s a romantic adventure,” she pressed on. “I’m positively absorbed.”

  “That was evident.”

  How long had he watched her? Felicity’s mouth dried at the thought. Could a man as observant as he have noticed the wicked effects her novel wrought upon her?

  “A-are you much of a reader, Mr. Severand?”

  “I’m voracious.”

  That word. In that voice. Dear Lord. She sank back to the chaise, pressing her thighs back together and folding her hands over her lap to keep from squirming.

  What was wrong with her?

  “What-what is it you read?” she queried, hoping he’d take the conversation so she could recover some of her wits.

  “I like a bit of adventure, myself. And comedy. Satire. Notably, Hugo and Verne. Most recently, Wilde.”

  “Oscar Wilde?” she exclaimed. “I have heard he’s working on a new play. Do you have plans to see it?”

  “I’ve… never been to the theater.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t know what to say to that. Though he seemed dressed rather well, it was altogether likely that the theater was a luxury he might not afford.

  He said nothing. And she cast about to fill the silence.

  “Might I offer you an aperitif, Mr. Severand? Brandy, perhaps?” She stood, happy to busy herself at the sideboard.

  “Do you have cognac?”

  My, he said that word with such a flare. She wondered if he knew French.

  What an enigma this man was.

  “Indeed.” She took the decanter and uncorked it, trying not to seem too curious.

  Too eager.

  Because she was.

  “Tell me a little about yourself, Mr. Severand. This job isn’t taking you away from a family, I hope. A wife? Children?” She poured him a generous drink and splashed some into a glass for herself.

  She’d never tried cognac before. It wasn’t done for females to partake in polite society. But something told her Mr. Severand wouldn’t like to drink alone.

  And wouldn’t judge her if her choice in libation matched his own.

  “No family.” The tone of his answer could have dried up the Nile.

  Beneath a pang of sadness for him, was a distressing little spurt of relief. She’d not like the idea of taking a husband away from his spouse and children to spend his days— his nights— with her.

  Yes, better that he not have a wife.

  She much preferred that.

  Felicity set his drink on the table, strategically knowing that he’d have to peel his back from the wall and sit across from her in order to drink it.

  “Please.” She motioned to the chair he’d occupied earlier, before settling herself in her chaise across from him.

  He took his seat just as carefully as before, leaning forward to claim the drink and tossing it back in one mighty swallow.

  Felicity sipped at hers, blanching a bit at the startling burn. It wasn’t at all unpleasant though, as the heat spread across her tongue and down her throat, lingering for several moments.

  The aftertaste reminded her of baked apples.

  “Miss Goode,” he hesitated. “I can’t help but wonder why you engaged my services without speaking to the other applicants for comparison. The choice seems…”

  She mentally catalogued all the words he didn’t say. Idiotic. Ridiculous. Impetuous. Foolish.

  Sighing, Felicity abandoned her drink for a moment, needing to recover from her initial sip. “I suppose I should warn you of this before you learn it on your own. I am… an infuriatingly absurd woman. I often find myself irrationally fearful in the presence of strangers. In fact, I’ve dreaded this day since I posted the advertisement, because I’d have to meet with so many new men— er— people. The very thought exhausted me. I didn’t sleep one wink last night.”

  “That doesn’t make you absurd, especially considering your recent ordeal—”

  “That’s just it.” She changed her mind and retrieved her glass again, taking a bolder sip than before. “My attack has little to do with it. I’ve always been this way.”

  His grip tightened on his glass, and he leaned forward a little, clarifying the impression of dark, deep-set eyes and a serious mouth. “What are you afraid of, Miss Goode?”

  She released a wry sound from the back of her throat. “I fear nothing of consequence and everything beneath the sun. Saying the wrong words, for example. I dread the trivial and the inevitable, such as appearing silly and weak in the presence of gruff and capable men.” She motioned in his direction with a wry smile.

  She ticked her fears off on her finger. “I fear the improbable, such as the sky falling or the streets flooding, or being hit by lightning in a storm. I fear losing those I love the most, even though that’s unavoidable. I fear dying. I fear living. Most recently, I fear that someone might burn my house down with me still inside it.” She paused, clearing a gather of emotion from her throat so she could bring the moment a bit of levity. “Yesterday I most feared that the sheer breadth of my ridiculousness would be revealed to my future personal guard, and here I am exposing it to you voluntarily.”

  “You’re saying… hiring the first man who appeared on your doorstep saved you from that torment.” He didn’t state this as a question, but she heard one beneath the words.

  Felicity plucked at a seam in her skirts, carefully considering her answer. “I hope you’ll forgive my forwardness, but that isn’t at all what I was getting at. I hired you because… because even though you startled me when we met, you didn’t frighten me.”

  “I… don’t follow.”

  She wasn’t certain she did either, but here they were. She was about to make herself vulnerable to his ridicule and somehow, she didn’t care.

  She wasn’t afraid. For once.

  “There is something about your presence, Mr. Severand, that I find comforting. And with a nervous disposition like mine, a reassuring presence is like a rare treasure, indeed. That is why I engaged you on the spot. I… felt immediately safe with you.”

  He didn’t answer for a beat longer than she expected. “But… I told you I am a dangerous and violent man.”

  “And, as it happens, I am in need of a dangerous and violent man.”

  He sat stock-still but for his shoulders lifting and lowering with what seemed like labored breath. He said nothing. Just remained immobile for an increasingly unsettling length of time.

  “Does that… Did what I revealed bother you?” she worried.

  He set his glass down and stood abruptly, retreating toward the window, beyond which a misting rain dimmed the light of the streetlamps. He stared out into the darkness for a moment, and Felicity absurdly wondered if he yearned to be out where he belonged.

  Because he was part of that darkness.

  He marched toward th
e door, and just as she feared he was about to leave, he shut them in and strode back to the adjacent window. “Before we go any further, Miss Goode, I need you to look at me.”

  Stymied, Felicity stood, as well. Was he going mad? “I am looking at you.”

  “Can you see my face?”

  Oh. That. “Not… in exacting detail.”

  “You should, before you invite me to attend you in public.” His voice never lifted in volume or octave, but it was threaded with increasing tension. “I do not fit comfortably into a ballroom or a lady’s solarium. You might regret asking me to. I will stand here, and you can approach at your discretion.”

  “I don’t see why that’s necessary—”

  “Just… come closer.” His tone took on an edge, but was also weathered by something she might have identified as dread mixed with a resigned exhaustion.

  “Please,” he amended more gently.

  “Very well. If you insist.” Felicity was equal parts curious and cautious. She thought Daniel might have experienced something like she did as he braved the lion’s den.

  Unafraid, but very aware what sort of beast she approached.

  He could devour her whole, but she knew he wouldn’t. At least, she was fairly certain.

  She didn’t stop until she stood before him, her head tilted back as his bent down to grant her unrestricted access to examine him.

  He stood like a statue, like an effigy of some ancient Roman general beneath her gaze, and Felicity was certain he didn’t even breathe.

  It became instantly apparent what he’d meant for her to see.

  What he feared she would revile.

  His face was a monument to violence. Indeed, a map of it. His nose crooked and dented, as if it’d been broken too many times and then cobbled back together. A slash interrupted his bottom lip. Another, his brow. A few more disappeared into his hairline, which was so black it gleamed blue in the candlelight. His left eyelid closed slightly more than his right, granting him an eternally malevolent glare. Some of the skin on his left cheek appeared glossy and tinged just a little pinker than the rest of his weathered, craggy features. Deep grooves bracketed a hard mouth, which was pressed into a hyphen and whitened at the corners.