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
