The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(90)

“I think she sees it, too, you know,” she said. “But far be it from me to get involved.”

“You’re standing in my bedchamber holding my wife’s sister’s cat, so I think you are rather involved already,” he pointed out.

She nodded, a smile playing over her lips. “That may well be true.”

“As a matter of fact, I cannot think of a less appropriate location for you than in my bedchamber holding my wife’s sister’s cat.”

The smile broadened. “Are you planning to debauch me in some way?”

“I am not.”

“Well then I think I am perfectly safe. Also, the cat seems to dislike you.”

Mal looked to the white animal, who appeared perfectly content in Felicity Faircloth’s arms. “I thought we’d reached a détente, honestly.”

The cat yowled.

“Oh, yes, it seems so.” She paused. “The point is, I think my person is quite safe with you.”

“There was a time when I would have been disappointed with that assessment.”

Felicity smirked. “I imagine you were younger then. And less besotted with your wife, which puts a considerable damper on a man’s dangerousness.”

“Definitely younger, likely not at all less besotted with my wife.”

“That seems to be a problem for you.”

“Considering I regularly lose her, I would have to agree,” he replied, unable to find humor in the situation.

Felicity Faircloth took pity on him then. “I’m afraid I’ve something to tell you, Your Grace, and I do not think you will enjoy hearing it.”

He moved to the low shelf by the window and fetched a flint box, lighting the lantern there, at once making the room more welcoming for the young woman and more devastating for him. There was a hatbox at the foot of Sera’s bed, open and empty, as though she’d had neither time nor inclination to fill it and take it with her.

And next to it, a piece of paper. Folded haphazardly, a scribbled M its only adornment. He opened it, his heart pounding.

I cannot stay.

I await news from Parliament.

—S



He swore, harsh and unpleasant, and crushed the paper in his hand.

He looked to Felicity. “Is it more or less enjoyable than hearing that my wife has left me . . . again?”

The young woman’s pause unsettled, he had to admit. And then, “Well, to be honest, it is less enjoyable, I’d imagine. Considering the events of the morning.” She paused, rushing to clarify, “The ones I witnessed, that is.”

Mal’s stomach twisted. “Go on then.”

She sighed and crouched, lowering the cat to the floor. With no hesitation, the animal leapt into the hatbox and sat carefully inside, watching the two of them with serious, unwavering eyes.

Mal did his best to ignore the creature, turning, instead, to face Felicity, who had fetched a piece of paper from somewhere, and was now unfolding it.

“Have you prepared a speech of some kind?” he said, knowing he was being intentionally difficult.

She cut him a look, but ignored the question. “This arrived via my lady’s maid an hour ago.”

Mal did not like the sound of that. His gaze flickered to the escritoire in the corner, where a blotter and pen were left in disarray, as though his wife had dashed off a letter before she fled.

A letter to this woman, for some reason. “Go on.”

Felicity nodded, and proceeded to read aloud. “Dear Lady Felicity, You must know I am very fond of you. You are intelligent and forthright and, most of all, strong. You have a mind of your own and are unafraid to speak it, all things that will serve you well.” She paused and looked at Mal, and he read the nervousness on her face. Recognized it. Felt it himself, loathing the anticipation of the words that were to come. Loathing the words themselves even before the lady read them. Wanting to stop her. Knowing that whatever she had to say must be said.

She persisted. “All those things will serve Malcolm well, also.”

“No,” he said, unable to keep the word from exploding from his chest.

Felicity Faircloth looked to him, in clear affront. “Of course not.”

“Then why . . . ?”

She lifted one shoulder and let it drop. Then, simply, “She doesn’t seem to care how we feel about it, Your Grace.”

That much appeared to be true. Felicity continued. “He is a good man, Lady Felicity—one who knows about life and about love. One who has showed a remarkable loyalty to his wife.” Felicity stopped. “Then she corrects herself. To his wives.”

“Goddammit.”

“My thoughts, precisely,” Felicity replied. “He will make you a good husband—”

Frustration turned to disbelief. “Is she gifting me to you?”

Felicity’s brows shot up as she considered the letter in her hand. “It’s unclear, honestly, as I rather fear she’s gifting me to you.” She paused, taking a deep breath, as though she had to gird her loins to speak the rest. “Some things you should know: First, he loathes asparagus.” She stopped. “Your Grace, I’m sure you’ll understand if I say I have no earthly idea why your affinity or lack thereof for asparagus is relevant in any way to a marriage—let alone relevant enough to be point number one on a list of important points.”