The Dress of the Season Read Online Free PDF Page B

Grace a stupid cow?” he drawled.
    “Not until you refrained from standing up for me,” she whispered, and saw his mouth go hard again, that slight twitch at the corner the only sign he had heard her. “Which can be written off as shock. So can my ill-advised reply. I promise you, if I were to stay in town, I would not give in to such bold speech. I would be practiced in what I am to say, veiled even. I know you think me rash sometimes . . .”
    “Reckless. You are reckless in your speech and your action. And all it does is make messes for me to clean up.” He sighed. There was no accusation in his voice. It was a weary statement, a truth. But she could not help but be affronted.
    “Such as?” she asked.
    “Such as when you purchased that donkey cart?”
    “That was three years ago,” she countered.
    “What about the time you—”
    “That was four!” she nearly laughed, and then remembered the seriousness of the conversation. “I am not that ungainly child any longer, how can I possibly convince you when you do not even know me as I am now!” She shook her head. “For heaven’s sake, Osterley. We were friends once.”
    “I suppose we were. Once.” Osterley acknowledged, his head hanging. “And you are correct about many things. Perhaps taking you away would be seen as an admission of guilt—Bertha made a similar argument.”
    Felicity felt a spark of hope well within her.
    “And perhaps you would be successful in holding your tongue to proper standards, forgiving your previous outburst as shock.”
    That spark of hope became a cord, running up and down her spine. She could not fight the smile coming across her face. But it was wiped clean with his next words.
    “None of it matters, however.”
    “But . . . but why not?” she asked, blinking.
    “Because they saw you in that dress!” he roared, nearly coming out of his seat. “They saw you in that . . . thing of silk and lace, and that is all they will see now. You can be dressed to your chin in proper, shapeless cotton and wool, but they will still be thinking of you in that dress.” Lithely, he moved across the length of the sofa, leaning into her. “They will be thinking about the mole that rests in between your shoulder blades, just here.”
    The heat from his hand permeated her robe, the back of her night rail.
    “They’ll be remembering the way the light caught the line of your leg beneath the thin material.”
    His other hand moved to her thigh, letting his fingers move lightly over the thick fabric.
    “They will remember the way your skin looked, the swell of your breasts rising . . .”
    He was so very
close to her
. Felicity could not take her eyes off his. Dark blue, almost black in the night. Rather than the drunken blur she expected, they had sharpened, focused. There was a sound—a sharp intake of breath. Was it hers or was it his? She did not know. One thing she did know, as her heart felt like it was going to beat through her chest: she could not move—could not back down.
    If she moved, either forward or back, it would be the end of her.
    After the longest time, just at the moment that Felicity finally realized that this was torture she was being subjected to—yes, that was why her pulse moved like a hummingbird’s wing, and the very tips of her fingers were giving off heat—did she feel Osterley’s hand leave her back. He started, blinking, as if he had been staring into the sun, and only now could tear himself away. He shrank back, to the other side of the couch, ducking his head into his hands.
    “That is what I . . . that is what
men
will think,” he growled. “You worry about swaying the gossip of women, and you cannot do anything about how men think.”
    Felicity remained still—she doubted she could move in any case. She felt—exposed. Even in her neck-high, plain night rail and robe.
    “H . . . Harris?” Her voice was little more than a breath on the air. If he realized that she had called