Felicity Prescott sat at the end of the very long banquet table at her own engagement celebration, not at all welcoming the salutations that had been sent her way throughout the evening. Her green eyes stared ahead of her at a large cut glass vase full of birds-of-paradise and other exotic greenery. She was beside herself with anger, hating her father, Lord Prescott, in a way that would have had her hanged for homicide had anyone known.
That gentleman was at the other end of the room, entertaining the mostly Spanish guests with ridiculous stories of his own twisted imagination. Since Lord Prescott spoke no Spanish, only a fraction of his listeners could understand him. Felicity spoke no Spanish either, which made her conversations with her husband-to-be rather limited since he spoke only a smattering of English. She found it extremely thoughtless of him to have taken an English bride without first learning the English language. She on the other hand had absolutely no intention of learning Spanish since she considered it a language far beneath her dignity. She understood it, but she would never speak it. She did, however, speak faultless French, and would have engaged anyone in her company thus, if all of them were not such ignoble brutes.
How have I gotten to this place?
she had to wonder. She was twenty-two years old and a beauty at that. Her reputation was faultless. Everyone she befriended—and granted, there weren't a lot—thought her of superior intelligence. Yes, her wit needed some polishing, but that would come with maturity. She rode well, possessed a suitable knowledge of music, and could paint the most exquisite miniature roses. What more could a person ask for?
And yet no suitable husband had been forthcoming. She'd watched as plainer and less wealthy acquaintances were snatched up and dragged to the altar as though they were prized pigs. How was it that a girl like Penelope Castleton, with her nasal voice and ridiculous giggle, could get a husband and Felicity could not? At times she thought the world had surely gone mad. There could be no other explanation.
"And now a toast," Don Felipe Juventino said in his native tongue from his end of the banquet table. "To my English rose, flower of my love. Her very name means happiness, and in agreeing to be my wife, has brought to me the greatest joy I have ever known. To Felicity."
The gathering toasted her. She tilted her head in acknowledgement, having understood every word. Since no one told her she must reciprocate, she merely reassumed her indifferent air, sat back in the very stiff chair, and continued consuming the fine red wine Don Felipe produced on his impressive Castilian estate.
The wedding would be in only two weeks. That in itself was shocking to Felicity; in England, there would have been an engagement of at least a year. But Lord Prescott was needed back in England and was eager to be on his way. Indeed if he'd
had
his way, Felicity would have been married off to Don Felipe the moment they had stepped off the boat at Santander. He knew her well and spent much of his time fearing that she would make such a scene with her violent temper that Don Felipe would send her packing.
So far, however, she was behaving herself—for Felicity, at least. She seemed to finally understand that while indeed her father possessed a sizable estate, he had also accumulated a large debt and required a substantial loan to maintain the standard of living that was his noble right. However much she hated her father and the situation she was in, she would rather die than see the Prescott name discredited.
Felicity herself was part of the arrangement between Don Felipe and Lord Prescott. Her father owned, among other things, a fleet of cargo vessels that he would sign over to Don Felipe once the marriage vows were spoken. The business aspect of the marriage did not trouble her nearly as much as the man she was going to marry.
Don Felipe had stood from his chair and was gesturing for his guests to withdraw to the various sitting rooms beyond. He was not much Felicity's senior, not even thirty, and yet already his longish black hair was touched with streaks of gray at the temples. He possessed the blackest eyes she had ever seen; when he looked at her, she wanted to run away and hide. She could well believe he was descended from Moorish blood.
Felicity knew, of course, of her wifely duties. Had she been in England engaged to, say, a pale-skinned vicar with a soft manner, she would have welcomed her wedding night the way she welcomed baths: as something she must endure for the sake of society and, in its own way, faintly enjoyable. But with Don Felipe, the thought of actually copulating with him was appalling. He had the look of a predatory animal just waiting for a chance to seize its prey between its blood-thirsty jaws and rip it to shreds.
Even now, as he stepped to her side and took her elbow in his hand, she felt his eyes roaming over her body as though imagining her naked. His lips curled in a way that made her sex feel uncomfortable. She hated being sexually aroused. It was so undignified. She despised her sex, in fact, and gladly would have had it cut out of her the way the Africans did, if civilized physicians practiced such things.
"A few more hours," he said for her ears only, speaking in heavily accented English, "and then our guests will be gone. May I come see you tonight?"
Felicity lifted her chin. "We've discussed this before, Don Felipe," she answered stiffly. "I am a woman of principle. Please do not continue to suggest I compromise my dignity."
"I hardly think visiting you in your boudoir would compromise your dignity," he murmured, reverting to his native tongue.
"Others may have the wrong idea," she said, retaining her English though understanding him perfectly.
