Page 8 of Sensibly Wed

Chapter3

“Mrs. Hutton,” I implored, reaching for her arm when she closed the library door behind me. “I speak only the truth. I have never met James before tonight. I sought respite away from the ballroom, and—”

“That was your first mistake.” She shook her head and began down the corridor. “Your mother is going to be devastated.”

“But we did nothing untoward—”

Mrs. Hutton paused and turned back to me, her eyes wide, her head shaking. “It does not matter. I cannot stop the tidal wave of gossip that is now spreading about my ballroom. Did you not see who was just behind me when I opened the door and discovered you together?”

“I’m afraid I am unacquainted with both of those women.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her gloved fingertips to her temples. “I trust James. If he says it was naught but a dance, I believe him. But it hardly matters what I believe. You and he will be the talk of London by midnight. Your mother needs to be made aware, and you need to leave as quickly as possible.”

My heart raced, and I moved to follow her toward the ballroom. When we reached the end of the corridor, she put out a hand to stop me. “Wait here. I will fetch your mama, and you must think of what you intend to say to her.”

I nodded and stepped back, resting my back against the wall. My eyes drifted closed, and I tempered my breathing. How ridiculous of me to agree to the dance. How stupid and naive to believe that we would not be found, that my behavior was at all without reproach. I’d been wrapped in the warm feeling of having a handsome man’s full attention, and I allowed the heady sensation to cocoon us, falsely believing that we were untouchable in our own little sphere.

“My deepest apologies,” a low voice said, and I opened my eyes to find James standing apart from me, contrition written in his downcast gaze.

“James,” I whispered.

His eyes flicked to me, his lips parting.

I swallowed. “I’m not sure the best course of action—”

“This is not it,” Mrs. Hutton said, appearing again, my mother just behind her.

Mama looked from James to me, confusion and hurt splashed across her raven eyebrows. “Come, Felicity. We are leaving.”

I pushed away from the wall and passed James without another glance, directing my attention at our hostess. “Forgive me, Mrs. Hutton.”

She sighed, shaking her head, and the weight of my mistakes laid like boulders over my shoulders. She stepped past me. “Come, James. Mr. Hutton keeps brandy in the library, and you appear as though you could use a glass.”

I followed Mama outside to our awaiting carriage and climbed inside. My foolish actions had brought shame upon my family name, and there was nothing I could do to stem the tide that would only flourish and grow on the ton’s gossiping tongues.

“The gossip will be everywhere by morning.”

“Indeed,” I agreed. No thanks to Mama’s friends and their affinity for spreading information—false or otherwise. Twice that evening I had witnessed a hushed conversation between Mama and a friend, had witnessed my mother greedily lapping up the on-dits supplied to her. It had repulsed me then, and it disgusted me now.

“What will your father think?”

“I am certain he will tell us when he returns from the club.” Suddenly, the burn on my hand reminded me of its presence, and I welcomed the distraction from my terrible predicament. I looked to my hands and traced the places James had held them. I was certain never to see him again, which I was grateful for, but my skin buzzed where he’d touched it. The way his thumb had gingerly wiped around the perimeter of my burn as though by some magic he hoped to sap it of pain.

I shut my eyes and shoved the feeling away. Was I now destined to become an old maid? What gentleman of good standing would accept me as a bride with this stain now splashed over my name? Surely Mr. Bradwell would not. I ought to post his book back to him tomorrow without a note at all. My chances of marrying were dashed tonight—and it was my own fault.

“There is no way to come back from this, is there?”

“We have a few options,” Mama said. “But your father will have the final say.”

Hope bloomed within me. “Options?”

Mama sighed, and the carriage rolled to a stop in front of our townhouse. “If you married the man—”

“James?” I asked, appalled. “I cannot marry him. I do not know him.”

Mama’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “Yet you call him by his Christian name.”

“Only because I do not know any other name to call him by,” I defended. “I do not even know his surname. Mrs. Hutton called him James, and that was all.”