“That’s an absurd comment,” Josie said. “Mr. Felton in no way resembles one of the great cats. Not that you would know, since none of us has ever seen anything other than a drawing, but he—” She paused. “Well, perhaps a panther. I believe they have that sleek and dangerous look.”

Tess bit her lip.

“Unless,” Annabel said gently, looking straight at Tess, “you have any particular objection, Tess?”

“Why should she?” Imogen wanted to know.

“Because there is always the chance that Mr. Felton has taken Tess’s fancy,” Annabel told her. “I thought I saw—”

“You saw nothing,” Tess said hastily. “I have no feeling one way or the other for Mr. Felton. Of course, you should marry him.”

“Because if Mr. Felton had kissed you—” Annabel said.

“It’s a good thing Miss Flecknoe isn’t here,” Josie said. “This whole conversation would be an unpleasant revelation.”

“It’s just as we said to Imogen,” Tess said, looking straight back at Annabel. “Kisses do not indicate a man’s inclination to marry. And if Mr. Felton had made such an improper gesture toward me—” She raised her hand in Josie’s direction. “I said if, Josie, so there is no need to make a sarcastic comment, if Mr. Felton had offered me a kiss, it matters little, because the Earl of Mayne made his intentions quite clear, did he not?”

Annabel nodded. “I noticed that the earl all but told Felton directly that he was going to propose.”

“And Mr. Felton did nothing to stop him,” Tess said, dismissing the rather hollow sound in her voice.

“What a disappointment,” Annabel said. “No wonder the man has managed to remain single, with that enormous fortune acting as a beacon to every unmarried woman in the British Isles. I expect he will never marry.”

Tess did not feel herself able to prophesy on that subject. In fact, even thinking of that subject made her feel queasy.

“If Mr. Felton kissed Tess, and did not offer for her,” Annabel continued, giving her sister a sharp glance, “then I shall have nothing to do with him.”

Tess rested her chin on her knees and tried not to think about why Annabel’s pronouncement made her feel so relieved. After all, she herself was promised to an entirely appropriate earl, who—who was entirely appropriate.

“Well, I think that Mayne is far more handsome than Mr. Felton,” Josie said, putting her book aside.

“I agree,” Annabel said promptly.

It was a moment before Tess realized that they were all looking at her expectantly.

“Oh, so do I!” she said, feeling queerly late on all counts.

Chapter 16

T ess walked down the stairs, her fingers trailing on the polished mahogany of the stair rail. She was wearing Annabel’s dark ruby dress, rather than her own blue dress with the more risqué bosom; Annabel would be exposing an exuberant amount of décolletage this evening. Tess obviously had no need for sartorial prodding, since Mayne sprang the question while she was wearing her old riding habit. Clearly, an extra inch of exposed bosom made no difference to him.

When she entered the sitting room, it was to find that Annabel had not yet made her appearance. Neither, for that matter, had anyone else, other than Mr. Felton, who was precisely the person that Tess least wished to see.He was wearing an exquisite coat of dark, dark green, so dusky it was nearly black. It made Tess wonder how on earth Annabel had missed that air he had: one of command, one that said: I might own the very air you breathe. Really, for someone as driven to marry well as Annabel, she was remarkably unobservant.

“I understand that congratulations are in order,” he said, with a deep bow.

But Tess saw no reason for prevarication. “You knew that,” she said, giving him a direct look. He could not pretend that he had not known his friend’s intentions and, even more, that he had not stepped aside in the most obvious way, at the racecourse.

“You’re quite right, of course,” Mr. Felton agreed. “I am happy for you and Mayne.”

“I suppose relief does make one feel happy,” Tess said, wandering over to examine a large walnut cabinet against the wall. It was old, with bow-fronted glass doors, and crammed with what appeared to be ancient silver boxes.

He appeared at her shoulder as she peered through the dappled glass.

“Goodness, you walk quietly!” she said, a little pettishly, looking up at him.

There was something in his eyes. “You turned down my proposal,” he said to her. “I assure you that I feel no relief.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Tess said. “You mustn’t pretend that you really meant to ask me to marry you. Imogen is the only one of us who can defend a claim to be experiencing anguish.”

“True, I do not feel anguish.”

She was learning to read him, even though he was as expressionless as a puppet. He was amused. Tess pulled open a door of the cabinet with rather more force than was called for. “How lovely,” she said flatly, pulling out a box for the sake of having something to do.

“My emotions, or the box?”

“The box.”

“A marriage box,” he told her. “Around a hundred years old, from the looks of it.”

“Marriage box?” she repeated stupidly, staring down at the box in her hand. It wasn’t much larger than the palm of her hand, engraved with little scenes on all sides. The cover showed a man’s hand holding a woman’s.

“An old custom,” Felton said, pulling off the cover. The box was lined in tired red velvet. “The groom would fill the box with gold coins, I believe, and give it to his bride. You see here”—he pointed to the top—“they hold hands. And here”—he pointed to one side—“they are presumably courting, since he stands below her window. Perhaps he sings to her.”

Tess was excruciatingly aware of Mr. Felton’s body, just inches from hers. His hair had fallen forward from its normally sleeked-back position and swung on his brow. His hand was much browner than hers, and fully three times as large. As large as his shoulders. And he smelled—oh—wonderful. Not perfumed, just—

“Here,” Mr. Felton said, “we probably have a scene from early married life. You see, they are seated at the breakfast table.”

“Ah,” Tess said, barely paying attention. The box sat in his hand now, the silver glowing against his honeyed skin.

“Surely a fraught occasion,” he said, and she caught the thread of amusement in his voice again.

“Why so?”

“One’s first breakfast.” Their eyes met. “After all, one is so used to eating quite separately. And suddenly, one is faced with a spouse across the table.”

“I am not accustomed to eating in a solitary fashion,” Tess put in, not quite certain where this conversation was leading. It appeared to have a double entendre to it somehow, although she wasn’t sure what the second meaning could be. “My sisters are lively breakfast companions.”

“A first wedding breakfast is probably quite silent,” he said, and there was that strain of wicked laughter in his voice again. “Fatigued, as they are.” He bent his head, pretending to look closer. “Is it my fancy, or is she leaning back against her chair in a posture that could be interpreted asutter…exhaustion?”