Table of Contents

Books by Victoria Alexander


Title Page


Part One:

Felicia


Chapter 1


Chapter 2


Part Two

-

Lucille


Chapter 3


Chapter 4


Part Three:

Caroline


Chapter 5


Chapter 6


Dear Reader,


Teaser chapter


Copyright Page


Part One:

Felicia



The Right Honorable the Viscount


and Lady Whitingdon


request the honour of your presence


at the marriage of their daughter


Miss Felicia Obigail Constance Whitingdon


to


The Right honorable


The Viscount Stillwell


on Wednesday June ninth


Eighteen hundred and seventy-nine


at eleven o’clock


Fairborough Hall chapel


Chapter 1



April 1879


My dear Gray,

Pack your bags, Cousin, and prepare to return home no later than June eighth as I shall be married on June ninth. You are, no doubt, surprised as I have always said I shall be quite long in the tooth when at last I take a bride and I have scarcely passed my twenty-fifth birthday. Marriage was not a state I was seeking, at least not yet. As you have likely gathered from my letters, I have had quite a good time of it up to now. I freely admit that there was a moment here and there, perhaps more than one, when I came perilously close to irrevocable scandal and one can only credit the prayers of my mother that I managed to avoid complete social disaster. But, on occasion, fate takes a hand and cannot be denied. The perfect woman has swept into my life, much to the delight of Mother and Father, and marriage is no longer the sentence it once appeared.

She is exquisite, Gray, everything I ever imagined I wanted in a bride in one delectable package. Her hair is the color of darkest night, her skin like the finest porcelain, her eyes rival the rarest sapphire. And yes, I do realize I have never been especially poetic in the past, but she brings out the long slumbering poet in my soul. Even her name—Miss Felicia Abigail Constance Whitingdon—falls like poetry from the tongue.

In a practical sense, she is indeed a perfect choice. Her lineage is impeccable, her education acceptable, her reputation unblemished. She is the only child of Viscount Whitingdon and as such will inherit a substantial fortune upon his demise. Her dowry is most impressive and though this is not necessary, it will nonetheless be appreciated as Miss Whitingdon is so obviously not a frugal sort. She has a penchant for fine jewelry and the latest fashions from Paris, and who can blame her? One would scarcely put an artistic masterpiece in a shabby frame.

We are a perfect match, Gray. Everyone says so. Why, ours is being lauded as the most brilliant engagement of the season, which doesn’t matter at all, of course, although it is rather amusing. There are those, you know, who assumed I was headed directly to hell.

The wedding itself is to be a grand affair here at Fairborough Hall and perhaps a bit more ostentatious than I might have preferred, although it has been pointed out to me that, given our stations, such a display is to be expected. I must confess, I find merely the discussions of what is required for a fete such as this to be daunting. But it is all in the capable hands of Mother, Felicia’s mother and, of course, the bride herself. Father and Lord Whitingdon are wisely staying out of the path of these forces of nature, as am I.

Do come home, Gray, and help me survive my nuptials. I need my cousin, my closest friend, by my side. While I have the courage, my stamina is in question. You will like Felicia. She is beautiful and amusing, really very clever, and all I could ever ask for. We shall get on quite well together.

Father thinks she is delightful....



“You do realize . . .” Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, drew a deep breath and chose his words with care, sending a silent prayer of gratitude toward the heavens that, at the moment, he was more shocked than angered, although he suspected anger was not far off. He tried again. “You do realize Fairborough Hall is filled nearly to overflowing with guests of your family’s and mine?”

“Of course I do.” Felicia waved off the comment.

“And each and every one of them is expecting a wedding.” Win stared. “Tomorrow.”

“I realize that as well.” She shook her head and sighed. “It is most awkward.”

“Awkward?” His voice rose. “Awkward?”

“If you are going to take that tone with me, Winfield Elliott, I shall leave this house at once.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And you shall have to deal with this awkwardness without me.”

Win clenched his jaw and tried to remain calm. “Then perhaps you could desist referring to all this merely as awkward.”

“Very well.” She shrugged. “How would you prefer I refer to it?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “I have never been told on the day before my wedding by my intended, that while she was quite fond of me, she much preferred to marry someone else, thank you very much!”

“Goodness, it’s not as if I have left you waiting for me at the altar. That would be most embarrassing.”

“Ah well then, I do thank you for that.”

“Sarcasm, Winfield, will not make this any less difficult.” Her brows drew together over her sapphire eyes. “And I should think you would indeed be grateful for that.”

“Grateful?” He sputtered. “Grateful?” In his twenty-five years he didn’t think he’d ever sputtered. Never imagined he could. Why, his father sputtered. And Colonel Channing from Millworth Manor sputtered. And a number of older gentlemen at the club in London his father had insisted he join, as his grandfather had belonged and his father before that, sputtered. Indeed, Winfield Elliott was the kind of man who caused others to sputter in disbelief or surprise or, on occasion, shock, but he certainly never sputtered himself. “Grateful that you did not actually leave me standing at the altar?”

“Well, yes.” She tucked a stray strand of midnight-black hair back into place. “I had hoped to make this as painless as possible.”

“For whom?”

“For both of us,” she said sharply. “This is not exactly what I had planned, you know.” She turned away and meandered around the perimeter of the library in a manner entirely too casual for the occasion. As if the topic of discussion was of no more importance than whether they should picnic near the lake or by the rose garden. It was as disconcerting as the discussion itself. “I fully intended to marry you.” She trailed her fingers over the edge of the desk. “I certainly wouldn’t have allowed all these preparations otherwise.” She glanced at him. “And I am sorry.”

“Well, as long as you’re sorry.”

Her brow furrowed and she stared at him. “You’re really quite surprised, aren’t you?”

“Surprised is the very least of what I am.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Come now, Winfield, it’s not as if you were in love with me.”

“I was not . . . not in love with you.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means that I fully expected to love you someday. I expected love between us to grow.” Somehow, that didn’t sound quite as good as he’d thought it would. “I like you a great deal.” Oh yes, that was much better. “I thought we were well suited to one another.”

“Yes, well, there was that.” She cast him a pleasant smile. “I must admit, the idea of spending the rest of my days with you was not the least bit daunting. Indeed, it had a great deal of appeal.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Nonsense, Winfield, of course you do. You’re simply letting the . . . oh, I don’t know . . . sentimentality of the moment confuse you.” She continued her casual progress around the room. “But even you admit you and I were never a love match.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“So, although we do like one another—and make no mistake about it, I do like you—”

“Imagine my delight,” he muttered.

She ignored him. “Our marriage was more of a practical matter, almost a business arrangement, really.”

He stared. “That’s rather cold.”

“Granted, it’s not quite that callous and, as I said, I do like you.” She thought for a moment. “But I’m certainly not in love with you, nor are you in love with me.”

“I could be,” he said staunchly.

“But you’re not. Tell me, Winfield.” She pinned him with a firm look. “Does your heart flutter when you hear my voice or your eyes meet mine?”

“Well, no but—”

“And when I kiss you, do your toes curl?”

“Not that I have noticed but—”

“Nor do mine. And Winfield . . .” Her gaze met his firmly. “Can you imagine living the rest of your life without me?”

“No,” he snapped.

She raised a brow.

“Perhaps,” he muttered.

“Of course you can. This would be an entirely different matter if we were in love with one another, but as we aren’t . . .” She shrugged.

“Are you in love with him then?” He strode across the room, yanked open the bottom drawer of the desk where his father had long hid a bottle of his favorite Scottish whisky, as his mother did not especially approve of hard spirits. He grabbed the bottle and one of two glasses stored with it, and poured a glass.