that stood center stage in Bristow. The spires pointed upwards, as though silently pleading for mankind to turn their thoughts heavenward. With a sky choked with clouds, there was not light enough to catch the stained glass, but candles lit inside the nave gave flickering hints of color.
The bell rang out from above, announcing the passing of another hour, and Felicity wondered why time was determined to march so slowly. Aunt Imogene’s orders were quite explicit, and Felicity would not risk irritating the lady further by returning to Buxby Hall a moment sooner. But there was so little for her to do.
Felicity meandered along, passing by the village square, which sat silent, waiting for spring and the sellers’ stalls to return. Even the inn was quiet at present, as the locals were still toiling and no coaches had stopped. The world itself seemed to be waiting.
Two days. A full forty-eight hours had passed since Mr. Finch’s hasty departure, and Felicity was no more at peace with what had happened than when he’d fled from her. And there was no other way to describe how he’d stumbled and slid in his need to distance himself after that almost-kiss.
Yet again, Felicity replayed that moment, scrutinizing every detail as she tried to understand. Her feelings were in no doubt, for she had nearly leapt into his arms. She shifted the basket, which held the items Aunt Imogene had asked her to retrieve (including the marzipan they’d forgotten during that fateful outing), and Felicity sighed at her foolishness.
Had she truly closed her eyes and leaned into him? That had been as subtle as hanging a sign around her neck, begging him to kiss her. But even now, she didn’t think she’d been wrong. The look in Mr. Finch’s eyes had spurred her to do so. Even with flocks of suitors, no one had ever gazed upon her with such admiration and warmth. Or rather, such a genuine display of the emotions.
Surely he had felt the same pull towards her, the same desire. Felicity couldn’t have been the only one to feel the promise of something wonderful thrumming between them.
Kicking a foot out, she scattered the snow ahead of her, wishing her thoughts could leave it be. For Aunt Imogene’s sake, if not Felicity’s own, she ought to turn her thoughts to something else.
It did not help matters that the first of her replies had arrived today. Though the job of choosing her steward and man of business was far from done, Felicity was quite pleased with the first applicant. It was hard to tell much from a few lines, but Mr. Baldwin had already shown himself superior to her previous staff. And while such news ought to drive her thoughts to finances, Felicity’s thoughts were fixed on the gentleman who’d recommended him. Which led her back to the conundrum at hand.
“Miss Barrows,” said a gentleman, giving her a deep bow, and Felicity gave him a vague smile and nod without bothering to stop. She was in no mind to be conversational at present unless the other wished to discuss Mr. Lewis Finch. But as Aunt Imogene had already proven by barring Felicity from Buxby Hall for the afternoon, even those who loved her most had limited patience on that subject.
Felicity continued on her way, but paused as the fellow called out again, “Miss Barrows?”
Taking in a steadying breath, she turned and smiled at the gentleman. There was no need to make him bear the brunt of her bruised heart. “Good afternoon, sir.”
But the gentleman merely stood there, staring at her as though he were lost in a desert and she was an oasis.
“Have I altered that much?” he murmured, a smile creeping across his face. “You have not changed one jot. Still the beautiful creature who haunts my dreams.”
The basket dropped from Felicity’s hands, but he scooped it up before it crashed to the frozen cobblestones. The cold seeped through her skin, wrapping around her like a blanket of ice, and Felicity was unable to do anything but blink. Her thoughts seized, holding her in place as though time itself had stopped at the sight of him.
Alastair Dunn.
“I know this must be a shock to you.” Alastair shifted in place, his smile sliding into his slanted grin that always set her heart aflutter. Once her slow wits decided to believe he was not a phantasm, Felicity was amazed at how little he’d changed since he’d broken her sixteen-year-old heart.