Love Letters From a Duke (10 page)

Besides, there were two other eligible dukes out there, and who knew how they felt about skating.

“Mr. Thatcher, I haven’t any money—”

“Leave that to me, Miss Langley.” And to his surprise, she did.

“Oh, look, a magic show!” Tally exclaimed. “Let’s watch—for he has a monkey as well!”

She drew Aunt Minty along with her, while Pippin hung back, her gaze still fixed on the chestnut vendor across the way. Her stomach growled in protest as it had been a good three hours since they’d eaten their breakfast and she was well past her mid-morning tea and scones. “I’ll be right back,” Pippin told her cousin.

“Don’t eat them all,” Tally teased as she used Aunt Minty’s age and sudden infirmity to gain them a front row vantage point from which to watch the man and his animal do tricks.

Absently, Pippin made her way through the crowd—Felicity was nowhere to be seen. But it was doubtful she was seeking out any amusements, so intent was her cousin on remaining a proper miss until she married her duke. And Tally…well, Tally was more concerned about having fun at the moment, with little thought of her future.

And Pippin, well, she was stuck between them—conscious enough of her position as the Earl of Stanbrook’s daughter to keep her properly subdued, but dreaming of a love that could
sweep her away from everything that was so very
tonnish.

With a sigh, she stopped before the chestnut vendor. “One bag,” she said as she dug into her reticule to find the coin she had tucked into the bottom.

“Is that all you want, little Circe?”

Those few words sent shivers down her spine, gooseflesh along her limbs.

Circe
? Only one man had ever called her that…not that she ever thought of him…

Oh yes, she did. Had dreamt of him nearly every night for four years, and right now she couldn’t even find the will to lift her gaze to see him again for fear he’d be like one of those ethereal visions that taunted her.

“Come, my sweet Circe,” the man said as he circled around from behind the stand. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me?”

Her growling stomach no longer mattered. Her cousins, Aunt Minty, and the rest of London fell into an odd hush as she looked up into a pair of green eyes she never thought she’d see again.

The only thing that seemed to make a sound was the hammering of her heart.

“No,” she whispered. “No, Captain Dashwell, I haven’t forgotten you.”

“I thought you said you could skate,” Felicity said, laughing as she whirled around Thatcher. Oh, good heavens, she’d forgotten the freedom and fun of skating.

“I can,” he said, as his feet went in opposite directions and he landed less than gracefully on his backside. He pointed at the blades strapped to his boots. “These are most ill-fit.”

Felicity couldn’t help herself. She laughed again. “You were the one who offered to dice for them. Perhaps next time you can win a pair capable of keeping you upright.” She laughed again and did another quick turn around his prone figure. “Mine seem to be just fine.” Gliding around him in a
circle, she added, “I will point out that our former footman could skate backward.”

“I was skating backward,” he said. “I just went back farther than I’d planned.”

Felicity giggled, and wondered when was the last time she’d done that! Just laughed for the pure merriment of it. There had been very little to laugh about over the last few years. Pippin’s father’s death just before they were to start their Season three years ago had kept her and Tally at their cousin’s side during her mourning period, rather than go onto London with their chaperone, Lady Caldecott, as planned. Then their father’s disappearance, Lady Caldecott’s death, and finally Mr. Elliott’s refusal to allow them to come to Town.

And she’d known that another year, let alone the four more years that Mr. Elliott threatened, would leave them veritable spinsters.

Yet here was this man making her laugh, when truly there was very little to find amusing. So how had he done it? By shaking her out of her proper mold with his ominous words.

…
you may find yourself looking out the windows of your gilded prison wishing you’d gone for one last turn around the ice…

Ridiculous, really. For when she was a duchess, she’d be able to afford real skates, rather than ones they rented by dicing for them. Nor would she be constantly worried about filling the coal bin, their larder, or how they were ever going to get gowns enough for even a week of events, let alone an entire Season.

So for right now she’d take Thatcher’s advice. What harm could there be in a little skating? If only her companion would…

“For one thing, you need to tighten the clasp,” she said. “It’s too loose.” Skidding to a stop, Felicity knelt down before him and tugged the leather strap until the buckle held firm.

Having not given a thought to what she was doing, she glanced up the length of him, from his long, muscled legs, to the breadth of his chest, to the dark glittering gaze of his flinty eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, an odd tilt to his lips.

A shiver ran down her limbs that had nothing to do with the cold.
This man is going to kiss me.

Kiss her? Heavens, no! Where were these ridiculous notions coming from? Perhaps it was the warmth of his body beguiling her hand where it rested on his leg, sending a shiver of something else down her spine.

Oh
,
come now
,
you don’t want to end your days as a spinster who’s never been kissed
,
Duchess. Do you?

No, she didn’t. But if there was going to be any kissing done, she’d do it with her betrothed.
Nearly betrothed,
she corrected as she stole yet another glance at Thatcher’s lips.

“That should help,” he was saying as he finished adjusting his buckles.

“I hope so,” she said, getting to her own now shaky feet. Skating away from him, she let the icy air run across her flaming face, and hoped it could cool the ardor of her wayward thoughts. Stealing a glance back in his direction, she watched as he too gained his feet, his greatcoat falling away to reveal the length of his legs, the tight fit of his rough breeches, the way they encased his thighs, the lines of his…

And as luck would have it, he turned his head just then and caught her staring—well, gaping, actually—at his, ahem, buttocks. A slow grin spread over his lips, that is, until his foot slipped yet again and he fell. On that perfectly sculpted…backside.

“Miss Langley?”

She pressed her lips together and glanced up at the gray skies overhead. “Yes, Mr. Thatcher?”

“Is that proper?”

Oh, dear heavens, he did know her thoughts! That she’d been thinking of, oh, staring at…his derriere? Why, she might as well turn in her certificate from Miss Emery’s school!

“What, Mr. Thatcher?” she replied, nose in the air and an imperious tone to her words that left no doubt as to her superiority.

“Skating like that?” he asked as he got up from the ice and pointed at the couple they’d spied earlier whirling past, their legs moving in tandem, their bodies swaying together as if they had been born skating. They held hands, and the smiles on their lips were only for each other. And most amazing of all was that they must have been nigh on eighty—and when they turned a corner, the old man leaned over and stole a kiss from the lady’s lips. “Because if it is, I’d like to concede defeat and beg for your assistance.”

With the skating or the kissing part
? she nearly asked. Oh, curse these ridiculous notions, she chided herself as Thatcher skated up and came to a shaky stop beside her.

He nodded toward the couple. “Perhaps you should interview them for your
Chronicles
. I do believe they have more than just natural inclinations going for them,” he said just as his knees started to buckle yet again.

She reached over and caught him by the elbow. “They do seem well matched, as if they know what the other needs before they know it.”

Thatcher glanced down where her hand still held his elbow with steady assurance. “Do you think you and your duke will be so well matched?”

She was about to answer him just as the old couple turned in front of them and the lady smiled widely in their direction.

“I used to have to help my Henry like that, dearie,” she said, winking at Thatcher. “But I think he tottered about so I would hold his hand.” She laughed and skated off with her husband.

“Oh, I’m not…he’s not my…” Felicity stammered, letting go of Thatcher so abruptly that he nearly lost his balance. She heaved a sigh and turned to steady him yet again. “Come along and practice, for you’ll never get the hang of it again if you just stand about.”

“Yes, Miss Langley,” he said. They made a good turn around the ice, without a word between them.

“You didn’t answer me before,” he finally said.

“About what?”

“Your duke and those natural inclinations you seem to think are so important.”

“Essential,” she corrected.

“Yes, essential.” They moved around two young girls, one of whom tossed a saucy look over her shoulder at Thatcher, their giggles following them over the ice.

Felicity pursed her lips, but said nothing.

“So do you and your duke share these natural inclinations?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“So why isn’t he here skating with you?”

“He’s just come to Town,” she told him.
Without a word to me
. Oh, the embarrassment of it! Learning of his arrival from, of all people, Miss Browne.

“And I suppose he’ll be renewing his natural inclinations quickly.”

“Well, certainly,” she said, even though doubts niggled at her once stalwart confidence in Hollindrake’s affection for her.

“You know this even though you’ve never met?”

She swung around. “How did you know that?”

“You said as much earlier,” he offered.

“I did?” She didn’t remember telling him that, but then again, they had been talking about so many things, it was hard to recall.

“So how is it that you know you’ll share these natural in
clinations with a man you’ve never met? Great passion cannot be found in letters, Miss Langley.”

Passion?
Why was it that the word had never had any meaning to her until he said it—sending tendrils of something so delicious down her limbs that she felt
her
knees buckle. Oh, this was utter nonsense, she chided herself, straightening up and saying, “Duchesses aren’t inclined toward great passions. ’Tis another reason why I am eminently suited.”

“You’re not even curious?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she lied, looking away from the firm line of his jaw, those mysterious, dark eyes. At least she hadn’t been curious before he’d arrived in her life.

“I’ve always held the opinion that you can’t really know a woman unless you’ve kissed her,” he said. “So how do you know you and your duke will suit if you’ve never even kissed him?” He glanced down at her, those perfectly carved lips of his looking ready to give her any experience she wanted in “natural inclinations.”

And worse yet was that errant voice that had come alive within her since the moment she’d clapped eyes on this improper, impertinent man.
Kiss
him
, Felicity…

“I don’t think that is any of your business,” she replied, letting go of his elbow abruptly enough to send him floundering. She skated away with her nose in the air, and made it a few feet before the inevitable happened—the great
swoosh
of his coat and the loud
thump
of his backside as he hit the ice.

She turned around, hands on her hips.

Unfortunately he didn’t look any worse for the experience and had the cheek to wink at her. “Not offering to help me up?”

Help him up
? “You got yourself down there, I daresay you can get yourself up.” Then she skated off, trying to ignore the way her fingers curled inside her mittens as they ached to touch him yet again. To explore this annoying notion of passion that he’d sparked to life within her.

Thatcher did manage to get up, and he caught up with her as fast as he dared.

“That man over there is twice your age,” Miss Langley said, pointing at Henry and his wife as they gracefully skated together. “And you haven’t half his skill.”

Thatcher looked over at the man, who was eighty if he was a day. “How old do you think I am?” Well, this was a fine kettle, if she thought him over forty.

“Ancient,” she said with all seriousness. Until, that is, he spied the slight tip to her lips. “Truly, I am sorry, for it is hardly fair to judge your skating when it is apparent you are getting on in years and approaching a mature infirmity.”

Why, the teasing little minx. “You think me that old?”

She nodded and proved her point by skating off, dashing a glance over her shoulder that dared him to catch her.

He winked back at her and pressed forward, realizing full well that he’d most likely end this race on his arse, looking like a fool.

But the spark in her eyes egged him on and had him forgetting what he was supposed to be doing. Instead of flirting with the gel, he should be casting her aside. Setting her straight that she and he did not suit. Making it clear that all her notions of natural inclinations were based on letters written by a seventy-two-year-old man and his equally unfit and romantically challenged secretary.

Nor had that kept him from considering, during all the time she spent lecturing him on what was proper, giving this miss a lesson in passion.

So he continued across the ice, his arms swinging wildly to propel him forward, his legs wavering beneath him, forging ahead as he’d done in the blindness of Badajoz. Except instead of the French, he was chasing after a lady who was most undeniably mad.

That, or he was going around the bend, for he could have
sworn when she’d been down on her knees redoing the buckles on his skates that she had looked up at him as though she wanted to be kissed.

But Felicity Langley had a way of looking at him that made him see her in all sorts of ways that were hardly proper—with her honey-colored hair pulled free, with those red socks she’d worn to the door tugged off, and with those wide, gorgeous blue eyes of hers pleading with him to do more than kiss her.