Love Letters From a Duke (16 page)

“You’re teasing,” she said. Still, she slanted a glance at the scar along his temple and wondered how it had gotten there. Mr. Mudgett had made some vague reference to “the captain jest about gettin’ ’imself demmed near kilt at Badajoz trying to save me,” but hearing such a story and seeing the evidence of Thatcher’s heroism was another thing altogether. It was nearly on her tongue to ask him, but from the shadow that crossed his features and the way he tucked his hat back on, pulling it low over his scar, she doubted he wished to discuss the event.

So she took her turn at teasing. “I’m glad to see you still have my money. Tally thought you spent it on your mistress.”

“Two quid? She wouldn’t be my mistress for long if that was all I was willing to offer the lady.”

Something akin to the feeling she had when she saw Miss Browne with another new gown slanted through her. But this time it nearly upended her. “You have a mistress?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

He grinned at her again. “No.”

“Good,” she said, hoping that was the end of that subject.

It wasn’t. “Why is that good?”

“I don’t know,” she said, not willing to look too deeply into why the thought of him with another woman, showering her with coins and flowers, made her decidedly uncomfortable.

“Would you be jealous?”

Jealous?
Oh
,
yes
. Would she admit to such a thing?
Never.

“Heavens no,” she told him. “And this isn’t a proper subject.” She pulled her cloak tighter around her neck and continued down the row, picking her way past the odd refuse and piled snow. That is, until she came to the last couple of shops tucked at the end of the row just before it ran into Grosvenor Street.

Felicity stopped abruptly, unable to believe the scent tickling her nose.

Thatcher must have been right on her heels, for he plowed into her and they skidded together on the icy cobbles, one strong arm wound around her and his sturdy legs keeping them both upright.

For a moment she marveled at the feel of him—the breadth of his chest behind her, the warmth of his body surrounding her, instantly dashing away the chill of the day, the very masculine and indisputable muscled hardness of his arms, his legs.

So used to bustling around and being in charge, she suddenly felt the strength that was his gift. And she would have sighed and leaned a little farther back if it hadn’t been for the hand he was using to hold her upright, for it rested right beneath her breast, pressing into her so very intimately. His fingers curled slightly, rounding beneath the fullness there, and immediately her nipples tightened, sending a shock of pleasure through her. She bolted back—which was even worse, for her bottom rounded into him—into
that part of him
that was most certainly not proper. This time she didn’t care if she landed on the cobbles, she twisted out of his grasp and put a decent distance between them.

“Miss Langley,” he said, his hands in the air. “I apologize. I was only—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she said, feeling herself blush at the still lingering effects of his touch.
This
she decidedly did not want to discuss. Especially not since his touch had made
her…feel so much. So vulnerable. So susceptible to the passions that a man could inspire with merely the brush of his fingers.

“You stopped so fast,” he was saying, straightening his topcoat and looking as ruffled as she felt. Glancing at the narrow shops before them, their grimy windows making it next to impossible to discern what they held within, he grimaced, then queried, “Dare I ask what caught your eye?”

“Don’t look,” she told him. “Smell.” She sniffed the air and then smiled. “Heaven!”

He sniffed, his Roman nose twitching slightly. “What? The mail coach just passed?”

She elbowed him. “No! ’Tis coffee. Don’t you smell it?” She rubbed one window then the next, looking for some hint of where it was coming from.

“That one,” he said, pointing to the next shop. “Is that what you are looking for?”

For the door had just opened, and a merchant strolled out, shooting a disgruntled glance at the pair of them, annoyed at having to dodge out of the path of a curious miss and her wayward footman. But Felicity didn’t care—she stood rooted in place and just breathed, letting the rich, thick scent from within sweep through her suddenly starving senses. “I thought so,” she declared. “’Tis Turkish coffee!”

His sniffed again and shrugged as if he didn’t see the point or the difference. “One of your ‘demmed queer notions’ I suppose?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “When other little girls were having tea parties in their English gardens, Nanny Rana was teaching us the fine art of making coffee in Constantinople.”

“How very Continental of you and not at all proper,” he teased.

She inhaled again. “Oh, I haven’t had coffee like this in ages. Tally will be wild to come here when I tell her, so I’d best not, because I fear this shop isn’t very—”

“Proper?”

“Not at all,” she said, wishing it was on Bond Street or near Gunter’s Tea Shop. Of course then they couldn’t afford it, but at least they could
consider
going there.

“Miss Langley,” he said, that teasing tip to his lips as enticing as the sharp smell of coffee wafting through the open door. “How many times do I have to remind you? You aren’t a duchess yet.” And he nudged her inside.

But Thatcher’s plan to teach Miss Langley a lesson in living nearly ended the moment he stepped into the shadowy shop. The coffeehouse was narrow and deep, and the sight of a woman in this very masculine domain stilled every voice in the room, all eyes trained on Miss Langley. He went to tug her right back out, because there was slightly improper, and then there was
entirely
improper.

But before he could catch the back of her cloak, she’d hurried right into the thick of it, oblivious to the scandal she was causing. The owner, a tall thin man in a turban and robes, came forward complaining in his native tongue, his long finger wagging toward the door.

Thatcher could well guess the translation.
Get that female out of here.

But he’d underestimated Felicity’s “Continental” charms. Her hands went to form a prayer before her and she bowed low, murmuring a greeting that stopped the shop owner cold. Tentatively, the man addressed her, and she returned his reply with a few words in his own language, followed by another bow.

The coffee vendor stared for a few moments, then broke out in a wide grin, his white teeth sparkling in the dim light. He bowed and then escorted them, turning every few feet and speaking to her again as if he couldn’t quite believe that not only was he seating a woman, but one who spoke his language. He settled them in a secluded booth in the back that
Thatcher had to guess he saved for only his best customers, for it was very private and very comfortable.

Then after a lively debate between Miss Langley and their host, the man left for the kitchens, shouting at his help in a rapid succession of fiery words.

“Should I guess as to what just transpired?” he asked. “Either you ordered us coffee or I’m about to be jumped and sold to some Eastern sultan.”

She settled into her seat, pulling off her mittens and tucking her reticule atop them on table. “I ordered coffee. What could be gained by selling such a poor footman as yourself would barely fill our coffers, and therefore, hardly worth the effort.”

Thatcher laughed and gave her points for being such a sharp wit. He liked that about her—and imagined she would never have been cowed by his grandfather. Perhaps that’s why the old boy had settled upon her.

Meanwhile, Felicity was stealing glances around the edge of the booth at the other customers. Bright, ornamental copper pots sat on the various tables, while tiny ceramic bowls sat before them. “Oh, this is just like the coffee shops in Constantinople. And even better, Mr. Muhannad, the owner, gets his beans directly from his brother, who is a coffee merchant there. His family has been in the business for several generations. He has another brother who lives in Paris and another still in Cairo.”

Thatcher shook his head as he digested all this. “You got all that in just those few moments of conversation?”

“Oh, yes! He’s quite a genial fellow.” Her smile dazzled, while those blue eyes that always caught his heart sparkled with joy.

As they should, he thought.

Miss Langley continued on blithely, “When we left the Ottoman palace, Nanny Rana gave us our own coffee sets. I remember one particular afternoon, we entertained the Queen of Naples and her daughters, by serving them coffee in full
Turkish dress. The next day the Queen—dear woman that she was—went down to the docks and commissioned some poor merchant about to set sail to buy her a proper Turkish coffeepot when he stopped in Constantinople.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“What is so funny?” she asked.

“You say that, ‘Oh, I made coffee for the Queen of Naples,’ like that happens to every English miss.”

“It happened to us,” she said, shifting in her seat, pursing her lips.

“Now don’t get mad,” he told her. “But that is what makes you interesting–it isn’t that you’re bragging or casting about lofty names to impress anyone, it is just your life as you’ve lived it. And what seems extraordinary to us poor mortals was actually your everyday realm. Such a marvelous life you’ve led.”

“I don’t know if it was all that,” she said, shrugging. “I always wished our upbringing had been a bit more…well, dull.”

He laughed again. “I don’t think your life will ever be dull, Miss Langley. Not as long as you have Aunt Minty about the house.”

She groaned. “Oh, I had hoped you wouldn’t come back to that.”

“I still have Lady Lumby’s shrieks rattling about in my head, so how could I forget? But what I don’t understand is why she is living with you.”

“Oh, I know Aunt Minty has a slight problem.” She paused for a moment, then leveled her gaze at him. “With
darning
, that is.”

“A slight problem?” he ventured. “She nearly landed all of us in Newgate.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “And from what I saw, I’d say you possess much the same skill.”

She blew out a breath and waved him off. “’Twas naught
but an amusement she taught us last Christmas—there wasn’t much cheer to be had and Tally thought it might be fun to learn.”

“Why so dour at Christmas?” he asked.

She sighed. “Lady Caldecott, our guardian, had died during the summer and Mr. Elliott, father’s solicitor, was being impossible. He wanted to hire some old dragon to watch over us. Well, that would never do, and Aunt Minty needed a place to live out her retirement years. We might have stretched the truth to Mr. Elliott about her qualifications—”

“Or that she’s even a relation?”

“Yes, that too.” She reached over and touched her mittens. “The dear old girl knit us each mittens and the socks to match so we would have something to open Christmas morning. No one else was so kindly, and truly she’s all we have.” She pulled her fingers back and tucked them properly into her lap. “You won’t say anything about her, will you?”

Like she had the day before on the Thames, she disarmed him utterly and completely with the silent plea in her eyes.

No one else was so kindly.

He shook his head. “No. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Footman’s honor?” she teased.

“Footman’s honor,” he promised. “Though I am still of a mind to warn the good people of Brook Street to keep a tight hold on their purses.”

She sat up and shook her head. “Oh, Aunty Minty won’t do it again, I promise.”

“I wasn’t talking about her—I meant you. I wouldn’t put it past you, Miss Langley, to fill your house and larder with your newfound skills.”

Her mouth opened in a wide O, but her glorious eyes sparkled just as mischievously.

Oh, hell, he’d probably given her another “perfect idea,” as he had yesterday with his suggestion about finding matches for Stewie Hodges’ daughters.

“You shouldn’t say such things about your employer! Really, Mr. Thatcher, if I didn’t need you so desperately, I’d dismiss you—you’re tardy, you gossip, and let’s not forget you drink on duty and you tease me incessantly!”

He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat. “You’re a fine one to point out my faults. I might have been gossiping with Mrs. Hutchinson, but what were you doing, Miss Langley? Let me remind you. Upstairs pumping my former batman for information about Hollindrake.”

Before she could reply, the owner arrived with two coffeepots, cups, and a plate of some cakes. He and Miss Langley had a long discussion, and finally they both bowed and she leaned over and took a deep breath.

“Hmm. Just as I remember.” Gently, she tipped the pots and poured two cups, then slid his across the table. “Wait a moment to let it all settle, then try it,” she advised. Looking over her own cup, she smiled. “The crema is perfect. And I asked them to make it extra sweet.”

After a few more moments, she lifted her cup and he did the same. As the earthy rich flavor struck his tongue, he felt like he’d been transported to another place. The coffee he was used to drinking was a bitter concoction, but this was rich and tantalizing. The velvet crema on the top gave way to the flavorable brew below. He looked up to find her watching him, anxiously awaiting his verdict.

“Don’t gulp it down,” she admonished. “It is meant to be sipped. And don’t drink the bottom part—’tis nothing but the grounds.”

“It is most excellent,” he told her.

“Oh, good, you like it.” She went back to sipping, settling into her seat, a contented look on her face.

Closing his eyes, he knew he was on the right course. For how would he ever have discovered her passion for coffee if they had met at Almack’s? Or in some drawing room with all eyes on them?

They would have commenced on the typical English courtship and married as complete strangers, settling into a domestic arrangement that might possibly have never allowed them to find out if they possessed anything beyond her ridiculous natural inclinations.