Love Letters From a Duke (17 page)

“I suppose you are going to tease me about Hollindrake,” she said.

A niggle of guilt tripped down his spine. “Tease you? Whyever for?”

“You might have been right about the man—”

“I doubt that—”

“No,” she argued, then sighed. “After listening to Mudgett yesterday, I don’t know what to think. Those stories he told, why I think—”

“Mr. Mudgett isn’t the most reliable storyteller,” he advised her. Though yesterday he’d half hoped that his batman’s loquacious raconteur of his youthful excesses might succeed in disengaging her, now he might be regretting that course. “Perhaps you should give Hollindrake a chance to come up to snuff,” he heard himself telling her. “The man may just have had matters to attend to before he can come courting.”

With a clear conscience.

She nodded, then leaned forward, her hands cradling her cup. “And in the meantime, I have you.”

Felicity didn’t know what enticed her to say such a thing, but somehow this man managed to uncover her every secret wish, her every desire. He’d rescued her from Miss Browne, taken her skating, and now all but pushed her into this shop so she could indulge herself with a simple cup of coffee.

He teased her, he tested her, and he had befriended her when no one else seemed to understand her determination to secure a future that would keep Tally and Pippin from finding themselves as homeless as Aunty Minty.

What she hadn’t said to Thatcher, but he seemed to understand, was that they hadn’t just taken in the old pickpocket because they needed a chaperone, but because in the old lady’s situation Felicity had seen their own possible future.

As they finished their coffee, Mr. Muhannad came up, bowing. “You are a most extraordinary miss,” he said in his own language. “And welcome in my shop any day you wish to grace it with your beauty.”

She blushed and was thankful Thatcher didn’t understand a word of it.

But as they were leaving, with Mr. Muhannad holding the door for them, Thatcher smiled at her and said, “Another conquest, Miss Langley?”

“He just likes hearing his native tongue spoken.”

“If you say so,” he teased back. “Now where to?”

“Bond Street, to the draper’s shop.”

“Will your sister or chaperone be wondering where you’ve gone to?”

“Tally?” Felicity shook her head. “She and Pippin are trying to come up with a new play.”

“They write plays?”

“Yes, dreadful things,” she declared. “I fear they will try to sell this one, and then we shall be the scandal of Town. I’ve made them promise to use a
nom de plume
.” She paused for a second, eyeing him. “You are duly warned to be cautious, lest you find yourself the hero of some wretched melodrama.”

“Then you had best make them promise to take my name out of it, will you?” he asked. They had turned onto Grosvenor Street and were nearly to Bond Street.

“Whatever for, Thatcher?” she teased. “Are you hiding some great secret?”

He stumbled on the ice, and she reached out to catch him. It happened so fast, so quickly, that even later she couldn’t remember how it occurred. But all of sudden she was in his arms.
Again.
And like yesterday, all of London seemed to still.

She gazed up into his dark eyes, where there was no doubt he was hiding something. But that mattered little for she found herself nearly confessing her own secret.

Kiss me
, she wanted to whisper as she stared at the firm set of his lips.
Oh
,
please kiss me once.

And for a moment, by the stormy light illuminating his eyes, she had to wonder if she’d said those words aloud—for his mouth moved slightly, his head began to tip down, as if ready to indulge her every wish. Her every secret.

Her body leaned into his, letting the deep heat radiating from his strong limbs surround her. She felt languid and tense and ever-so-ready to discover what it was that held so much mystery, so much power between a man and a woman.

Just one kiss, not the chaste sort of peck one might expect from a gentleman, but the rakish, sort of devouring type that one would expect from such an impossibly improper man like Thatcher.

She’d let him kiss her just this once—but even as she told herself that, a frisson of panic ran down her spine. For here he was, looking like he had every intent of indulging her. He was going to kiss her! Her common sense, every bit of propriety she possessed, rebelled.

Kissing a footman? What was she thinking?

But before she could wrench herself out of his tempting embrace, an imperious voice tore them apart.

“Dear me!” Miss Browne exclaimed as she stared with feral glee at the pair. “Shocking, but not surprising.”

Felicity scrambled out of Thatcher’s reach so quickly, she thought she was going to fall, but thankfully found her footing without any further folly. “I merely slipped on the ice,” she told the other young lady. “Thankfully, Mr. Thatcher caught me.”

“So he did,” Miss Browne replied, her gaze flicking from Felicity to Thatcher and back again. “So he did, don’t you think, Lady Gaythorne?”

Miss Browne’s companion, a young matron in a ridiculously feathered hat, with a cloak that was trimmed out in enough fur for one to mistake her for an entire zoo full of
animals, picked up the refrain. “Yes, I am all astonishment.” She smiled toward Felicity, though Thatcher doubted the lady meant the gesture in a friendly fashion. “We were just coming from Madame Souchet’s,” she said, nodding at the shop behind them. “Fittings and such for the Season. It takes up so much of our time, doesn’t it, Sarah, dear?”

“Yes, indeed,” Miss Browne agreed, her discerning glance falling on Felicity’s ensemble. “I see you chose to wear the same bonnet today—then again, you’ve always been so practical and sensible. But I think a perfect wardrobe is really the true mark of a lady.”

Especially when you have no breeding whatsoever, Felicity thought, but resisted pointing out.

Lady Gaythorne, meanwhile, continued on, “Truly, when dear Sarah was telling everyone last night at Sir Nigel’s soiree that she had seen you and your sister just yesterday, well, we assumed she was just trying to best Miss Spolton’s news about her betrothal to Lord Varrow.”

“You are a tease, Camille,” Miss Browne replied, batting a hand at her companion.

“Oh, don’t deny it! You
were
trying to best Miss Spolton, and thank goodness someone was, for she was going on as if she were marrying a royal duke. Had you heard, Miss Langley, that Miss Spolton had gained Varrow’s favor?” At Felicity’s shake of her head, the lady preened. “No, of course you wouldn’t have. You haven’t been out yet, have you? Of course not! You obviously haven’t had time to have a decent gown made up. Then again, if you were out, you wouldn’t have time to fill up those silly Bachelor Pages of yours. Or rather, to remove names, just as I assume you deleted my dear Gaythorne.” She stroked the fur on her muff. “You aren’t still keeping those Bachelor Pages are you?”

“
Bachelor Chronicles
,” Miss Browne corrected, sincerity ringing her words, though her sly smile said otherwise.

“Oh, yes,
Bachelor Chronicles
,” Lady Gaythorne said. “You don’t still keep that tattered notebook, do you?”

“Well, I—”

Lady Gaythorne heaved a sigh. “I daresay you should consign those ridiculous pages to the flames—oh, what a terrible mockery could be had if those pages ever became public. Truly ruinous, and what a terrible shame.”

Felicity knew it was hardly proper, but she wanted to curse. Perhaps in Russian, for she doubted that either lady spoke the language.

“Has Hollindrake called yet, Miss Langley?” Miss Browne asked.

“Well…”

“I can see why he hasn’t,” Lady Gaythorne said. “I’ve heard he’s awash in social obligations. He was at no less than three engagements last night—”

“I heard four,” Miss Browne corrected.

Her companion shrugged. “He must be overrun with invitations.”

“Miss Langley,” Thatcher said. “Your fitting? Have you forgotten?”

Felicity glanced over at him. “My fitting?”

He bowed slightly. “Yes, for your gown. The one you ordered for the Hollindrake ball.” Then he nodded to the modiste’s shop that Miss Browne and Lady Gaythorne had just exited.

What was he doing? She knew he was only trying to help—he couldn’t help himself, apparently—but heroism in Spain and heroism in London society was another matter. He’d just tossed her into the ring with the lions. “Oh,
that
fitting,” she said, shooting him a look that she hoped quelled any further notions of chivalry.

“Hollindrake is throwing a ball?” Lady Gaythorne asked. “I hadn’t heard.”

“I don’t think it’s been announced yet,” Felicity ground out.

“Does this mean,” Miss Browne chimed in, “that you and the duke have reached an understanding?”

Thatcher knew a mine field when he saw it—and demmit if he hadn’t just pushed Miss Langley right into the middle of it. His aunt was right: He knew nothing about London society. At least not this side of the
ton
. Where debutantes and Originals were the generals and anyone in their path fair targets.

But once again he’d underestimated Felicity’s prowess. Obviously, Lord Langley wasn’t the only one in the family with a flair for diplomacy. For she rallied and dodged out from beneath the girl’s question, a cannonball in disguise, by saying, “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. You’ll have to wait and see if you are invited. I fear the invitations will be ever so exclusive.” Then she nodded politely to both ladies and walked into the modiste’s shop with every bit of dignity she possessed.

That ends that, he thought with relief.

He quickly discovered how wrong he was.

The moment Felicity disappeared inside, he could have been a foot scraper, for all Miss Browne and Lady Gaythorne cared.

“Did you see her gown?” the pompous little matron sputtered as she swept past him.

“I couldn’t get past that dreadful cloak!” Miss Browne declared.

“Still full of herself—her and her odd ways. A duke, indeed!” Lady Gaythorne shook her head, and the pair started down the street. “Who does she think she is?”

Thatcher, unable to resist, followed. Best to keep the enemy camp in full sight, he’d always said.

Miss Browne had her nose perched in the air.
“I’ll eat my hairbrush the day she marries Hollindrake.”

Right there and then, Thatcher vowed to send Miss Browne a new hairbrush—to replace the one she was most decidedly going to have to consume.

Lady Gaythorne obviously found the notion amusing for other reasons. “Oh, Sarah, how delightful you are!” She tucked her hands deeper into her muff. “You know very well she made up all that nonsense about Hollindrake just to gain attention for herself. Sad, really. And now she’s taken to cavorting with her footman. Ruinous, really. I shouldn’t worry about having to devour a hairbrush, for once it is known about Town how we found her, any hopes she had of making a match with Hollindrake will be…”

Thatcher froze and watched them continue down the sidewalk, their parting remarks floating along like an old handbill tossed in the breeze. He turned and stormed back toward the shop where Miss Langley had taken cover.

This was the society she wanted to conquer? These women were her peers? They weren’t fit to share the street with her. He could hardly imagine the spoiled Lady Gaythorne or the ruthless Miss Browne helping an old pickpocket or drinking Turkish coffee, or living by their wits with no allowance but their pin money.

Not that the pair had enough wits between them to find their way out of an empty ballroom.

Miss Langley stuck her head out of the shop. “Are they gone?”

He laughed and nodded. “I thought you were fearless.”

“Yes, but not foolish,” she said, coming out of the shop. “I’m sure they had a fair amount to say once I escaped their clutches.”

“Nothing of note,” he replied.

She snorted. “I’ve never known Camille Hydegate—oh, excuse me, Lady Gaythorne—not to have something foul to say once your back is turned.”

He laughed. “I paid little heed.”

“You are lying, but it is kind of you to say so,” she told him. Then her valor returned and her hands went to her hips. Better there than that wicked right she’d used the day before. “But what were you thinking? The Hollindrake ball? It will be all over Town before tea time.”

“I thought I might help—”

She huffed a sigh. “And what if he does throw a ball? Then what?”

“You’ll be invited, of course,” he said. He wondered what she’d say when she arrived and found her footman was also the host.

Best to wear his padded waistcoat and have Mr. Mudgett at his back.

“Even if I am, don’t you see how I won’t be able to go? I can’t afford a dress from Madame Souchet! I can’t even afford a gown from the rag merchant.” She paced back and forth on the pavement in front of him. “A proper footman would have kept his mouth shut.”

“I was only trying to help.”

“Well, you didn’t,” she said, chewing her lower lip and looking down the street in the direction her adversaries had gone. “And the Hollindrake ball won’t be the only
on dit
being nosed about every salon and retiring room in London today. You shouldn’t have held me like that!”

“Me?” he shot back. “I merely caught hold of you, nothing more.”

They both knew it for the lie it was and neither of them wanted to venture back onto that slippery slope. He certainly wasn’t going to admit that holding Felicity like that had held some appeal. Demmit, more than some.

And when she’d looked up at him, he could have sworn he heard her imploring him to kiss her.

Oh
,
please kiss me once.

Two days ago he would have declared such a notion impossible. And now? Well, he’d held a fair measure of resolve
against her right up until she’d said to him, in that sultry way of hers,
I have you
. Then to his chagrin and amazement, his heart had taken a double thump, and in that moment he’d discovered he wanted this meddlesome little minx like he’d never wanted any other woman. He wanted to undo every proper lace she had wound around her passionate nature and awaken every natural inclination she possessed and then some.

“Duchess?! Is that you?” called a familiar voice from the street. “Look, Miranda, you were right, it is our fairest Felicity!”

Thatcher looked up to find a couple beaming down at the girl, which he paid scant heed, until the man seated beside a pretty redhead looked up and met his gaze.

“Jack!” Felicity called out, rushing to the edge of the sidewalk to wave at the carriage turning quickly to pull alongside her. “Miss Porter!” She blushed and then corrected herself as the curricle and smart pair came to a stop. “Lady John, I mean. Oh, dear, I fear you will always be Miss Porter to me.”

“And you will always be my favorite student.” Her former teacher beamed down at her, and the lady’s smile warmed Felicity’s heart, for it spoke unequivocally of Miss Porter’s happiness in her marriage to Lord John Tremont.