Love Letters From a Duke (19 page)

He paused for a moment, for he could feel the change rising between them. “And what wrought this miracle of conscience?” he asked, this time a little more carefully.

A veil of tears rose up in her eyes. “I changed him.”

He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “You changed him? How could you if you’ve never met the man?”

“Because he told me so. He told me my letters breathed life into his existence. That before I wrote him, he’d never known what it meant to live.”

Thatcher sucked in a deep breath, for her words fell with the force of a snowdrift off the eaves. She’d taught his grandfather to live? What the hell did that mean? But just as quickly as he wanted to dismiss her statement, he also in some ways understood completely.

“I changed him,” she continued. “My letters changed him.” Then she paused, and he saw the conflict in her eyes. “And he changed me,” she whispered. “Can’t you see? I must be the duchess he expects—a proper English duchess.” Then she spun on one heel and this time beat a determined path toward the door.

Changed her? Turned her into a proper English duchess? Well, that was impossible, but at the same time, such a thought was ruinous. She could tell herself a thousand times she had changed, but he knew the truth—there was no relinquishing the passionate creature who lived and burned beneath her fragile facade of propriety.

“Felicity!” he called after her. “Felicity, please.” No more Miss Langley. Not after that kiss. She was
his
Felicity now. But she wasn’t listening to him, for if she had been he had no doubts there would have been a quick and thorough lecture about the familiar use of an employer’s given name.

Damn those letters, he thought as he followed her. He cursed his grandsire for ever answering her inquiry on his behalf. What the devil had the old man written that had this once sensible woman yearning for a man she’d never met? Longing for a man who didn’t exist? Couldn’t exist!

And how would a real life man, a man like him, ever measure up to this fictional Duke of Hollindrake his grandfather had created? The Sterling he should have been? Just the sort of honorable man Miss Felicity Langley would find noteworthy enough to put on the first page of her blasted
Bachelor Chronicles
.

None of which he was.

A man who’d disavowed his name and family and fled into the army under an assumed identity—and all because his creditors were clamoring to have him cast into debtor’s prison.

What was she going to say when she discovered the truth? That her noble and supposedly perfect duke was in truth her improper footman?

By the time he caught up with her, she was already to the door, her cloak swirling about behind her. “Felicity.” He caught her hand and tried to pull her into his arms again, but this time she was wary and shook her head, refusing to look him in the eye. “Don’t go inside. Not yet. There is some
thing I must say. Something I must tell you—” But before he could test his theory, the door swung open.

“Oh, heavens, Duchess, I thought you would never return!” exclaimed Miss Thalia. “We are ruined!”

Worse than I already am?
Felicity thought as she hurried into the house on her still unsteady legs.

Whatever had she been thinking, letting this all-too-handsome man pull her so close? She hadn’t even fought him or resisted. At least not before it was too late.

Instead, her body had traitorously leaned toward his warmth, her tongue wetting her lips in anticipation of his kiss. And kiss her he had, leaving her breathless and wavering inside her sensible boots. Oh, the moment his lips had claimed hers, she’d felt lost.

Well, in truth, her first thought had been a fervent prayer that he kissed better than he skated.

And, oh, did he…

So strong and sure, he’d whispered his intent with the brush of his lips, with the tantalizing sweep of his tongue as he’d ventured forth. He’d been gentle, something she hadn’t expected. But as much as she felt safe from the moment his mouth slanted toward hers, once he’d begun to kiss her, Felicity had no longer wanted that innocent harbor.

She’d wanted to sail straight into the passion he offered, cast off the proper lines and safe anchor, and be his. To let him kiss her, and touch her, and bring this fire he’d ignited to whatever came of it.

For never had she imagined that a kiss could claim one’s heart, as Pippin swore.

Now she knew the truth.

Felicity closed her eyes and swore. In Russian. Then in Italian for good measure. Oh, this was what came of listening to Tally sigh over her French novels one night too many!

Truly, this entire muddle was all Hollindrake’s fault, she told herself. If he had just sent his card around, she certainly wouldn’t be casting herself into one of her sister’s tragic plays where the sensible and respectable young lady is led astray by the mysterious, handsome stranger.

She hadn’t even been that clichéd. No, she’d leapt into the arms of her ordinary footman.

Felicity glanced back to find him following her, those dark eyes glittering with passionate intent. No, he was no ordinary man, and there was enough mystery about him to qualify for an entire shelf of romantic tales.

Go back to him
, some mad little voice inside her urged.
Kiss him again
.

Oh, no! She wasn’t going to do that again. Never. Ever. Right there and then she vowed to keep a fair distance between herself and Thatcher. Until Hollindrake came to take her away and she could forget the compelling enigma behind Thatcher’s dark eyes, the deep cleft in his chin, the curve of his lips, the way it felt when he…

Felicity shook off her wayward thoughts and started forward, nearly tripping over a valise in her path. When she looked up, she found the entire foyer filled with trunks and bags and packages. “Tally, whatever is all this?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” her sister shot back. “If you weren’t woolgathering about whatever it was that was going on outside…” Her sister’s brow quirked upward.

“There was nothing happening,” Felicity told her.

“That isn’t what I saw,” Tally replied, but before she could go on, a voice from upstairs stopped them both.

“…and then darlings, I knew I should come here immediately! It was so obvious that my dear girls would need me…”

At Tally’s hem, Brutus let out a small agonized howl.

Felicity could have echoed his plaintiff cry. “Don’t tell me—”

“She arrived not five minutes after you left—”

Of course she had. “She knew I wouldn’t let her in.”

“Most likely,” Tally agreed. “I’m afraid she came with—”

“All this?” Felicity waved her hands at the maze of luggage.

“Yes.” Tally pulled her along toward the stairs.

Felicity groaned as she started up the first few steps.

“Duchess,” Tally rushed to explain, “I couldn’t stop her. She just arrived at the door and Pippin answered it. She didn’t know better, and before I could get downstairs, she was inside, trunks and all.”

“Her entire retinue?”

Her sister lowered her voice. “That’s the odd thing. She came with only Aziz and Nada.”

“Just them?” Felicity glanced back up the stairs at the sitting room. “Not even a footman?”

“Nary a one,” Tally said, reaching down to gather up Brutus, who’d gone from howling to whimpering as the voice in the salon grew louder.

“But this London! Such a cold place. I shall need new clothes. Only the best for I have delicate skin and cannot tolerate anything but silk and velvet.”

“This cannot bode well for us,” Felicity whispered. From the room above them wafted the scent of patchouli and other spices, while from below, a draught of icy air sliced up the stairs, drawing her attention.

Thatcher stood planted in the foyer, having finally come inside. His eyes burned with a passion that she had to deny.

Must deny
, she wanted to tell him, especially now that she had more pressing problems.

More pressing than her own ruin? Well, maybe not. But right up there, of that she was certain.

“Miss Langley,” he called out.

His deep voice sent a tremor down her spine. “Not now, Mr. Thatcher.”

“Is that her?” came the voice inside the salon. “Is that my dearest girl?”

Felicity braced herself for the task ahead, and marched up the last flight like one condemned. “Yes, it is I, Nanny Jamilla.”

Their sitting room blazed with warmth, for apparently Jamilla had ordered every last bit of coal brought up. Pippin stood behind Aunt Minty’s chair, her hand on the old lady’s shoulder. They both looked like they’d been run over by a mail coach.

In a sense they had.

Holding court in the middle of the room stood Nanny Jamilla, who’d looked after the sisters for the short time they had been at Napoleon’s court during the peace in ’01. Tall and stately, the woman hadn’t changed a whit in all these years. Her black eyes flashed with the same intensity and her glorious dark hair was tucked perfectly beneath a grand, plumed hat, while diamond ear bobs sparkled from her lobes.

There was a touch of paint on her cheeks and a bit on her lips, and the kohl she loved, perfectly lined her almond-shaped eyes, making her look as exotic as a chinoiserie vase in a crofter’s cottage.

“Felicity! Darling, dearest girl,” she cried out, spreading her arms wide open and pulling her into a warm embrace, for the woman had yet to remove her traveling clothes and was still wearing a mink-trimmed cloak and velvet gown.

“Nanny Jamilla,” Felicity said, “how kind of you to come call on us.” She hoped that was hint enough for the woman.

“Call on you! Such nonsense. I am here to help. To stay.” She smiled widely and reached out to snag Tally, drawing her into the embrace as well. “Now that I have my girls back, all is well. But this England, bah! It is so cold! Do they not know that I need to be warm?”

“I’ll inform the King,” Tally told her, as she extracted herself from Jamilla’s grasp.

Felicity took the same opportunity to escape and the sisters fled to the relative safety of numbers, flanking Pippin and Aunt Minty.

“That shall be perfect,” Jamilla declared. “I would love to meet him. How is that done? Would tomorrow be too soon?”

“The King is…well…” Pippin stammered.

“Indisposed. He’s ill, Jamilla,” Felicity told her. “So there will be no introductions to the court.”

“But there must be,” she declared. “For I am no longer merely the Duchesse de Fraine, but Princess Jamilla Kounellas.”

“A princess?” Pippin gasped.

Aunt Minty snorted, and muttered something about pearls and swine.

Jamilla came forward, posing before the fire. “A princess. After your father abandoned me—”

“He was ordered to Vienna,” Felicity corrected.

“My heart was broken,” the woman replied, her hand going to her brow.

“She never did know where her heart was,” Tally whispered in an aside.

Jamilla glanced at both of them, a withering stare worthy of a queen…or a princess. “With my life taking such a tragic turn—”

“There was the
duc
—” Felicity reminded her.

“An old man,” she said with a dismissive wave. “He did not understand my passions, my needs. And your father—” She had enough sense, it seemed, to realize that few young ladies wanted to hear about their father’s prowess in such matters, and changed her course appropriately. “Your father was a light in my dreary life. And then the light was gone and before I knew it, my poor de Fraine—” She sniffed, and reached out with her hand in a graceful, elegant move.

Nada, her ever-faithful maid, came forward, and deposited
a handkerchief into her mistress’s hand, as if the mention of the dearly departed
duc
was always a harbinger for such a need.

The old woman then moved back to her place beside Aziz.

Felicity shot a smile of greeting at Jamilla’s dutiful retainers, but the pair stood immobile like a pair of alabaster statues. Both had been with their mistress since her childhood and their loyalty to her was unstinting…even when she was, well…trying.

Jamilla sniffed into the silken cloth and then dropped it on the floor, walking past it to pose by the window. “Tragically, de Fraine died quite suddenly—as old men will—not long after your father abandoned me.” Felicity didn’t even bother to correct her. “Without my husband to guide me, my father decided to send me back to his homeland, for he thought his cousin, the sultan, would find me comely. Alas, en route I was stranded in Greece, and as fortune will favor those who seek it, I met my dearest Kounellas.”

“The prince?” Pippin asked, her voice breathless in awe.

Jamilla, realizing she had a likely and gullible audience there, moved over to the girl and took her hand, curling it around her elbow and drawing her into the middle of the room.

Tally and Felicity shot each other knowing glances. Hadn’t that been one of Jamilla’s most memorable lessons?

Darlings
,
make sure you always take the plainest and least favorable lady in the room as your dearest companion for the evening. Thus
,
you give all the men the chance to see you at your finest—kind to your lessers and, of course
,
stunning in comparison to your companion.

And while their cousin was one of the prettiest girls they knew, suddenly she paled against Jamilla’s rich and more mature features.

“Now we must see to my room,” the lady announced. “My
trunks brought up and I will require three maids and at least four footmen—no, make that five—to see to my needs, for one of them will have to obtain the following items. Before nightfall.” She snapped her fingers at Aziz, and he produced a list from inside his robes.

“But Jamilla, we haven’t room for—” Felicity began.

“Of course you do!” the woman declared, abandoning Pippin, leaving the poor girl to list aimlessly for a moment before she recovered her equilibrium. “This house is hardly the grand palaces I am used to, but there seems to be room enough for your dear Jamilla.” When no one sprang into action, she heaved a dramatic sigh. “Don’t you see? I have come to help. Felicity, dear girl, why aren’t you married to your
duc
as yet? Is he old? Infirm? Being difficult? Let Jamilla coax him a bit for you…”