Love Letters From a Duke (32 page)

Felicity sprang into action, dashing about the room, catching up her valise and putting a change of small clothes, stockings, and her hairbrush inside. After a moment of hesitation, she tucked her
Bachelor Chronicles
in, then caught up a cloak, hat, and gloves.

“Is Hollindrake’s carriage still outside?” she asked.

Pippin crossed the room and glanced out the window. “Yes.”

“I must take it,” Felicity told them. “You’ll have to take a hackney to the House of Lords.” She rushed to the door
and flung it open. Before she went flying down the hall, she turned to her gaping cousin and sister. “Give the duke my apologies. That’s terribly inadequate, I know. But I’ll send him a letter later explaining everything.” Then she rushed out before either of them could stop her.

Pippin stared at Tally. “Am I missing something?”

“She still doesn’t know,” Tally told her.

“How can that be?” Pippin asked.

“’Twas why I urged her to follow her heart. If she’s wed to Thatcher, she’ll eventually forgive him.”

Pippin sighed. “It would be nice if one of us found a happy ending.”

Tally wound her arm around her cousin. “Dash will recover. You’ll see.”

“And when he does, Tally, what then?”

“That’s another story altogether. I daresay we’ll have to wait for the Duchess first.”

“Good things come to those who wait,” Pippin whispered.

“So said Nanny Tasha,” Tally told her. “So said Nanny Tasha.”

Well into the evening, the door to the private suite at the Ransomed Cat crashed open and Thatcher strode in. “Felicity? Felicity? Where are you?”

When he’d looked up to the galleries from his seat in the House of Lords and seen the empty spot between Miss Thalia Langley and Lady Philippa Knowles, he’d nearly bolted out of the long-winded ceremony right there and then.

Felicity hadn’t come!

Dear God above, she hadn’t come! And if she wasn’t in the House of Lords seeking her duke, that could only mean she was waiting for her footman at the rooms he’d told her about at the posting inn.

Waiting for him.

With no regard for appearances, the moment the ceremony ended he’d barreled past all the well-wishers as well as his family, commandeered a horse from a young lordling in the street, and ridden straight for the inn. Only to find the suite he’d taken cast in shadows, a low banked fire in the grate, and Felicity nowhere to be seen.

He was too late. She’d left.

“Demmit!” he cursed.

“That-der?” came a sleep-slurred voice from the bedchamber to his right. “Is that you?”

“Yes, ’tis me!” He crossed the room and stopped in the doorway, stunned at the sight before him. There was Felicity clumsily untangling herself from the sheets and climbing out of bed.

“Yer late,” she slurred, taking a distracted swipe at her tumbled curls. “Must get you a pocket watch. A wedding gift.”

“I need no gifts, you are here,” he declared, coming toward her until his foot sent something clattering across the floor.

“Oh, that’s where that demmed thing got to!” She giggled. “Don’t worry about it. I have a ’nuther one!” She rustled around under the pillows and produced a wine bottle. Peering into it with one squinty eye, she frowned. “Empty as well.” She tossed it back into the sheets, then looked up at him. “Can you get some more?” she asked as she tried to get up and out of bed, but ended up tumbling forward into his arms.

The thick, sweet smell of wine assailed his senses.
She was drunk.
Completely and utterly pissed.

“Thud you weren’t comin’,” she slurred into his shoulder.

“So I see,” he said, holding her out at arm’s length.

“Thud you’d left me,” she continued, waving her hands in the air.

“Well, I am here, and just in time, I see.” He glanced around
the room. “What were you thinking, drinking all this wine?”

“Well, Nanny Bridget once told us to have a glass or two of good wine before our wedding night. Well, this inn hasn’t very good wine, so I drank two bottles instead. Maybe three.” She wavered in his arms. “I don’t think Nanny Bridget had the right of it, for the wine is making the room pitch quite violently.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s going to pitch violently, I’d wager,” he laughed.

She blinked and looked at him. Really, more at something over his shoulder, before her gaze steadied and she met his eyes as if surprised to find him standing where he was. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You’ll find out, soon enough.” He hoisted her up and set her back on the bed. “Whatever am I to do with you now?”

She shook a finger at him. “You’ll marry me. Right now. Here. Tonight. I’ll not be ruined anymore. I want to be a proper wife.”

He laughed. “Felicity, you will never be a proper wife.”

“But I’ll be your wife. Dear Thad-her, I want to be your wife. I love you. I really do. I realized it today. When I told Tally and Pippin that I loved you, I knew it must be true. And I wouldn’t trade you for all the ducal coronets in the world. Not a single one.”

“You love me?” he asked. He couldn’t quite believe it. Yet here she was. And she’d come to him of her own free will. By following her passion.

“With all my heart,” she told him, her lips forming a lopsided smile.

“And this isn’t the wine talking, but you?” he asked, kneeling down before her.

“No. I was quite definite on that fact before I drank too much.” She paused and blinked, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Am I drunk?”

“Corned, pickled, and salted,” he told her. Right now she’d give Mrs. Hutchinson a run for her money.

“Will you still marry me?”

“Yes.”

She brightened, her winsome smile lopsided. “Now?”

“Well, I don’t know—”

“Yes, now! Marry me please.” She glanced up at him. “You still have the Special License, don’t you?”

Thatcher sat back on his heels. Special License or not, there wasn’t a clergyman in England who’d marry a nearly insensible lady of good breeding to him. Not even with the bribe he could now afford.

“Oh, you don’t want to marry me!” she cried out. Apparently the Langley dramatic streak wasn’t confined to Thalia, for Felicity was now giving a performance Mrs. Siddons would have envied. “I’ve ruined it all.” She started to keen and wail, as if the room had been turned into an Irish wake, and before he knew it, the innkeeper was pounding on the door.

“Ho there! I don’t run this sort of house! Whatever is going on in there?”

“I want to get married!” Felicity wailed. “I’m ruined. Ruined, I say!”

Thatcher opened the door and eyed the short, squat innkeeper, whose hand was stuck out awaiting compensation.

Thatcher filled it with a few gold pieces. “Is there someone around here who can marry us?”

“What sort of wedding you want?” the man asked, not even bothering to look at the coins in his hands, having hefted them and knowing them for what they were—good gold.

“The kind that can be performed quickly, before the bride is…” He glanced back at Felicity, who stood wavering beside the bed, her hand on her forehead and her cries taking on new levels of slurred indignation.

“This was to be my wedding bud…no, bad…no, bed.”
A curse in something that might be Russian followed. “Thad-her, you’d best find a vicar fast, I don’t feel so well…”

“A hasty wedding it is, guv’ner,” the man told him, lending a broad wink to his instructions. “Bring ’er down in about five minutes. Got a fellow who can do the job right, though not altogether proper, if you know what I mean.” The innkeeper took a glance at Felicity. “Not that she’s likely to notice.”

Thatcher didn’t care. They’d rectify all this first thing in the morning with the Special License he’d procured, but for now, all he wanted was to placate his insensible bride.

And five minutes later the Duke of Hollindrake married Miss Felicity Langley before a mixed crowd of dubious onlookers in the common room of the Ransomed Cat.

And it was a good thing that the marriage was performed with such undue haste.

For right after the vows were finished and the couple were declared married, the bride discovered exactly what her groom had meant earlier by “pitch violently.”

For she did. All over his new boots.

Felicity’s eyes fluttered awake, what time she knew not, but when the light from the window struck her, she closed them immediately, covering her face with her hands and sinking beneath sheets and coverlet.

Oh, dear heavens! When had it gotten so bright out? And why did her head throb so?

Gingerly, she pulled the covers down again and let one eye crack open. The meager winter sun streaming through a window on the far side of the room was like a knife through her aching head.

Yet, two things were at once apparent to her. This wasn’t her room, and she hadn’t any clothes on.

Botheration, what had happened to her?

She tried to recount the night before, but a jumble of voices tangled her still murky thoughts.

There was a smoky, dark room. And the smell of ale everywhere. And people. She’d been surrounded by strangers.

“Such a pretty lady. My, don’t they look fine.”

“Wish you well
,
missus.”

“Egads
,
who’d of thought such a wee thing could hold so much?”

Getting up, she dragged a sheet along with her and wavered toward the washstand, where she rinsed out her rancid mouth and washed her face. It did little to help her.

“Oooooh,” she groaned. “Whatever is wrong with me?”

“First day as my wife and already complaining?” came a familiar voice from another room.

Thatcher? What was he doing in her bedchamber? Oh, hold the coach—what had he said?

Wife
?

Frantically, she glanced down at her left hand and there it was: a plain and simple gold band around her third finger.

She straightened and regretted immediately moving so fast, but that didn’t stop her from staggering to the doorway and asking, “We got married?”

“Yes. You insisted, I’ll have you know.” Thatcher sat reclined in a chair near the fireplace, his long legs stretched out toward the grate. A white shirt and black breeches were all he wore, the shirt open at the neck revealing a triangle of dark, crisp hair on his chest, while an open book sat in his lap.

“Then last night…” She glanced back toward the other room where the large bed, its sheets a tangled mess, spoke of a night spent…“Did we…?”

He laughed, loudly and thoroughly. “If you are asking if we consummated our marriage, the answer is no.”

She tugged the sheet higher. “But I haven’t anything on,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he whispered back. Then he glanced around the room. “Why are we whispering?”

“Because I’m naked!” she told him indignantly. It wasn’t every morning a proper young lady awoke naked, feeling completely dreadful and having no memory of her—Felicity gulped—wedding night. “I haven’t any clothes.”

“I know. I removed them,” he said, rising from his chair and crossing the room.

Felicity still was having a hard time believing she was married, and she backed away from him, colliding with the wall behind her. “Improper rogue!”

“Drunken wench,” he teased back.

“I do not drink!” Yet even as she made her indignant statement, her legs wobbled beneath her and she thought she was going to fall over. Thatcher came to her rescue, yet again, catching her up and carrying her to the bed, gently settling her back down on the mattress. “I feel wretched. And how is it I don’t remember a thing about last night?”

Thatcher leaned over and rolled first one, then a second, and finally a third empty wine bottle out from under the bed. The clatter was like having an entire regiment of soldiers marching through her head. “I found that last one this morning. You really shouldn’t mix port with burgundy.”

“Oh, heavens! Did I drink all that?”

He nodded, but his eyes sparkled. “You said something about it being Nanny Bridget’s recommendation.”

She snorted. “She always did smell like brandy.”

Sitting down beside her, he said, “Then I would strike good Nanny Bridget from the advice book I am sure you will write some day.” He smiled at her. “You have a deft hand for comedy. I think your sister and cousin should draft you into service.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“Well, since I was cheated out of my wedding night—”

Felicity’s cheeks heated.

“—and there wasn’t much else to do, for you’d drank the inn nearly dry, and I discovered that you snore—and quite indelicately, I might add—”

“I most certainly do not,” she said, rising up farther.

One brow arched, but he didn’t argue the point. “Suffice it to say I decided to partake in a little light reading.” He nodded toward the volume on the bed.

She glanced down and recognized it immediately. “My
Chronicles
? You were reading my
Chronicles
? Those are private.” Scrambling down the length of the bed to retrieve her journal, she got halfway there when she remembered she was naked. She froze and glanced at him.

His face was a study of innocence, but there was nothing but mischief in his dark eyes.

She caught up the sheet and hauled it with her. Taking hold of her journal, she pressed it to her chest. “This is private.”

He plucked it out of her grasp. “And now entirely unnecessary, because you are mine.”

“I am, aren’t I?” She sighed. If there was any good in all this mess, it was that they were married. “I’m quite relieved.”

“Make that two of us,” he laughed, his fingers cupping her chin. “You are the only woman for me.”

“I fear I haven’t been much of a bride,” she said, glancing at the bed around them.

“Then let us get on with it,” he told her, catching hold of her and kissing her thoroughly as he pinned her to the mattress with his body.

“Of all the arrogant, top-lofty—” she sputtered. “I’m beginning to think I did marry a duke. You’ve become quite overbearing since we met.”

“Thank you,” he said, nodding politely. “I have you to thank.”

She batted at him. “Oh, you odious fellow!” Then she paused, her gaze falling to her hand. “Are we really married?”

“You’re wearing a ring, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “But I don’t remember a thing about the ceremony. Was it beautiful?”

“It was everything you wanted.”

“I wish I could remember tossing my bouquet,” she said, still gazing down at her ring.

“I think it’s better that you don’t remember the tossing part,” he said, before he pulled her into his arms and made damned sure their marriage was consummated. Utterly and completely.

Felicity had felt wretched a few minutes ago, but the moment Thatcher hauled her into his arms, she forgot all about her megrims.

For to find herself enfolded in his warm embrace, to feel the heat of his breath on the nape of her neck, she gave into the sinful pleasures twining through her naked limbs.

There were advantages to waking up without her clothes, she realized. For it meant there was nothing standing in the way as Thatcher’s hands roamed over her skin in a heated exploration. Her shoulders, her arms, the curve of her hips, the roundness of her breasts. His fingers left a trail of fire in their wake. He’d caress her, stroke her in one place, kindling her desires, and then move on, leaving her breathless and anxious.

And if his hands were leaving such dangerous trails, his mouth was even more hazardous. His lips teased the nape of her neck, sending delicious shivers down her spine. His breath trailed over her shoulders, until his head sank to her breasts, capturing a nipple with his teeth. They grazed the pebbled flesh, and her entire body rose up to meet him.

He caught her by the hips and brought her right up against his breeches, so she could feel that as much as he was pleasuring her, she was doing the same to him.

Felicity sighed as the hardness there rubbed up against her.

Well, it certainly wasn’t going to do either of them any good trapped in his breeches.

With a boldness she’d never imagined she could possess, her fingers tugged his breeches open.

Thatcher laughed. “In a hurry?”

“Yes,” she said, a newfound huskiness to her voice.

“We have all day,” he told her, rolling her beneath him, covering her with his body.

“I won’t have you crying off.”

“Crying off?”

“Now that you have a clear head, I don’t want you changing your mind—about us, and about marrying me.”

“Felicity, I never have a clear head when I am around you,” he teased. “And certainly not when you haven’t got a stitch on.” His head dipped down and his lips teased hers.

She arched like a cat, her hands finding the waistband on his breeches and working them down over his hips. “Is this all I have to do to have my way with you?”

“’Tis a good start,” he told her, his voice thick with need. His manhood sprang free, hard and erect, and she arched against him again, enthralled by the very feel of him against her sex.

He made a low growl of a sound, and reached down impatiently to finish tugging off his breeches. His shirt followed, and then he was atop her again, their bare skin meeting, the crisp hair on his chest rough against the soft silk of her breasts.

He drew her closer and his hand reached down and slowly stroked the curls at the apex of her thighs. Ever so slowly he parted her nether lips and began to tease her.

Felicity sighed, the heat of his touch sending a dizzy rush of desire running headlong through her body.

She moaned softly, even as he touched her again, his fingers circling the tight nub there and then dipping inside her, drawing out the wetness.

She was slick and hot, and had started to pant. Her heels dug into the mattress, raising her hips up to meet him. Her hands caught hold of his shoulders, twined in his hair, stroked his back—as if trying to find someplace to hold onto.

“Please, Thatcher,” she whispered. “I need—”

She couldn’t even manage to say it, her breath catching in her throat.

He grinned down at her, a wolfish light in his eyes as he shifted and the torture his fingers were plying from her were replaced by a new tormenter.

She gasped as he entered her, both from the size of him and the pure bliss of having his entire length slide over her sex. He was heavy and thick and he fit her ever so perfectly.

“Now you are mine, always and forever,” he told her, the possessive tone to his words sending a thrill down her spine.

Mine
. And hers as well. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she whispered back, her hips rising to meet him as he stroked her softly, gently.

For a time they made love slowly, letting the depth of the act surround them.

There was no one else in the world but the two of them, and they let their bodies join into one passion.

So lost in the rhythm, her climax caught her by surprise—as Thatcher’s caught him unaware. Their gazes met, and she watched the joy in his eyes as he found his release, his body thrusting deeply into her as his seed spilled out, even as her very core tightened around him, sending waves of pleasure washing over her.

He held her tightly afterward, so close they remained joined together, and Felicity knew she’d made the right choice.

For such bliss was theirs—to find and discover with each other, and only each other.

This was her path, and she surrendered herself to her destiny and to this man who made her life complete.

Sometime later, Felicity awoke and glanced over at the man she’d chosen. With her heart.

“’Twas the right thing to do,” she whispered. He snored softly, and she pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “I’m not the only one.”

But for all her happiness, there was something left undone, and if there was one thing she detested, it was unfinished business.

Hollindrake
.

She needed to tell him what had happened and of her change of heart. Perhaps she could even find him the right bride, she thought cheerfully, as she slipped silently from the bed.

She found her clothes, cleaned and pressed, hanging from hooks near the door. After donning her gown and pulling on her stockings, she glanced back at the bedroom.

She couldn’t just leave without letting Thatcher know where she was going. But if she told him, he’d most likely insist she stay with him. Or persuade her quite effectively to remain. She blushed and then shook her head, for there was also another consideration. He might insist on accompanying her.

At that thought, Felicity shuddered. She had forsworn great wealth and privilege to marry him, and there was no point in rubbing it in.

No, better she go alone and end her attachment to Hollindrake once and for all, and then she could rush back here—to Thatcher, to her new life.

Pulling a blank page from her journal, she found a stub of a pencil on the desk and wrote a quick note explaining her absence in case he awoke before she got back.

And then, silently, she fled, not realizing that Thatcher was standing in the doorway watching her leave. He crossed the room, read the note, and tossed it onto the coals in the grate.

“There’s no putting it off now,” he muttered.

Felicity arrived back at the house on Brook Street to find her sister and Pippin making their final finishing touches for the Hollindrake ball.

“Duchess, there you are!” Tally called out, crossing the room in a thrice and drawing her sister into a warm embrace, not caring a whit for wrinkles to her silk gown or damage to her elegant coiffure. “Thatcher sent around a note that he had found you, but I am glad to see you well.” She paused and then held her sister out to study her. “All is well, isn’t it?”

Felicity nodded and then grinned. “We are wed.”

“Then you aren’t mad?”

“Mad? Whatever for?” Felicity asked. “Certainly it wasn’t the ceremony I had envisioned, but I don’t care for that any longer. I love him, and he loves me, and we are man and wife. For now and forever.”

“Married! Oh, Felicity, that is glorious news,” Pippin said, coming to join in as the three of them danced in a circle, Brutus barking happily as he darted between their ankles.

When they came to a dizzy stop, Felicity glanced at the two of them in their finery. “How pretty you both look! Madame Ornette did a beautiful job. And I see Mr. Betchel’s services as a hairdresser weren’t exaggerated.”