One Moonlit Night (Moonlight Square: A Prequel Novella) (18 page)

She closed her eyes with a faint wince at the memory.

Jason’s gentle rebuff still hurt a bit to this day, truth be told. Thankfully, however, she was long over her painfully intense infatuation with the heir to the Netherford dukedom, who had grown up on the neighboring estate.

She supposed any girl might have fallen for him back then. He was funny and kind and took an interest in what she had to say; he was reliable and good-hearted, for all his teasing, merry roguery. It had been a concoction her young heart could not withstand. Unable to bear her secret adoration of him any longer, at the ripe old age of fifteen, she had finally confessed her devotion to the older boy.

The then nineteen-year-old Jason had been, in a word, horrified.

Felicity shook her head, cringing. Now twenty-three, she could not imagine what degree of everyday familiarity between them could have possibly made her imagine it was anything other than scandalous to plop herself down on his lap, drape her arms around his neck, and flirt with him the way she had, with a big, naïve, beaming smile.

He had gone quite ashen, and too late, she had realized he was aghast at the position in which she had put him. Instead of declaring his undying love in return, as she had somehow foolishly expected, he had set her aside, stood up stiffly, and walked out the door.

Later that evening, before she had even recovered from her shame, Peter had marched into her chamber and yelled at her for making a fool of herself, risking her reputation, and bothering his friend.

Things between her and Jason had never been the same after that.

She was lucky Peter had decided not to tell Mother, but he only kept it to himself because she was still fragile from losing Father the winter before to a fever. Peter, now the man of the house, had said it would probably “kill” their mother to hear that her daughter had behaved in such a fashion.

Ever since that day, Felicity had been very careful to comport herself with the utmost prim-and-proper rectitude at all times. No matter how bored she grew with her existence sometimes. No matter how much she might resent it.

Ah, but back then, in her tearful innocence, she had told her brother she had honestly thought her beloved Jason
liked
bold girls. Based on some rather scandalous conversations she’d overheard between the two rowdy young bucks, it was an understandable mistake. And she had
so
wanted Jason to love her as she loved him—for himself—who he was, not for his dukedom or his wealth or anything like that. Such things were meaningless to a lovesick girl of fifteen.

But alas, her moment of brash forwardness had ruined everything between them. Jason had all but forgotten she existed, particularly after he had ascended to the title, taking the place of his horrid cold fish of a father.

Felicity could only pray that perhaps by now he had forgotten the whole embarrassing debacle. Likely he had, given the sea of women who regularly threw themselves these days at the hard, polished libertine he’d become.

Still, that was no excuse for him to ignore both of her frantic letters. It wasn’t as though she expected such an
important
personage as the Duke of Netherford to give her a personal response. She was quite content to deal with His Grace’s secretary.

All she wanted was one simple piece of information: whether or not he was able to get a message to her brother for her.

It was urgent, and since Jason could apparently not be bothered to answer his mail, she had come in person to get the details she needed from someone, anyone, on the duke’s staff.

As her coachman walked back from the driver’s box to hand the ladies down and her footman ran her card up to the front door, Mrs. Brown tapped Felicity on the shoulder. “My dear?”

About to get out of the vehicle, she glanced back at the matron. “Yes, ma’am?”

“What will you do if we see the duke?” Mrs. Brown asked, worry in her dark eyes.

Words quite failed Felicity at the question.

Hope the earth opens up and swallows me?
But she dared not reveal any sign of her misgivings to her chaperone, who was even more prim and proper than she was.

“That isn’t going to happen,” she finally clipped out, forcing a confident smile.
He’s probably sleeping it off in a brothel somewhere across Town right now, anyway.

With that, Felicity stepped down, smoothed her ebony skirts, gripped the handle of the black reticule draped over her arm, and walked to the rogue’s front door with her head held high.

Her plump chaperone and skinny maid, Dorcas, who’d been riding on top of the coach, both hurried after her for moral support, and together, the three of them presented a bastion of respectability at the Duke of Scandal’s door.

His butler had already answered and taken her card from the footman.

“Miss Carvel?” the butler greeted her in astonishment. The sweet-faced old man had lit up when he had read her card, obviously recognizing her by her brother’s last name.

Peter did tend to have that effect on people—bold, swashbuckling charmer that he was, and a decorated war hero, too.

“Goodness me! Miss Carvel, do please come in, come in!” The butler beamed, opening the door wider for them. “Ladies,” he added, nodding kindly at her two attendants as they walked between the sculpted topiaries flanking the elegant entrance.

Mounting the few front stairs, the three women filed into the duke’s opulent entrance hall.

The butler was still staring at Felicity, rather marveling, as though she were a wonder of the world.

Odd.

“I am Woodcombe, Miss Carvel. How may I be of service?” he asked gravely as he shut the door behind them.

Felicity faltered as butterflies crashed about in her stomach. She suddenly felt just a bit idiotic standing there. Despite her outward composure, she could not
believe
she was standing in Jason’s house. Her heart pounded with ridiculous excitement. She tried not to gawk while she glanced around at everything.

Was this a mistake? What on earth would he think when he learned from his servants that she had popped by? Would he fancy, in his vanity, that she had come around mooning over him again?

Worse…would he be right?

All things considered, she despised herself for the illicit thrill she felt at this small glimpse into her former idol’s current life. His home was certainly beautiful…

The butler raised his bushy white eyebrows, waiting for her to state her business there.

Felicity cleared her throat, pulse thumping. “Yes, thank you, Woodcombe. You know my brother, I believe? Major Peter Carvel.”

“Oh, yes, indeed, miss! We are all great admirers of the major round here. He is a very brave man, if one may say so. We are all most eager to see what discoveries he might bring back from his grand expedition—especially His Grace.”

“Hmm, yes, quite. That is the reason I am here, actually. I have written two letters to His Grace over the past sennight. Perhaps you noticed them?”

“Why, yes, miss. I put them on the master’s desk personally.”

“Did you? Oh! Well, thank you very much. I must say, I am relieved to hear it. I was beginning to think they hadn’t arrived.” Thank goodness at least somebody here was sober and had a brain. “Um, I don’t know if anyone’s had a chance to read them yet,” she ventured ever so politely, “and I promise I should not have disturbed you all if the matter were not so terribly urgent—”

“No trouble at all, miss! You are
always
welcome here,” Woodcombe averred, his heartfelt utterance taking her and even himself off guard, it seemed, by the widening of his eyes.

With that, the old butler sealed his mouth shut, as though he suddenly feared he’d said too much.

She and Mrs. Brown exchanged a puzzled look before Felicity returned her gaze to the butler.

“Ahem, right. As I was saying,” she continued, “the only reason I decided to come in person is that I
do
need an answer to my question.”

“Shall I fetch Mr. Richardson for you, miss? He is His Grace’s man of affairs. He is here even now, working on the household ledgers.”

“Oh, that would be very fine, indeed!” she exclaimed. “But perhaps, Woodcombe, you may know the answer to this yourself.”

“I shall be happy to try, miss. What is the question?” the dear old fellow asked, tilting his head attentively.

“I need to get a message to my brother. That is all. I-I know His Grace has him off in some jungle…or valley…or desert somewhere in the…general vicinity of the, um, Himalayas? But that does cover…quite a bit of ground, and since His Grace is the mighty, moving force behind the team’s expedition, I just wondered if the duke might have a way, that is, some special means o-of getting in touch with my brother somehow?”

To her dismay, Felicity’s eyes suddenly welled with tears. “I’m afraid it’s a-a bit of a family emergency…”

# # #

Oh, bugger all.
Muffled voices woke him, coming from somewhere below.

Frowning, Jason Hawthorne, the sixth Duke of Netherford, obstinately refused to open his eyes. What was the point? He always hated this moment. Waking up.

Back in Town…another useless day.

But the people mumbling downstairs wouldn’t shut up, and then he became aware of the snoring harlot nearby.

No, wait—two snoring harlots.

God.
With half a mind to blow his head off on any given day, Jason finally decided he had nothing to lose by admitting he was awake.

He opened his bloodshot eyes—and promptly found the ceiling fresco staring down at him, a lush, gaudy mockery. All the coy cupids and tawdry, romping demigods and amorous goddesses up there, still selling the lie that the fleshly life was one big, nonstop celebration.

To be sure, it all might start in gaiety and wine, but he was now intensely aware of the truth: that the end of this road only led to despair.

Which was where he now resided.

Self-disgust rose in his throat. God, it was grotesque of him to lack for nothing and yet to feel so alone. He wouldn’t have believed it, but despite his best efforts to the contrary, it was beginning to look like maybe money really
couldn’t
buy happiness, after all.

Who’d have bloody thought it,
he mused in cutting sarcasm. Surely he could’ve learned at least
that
little lesson from his rich and miserable parents. Having just returned from his ancestral pile in the country where they—or rather, the servants—had raised him, they both were on his mind, though both had since departed from this earth.

Still irked at the voices coming from below, he heaved himself up to a sitting position on the divan where he must have passed out, then noted that his private party with the cyprians had never made it to his bedchamber last night. The drawing room was littered with empty bottles and articles of clothing after his little welcome-home celebration.

Squinting against the golden morning sunlight and wondering what ungodly hour it was, he spotted his latest playthings, soon to be discarded.

Lud, they’d have been horrified if they could have seen what they looked like right now, sprawled and snoring, mouths hanging open.

The room spun a little, but thirst consumed him, so Jason forced himself up from the divan. As he stood he noticed he was still wearing the same clothes, though they were unfastened. Well, the girls knew their trade.

Whoever the hell they were.

He did not actually recall having sex with them, though. If memory served, he’d had them both on their knees last night, taking turns at pleasuring him with their filthy red mouths, and then he’d enjoyed the show of watching them pleasure each other.

And so it goes.

He stepped over one prostrate, scantily clad form and then the other as he headed to the door to bellow for Woodcombe to bring him a pitcher of spring water and a glass of juice and maybe a loaded pistol.

But on second thought, not knowing who the voices in the hall belonged to, perhaps a wee hint of discretion was in order.

On the way to the closed door of the drawing room, he glimpsed his own reflection in the pier glass on the wall and scoffed.

You look like hell, mate.

Indeed, he looked as debauched as he felt—tousled hair, eyes nearly as red as a demon’s, body stripped half-naked by his latest pair of whores. He buttoned the placket of his trousers and then gripped the handle of the door, opening it a crack.

Who the hell’s in my house at this hour?

Peering out oh-so-discreetly, he looked down the staircase and saw three females standing in the entrance hall. A bony servant girl hung back behind the other two. A plump matron in a ghastly brown coat with a black feather on her hat stood protectively beside the third intruder.

This one—blond and slender—caught his attention.

His eyes narrowed with interest. Much too young and tasty to be clad all in black.
Ah, pretty young widow? My favorite. Hullo…

She was angled slightly away from him so he couldn’t see her face, yet she seemed a bit familiar…

Jason both stared and listened harder, the sleep and drink and dissipation slowly clearing from his eyes. It was the musical lilt of her voice that suddenly flooded him with shocked recollection, and whatever dying ember was left of his soul suddenly leaped to life within him.