To Marry the Duke's Daughter (After the Masquerade) (2 page)

Felicity saw Mr. White leading Miss
Catherine Burnel onto the floor and barely restrained herself from scowling
across the room at him. Why had he run off like an uncivilized barbarian? It
was thoroughly rude and hinted at an unstable temper that had no business in
the genteel ballrooms of London.

She was ashamed by her fury, but not so
ashamed that she did not continue to stare at him instead of at her current
partner. When her partner delved into a tirade about the weather she did not
paste a false smile on her face and offer him nods of encouragement—not
that he needed them to ramble on. Instead, she stared at Mr. White in barely
masked irritation. When the distance closed between them in the line she
strained her ears in an attempt to hear his conversation with Miss Catherine,
and she was rewarded with the ugliest words she had ever heard spoken on a
dance floor.

“Surely it was not that dreadful, Mr.
White,” Miss Catherine remarked.

“I have never engaged in such
abominably rude conversation with such an imbecilic twit in my entire
twenty-seven years,” White replied bitterly. “I gave her the opportunity to
prove herself more than a gossiping chit, but she stuck to society. She might
be all the crack, but I doubt she will ever amount to anything more than an
idle beauty. Her skull is certainly empty of serious thoughts.”

Miss Catherine, whom Felicity had
always thought of as a kind, shy sort, did not disappoint. “Careful, Mr.
White, or you will show yourself to be just as high in the instep,” she warned.
“I do not know her well, but those born higher in society are expected to
behave differently than those of us that are merely barons’ daughters. I doubt
she intended to insult my sister; everything you related to me that she said is
true.”

“I do not think a person of
any
status has the right to imply such
things,” White muttered.

“Would you quote Paine, then, Mr.
White?
Through all the vocabulary of
Adam there is not such an animal as a Duke or Count
.
The Rights of Man
can certainly be applied to women as well, though
I know there are many men that would argue against such a belief.”

“You know
I
would not. I appreciate a woman who is not afraid to show her
intelligence or speak her own opinions, even if I do not agree with them.”

At that moment they passed in the
lines, and Felicity’s cheeks burned as their eyes met. She knew it was clear
on her face that she had overheard his words, and by the smug jerk of his chin
she realized he did not care. How abominably cruel of him. She
was
intelligent. She had not read
The Rights of Man
like Miss Catherine
had obviously done, but she knew about Paine’s writings. Fashion magazines
were not the only publications she enjoyed reading. She had kept up with the
progress of the war with as much fervour as Miss Burnel, though she had not
spoken to others about it. She had never told anyone about her interest in
stargazing, and studying the movements of celestial bodies, but she would
gladly yell it at Mr. White if it would wipe that horrid expression off his
face. She had little to offer in defence of herself without revealing that he
had injured her, but she had studied Latin and so knew how to make her point in
a subtle manner.

“
Fere
libenter homines id quod volunt credunt
,” she declared, confusing her
partner.

“What was that?” he queried, startled
out of his tirade on the inopportune timing of the latest rain.

“A quote of Caesar.” Felicity dared to
cock her eyebrow at Mr. White before continuing. “
Men readily believe what they want to believe
. Do you not agree?”

Mr. White knew the question was
directed towards him, but he was moving down the line and so only responded
with a slight tilt of his head to one side.

“I suppose,” her partner hedged, still
confused by her outburst.

“I am sorry,” she murmured, returning
her gaze to her partner. “I interrupted you with one of my silly thoughts. Do
continue.”

His expression cleared and he obliged
her with another quarter hour of rain. She pretended to listen, but she kept a
close eye on Mr. White and Miss Catherine.

Jonathon collapsed on his bed, bending
his knees so he could rub his sore feet. His feet were unused to the dress
shoes required of Almack’s; dancing had only made that perfectly clear to him.
He would look back on the night with relative pleasure, if not for the
inevitable blisters on the soles of his feet. The only other downside was his
unfortunate encounter with the Duke of Avondale’s haughty daughter.

He grimaced as he thought of Lady
Felicity Ryans. She might be beautiful, but no amount of beauty would ever be
able to make up for the rude words she had spoken, or her dismissive attitude
of anyone beneath her. Lady Felicity had insulted Miss Jane Burnel, a woman he
would always admire for her patriotism and intelligence, and that was
unacceptable. Even if Miss Burnel were not his friend, he would still be
disgusted by Lady Felicity’s words.

Jonathon knew that was being a little
hypocritical, considering his love of using words to tease, but the only reason
he had spoken so poorly of Lady Felicity to Miss Catherine Burnel was because
the duke’s daughter had been so rude. Miss Catherine had tried to defend
her—Catherine was a sweet girl and would almost always disapprove of
anyone speaking ill of another—and if he were thinking rationally he
would recognize that if anyone had a right to be upset, it would be Miss
Catherine. But Miss Catherine had said that Lady Felicity’s words were true.

“Perhaps she spoke the truth, but she
was still rude,” he muttered, shifting so he could rub the other foot.
“Although it was childish of me to respond with equal rudeness. I should have
at least escorted her off the dance floor.”

If Lady Felicity were telling the
truth, she became bluntly honest instead of rude. If she were bluntly honest,
she became different from almost every other member of the
ton
who simpered and pleased with lies. The concept was
startlingly refreshing, even if it cast him in the light as the rude former
cavalry officer with no concept of social niceties. However, Lady Felicity was
still Avondale’s daughter, still haughty, and still an unacceptable woman on
whom to set his cap.

So why was he still experiencing the
sensation of falling?

Why could he not feel that sensation
for Miss Jane Burnel, who matched him in almost every way? Or if not for Miss
Burnel then for her sister, Miss Catherine? Both women were acceptable, but
they did not incur the weightless sensation he felt when he gazed down into
Lady Felicity Ryans’s unusual grey eyes.

He sighed and stretched out over the
bed. “Women are too confusing. I would much rather dedicate my thoughts to
replenishing my stolen fortune so I can buy back my mare. At least she
understands me, and I her.”

Chapter
Two

Ascot Heath

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Felicity did not mean to bump into him.
She had watched him all day, admiring the manner in which the warm sunlight
graced his features and transformed him from a mortal man clothed in tan knee
breeches and a dark green cotton coat into a god of unparalleled beauty. His
black Hessian boots were perfectly polished to reflect the sunlight, and his
decision to carry his hat under the crook of his arm allowed her to sigh at the
fiery gold shimmering amidst the dark brown of his hair. But when she set out
between races to find a friendly conversationalist, she had no intention of
bumping into him. He had been calling on another woman, after all, and they had
not exchanged words since their first meeting. She should despise him for his
cruel conversation, but after a sleepless night of reflection she had accepted
that his disgust was justified. She had been rather pompous, and though it had
not been her intention to insult anyone, she had still done so.

“I am terribly sorry, Mr. White,” she
murmured, stepping away from him. She was afraid to meet his eyes, and so kept
hers on her soft leather boots.

“I am sorry,” he offered, and for a
moment she looked up in the hope that he was being kind. Then he added, “I
should have known better than to walk near a Latin-speaking insulter.”

Felicity felt fury spearing through her
veins like the strongest intoxication, and she shoved her fist against his face
before the red cleared from her eyes.

“Dear lord, Mr. White, I am so sorry,”
she exclaimed, looking between her fisted hand and his face in shock. “I am
so, so terribly sorry.”

He blinked several times, reaching up
absently to rub his cheek. “You have a dreadfully weak punch, Lady Felicity.”

She hit him again, this time
intentionally. She threw all of her weight into it, and she was pleased when
the force of her blow sent him staggering backwards. As if through a narrow
tunnel she heard a passing drunkard laugh and applaud her effort.

“Are you contrite, Mr. White?” she
demanded, her hands on her hips.

He scowled at her. “If you hit me
again I will think you like me.”

“Ha! You would like that, wouldn’t
you? You would like me to set my cap on a rude, cruel, heartless man who
thinks he knows better than everyone else. You do not know anything about me,
Mr. White,” she snapped. “If I hit you again, it will be because I cannot bear
to see your handsome face for a moment longer.”

He stared at her in shock, and it took
her a while to realize what she had accidentally admitted. Once she remembered
she cleared her throat and failed in her fight against the growing heat rising
in her cheeks.

“I make a muddle of everything,” she
muttered. She crossed her arms over her chest and hunched her shoulders
forward, wishing she could somehow melt into herself and simply become a blob
dressed in green.

“If you thought my face handsome you
would not have hit it twice,” he reasoned.

She made a face up at him, knowing it
was too late to hide the beast inside her. She had hit him, for goodness’
sake! In public, no less. She was
ruined
.

“That does not make sense, Mr. White.”

“It makes more sense than hitting me
because you think I am handsome.”

“I did not hit you because I think you handsome,”
she corrected, beginning to believe her punches had addled his brains. “I hit
you because you are an imbecile who keeps insulting me, and I am tired of it.”

“Oh.”

She waited for him to perhaps apologize
for his cruel words, but after several minutes of silence she gave up.

“You are invidious.” She forced her
arms to relax and clutched her skirts, determined to walk away in the most
graceful haste she could manage. Then he spoke, his words turning her back to
him.

“You are beautiful when you are angry.
You are always handsome, of course, but there is fire in your non-grey eyes
today, Lady Felicity, and I admire that.” His expression did not change during
his speech, though she felt her entire body morphing like an utterly confused
caterpillar turning into an awkward butterfly.

“I do not understand you at all, Mr.
White.”

His eyes softened and the corner of his
mouth pulled up into a wry half-smile. “Then we are even, Lady Felicity.”

“Another race is starting!” someone
exclaimed, his words causing a rush of those milling about.

Felicity knew she should return to her
seat—and White’s sudden discomfort hinted that he was eager to return to
his—but she was hesitant to walk away from the man that had just said he
admired the fire in her eyes.

“Lady Felicity, I—”

“Oh!” She staggered as someone rammed
against her in his haste to watch the race.

Jonathon pulled her against his chest
to shield her from the churning crowd, unwilling to see her pulled away from
him and crushed by the throngs of people. A few moments previous and he might
not have felt such a protective surge, let alone acted on it, but something
remarkable was occurring and he wanted to continue their conversation.

She fit well against him, and he rested
his cheek against hers in an effort to feel her soft skin.

Her fingers curled around the lapels of
his coat. “Let go, Mr. White.”

“Are you afraid of me?” he queried in a
murmur, his lips brushing against her cheek as he spoke.

“You are courting another,” she stated
dryly. “You have no business clutching me to your breast.”

“I am not courting anyone,” he
corrected, though he did loosen his hold on her. It was dangerous to savour
the gentle warmth of her skin; he had nothing to offer her in return, and he
decided she had every right to know the truth. “Courting requires flowers, and
flowers cost money. I am currently bereft of the funds necessary for flowers.”

She tilted her head back so that she
could meet his eyes and asked frankly, “Are you a fortune hunter, Mr. White?”

“No. Merely a victim of familial
obligation.” He strained his ears as he heard an outcry from the crowds, but
he was not able to discern the words.

He had decided, after another visit
from his brother, that he would attempt to make a little money by using his
knowledge of horses to predict the winner. What little he had was resting on
Pranks, and he was anxious to see if his past as a cavalry officer had helped
him.

“Are you a gambling man, then? I know
Lord White is a perpetual gambler; everyone knows.”

“Today is the first day for me to put
money on anything, Lady Felicity, and it was done as a last resort. If I do
not win something I will be forced to beg my brother for a room. The very
thought is repellent to me, but I am a rational man, and sometimes we do not have
a choice as to our future. My future certainly looks nothing like I had
imagined it,” he added grimly.

As a boy he had pictured his future
centred on a glorious military career. He had, even until recently, thought
that might be achievable with the right circumstances. War had provided
promotions, and though he did not enjoy the mêlée, he had to admit that there
was a rush of emotions after a hard-won victory. He would gladly ride into the
fray again if it meant he could have a more secure future, but his brother had
seen to it that he lost everything he once wanted.

If he had not been forced to hand over
every last pence, he might have had a chance at wooing the woman currently in
his arms. He had saved a hefty sum while in the cavalry, and had long savoured
the prospect of buying a small piece of property and living the rest of his
years as a country gentleman, with a sweet wife and smiling children and nights
spent counting the stars…but all of that was lost when his brother demanded
that he pay for a family debt. He grudgingly sold his best friend, a handsome
mare named Beth, and then dipped into his savings. The Marquis of Ravenwood
was treating Beth like a queen and allowed Jonathon to visit as often as he
wished, but he still felt as if he had betrayed her. It did not matter that he
had sacrificed his Beth; Gregory would not be satisfied until he saw his
younger brother enslaved or broken.

“Mr. White?”

Felicity’s eyes were remarkably deep
for their strange colouration, and for a moment he allowed himself to believe
that it was possible to achieve his dreams.

“I see no reason why you could not have
the future you always desired. You are young, and strong, and everything a
young man ought to be.” Her voice was much lower than before, but he did not
know if that was because she was speaking quietly.

“As declared by the woman who punched
me twice and called me an imbecile?” he questioned, trying to keep his tone
teasing.

Her cheeks glowed and she wrinkled her
nose in mock annoyance. “Well, you
are
an imbecile. But that does not mean you cannot be a likeable imbecile, and
that puts you ahead of the others.”

“Are there others?” He did not know
why he asked; it did not matter if he were the only one infatuated with her
unusual eyes and curious character, for he would still not have a chance.

“No.” Her expression turned sweetly
puzzled. “There has never been anyone. I have done everything my father told
me to, but there has never been anyone.”

She had been masking her voice, he
reasoned. There was no other explanation for why her tone was now so much
lower and smoother. “If your father told you to be the woman you were when we
first met, I am not surprised by that. I did not like that Lady Felicity. But
you…now…I could fancy the Lady Felicity currently in my arms.”

“I really should not be in your arms.
We are in public, and—well, anyone could see. My
father
could see.” She looked uncomfortable with that thought, but
he was not ready to release her.

“No one is here to see us,” he pointed
out. “They are all watching the race. We can stand here for a few moments,
and pretend.”

Her ebony brows knitted together as she
considered his words. “Why must it only be pretend?” she finally queried,
running her hand across his chest.

He held her chastely, his gloved hands
resting against her bare elbows, but he knew that anyone who walked past would
see the fire kindling in his eyes. Lady Felicity had passion in her, and now
that he could see it he wanted it all for himself. She was beautiful, but that
did not matter to him now. It had drawn his eye but also curbed his interest;
now that she had offered him a glimpse of her true self she was so much more
than her beauty.

“I have nothing to offer you,” he
whispered, the words directed towards himself as much as towards her.

“I disagree, Mr. White. You are the
first man—the first
person
—to
like me for anything beyond this.” She motioned to herself with one hand. “To
not fear that you will be angry if I speak in my true voice, or admit that I am
an avid stargazer.” A soft smile graced her features, and she continued in a
gentle murmur, her eyes distant. “Do you ever watch the stars at night and
imagine yourself riding amidst them? I do. When I am not required to put on a
false air, I am always dreaming of the stars, and how brightly they shine at
night. Does that make me a naïve dreamer?”

Jonathon smiled down at her, gently
pulling her so that she fit securely against his chest. “No. The stars were
made for dreams.”

And he was falling again. The sensation
was much stronger this time, and he was struck by a sudden panic that it would
be much more painful when he inevitably hit the ground. Why was he becoming
lost in her large chameleon eyes when he knew he did not belong there? And why
was he charming her when he needed to get her as far away from him as possible?
Gregory would not rest until he could destroy all possibilities of Jonathon’s
happiness, especially if he discovered that Jonathon was afflicted by a fancy
for the duke’s daughter.

“White.”

Jonathon’s head jerked up quickly and
he offered a return nod to the passing black-clad lord. “Fenna.”

Lord Fenna’s expression was decidedly
amused as he continued past, but Jonathon was grateful for the well-intentioned
interruption. Felicity was nervous in his arms, like a horse ready to bolt.
Jonathon fought the urge to laugh as he realized that perhaps he had been
wrong, and women and horses were not so dissimilar.

“You should return to your father,” he
murmured, releasing her elbows. “The dream is over.” He felt dull teeth
gnawing against his heart when tears swelled in her eyes.

“What if I do not want to wake up?”

“We cannot keep living if we do not
wake. Maybe someday I will be able to pursue dreams, but it is not yet that
day.” He brushed his gloved fingers against her cheek, wondering what had just
happened to his life. Felicity confused and attracted him, and that was a
dangerous combination for a man unused to such distractions.