To Marry the Duke's Daughter (After the Masquerade) (4 page)

She
was surprised by his words. Caught as she was in her state of smitten fantasy,
she had not stopped to consider that Jonathon had to bow to the demands of his
older brother, who stood as the head of his family. She had suspected that
Earl White had control over Jonathon’s perilous finances, and she immediately
chastised herself for not realizing the extent of the earl’s power.

“What
do you intend to do?” she demanded, tilting her head so that she could peer
across at him from under her floppy white bonnet. “Ignore me?”

“No.
I should, but I cannot,” he admitted. “You have too securely captured my
interest. While it is too dangerous to meet you in person, I believe I can
arrange another means of communication through a mutual acquaintance.”

“Oh?”
Despite the angry despair flooding her veins, Felicity felt a glimmer of hope.

“There
are very few people in this world that I trust, Lady Felicity. The majority of
my winnings from the Royal Ascot are in the safekeeping of one of those people.
My brother will remain intent on my finances until my dying day, but while he
can force my hand he cannot touch Toby, who is usually cleverer than I when it
comes to investments. I do not wish to lose you when I still have hope for an
improvement in my circumstances.”

Felicity
returned her eyes to the
Route de Roi
,
desperately attempting to understand his words. If he had hope for a
financially secure future, did that not imply a hope for her as well?

Jonathon
sighed and she heard him shift in his saddle. “If you agree, I would like to
continue our acquaintance through letters. I can address them through Miss
Catherine Burnel, who has graciously consented to act as an intermediary
between us. It is not unusual for me to write her, since I consider
her—and Miss Burnel, of course—a friend. Therefore it will not
alert my brother to any unusual activity on my part. If you receive letters
from a female, your father should not be concerned about
your
activity.”

“It
does appear our only choice,” she agreed. “I have always admired the Misses
Burnel. I am still surprised that you are not courting Miss Burnel; you called
upon her often, and even proffered roses, if the rumours are to be believed.”

He
met her tepid glance with a wry smile. “Are you jealous, Lady Felicity?”

Her
expression quickly transformed into disapproval. “Do not mock a woman scorned,
Mr. White.”

“But
I am no longer scorning
you
,” he
pointed out, his tone gentle. “At first I did consider Miss Burnel a decent
match, but I recognized another as better suited for her. I did—and
still do—admire her, but we are not suited as anything more than
friends.”

Felicity’s
voice was very soft as she asked, “Do you consider me a friend?”

He
surprised them both by reaching across to touch her arm. “Yes, you are a
friend. Unlike Miss Burnel, however, you have the potential to be something much
more. But you must trust me, Felicity,” he added earnestly. “Will you wait
for me?”

Two Weeks Later

Curling
a loose strand of her black hair around one finger and wiggling her bare toes
in delight, Felicity smiled down at the paper resting on her knees. Jonathon
was leaving London to visit his mother, but he had finally written the words
she had longed to hear.

I love you.

They
had exchanged letters almost every day for the past two weeks, ranging in topic
from political debates to favourite holidays. Felicity had thoroughly enjoyed
their discussion about the similarities between people and their pets, although
that enjoyment revolved around the sketches that accompanied the written words.
Jonathon was a terrible artist, and she was relieved to know he was not
perfect at everything.

Her
favourite letters lay scattered across her stomach, and she released her hair
so she could shuffle through the papers. She had decided to stretch herself
improperly across the armchair situated in her bowfront window while she read
through her most recent correspondence, and an open window allowed a cool
breeze to caress her cheek as she smiled at a letter.

“My
dearest,” she murmured. “I do like how that sounds, although I would much
prefer to hear it from your lips.”

At
first Jonathon’s letters were addressed and signed in a politely interested
manner, but after she confessed to a love of poetry—and he had responded
with such delighted fervour—he had taken to referring to himself as
Your Most Devoted Admirer
. That was
nothing to finally reading that he loved her, and she had wasted no time in
penning a response filled with lines to make any romantic poet weep. Her heart
was filled with joy, and though she wanted everyone to know her bliss, she was
aware that Jonathon needed time to put his affairs in order.

He
had added that he would try to see her again in person upon his return to
London, and that was enough to keep her satisfied while he was visiting his
mother. That and his poem comparing her eyes to the stars;
his
stars.

Felicity
felt tears pricking the back of her eyes just at the memory of his words. She
reached across and grasped his last letter, pressing it to her heart.

“I
love you,” she whispered, closing her eyes and smiling. “You see me as no one
else ever has, and I love you for it, my dearest Jonathon.”

Lord
Carlton Ryans, the Duke of Avondale, quietly stepped away from her partially
open door, greying-black eyebrows narrowed in thought as he strode down the
dark hallway to his study. He had not anticipated this, and needed to take the
necessary precautions to protect his daughter from the persistent fortune
hunter.

Chapter
Four

Gloucestershire

Back to top

With starlight gleaming
in your eyes

And night larks singing lullabies

My silver-eyed Felicity

‘Tis everything I want of
thee

“No,” Jonathon muttered, crumpling up
the piece of paper and tossing it aside. “It just doesn’t work.”

He frowned down at the last scrap of
paper lying on the thin slab of wood resting across his knees. He had been
sitting on the rickety cast iron bench since after breakfast, but though he
tried to take inspiration from the crisp breeze and swirling grey clouds, his
thoughts kept being muddled by the constant interruption of the steward. Jonathon
knew the man was simply enthusiastic about having a rational male in
residence—Gregory certainly never paid any mind to the running of the
estate—but Jonathon was also aware that his mother was capable of
answering the steward’s questions. She had already done so for nigh on three
years. Lady Sylvia White was a very capable woman, and Jonathon had reminded
the steward of that fact the last time the man had tried to engage him in
conversation.

“Why can I not think of a proper line?”
he despaired, flinging himself to his feet so he could pace around the broken
fountain. “It should not be this difficult to do something I love.”

“The result makes the challenge
worthwhile,” Sylvia murmured, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she
walked towards him. Sunlight warmed her pale skin but also highlighted the
thin structure of her face. “You cannot be successful without some difficulty,
Jonathon.”

He crossed his arms over his chest as
he continued to pace the worn cobblestones. In his youth he had enjoyed
mapping the cracks in the stones, marvelling at their beauty as one would the
lines on a grandparent’s face. Now he wished he could somehow fit into one of
the tiny cracks and hide until his mother continued on her mid-morning
constitutional. He had wanted to see her again, but he was afraid she knew the
true purpose of his visit, a fear that was realized as his mother settled on
the bench and tilted her gaze upwards.

“Who is she?”

He glanced across at her with a scowl
but she continued to regard him patiently.

“Who is she?” his mother asked again,
her light brown eyes—closer in colour to caramel—twinkling with
mischief. “I can see by the absent look in your eyes that you are thinking
about a woman, and I want to know: who is she?”

“I know nothing of which you speak,”
Jonathon evaded, kicking one of the crumpled poems that littered the small
courtyard.

Sylvia chuckled. “You cannot lie to
me, Jonathon.”

He knew it would be pointless to deny
her again; his mother was a relentless examiner. It was always easier to tell
her the truth, for she would pursue him with the same single-minded
determination that Gregory used to pursue money.

“Felicity is her name,” he finally
stated. “I met her not long after I arrived in London.”

“Go on.”

Jonathon let out a huff of irritated
air. His mother had never been one to let a pause linger.

“We did not get on at first, but that
was due mostly to a misunderstanding on my part. She is much more than I could
have ever imagined, as I have cause to know from our communication these past
weeks. Felicity is an avid writer and a fellow lover of poetry.”

“I am sure you have written her several
pretty lines,” Sylvia mused, lifting her slender brows as she noted the paper
strewn around the bench. Soft brown curls framed her narrow cheeks, gifting
her features with a younger grace. The stresses of London and her eldest son
had an ill effect on her, but Jonathon had often thought that she remained in
the country more for solitude than her health.

“I have attempted a few poems,” he
admitted. “I do not know that they were pretty.”

Sylvia shook her head and rolled her
eyes. “You never did think much of your poetry, Jonathon, but even as a child
I thought you an exceptional poet. Despite your rather grim outlook on
society, you are quite the romantic.”

Jonathon scowled and halted his pacing
so he could stand directly before her. “I was a true lieutenant in the ---
cavalry.”

“That does not mean you cannot be a
romantic.” She smiled warmly and lifted a hand to grasp his arm with surprising
strength. “Do you love this Felicity?”

“At first I thought her little more
than a pretty face, but after she punched me I realized that she is unlike any
woman I have ever met.”

Her hand fell from his arm to cover her
mouth. “She
punched
you? Good
heavens, Jonathan, what did you do to her?”

“I told you, there was a
misunderstanding,” he hedged. “She is a strong woman, a fact that has
impressed me and undoubtedly encouraged my affections. I could never respect a
woman that is afraid of speaking her mind. While she is everything proper
amidst society, she is nothing but honest with me. I do not feel pressured to
speak false words when I am with her, nor do I fear insulting her with my own
honesty. Felicity is everything a woman should be, though I am concerned that
her father will use everything in his power to convince her that I am not
worthy of her. Once I can convince him that I am serious in my pursuit of her,
I believe the duke will consent to let me court her.”

His mother choked on a sudden gasp. As
she struggled to catch her breath she rasped, “A
duke’s
daughter? Jonathon, are you mad?”

He felt his cheeks prickle with warmth.
“No, I am perfectly sane.”

“You have no money with which to woo a
duke’s daughter. You do not have a title to impress her father, or…no.”
Sylvia’s expression was aghast. “No, no, no, no, no. Lady Felicity
Ryans
? The Duke of Avondale’s
daughter?”

He nodded grimly. “I know Avondale is
rough around the edges—”

“He will never let you marry his
daughter. Avondale refused a wealthy marquis who wanted to marry her two years
ago; what makes you think he will let a man with no title—and no
money—marry his only child?”

“Because I love her, and she loves me,”
Jonathon declared. “And I
do
have
money. If things continue as they are, I should be able to present myself as a
suitable match for Felicity by the end of the Season.”

Sylvia pursed her lips as she regarded
his determined stance. Finally she sighed and rose to stand before him, and
held his face in her hands. “Be careful, Jonathon. Your brother will not be
pleased if he discovers that you have been deceiving him. I wish you luck with
Avondale, but do not be surprised if he turns you aside. I would not be
surprised if the duke is holding out for a prince for his daughter.”

London

“I am surprised that a bankrupt fortune
hunter would bring such charming roses,” Lord Carlton Ryans mused, glancing
archly at the bouquet Mr. Jonathon White clutched in his hands.

“I am not a fortune hunter, Lord
Avondale, nor am I bankrupt.”

Mr. White’s determined stance impressed
the duke, but he refused to take the young man seriously. Carlton had seen
fortune hunters in action for too many years to be blinded by the obvious facts
concerning Mr. White’s interest in Felicity. No honourable man corresponded
with a woman without first seeking permission from the woman’s father.

“You are the same man who has written
to my daughter for several weeks, is that not so?”

Mr. White had the good sense to
acknowledge his actions.

“Do you not think such an activity
clandestine? Why would you pursue her without first consulting me, unless you
feared that I would reject your suit?” Carlton stood, tapping the tips of his
fingers against the top of his desk before striding around to stand before the
young man. “Everyone in the
ton
is
aware of your perilous financial state, Mr. White. I swore to keep my daughter
safe from men like you, yet you have still managed to harm her. Was that your
intention? Your plan?” he demanded, grateful that he had a few inches over Mr.
White. Intimidation was useless without the advantage of height.

“I do not comprehend your meaning,” the
younger man stated, narrowing his dark brown brows in thought. “I never
intended to hurt your daughter. I’ll admit that I never intended to fall in
love with her either, but—”

“Because all you want of her is her
money,” Carlton snapped. He turned suddenly and crossed over an oriental rug
to stand at the window, where he stared down at the people walking on the
pavement below. “You do not feel love for her. You merely lust for her
dowry.”

“No,” Mr. White insisted. “I would not
complain on
my
behalf if you refused
to provide her dowry. My finances are improving, and I believe that soon I
will be able to offer for her properly.”

Carlton looked over his shoulder and
grimaced. “Offer for her
properly
?
If you wanted to do things properly, Mr. White, you would have come to me
before you seduced her with your false words.” He grinned suddenly and turned
to face the younger man again, crossing his arms over his chest in the process.
“Yes, Mr. White, I know about the letters you have sent her. I’ve even read a
few of them. Pathetic, how you use those you consider friends instead of
facing me yourself. Did you honestly think I would not notice my daughter’s
active correspondence with a woman with whom she has barely spoken?

“Which makes me wonder,” he mused, his
voice lowering. “Why are you here now? Why not continue to hide in the
shadows and recite poisonous words in a poetic façade?”

Mr. White stiffened, his expression
that of wounded pride. “It was never my intention to hide from you, Lord
Avondale. I have my reasons for keeping my emotions private. I wanted to be
certain that I could provide for her before I courted her, but I was not going
to court a woman I did not know. It was not safe for her to be seen with me,
so I decided to write to her.”

“Not safe?” Carlton scoffed. He
dropped his hands to his sides. “What lies have you been telling her, Mr.
White?”

“I have never—nor would I
ever—lie to her, Lord Avondale.” Mr. White’s dark brown eyes flashed in
anger. “Perhaps you should ask her if she trusts me, and trust her judgement.
She certainly knows me better than you do, Lord Avondale.”

His expression cleared, and Carlton
regarded him with concern.

“But perhaps you do not know her as
well as I do,” he murmured.

Carlton felt fury heat his veins.
“What are you insinuating, Mr. White? I know my daughter. I have cared for
her and raised her on my own these past twenty-four years. No one knows her as
well as I.”

“Then why does she feel so alone? Why
does she seek company with the stars, and count them as her friends? Why does
she long to step out of this townhouse and make her own way in this world?”
Mr. White’s voice rose. “Why does she suspect that you have done everything in
your power to mould her into a woman whom she is not? You told her to speak in
a higher pitch, but her natural voice is the most melodious pitch in the world.
You told her to how to attract a man, but she is in her fourth Season and
still unwed.”

“Yet you have obviously been attracted
to her,” Carlton accused. “You would not be here otherwise. If you found her
voice and her manners so
un
attractive,
it must mean that my assumptions are correct, and you are here only for her
dowry.”

He was impressed, despite his belief
that Mr. White was a fortune hunter. No one else had bothered to look past
Felicity’s beauty to see Carlton’s efforts to protect her. He had always
believed himself in the right for asking his daughter to act out of character.
How else was he supposed to weed out those who only wanted a pretty face from
those who wanted her heart?

Mr. White cringed. “I saw behind her
mask. If you have truly read our correspondence, you would know that she has
been honest with me, and I with her.”

“I read the lying words of a man set on
improving his fortunes,” Carlton dismissed, motioning in the air with one hand.
“My daughter’s words revealed her infatuation with you.”

“Infatuation?” Mr. White nearly yelled
the word.

“Yes, Mr. White, infatuation. She will
forget you soon enough, and be better off for it.”

The younger man shook his head
solemnly. “You do not care for her at all, do you? You do not care to ask her
how she feels; what she wants.”

“I love my daughter!” Carlton growled,
hands clenching at his sides. “I only want what is best for her.”

“Then that is something we have in
common,” Mr. White stated, his voice surprisingly soft.

“We have nothing in common, Mr. White,”
Carlton contradicted. “My daughter knows little of the world’s evils, and I
wish to keep her safe from men like you.”