To Marry the Duke's Daughter (After the Masquerade) (5 page)

Mr. White’s dark brown eyes were
intense as he said, “You have the world wrong, Lord Avondale. I am not the one
you should protect her from.”

“Get out,” Carlton snapped wearily.

“Sir, I beg you: let me see her. My
investments are paying off and soon I will have enough to put down on some
property,” he insisted. “Please allow me to court her.”

“I will never permit a fortune hunter
to pursue my daughter. You will leave here at once, and you will never try to
meet or contact her again.”

“I love her,” Mr. White declared, his
expression earnest as he saw the butler appear in the shadowed doorway of the
study. “Please, sir. At least let me give her the roses so that she knows I
came here to court her.” He offered the bouquet of white and red roses, but
Carlton turned away.

“No. I will not hurt my daughter in
such a manner. Chattrecombe, see Mr. White out. And make sure that he does
not try to enter this house again.”

Carlton watched his butler escort the
still protesting young man out, shaking his head slowly as if that would help
clear the disastrous events from his mind. Mr. White was correct in many of
his assumptions—Carlton had indeed taught his daughter to act a little
too pompous for most men’s taste—but that was to buy himself time and
eliminate those that could not look beyond her beauty. It had worked for four
years, but the time was still not right for Felicity to marry, and Mr. White was
certainly not acceptable. He seemed a good man, but appearances meant nothing.
He did not have enough to support Felicity, nor did he appear likely to
inherit a title. Lord Gregory White would eventually marry and produce an
heir; Mr. White would never be anything more than a gentleman.

“Sir?”

“Hmm?” He had not realized that his
mind had wandered.

Chattrecombe stood before him
expectantly. “I thought it might bolster your mood to hear that the War Office
will take advantage of your misfortunes.”

Carlton sat up straighter and clasped
his hands together. “Truly?”

The butler nodded once, a faint smile
playing on his lips. “With the war over, they can utilize your problem to
provide training for their agents. I suppose they must keep their skills sharp
in some way or another. I have already taken the liberty of providing her last
known location.”

“Excellent. Wonderful. Oh,
Chattrecombe, this is exactly what I needed to hear,” Carlton declared.
“Finally, I will know the truth.”

“It may take some time,” Chattrecombe
warned. “Winston told me it could take several months, a year even, to track
them down and properly observe them.”

Carlton sighed. “I understand. But
you must grant me some levity; it is one less worry for me to dwell on. It
would be my
only
concern, if not for
this recent development.” He frowned and again tapped his fingers in an
unsteady rhythm upon the desk. “Will you keep an eye on Mr. White? I cannot
have Felicity near him, lest he manage to convince her to run off with him, but
I can only do so much without exposing her infatuation with him. He is a
fortune hunter.”

“By all appearances, yes,” Chattrecombe
agreed. “But, if I might say, sir, he did come to you in an attempt to court
her properly. That is not indicative of a man determined to seduce. I will of
course ensure he does not enter this house again, but a truly bankrupt man who
desired to steal your daughter would never buy roses for her, or approach you
with the intention of winning your favour.”

Jonathon snatched three letters off his
desk and flopped into an armchair, scowling at his correspondence as if it had
somehow put him in his current foul disposition. The top missive was from Miss
Catherine Burnel, or at least appeared to be from her. When he tore open the
seal he discovered it was actually from Lord Avondale.

You
will stay away from my daughter. Any attempt to continue this correspondence
will be thwarted.

Underneath that Miss Catherine had
penned her apologies and a warning not to do anything rash.

“As if I needed a reminder.” He
groaned and crumpled the paper into a tiny ball, which was then thrown into the
empty fireplace. When he felt like writing again he would thank Miss Catherine
for her assistance, and wish her better fortune in her pursuits.

Gregory had also written, demanding an
immediate audience with his brother. That letter was also deposited in the
fireplace. Jonathon knew his brother would appear soon enough, but he was in
no mood to humour Gregory by going willingly.

The last letter was addressed in a
vaguely familiar hand, but it was not until he broke the seal that he recalled
his brief correspondence with Lord Henry Fenna.

It was an invitation from Lord Fenna to
attend his upcoming wedding to Miss Jane Burnel.

“Brilliant,” Jonathon muttered, tossing
the paper aside. “At least someone can marry.”

He was genuinely happy for his two
friends, but the bouquet of white and red roses teased him from their perch on
the far edge of his desk, reminding him that Felicity was unaware of his foiled
plan to court her. She needed to know the truth, but how could he tell her?
The duke would undoubtedly keep her by his side while in public, and it was
unlikely that Jonathon would have an opportunity to even wave or dip his head
in recognition if they actually attended the same event.

“I follow my mother’s advice, do the
right thing
by being honest with her
father, and now I have lost her,” he complained, jerking at his cravat and
untying the stiff knot with fumbling fingers. “In my mother’s defence, Lord
Avondale was already aware that I enjoyed a correspondence with her. Mother
warned me that he would not take my attentions lightly, but to ban me from his
house?” Jonathon scowled at his scuffed boots. “There must be a way to see
her, or at least take her the flowers so that she knows I am trying.”

Sunlight glinted off the mirror on the
opposite wall of his study, and he turned to the window with a contemplative
expression. If the sun were already setting it meant he had stalked through
Hyde Park longer than he intended.

“Perhaps the darkness will be my ally,”
he mused, unbuttoning his coat. “I am a reasonably intelligent man; I should
be able to deduce which window is hers.” Throwing pebbles seemed a romantic
cliché, but he was not limber enough to scale the exterior wall, nor did he
have an inclination for heights.

Three hours later he paced in the small
garden behind the Avondale townhouse, his brows narrowed and his teeth
clenched.

“Blast the duke to perdition. Why does
he need this many windows?”

“All the better to see unwelcome
intruders,” stated a dark voice from behind a large bush.

Jonathon quickly turned to face the
bodiless voice, holding the roses in front of him like a sword. “Who are you?”

Chattrecombe, the butler who had so
politely told him to clear off, stepped out from behind the unruly rosebush.
Jonathon immediately felt silly; while he gestured with roses, the butler
comfortably sported an old pistol.

“I could ask the same of you, Mr.
White, if I did not already know the answer. You were told to refrain from
this area, yet here you are.” Chattrecombe gestured in the air with his left
hand, his expression that of a man acting out a part on stage.

Jonathon scowled. “How right you are,
Chattrecombe. But I said I would figure out a way to give Felicity her roses.
You should be expecting me.”

Chattrecombe chuckled. “Why do you
think I rummaged about for half an hour in a quest to find my old pistol?”

“Perhaps you heard that Napoleon was in
the neighbourhood?” Jonathon shrugged and then became serious. “I have no ill
intentions towards her.”

“Then why are you here, at night,
mimicking the stalking gait of a burglar?”

“Is it not obvious? I already stated
that I am trying to figure out a way to give Felicity her roses.”

The butler seemed genuinely surprised;
he lowered the pistol.

“I do love her,” Jonathon promised.

“There is no need to lie to me, Mr.
White.”

“Exactly.” Jonathon turned his back to
the butler and set the bouquet on a marble bench. Then he pivoted on one heel,
declaring, “I bought these for her. She should have them. She does not need
to know they are from me, although I know she is intelligent enough to deduce
the truth. I want her to know that I tried to call on her, and that I will try
again when I can prove to her father that I am telling the truth. I
will
be able to provide for her. I do
not want her to fear that I lied to her, or that I have abandoned her because
the road has become too difficult. I have faced my share of battles, and I
never shied away from them. Sometimes it was necessary to retreat so I could
regroup my forces, but I always rallied and charged again. I see no reason to
change my tactics now.

“These roses are all I can give her
right now, but someday I will be able to give her more. She already has my
heart.”

Chattrecombe cleared his throat. “I
will see that she receives the roses on one condition.”

Jonathon raised a single eyebrow.

“The duke told me to shoot you if you
dared to come near his daughter. He has his reasons for protecting her, Mr.
White, and if you truly love her you will stay away—to regroup your
forces, if you will. Do not try to test his patience. Do not try to meet with
her, or write her, or arrange an elopement. His focus is on protecting her and
providing for her; he cannot do so while bothered with you. Once his affairs
are arranged, he might view you with a friendlier eye and give you a chance to
court her. I cannot guarantee much, but there is a chance, small as it is.”

“That sounds like more than one condition,”
Jonathon murmured, carefully digesting the butler’s words. “But I suppose it
can all be summed up as an order to avoid her for the foreseeable future.
Though London can be a surprisingly small city, I offer you my word that I will
do everything in my power to avoid a confrontation. It goes against my honour
to court her without her father’s blessing.”

Chattrecombe sighed and tucked the
pistol away. “Good. I hoped you would be a reasonable man.” He tilted his
chin up and studied the faint stars for a moment, as if contemplating the very
existence of the universe. Chattrecombe’s next words came grudgingly, and
Jonathon wondered if the butler was speaking against his better judgement. “It
will not be so difficult to avoid her, Mr. White. Avondale is taking her from
London tomorrow. I do not know when they will return.”

Jonathon swallowed heavily.
“Tomorrow?” He would not even be able to catch a glimpse of her before she
disappeared into the countryside.

The butler nodded apologetically. “I
will remain here to convey…news. While I can see that Lady Felicity receives
the roses, I will not be able to tell her anything about you. The duke will be
furious enough about the flowers, if he finds out. As I said, he has too much
to worry about without thinking of his daughter’s marriage to a man who may or
may not be a fortune hunter.”

“But—would it be too much to
ask…” Jonathon took a deep breath. “Will you let me know about her welfare?”

“Perhaps,” Chattrecombe replied, his
expression as vague as his words. “That will all depend on you, Mr. White.
Just because I am willing to believe your words does not mean I will wilfully
dismiss anything that hints at dishonesty. Lady Felicity is like a daughter to
me; I will have no part in seeing her injured in any way.”

Jonathon consented, grateful that the
butler was at least willing to believe him. If he could prove to Chattrecombe
that he was sincere, Avondale might take him seriously whenever the duke
decided to return to London. Whatever circumstances were haunting the duke,
Jonathon needed to be careful not to give in to his own problems. Perhaps
Felicity’s absence from his life would be a good thing; he could focus his
attentions on his finances and keeping his brother’s prying fingers from his pocketbook.
There was an old saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Time and
separation would force Jonathon to look into the heart of his emotions and
determine if his affections for Felicity were truly love, or merely the
throbbing of a heart desperate for company.

Chapter
Five

Avondale,
Yorkshire

October

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Heavy footsteps crunched against the
cold autumn ground and snapped Felicity from her reverie on the silver-lined
clouds. Realizing her cheeks were salty, she hastily wiped away her tears.
Her father was the only one who would follow her to the old well, and she did
not want him to see her pain when he had been in such an astonishingly cheerful
mood since their arrival in Avondale.

“There you are,” Carlton stated as
greeting. “I’m surprised you are not in the village. You have always enjoyed
the autumn fair.” He settled beside her on the crumbling edge of the stone
well, his loosely buttoned waistcoat and dishevelled greying black hair hinting
at his means of transportation.

She briefly offered him a wan smile.
“Did you enjoy your ride?”

Her father remained silent for a few
moments, but she did not turn again to look at him.

“Yes, I did,” he finally answered. He
reached across to place his hand over her arm. “Are you still thinking about
Mr. White?”

Felicity sniffed, her nose and cheeks
red from more than the crisp air. “I look at the clouds and imagine that he is
sitting with me, pointing out shapes and patterns. He would have pen and
paper, and would compose a few lines about the manner in which the clouds dance
across the pale blue sky. He loves the serenity of the countryside, and who would
blame him? If I had survived a war I would be grateful for every moment of
peace and calm. That is why I have spent so much time outside; I am sure he is
still in London, but he wants to be where he can smell the earth and feel the
grass.”

She chuckled suddenly, the sound
surprising them both. “I’m sure you think he is in London drinking and
carousing away with barely a pence in his pockets, but he is not that sort of
man, Papa.”

“You barely know him, Felicity,”
Carlton murmured.

“Because you took me from London before
he could court me!” she accused, turning to glare up at him. “I know he wanted
to. He wrote such beautiful things, Papa. Not that I need to tell you that,”
she added grimly, recalling their conversation while leaving London, when he
had confessed to reading Jonathon’s letters. “Why do you keep him from writing
to me? Even if you will not let him court me, what harm could come from a
written correspondence?”

Carlton frowned and gave her a stern
look. “What harm? You are already infatuated with him. Furthering that
correspondence would only hurt you in the end, Felicity. We have discussed
this.”

She groaned. “No, Papa, you have
lectured me on the evils of fortune hunters. Jonathon is not a fortune
hunter.”

“Mr. White,” he corrected, “is in need
of a fortune. Forgive me for seeing the obvious parallels between his thirst
for money and his pursuit of you. I am only trying to protect you. By next
Season he will have undoubtedly found someone else to leech, and it will be
safe for you to return to London.”

“Oh, Papa, what will it take for you to
see the truth?” Felicity stood and strode towards a patch of sunlight. She
closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sky, savouring the gentle warmth
while the crisp breeze played with her skirts. “Jonathon loves me; I know it.”

She heard her father sigh before he
approached her. “You are holding onto that thought as if it is your only
source of nourishment, Felicity. If you promise to eat and enjoy Avondale as
you always have before, I will consider allowing Mr. White to court you. If,
of course, he told me the truth.”

She opened her eyes to gift him with
her sternest expression. “I knew he came to court me.”

Carlton nodded. “Yes, he came, and I
turned him away. Even you must admit that to me, a protective father who loves
his daughter more than anything else in the world, he appears little more than
a fortune hunter.”

“I suppose,” she grumbled, gripping the
thick fabric of her skirts and swaying her shoulders so that her skirts swished
around her ankles.

“Mr. White told me that his fortunes
are set to improve,” he continued. “If he has enough to adequately provide for
you—and he has not already found another—I will give him my
permission to court you.”

Felicity threw her arms around his
shoulders with a jubilant, albeit brief, grin. “Thank you, Papa! I promise I
will try to be more like myself, but I miss him.” She drew away enough to look
up at her father. “I miss laughing at his wit, and smiling down at his
wonderful poems. I even miss the cold glares he gave me before he realized I
was not in idiotic chit.”

He took her arm and led her down the
gently sloping hill, his expression contemplative. “I did not realize he
thought so little of you at first.”

“I was rather rude,” she admitted. “In
his place, I would not have thought highly of myself. To be honest,
I
was the one smitten with
him
. He was not falsely flattering like
all the others, and I wanted him to see that I am more than a face. I did hope
that it was merely a passing fancy.”

“It might still be,” Carlton pointed
out. “Flights of fancy are not always brief.”

Felicity narrowed her brows in thought,
ignoring the loose strands of ebony hair that played across her face. After
Jonathon’s remarks about her father’s instructions on how to impress a man, she
had begun to think that her father did not want her to marry anyone. If he
truly wanted her married, would he not have advised her to be herself?
Jonathon certainly preferred her as the intuitive dreamer, and not the poised
lady.

Her only friends were among the tenants
living in the village of Avondale. Her father had never complained about her
explorations through the countryside, or her habit of wearing her hair down.
He had simply told her that such things were not permissible in the ballrooms
of London, where she would someday find her husband. She knew her father loved
her, but his overly protective nature of her heart made her wonder why he had
not been bothered when she returned to the manor covered in scrapes and bruises
from a scuffle with a tree.

Had a fortune-seeking woman once
injured him? She could think of no other explanation to satisfy her curiosity
about his determination to see her safe from fortune hunters. She knew he had
loved her mother—she often saw him smiling at Lady Meredith Ryans’s
portrait, which he carried inside his pocket watch—but he never spoke
about his life before marriage.

Her father had denied her hand to a
wealthy marquis two years previous, and when she questioned him about why she
had been forced to find out through gossip instead of her father, he had
responded that the marquis was a well-known womanizer, and did not deserve her.
She had not questioned him at the time—and she had quickly determined
that her father was correct—but now she wondered if he meant what he said
about allowing Jonathon to court her. She had no reason to doubt her father,
but it still concerned her that he had not previously admitted that Jonathon
had asked permission to court her. It had taken Chattrecombe’s murmured words
about a bouquet of roses in her hatbox for her to realize that her father was
removing her from Jonathon’s influence.

Was Jonathon’s influence unhealthy?

She spent the remainder of the
afternoon and most of the evening pondering the question. Having always
understood when she needed time to look inside herself, her father did not
question her suddenly quiet disposition. She feared she was only complicating
matters, but the idea that she was being lied to by either Jonathon or her
father—or both—had taken root in her head and she could not shake
the thought.

She had never doubted that her father
loved her and wanted the best for her. He had raised her in the best manner he
knew how, and she thought highly enough of herself to applaud him for his
effort. He could have left her to the care of a governess, remarried, taken up
a mistress, and ignored her. Instead, he made certain to be present for most
of her lessons, and had hired help only when he could not teach her something
himself. He was her dance master, her vocal instructor, and her etiquette
guide. He allowed her to run wild through his estate, but made sure that
Chattrecombe first instructed her in the art of boxing, and taught her how to
handle a pistol. Felicity’s boxing skills had never been anything to brag
about, but she was a crack shot and a fast runner.

Her father was the solid foundation of
her life, and she had never doubted his love for her.

Until she met Jonathon, she had not
doubted her father at all.

Jonathon had a rather bleak outlook on
humanity. While Felicity strived to see the best in people, Jonathon could not
help but see the worst. His sour attitude had improved while they wrote one
another, and he had even gone so far as to say that his initial impression of
some of the
ton
had given way to his
considering many of them his friends. Even when his words were callous she saw
beneath them, recognizing his lack of trust as a product of his experience in
the cavalry, and perhaps also a by-product of his brother’s treatment of him.
He certainly feared his brother, and she suspected that Lord White had
something to do with Jonathon’s lack of fortune. Jonathon was responsible; she
doubted he would spend frivolously, which was the only way she could see him
falling into debt.

She could improve his trust, and felt
like she had while they shared each other’s company. She did not want to
change him entirely, but he would benefit from a brighter outlook, just as she
would benefit from a more realistic view of those around her. Jonathon saw
nothing unnatural in suspecting the worst of her father, and she had been shocked
enough by his words to suspect that he was telling the truth.

Her father had requested that she speak
in a higher pitch while in public, because that was expected. He had told her
to hold herself a certain way, and socialize with certain people. She knew her
actions could be considered boorish, but her father had told her that was
expected and required, and she had not questioned him. Jonathon, however, felt
that it was unnatural and unnecessary. He had told her that most men did not
like such a cold demeanour, and she had accepted that as the truth considering
he was a man, and would obviously know what he liked in a woman. It was far
more difficult to suspect her father of wilfully misleading her, but when she
was with Jonathon it seemed only reasonable that her father did not wish for
her to marry. Everything Jonathon said made sense.

However, everything her father said
also made sense. At first glance, Jonathon was the epitome of a perfect
fortune hunter. His finances were in dire straits, he was unlikely to inherit
a title, and he was handsome enough to get away with aiming higher than his
station.

And now her father had agreed to give
Jonathon a chance, if Jonathon could prove that he was
not
a fortune hunter. Felicity had at first wondered why her
father had left Chattrecombe in London, but now she could envision the butler
remaining in order to keep an eye on Jonathon. Was their escape to the
countryside merely a test for the former cavalry officer? A test for her own
emotions?

Felicity spent the evening re-reading
every letter Jonathon had written to her, but her mind remained muddled. Why
would her father tell her to act in a way that, in hindsight, she should have
recognized as counter-productive for procuring a husband? It made her think
that he had an ulterior motive for keeping her unmarried. Yet, why did
Jonathon feel the need to point out her father’s shortcomings? Was he truly a
fortune hunter? If he were lying to her, she had fallen in love—or at
least become very smitten—with a lie.

She had been afraid to tell her father
that she fancied Jonathon, but why? She had never feared her father’s
reactions about her emotions before she met Jonathon. Perhaps she had been too
naïve and trusting, but was it so wrong to see the best in people? Jonathon
liked that about her; he would not try to change her into a woman always
suspicious about others when he professed to love her just as she was, unless
he were lying.

She could not fathom a world in which
both men were telling her the truth. One or the other was hiding something, or
perhaps they both were.

Her head throbbed and she rubbed her
hands against her temples in an attempt to sort through the convoluted waters
of her mind. Her heart told her that Jonathon was true to her, and that he
loved her. Her head told her that her father had every right to be suspicious
of him. Her heart told her that her father loved her, but her head told her
that he had also kept her out of the matchmaker’s hands for a reason. The duke
would not leave Chattrecombe in London simply to keep an eye on a possible
fortune hunter. There was something else going on in her father’s life,
something he thought best kept hidden from her. He meant what he said about
allowing Jonathon to court her, but his preoccupation with Jonathon’s finances
made her wonder just how much money Jonathon would need to be able to—in
her father’s words—
provide
for
her.