To Marry the Duke's Daughter (After the Masquerade) (6 page)

London

May
1815

Jonathon’s head pounded like the fall
of a thousand hooves against the frozen ground. There were several
explanations for this, but while he would not deny brandy as a cause, he felt
the root of the issue lay in his inability to sleep.

Nothing helped. He tried various teas,
spirits, and even counting sheep, to no avail. After giving up his lease and
moving into his brother’s townhouse at the beginning of the year, he had been
unable to sleep more than two nights in a row. Though he had gone so far as to
fall deep into his cups the previous night, his pocket watch made it perfectly
clear that he had made it to another morning without shutting his eyes.

He had decided, while trying to
determine the source of the drums echoing in his ears, that if drinking did not
help him sleep there was no point in drinking. He had never cared much for
strong drink; from now on he would refuse everything but the weakest punch. He
had heard enough drums in France to prefer silence in his skull. He would
prefer to hear Felicity’s voice, but that was something he desperately tried
not to think of.

Jonathon groaned and flopped onto his
stomach, hoping that by burying his head in the tattered pillow he could put
enough pressure on his skull to ease his headache. If he could move his body,
he needed to go down to the kitchen and make himself tea and breakfast. Gregory
had made it clear that Jonathon could have a room if he took care of himself
and did not distract Gregory’s staff, and Jonathon had actually enjoyed using
his cooking skills. Today, however, he would pay a small fortune if it would
make a pot of coffee and toast magically appear by his bedside.

Unfortunately, his small fortune was
sitting in the stock market, slowly growing into a sum that would hopefully
impress Lord Avondale, if the duke ever deemed London worthy of his presence
again.

When Avondale first took Felicity from
London, Jonathon had not been overly concerned. Chattrecombe assured him that
they would return, and after visiting with the kind butler almost every day,
Jonathon had no reason to doubt him. Now even Chattrecombe was worried about Avondale’s
continual absence, although Jonathon had noted that the butler seemed more
concerned about the duke than Felicity. The duke was in some sort of trouble,
but Jonathon was unwilling to press Chattrecombe too far for information while
the butler was still willing to tell him about Felicity.

Felicity had many friends in one of the
small villages near Avondale, and she took great pleasure in teaching the
children how to read and write. She rode through the dales with her father
every morning, walked alone through the park every evening, and had taken up
crochet as a means of occupying her time when she was left to her own devices.
Chattrecombe admitted that Felicity was very upset for the first few weeks, but
though she often spoke of Jonathon to her father she no longer frightened her
father with her despondency.

Jonathon was grateful she did not
suffer because of their separation, but he was constantly struck with the
realization that his initial impression of Felicity was more a reflection of
his own personality. He had never taken the time to get to know tenants, or
help them when a child was sick. He had never even bothered to think about
them. His father had never spoken about his responsibilities as an earl and a
landlord, and his brother certainly fit the ideal of an absentee landlord. In
his formative years he had been without an example of a man who considered the
feelings of others. While in the cavalry he had no need to consider the
feelings of others; that would have interfered with his position as an officer,
and would have made shooting Frenchmen even more challenging than it had been.
He had arrived in London with all the trappings of a spoiled child that had
been permitted to run amuck. It had taken Felicity’s influence to turn him
into a man that desired something more.

She deserved so much more than he could
provide; if she truly loved him he needed to prove himself worthy. He needed
to stop mentally complaining about his brother’s foul treatment of him, for he
understood that a gambling debt was a debt of honour, and thus required payment
by whatever means necessary. Holding one’s younger brother at gunpoint did not
seem necessary, but if Gregory saw it that way, Jonathon would play along. His
funds were safe, discreetly invested in stocks that his brother would never be
able to take away. Financially, Jonathon would be able to provide for Felicity
if she chose him as her husband.

His temperament needed tending, but he
had found it easier to see others in a kinder light when Felicity was with him.
On his own he fell into moody grumblings, and he needed to refrain from such
poor behaviour. He was a grown man, after all, and had no business acting like
a spoiled boy. It would never recommend him to Felicity or her father.

It was painfully obvious that drinking
would no longer be a danger, but then he had never had a propensity to drink
too much even as a young man. As soon as he could move without fear of casting
up his accounts, he would write that information down for her to read. Upon
moving into Gregory’s townhouse he started keeping a journal, but he quickly
realized that he was writing for Felicity, and not for himself. Poems,
tirades, brief notes to say he missed her—they all added up to fill two
small notebooks. Lately he had written about Napoleon’s escape from Elba, and
current hold on Paris. Jonathon had felt conflicted by the desire to tap into
his funds and buy back his commission; all of his friends were now gone, set to
teach Napoleon a final lesson. He had always wanted a military career, but now
he was unwilling to give up Felicity. She meant more to him than his career.
Though he felt that he should be fighting for Britain, he would gladly sit
aside and protect his secrets from his brother so that he could present himself
as Felicity’s suitor once she returned to London.

He wrote most of the entries at night,
when he lay awake and resigned himself to sitting by his small window and
staring outside at the stars. He was afraid that was part of his problem sleeping;
when he looked up at the stars he could imagine that she was sitting beside
him, her hand in his and her head upon his shoulder. They would gaze up at the
stars together, point out the constellations they recognized, and murmur their
deepest dreams and desires.

That was what he loved the most about
Felicity. She was open and honest with him, as no one else had ever been, and
he had never before been so certain that he could trust anyone. Their
backgrounds and personalities might be as different as love and war, but at
night they shared the same heart. With the stars, they could let go of
everything else and simply be. They could talk, and laugh, and be the best
versions of themselves. If they could share the days, he knew Felicity would
teach him to be gentler, more patient, and curb his tongue instead of saying
the rude words that sprang from his bitterness. She had also said things that
made her appear haughty, but only while wearing the false smile that acted as
her mask in the
ton
. She was a much
kinder spirit than she let on, while he was afraid he was not near as kind as
he pretended.

The throbbing in his skull started to
subside as he pictured the stars and imagined a cool night breeze coming in
through an open window, Felicity in his arms. Her soft hair would brush
against his cheek as she snuggled closer to him, and he would brush it away
only to trace it to her scalp, and pull her head up for a kiss. He had tried
not to think about such things, fearing it would only increase his despondency,
but imaging her lips against his eased the pain.

He would find the greatest pleasure
waking up every morning to her star-like eyes. It seemed unusual to his
rational mind for a grown man to feel so in love when the woman of his desires
was hundreds of miles away, but not a day had gone by when he did not think of
Felicity, for one reason or another. The stars were hers, but so were the
flowers and clouds. Anything that brought a smile to his lips made him wonder
if she would also smile. After every rain he wondered if she liked to search
the skies for rainbows.

Anything sweet and pure reminded him of
her, although he knew she could be as spirited as the wildest horse. His cheek
stung every time he recalled her second punch.

A faint smile graced his features as he
pictured her furious expression, non-grey eyes glittering with emotion. He
wanted to see her eyes glitter in such a way again, but he would much prefer
that view as a result of passion, not anger. He knew that anger was a form of
passion, but he was still thinking of her in his arms, her hair in disarray and
her full lips parted in delight as he taught her that a horse was not necessary
for riding.

He sighed after hearing the knock
against his door, more concerned about why his brother was seeking him out than
upset at losing the temptation of imagining Felicity in the throes of passion.

After rolling onto his back he stated,
“Come in, Gregory,” as loudly as he could manage. His voice grated against his
ears, and he rubbed his throat in an effort to improve the sound vibrating
within.

The door clicked open to reveal
Gregory’s butler.

“Forgive me, sir, but I thought you
might like a cup of coffee and some toast,” he murmured.

Jonathon blinked several times, but he
knew the possibility of his eyes and ears failing him at the same time was very
slim. “Thank you, Blythe. Gregory must not be in.”

“Lord White left London very early this
morning. He said he would be out of town for several weeks.”

“That’s…unusual,” Jonathon managed.
Gregory hated leaving London, even for a few days. “Where did he go?”

Blythe looked suddenly uncomfortable.
“Avondale, sir.”

If Jonathon’s limbs had not been so
cumbersome he would have flown from the bed in a heartbeat. Instead he had to
accept the butler’s help to sit.

“Avondale. Why?” His head started to
pound again, as if to remind him that he had had a purpose in getting drunk.
Unfortunately, the pounding made it difficult to remember any reason besides
heartache.

“While you were indisposed last night you
told him that you love a woman by the name of Felicity,” Blythe informed him.

“Ah.” Dimly the memories from the
previous night returned. “So he’s gone to see Avondale, and try to win her
himself.”

Blythe nodded. “I believe so, sir,
though it does not make sense to me. I have never known him to have interest
in anyone but his mistress.”

“And he did not take her with him?”
Gregory always took his mistress with him when he travelled.

“No.”

“Good.”

Blythe looked perplexed. “Good, sir?
I would think the opposite if I were you.”

Jonathon slowly shook his head. “No,
it is good. He will go to Avondale, make a fool of himself, and Felicity will
figure out the truth about my finances and tell her father, who will believe
her. I did not think much of Avondale at first, but it is obvious he loves his
daughter.

“If my brother arrives on Avondale’s
doorstep to court Felicity, he will do everything in his power to win her. He
despises me enough to think it his right to steal my money and my heart. Lord
Avondale will think it strange that my brother is pursuing Felicity for
himself, when he should know that I am still in love with her.”

“What if your brother tells Avondale
that you have moved on?” Blythe handed the coffee to John, who downed half of
it in one gulp.

“Avondale will not believe him.
Chattrecombe, Avondale’s butler, has written well of me. Avondale will not
doubt his butler, or his daughter. He will be curious, however, and will
hopefully bring Felicity back to London. I could not go to Avondale to beg for
her hand; in this way my brother is able to do it for me.”

Blythe regarded him with a curious
expression. “That’s very clever, sir.”

Jonathon accepted the compliment after
finishing off the remaining coffee. “I am tired of waiting for them to return.
I feel that I am in a position to court her without fear for my
reputation—or hers—and Chattrecombe has assured me that Avondale is
willing to give me a chance, so long as I can prove that I can provide for
her.”

“But you are without funds, sir,”
Blythe pointed out. “If you had the money to provide for her, you would have
the funds to keep your own lodgings.”

Jonathon made a face. “How else was I
to keep an eye on my brother, but to live under his nose? I would have much
rather accepted Mama’s offer to live in Gloucestershire.”

Chapter
Six

June

Back to top

“Any news, Chattrecombe?”

“Not yet, sir,” the butler intoned,
helping Carlton into his coat. “I expect to hear from Winston in the next few
days.”

“I suppose that is enough for now,”
Carlton consented, shrugging so the fabric sat properly on his shoulders. “I
cannot begin to express my current state, old friend.”

“There is no need, sir. But might I
ask if you have told Felicity the truth? She and Mr. White will both be
anxious to marry, now that they are again in the same city.”

Carlton blanched. “I cannot tell her.
Not until
I
know the truth. I do not
want to worry her if this amounts to a farce put on by that dreadful woman.
Everything I have done has been for Felicity; I will not risk her happiness now
by concerning her with my worries. Besides,” he added, “Mr. White may not be
the same man.”

“He is not; he is better,” Chattrecombe
declared. “If she were my daughter, I could not pick a finer man for her to
marry. At first I had concerns about his temper, but in the past month alone
he has truly refined himself. I would almost suspect that he knew you would be
returning soon, and he needed to prepare himself.”

“If he knew that his brother intended
to pursue Felicity, he would expect us to return,” Carlton muttered. “That
whole affair is deuced odd.”

Chattrecombe moved to tie Carlton’s
cravat in the elegant waterfall style. “Lord White went to Avondale?”

Carlton refrained from nodding as the
butler tied the final knot. “Yes. He wanted to express how much he had missed
Felicity in the ballrooms, which is a bag of bollocks. The man had never
before said a word to her. At first I thought Mr. White had sent his brother
to plead his case, but it is obvious that either Lord White does not know of
his brother’s affections, or does not get on with his brother at all.”

“I believe it is the latter, sir. Mr.
White has told me, on several occasions, that he does not approve of his
brother’s gambling.”

“He seems to have taken you into his
confidence.”

Chattrecombe smiled wryly as he stepped
away. “He is an intelligent young man. He knows that if he can convince me, I
will be able to sway you.”

“Sway me?” Carlton scoffed, feigning
offended pride.

“It is always flattering to have one’s
skills recognized.”

“You certainly improved the garden,”
Carlton commended. “It has not looked hospitable since the gardener retired.
Perhaps you missed your calling,” he teased.

Chattrecombe chuckled. “I cannot take
all the credit, sir. Mr. White often assisted me.”

“One might suspect he had nothing
better to do with his time.” Carlton frowned, considering. “I know Felicity
loves him, and he must love her if he has not pursued another in the time we
were away. I just do not understand all of the pieces. He claims he is
amassing a sum that will enable him to provide for her, but why did he lose all
of his money when he returned to London? If he did not gamble it away…” His
words stuck in his throat. “Lord White gambled it all away. Mr. White is a
former cavalry officer; he would be bound by family pride and loyalty to assist
his brother in escaping any debts the earl might incur. Mr. White is not the
fortune hunter; his brother is. Felicity suspected as much.”

“It is the only scenario that makes
sense, sir,” Chattrecombe agreed, his tone solemn.

Carlton shook his head, his black brows
narrowed in thought. “I will discuss this with Mr. White tomorrow. The man
will be anxious to call on Felicity, and she will be no less anxious to see
him. I do not want Felicity’s funds to be stolen by Lord White, but perhaps
something can be arranged once my affairs are settled. A few days, you said?”

Chattrecombe voiced an affirmative.
“Winston assured me we would have the truth within the week.”

“Good. I am ready to be finished with
this.” Carlton sighed. “I have only ever wished to protect Felicity from my
mistakes, but now, when her happiness should come first, I must be selfish. I
cannot in good conscious see her engaged until I can ensure her the future she
deserves.”

Chattrecombe silently followed him
downstairs, where Felicity was waiting impatiently in a lilac and cream satin
gown.

“Do you think Mr. White will be at the
opera tonight, Chattrecombe?” she asked sweetly, her eyes bright.

“I would not know, miss,” the butler
apologized. “If he is, he will certainly be smelling of April and May as soon
as he sees you.”

“You do look beautiful,” Carlton
murmured in agreement, offering her his arm. “I will need to ward off every
young man at the opera, not just Mr. White, if he is there.”

Felicity’s cheeks turned pink. “Thank
you, Papa. If…if he is there…will you permit me to see him?”

Carlton let out a weary sigh. “If I
must,” he droned, winking down at her. “But I do not want to arouse suspicion.
For the
ton
, it must appear a casual
meeting, understood? We do not need the gossipers to believe that the reason
we have been away from London is because of Mr. White.”

“But it was—”

“In part,” Carlton admitted. He
escorted her to the waiting carriage, careful to avoid her curious gaze. “I
must caution you as concerns Mr. White,” he started, sitting across from her.

Felicity groaned and crossed her arms
over her chest. “Now what do you want to accuse him of?”

He held his hands up defensively.
“Nothing, Felicity. I just want you to be aware that, although I will permit
him to court you, I do expect it to be a long courtship. If marriage is
discussed, it will be discussed for the future.”

She felt the embers of betrayal
stirring in her chest. “How can you say that? Have we not been apart long
enough? If he is the same man as he was before, and he meets your criteria for
being capable of providing for me, why should we not wed sooner rather than
later?”

“There will be talk—”

“I don’t care,” she cut in. “I
understand making him court me diligently for a week, maybe two, but no more
than that.”

He opened his mouth but decided, after
seeing her furious scowl, that it would be better to remain silent. He did not
realize that silence would continue through to the intermission of the opera,
where Felicity continued to sit with a miserable expression on her face.

“Felicity, you must see the sense in
being patient,” he reasoned, reaching out to take her hand. “I want you to be
happy, and rushing into a marriage with a man whom you have not seen in months
seems reckless. People do change, even if that change is subtle. He may begin
courting you and you both decide it is not meant to be.”

She grimaced but still did not speak.

“Felicity—”

He was interrupted by an intrusion into
their box.

“Lord Avondale, Lady Felicity, I
thought you would be gone from London forever,” the Marchioness of Ravenwood
declared, drawing their attention away. “It is good to see you back.”

“Thank you, Lady Ravenwood.”

The marchioness nodded, her light blue
eyes twinkling mischievously. “If I may, Lord Avondale, I would like to borrow
your daughter for the remainder of the opera. There is a guest in my box who
is very eager to see her again, and Lady Felicity’s face is always pleasant
when graced with a smile.”

Felicity, realizing that Jonathon was
the only guest the marchioness would think eager to see her, turned to her
father imploringly. “Please, Papa?”

“I did say you could see him,” he
consented with a sigh. “And this is the only way we will both enjoy the
remainder of the opera.”

She thanked him profusely before
hastily latching onto the marchioness. Her legs shook and her heart trembled,
but with the marchioness’s help she was able to walk without falling.

“You may be wondering why Mr. White is
a guest in our box,” Lady Ravenwood mused.

Felicity smiled bashfully. “To be
honest, Lady Ravenwood, I have been wondering what I shall say to him.”

The marchioness laughed. “I am sure
Good evening, Mr. White
, will be an
excellent start. The conversation should progress smoothly after that, if he
is able to breathe.”

She felt her heart flutter in her
chest, but curiosity was winning over her nerves. “Why is he your guest?”

“If you will recall, my husband bought
his mare, Beth. Mr. White is often over to discuss buying her back, once he
has everything in order. My husband will be more than happy to oblige; it
seems Mr. White is the only person Beth will permit to ride her.”

“I do remember her being feisty,”
Felicity murmured. She tightened her hold on the marchioness’s sleeve. “I
cannot thank you enough for this, Lady Ravenwood.”

“I cannot thank you enough for
returning to London to take him off my hands,” the marchioness retorted. “Your
Mr. White has put on a good show, but I know he has been terribly lonely
without you.”

Felicity felt her cheeks warm; the
marchioness had stopped outside her box, and she could see Jonathon’s profile
as he laughed at something the marquis said. His jaw was narrower than before,
as if he had lost weight, but he did not look unhealthy. He wore her favourite
green coat, although the elbows were a little worn. Buff cream breeches hugged
his legs, the fabric tight against muscles that were witness to his continued
dedication to riding his mare.

“Does he know I am here?” she queried
in a whisper, her voice wobbling.

“No. I could barely see you from my
seat, and I did not warn him. I want to see the look of joy on his face when
you surprise him. I am a matchmaker, after all,” Lady Ravenwood finished with
a soft chuckle.

“Ah, Margaret, there you are.” Lord
Ravenwood grinned at his wife when he saw whom she had brought to their box.
“And a guest. Welcome.”

He stood to offer Felicity a bow, and
Jonathon hastily rose to his feet in order to mimic the gesture. When his eyes
rested on Felicity, however, his entire body froze.

Felicity had known that she still loved
him. She had put on a brave face for her father while in Avondale, but every
day there was something that happened that made her think of Jonathon, and what
he would do, or say. Every night she counted the stars and imagined his arms
around her. Despite all of that, however, she had still been concerned that he
might not love her when she returned. Seeing his dark brown eyes glowing in
the candlelight erased that fear; it was obvious to her that his feelings for
her had matured into something that took her breath away.

“Good evening, Mr. White,” she managed,
mimicking the marchioness’s words. She dropped a small curtsy and he bowed,
their eyes never parting.

“Good evening, Lady Felicity. It is
wonderful to see you in London again.” His words were so heartfelt that she
felt moisture in the corners of her eyes.

“I do not think I have ever been so
happy to return to London.”

He offered her his hand. It would not
have mattered if they each had on two pairs of gloves; her palm burned as his
hand closed around hers.

“London has never looked so beautiful,”
he murmured. “Surely the stars are brighter tonight than ever before.”

“Jonathon.” Her eyelids suddenly felt
like heavy drapes, and she swayed towards him as she attempted to keep her
balance. Surely the floor was moving beneath her, rocking back and forth like
a ship at sea.

“Gently,” Lady Ravenwood said softly,
briefly touching Felicity’s shoulder. “Do not forget where you are.”

Jonathon helped Felicity take a seat,
their hands still clasped between their knees where no one but the Ravenwoods
could see.

The marchioness settled between her
husband and Felicity as the second half of the opera began, but Felicity could
not hear the music through the pounding of her heart in her ears. She could
not tear her eyes from Jonathon’s, or summon words to her lips. It was as if
she had been struck upon the head by something very heavy, and everything
around her spun—everything except Jonathon.

There had been a distant glint to his
eyes before she left London, but that was replaced by a gentle warmth that set
her heart fluttering inside her chest like a trapped bird. His half smile, at times
condescending, now made her feel all wobbly. Everything about him, from his
expression to the tenderness in which he held her hand, now seemed gentler.
Felicity wanted to ask him why, but as he threaded his fingers through hers and
squeezed her hand she realized she did not need to ask. The answer was clearly
written in his eyes; he loved her.

Perhaps he had not truly loved her
before. There had not been many opportunities for them to speak. Writing
would never be the same as conversing eye to eye, where they could observe
every little movement. She had believed herself in love, but now she was
certain of her feelings. No one would ever be able to stir her heart like
Jonathon, and she would not be able to wait two or three weeks to make sure he knew
that.