One Night to Remember: Wicked Dukes Club #5

by Ridley, Erica

  His eyes lit up and he leaped into the hack behind her with a wide, gap-toothed smile on his freckled face.

  If Felicity could have worn trousers, she wouldn’t have needed a chaperone. To be honest, she probably didn’t need one now, not in this unassuming garb—but she didn’t have the heart to leave the starry-eyed boy behind.

  “Rotten Row,” she told the driver, and settled onto the squab.

  “Are you excited to see the Curricle King?” the boy asked.

  More than Felicity dared admit.

  Langford was an enigma. Reading about his exploits in scandal columns could not possibly compare to witnessing his conquests firsthand. The baffling man had unconditionally accepted a female mechanic, only to imply in no uncertain terms that he had little use for Lady Felicity taking up his precious time or space once he realized just who the stable lass truly was.

  “I’d trust him with any carriage,” she answered at last. “But in order to design modifications to best complement a driver, I first need to see that driver in action.”

  This was her opportunity to observe him in his natural habitat… and find out if women really did dampen their bodices and swoon at the sight of him.

  The boy frowned. “I heard him tell you, ‘No modifications.’”

  “He did say that,” Felicity agreed. “I also heard His Grace clearly state that he wanted to win. Our loyalties must lie with him.”

  “He won’t just win.” A smug smile spread across the boy’s face. “With you and the Curricle King as a team, the duke will destroy the competition.”

  As flattering as the boy’s confidence was, Felicity and Langford were a team in only the weakest of definitions. She straightened her shoulders. With luck, today’s field research would help her gain an advantage.

  “Hyde Park,” said the driver as he pulled the hack to a stop.

  Felicity’s pulse quickened as she alighted to a crowded street.

  Hyde Park at dawn was the preferred ground for illegal duels or semi-legal races, and an endless stream of foot traffic swarmed toward Rotten Row as if the road were paved with gold sovereigns.

  “I’m guessing we go this way,” she told the boy dryly as they melted into the flow of people.

  Faster than she would have anticipated, they reached the edge of the track, a few dozen yards from where several smart curricles stood at the ready. Felicity moved to the front for a better view.

  “This is madness,” she murmured—or would have murmured, if it were possible for anything lower than a shout to be heard over the roar of voices. “It’s as if these people expect the Prince Regent to roll by.”

  “Even better, honey,” a girl to her left said with a conspiratorial wink. “You’re about to see Giles Langford.”

  Felicity might have scoffed, had the sound of his name not sent a delicious shiver of anticipation tingling down her spine.

  She was far from alone. Excitement was palpable. The brisk chill in the air had been replaced by the warmth of hundreds of bustling bodies, rubbing shoulders as they crowded to line the dirt-packed road. Even though she was disguised, Felicity was grateful she didn’t glimpse any rich gentlemen she knew.

  “Have you seen Langford race before?” she asked the maid.

  “Every time I can,” the maid replied without hesitation.

  Several others nodded at this response, men and women alike.

  “There he is!” squealed the maid.

  Felicity jerked her gaze away from her fellow spectators and back toward the row of smart curricles, where groomsmen were handing off the reins to dashing, well-dressed drivers. How she wished she could race alongside them!

  Langford’s curricle was near the rear of the queue. All the drivers exchanged pleasantries with spectators as they inched toward the starting line. In moments, Giles Langford would pass directly in front of Felicity.

  “That’s his baby,” murmured a man to her right.

  Felicity leaned forward eagerly. “The legendary ‘Baby?’”

  “The custom curricle he built by hand,” another said in awe. “Won’t let anyone but himself sit in the driver’s seat.”

  Looking at this crowd, Felicity realized Langford did not need to race lordlings’ carriages to be welcomed among them. In this arena, Langford was king and everyone else his mere subject.

  “Too bad the race is only half an hour,” said a woman.

  “Some come for the races,” another explained. “The rest of us could gaze at Langford all day.”

  Of that, Felicity had no doubt. She forced herself to focus her attention on the chaise, rather than the equally breathtaking man at the reins. Until today, she’d only seen “Baby” in penny caricatures. What was it about this particular design that gave him greater advantage? How could she incorporate similar elements into Cole’s curricle in time for that race?

  “Here they come!” another woman whispered, fanning her throat.

  The crush of bodies pushed dangerously forward as the curricles rolled toward the starting line.

  “How’s Baby feeling today?” a man called out.

  Felicity craned her neck to try and see Langford’s reaction.

  He grinned at the crowd and shouted back, “Stand back, for your safety. Baby’s stronger than ever!”

  Laughter and renewed excitement rippled through the crowd.

  Felicity gazed about in awe and disbelief. Giles Langford was so famous that even his chariot was infamous.

  She watched as he effortlessly charmed his admirers with relaxed banter and gracious style. He looked like a normal, friendly gentleman out for a casual ride, rather than a fearless whip about to decimate his competition in a high-energy race in front of hundreds of witnesses.

  For a fervent moment, she didn’t wish she was dressed like a lad, but as a grown man, so that she too could feel the bracing wind in her hair as she raced alongside the others. It wouldn’t even matter if she lost, so long as she was part of the excitement and camaraderie and challenge. Her blood pulsed with excitement.

  Now more than ever, she was determined to ensure her brother’s carriage—and its driver—had every possible advantage.

  When Langford’s carriage passed right in front of her, she expected his attention to fall on one of the many noisy admirers flanking her.

  Instead, he pulled his curricle to a halt and touched the brim of his hat.

  “Lady Mechanic.” His slow, devastating smile caused a wave of coos and sighs among the women on either side of her.

  “Mr. King,” she replied. Of course he would recognize her dressed in her dowdiest clothes. This was how she’d looked when they’d met. To him, a gown fit for a ball would seem like the disguise. Nonetheless, she was glad the floppy brim of her bonnet hid her face from the rest of the crowd.

  He leaned forward, as if he had all the time in the world. “What lures you out of your carriage house?”

  “You,” she answered honestly, and immediately wished she had not. Heat was rising up the back of her neck.

  His smile widened and his cobalt blue gaze stayed focused on her.

  “Your baby,” she heard herself babbling. “I mean your curricle. I’d never seen the one that you built yourself.”

  “You do appreciate the finer things,” he teased. “If I’d known all it would take to impress you was to spend six months perfecting designs and toiling before the fire in order to—”

  “Langford!” called one of the other drivers. “When that pistol goes off, we’re racing with or without you!”

  “We’ll continue this later,” he stage-whispered, and trotted off to join the others.

  Felicity stared after him, openmouthed.

  He’d wanted to impress her? The daft man had been impressing her since the first moment she read of his exploits. She’d confirmed his expertise with her brother, who well knew how to recognize talent. Langford was a legend.

  His racing wins had impressed her, his smithing ability had impressed her, his nonchalance when f
aced with a female mechanic had impressed her. His ability to draw large crowds impressed her, his happy-go-lucky interactions with his admirers impressed her, his hand-built carriage—

  A pistol shot blasted through the air.

  In a cloud of dust, eight carriages shot off down the lane, two by two.

  Langford was at the rear but wouldn’t be for long. Already he was overtaking the seventh carriage, the sixth, the fifth. Turning around at the end of the straight dirt track would require even more precision.

  “When he makes it back to the finish line, you won’t even see the others,” predicted a man to her right.

  To her consternation, Felicity was no longer mentally cataloguing the size and width of the wheels or the length of the splinter bar and breeching dee, but staring after Giles Langford. The man looked like a god of chariots.

  He had no prayer of blending with high society, nor any desire to try. He didn’t need to. He was precisely who and what he appeared to be.

  And the more he made no attempt to put on airs or conform to expectations… the more he simply accepted her, as though it was perfectly normal to chat about carriages on the side of the road with a lady coach smith, the harder he became to resist.

  Thank heavens he’d dashed off at the crack of the pistol. Who knew what behavior Felicity might have been reduced to if he’d kept flirting with her despite her tattered clothes and the legions of adoring women jostling for a better view.

  It took little over ten minutes for the first carriages to reach the far end of the track. During that time, Langford managed to weave his way from the back to the very front. For the second half of the race, she had an unobstructed view of him riding well in front; a king leading a parade to the admiration of his subjects.

  He was magnificent.

  Out of self-preservation, she took a deep breath and stepped back from the crowd toward the shade of a tree before he made it back to where she’d stood. His competency and obvious superiority was breathtakingly attractive. Her heart pounded unnaturally loud in her ears. She did not have time for a silly infatuation, she reminded herself.

  Yet her heart leaped as she watched him race. As if the two of them were a team, and his conquest was her conquest, too.

  Had she thought she was a skilled driver? Langford coasted between carriages with barely an inch to spare, his posture just as relaxed as his horses, as if they made runs like this every day of the year. No one else stood a chance.

  As Langford brought his horses back to the finish line—well ahead of his competition—his animated gaze hunted through the crowd where Felicity had just stood. His smile dimmed for scarcely a moment.

  Perhaps most people would not have noticed.

  Felicity noticed.

  She feared her heart would never be the same.

  Chapter 4

  Felicity gazed up at her newest dance partner with a creeping sense of dread. Now that Lord Raymore was no longer an option, she needed to leave tonight’s soirée with at least one potential suitor on the hook. Even if it meant this one.

  Lord Kenwood was not her first choice in husbands for a variety of reasons. The earl didn’t bother to sit in the House of Lords, only one of his properties was safely entailed, and he frequently made “jests” such as the best women are buxom women.

  Felicity was not as curvaceous as some ladies, but with the right bodice and the right undergarments, she could catch a man’s eye. Like tonight. Lord Kenwood had begged for a dance the moment her décolletage entered the ballroom.

  “What a charming gown,” the earl murmured.

  He lowered his head, ostensibly to whisper into her ear, but when no further commentary was forthcoming, Felicity was forced to presume he’d simply angled for a better look down her bosom.

  “Thank you.” She answered with a smile despite the urge to scream.

  Felicity had actually liked Lord Raymore. But her aversion to Lord Kenwood’s greasy personality was not a factor. Marrying a well-situated husband was a woman’s best chance to shape her future. And Felicity had much bigger plans than chasing her own comfort. She would do anything to help children who could not help themselves.

  If that meant being wed to a man like Lord Kenwood for the rest of her life, then so be it. A countess could be quite powerful. That was, if an earl like this could be convinced to sign a betrothal contract allowing his wife to use a portion of their wealth for charitable works.

  Lord Kenwood leaned a little too close. “Would you like to take a turn in the garden after this set?”

  “It’s raining,” Felicity pointed out, then forced herself to add, “else I would have loved to.”

  The earl glanced over his shoulder at the rivulets of cold rain dripping down the open garden doors in surprise and dismay. He clearly had not been hoping to enjoy the weather, but rather an unobserved private moment with Felicity and her artfully arranged bosom. Her stomach turned.

  She hated that she had to try so hard to attract a man like this.

  “One day soon when the sun is out,” Lord Kenwood said, “why don’t we take an afternoon promenade through Hyde Park in my phaeton?”

  This was it. The opening she’d been hoping for, the chance to be seen as something more than a mere dance partner. A potential courtship, on display before all and sundry.

  Yet at the words Hyde Park, the only “sundry” on Felicity’s mind was handsome, talented Giles Langford. Might he be there at the same time? What would he think to see her locked to the earl’s side as they paraded by their peers in a high-flying phaeton?

  For a foolish moment, she wished that it was Langford who had invited her to the park, that she were dancing in Langford’s arms, rather than the earl’s. Did Langford know how to waltz? Felicity shoved the thought aside. She didn’t know and it didn’t matter. Her job was to make a good match.

  “A marvelous idea,” she said aloud. “I love carriages.”

  Lord Kenwood gave her a kind but pitying look, as if he doubted that she could tell a barouche from a landau, but would condescend to escort her and her bosom all the same. She would have to be careful not to spoil the assumption.

  When the music ended, the earl returned her to the group of friends she’d been chatting with before her set with Lord Kenwood, then escorted Lady Penelope Wakefield to the dance floor. When the music began, Felicity’s teeth clenched. Perhaps she had misread the earl’s intentions after all.

  “A waltz,” she groaned so low that only Hester Donnell might overhear.

  “A hundred waltzes wouldn’t deviate Lady Penelope from her path,” Hester promised. “Lord Findon will whisk her to the altar before the Season is through.”

  Felicity wished she were half as certain as Hester. “Is Lord Raymore just as smitten?”

  Hester pointed the edge of her fan across the ballroom, where the gray-haired marquess whirled the lovely Miss Corning in time to the music.

  Felicity gasped. “Second waltz in one night?”

  “Practically a public proposal,” Hester agreed. “His offer is forthcoming, if he hasn’t made it already.”

  “That was… fast,” Felicity said faintly. She’d been trying to attract the earl since long before Miss Corning’s debut.

  Hester wrinkled her nose as if deciding whether or not to reveal a secret, then at last sighed and lowered her fan. “The gossips claim Raymore would have picked you, had you not been on the shelf for so long. You have good hair and pretty eyes, but the marquess likes a certain type. Your flaw is that you’re old.”

  The advanced age of four-and-twenty was far from Felicity’s only flaw. She’d had several suitors, none of whom came up to scratch at the final hour. The charitable works clause repelled every last one of them.

  Worse, image was everything to aristocrats. If Lord Raymore’s peers didn’t want Felicity… the marquess didn’t want her, either. Not when there were so many pretty debutantes floating about. She curled her hands into fists.

  “It’s an inescapable curse,” s
he said to Hester. “If I haven’t been snatched up by now, there must be something wrong with me. The mere fact that I’m available makes men run the other way.”

  Hester shivered. “I would die if that happened to me. If I didn’t have Titus, I’d marry the first lord who asked.”

  Was that what Felicity should have done? Marry the first lord who asked, and simply hope he could be talked into philanthropy?

  Hester wasn’t heartless. She was one of several aristocrats who donated books and money to the Children’s Circulating Library, a small but well-received initiative designed to improve the minds of London’s youth. Subscriptions were still expensive enough that only families at a certain level could take part, but it was a step in the right direction and gave Felicity hope.

  “If you weren’t already betrothed, what would you look for in a husband?” she asked.

  “A title,” Hester replied without hesitation. “I want to have a husband in the House of Lords. What about you?”

  Felicity had thought about this question endlessly. Security was the first concern. A homeless woman necessarily must concentrate on her wellbeing to the exclusion of others.

  Money was the second-most important factor. She’d use it to create a Foundation for Impoverished Children and spend every possible moment helping those who had never been spoiled or coddled in their lives.

  “If it were up to me,” she said, “I would—”

  Before she could finish her thought, a debutante in white ran by sobbing, and nearly plowed straight into a plaster column.

  Felicity grabbed the girl’s arm just before she would have crashed.

  “Shh,” she soothed. “Take a moment to breathe. Whatever it is—” Felicity blinked. “Miss Corning? I thought you were dancing with Lord Raymore!”

  “I was,” the girl said between sniffles.

  Felicity’s hackles rose in alarm. “If he manhandled you without your consent—”

  “He wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole,” Miss Corning sobbed. “I’ve lost his interest entirely.”

  Even Hester looked gobsmacked by this. “What on earth happened?”