One Night to Remember: Wicked Dukes Club #5

by Ridley, Erica

  “He asked me what I thought the best part about being a lady was, and I said, ‘The money to spoil oneself, of course.’” Miss Corning lifted her chin defensively. “It’s what Mama always told me.”

  Felicity winced. “What did he say to that?”

  “He said ‘what about children?’ And I said, ‘No expense will be spared when it comes to spoiling my children.’ And he said, ‘What about other people’s children?’ And I said, ‘Obviously they’re their own parents’ responsibility. A lady cannot be expected to finance every child in the entire world, can she?’”

  “Let me guess,” Hester said dryly. “Raymore disagrees?”

  “He doesn’t just disagree.” Miss Corning’s lower lip trembled. “He’s on a child labor reform committee, and hopes to do more. He said we’re not suited at all!”

  “Good God,” Hester said with a straight face. “Not a child labor reform committee.”

  Felicity’s head was spinning. She felt bad for Miss Corning, but clearly this wasn’t her best match. The news filled Felicity with hope. Raymore was actively seeking new charitable works… and was back on the Marriage Mart?

  “My life is over,” Miss Corning wailed. “Once everyone finds out Lord Raymore withdrew his suit, I’ll never find a husband. I’ve fallen from ‘diamond of the first water’ to ‘avoid like the plague’ in the space of a waltz. I’m ruined.”

  She pushed away and ran off toward the retiring room before Felicity or Hester could reply.

  “Miss Corning might be naïve and a bit self-centered, but she isn’t ruined,” Felicity offered after a moment of awkward silence. “Is she?”

  “Worse,” Hester intoned darkly. “She’s right. Raymore’s interest made her popular, but his disinterest makes her anathema. With no title in her family and no impressive dowry to offer, Miss Corning didn’t just lose a suitor. She might have lost her chance.”

  Felicity did not ask how Hester knew the details of Miss Corning’s dowry. Hester knew everything.

  Well, almost everything. Hester did not know about Felicity’s life before she and her brother came to London. And Hester did not know Felicity still loved to spend her free time tinkering with carriages. It was too dear a secret to tell.

  To marry well, Felicity needed to keep her place in society. Which meant, after the upcoming curricle race… no more tinkering in the family mews.

  In fact, visiting the ducal carriage house at all was too much of a risk. The doors to the alley were open for light. Even with the increased guards, the wrong person might see in and deduce her identity.

  If she was going to help her brother’s carriage win the race, she’d have to do so under significantly more cover. Somewhere pinks of the ton would send a servant as their emissary, or at the very least, never expect to come across the sister of a duke.

  Somewhere like Giles Langford’s private smithy.

  Chapter 5

  Giles crossed his arms in satisfaction as he watched the bustling activity in his busy smithy.

  This was happiness. Work he was good at, a shop he was proud of, and someone to share it with. Plenty of someones. Giles was used to waking every morning content with his life. He never longed for things he didn’t possess. Enjoying what he was fortunate enough to have was more than enough cause for joy.

  “I saw you at the races,” one of the boys said shyly.

  Giles raised a brow. “Did you?”

  “We all did,” said another, eyes shining. “What does it feel like to be faster than everyone else?”

  Giles didn’t bother with false modesty. He was paid well for a reason: his patrons expected to win. Being able to race his own carriage once in a while was a delight he would never tire of.

  “It’s magical,” he said slowly, as he tried to put the feeling into words. “The air rushes in your ears as though you’ve just leaped from a tall tree into a lake, but you’re not falling. You’re flying. Your cheeks are ruddy and cold, and you must squint in order to see against the sun and the wind, but despite the clatter of wheels and the thunder of hooves, it feels like you are the one soaring straight and true, an unstoppable arrow that no one can catch.”

  “That’s exactly what it looks like,” breathed one of the lads in awe.

  “It’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen,” said another.

  “Mind your posts,” Giles reminded them. “Breaks are for talking.”

  They hurried back to their stations.

  Giles leaned his shoulders against a wall. He was not surprised to hear the lads ask about the races. It was a frequent topic here in his workshop, particularly any day following the release of a caricature portraying him flying down a track so fast that only the tips of his competitors’ hats were visible above clouds of dust. His lips quirked.

  What would the scandalmongers think to see their reckless, fearless rebel serving biscuits and lemonade to a bunch of neighborhood children?

  His name would appear in White’s betting book the next evening, Giles realized wryly, along with high-profile wagers as to how many weeks or months remained before Giles set about fathering children of his own... or whether he had fathered all these boys.

  The jest would be on them.

  Giles had no intention of starting a family any time soon. Or taking a wife. It would necessarily take time away from his work, as well as from his time with lads like these who had come to rely on him. Many had little at home and even fewer prospects. The opportunity to learn a trade gave them hope when before they had none.

  Besides, he loved his life just as it was. Comfortable and fun, thrilling and industrious. The last thing he needed was a wrench thrown into the mix.

  “This is your idea of ‘I work alone?’” came a droll female voice just outside his smithy.

  Lady Felicity.

  His walking, talking wrench.

  He jerked his spine up straight. “These are my helpers. I am their master. Are you here to be my apprentice?”

  Her eyes danced as a tiny smirk twitched at the edges of her plump lips.

  “I am here as a carriage counselor.” She gestured behind her, where the Duke of Colehaven’s horses were tied to a post. “Is there room in the inn for another curricle?”

  Giles crossed his arms. “What makes you think I—”

  “Station five is empty,” said one of his apprentices.

  “We could also ready station two in a trice,” added another.

  “Fine.” Giles made shooing motions to his acolytes. “Station five. Go.”

  After this, he was going to have to have a stern conversation with the Duke of Colehaven. If His Grace disliked invited guests dropping by ahead of schedule, how did he think Giles might react to the unexpected delivery of a carriage?

  “Tell your brother there’s a storage fee,” he informed Lady Felicity as the curricle was eased into its new home.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re just hoping to be rid of me.”

  He inclined his head. “The curricle has arrived safely. Aren’t you going?”

  “I’m your new carriage counselor,” she repeated with the arch of a brow. “Where this curricle goes, I go. And it’s staying here until you win the race.”

  “You cannot possibly expect to move in with it.”

  “Why not?” She widened her eyes innocently. “You don’t live inside the actual forge, do you?”

  “He lives upstairs,” said one of the lads.

  “With his mother,” added another.

  “Future apprentices,” Giles enunciated distinctly, “should be seen and not heard.”

  One of the lads frowned. “I thought that was ‘children.’”

  “Or ‘ladies,’” suggested another.

  “We can all hear her,” pointed out a third.

  Lady Felicity eased into the shop and reached out a finger to touch his workbench.

  Giles stepped closer. “No hands-on unless I specifically say so, Miss Carriage Counselor.”

  She paused with her
finger above a swage block and cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “Nothing?”

  He smiled politely. “My smithy, my rules.”

  She lowered her hand and smiled back. “And what are the rules, Curricle King?”

  “Lemonade before aprons,” said one of the lads.

  “Don’t stoke the fire without gloves,” said another.

  “Say ‘thank you’ if someone gives you a biscuit,” said a third.

  “Hard taskmaster,” Lady Felicity mouthed in his direction as she made her way toward the decimated refreshment table. “There appears to be neither lemonade nor biscuits.”

  “That’s because you cocked up rule number one,” one of the lads said. “Arrive first, if you’re hungry.”

  “You can’t say ‘cock up’ in front of a lady,” whispered another in horror.

  “I don’t mind,” Lady Felicity assured them. “He can say ‘cock up’ all he likes.”

  All six lads gasped like pious grandmothers.

  “To your stations,” Giles ordered. He grasped Lady Felicity’s elbow and led her out of eyesight behind a viscount’s barouche. “Does your brother know you’re here?”

  “I came with his blessing,” she answered. “After you infiltrated our carriage house—”

  His jaw fell open. “I scarcely infiltrated—”

  “—I no longer feel safe working there,” she finished. A shadow fell over her eyes, but she blinked it away.

  He stared at her in disbelief. “You don’t feel safe in your own home, but you feel safe in mine?”

  “Safe from discovery,” she clarified, and gestured toward her torso. “Hence the disguise.”

  It took him a moment to realize that she was garbed much as she’d been dressed the morning that he’d seen her at the races—and that a droopy bonnet, tattered pelisse, and stained gown was not precisely the elegant attire one more commonly associated with the sister of a duke.

  “Of course,” he said. “I wondered about the disguise.”

  She fluttered her eyes heavenward and let out a world-weary sigh. “You didn’t even notice the disguise.”

  “To be fair,” he pointed out, “the disguise was the least surprising component of the unexpected arrival of a ducal curricle and self-appointed ‘carriage counselor.’”

  “Duke-appointed,” she assured him. “You were standing right there when Cole insisted we work together. And this arrangement is perfect. No one would look for me here, and with so many others milling about… nobody will notice one more worker.”

  Giles would notice. He would spend every moment of every day noticing every curve and sigh and lick of the lips. And there was nothing he could do about it until after the race.

  He gestured behind him in defeat. “Aprons in the pile to the left, gloves in the bucket to the right.”

  She blinked. “That’s it?”

  “That’s what?”

  “No argument?” she stammered, as if he was the one throwing wrenches. “I show up unannounced, and you’re not patting me on the head and shooing me from your very manly workshop?”

  “First of all,” he said, “No one wants to touch that bonnet.”

  She inclined her head. “True.”

  “Secondly,” he continued, “you’re right. I was standing right there when Colehaven commanded us to work together. More importantly, you’ve spent more time with this curricle than anyone, and you know what you’re about. Go get an apron.”

  Cheeks flushing a becoming pink, Lady Felicity laid her bonnet on the table as she pulled an apron over her head.

  “Hats on the hooks,” someone called out.

  “Right.” She crossed the room to place her bonnet on an empty nail next to the row of boys’ caps, then turned back toward Giles. “You do have a lot of rules.”

  “He’s the master,” one of the lads said simply. “That’s one of the most important rules of all.”

  Lady Felicity shot Giles an arch look.

  He smiled back at her blandly.

  “You’ll never be my master,” she warned him. “You may be the master of your shop, but I am the master of my brother’s carriage.”

  He tossed her a large rag. “Rule number thirty-seven: Carriage-master keeps his assigned carriage clean of dirt and grime.”

  “I doubt that’s a real rule,” she muttered as she began wiping the dust from the curricle’s exterior.

  Giles grinned as he pulled a rag from his apron and joined her.

  The next quarter hour passed with companionable ribbing and semi-serious debates about the virtues of leather washer seals and the various styles of axle grease. Every shared laugh caused a strange flutter in his stomach.

  Bickering with Lady Felicity as they worked together on a carriage was almost as much fun as preparing his own curricle for a race. It would be a challenge to keep her away from—

  She followed his line of sight and visibly restrained herself from bouncing on her toes. “That’s ‘Baby,’ isn’t it? She’s gorgeous. May I see her up close?”

  “You may not.”

  “I just want to—”

  “Nobody touches Baby,” he said firmly. “In fact, the only carriage you have permission to touch belongs to your brother.”

  “But she’s been custom-built specifically to your taste,” Lady Felicity protested. “You know how much I love personalized modifications.”

  “I don’t recall the subject ever coming up.”

  “Well, now you know.” She inched in the direction of his curricle. “If you would just let me—”

  “No,” he said before she could continue. “Baby is my business. Your brother is yours.”

  “Arrogant and overbearing,” she muttered with narrowed eyes. “And to think, this is what I have to look forward to when I marry.”

  “You’re not marrying me,” he pointed out in alarm.

  “Of course not,” she said with a laugh. “But I don’t imagine earls and dukes to be less imperious.”

  That it was true did not make it any less irritating.

  “Which are you settling for?” he enquired in a bored voice. “A duke or an earl?”

  “I’m down to one name on the list,” she replied sweetly, “and it isn’t yours.”

  “You have a list?” He could just imagine a parchment full of Lord This, Lord That, all with a line through their names. It was even more insulting than he’d guessed. Apparently even rich, handsome lordlings could fail to meet Lady Felicity’s exalted criteria.

  Someone like Giles would never even be considered.

  He shouldn’t care. And yet, to his shock, he did.

  “Who’s the lucky gentleman?” He busied himself with the front axle to hide his irritation. “Sedgwick?”

  “No. A spendthrift,” she answered.

  “Lord Findon?”

  “All but betrothed to Lady Penelope.” At his blank expression, she added, “Wakefield. She’s a marquess’s daughter.”

  Giles sifted his memory for the names of the titled gentlemen that visited his favorite tavern, the Wicked Duke. Most of them were Giles’s customers. One in particular could be considered the smithy’s biggest account. “Not… Lord Raymore?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “You know him?”

  One could say that.

  Raymore was always dropping off this carriage or that. He’d been a valued client for years. Giles clenched his jaw. He would have to congratulate the happy couple on their nuptials as if these moments with Lady Felicity had never happened. Giles would stand right here for the next decade or two, watching Lord and Lady Raymore ride off together again and again.

  It shouldn’t bother him. But it did.

  “What’s so wonderful about Raymore?” he grumbled. He could guess the answer.

  “Wealthy, titled, in possession of multiple entailed properties, sits in the House of Lords, and—” She paused for effect. “—newly back on the market.”

  He tightened a wheel bolt. Being right was not always fun. Lady Feli
city was an unapologetic fortune-hunter and social climber. Instead of possessing a mere courtesy title, she’d soon be a peer. Married to a rich marquess with “multiple entailed properties.” No mention of whether she actually liked the man.

  “You think Lord Raymore will allow his wife to work on carriages?”

  “Absolutely not,” she replied, her brown eyes serious. “In fact, he’ll never know it ever happened. Once you win Cole’s race, I shan’t work on carriages ever again.”

  Giles frowned. “Even if you’re not married yet?”

  “Even if I’m not married yet,” she agreed. But the happiness had left her face. “He hasn’t exactly asked. So far all we’ve shared are waltzes, but—”

  “You’re preemptively subjugating your desires to an unfamiliar man who hasn’t offered for you yet,” Giles said in disbelief. “That’s—”

  “Strategy,” Lady Felicity finished. “He’ll ask if I can make him believe I’m what he wants.”

  No. Giles curled his lip. She meant the marquess would marry her if she could become what he wanted. That was what was so disappointing. Lady Felicity had seemed like so much more.

  Or perhaps he, too, wanted her to be something she was not.

  “I cannot abide stuffy, pretentious people,” Giles said.

  “How awkward. I aspire to be a stuffy, pretentious lady,” she informed him, “married to a stuffy, pretentious lord with a stuffy, pretentious estate. What do you care?”

  “It makes you sound selfish,” he muttered.

  “And I am,” she agreed. “We all are, to some degree. Not that it’s any of your business what I do with my future husband’s money, but I intend to fund a charity.”

  Giles paused with one hand on the splinter bar. “A what?”

  “A charitable foundation to aid children in need. Food, housing, education. I hope to make it a large affair, with so many helpers we’ll never have to turn away a single child.”

  It sounded… admirable. Some of his disdain fell away.

  “Will your future husband allow you to volunteer in such a place?”

  “The marquess would allow me to donate funds,” she hedged.

  Not quite the same thing, but even Giles could see why Raymore was the one man who made her list. His wealth, his power, his position…