The Determined Duchess

by Erica Monroe

  If only her heart agreed.

  “I embalmed her with a solution of formalin, zinc salts, alcohol, salicylic acid and glycerin.” She did not meet his eyes—though she knew she should not care, she did not want to see revulsion take over his face, as it had Tressa’s. “The glycerin has kept her from drying out, and the zinc salts keep her body from caving in. It’s important for the process.”

  He jumped back from her, words tumbling out of his mouth so fast she almost couldn’t understand him. “Bloody hell, Felicity, are you mad? What process? Why in God’s name would you do that?”

  She sucked in a deep, fortifying breath, reminding herself that she was a scientist, not some silly ninny who’d let his disgust stop her. “Because if I am going to bring Margaret back to life, her body has to be in good condition.”

  ***

  Nicholas’s jaw dropped for the second time that afternoon. “You can’t be serious. This is some sort of hocus-pocus, isn’t it? Probably by the witches Lockwood dealt with on All Hallows’ Eve. Is this your revenge upon me for not attending Aunt Margaret’s funeral?”

  He’d never thought Felicity was a particularly vengeful person, but he’d gladly accept that over the far more terrifying possibility that she actually thought she could resurrect Margaret.

  Felicity shook her head. “The coven has nothing to do with my experiments. I did this.”

  She spoke with that same finality she’d used all those years ago to assure him ghosts weren’t real. Except now there was a note of accomplishment he didn’t want to recognize—how could she possibly be proud to have defiled her guardian’s body? She, who claimed to love Margaret so much.

  Unless this was all a great joke. Then she’d be delighted to finally be the one to pull the wool over his eyes for once, instead of vice versa.

  Lord, please let it be that.

  “Devil of a time to develop a sense of humor, Felicity.” He carded a hand through his hair, still trying to work through this all in his mind. “I think I preferred when you were humorless, for this is the least funny joke I’ve ever had played upon me.”

  Felicity blinked. “It’s not a joke.”

  “I don’t know how you managed to procure a replica of Aunt Margaret as she was in her last days, but I suppose it’s true what they say about idle hands being the devil’s work.” He couldn’t stop himself from shuddering, remembering how lifelike Margaret had looked. It wasn’t right. “This is why I didn’t want you to remain at Tetbery, all alone.”

  “I wouldn’t be alone, if Margaret was here,” Felicity hissed, a heavy wrinkle creasing her forehead. “You don’t understand. You never have. Margaret is all I have.”

  Her use of the present tense was enough to send a chill down his spine. She looked so lost—so small—standing there. The dark silk of her mourning gown swallowed her up; the only break in the blackness was the silver pendant she wore, featuring four triangles, two with lines through them. She’d once told him the symbols were for the four elements.

  She reached up, tucking a loose tendril of red behind her ear. Her fingers were streaked with ink. Somehow, that made her seem more human—this girl, who was meticulous in all things, could not avoid making a mess when taking notes. How long had he set her up in his mind as some otherworldly creature, devoid of anything but solid, unflustered logic?

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t understand. But I want to. Make me understand, Lissie.”

  She sat down on the settee, crossing her arms over her chest. As if she were the one who needed protecting—she, who apparently thought she could bring the dead back to life.

  All his life he thought he’d been the one with power.

  He’d been wrong about that, too.

  “Why, Felicity?” he asked.

  The direct approach worked, as it had before in the kitchen. Her forehead scrunched with thought. Again, she spoke with slow deliberateness, which he now realized was not meant to belittle him—she was precise in everything, even her speech.

  “Margaret shouldn’t have died,” she stated finally. “She was middle-aged, with a full life ahead of her. We had so many hopes and dreams for the future.”

  “Death isn’t fair. Life isn’t fair.” He held up a hand to stall the response he knew was coming. “Before you claim I have no place to say that because of my title, remember that I lost my mother and father, and my aunt and uncle too. I mourned them.”

  “You didn’t even like your mother and father.” She spat this out, another arrow that hit its target, the truth stinging.

  “It’s not so simple.” He rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to relieve the tension in his body. “They were not the best of parents, but they were still my parents. Perhaps I mourned the loss of what could have been, too.”

  Her nose wrinkled at this. “Grief is complicated.”

  He nodded.

  “I want her back. Margaret should be here.” She scrubbed a hand across her face, leaving a smudge of ink across her nose.

  “I miss her too.” He softened his tone, making it the caress he didn’t dare give. “But I don’t think that playing God is the right thing to do. We are born and then we die. It’s the natural order.”

  “But what if it’s not?” she asked. “What if I can bring her back? I’d never be alone again.”

  “You’re not alone now.” He wanted so badly to take her in his arms and soothe all her fears of abandonment. To tell her that he’d stay with her. Yet that was not a promise he was prepared to make—not now, when he didn’t know how she’d respond.

  So instead he kept his hands to himself, and he hoped his words sounded more like those of a friend, not a suitor. “You have me. And Tolsworth, and all of the servants.”

  Apparently he’d achieved his goal a little too well, for that brought her no comfort. She shook her head. “It’s not the same.”

  “I’m sorry, Felicity,” he said.

  “What are you sorry for? You didn’t kill her; the sickness did.” She stated this in her usual matter-of-fact way, frowning at him. “If you want to be sorry for something, be sorry you didn’t come to her funeral.”

  “I am.” If he’d realized then how much it would hurt Felicity, he would have left London for Cornwall immediately. “If I could change that, I would.”

  She eyed him skeptically. Then, as if she had seen something she approved of, she gave a perfunctory nod. “I believe you.”

  That shouldn’t matter so much to him—yet it did. “As much as I wish Margaret was still alive, she’s not, and I can’t support your efforts here. You’re fooling with forces far outside your ken.”

  “You won’t say that once you see my work.” Earnestly, she turned toward him, grabbing his hand. “I’m so close, Nicholas. I just need more time.”

  He ought to tell her no. He shouldn’t need—shouldn’t want—to see her research to know that this was the crux of insanity. There were real reasons, good reasons, that people were not resurrected from the dead. It simply wasn’t done.

  Yet when he heard the anguish in her voice, and her penetrating jade gaze locked in on him, he couldn’t refuse her.

  Felicity was off, tugging him along with her toward the hall. She came to a stop outside the kitchen, pressing a stone in the wall underneath a tapestry depicting a lion stalking a lamb. The wall receded, revealing a secret passage.

  On any other day, he might have been shocked by the reveal of yet another tunnel he did not know about—but today, after all he’d already seen, he didn’t even raise a brow.

  “Tetbery,” he grumbled under his breath, as Felicity climbed up the stairs in front of him. The press of her hand in his made his heart beat faster with every step, and the view of her pert arse as she climbed was the best thing he’d seen all day.

  Except that she was leading him into the bowels of hell, to discuss work that most likely would get them branded as social misfits at best, and heretics at worse. As she pushed open the door to her laboratory, he wondered
if people were still burned at the stake.

  At least if he died first, Felicity could resurrect him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Felicity’s heart slammed against her chest as they climbed up the stairs. Tension knotted her stomach; made her breath come in uneven pants. She pushed open the door to the laboratory with Nicholas on her heels, fighting against the voice in her head that screamed she shouldn’t let him in. Once she explained what she’d been working on he’d put a stop to it.

  Yet there was another part of her—the part she listened to now—that longed to share this with someone who might understand. She’d thought Tressa would have been that person, but maybe her friend hadn’t been close enough to Margaret.

  Felicity lit the lanterns scattered about, washing the large laboratory in golden light. She stood back, allowing Nicholas to get a full view of her workspace. There in the middle of the room was the table he’d pushed her up against as they kissed, his hands roving her frame with tenderness—with such want—she’d never expected from him. Warmth pooled in her limbs at the memory, her nipples pebbling as they had from his touch.

  But one glance at him told her that his thoughts were elsewhere. His wary glance skipped from one corner of the laboratory to the next, finally settling on her face questioningly. She nodded, giving him permission to investigate further, though the very thought made the knots in her stomach twist tighter.

  For several minutes, he walked around the laboratory, examining her equipment. Much of it probably looked familiar to him—the scales, the crucible and burner, the many glasses and test tubes, the Culpeper reflecting microscope, the mortar and pestle, and the large equivalents table on the wall listing the masses of known elements. She’d possessed many of those tools during their summers together, and the rest were all expected tools of a scientist.

  Nothing was out of the ordinary.

  Until he got to the jars of organs on her long work table.

  He spun around, gesturing to the jars. She was glad he didn’t voice the obvious question—were those Margaret’s organs? She nodded, wincing as he jumped away from the jars.

  “It was necessary,” she said, defensively. “I couldn’t take the chance that the elixir wouldn’t regrow her organs. To preserve her, I had to dissect her…”

  She paused, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She’d never had any difficulty talking about her experiments before. She’d always been able to summon the proper distance—always been able to remember that what she did was for the good of humanity.

  This wasn’t for an altruistic goal.

  This was personal.

  Her shoulders shook as she sucked in one deep breath, then another, trying to sort out her thoughts. In her mind she was back on that dank night, desperately trying to keep her hand from shaking as she cut into the countess’s flesh. She’d had to stop every few minutes to wipe away the tears streaming down her face.

  Now, she rubbed her hand across her brow, her black sleeve serving as yet another reminder of the loss. How could she justify what she’d done, if she couldn’t bring Margaret back from the darkness of death?

  The one person who had always been there for her, and she’d failed her.

  And now she had to explain it all to the man who had shaken up everything she knew with his passionate kiss.

  She closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him, to see his revulsion over what she’d done. She’d been foolish to think he could ever understand. No one did. Not even Septimus Locke, and he was a fellow scientist.

  “I couldn’t leave her there, alone, in the blackness.” She rested her head in her palms, not brave enough to open her eyes. “I thought—I still think— if I just had more time, I could bring her back. To me. To you.”

  Nicholas was silent for a minute, and she felt that silence close in on her, like the unshakable stillness of the last six months. How could she hate the quiet so much when she’d always claimed it was what she preferred? All those years spent wishing he’d stop pestering her with his endless chatter.

  Then he’d stopped visiting during the summer, giving her what she said she’d wanted.

  And she’d told herself she was fine with that. Because she’d never, ever expected that he’d think of her as anything other than his aunt’s strange, blunt ward.

  Until that kiss.

  “That must have been hard.” He finally spoke, the compassion in his voice daring her to open her eyes and look at him. When she did, he met her gaze with his own steady, thoughtful one—his brown eyes showing no judgment. “Doing that for Margaret, I mean.”

  She notched her chin higher, determined to focus on the present, and not the horrors of the past. “I didn’t have a choice. It’s the only chance she has.”

  “Had, Lissie.” His quiet tone made the appellation sound like an endearment instead of a dreaded nickname. “What makes you think you can bring her back? That you should bring her back?”

  When she met his gaze, she saw the same concern shining in his eyes as he’d had in the atrium, as if he not only cared about her, but worried for her wellbeing. Not in the autocratic, controlling way he’d exhibited when he’d told her she was going to London with him—this was a softer, gentler Nicholas, as he’d been the summer she caught cold from being outside in the rain. He’d brought her chicken soup and stayed by her side, reading to her from a novel, though she’d informed him she could read just fine on her own, and preferred textbooks to novels.

  It caught her off guard, how much she longed for that version. For him to understand—truly understand, not just humor her as Tressa did—why she had to bring back Margaret.

  “Let me show you.” She moved to the table, gesturing for him to take a seat. She sat on the stool next to him, pulling out her folio of notes. “How familiar are you with the alchemical pursuit for the Philosopher’s Stone?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nicholas comprehended, at best, half of what she’d told him. He hunched forward, picking up one of the many pieces of parchment strewn across the work table. Mallory’s sketch of the alchemical symbol for the Philosopher’s Stone, which she’d seen in a vision—or so Felicity said.

  His stomach rolled, the sour taste in his mouth returning. From visions to elemental transformations to the dead coming back to life, every bloody part of Felicity’s story had him on edge.

  At this point, he would have preferred it if she’d been involved with Bocka Morrow’s coven—at least Teddy could vouch for them.

  “You must think me mad.” Felicity no longer looked at him, her gaze fastened on her folded hands in her lap.

  “No.” Perhaps that was the only thing he was certain of in all of this.

  “I would understand if you did,” she continued, as if he had never spoken. “Tressa said this isn’t natural—to try and achieve palingenesis. She said she’s worried about me.”

  “As am I.” He reached for her hand, surprised by the relief he felt when she did not pull away. He did not know when it had begun to matter so much to him what this woman thought. What she felt. “But it’s not your sanity I worry for. I worry for your heart.”

  She shook her head, lips pressed in a thin line. “You once told me you didn’t think I had a heart.”

  He flinched. Had he really been that cruel in his youth? Yes, absolutely, for he’d thought nothing could penetrate her stony exterior.

  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm.

  He’d shouted this once, to a bully at Eton. That had been how he’d met Teddy—quiet and bookish, the second son of the Earl of Ashbrooke attracted the most malicious brutes, for they knew he wouldn’t fight back.

  So Nicholas had fought for him. He’d used his heir apparent status, and his family’s good name, to protect Teddy.

  All the while, he’d perpetuated those same hurts during his visits to Tetbery.

  He didn’t want to be that man anymore. He felt like a right arse for all the times he’d thought she was cold and dis
tant, when here, staring back at him, was evidence to the contrary. She felt so deeply that it twisted up his insides to know how badly her heart would break.

  He couldn’t save her from the pain of Margaret’s death, no matter how much he wanted to. But he could keep Felicity from being hurt more.

  Squeezing Felicity’s hand, he vowed to be better. The type of man who fought for the innocent. Like he’d tried to do with his Night Watch Bill.

  “I was wrong.” His vehemence—and maybe the admission itself, so surprising for a man who had always claimed life was so good—brought Felicity’s head up abruptly.

  She searched his face, as if looking for signs that he was lying. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, I didn’t understand.” He wrapped his other hand around hers, covering her palm. “I didn’t understand so many, many things. How your mind worked. What caused you pain. I should have been fighting by your side, defending you to anyone who dared to insult you. I should have been better, Lissie.”

  She blinked, those green eyes of hers still dark with suspicion. “This doesn’t sound like you, at all. You’ve never, in all the years I’ve known you, admitted you were wrong. Yet this is twice in one week you have done so.”

  “I should have.” He sighed. “I should have done a lot of things, I see.”

  “Margaret always said that hindsight has perfect vision.” Her nose wrinkled, making her look so adorable he almost didn’t note her use of the past tense. “I always thought that was a foolish expression. You can’t see behind you.”

  He grinned. “Somehow I don’t think that’s what she meant.”

  “Perhaps not.” She shrugged. “When I bring her back, I will ask her.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.” That was an understatement, for he really thought this was the worst idea of the century. “What do you believe happens when you die, Felicity?”