“What do you intend to do?” she demanded, tilting her head so that she could peer across at him from under her floppy white bonnet. “Ignore me?”
“No. I should, but I cannot,” he admitted. “You have too securely captured my interest. While it is too dangerous to meet you in person, I believe I can arrange another means of communication through a mutual acquaintance.”
“Oh?” Despite the angry despair flooding her veins, Felicity felt a glimmer of hope.
“There are very few people in this world that I trust, Lady Felicity. The majority of my winnings from the Royal Ascot are in the safekeeping of one of those people. My brother will remain intent on my finances until my dying day, but while he can force my hand he cannot touch Toby, who is usually cleverer than I when it comes to investments. I do not wish to lose you when I still have hope for an improvement in my circumstances.”
Felicity returned her eyes to the Route de Roi, desperately attempting to understand his words. If he had hope for a financially secure future, did that not imply a hope for her as well?
Jonathon sighed and she heard him shift in his saddle. “If you agree, I would like to continue our acquaintance through letters. I can address them through Miss Catherine Burnel, who has graciously consented to act as an intermediary between us. It is not unusual for me to write her, since I consider her—and Miss Burnel, of course—a friend. Therefore it will not alert my brother to any unusual activity on my part. If you receive letters from a female, your father should not be concerned about your activity.”
“It does appear our only choice,” she agreed. “I have always admired the Misses Burnel. I am still surprised that you are not courting Miss Burnel; you called upon her often, and even proffered roses, if the rumours are to be believed.”
He met her tepid glance with a wry smile. “Are you jealous, Lady Felicity?”
Her expression quickly transformed into disapproval. “Do not mock a woman scorned, Mr. White.”
“But I am no longer scorning you,” he pointed out, his tone gentle. “At first I did consider Miss Burnel a decent match, but I recognized another as better suited for her. I did—and still do—admire her, but we are not suited as anything more than friends.”
Felicity’s voice was very soft as she asked, “Do you consider me a friend?”
He surprised them both by reaching across to touch her arm. “Yes, you are a friend. Unlike Miss Burnel, however, you have the potential to be something much more. But you must trust me, Felicity,” he added earnestly. “Will you wait for me?”
Two Weeks Later
Curling a loose strand of her black hair around one finger and wiggling her bare toes in delight, Felicity smiled down at the paper resting on her knees. Jonathon was leaving London to visit his mother, but he had finally written the words she had longed to hear.
I love you.
They had exchanged letters almost every day for the past two weeks, ranging in topic from political debates to favourite holidays. Felicity had thoroughly enjoyed their discussion about the similarities between people and their pets, although that enjoyment revolved around the sketches that accompanied the written words. Jonathon was a terrible artist, and she was relieved to know he was not perfect at everything.
Her favourite letters lay scattered across her stomach, and she released her hair so she could shuffle through the papers. She had decided to stretch herself improperly across the armchair situated in her bowfront window while she read through her most recent correspondence, and an open window allowed a cool breeze to caress her cheek as she smiled at a letter.
“My dearest,” she murmured. “I do like how that sounds, although I would much prefer to hear it from your lips.”
At first Jonathon’s letters were addressed and signed in a politely interested manner, but after she confessed to a love of poetry—and he had responded with such delighted fervour—he had taken to referring to himself as Your Most Devoted Admirer. That was nothing to finally reading that he loved her, and she had wasted no time in penning a response filled with lines to make any romantic poet weep. Her heart was filled with joy, and though she wanted everyone to know her bliss, she was aware that Jonathon needed time to put his affairs in order.
He had added that he would try to see her again in person upon his return to London, and that was enough to keep her satisfied while he was visiting his mother. That and his poem comparing her eyes to the stars; his stars.
Felicity felt tears pricking the back of her eyes just at the memory of his words. She reached across and grasped his last letter, pressing it to her heart.
“I love you,” she whispered, closing her eyes and smiling. “You see me as no one else ever has, and I love you for it, my dearest Jonathon.”
Lord Carlton Ryans, the Duke of Avondale, quietly stepped away from her partially open door, greying-black eyebrows narrowed in thought as he strode down the dark hallway to his study. He had not anticipated this, and needed to take the necessary precautions to protect his daughter from the persistent fortune hunter.
Chapter Four
Gloucestershire
Back to top
With starlight gleaming in your eyes
And night larks singing lullabies
My silver-eyed Felicity
‘Tis everything I want of thee
“No,” Jonathon muttered, crumpling up the piece of paper and tossing it aside. “It just doesn’t work.”
He frowned down at the last scrap of paper lying on the thin slab of wood resting across his knees. He had been sitting on the rickety cast iron bench since after breakfast, but though he tried to take inspiration from the crisp breeze and swirling grey clouds, his thoughts kept being muddled by the constant interruption of the steward. Jonathon knew the man was simply enthusiastic about having a rational male in residence—Gregory certainly never paid any mind to the running of the estate—but Jonathon was also aware that his mother was capable of answering the steward’s questions. She had already done so for nigh on three years. Lady Sylvia White was a very capable woman, and Jonathon had reminded the steward of that fact the last time the man had tried to engage him in conversation.
“Why can I not think of a proper line?” he despaired, flinging himself to his feet so he could pace around the broken fountain. “It should not be this difficult to do something I love.”
“The result makes the challenge worthwhile,” Sylvia murmured, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she walked towards him. Sunlight warmed her pale skin but also highlighted the thin structure of her face. “You cannot be successful without some difficulty, Jonathon.”
He crossed his arms over his chest as he continued to pace the worn cobblestones. In his youth he had enjoyed mapping the cracks in the stones, marvelling at their beauty as one would the lines on a grandparent’s face. Now he wished he could somehow fit into one of the tiny cracks and hide until his mother continued on her mid-morning constitutional. He had wanted to see her again, but he was afraid she knew the true purpose of his visit, a fear that was realized as his mother settled on the bench and tilted her gaze upwards.
“Who is she?”
He glanced across at her with a scowl but she continued to regard him patiently.
“Who is she?” his mother asked again, her light brown eyes—closer in colour to caramel—twinkling with mischief. “I can see by the absent look in your eyes that you are thinking about a woman, and I want to know: who is she?”
“I know nothing of which you speak,” Jonathon evaded, kicking one of the crumpled poems that littered the small courtyard.
Sylvia chuckled. “You cannot lie to me, Jonathon.”
He knew it would be pointless to deny her again; his mother was a relentless examiner. It was always easier to tell her the truth, for she would pursue him with the same single-minded determination that Gregory used to pursue money.
“Felicity is her name,” he finally stated. “I met her not long after I arrived in London.”
“Go on.”
Jonathon let out a huff of irritated air. His mother had never been one to let a pause linger.
“We did not get on at first, but that was due mostly to a misunderstanding on my part. She is much more than I could have ever imagined, as I have cause to know from our communication these past weeks. Felicity is an avid writer and a fellow lover of poetry.”
“I am sure you have written her several pretty lines,” Sylvia mused, lifting her slender brows as she noted the paper strewn around the bench. Soft brown curls framed her narrow cheeks, gifting her features with a younger grace. The stresses of London and her eldest son had an ill effect on her, but Jonathon had often thought that she remained in the country more for solitude than her health.
“I have attempted a few poems,” he admitted. “I do not know that they were pretty.”
Sylvia shook her head and rolled her eyes. “You never did think much of your poetry, Jonathon, but even as a child I thought you an exceptional poet. Despite your rather grim outlook on society, you are quite the romantic.”
Jonathon scowled and halted his pacing so he could stand directly before her. “I was a true lieutenant in the --- cavalry.”
“That does not mean you cannot be a romantic.” She smiled warmly and lifted a hand to grasp his arm with surprising strength. “Do you love this Felicity?”
“At first I thought her little more than a pretty face, but after she punched me I realized that she is unlike any woman I have ever met.”
Her hand fell from his arm to cover her mouth. “She punched you? Good heavens, Jonathan, what did you do to her?”
“I told you, there was a misunderstanding,” he hedged. “She is a strong woman, a fact that has impressed me and undoubtedly encouraged my affections. I could never respect a woman that is afraid of speaking her mind. While she is everything proper amidst society, she is nothing but honest with me. I do not feel pressured to speak false words when I am with her, nor do I fear insulting her with my own honesty. Felicity is everything a woman should be, though I am concerned that her father will use everything in his power to convince her that I am not worthy of her. Once I can convince him that I am serious in my pursuit of her, I believe the duke will consent to let me court her.”
His mother choked on a sudden gasp. As she struggled to catch her breath she rasped, “A duke’s daughter? Jonathon, are you mad?”
He felt his cheeks prickle with warmth. “No, I am perfectly sane.”
“You have no money with which to woo a duke’s daughter. You do not have a title to impress her father, or…no.” Sylvia’s expression was aghast. “No, no, no, no, no. Lady Felicity Ryans? The Duke of Avondale’s daughter?”
He nodded grimly. “I know Avondale is rough around the edges—”
“He will never let you marry his daughter. Avondale refused a wealthy marquis who wanted to marry her two years ago; what makes you think he will let a man with no title—and no money—marry his only child?”
“Because I love her, and she loves me,” Jonathon declared. “And I do have money. If things continue as they are, I should be able to present myself as a suitable match for Felicity by the end of the Season.”
Sylvia pursed her lips as she regarded his determined stance. Finally she sighed and rose to stand before him, and held his face in her hands. “Be careful, Jonathon. Your brother will not be pleased if he discovers that you have been deceiving him. I wish you luck with Avondale, but do not be surprised if he turns you aside. I would not be surprised if the duke is holding out for a prince for his daughter.”
London
“I am surprised that a bankrupt fortune hunter would bring such charming roses,” Lord Carlton Ryans mused, glancing archly at the bouquet Mr. Jonathon White clutched in his hands.
“I am not a fortune hunter, Lord Avondale, nor am I bankrupt.”
Mr. White’s determined stance impressed the duke, but he refused to take the young man seriously. Carlton had seen fortune hunters in action for too many years to be blinded by the obvious facts concerning Mr. White’s interest in Felicity. No honourable man corresponded with a woman without first seeking permission from the woman’s father.
“You are the same man who has written to my daughter for several weeks, is that not so?”
Mr. White had the good sense to acknowledge his actions.
“Do you not think such an activity clandestine? Why would you pursue her without first consulting me, unless you feared that I would reject your suit?” Carlton stood, tapping the tips of his fingers against the top of his desk before striding around to stand before the young man. “Everyone in the ton is aware of your perilous financial state, Mr. White. I swore to keep my daughter safe from men like you, yet you have still managed to harm her. Was that your intention? Your plan?” he demanded, grateful that he had a few inches over Mr. White. Intimidation was useless without the advantage of height.
“I do not comprehend your meaning,” the younger man stated, narrowing his dark brown brows in thought. “I never intended to hurt your daughter. I’ll admit that I never intended to fall in love with her either, but—”
“Because all you want of her is her money,” Carlton snapped. He turned suddenly and crossed over an oriental rug to stand at the window, where he stared down at the people walking on the pavement below. “You do not feel love for her. You merely lust for her dowry.”
“No,” Mr. White insisted. “I would not complain on my behalf if you refused to provide her dowry. My finances are improving, and I believe that soon I will be able to offer for her properly.”
Carlton looked over his shoulder and grimaced. “Offer for her properly? If you wanted to do things properly, Mr. White, you would have come to me before you seduced her with your false words.” He grinned suddenly and turned to face the younger man again, crossing his arms over his chest in the process. “Yes, Mr. White, I know about the letters you have sent her. I’ve even read a few of them. Pathetic, how you use those you consider friends instead of facing me yourself. Did you honestly think I would not notice my daughter’s active correspondence with a woman with whom she has barely spoken?
“Which makes me wonder,” he mused, his voice lowering. “Why are you here now? Why not continue to hide in the shadows and recite poisonous words in a poetic façade?”
Mr. White stiffened, his expression that of wounded pride. “It was never my intention to hide from you, Lord Avondale. I have my reasons for keeping my emotions private. I wanted to be certain that I could provide for her before I courted her, but I was not going to court a woman I did not know. It was not safe for her to be seen with me, so I decided to write to her.”
“Not safe?” Carlton scoffed. He dropped his hands to his sides. “What lies have you been telling her, Mr. White?”
“I have never—nor would I ever—lie to her, Lord Avondale.” Mr. White’s dark brown eyes flashed in anger. “Perhaps you should ask her if she trusts me, and trust her judgement. She certainly knows me better than you do, Lord Avondale.”
His expression cleared, and Carlton regarded him with concern.
“But perhaps you do not know her as well as I do,” he murmured.
Carlton felt fury heat his veins. “What are you insinuating, Mr. White? I know my daughter. I have cared for her and raised her on my own these past twenty-four years. No one knows her as well as I.”
“Then why does she feel so alone? Why does she seek company with the stars, and count them as her friends? Why does she long to step out of this townhouse and make her own way in this world?” Mr. White’s voice rose. “Why does she suspect that you have done everything in your power to mould her into a woman whom she is not? You told her to speak in a higher pitch, but her natural voice is the most melodious pitch in the world. You told her to how to attract a man, but she is in her fourth Season and still unwed.”
“Yet you have obviously been attracted to her,” Carlton accused. “You would not be here otherwise. If you found her voice
and her manners so unattractive, it must mean that my assumptions are correct, and you are here only for her dowry.”
He was impressed, despite his belief that Mr. White was a fortune hunter. No one else had bothered to look past Felicity’s beauty to see Carlton’s efforts to protect her. He had always believed himself in the right for asking his daughter to act out of character. How else was he supposed to weed out those who only wanted a pretty face from those who wanted her heart?
Mr. White cringed. “I saw behind her mask. If you have truly read our correspondence, you would know that she has been honest with me, and I with her.”
“I read the lying words of a man set on improving his fortunes,” Carlton dismissed, motioning in the air with one hand. “My daughter’s words revealed her infatuation with you.”
“Infatuation?” Mr. White nearly yelled the word.
“Yes, Mr. White, infatuation. She will forget you soon enough, and be better off for it.”
The younger man shook his head solemnly. “You do not care for her at all, do you? You do not care to ask her how she feels; what she wants.”
“I love my daughter!” Carlton growled, hands clenching at his sides. “I only want what is best for her.”
“Then that is something we have in common,” Mr. White stated, his voice surprisingly soft.
“We have nothing in common, Mr. White,” Carlton contradicted. “My daughter knows little of the world’s evils, and I wish to keep her safe from men like you.”
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.”
To Marry the Duke's Daughter (After the Masquerade) Page 4
