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

by Ashley Stormes

  “I love her,” Mr. White declared, his expression earnest as he saw the butler appear in the shadowed doorway of the study. “Please, sir. At least let me give her the roses so that she knows I came here to court her.” He offered the bouquet of white and red roses, but Carlton turned away.

  “No. I will not hurt my daughter in such a manner. Chattrecombe, see Mr. White out. And make sure that he does not try to enter this house again.”

  Carlton watched his butler escort the still protesting young man out, shaking his head slowly as if that would help clear the disastrous events from his mind. Mr. White was correct in many of his assumptions—Carlton had indeed taught his daughter to act a little too pompous for most men’s taste—but that was to buy himself time and eliminate those that could not look beyond her beauty. It had worked for four years, but the time was still not right for Felicity to marry, and Mr. White was certainly not acceptable. He seemed a good man, but appearances meant nothing. He did not have enough to support Felicity, nor did he appear likely to inherit a title. Lord Gregory White would eventually marry and produce an heir; Mr. White would never be anything more than a gentleman.

  “Sir?”

  “Hmm?” He had not realized that his mind had wandered.

  Chattrecombe stood before him expectantly. “I thought it might bolster your mood to hear that the War Office will take advantage of your misfortunes.”

  Carlton sat up straighter and clasped his hands together. “Truly?”

  The butler nodded once, a faint smile playing on his lips. “With the war over, they can utilize your problem to provide training for their agents. I suppose they must keep their skills sharp in some way or another. I have already taken the liberty of providing her last known location.”

  “Excellent. Wonderful. Oh, Chattrecombe, this is exactly what I needed to hear,” Carlton declared. “Finally, I will know the truth.”

  “It may take some time,” Chattrecombe warned. “Winston told me it could take several months, a year even, to track them down and properly observe them.”

  Carlton sighed. “I understand. But you must grant me some levity; it is one less worry for me to dwell on. It would be my only concern, if not for this recent development.” He frowned and again tapped his fingers in an unsteady rhythm upon the desk. “Will you keep an eye on Mr. White? I cannot have Felicity near him, lest he manage to convince her to run off with him, but I can only do so much without exposing her infatuation with him. He is a fortune hunter.”

  “By all appearances, yes,” Chattrecombe agreed. “But, if I might say, sir, he did come to you in an attempt to court her properly. That is not indicative of a man determined to seduce. I will of course ensure he does not enter this house again, but a truly bankrupt man who desired to steal your daughter would never buy roses for her, or approach you with the intention of winning your favour.”

  Jonathon snatched three letters off his desk and flopped into an armchair, scowling at his correspondence as if it had somehow put him in his current foul disposition. The top missive was from Miss Catherine Burnel, or at least appeared to be from her. When he tore open the seal he discovered it was actually from Lord Avondale.

  You will stay away from my daughter. Any attempt to continue this correspondence will be thwarted.

  Underneath that Miss Catherine had penned her apologies and a warning not to do anything rash.

  “As if I needed a reminder.” He groaned and crumpled the paper into a tiny ball, which was then thrown into the empty fireplace. When he felt like writing again he would thank Miss Catherine for her assistance, and wish her better fortune in her pursuits.

  Gregory had also written, demanding an immediate audience with his brother. That letter was also deposited in the fireplace. Jonathon knew his brother would appear soon enough, but he was in no mood to humour Gregory by going willingly.

  The last letter was addressed in a vaguely familiar hand, but it was not until he broke the seal that he recalled his brief correspondence with Lord Henry Fenna.

  It was an invitation from Lord Fenna to attend his upcoming wedding to Miss Jane Burnel.

  “Brilliant,” Jonathon muttered, tossing the paper aside. “At least someone can marry.”

  He was genuinely happy for his two friends, but the bouquet of white and red roses teased him from their perch on the far edge of his desk, reminding him that Felicity was unaware of his foiled plan to court her. She needed to know the truth, but how could he tell her? The duke would undoubtedly keep her by his side while in public, and it was unlikely that Jonathon would have an opportunity to even wave or dip his head in recognition if they actually attended the same event.

  “I follow my mother’s advice, do the right thing by being honest with her father, and now I have lost her,” he complained, jerking at his cravat and untying the stiff knot with fumbling fingers. “In my mother’s defence, Lord Avondale was already aware that I enjoyed a correspondence with her. Mother warned me that he would not take my attentions lightly, but to ban me from his house?” Jonathon scowled at his scuffed boots. “There must be a way to see her, or at least take her the flowers so that she knows I am trying.”

  Sunlight glinted off the mirror on the opposite wall of his study, and he turned to the window with a contemplative expression. If the sun were already setting it meant he had stalked through Hyde Park longer than he intended.

  “Perhaps the darkness will be my ally,” he mused, unbuttoning his coat. “I am a reasonably intelligent man; I should be able to deduce which window is hers.” Throwing pebbles seemed a romantic cliché, but he was not limber enough to scale the exterior wall, nor did he have an inclination for heights.

  Three hours later he paced in the small garden behind the Avondale townhouse, his brows narrowed and his teeth clenched.

  “Blast the duke to perdition. Why does he need this many windows?”

  “All the better to see unwelcome intruders,” stated a dark voice from behind a large bush.

  Jonathon quickly turned to face the bodiless voice, holding the roses in front of him like a sword. “Who are you?”

  Chattrecombe, the butler who had so politely told him to clear off, stepped out from behind the unruly rosebush. Jonathon immediately felt silly; while he gestured with roses, the butler comfortably sported an old pistol.

  “I could ask the same of you, Mr. White, if I did not already know the answer. You were told to refrain from this area, yet here you are.” Chattrecombe gestured in the air with his left hand, his expression that of a man acting out a part on stage.

  Jonathon scowled. “How right you are, Chattrecombe. But I said I would figure out a way to give Felicity her roses. You should be expecting me.”

  Chattrecombe chuckled. “Why do you think I rummaged about for half an hour in a quest to find my old pistol?”

  “Perhaps you heard that Napoleon was in the neighbourhood?” Jonathon shrugged and then became serious. “I have no ill intentions towards her.”

  “Then why are you here, at night, mimicking the stalking gait of a burglar?”

  “Is it not obvious? I already stated that I am trying to figure out a way to give Felicity her roses.”

  The butler seemed genuinely surprised; he lowered the pistol.

  “I do love her,” Jonathon promised.

  “There is no need to lie to me, Mr. White.”

  “Exactly.” Jonathon turned his back to the butler and set the bouquet on a marble bench. Then he pivoted on one heel, declaring, “I bought these for her. She should have them. She does not need to know they are from me, although I know she is intelligent enough to deduce the truth. I want her to know that I tried to call on her, and that I will try again when I can prove to her father that I am telling the truth. I will be able to provide for her. I do not want her to fear that I lied to her, or that I have abandoned her because the road has become too difficult. I have faced my share of battles, and I never shied away from them. Sometimes it was necessary to retreat so I could regro
up my forces, but I always rallied and charged again. I see no reason to change my tactics now.

  “These roses are all I can give her right now, but someday I will be able to give her more. She already has my heart.”

  Chattrecombe cleared his throat. “I will see that she receives the roses on one condition.”

  Jonathon raised a single eyebrow.

  “The duke told me to shoot you if you dared to come near his daughter. He has his reasons for protecting her, Mr. White, and if you truly love her you will stay away—to regroup your forces, if you will. Do not try to test his patience. Do not try to meet with her, or write her, or arrange an elopement. His focus is on protecting her and providing for her; he cannot do so while bothered with you. Once his affairs are arranged, he might view you with a friendlier eye and give you a chance to court her. I cannot guarantee much, but there is a chance, small as it is.”

  “That sounds like more than one condition,” Jonathon murmured, carefully digesting the butler’s words. “But I suppose it can all be summed up as an order to avoid her for the foreseeable future. Though London can be a surprisingly small city, I offer you my word that I will do everything in my power to avoid a confrontation. It goes against my honour to court her without her father’s blessing.”

  Chattrecombe sighed and tucked the pistol away. “Good. I hoped you would be a reasonable man.” He tilted his chin up and studied the faint stars for a moment, as if contemplating the very existence of the universe. Chattrecombe’s next words came grudgingly, and Jonathon wondered if the butler was speaking against his better judgement. “It will not be so difficult to avoid her, Mr. White. Avondale is taking her from London tomorrow. I do not know when they will return.”

  Jonathon swallowed heavily. “Tomorrow?” He would not even be able to catch a glimpse of her before she disappeared into the countryside.

  The butler nodded apologetically. “I will remain here to convey…news. While I can see that Lady Felicity receives the roses, I will not be able to tell her anything about you. The duke will be furious enough about the flowers, if he finds out. As I said, he has too much to worry about without thinking of his daughter’s marriage to a man who may or may not be a fortune hunter.”

  “But—would it be too much to ask…” Jonathon took a deep breath. “Will you let me know about her welfare?”

  “Perhaps,” Chattrecombe replied, his expression as vague as his words. “That will all depend on you, Mr. White. Just because I am willing to believe your words does not mean I will wilfully dismiss anything that hints at dishonesty. Lady Felicity is like a daughter to me; I will have no part in seeing her injured in any way.”

  Jonathon consented, grateful that the butler was at least willing to believe him. If he could prove to Chattrecombe that he was sincere, Avondale might take him seriously whenever the duke decided to return to London. Whatever circumstances were haunting the duke, Jonathon needed to be careful not to give in to his own problems. Perhaps Felicity’s absence from his life would be a good thing; he could focus his attentions on his finances and keeping his brother’s prying fingers from his pocketbook. There was an old saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Time and separation would force Jonathon to look into the heart of his emotions and determine if his affections for Felicity were truly love, or merely the throbbing of a heart desperate for company.

  Chapter Five

  Avondale, Yorkshire

  October

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  Heavy footsteps crunched against the cold autumn ground and snapped Felicity from her reverie on the silver-lined clouds. Realizing her cheeks were salty, she hastily wiped away her tears. Her father was the only one who would follow her to the old well, and she did not want him to see her pain when he had been in such an astonishingly cheerful mood since their arrival in Avondale.

  “There you are,” Carlton stated as greeting. “I’m surprised you are not in the village. You have always enjoyed the autumn fair.” He settled beside her on the crumbling edge of the stone well, his loosely buttoned waistcoat and dishevelled greying black hair hinting at his means of transportation.

  She briefly offered him a wan smile. “Did you enjoy your ride?”

  Her father remained silent for a few moments, but she did not turn again to look at him.

  “Yes, I did,” he finally answered. He reached across to place his hand over her arm. “Are you still thinking about Mr. White?”

  Felicity sniffed, her nose and cheeks red from more than the crisp air. “I look at the clouds and imagine that he is sitting with me, pointing out shapes and patterns. He would have pen and paper, and would compose a few lines about the manner in which the clouds dance across the pale blue sky. He loves the serenity of the countryside, and who would blame him? If I had survived a war I would be grateful for every moment of peace and calm. That is why I have spent so much time outside; I am sure he is still in London, but he wants to be where he can smell the earth and feel the grass.”

  She chuckled suddenly, the sound surprising them both. “I’m sure you think he is in London drinking and carousing away with barely a pence in his pockets, but he is not that sort of man, Papa.”

  “You barely know him, Felicity,” Carlton murmured.

  “Because you took me from London before he could court me!” she accused, turning to glare up at him. “I know he wanted to. He wrote such beautiful things, Papa. Not that I need to tell you that,” she added grimly, recalling their conversation while leaving London, when he had confessed to reading Jonathon’s letters. “Why do you keep him from writing to me? Even if you will not let him court me, what harm could come from a written correspondence?”

  Carlton frowned and gave her a stern look. “What harm? You are already infatuated with him. Furthering that correspondence would only hurt you in the end, Felicity. We have discussed this.”

  She groaned. “No, Papa, you have lectured me on the evils of fortune hunters. Jonathon is not a fortune hunter.”

  “Mr. White,” he corrected, “is in need of a fortune. Forgive me for seeing the obvious parallels between his thirst for money and his pursuit of you. I am only trying to protect you. By next Season he will have undoubtedly found someone else to leech, and it will be safe for you to return to London.”

  “Oh, Papa, what will it take for you to see the truth?” Felicity stood and strode towards a patch of sunlight. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sky, savouring the gentle warmth while the crisp breeze played with her skirts. “Jonathon loves me; I know it.”

  She heard her father sigh before he approached her. “You are holding onto that thought as if it is your only source of nourishment, Felicity. If you promise to eat and enjoy Avondale as you always have before, I will consider allowing Mr. White to court you. If, of course, he told me the truth.”

  She opened her eyes to gift him with her sternest expression. “I knew he came to court me.”

  Carlton nodded. “Yes, he came, and I turned him away. Even you must admit that to me, a protective father who loves his daughter more than anything else in the world, he appears little more than a fortune hunter.”

  “I suppose,” she grumbled, gripping the thick fabric of her skirts and swaying her shoulders so that her skirts swished around her ankles.

  “Mr. White told me that his fortunes are set to improve,” he continued. “If he has enough to adequately provide for you—and he has not already found another—I will give him my permission to court you.”

  Felicity threw her arms around his shoulders with a jubilant, albeit brief, grin. “Thank you, Papa! I promise I will try to be more like myself, but I miss him.” She drew away enough to look up at her father. “I miss laughing at his wit, and smiling down at his wonderful poems. I even miss the cold glares he gave me before he realized I was not in idiotic chit.”

  He took her arm and led her down the gently sloping hill, his expression contemplative. “I did not realize he thought so little of you at first.”

>   “I was rather rude,” she admitted. “In his place, I would not have thought highly of myself. To be honest, I was the one smitten with him. He was not falsely flattering like all the others, and I wanted him to see that I am more than a face. I did hope that it was merely a passing fancy.”

  “It might still be,” Carlton pointed out. “Flights of fancy are not always brief.”

  Felicity narrowed her brows in thought, ignoring the loose strands of ebony hair that played across her face. After Jonathon’s remarks about her father’s instructions on how to impress a man, she had begun to think that her father did not want her to marry anyone. If he truly wanted her married, would he not have advised her to be herself? Jonathon certainly preferred her as the intuitive dreamer, and not the poised lady.

  Her only friends were among the tenants living in the village of Avondale. Her father had never complained about her explorations through the countryside, or her habit of wearing her hair down. He had simply told her that such things were not permissible in the ballrooms of London, where she would someday find her husband. She knew her father loved her, but his overly protective nature of her heart made her wonder why he had not been bothered when she returned to the manor covered in scrapes and bruises from a scuffle with a tree.

  Had a fortune-seeking woman once injured him? She could think of no other explanation to satisfy her curiosity about his determination to see her safe from fortune hunters. She knew he had loved her mother—she often saw him smiling at Lady Meredith Ryans’s portrait, which he carried inside his pocket watch—but he never spoke about his life before marriage.

  Her father had denied her hand to a wealthy marquis two years previous, and when she questioned him about why she had been forced to find out through gossip instead of her father, he had responded that the marquis was a well-known womanizer, and did not deserve her. She had not questioned him at the time—and she had quickly determined that her father was correct—but now she wondered if he meant what he said about allowing Jonathon to court her. She had no reason to doubt her father, but it still concerned her that he had not previously admitted that Jonathon had asked permission to court her. It had taken Chattrecombe’s murmured words about a bouquet of roses in her hatbox for her to realize that her father was removing her from Jonathon’s influence.