Chapter Six
June
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“Any news, Chattrecombe?”
“Not yet, sir,” the butler intoned, helping Carlton into his coat. “I expect to hear from Winston in the next few days.”
“I suppose that is enough for now,” Carlton consented, shrugging so the fabric sat properly on his shoulders. “I cannot begin to express my current state, old friend.”
“There is no need, sir. But might I ask if you have told Felicity the truth? She and Mr. White will both be anxious to marry, now that they are again in the same city.”
Carlton blanched. “I cannot tell her. Not until I know the truth. I do not want to worry her if this amounts to a farce put on by that dreadful woman. Everything I have done has been for Felicity; I will not risk her happiness now by concerning her with my worries. Besides,” he added, “Mr. White may not be the same man.”
“He is not; he is better,” Chattrecombe declared. “If she were my daughter, I could not pick a finer man for her to marry. At first I had concerns about his temper, but in the past month alone he has truly refined himself. I would almost suspect that he knew you would be returning soon, and he needed to prepare himself.”
“If he knew that his brother intended to pursue Felicity, he would expect us to return,” Carlton muttered. “That whole affair is deuced odd.”
Chattrecombe moved to tie Carlton’s cravat in the elegant waterfall style. “Lord White went to Avondale?”
Carlton refrained from nodding as the butler tied the final knot. “Yes. He wanted to express how much he had missed Felicity in the ballrooms, which is a bag of bollocks. The man had never before said a word to her. At first I thought Mr. White had sent his brother to plead his case, but it is obvious that either Lord White does not know of his brother’s affections, or does not get on with his brother at all.”
“I believe it is the latter, sir. Mr. White has told me, on several occasions, that he does not approve of his brother’s gambling.”
“He seems to have taken you into his confidence.”
Chattrecombe smiled wryly as he stepped away. “He is an intelligent young man. He knows that if he can convince me, I will be able to sway you.”
“Sway me?” Carlton scoffed, feigning offended pride.
“It is always flattering to have one’s skills recognized.”
“You certainly improved the garden,” Carlton commended. “It has not looked hospitable since the gardener retired. Perhaps you missed your calling,” he teased.
Chattrecombe chuckled. “I cannot take all the credit, sir. Mr. White often assisted me.”
“One might suspect he had nothing better to do with his time.” Carlton frowned, considering. “I know Felicity loves him, and he must love her if he has not pursued another in the time we were away. I just do not understand all of the pieces. He claims he is amassing a sum that will enable him to provide for her, but why did he lose all of his money when he returned to London? If he did not gamble it away…” His words stuck in his throat. “Lord White gambled it all away. Mr. White is a former cavalry officer; he would be bound by family pride and loyalty to assist his brother in escaping any debts the earl might incur. Mr. White is not the fortune hunter; his brother is. Felicity suspected as much.”
“It is the only scenario that makes sense, sir,” Chattrecombe agreed, his tone solemn.
Carlton shook his head, his black brows narrowed in thought. “I will discuss this with Mr. White tomorrow. The man will be anxious to call on Felicity, and she will be no less anxious to see him. I do not want Felicity’s funds to be stolen by Lord White, but perhaps something can be arranged once my affairs are settled. A few days, you said?”
Chattrecombe voiced an affirmative. “Winston assured me we would have the truth within the week.”
“Good. I am ready to be finished with this.” Carlton sighed. “I have only ever wished to protect Felicity from my mistakes, but now, when her happiness should come first, I must be selfish. I cannot in good conscious see her engaged until I can ensure her the future she deserves.”
Chattrecombe silently followed him downstairs, where Felicity was waiting impatiently in a lilac and cream satin gown.
“Do you think Mr. White will be at the opera tonight, Chattrecombe?” she asked sweetly, her eyes bright.
“I would not know, miss,” the butler apologized. “If he is, he will certainly be smelling of April and May as soon as he sees you.”
“You do look beautiful,” Carlton murmured in agreement, offering her his arm. “I will need to ward off every young man at the opera, not just Mr. White, if he is there.”
Felicity’s cheeks turned pink. “Thank you, Papa. If…if he is there…will you permit me to see him?”
Carlton let out a weary sigh. “If I must,” he droned, winking down at her. “But I do not want to arouse suspicion. For the ton, it must appear a casual meeting, understood? We do not need the gossipers to believe that the reason we have been away from London is because of Mr. White.”
“But it was—”
“In part,” Carlton admitted. He escorted her to the waiting carriage, careful to avoid her curious gaze. “I must caution you as concerns Mr. White,” he started, sitting across from her.
Felicity groaned and crossed her arms over her chest. “Now what do you want to accuse him of?”
He held his hands up defensively. “Nothing, Felicity. I just want you to be aware that, although I will permit him to court you, I do expect it to be a long courtship. If marriage is discussed, it will be discussed for the future.”
She felt the embers of betrayal stirring in her chest. “How can you say that? Have we not been apart long enough? If he is the same man as he was before, and he meets your criteria for being capable of providing for me, why should we not wed sooner rather than later?”
“There will be talk—”
“I don’t care,” she cut in. “I understand making him court me diligently for a week, maybe two, but no more than that.”
He opened his mouth but decided, after seeing her furious scowl, that it would be better to remain silent. He did not realize that silence would continue through to the intermission of the opera, where Felicity continued to sit with a miserable expression on her face.
“Felicity, you must see the sense in being patient,” he reasoned, reaching out to take her hand. “I want you to be happy, and rushing into a marriage with a man whom you have not seen in months seems reckless. People do change, even if that change is subtle. He may begin courting you and you both decide it is not meant to be.”
She grimaced but still did not speak.
“Felicity—”
He was interrupted by an intrusion into their box.
“Lord Avondale, Lady Felicity, I thought you would be gone from London forever,” the Marchioness of Ravenwood declared, drawing their attention away. “It is good to see you back.”
“Thank you, Lady Ravenwood.”
The marchioness nodded, her light blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “If I may, Lord Avondale, I would like to borrow your daughter for the remainder of the opera. There is a guest in my box who is very eager to see her again, and Lady Felicity’s face is always pleasant when graced with a smile.”
Felicity, realizing that Jonathon was the only guest the marchioness would think eager to see her, turned to her father imploringly. “Please, Papa?”
“I did say you could see him,” he consented with a sigh. “And this is the only way we will both enjoy the remainder of the opera.”
She thanked him profusely before hastily latching onto the marchioness. Her legs shook and her heart trembled, but with the marchioness’s help she was able to walk without falling.
“You may be wondering why Mr. White is a guest in our box,” Lady Ravenwood mused.
Felicity smiled bashfully. “To be honest, Lady Ravenwood, I have been wondering what I shall say to him.”
The marchioness laughed. “I am s
ure Good evening, Mr. White, will be an excellent start. The conversation should progress smoothly after that, if he is able to breathe.”
She felt her heart flutter in her chest, but curiosity was winning over her nerves. “Why is he your guest?”
“If you will recall, my husband bought his mare, Beth. Mr. White is often over to discuss buying her back, once he has everything in order. My husband will be more than happy to oblige; it seems Mr. White is the only person Beth will permit to ride her.”
“I do remember her being feisty,” Felicity murmured. She tightened her hold on the marchioness’s sleeve. “I cannot thank you enough for this, Lady Ravenwood.”
“I cannot thank you enough for returning to London to take him off my hands,” the marchioness retorted. “Your Mr. White has put on a good show, but I know he has been terribly lonely without you.”
Felicity felt her cheeks warm; the marchioness had stopped outside her box, and she could see Jonathon’s profile as he laughed at something the marquis said. His jaw was narrower than before, as if he had lost weight, but he did not look unhealthy. He wore her favourite green coat, although the elbows were a little worn. Buff cream breeches hugged his legs, the fabric tight against muscles that were witness to his continued dedication to riding his mare.
“Does he know I am here?” she queried in a whisper, her voice wobbling.
“No. I could barely see you from my seat, and I did not warn him. I want to see the look of joy on his face when you surprise him. I am a matchmaker, after all,” Lady Ravenwood finished with a soft chuckle.
“Ah, Margaret, there you are.” Lord Ravenwood grinned at his wife when he saw whom she had brought to their box. “And a guest. Welcome.”
He stood to offer Felicity a bow, and Jonathon hastily rose to his feet in order to mimic the gesture. When his eyes rested on Felicity, however, his entire body froze.
Felicity had known that she still loved him. She had put on a brave face for her father while in Avondale, but every day there was something that happened that made her think of Jonathon, and what he would do, or say. Every night she counted the stars and imagined his arms around her. Despite all of that, however, she had still been concerned that he might not love her when she returned. Seeing his dark brown eyes glowing in the candlelight erased that fear; it was obvious to her that his feelings for her had matured into something that took her breath away.
“Good evening, Mr. White,” she managed, mimicking the marchioness’s words. She dropped a small curtsy and he bowed, their eyes never parting.
“Good evening, Lady Felicity. It is wonderful to see you in London again.” His words were so heartfelt that she felt moisture in the corners of her eyes.
“I do not think I have ever been so happy to return to London.”
He offered her his hand. It would not have mattered if they each had on two pairs of gloves; her palm burned as his hand closed around hers.
“London has never looked so beautiful,” he murmured. “Surely the stars are brighter tonight than ever before.”
“Jonathon.” Her eyelids suddenly felt like heavy drapes, and she swayed towards him as she attempted to keep her balance. Surely the floor was moving beneath her, rocking back and forth like a ship at sea.
“Gently,” Lady Ravenwood said softly, briefly touching Felicity’s shoulder. “Do not forget where you are.”
Jonathon helped Felicity take a seat, their hands still clasped between their knees where no one but the Ravenwoods could see.
The marchioness settled between her husband and Felicity as the second half of the opera began, but Felicity could not hear the music through the pounding of her heart in her ears. She could not tear her eyes from Jonathon’s, or summon words to her lips. It was as if she had been struck upon the head by something very heavy, and everything around her spun—everything except Jonathon.
There had been a distant glint to his eyes before she left London, but that was replaced by a gentle warmth that set her heart fluttering inside her chest like a trapped bird. His half smile, at times condescending, now made her feel all wobbly. Everything about him, from his expression to the tenderness in which he held her hand, now seemed gentler. Felicity wanted to ask him why, but as he threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand she realized she did not need to ask. The answer was clearly written in his eyes; he loved her.
Perhaps he had not truly loved her before. There had not been many opportunities for them to speak. Writing would never be the same as conversing eye to eye, where they could observe every little movement. She had believed herself in love, but now she was certain of her feelings. No one would ever be able to stir her heart like Jonathon, and she would not be able to wait two or three weeks to make sure he knew that.
“Papa said he will allow you to court me,” she told him, her voice low and soft.
His lips tightened, and she could see that he was holding back his smile. Though she doubted anyone was watching, they were both aware of the danger of revealing too much in public.
“Then I will call on you tomorrow.”
“But we cannot marry, not yet. It could be weeks, months, before he allows it,” she whispered. “He may want us to wait until next Season; I do not know.”
Jonathon narrowed his brows in confusion. “Why would he want us to wait so long? Have we not waited enough?”
“I asked him that, but he would not answer me. There is something he is hiding from me, Jonathon, and I am tired of waiting for him to explain. I am twenty-five, now.” An idea she had once discredited as romantic nonsense filled every corner of her mind. She grasped his hand tightly as she tried to push the thought aside, and come up with a more reasonable solution. The idea had merit, however, and she accepted that it might be the only way to ensure her happiness.
“I am twenty-five,” she repeated. “Old enough to make my own decisions. Old enough to elope.”
Jonathon stared at her in shock. “Elope?”
She nodded. “Come with me to Gretna Green.”
“I—”
She watched his chest heave, and the emotions skitter across his face. She could read him easily, now, and she saw his pride wavering against the desire to put a quick end to their estrangement.
“My father will give his blessing, but I do not want to keep waiting for him to be ready to let me go,” she added. “I love you, Jonathon.”
“And I love you,” he murmured. “Eloping may be the only way we can marry without destroying my brother.”
“I don’t give one whit what your brother thinks,” she hissed. “He had the nerve to go to Avondale and try to pursue me, when he knew—”
“Shh,” Lady Ravenwood whispered. “I am trying to listen to the opera.”
“Sorry,” Felicity muttered. “I am trying to get married.”
“I know, dear.” The marchioness patted her arm consolingly. “I’ve been listening to you as well.”
“Then do you agree? Does it not make sense for us to elope?” she demanded. “I admire your loyalty to your brother,” Felicity directed towards Jonathon, “but he has hurt you. Even if he is your brother—your older brother—no one will deny you the right to marry whomever you will.”
“I intend to marry you,” Jonathon pointed out. “There is no whomever else.”
Felicity smiled up at him warmly, no longer caring that she was in public. She had spent too many years caring about what others thought; Jonathon’s thoughts were the only ones besides her own that mattered to her now. “Then will you marry me?”
Chapter Seven
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Lady Sylvia White impatiently pulled the carriage curtain aside, struggling to refrain herself from questioning her driver again about their destination. She was tired of sitting in a carriage, tired of going in circles, and tired of being tired.
London looked much as it had when she swore she would never return. She had not expected it to change, but then she had also not expected to return to the city whose
dust and noise gave her megrims, and whose company tested her to her final nerve. If it were not for her oldest son, she would have remained at home. Gregory had recently written begging her for money, and Sylvia refused to let him continue ruining the family name. If Gregory would not listen to reason, she would do everything in her considerable power as his mother to embarrass him.
However, Gregory had not been home, nor had Jonathon. Blythe, the butler Sylvia recalled as having served her late husband for several years, had informed her that Jonathon had gone to the Ravenwoods’ for his usual morning ride. Sylvia was not acquainted with the marquis and his wife and so did not feel comfortable pursuing her youngest son. When Blythe added that Avondale and his daughter had returned to London the previous day, Sylvia decided that sometimes society needed to be scorned. While she was not acquainted with the duke, she was determined to do anything she could to help her son win Felicity’s hand. If that meant calling on a duke whom she had never before met, so be it.
She exhaled a relieved sigh when the carriage lurched to a stop, and thanked her driver profusely for finally settling her on terra firma. Carriages had always unsettled her; she would need a pot of tea to help ease the sway of her brain inside her skull.
“Good morning,” Avondale’s butler intoned, surprised to see a female on the doorstep. “May I assist you?”
“Take me to Avondale,” Sylvia directed. “Please. And some tea would not be remiss.”
“Ah—might I have the pleasure of your name, so I can introduce you to his grace?”
Sylvia instantly liked the man. Instead of protesting at the impropriety of her actions, he wanted to make them as proper as possible.
“Lady Sylvia White.”
The butler smiled, and his tone was markedly friendlier as he stated, “I thought you resembled Mr. White, although your eyes are lighter. I will show you upstairs at once.”
“Thank you.”
She did not know what to expect of the duke. She had heard rumours about him when she was a debutante, and he a young man pursuing every skirt he could find, but all she knew for a fact was that he had loved his wife, and dedicated himself to his daughter after his wife passed away. Avondale would do anything to protect his daughter, even if it unintentionally hurt her.
To Marry the Duke's Daughter (After the Masquerade) Page 7
