Love Letters From a Duke (33 page)

Both girls grinned, twirling around to show off their finery.

“You must see your gown,” Tally said, pulling Felicity toward her old narrow bed, where a blue-hued gown of changeable silk lay shimmering on the mattress. “Pretty enough, even for a duchess.”

Duchess.
Oh, that nickname would never do. Not any longer.

“You have to stop calling me that,” Felicity admonished her.

“Whatever else would I call you?” Tally laughed. “Mrs. Thatcher?”

Both Tally and Pippin laughed, until her cousin asked, “I never did know, is Thatcher his given name or surname?” They both laughed again, this time until Tally had to swipe at the tears running down her cheeks.

Felicity stepped back, feeling both stung and dismayed. “I don’t see anything funny. Just because I chose to marry a footman doesn’t give either of you the right to make sport of it.”

“Oh, Duch—” Tally began, until she spied the hot fire in Felicity’s gaze. “Well, we were just teasing, and we are sorry if you don’t find it amusing.”

“Oh, yes,” Pippin added. “Please don’t be angry.”

“I suppose I am just tired,” Felicity admitted, “and a little apprehensive about tonight.”

“You’ll be fine,” Tally told her. “And you’ll look stunning in that gown. Every tongue in Town will be wagging tomorrow.”

“Oh, heavens, I hope not!” she declared. “I don’t want any more scandal.”

“I daresay, with a runaway marriage, you won’t be able to avoid it,” her sister said, soothing her. “But you’ll have the two of us there with you, so you won’t really be alone.”

“No, this is something I must do alone,” she insisted.

Tally tipped her head. “Do what?”

“Tell Hollindrake I’ve married someone else.” Felicity crossed the room and picked up her hairbrush.

“Tell what to who?” Tally sputtered.

She let out an aggrieved sigh. “Tell the duke that I’ve married someone else. I hope I don’t break his heart.” She settled down at the table and started to brush her hair.

Pippin looked about to say something, but Tally caught her by the hand and said, “We’ll leave you to get ready,” as she towed her cousin from the room.

Felicity muttered her thanks as she went about her hurried toilette.

“Tally, we have to tell her!” Pippin insisted as they huddled on the second landing. “Since he obviously has not.”

“Not me. She’ll be furious.”

Pippin snorted. “Furious? She is going to murder us both for not telling her earlier.”

“Not if she loves him as she professes,” Tally argued. “Oh, she’ll be mad, but let the first wave of wrath rain down on Hollindrake. This is all his doing.” She paused and looked up the stairs. “But I have to wonder why he hasn’t told her yet. And how they can be wed if he didn’t use his real name.” She shook her head.

“I still think we should tell her before she ventures into that ballroom and discovers the truth.”

Tally stepped aside and waved her hand toward the stairs. “Be my guest. But don’t blame me if she tosses the powder pot at you and ruins your dress.”

Pippin glanced down at the moss green silk and considered her chances.

“Besides,” Tally said, “you heard her. They are man and wife, now and forever. She’ll forgive him, as she will us.” She glanced up and over her shoulder. “Eventually.”

The first person Felicity ran into at the Hollindrake ball was the last person she wanted to see.

“Uncle Temple,” she said, smiling up at the man who was like a second father. “How nice to see you!”

“And you as well,” he said, his brows furrowed together.

“You must tell Her Grace that I thought the costume ball
was wonderful—with the exception of the shooting, of course,” she said. “I do hope the damage wasn’t extensive.”

“So glad you found it to your liking, little duchess,” he said. “Considering how little you saw of it—with the exception of the shooting, of course.”

Felicity winced.

“You’ll never believe what one of the maids found up in the orangery…”

“The orangery?” she asked, trying to sound innocent.

“Apparently a fairy forgot her wings up there, as well as some rather unmentionable pieces of clothing. I can’t imagine what she was doing up there.
Undressed
.” He made a
tsk tsk
sound under his breath. “In the absence of your father, I suppose I will have to call him out, for I will not see you—”

“Oh, you mustn’t, Uncle Temple. For we are married!” she rushed to explain. “And I understand why you are angry, but I do so love him. And he loves me. I would think that of all people, you would understand.”

“Married?” he asked. “You’re married to—”

“Excuse me, Miss Langley,” a footman intoned.

“Yes,” she replied, sending an apologetic smile to Temple.

The man bowed low and then passed along his message. “If you would follow me, the Duke of Hollindrake requests your attendance in the library.”

“I just bet he does,” Temple muttered.

“Do be a gentleman,” she scolded. “He has every right to summon me.” And with that she followed the footman through the crowd and then deep into the vast house.

Steeling herself for what was to be a difficult interview, she entered the softly lit library and launched immediately into the speech she’d been practicing for the last two hours.

“Your Grace,” Thatcher heard Felicity say, which could only mean she didn’t recognize him.

Not yet, anyway. It helped that he wore the ducal finery befitting his station and was standing before the hearth, facing it, not her. Cowardly perhaps, but he had good reason. Just as he’d had when he’d chosen the library because it lent itself to the shadows so well, and because there were no firearms or weaponry close at hand.

Though he had to imagine Felicity could render quite a bit of damage with only a volume of Johnson’s dictionary.

“Your Grace,” she repeated. “Please just let me speak and get this out before I lose my nerve.”

He bowed his head slightly and waved his hand, giving her permission to continue.

“It is just that we have had an unusual understanding—”

How much so
,
she had no idea
.

“—and from the start, I know I was quite forthright in my desire to marry well, to marry apart from love.”

He said nothing, just waited for her to continue.

“But as it usually happens, at least so my sister and cousin say, I’ve met someone else. And while you and I share an intellectual partnership, I fear with him it is an altogether different story.”

“You love him,” he whispered, wondering if she still would when he turned around.

There was a soft sigh from across the room. “Yes, I do. Ever so much so. He makes me laugh. He loves skating and Turkish coffee. And when he kisses me—” There was a moment of abrupt silence, and then she continued. “When he kisses me, I cannot think of anyone else but him.” Her slippers pattered softly on the carpet as she drew closer.

Thatcher tensed.

“I am so sorry, but I cannot be your duchess,” she told him.

Realizing she’d just given him the opening he needed, he took a deep breath and slowly turned around. “I am sorry to
hear that, for I fear the title is yours, whether you want it or not.”

Her eyes widened, then blinked. But her shock wore off quickly enough. “Thatcher? What the devil are you doing here?” Her hands fisted to her hips as she glanced over her shoulder at the door. “Hollindrake is going to be here any moment, and I certainly don’t want you here when I—”

He stalked toward her. “My wife goes to meet another man and I’m supposed to turn a blind eye to such an indiscretion? And less than a day after we’re wed. Really, Felicity.”

She blew out a loud, disgruntled breath. “Don’t be ridiculous. I had to do this. Besides,
he
summoned
me
. ’Tis all quite proper.” Her gaze was still fixed on the door.

“Proper? Meeting another man in such a secluded romantic setting?” he said, drawing closer. “I disagree.”

She turned, her mouth opening to make some hot retort, but her gaze narrowed and then her mouth fell open, impotently.
“Where did you get that jacket?”

He glanced down at the dark green wool, trimmed with silver. “Weston, I believe.”

“Weston?” She shook her head. “I mean, where did you find it?”

He pointed to the ceiling. “Upstairs. There is an entire closet of them.” He held out his arms so she could take a better look. “What do you think? The cut is good, but the fashion is a bit ostentatious for me.” He glanced at the cuffs. “What really matters is if you like it. Do you?”

She gaped at him. “Not in the least!”

“That’s too bad, for I fear this and the others are all I have right now. But I am sure Mr. Weston can be enticed to make something more to my taste, and more importantly, to yours.”

She trembled, then outright shuddered with anger. “You stole this from the duke’s closet? Thatcher, this is dreadful.
He’s going to be here any moment, and I doubt he is going to be very understanding—”

“How do you know that he isn’t here already?”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Where? Atop the mantel?”

“No, standing right before you.”

She eyed him, his words sinking in, but he could see her discard the conclusion he’d been trying to prod her toward. “You’ve gone mad. Now please take off that jacket before someone—” She starting tugged at the sleeve but was stopped by a scratching at the door.

Thatcher looked up. “Come in.”

A footman came in, bowing formally to them. “Your Grace, your mother begs your attendance downstairs.” The man bowed slightly to Felicity. “That is to say, Lady Charles asks that you bring Her Grace as well, so the formal announcement of your marriage can be made.” He paused and bowed to Felicity again, more deeply this time. “Many happy returns, Your Grace.”

Thatcher nodded. “Tell my mother that my wife and I will be down momentarily.”

The footman bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

He looked over at Felicity, to find she’d gone completely pale.

“Thatcher—” she managed to whisper. “It cannot be…”

He reached out for her, but she backed away from him as if they had just been introduced.

In truth, they had.

And so he did what he knew he should have done from the start. He bowed, then rose and straightened. He was his own man now. Because of her, he would tell her, that is if she’d listen to him.

“Aubrey Michael Thomas Sterling, the tenth Duke of Hol
lindrake, formerly Captain Michael Thatcher of His Majesty’s 95th Rifles, at your service.”

“You lied to me—”

“It was a mistake at first, and then—”

“How could you have done this to me? I thought you loved me. I thought you were—”

“I do. I am,” he managed to wedge in.

She paused and looked up at him. “Are we really married?”

Oh, he had been hoping to avoid that subject, at least until she’d gathered her wits about her…and managed to forgive him. “Felicity—” he said as he reached for her.

But she’d dodged out of his reach, then did something that was far worse than Jack and Tally’s dire predictions.

His duchess didn’t shoot him.

She left him. And took his heart with her.

“Ahem!”

Thatcher cracked an eye open and groaned. His mother. “Go away.”

“I have to say,” Lady Charles said, entering the drawing room anyway, “that if your intention was to come to Town, assume your grandfather’s title and take your place in Society in an unassuming and stately fashion, you’ve failed utterly.” Strolling through the room in an elegant day dress, she didn’t wait for an invitation, and ignoring the fact that he had yet to rise to his feet, sat down on the chair nearest to him. “Lawks! Haven’t you even changed since last night? I do say, find a decent valet.”

“Good afternoon, Mother,” he said with a wave of his hand. “’Tis lovely to see you, now leave.”

“You could see me better if you sat up and opened your eyes.”

He obliged, and she winced as she took a better look at him.

“You might want to call a doctor as well. You look like the devil’s own.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Staines? Is that you?”

The butler, who’d been lurking in the hallway, came in immediately. “Yes, madam?”

“Order up tea for His Grace, and have a basin of hot water and soap sent as well.”

“Mother, I am certainly capable of—”

“And I’d like a glass of Madeira. I’ve had a morning like no other.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Staines said, departing quickly.

Thatcher struggled to sit up. He’d been out all night trying to find Felicity and had yet to locate her. “I’ll warn you if you are here to lecture, Geneva’s near to blistered my ears already.”

“Better that than the morning I’ve endured! I have to say I haven’t had so many callers since…well, since I can remember. Every old and dear ‘friend’ come to see how I am surviving the scandal.” She plucked off her gloves and plopped them down on the small table beside her. Then she laughed, the merry sound startling him out of his fog of despair. “Quite honestly, I haven’t had so much fun since your father was alive. You’ve quite made my Season, and it’s just begun.”

Thatcher shook his head. Had he heard her correctly? “My life is in shambles, and you call it ‘fun’?”

“Fun? Why it is a most delicious scandal, my dear. I’m taking full credit for it. None of your stuffy Sterling nobility. This smacks of something one of my Redford relations
might have done in their better days before that wretchedly dull brother of mine inherited.”

Thatcher closed his eyes again and rubbed his aching skull. “Excuse me if I don’t see the humor in all this. I am at present worried about my wife. Who, if the news has yet to reach you, has yet to be found.”

“Oh, that,” she said, adding a
tsk tsk
to the end of her dismissive statement. “Perhaps you wouldn’t have lost her if you’d been a little more honest with her. Though I am a little surprised by her defection considering her well-known intention to marry a duke. I would think that she would have found your deception a great lark.”

“She did not.”

“Then she is a ninny, and I can see that my work is as yet not done for the day.” She heaved a sigh and rose, retrieving her gloves. “And I was so looking forward to that glass of Madeira. Oh well, I shall have it upon my return.” She leaned over, pecked a kiss on his cheek, and went to leave.

An uneasy ripple ran down Thatcher’s spine. “Where are you going?”

“To do what you seem unable or unwilling to do,” she told him from the doorway. “I am going to retrieve your wife.”

“Retrieve my—”

“Wife,” she said, with all the confidence that was her trademark. “Now I would suggest you start packing.”

That got him to his feet. “Packing? Whatever for?”

“For your honeymoon, of course. ’Tis a terrible time to travel, but I doubt the two of you will get much farther than the first decent inn after Ludgate, given the gossip being bandied about regarding the Setchfields’ orangery.” She paused, her elegant brow arched and a wicked smile on her lips.

Thatcher choked. “Wha-a-t?”

“That was my reaction at first, but I told Lady Jersey that to me, the entire setting sounded delightfully romantic.” She
paused. “Though next time you decide to make love to Felicity in public, take better care not to leave so much evidence behind. Really, Aubrey, her wig and stockings?” Tugging on her gloves, she shot him one more glance.

“Yes?” he asked, almost afraid to.

She wiggled her fingers at him. “The packing? Please have it under way in about…” She glanced over his shoulder at the standing clock in the corner. “…an hour. That should set the stage very well. Very well indeed.”

Thatcher gaped at her and wondered how it was he’d never seen this side of her before. “Mother, I wish you wouldn’t interfere.”

“Apparently someone must.”

He groaned, crossing his arms over his chest. “And how exactly is it that you know where Felicity is, when I haven’t been able to locate her all night?”

“Because you didn’t ask me,” she replied smugly, and then left just as smartly.

“Oh, this is perfect,” he muttered. His mother knew where his wife was. He could just imagine what Lady Charles might say to her errant daughter-in-law to fetch her home. Most likely put Felicity in such a fine humor, it would take the entire British army and some French legions as well to keep him from being drawn and quartered by his fiery wife.

“Pardon, Your Grace,” Staines said from the doorway, where he was directing a legion of footmen to bring in the tea tray, a wine bottle, glasses, and decanter, and behind that the requested wash basin and toilette items.

“My mother,” he said, waving his hands toward the door. “She’s gone off to fetch my wife, or so she claims.”

“About demmed time,” he thought he heard the proper old butler mutter.

Thatcher glanced up at Staines and studied the man carefully. First his mother was full of surprises, and now Staines
as well? Certainly his first official day as the Duke of Hollindrake had set the
ton
on their collective ear. As Aunt Geneva had said over and over, “A Sterling never…”

Then again perhaps Lady Charles had the right of it—he was only half Sterling—and though he was forever more the Duke of Hollindrake, something he couldn’t escape, suddenly he didn’t want to. He’d put his own stamp on the family legacy. With Felicity’s able assistance and madcap ways.

“Staines,” he said, rising to his full height.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said, meeting his level gaze.

“Order my carriage. No, make that carriages. And then pack everything I will need for a honeymoon. And fetch my wife’s belongings from her house on Brook Street. They no longer belong there.”

Staines nearly grinned. Or as well as he could manage such a feat. “And when do you want to leave, Your Grace?”

“In an hour, my good man,” Thatcher proclaimed.

If ever a London butler looked giddy, it was Staines.

Felicity sat in the Duke of Parkerton’s well-appointed London mansion surrounded by friends and family and feeling as lost and alone as if she’d been tossed into the deepest well in India.

Lady John Tremont and Diana, Duchess of Setchfield, sat opposite her in a pair of matching chairs. Tally and Pippin held their post on a sofa against the far wall.

“I say, this entire situation is a scandal, but not one without sympathy, my dear,” Lady Rhoda was telling her, having just arrived from a morning spent gleaning gossip from one and all. She sat down next to Felicity and sighed.

From the corner where Jamilla sat happily lounging on a love seat, a fine pekoe having been procured for her, as well as a selection of Turkish candies, she spoke up. “He is a duke, is he not? And so very rich. I do not see what the fuss
is all about.” She shook her head and went back to looking over the tray of delights the awed Parkerton butler had delivered, having never entertained a real princess before.

Out in the hall, Jack paced up and down the marble corridor, all but banished from the female confines of the parlor. But still he remained, for Felicity had declared she wanted nothing to do with Hollindrake, and that much Jack could offer—for he was still wavering between shooting his old friend and wondering if he wouldn’t have done something just as foolish to gain Miranda’s hand.

The bell clamored and everyone in the room stilled as they waited to see who was to be announced.

“Lady Charles Sterling,” the Parkerton butler intoned.

Thatcher’s mother sailed into the room and took in her surroundings in one easy flick of a glance. “My, such a mournful looking party, but I can see you have chosen your compatriots well, my dear girl.”

Miranda rose, as was her duty as the
de facto
hostess for her absent brother-in-law, the Duke of Parkerton. “Lady Charles, I don’t mean to be impolite, but I don’t think now is the time—”

“Now is the perfect time,” the lady said, blithely ignoring the cut she’d been given and settling down on the settee, nudging aside Lady Rhoda in the process. “Now, we can properly meet,” she said to Felicity. “I am Lady Charles, your mother-in-law. But please, call me Rosebel.” Her words were warm and full of enthusiasm. “Let me take a look at you.”

Felicity glanced over at the woman, having heard tales of her less than congenial nature, and was surprised to find her smiling in welcome.

“My, you are as pretty as your mother was. She and I were friends, of a sort. You have her hair and her eyes, but I think your fire speaks more to your father, that devil of a man.”
She sighed and glanced over at the tea tray, sending a broad hint that she might like some, but none was offered. Nonplussed, Lady Charles continued. “Now I have come to tell you that I think you have every right to be furious with my son. He’s made a complete muddle of things, but that’s a man for you.”

Jamilla laughed, but no one else did, and so thus chastened, she went back to picking through the candy box.

“Lady Charles, he isn’t the man I thought he was,” Felicity told her. She felt foolish enough, for she loved Thatcher with all her heart—but he’d lied to her, deceived her. First with his letters and then letting her think that he was someone else. “The man who wrote to me all those years would never have—”

“But my dear girl, Aubrey never wrote any of those letters,” Lady Charles said, obviously tired of waiting for someone to pour her a cup and helping herself to the excellent pekoe.

Never wrote any of those letters? But then…
Felicity’s stomach quaked. “Who did?”

The lady took an appreciative sip of tea before she answered. “’Twas all Hollindrake’s doing—Aubrey’s grandfather. I fear my father-in-law had an entirely underestimated romantic streak. And while I believe he composed most of the letters himself, he also had help from his secretary, Mr. Gibbens, of all people.” She shook her head. “They were responsible for the letters you received. I’m afraid the man you thought was Hollindrake’s heir wasn’t Aubrey, for my son has been in Spain all these years.”

It was as if the air suddenly left the room, and Felicity stammered to find the words to say.

But there were none.

And yet for some reason she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Though she’d always thought herself in love with the man of her letters, she hadn’t truly known what it meant
to love someone, passionately and thoroughly, until she’d met Thatcher.

Not that she needed to say anything, for Lady Charles blithely went on as if she were just relating some innocuous
on dit
. “Quite honestly, when Aubrey found out about his grandfather’s deception he was none too pleased.” She turned to Felicity and looked her straight in the eye. “And he came to London the moment he discovered the truth to cry off.”

“Cry off!” Tally said. “Why that’s—”

Lady Charles glanced over at the girl and smiled. “Exactly. But that was what he intended to do the day he arrived on your doorstep.”

“And I thought he was—” Felicity began, replaying those first few moments when she’d first met him. And how she’d wished he was Hollindrake. Wished with all her heart.

And now he was, and everything was a terrible tangle. She paused for a moment, a tingle running down her spine.

Perhaps there was a way…

Lady Charles sighed. “Yes, you thought he was the footman. Dear heavens, I can see why you made that mistake. Geneva claims he looked a fright, that I would have probably mistaken him for the dustman, and he’s my own son.” The lady glanced around at her audience. “Well, there’s no need to gape and stew about it. It was an honest mistake. And Aubrey’s fault for not correcting the situation immediately. But I fear my son has always had a rather poor sense of humor.” She paused and shook her head. “Inherited from his father’s side of the family, I assure you.” Then she looked at Felicity and smiled. “But then something quite miraculous happened. He came to cry off and found himself quite taken by you, dear girl. And why wouldn’t he be?”

The woman reached out and cupped her chin and smiled at Felicity with a warmth she’d never known. Felicity, who
could not remember her own mother, and who’d had all kinds of nannies who tried to be just that to her, a mother, found in that brief moment a woman who could be that—a mother-in-law in name, but a mother to fill that empty place in her heart.

Rosebel patted her cheek fondly and then reached for her teacup. “In the end his curiosity and his heart won out—though he did bungle things utterly.”

Felicity let the lady’s words sink in. Oh no, she was the one who’d made a complete muddle of things! She shouldn’t have let her temper get the better of her when she discovered the truth. So she’d married the man she loved and he was a duke. She could hardly hold that against him—even if his courtship had been conducted so very improperly.

But wasn’t that what she loved most about him? His complete impropriety?

She shrank back on the settee in shock, while the others in the room rose to her defense.

“Yes, Lady Charles,” Diana said, using her rank as the Duchess of Setchfield to exert some influence over this entire debacle. “Now that you’ve pled your son’s case, I can advise you that you’ve wasted your time.”

Felicity felt a tremor of hope. If Thatcher’s mother had come to plead his case, did that mean he would take her back?