Love Letters From a Duke (6 page)

“Yes, of course I am,” she snapped back, immediately wishing she could recall the words. “It’s just that—”

“Stop the carriage! Stop it immediately!” Miss Browne was calling to her driver.

Felicity’s gaze jerked in that direction and her only thought was that this entire scenario could have only been made worse if Hollindrake himself was to arrive and witness her impending humiliation.

“Miss Langley, if I could have a minute of your time, I really must—”

“Not now, sir!” Felicity glanced over him. She conveniently set aside the fact that she’d planned on sacking him, because suddenly he was a valuable asset. “Why aren’t you wearing your livery?” she asked, pointing at the jacket in his hands. “And your hair, sir? Would it have been so much trouble to have it trimmed, like I asked? Well, at least you’re clean-shaven—for the most part. I daresay we’ll be able to brazen this out once you’re wearing your livery.”

“Miss Langley,” he repeated, “I really must speak to you. Privately.”

“Can’t you see that I am in the midst of a social crisis?” she told him. “That woman could ruin me.”

His gaze turned up and eyed the approaching carriage.
“But she appears to be quite friendly. Why, even delighted to see you.”

“Like a hungry she-wolf,” Felicity shot back. “If she discovers the truth, finds out what we’ve done—”

He straightened, his dark eyes now narrow gleaming slits. “What have you done?”

“That is hardly any of your concern, sir,” she replied, growing rather impatient with his overly familiar air. “Please, I need to think, I need to figure out how best to send her packing before she finds a way to ruin everything.” Then she turned an eye toward him, her gaze landing on the livery in his hands. “Mr. Thatcher, why are you still wearing your coat?”

“Because it is the middle of winter,” he replied, thick, muscled arms crossing firmly over his chest.

“What has the weather got to do with this? Take it off, right this minute. That is an order.”

Take off his coat? Obviously Miss Langley had failed to notice that it was snowing. Or she was simply mad.

Never mind. One look at the wild light in her eyes and Thatcher knew the answer to his question. “Miss Langley, I will not—”

His protest fell on deaf ears, for suddenly he found his topcoat being yanked off, his jacket following, and the livery he’d been carrying tugged up onto him.

“Help me, Pippin,” the impossible little chit was saying. “This coat is devilishly tight.”

For the second time in less than a day he wished that Lord Langley had been a bit larger in the chest, because right now he couldn’t breathe—but perhaps it was the fact that Miss Langley’s fingers were rifling up his chest as she frantically worked the buttons.

As the two ladies set to work getting the coat on, Felicity made a hasty introduction. “Mr. Thatcher, this is my cousin, Lady Philippa Knolles. Pippin, this is our new footman.”

This Pippin, like the Langley sisters, was fair and blue-eyed, but taller, with a reserve about her that her cousins would never be able to claim.

“Nice to meet you,” Lady Philippa said, slanting him a bemused glance as Miss Langley pushed her cousin away so she could finish the task to her liking.

He couldn’t remember a woman ever doing such a simple thing as buttoning his coat. And yet while Miss Langley worked with the efficiency and speed of the finest valet, her proximity left him reeling, for to stand so close to her was to catch a whiff of her perfume—a sensual, romantic scent that held more promise than a chit of perhaps twenty should ever know. To have her hands roaming over him with such abandon was to also feel the heat of her breath on this frosty day reach through the starch of his linen shirt and tease his skin. This close, he couldn’t avoid spying the pink of her
cheeks and a wisp of hair escaping the prison of her bonnet, leaving him to wonder what the rest of her would look like, freed from the confines of her proper dress.

This beguiling creature couldn’t be the woman his grandfather had chosen for him. It was impossible.

And there was one other plaguing question. What the devil had she meant by
finds out what we’ve done
?

Really, what could a former Bath miss have done to inspire such a panic?

“Please, sir,” she whispered. “If you could just be a footman, a silent one, for the next few minutes, I would be ever so grateful.”

He had told his aunt the truth, that he was coming over here to set the record straight with Miss Langley, but the plaintive glance in those blue eyes turned out to be his downfall.

“I can try,” he replied. Really, what would it hurt to continue the deception for a few minutes longer? Besides, there was another piece to this coil: If their father was dead, who was watching over the Langley sisters?

Not that he cared. Not that it was any of his concern.

“There,” she said, patting his chest and tossing him one of those devastating little smiles of hers. “You almost look proper now.”

“Almost?” he managed to say, wishing he could look away from the starry depths of her blue eyes.

She sighed, a bit more color to her cheeks than the crisp weather could be blamed for. “I fear, Thatcher, you will never be a proper footman.”

He didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved. Not that there was much that was proper, he had to imagine, about Miss Felicity Langley. And to his shock, that part of her intrigued him.

More than he cared to admit.

Meanwhile, Miss Langley had turned to face her adver
sary with a stance that would have impressed Wellington. And the closer the carriage got to her, the straighter the line one could have drawn across her shoulders.

“Who is she?” he asked, ignoring the fact he was supposed to be an anonymous, and more importantly, silent, servant.

“Miss Sarah Browne,” Felicity shot back, even as she pasted a smile on her face. “We went to school with her. Wretched, horrible girl.
American.
” She emphasized the last word as if it explained everything.

“She’s quite the bird, isn’t she,” Aunt Minty said, her eyes squinting to catch a better sight of the carriage and its occupants. “Got more money than sense.”

“Unfortunately so,” Miss Thalia muttered.

His aunt’s voice echoed through his thoughts,
a proper bride,
someone like this Miss Browne, he had to imagine.

He glanced up at this chit and shuddered. She was everything he dreaded about London society. With dark hair and a fair complexion, she was pretty, but there was a predatory air about her that sent the hackles on his back rising.

“Oh, Mother, I told you! It is the Langley sisters and Lady Philippa! As I live and breathe, it is my dearest friends from Miss Emery’s,” Miss Browne gushed. Half rising in her seat, she waved her hand at them, a flowing gesture that swept from one side to the other.

Thatcher had never seen anything so affected and convoluted in his life. “Whatever is wrong with her?”

His answer was a pair of giggles from Miss Thalia and Lady Philippa.

“Look! She’s still doing it!” Lady Philippa whispered.

Miss Langley managed better than her sister or cousin, for she stood with her lips pressed together, though she trembled from head to toe as she did her best not to laugh as well.

“Oh, she looks like a pea goose,” Miss Thalia said, sounding all too triumphant.

“You’ve only yourself to blame,” her sister whispered. “Marie Antoinette, Tally! What were you thinking, telling her that?”

“Marie Antoinette?” Thatcher had to ask, staring first at the grandiose Miss Browne, and then back at Miss Langley.

She heaved a sigh. “My sister told that silly nit that when we were in France, Marie Antoinette liked to greet her subjects thusly, and in French aristocratic circles being able to master such a wave was considered a sign of superior breeding.”

Taking another glance at the ridiculous flutter of the girl’s hand, Thatcher found himself squarely in Miss Thalia and Lady Philippa’s camp—choking back a fit of laughter.

“And that ninnyhammer believed me,” Tally said quite proudly, waving back at their old schoolmate with the same affected gesture.

Pippin turned her head and managed to say between chuckles, “Just be thankful she never made very good marks in history or mathematics because then she might have realized the poor Queen died the same year we were born.”

“Oh, delightful friends!” Miss Browne called out, her hand still fluttering about like a cat with fits. “It is true! You have come to Town from your dreadful
exile
. But how is this possible? The rumors I’ve heard as to your dire circumstances! Your trials!”

Exile? Dire circumstances? Trials?
Yet another layer of mystery fell down around Miss Langley. And as he watched her jaw work back and forth, he knew this Miss Browne had hit a nerve, a raw one.

“Rumors?” Miss Langley replied. She glanced at her companions in wide-eyed innocence, as if such a thing must be as much a shock to them as it was to her. “I can’t imagine why we would be the subject of rumors. And further, I can’t believe you would give credence to gossip, dear Miss Browne. You know Miss Emery thought little of those who carried tales.” This was followed by a cold, plastered smile
that looked capable of cracking the icicles hanging from the eaves.

“Yes, yes, I must have you confused with three other misfortunates,” the girl declared, all smiles as well, but her narrowed gaze suggesting otherwise. “But here you are in Mayfair, and you haven’t called on me. How can this be?” She finished by making a perfect moue.

“We’d heard that you’d returned home…after poor Lord Herrick’s demise,” Lady Philippa replied, her words sounding more like wishful thinking. “But now that we know you are here, we will be assured to keep you in our utmost thoughts.”

Thatcher watched these volleys and felt like he was witnessing something more akin to an American privateer and a trio of English frigates happening upon each other at sea.

Miss Browne preened. “But of course you will, for I am received in all the finest circles, despite this ridiculous war. I daresay, you will be quite riveted when I relate the story of our return—Mother and I went through a terrible trial at sea…” She paused, her hand at her brow, obviously waiting for one of them to ask the question that should be rising to each of their tongues:
Oh
,
do tell
,
Miss Browne
,
whatever happened to you?

But her audience remained mute, so eventually she had to give up her stance. “Well, I suppose it is too cold to share the awful details now, but soon we will have a good coze and catch up, now won’t we?”

“When hell freezes—” he heard Miss Thalia begin to mutter, until her sister gave her a less than delicate, albeit subtle, jab in the ribs.

Meanwhile, Miss Browne had taken in her surroundings and her pretty face wrinkled, especially as she looked up at the grand house behind them. “Whoever are you visiting?”

“Visiting?” Miss Langley glanced over her shoulder. “Hardly visiting. This is our house.”

For all Miss Browne’s obvious wealth, apparently in the world of London debutantes a Mayfair address trumped a matched set of horses and a new hat.

“Here?” Miss Browne’s statement was tinged with disbelief. “But Mother and I were told there were no houses to let for the Season…well, none so close to Grosvenor Square, that is.”

“You could say we quite happened upon this one,” Lady Thalia told her, rocking in her half boots and smiling like a cat before a bowl of cream.

“How fortuitous,” Miss Browne said, glancing again at the mansion behind them and then at the three of them in turn, looking none too convinced. “It’s just that we—I mean, Mother and I—had heard…well, that is to say everyone was speculating that you’ve had some difficulties…” She smiled, a feral narrow sort. “But happily I see I was misled. And you are here for the Season and the four of us will all shine together. Miss Emery will be so pleased when we all make splendid matches. Of course, I haven’t your little
Bachelor Chronicles
to help me—”

“Bachelor Chronicles?”
Mrs. Browne quizzed.

Her daughter turned to her. “Haven’t I told you of them? No? Well, Miss Langley maintains the veriest encyclopedia of eligible men from which to find a husband. Has so for
years
.”

Mrs. Browne cast the same simpering smile down at Felicity, “Has it helped, dearie?”

“That remains to be seen,” Miss Langley replied.

“Now where are you off to?” Miss Browne asked, changing the subject and drawing all the attention back to herself. “If there was room I’d offer you a ride, but I can’t take all of you, so I fear you must fend for yourselves, but you Langleys have always been such resourceful creatures, tramping about as you do.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment to Thatcher’s ears, and
from the look on Miss Langley’s face, her false smile had been replaced by a slow boil.

“We’ve calls to make this morning,” Miss Langley told her.
“Important ones
.
”

“Then we’re off to the Frost Fair,” Lady Philippa added, winding her arm into her cousin’s.

“To the Frost Fair?” Miss Browne repeated. “And you haven’t been yet? I’ve been thrice. So very quaint—though now I hear it is thronged with such common sorts. But I suppose your cousins are quite used to consorting with such people, Lady Philippa, having traveled so much of the world as they have, so you’ll be in good company.”

“No worse than your average Americans, I would venture,” Miss Thalia replied, her smile more teeth than lips.

Thatcher glanced at the two sisters. They’d traveled the world? How much more was there that he didn’t know about this pair? Obviously quite a bit.

Miss Browne had let the insult float past her like a snowflake. “There’s to be an assembly of sorts down there in a few nights, perhaps you heard? That is, if the ice holds. How unfortunate it is on the same night as the Setchfield ball.” She paused. “You were invited, weren’t you? The duke and duchess always include us on their guest list.” She held out her hand to admire her gloves, and smiled slightly at the pretty embroidery decorating the rich, supple leather while she waited for their reply.

“But of course we were invited,” Miss Langley told her. “His Grace is a very close friend of our family.”

“Of course he is,” Miss Browne returned, as she smoothed her hand over the thick mantle of fur that ringed her cloak. Then she leaned over the edge of her carriage and said, “I am surprised you are going out today. I would have thought you’d be too distracted.”

“And why would we be distracted?” Miss Langley asked.

“Well, because of Hollindrake. He’s arrived.” Those cold
eyes narrowed further as she scanned the girls to gauge how her latest sally had landed.

As cold as it already was, Thatcher’s blood turned to ice. So his aunt had been right. The gossips were already at his doors.

“He has?” Miss Thalia blurted out, then covered her open mouth with her red mitten. Her twin turned and cast a glare in her direction that looked capable of striking down a French column.

“You didn’t know?” Miss Browne exclaimed, quite possibly loud enough for it to be heard around the corner in Grosvenor Square. “Oh, heavens, and here I thought the three of you were being such sly creatures! And now to find out that you didn’t know. Yes, the duke came to London yesterday, but I would have thought that you, Miss Langley, given your special relationship with the man, would have been the first to learn of his arrival.” The girl let her words unfurl like a noose. Slippery little chit that she obviously was, she knew she was on to something and was as determined as the hangman to collect his shilling. Rolling back in her seat, she tipped her head. “How very interesting, indeed. As it is, Mother and I were off to leave our cards with Lady Geneva, his aunt. But I still don’t understand how it is you didn’t know. Perhaps you two have had a falling out, which would mean His Grace is quite available for—”