Rogues Gallery (47 page)

"Because of our difference in standing."

Felicia's hands balled into fists. "You are related to a Duke! I cannot believe he is so toplofty. You are well rid of him," she concluded. "You deserve a much better sort."

Great-Aunt Aurore fell back against the settee, holding her sides while she laughed. "Oh dear, you have gotten it all wrong. He will not marry me because of
his
standing, not mine."

"I do not understand."

"My true love is Frederick. Our coachman."

***

F
elicia gaped at her aunt. Was it possible the poor thing was suffering from dementia? Surely she had not spent the past forty years in love with their coachman.

If she had, then this truly was a curse to be reckoned with, one with no room for negotiation.

But, despite the shocking revelation, Great-Aunt Aurore was still the same woman Felicia had known all her life: cheerful, kind, and unable to resist hatwear that had been fashionable in the previous century.

No, her aunt was not mad. She was merely madly in love.

But the news did not prove useful to Felicia's quest. She knew she could not bear to love Hugh from afar for several decades, especially with him wed to another. It had been one thing to consider spinsterhood
before
she had fallen in love, but once she had felt those stirrings. . .

No, spinsterhood was no longer a viable option.

First she would discover a way for Great-Aunt Aurore to marry Frederick, her one true love.

Even if it meant they would lose a very fine coachman.

Once that had been accomplished, Felicia presumed the curse would enable her to convince Hugh that they marry, posthaste. She muttered a quick prayer that the curse could also resolve this without causing Miss Lansdale any lasting distress.

Felicia heaved a sigh of relief. It was all so simple, and so easy really. How could it be anything else?

***

"B
ut you must marry Great-Aunt. She loves you!"

"I love her too, m'lady." Frederick tugged the hem of his vest, the buttons straining to keep the livery fabric fastened over his stomach. "But it ain't proper. I cannot have her be the laughingstock of London."

Felicia paced the area in front of the carriage. She had dashed out to the mews once they'd returned from their shopping excursion, desperate to explain to Frederick what he must do to appease the curse. His forty years of resistance was not cooperating with her plans, however.

"Frederick, Great-Aunt Aurore is never going to be a laughingstock. She is eccentric, I will grant you that. But everyone adores her for that quality."

His lips lifted in the briefest of smiles. It warmed Felicia that he thought of her aunt with such obvious fondness. Yet it also maddened her that he was so stubbornly protective.

"Has she told you about this curse?"

This time he rolled his eyes and muttered some imprecations that would have blistered her ears—if she had not heard them time without number from cousin Tony during one of his losing streaks.

"She has used that curse over the years to try to convince me to marry her. But it's a bunch of horse—I mean, I don't believe in it."

Felicia growled, startling the man. "Well, I can attest that the curse is real. It has afflicted me too, just recently, and now I fear I will suffer the same fate as my aunt. Perhaps I cannot marry the man I love until she marries you."

Frederick's eyes widened. "Oh, m'lady, I would not want to stand in the way of your happiness, you must believe me on that."

She stifled her triumph, which was just as well, since Frederick managed to crush it with his next sentence.

"But I cannot be moved on this topic. I am sorry, your ladyship. I truly am."

Felicia wanted to pummel something in frustration, and from the look in Frederick's eyes, he knew he was the most likely candidate. Instead, she spun on her heel and dashed back towards the house.

Surely the family curse could not expect her to love Hugh from a distance, smiling happily while he plighted his troth to someone else.

There had to be some way she could make this curse work in her favor, and soon. She could not bear to consider any other possibility.

Hugh paced the plush carpet of his bedroom, tearing at the cravat choking him. He nearly succeeded at turning it into a noose before he ripped the piece of linen from his throat.

Why could he not get Felicia out of his mind? He hadn't given her a thought since those long-ago days when she insisted on joining him and Julian and Tony on their boyish adventures.

Now she drove him mad with an inexplicable longing, a sudden yearning he might have pursued if he were not devoted to being an upright, respectable parent.

How had this happened?

He loved being Lucinda's father, and did not want to relinquish that role, not ever.

What he had second thoughts about was becoming a husband to Penelope.

Hugh halted in the middle of the room. He couldn't believe the thought had escaped. He had done everything he could to prevent it from even arising. Yet after a brief encounter with Felicia at his betrothal ball, he could think of nothing else.

Even worse, now he was irrationally consumed by the notion of having Felicia, as if she was meant to be his bride all along.

He growled at such lunacy. Felicia was the worst possible candidate for his wife. At every turn, she incited sensations he had put to rest, willingly, for good.

He was not about to resurrect Lord Wastrel because of a fleeting physical whim. How could he risk his daughter's future in such a fashion? It was folly to even consider it.

He stalked towards the dressing table. His frustration, at himself, and the impossible situation, tempted him to sweep a bevy of useless items to the ground.

"Papa?"

Lucinda peeked around the now-open door. Her eyes were wide, yet not from fear. Her love of him knew no such thing. He knelt, his arms outstretched, and she raced into them. He closed his arms around her for safekeeping, although her pats on his shoulder made him smile.

She was doing her four-year-old best to comfort her distraught father.

"And what brought you here, poppet?"

"I wanted to tell you something."

He leaned back, so he could look into her face. When she did not answer immediately, he raised his eyebrows. "What did you want to tell me?"

She giggled, and then her tongue slid to the corner of her mouth. "I can't remember."

He laughed and then tickled her on both sides, treasuring her delighted squeals as she tried to curl away from the affectionate assault.

"I think maybe you just missed your papa."

She nodded, her bright expression warming him to the depths of his soul.

"I missed you too."

He scooped her back into his arms and cradled her against his chest. He could feel his heart swelling with love once more. He could never regret his wild misspent youth, not when she had been the result. He kissed her forehead. Yet she was also the reason he could not afford to make any more missteps.

A nursemaid dashed around the open door and then bobbed a quick curtsey. "I apologize, my lord. I turned around for one moment to fetch Miss Lucinda's tea, and then she was gone."

Lucinda's lips formed into a pout, and her tiny eyebrows descended into the most adorable scowl. Hugh had to bite back a smile, for the minx was a miniature version of him when he was displeased, although he was able to incite fear rather than joy with that same expression.

"I was just thinking I could use some tea," he said. "Would you like to join me in the nursery, poppet?"

Lucinda nodded so vigorously, her head nearly caught him on the chin. "Yes, Papa. That is why I came up here, to bring you with me."

"Is that so?"

He gazed at her with his eyes wide, informing the little liar he did not believe her for a minute. She was a stalwart, though, returning her own wide-eyed expression, without blinking.

He cleared his throat, to keep from laughing. Being a father would always provide challenges, but some days the biggest one was maintaining a straight face while disciplining this high-spirited creature. He could definitely use a helpmeet for that task.

"In future, when you decide to leave, for any reason, you must first ask permission—"

Lucinda opened her mouth to protest, but he did not let her speak.

"—or at the very least, you must inform Nurse where you are going. Will you promise me that?"

"Yes, Papa."

Her pout subsided, but only slightly. He nearly sighed. He did not want to break her spirit, but she would have a much easier life if she learned there were rules and boundaries to follow, and they were for her benefit.

He chuckled. His own life would be much easier if she learned that lesson, and quickly.

"Let us go have our tea," he said, giving her a little squeeze.

"Yes!" She gave him a wet kiss on the tip of his nose. "I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, Lucinda."

"And I really was going to tell Nurse that I was leaving. Only I forgot, and—"

He tilted his head down, giving her a frown. Her mouth stayed open for two full seconds and then she clamped it shut.

Another valuable lesson learned. His daughter would continue to fight for her cause at a later date.

Where had she possibly discovered that tactic?

***

H
ugh stretched his left leg. He rubbed a spot on his thigh, hoping the cramp would subside soon, or he might not be able to get up from the tiny nursery chair. He lifted the miniature tea cup to his lips and pretended to drink it for the longest time. His daughter's delighted giggles made him smack his lips and declare, "That is the best cup of imaginary tea I have ever had."

She lifted a teapot with all the grace of a duchess. "Would you like some more?"

"Oh, yes," he said with relish, holding the cup towards her.

She poured a large portion of air into his cup, her tongue out to the side while she concentrated. "There," she said, beaming.

"Thank you," he said with a nod. He raised the cup and bobbled it, and then tried to catch it, his hands fluttering everywhere. Her mouth made a big O of surprise and then she started whooping with laughter. How could he not be the clown for his little treasure?

"Oh, dash it all, now I've spilled it on my waistcoat." He made a big show of wiping at the spot with one hand—the hand that had the cup in it.

"Papa!" she squealed before covering her mouth to contain the laughter.

"What?" He gazed at her as if he had no idea what was causing her mirth.

"You're spilling it even more!"

"Oh, no." He carefully set the cup, upside down, on the table, and then proceeded to dab at his waistcoat with a napkin.

"No!" She raced to pick up the cup and turn it right side up. She clucked her tongue as she looked at him. He half expected a finger wagged at him for his naughtiness too.

"Come here," he said.

She skipped over to him, and the absolute joy in her face was almost too much for him. He had never expected anyone to feel for him as she so obviously did, and it made a lump appear in his throat.

He was the luckiest of men, even if he had not thought so the day she had appeared on his doorstep. Her life had started out so inauspiciously—she had not even known she had a father—but it was clear whatever hardships she had experienced had not left a mark, and for that he was eternally grateful.

He set her on his knee, knowing the joint was likely to protest when he climbed onto his horse on the morrow. But she was too delightful for him to worry about that now.

"What would you like to do next?" he asked her.

Her brow wrinkled while she put a great deal of thought into the question. Then an "aha!" expression appeared. "I would like to ride a pony. My own pony."

He nearly groaned. He should have known better than to ask such a question. Just as he knew he could never really deny any request of hers.

It was another timely reminder why he required Miss Lansdale's assistance in raising his boisterous child—before he lost the ability to withstand his daughter's strong will entirely.

"We shall see about getting you a pony some day, my love, but until then, how about we go to the stables and feed the horses. Will that do instead?"

Lucinda's delighted "Yes!" nearly shattered his eardrums.

"What a pleasant day it has turned out to be," Penelope commented, shielding her eyes as she glanced down the path of Rotten Row.

"Quite pleasant," Hugh agreed.

Penelope had suggested they both ride that day, instead of driving in his phaeton, and he had been grateful for the suggestion. Sitting in a carriage did not suit his mood at all.

It should have pleased him that Penelope knew what he needed without him even saying a word. He could not have asked for a more perfect woman to be his bride.

Hugh rubbed his jaw, surprised it was so tight. He had begun clenching it lately for some reason. It had been ages since he had gone to his club, or taken his chances at the gambling dens. Perhaps he should talk to Julian and Tony about a small gathering, just for old times' sake, before he found himself permanently ensnared in parson's mousetrap.

He swallowed uncomfortably. Perhaps he also needed to speak to his valet about tying his neckcloth too tight. That also had been occurring much too often of late.

"My lord, isn't that your friend, Lady Felicia?"

Penelope nodded in the direction of a large assembly of riders and their mounts. His betrothed's beautiful face had no genuine emotion displayed on it, no hint of curiosity, and none of the spark that Felicia's equally beautiful face constantly exhibited.

He must cease this constant comparing of the two. He was marrying Penelope. Felicia was merely—

He caught his breath when the crowd parted, displaying Felicia on her horse in the middle of the admiring throng. Her face lit up at a quip from one of her devotees, and she laughed with abandon. She was overflowing with life, and joy, and vivacity.