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

  To Marry the Duke’s Daughter

  Ashley Stormes

  Other books by Ashley Stormes

  The Masquerade Series:

  The Masquerade

  A Mask of Black Satin

  A Tartan Mask

  Mask of the Tiger

  The Widow’s Mask

  After the Masquerade:

  Dancing with the Earl (short story)

  To Love A Spy (short story)

  The Taste of Frozen Vodka (short story)

  Published by Ashley Stormes

  Copyright 2013 Ashley Stormes

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to action events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For hot tea of all colours and flavours.

  And for coasters. Coasters are good too.

  A Note on Spelling, and my Continued Gratitude

  Anyone who has read The Masquerade Series has realized that I use British spellings. This is partly because I find it helps me to get into the minds of my characters and partly because, as a European historian, all of my resources are printed in Britain. When every book one reads uses British spellings, one begins to forget how to spell like an American.

  That being said, there are a few words that might confuse an unwary reader, such as cosy instead of cozy, pernickety instead of persnickety, and fulfil instead of fulfill. Other words, like favourite, honour, and centre, are common enough that they should not disorient anyone.

  I continue to owe a debt of gratitude for my good friend and fellow author, Amanda Eyer. She patiently endures my ranting emails about disobedient characters and helps me edit even though she has other things to do with her time.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Preview

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Avondale, Yorkshire

  March 1814

  Back to top

  Lord Carlton Ryans, the Duke of Avondale, did not enjoy surprise missives. While his daughter, Lady Felicity Ryans, exclaimed over an unexpected letter, he had never experienced the joy of reading happy news.

  “Damn that woman.”

  “Sir?”

  Carlton grimaced as he realized that the words had slipped from his mouth. “Forgive me, Chattrecombe, but I really do damn that woman to the bowels of hell. She is bleeding me dry.”

  Chattrecombe, having served as the Avondale butler for the past twenty-eight years, immediately understood his employer’s sudden turn to misery. That woman could only refer to one woman, but it only took one woman to destroy a dukedom.

  “If I may, sir, but perhaps it would be best to ignore her. We do not know with any certainty that she is telling the truth.”

  Carlton rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes, attempting to drive back the sharp pain in his head. His grey eyes watered as he massaged his temples. “I cannot know with any certainty that she is lying,” he muttered. “If I only knew the truth!” He squinted up at Chattrecombe, who stood on the other side of Carlton’s heavy mahogany desk, and squeezed the bridge of his nose while he regarded his butler. “Your nephew is in the employ of the War Office, is he not?”

  Chattrecombe cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, sir, Winston was recently awarded a position.”

  “He could find her, then. He could find her and discover the truth. If she is lying, I need not fear paying her off. I can reward the War Office for their service,” Carlton added. “If she is telling the truth, we might be able to negotiate a different compromise. I cannot keep paying her at this rate; Felicity will be left with nothing.”

  “I will of course put your request to him, sir, but the War Office is currently engaged in a war,” Chattrecombe pointed out apologetically. “I doubt they will be able to spare an agent for what might be considered mercenary work.”

  Carlton sighed heavily and bent over his desk, resting his forehead against the polished wood. “Damn Napoleon as well, then,” he muttered. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep up appearances. I would not be surprised if she hired someone to set fire to Avondale village, just to see how far my money could stretch.”

  “No one expected you to rebuild the entire village, sir,” Chattrecombe reminded him.

  “Who else could do it? I could not let my tenants freeze,” Carlton insisted, lifting his head from his desk. “And Felicity, bless her, would give up everything if it meant helping the tenants.”

  Chattrecombe cleared his throat. “Have you considered telling her the truth?”

  “I cannot. I have spent the past twenty-four years protecting her; I cannot hurt her now.”

  Chapter One

  London

  June 1814

  Back to top

  Lt. Jonathon White of the --- cavalry easily recognized the overwhelming sensation of falling. He had felt it many times before—a man could hardly call himself a horseman if he had not fallen at least once—but never had he been thrown off his feet in such a manner. Horses had always made sense to him, and as a youth he quickly learned the warning signs of a horse ready to bolt. Women, however…

  Years as a cavalry officer had done little to enlighten his understanding of the mindset of the fairer sex. He was always pleased to meet a woman that made sense, and had just spent the past half hour twirling around Almack’s with Miss Jane Burnel, a reasonable and patriotic young woman who met his criteria for a decent match. For the past few weeks he had considered courting her on a more regular basis, but there was something missing in their discourses and he was loath to settle, even if he needed the security her dowry could provide. Miss Jane had captured the eye of several other officers, and he feared he would lose the battle for her heart to a man more willing to woo her. It was early, to be certain, but he considered Lord Henry Fenna, a former army officer, the most likely man to win her. Lord Fenna had been watching her with a peculiar expression. Jonathon prided himself on knowing when to bow out graciously. If Lord Fenna were on the verge of falling in love with her, Jonathon would willingly cede the high ground, especially if that enabled him to search out a more suitable woman.

  Jonathon knew the danger of appearing like a fortune hunter to society—one of his good friends had recently been shunned by half of the ton because of his surprising decision to pursue a wealthy young woman recently widowed and still in mourning—so he was careful to keep his eyes from the haughty daughters of the higher echelons. He would be content with anyone able to help ward off the emptiness creeping up on his pocketbook. If his older brother, Lord Gregory White, came to him one more time demanding a hefty sum, Jonathon would find himself living on the streets. He had already spoken with his superiors about selling his commission, and the necessary transactions would be completed in the next week. That would provide a little more padding to his purse, but his brother’s gambling knew no bounds and he suspected that Gregory owed a considerable sum to a viscount by the name of Thompson. Jonathon suspected that sooner rather than later he would need to find employment or marry a wealthy woman.

  The sensation of falling never feels unpleasant. The only pain comes when the ground rises up to meet one’s derrière. Jonathon understood that better than many, b
ut could not help but fall for the black-haired beauty dancing gracefully with an impressively attired lord. She was blatantly beyond his meagre reach, but since most men were staring at her with hungry eyes he felt no shame in doing the same.

  “It is hard to believe Avondale’s daughter grew up to be such a prime article.”

  Jonathon wasn’t certain who said the words, but he recognized the name and immediately felt the pleasant sensation slip into a doomed spiral off the side of a metaphorical cliff. If she were the Duke of Avondale’s daughter, he would have a better chance at happiness by taking what little remained in his accounts and disappearing into the countryside. He knew he would have decent luck wooing a wealthy merchant’s daughter, but pride had kept him in London for the past month and pride would keep him there until he found a reasonable solution to his problems.

  “Avondale will never let his only child marry anyone less than a king,” another man remarked. “Why else would she still be unwed?”

  “I’ve heard she is high in the instep and bird-witted to boot,” replied the first man.

  “She is a diamond of the first water, though,” the second man stated. “I would marry her just to look at her every day, if the duke fancied a viscount as a son-in-law.”

  Jonathon studied her curiously, wondering about the other men’s words. Were her beauty and status as the duke’s daughter the only accomplishments that recommended her? That was enough for most men—and probably for him as well—but Jonathon dreaded the prospect of dull conversation. Yet, if she were the sort that preferred the company of gossiping friends, he might actually find comfort in solitude. He had always desired a happy, love-filled marriage, but his options were quickly vanishing. If it enabled him to escape his brother’s power, he would gladly marry a dim-witted woman with a plentiful dowry and overly-attached father.

  The only way to determine if the Duke of Avondale’s daughter would make a decent bride would be to dance with her, and determine just how lacking her conversation could be. He knew he would never be able to marry a duke’s daughter, but there was no harm in dancing with one once.

  Lady Felicity Ryans smiled up at the pleasant young man, surprised by the ease with which he charmed her. His words were polite if not as flattering as her previous partner, who had exposed a nervous stutter when they attempted conversation while dancing. It had been easier for both of them to force smiles on their faces and endure the rest of the dance in silence. Mr. Thompson was a sweet man, but until he overcame his shyness he would never be able to win a woman that did not pity him. She thought he fancied Miss Sophie Peters, but that was only because Sophie was the only woman with whom he had yet to dance.

  Mr. Jonathon White, however, was the opposite of Mr. Thompson. She knew from earlier gossip that he was a former true lieutenant of the --- cavalry, the only sibling of Lord Gregory White, and a splendid dancer. He was currently proving that splendid hardly covered his skill on the dance floor, and Felicity could not be happier.

  His appearance certainly did not hinder him. She had never before met anyone with such dark brown eyes that retained a sweet softness to their eyes. His hair was dark brown as well, but flecks of gold around his face hinted at his previous outdoor life, as did his hazel-tinted skin. He was more than handsome, but at the same time average. It was an interesting combination that held her enthralled, and as he spun her around the dance floor she had a difficult time discerning the cause of her dizziness.

  “You have unusual eyes,” he remarked, his voice surprising her in its lightness.

  “As do you,” she replied, careful to keep her own tone light. Her father always bemoaned her true voice, and after years of being reminded that a man wanted to hear a bird-like chirp instead of a low purr it took little effort to disguise her voice.

  “They are brown, Lady Felicity. They are hardly unusual.”

  “And mine are grey, which is also hardly unusual.” She lifted a slender brow before realizing she shouldn’t look condescending. Drat her father’s lectures.

  “Your eyes are not quite grey,” he contradicted. “They are not any particular colour, and yet all of them at once, so they appear grey from a distance.”

  How silly. “I must take your word, Mr. White. Most people consider them grey.”

  “Then most people are wrong.”

  The words spilled out before she could stop them. “Do you honestly believe that?” She did not know why she was having such a difficult time containing her thoughts, but she suspected it had something to do with her dizziness. He must be spinning her too fast.

  “Yes. I have been around enough people to know that very few of them actually know anything about which they speak. They simply spout words and hope no one dares to correct them.”

  “That does sound a little condescending, Mr. White. I have met many intelligent people in this ballroom alone.”

  He shrugged, the motion causing his emerald green coat to tighten around his shoulders. “Perhaps. To me they only give the illusion of intelligence. There are very few actual intelligent people I have spoken with in the ton.”

  “Whom do you consider intelligent, then? What is your foundation for their intelligence? Their knowledge of politics, or perhaps their knowledge of society? What style of intelligence do you consider most intelligent?” Her father would frown if he could hear her ask such things in public, but the dance floor was one location in London that she could almost be herself.

  “Obviously intelligence is a relative term,” he evaded. “I might prefer an intellectual form of intelligence, and you might prefer the intelligence garnered through gossip and society. If that is the case, it is a topic sure to disappoint us both.”

  He was providing her the perfect opportunity to shift the conversation without upsetting either of them, and she was grateful for his reminder that she was expected to be knowledgeable about society, and little else. Her father had done everything in his power to teach her how to act as the perfect daughter of the ton, and she would not disappoint him. If the duke claimed her only chance at matrimony was to appear a brainless beauty, she would bow to his greater wisdom.

  “Well, gossip has taught me that you are a cavalry officer, but you intend to sell your commission. Is that true?” She was surprised by the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. Had he wanted her to contradict him and prove that she understood intellectual intelligence?

  “It is. The war is over, and I am ready to move on with my life.”

  They danced the next steps in silence, her confusion mounting with every heartbeat. Why were his lips pressed in a firm line? Was he angry, or was she seeing too much? Perhaps she was simply trying too hard to be pleasant. Her father always told her it should appear effortless.

  “Do you intend to remain in London for the Season? I have heard that many former officers are retiring to the country,” she stated, hoping to spur him into further conversation.

  She watched him swallow, the movement appearing painful in his throat. Then her eyes fixed on the bluntness of his narrow chin, and the strong line of his jaw, and the way his nose divided his extraordinary brown eyes. Every piece taken apart was plain, but the combination, the arrangement of his features, was so exquisitely done that she could not help but consider him handsome.

  “I am afraid I do not know the answer. I intend to visit my mother soon, but I might return to London, if there is a reason.”

  “Must you always have a reason?” She did not want to lose such a perfect dance partner, especially when she could smile up at him and dream of all the things she had ever wanted. He had been dancing with Miss Jane Burnel at almost every ball, but if he was considering leaving London it was doubtful his intentions towards her were serious. Felicity knew better than to meddle with the affairs of others, but she was always curious. Gossip provided the greatest relief, but even then it was not always accurate, and she prided herself on always knowing the facts.

  “I suppose I could live life on a whim,” he offered. “It work
s for many.”

  A subtle attack on her own person? Felicity was not sure how to interpret his words, so she attempted to discern his feelings for Miss Jane Burnel. “I am certain Miss Burnel will miss your attentions. She has certainly come into her own this Season.”

  “Not because of my attentions, surely,” he exclaimed, drawing away slightly as if offended. “Miss Burnel has many dance partners; I am the least of her admirers.”

  “But you must admit that your attentions have cast her in the eyes of other men,” Felicity pointed out, knowing her words were true. “She rarely had partners before this Season.”

  “That is unfair to her.”

  “It is the truth. Many feared she would be put on the shelf, but things have certainly improved for her this Season. I suppose the end of the war has many men returning, and searching for a wife. Miss Burnel is one of many that almost require a military man as husband.” Miss Jane Burnel’s patriotism was endearing, but her pride had frightened many from pursuing her.

  “Because she is patriotic? Or are you insinuating that only a military man will find her interesting?”

  Oh, he was furious. His entire body was shaking. Felicity had never seen a man in such a state in public, and she wondered if he cared more for Miss Burnel than she had previously assumed. She had certainly not meant to insult Miss Burnel, a woman she secretly admired for her strength.

  “I am merely stating that she has not had good fortune with other men of the ton. I think her a perfectly good person, but that does little to appease society’s scorn. She is in her fifth Season, I believe; to many that is a sign of—”

  “I know what it is a sign of,” he interrupted, his brows narrowed in repugnance. “It only fuels my disgust for society. Miss Burnel is a better person than most in this ballroom, and I am proud to call her my friend. She will marry well, mark my words. Before the Season is over she will prove all of you wrong. Good evening.” He bowed and strode away, leaving her stunned and alone in the middle of Almack’s. Most men at least accompanied a woman off the dance floor. The song had ended, or she would be thoroughly embarrassed by her perplexing position at the centre of the ballroom without a partner. Luck was often on her side, however, and she let out a sigh of relief as another man offered her his arm and asked her to honour him with the next dance.