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

  Felicity saw Mr. White leading Miss Catherine Burnel onto the floor and barely restrained herself from scowling across the room at him. Why had he run off like an uncivilized barbarian? It was thoroughly rude and hinted at an unstable temper that had no business in the genteel ballrooms of London.

  She was ashamed by her fury, but not so ashamed that she did not continue to stare at him instead of at her current partner. When her partner delved into a tirade about the weather she did not paste a false smile on her face and offer him nods of encouragement—not that he needed them to ramble on. Instead, she stared at Mr. White in barely masked irritation. When the distance closed between them in the line she strained her ears in an attempt to hear his conversation with Miss Catherine, and she was rewarded with the ugliest words she had ever heard spoken on a dance floor.

  “Surely it was not that dreadful, Mr. White,” Miss Catherine remarked.

  “I have never engaged in such abominably rude conversation with such an imbecilic twit in my entire twenty-seven years,” White replied bitterly. “I gave her the opportunity to prove herself more than a gossiping chit, but she stuck to society. She might be all the crack, but I doubt she will ever amount to anything more than an idle beauty. Her skull is certainly empty of serious thoughts.”

  Miss Catherine, whom Felicity had always thought of as a kind, shy sort, did not disappoint. “Careful, Mr. White, or you will show yourself to be just as high in the instep,” she warned. “I do not know her well, but those born higher in society are expected to behave differently than those of us that are merely barons’ daughters. I doubt she intended to insult my sister; everything you related to me that she said is true.”

  “I do not think a person of any status has the right to imply such things,” White muttered.

  “Would you quote Paine, then, Mr. White? Through all the vocabulary of Adam there is not such an animal as a Duke or Count. The Rights of Man can certainly be applied to women as well, though I know there are many men that would argue against such a belief.”

  “You know I would not. I appreciate a woman who is not afraid to show her intelligence or speak her own opinions, even if I do not agree with them.”

  At that moment they passed in the lines, and Felicity’s cheeks burned as their eyes met. She knew it was clear on her face that she had overheard his words, and by the smug jerk of his chin she realized he did not care. How abominably cruel of him. She was intelligent. She had not read The Rights of Man like Miss Catherine had obviously done, but she knew about Paine’s writings. Fashion magazines were not the only publications she enjoyed reading. She had kept up with the progress of the war with as much fervour as Miss Burnel, though she had not spoken to others about it. She had never told anyone about her interest in stargazing, and studying the movements of celestial bodies, but she would gladly yell it at Mr. White if it would wipe that horrid expression off his face. She had little to offer in defence of herself without revealing that he had injured her, but she had studied Latin and so knew how to make her point in a subtle manner.

  “Fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt,” she declared, confusing her partner.

  “What was that?” he queried, startled out of his tirade on the inopportune timing of the latest rain.

  “A quote of Caesar.” Felicity dared to cock her eyebrow at Mr. White before continuing. “Men readily believe what they want to believe. Do you not agree?”

  Mr. White knew the question was directed towards him, but he was moving down the line and so only responded with a slight tilt of his head to one side.

  “I suppose,” her partner hedged, still confused by her outburst.

  “I am sorry,” she murmured, returning her gaze to her partner. “I interrupted you with one of my silly thoughts. Do continue.”

  His expression cleared and he obliged her with another quarter hour of rain. She pretended to listen, but she kept a close eye on Mr. White and Miss Catherine.

  Jonathon collapsed on his bed, bending his knees so he could rub his sore feet. His feet were unused to the dress shoes required of Almack’s; dancing had only made that perfectly clear to him. He would look back on the night with relative pleasure, if not for the inevitable blisters on the soles of his feet. The only other downside was his unfortunate encounter with the Duke of Avondale’s haughty daughter.

  He grimaced as he thought of Lady Felicity Ryans. She might be beautiful, but no amount of beauty would ever be able to make up for the rude words she had spoken, or her dismissive attitude of anyone beneath her. Lady Felicity had insulted Miss Jane Burnel, a woman he would always admire for her patriotism and intelligence, and that was unacceptable. Even if Miss Burnel were not his friend, he would still be disgusted by Lady Felicity’s words.

  Jonathon knew that was being a little hypocritical, considering his love of using words to tease, but the only reason he had spoken so poorly of Lady Felicity to Miss Catherine Burnel was because the duke’s daughter had been so rude. Miss Catherine had tried to defend her—Catherine was a sweet girl and would almost always disapprove of anyone speaking ill of another—and if he were thinking rationally he would recognize that if anyone had a right to be upset, it would be Miss Catherine. But Miss Catherine had said that Lady Felicity’s words were true.

  “Perhaps she spoke the truth, but she was still rude,” he muttered, shifting so he could rub the other foot. “Although it was childish of me to respond with equal rudeness. I should have at least escorted her off the dance floor.”

  If Lady Felicity were telling the truth, she became bluntly honest instead of rude. If she were bluntly honest, she became different from almost every other member of the ton who simpered and pleased with lies. The concept was startlingly refreshing, even if it cast him in the light as the rude former cavalry officer with no concept of social niceties. However, Lady Felicity was still Avondale’s daughter, still haughty, and still an unacceptable woman on whom to set his cap.

  So why was he still experiencing the sensation of falling?

  Why could he not feel that sensation for Miss Jane Burnel, who matched him in almost every way? Or if not for Miss Burnel then for her sister, Miss Catherine? Both women were acceptable, but they did not incur the weightless sensation he felt when he gazed down into Lady Felicity Ryans’s unusual grey eyes.

  He sighed and stretched out over the bed. “Women are too confusing. I would much rather dedicate my thoughts to replenishing my stolen fortune so I can buy back my mare. At least she understands me, and I her.”

  Chapter Two

  Ascot Heath

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  Felicity did not mean to bump into him. She had watched him all day, admiring the manner in which the warm sunlight graced his features and transformed him from a mortal man clothed in tan knee breeches and a dark green cotton coat into a god of unparalleled beauty. His black Hessian boots were perfectly polished to reflect the sunlight, and his decision to carry his hat under the crook of his arm allowed her to sigh at the fiery gold shimmering amidst the dark brown of his hair. But when she set out between races to find a friendly conversationalist, she had no intention of bumping into him. He had been calling on another woman, after all, and they had not exchanged words since their first meeting. She should despise him for his cruel conversation, but after a sleepless night of reflection she had accepted that his disgust was justified. She had been rather pompous, and though it had not been her intention to insult anyone, she had still done so.

  “I am terribly sorry, Mr. White,” she murmured, stepping away from him. She was afraid to meet his eyes, and so kept hers on her soft leather boots.

  “I am sorry,” he offered, and for a moment she looked up in the hope that he was being kind. Then he added, “I should have known better than to walk near a Latin-speaking insulter.”

  Felicity felt fury spearing through her veins like the strongest intoxication, and she shoved her fist against his face before the red cleared from her eyes.

  “Dear lord, Mr. W
hite, I am so sorry,” she exclaimed, looking between her fisted hand and his face in shock. “I am so, so terribly sorry.”

  He blinked several times, reaching up absently to rub his cheek. “You have a dreadfully weak punch, Lady Felicity.”

  She hit him again, this time intentionally. She threw all of her weight into it, and she was pleased when the force of her blow sent him staggering backwards. As if through a narrow tunnel she heard a passing drunkard laugh and applaud her effort.

  “Are you contrite, Mr. White?” she demanded, her hands on her hips.

  He scowled at her. “If you hit me again I will think you like me.”

  “Ha! You would like that, wouldn’t you? You would like me to set my cap on a rude, cruel, heartless man who thinks he knows better than everyone else. You do not know anything about me, Mr. White,” she snapped. “If I hit you again, it will be because I cannot bear to see your handsome face for a moment longer.”

  He stared at her in shock, and it took her a while to realize what she had accidentally admitted. Once she remembered she cleared her throat and failed in her fight against the growing heat rising in her cheeks.

  “I make a muddle of everything,” she muttered. She crossed her arms over her chest and hunched her shoulders forward, wishing she could somehow melt into herself and simply become a blob dressed in green.

  “If you thought my face handsome you would not have hit it twice,” he reasoned.

  She made a face up at him, knowing it was too late to hide the beast inside her. She had hit him, for goodness’ sake! In public, no less. She was ruined.

  “That does not make sense, Mr. White.”

  “It makes more sense than hitting me because you think I am handsome.”

  “I did not hit you because I think you handsome,” she corrected, beginning to believe her punches had addled his brains. “I hit you because you are an imbecile who keeps insulting me, and I am tired of it.”

  “Oh.”

  She waited for him to perhaps apologize for his cruel words, but after several minutes of silence she gave up.

  “You are invidious.” She forced her arms to relax and clutched her skirts, determined to walk away in the most graceful haste she could manage. Then he spoke, his words turning her back to him.

  “You are beautiful when you are angry. You are always handsome, of course, but there is fire in your non-grey eyes today, Lady Felicity, and I admire that.” His expression did not change during his speech, though she felt her entire body morphing like an utterly confused caterpillar turning into an awkward butterfly.

  “I do not understand you at all, Mr. White.”

  His eyes softened and the corner of his mouth pulled up into a wry half-smile. “Then we are even, Lady Felicity.”

  “Another race is starting!” someone exclaimed, his words causing a rush of those milling about.

  Felicity knew she should return to her seat—and White’s sudden discomfort hinted that he was eager to return to his—but she was hesitant to walk away from the man that had just said he admired the fire in her eyes.

  “Lady Felicity, I—”

  “Oh!” She staggered as someone rammed against her in his haste to watch the race.

  Jonathon pulled her against his chest to shield her from the churning crowd, unwilling to see her pulled away from him and crushed by the throngs of people. A few moments previous and he might not have felt such a protective surge, let alone acted on it, but something remarkable was occurring and he wanted to continue their conversation.

  She fit well against him, and he rested his cheek against hers in an effort to feel her soft skin.

  Her fingers curled around the lapels of his coat. “Let go, Mr. White.”

  “Are you afraid of me?” he queried in a murmur, his lips brushing against her cheek as he spoke.

  “You are courting another,” she stated dryly. “You have no business clutching me to your breast.”

  “I am not courting anyone,” he corrected, though he did loosen his hold on her. It was dangerous to savour the gentle warmth of her skin; he had nothing to offer her in return, and he decided she had every right to know the truth. “Courting requires flowers, and flowers cost money. I am currently bereft of the funds necessary for flowers.”

  She tilted her head back so that she could meet his eyes and asked frankly, “Are you a fortune hunter, Mr. White?”

  “No. Merely a victim of familial obligation.” He strained his ears as he heard an outcry from the crowds, but he was not able to discern the words.

  He had decided, after another visit from his brother, that he would attempt to make a little money by using his knowledge of horses to predict the winner. What little he had was resting on Pranks, and he was anxious to see if his past as a cavalry officer had helped him.

  “Are you a gambling man, then? I know Lord White is a perpetual gambler; everyone knows.”

  “Today is the first day for me to put money on anything, Lady Felicity, and it was done as a last resort. If I do not win something I will be forced to beg my brother for a room. The very thought is repellent to me, but I am a rational man, and sometimes we do not have a choice as to our future. My future certainly looks nothing like I had imagined it,” he added grimly.

  As a boy he had pictured his future centred on a glorious military career. He had, even until recently, thought that might be achievable with the right circumstances. War had provided promotions, and though he did not enjoy the mêlée, he had to admit that there was a rush of emotions after a hard-won victory. He would gladly ride into the fray again if it meant he could have a more secure future, but his brother had seen to it that he lost everything he once wanted.

  If he had not been forced to hand over every last pence, he might have had a chance at wooing the woman currently in his arms. He had saved a hefty sum while in the cavalry, and had long savoured the prospect of buying a small piece of property and living the rest of his years as a country gentleman, with a sweet wife and smiling children and nights spent counting the stars…but all of that was lost when his brother demanded that he pay for a family debt. He grudgingly sold his best friend, a handsome mare named Beth, and then dipped into his savings. The Marquis of Ravenwood was treating Beth like a queen and allowed Jonathon to visit as often as he wished, but he still felt as if he had betrayed her. It did not matter that he had sacrificed his Beth; Gregory would not be satisfied until he saw his younger brother enslaved or broken.

  “Mr. White?”

  Felicity’s eyes were remarkably deep for their strange colouration, and for a moment he allowed himself to believe that it was possible to achieve his dreams.

  “I see no reason why you could not have the future you always desired. You are young, and strong, and everything a young man ought to be.” Her voice was much lower than before, but he did not know if that was because she was speaking quietly.

  “As declared by the woman who punched me twice and called me an imbecile?” he questioned, trying to keep his tone teasing.

  Her cheeks glowed and she wrinkled her nose in mock annoyance. “Well, you are an imbecile. But that does not mean you cannot be a likeable imbecile, and that puts you ahead of the others.”

  “Are there others?” He did not know why he asked; it did not matter if he were the only one infatuated with her unusual eyes and curious character, for he would still not have a chance.

  “No.” Her expression turned sweetly puzzled. “There has never been anyone. I have done everything my father told me to, but there has never been anyone.”

  She had been masking her voice, he reasoned. There was no other explanation for why her tone was now so much lower and smoother. “If your father told you to be the woman you were when we first met, I am not surprised by that. I did not like that Lady Felicity. But you…now…I could fancy the Lady Felicity currently in my arms.”

  “I really should not be in your arms. We are in public, and—well, anyone could see. My father could see.” She looked unco
mfortable with that thought, but he was not ready to release her.

  “No one is here to see us,” he pointed out. “They are all watching the race. We can stand here for a few moments, and pretend.”

  Her ebony brows knitted together as she considered his words. “Why must it only be pretend?” she finally queried, running her hand across his chest.

  He held her chastely, his gloved hands resting against her bare elbows, but he knew that anyone who walked past would see the fire kindling in his eyes. Lady Felicity had passion in her, and now that he could see it he wanted it all for himself. She was beautiful, but that did not matter to him now. It had drawn his eye but also curbed his interest; now that she had offered him a glimpse of her true self she was so much more than her beauty.

  “I have nothing to offer you,” he whispered, the words directed towards himself as much as towards her.

  “I disagree, Mr. White. You are the first man—the first person—to like me for anything beyond this.” She motioned to herself with one hand. “To not fear that you will be angry if I speak in my true voice, or admit that I am an avid stargazer.” A soft smile graced her features, and she continued in a gentle murmur, her eyes distant. “Do you ever watch the stars at night and imagine yourself riding amidst them? I do. When I am not required to put on a false air, I am always dreaming of the stars, and how brightly they shine at night. Does that make me a naïve dreamer?”