Love Letters From a Duke (2 page)

“Of course his situation has changed.” Felicity set off again for the door. “He’s a man with vast responsibilities now. He can hardly be expected to be writing to me constantly.”

“As you say,” Tally agreed. “Perhaps that’s him now. Come to call, to sweep you off your feet and take us all to his glorious house. Would be quite convenient, since we haven’t enough coal to last the week.”

For a moment Felicity gave herself over to Tally’s fanciful prattle. Coal. And candles. And enough tea in the chest to make a decent pot of pekoe. And the sugar to go in it, as well. But as a draught raced past her, the chill—along with her sister’s dire words—brought her back to her senses.

Why had he suddenly stopped writing? Not even a response to her perfectly penned note of condolence. It was as if he was the one who’d gone aloft, not his grandfather.

Oh
,
whatever had gone wrong?

As the bell jangled again, Tally groaned at the clamor. “Sound as presumptuous as a duke, don’t they? Should I check the window for a coach and four before you answer it?”

Felicity shook her head. “That could hardly be Hollindrake.” She nodded toward the bracket clock their father had sent them the year before. “It’s too early for callers. Besides, he’d send around his card or a note before he just arrived at our doorstep. Not even a duke would be so forward to call without sending word.”

Sweeping her hands over her skirt and then patting her
hair to make sure it was in place, Felicity was actually relieved it couldn’t be her duke calling—for she still hadn’t managed a way to gain them new wardrobes, let alone more coal. But she had a good week to solve those problems, at least until the House of Lords reconvened…for then Hollindrake would have to come to Town to formally claim his title and take his oath of allegiance.

“So who do you think it is?” Tally was asking, as she clung to a squirming Brutus.

Taking another quick glance at the clock, Felicity let out a big sigh. “How could I have forgotten? The agency sent around a note yesterday that they had found us a footman who met our requirements.”

Tally snorted. “What? He doesn’t need a wage and won’t rob us blind?”

Felicity glanced toward the ceiling and shook her head. “Of course I plan on paying him—eventually—and since we have nothing worth stealing that shouldn’t be an issue.”

The bell jangled again, and this time Brutus squirmed free of his mistress’s grasp, racing in anxious circles around the hem of Tally’s gown and barking furiously.

Well, if there was any consolation, Felicity mused as she crossed the foyer and caught hold of the latch, whoever was being so insistent was about to have his boots ruined.

Taking a deep breath, she tugged the door open and found herself staring into a dark green greatcoat, which her gaze dismissively sped over for it sported only one poor cape. The owner stood hunched forward, the brim of his hat tipped down to shield him from the wintry chill.

“May I help you?” Felicity asked, trying to tamp down the shiver that rose up her spine. It wasn’t that she’d been struck by a chill, for this mountain of a man was blocking the razor cold wind. No, rather, it was something she didn’t quite understand.

And then she did.

As this stranger slowly straightened, the brim of his hat rose, revealing a solid masculine jaw—covered in a hint of dark stubble that did little to obscure the strong cleft in his chin, nor hide a pair of firm lips.

From there sat a Roman nose, set into his features with a noble sort of craggy fortitude. But it was his eyes that finally let loose that odd shiver through her limbs with an abandon that not even she could tamp down.

His gaze was as dark as night, a pair of eyes the color of Russian sable, mysterious and deep, rich and full of secrets.

Felicity found herself mesmerized, for all she could think about was something Pippin had once confessed—that from the very moment she’d looked into Captain Dashwell’s eyes, she’d just known he was going to kiss her.

A ridiculous notion
, Felicity had declared at the time. But suddenly she understood what her cousin had been saying. For right now she knew there was no way on earth she was going to go to her grave without having once had her lips plundered, thoroughly and spectacularly, by this man, until her toes curled up in her slippers and she couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t know how she knew such a thing, but she just did.

“I’m here to see Miss Langley,” he said. His deep voice echoed with a rough, smoky quality. From the authority in his taut stance, to the arch of his brow as he looked down at her—clearly as surprised to find a lady answering her own door as she was to find him standing on her steps—he left her staggering with one unbelievable thought.

And her shiver immediately turned to panic.

This is him
, her heart sang.
Please let this be him
.

Hollindrake!

She struggled to find the words to answer him, but for the first time in her life, Felicity Langley found herself speechless. She moved her lips, tried to talk, tried to be sensible,
but it was impossible under this imposing man’s scrutinizing gaze.

Yet how could this be? What was
he
doing here, calling on her? And at such an unfashionable hour?

And no wonder he was staring at her, for her hair wasn’t properly fixed, her dress four years out of fashion, and her feet—dear God, she’d answered the door wearing red wool socks!

Tally nudged her from behind. “Felicity, say something.”

Reluctantly wrenching her gaze away from his mesmerizing countenance, composing herself, she focused on what it was one said to their nearly betrothed.

But in those few moments, Felicity’s dazzled gaze took in the coat once again—with its shockingly worn cuffs.
Worn cuffs?
Oh no, that wasn’t right. And where there should be a pair of perfectly cut breeches, were a pair of patched trousers.
Patched?
But the final evidence that cooled her wayward thoughts more thoroughly than the icy floor that each morning met her toes, was the pair of well-worn and thoroughly scuffed boots, one of which now sported the added accessory of a firmly attached small, black affenpinscher dog.

Boots that looked like they’d marched across Spain and back, boots that had never seen the tender care of a valet. Boots that belonged to a man of service, not a duke.

And certainly not the Duke of Hollindrake.

She took another tentative glance back at his face, and found that his noble and arrogant features still left her heart trembling, but this time in embarrassed disappointment.

To think that she would even consider kissing such a fellow…well, it wasn’t done. Perhaps, she conceded, it was. But only in all those fairy tales and French novels Tally and Pippin adored.

And that was exactly where such mad passions and notions of “love at first sight” belonged—between the covers of a book.

“You must be the man we’ve been expecting,” Tally was saying, casting a dubious glance in Felicity’s direction. Obviously unaffected by this man’s handsome countenance, she bustled around and caught up Brutus by his hind legs, tugging at the little tyrant. “Sorry about that. He loves a good pair of boots. Hope these aren’t your only pair.”

Aubrey Michael Thomas Sterling, the tenth Duke of Hollindrake, eyed the damage to his boots first, then looked back up at the pair of young ladies before him. Twins, he guessed, though not identical. The one catching up the mutt of a dog in her arms was a lithe beauty, but it was the one still holding the door latch who caught and held his attention.

Her hair held that elusive color of caramel, something to tempt and tease a man. Especially one like himself who’d been gone too long from the company of good society—and young women especially.

Twelve years at war. Three months on a transport sailing back from Portugal. A month of riding from one end of England to nearly the other, with enough snow in between to make him wonder if he’d been dropped off in Russia instead of Sussex. Then the shock of arriving home and finding himself not just his grandfather’s heir, but the duke.

The Duke of Hollindrake
.

Gone in an instant was Captain Thatcher, the
nom de plume
he’d taken that long ago night when he’d disavowed the future his grandfather had cast for him. Instead he’d used the winnings from a night of gambling to buy a commission under a false name and fled to the far corners of the world where no one would interfere with his life.

The Duke of Hollindrake. He shuddered. It wasn’t the mountain of responsibilities and the management of all of it that bothered him. He’d shouldered that and more getting his troops back and forth across the Peninsula. No, it was the title that had him in the crosshairs. He wasn’t a duke. Not in
the mold his grandfather and eight generations of Sterlings before that had set down. Stuffy and lofty, and trained from birth for the imperious role that was theirs by some divine ordinance.

Oh, to be Thatcher still. For even with his arse freezing, his nose nearly frostbit, and his fingers stiff from cold, his blood suddenly ran hot at the sight before him. And Thatcher would have stolen a sweet kiss from her pert lips, while the Duke of Hollindrake, well, he had to assume a more,
shudder
, proper manner.

Too bad this fetching little minx wasn’t the miss his grandfather had wooed on his behalf. No chance of that, certainly not the social climbing bit of muslin who’d written quite plainly of her intentions to attain the loftiest of marriages—well, shy of a royal one.

“I’m here to see Miss Felicity Langley,” he repeated.

By the way this miss was eyeing him—as if he were some ancient marauder, having arrived on their front steps to pillage and plunder—he realized that perhaps his aunt had been right. He should have made himself presentable before arriving on the lady’s doorstep.

Well, perhaps he would, as Aunt Geneva had declared, send Miss Langley running back to Almack’s at the sight of him.

“I’m Miss Langley,” she said, pert nose rising slightly.

This was his betrothed? Since his grandfather had had a hand in all this, he’d expected some snaggle-toothed harridan or some mousy bit without a hint of color. Not one who’d answer the door wearing bright red socks.

“Miss
Felicity
Langley?” he probed. Certainly there had to be a mistake. His grandfather would never have chosen such a pretty chit. Breathtaking, really.

But to his shock, she nodded.

Fine. So this was Felicity Langley.
He took a deep breath and consigned himself to the fact that while she hadn’t the
dental afflictions he’d imagined, given time she’d prove him correct about the harridan part.

“My apologies, miss,” he said, bowing slightly, “I’ve come to—” But before he could say anything further, the lady found her tongue.

“Heavens, sir, what are you thinking?” she scolded. “Arriving at the front door? Hardly a recommendation, I daresay. Speaks more of your cheek than your experience.” She paused for a moment and glanced at him, as if inspecting him for…well, he didn’t know what. He’d never had a woman look at him in quite this way. Or scold him in such a fashion. At least not since he’d stopped wearing short coats.

Certainly he’d had his fair share of women casting glances in his direction, but this imperious Bath miss had the audacity of giving him a once over as if she were measuring him for a suit…or shackles.

“Now that we’ve settled the fact that I am Miss Langley,” she was saying, “may I introduce my sister, Miss Thalia Langley.”

Thatcher bowed slightly to the girl who thankfully still held her vermin of a dog, for he was wearing his only pair of boots. At least until Aunt Geneva could order up twenty or thirty new pairs. Enough to keep a room full of valets fully employed just with the task of polishing and shining them.

Miss Langley opened the door all the way, and eyed him again. “Are you coming in or are you going to stand there and let that draught chill the entire house?” One hand rested now on her hip and the other one pointed the way inside. “Or worse, you catch your death out there before we can come to some arrangement and I’ll have to start this process all over.”

Arrangement?
Start this process all over? Well, there was arrogance if he’d ever heard it. She might be a pretty little thing, but he was beginning to see that she was also mad as Dick’s hatband.

She huffed a sigh. “Now are you coming in or must I assume that you are as witless as the last one?”

He wasn’t sure if it was the authority behind her order—er, request—or the draught of wind that blew up the street that finally propelled him into the house. “Yes, oh, so sorry,” he said.

Then it struck him.
The last one?
Wait just a demmed moment. She had more than one ducal prospect?

And she had the nerve to call
him
cheeky?

Miss Langley closed the door, shivered, and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders, then turned and led the way up the stairs. Her sister flashed him a saucy grin, while the oversized rat in her arms continued to look down at his boots with an eager eye. “Come along then,” Miss Langley told him. “As you can see, we need your services.”

His what?

But before he could ask her, she and her sister had already scurried up the flight of stairs. By the time he caught up with them, they’d turned down a narrow hall and entered a small parlor. The room was cozy, with a decidedly female air about it—a discarded basket of knitting, an open and forgotten novel on the floor near the grate. A small pile of coals glowed in the hearth, and off to one side sat a large overstuffed chair where an old lady snored most indelicately. Her lace cap sat askew and a lap robe lay on the floor at her feet.

Without missing a beat, Felicity set things to right. The book was closed—a bit of braided thread to mark the page—then the throw was settled back over the lady’s lap, and she even had a moment to put a bit more coal on the fire.

“I hope Aunt Minty finds you acceptable,” she said as she went about the routine tasks. “I’d wake her, but she likes a good doze this time of day, and bears no one any favors if they rouse her before she’s ready.” Dusting her hands off, she turned to him and sighed yet again, shaking her head
as she went. “I suppose a good chaperone should be a bit more alert, but Aunt Minty is…well, she’s quite perfect for us, for we are very aware of our tenuous circumstances and haven’t the tendencies for romantic misalliances—”