Chapter 4 #2
Rafe Grant, the Marquess of Woodworth and William’s closest friend, was lounging in a velvet armchair with a scandalous lack of posture. He gasped in mock horror. “My castle? My kingdom for defense! You are a ruthless strategist, My Lissy. I suspect you’ve been studying under a Borgia.”
“I’ve been studying with Papa,” she said, giggling as Rafe made a theatrical show of trembling over the chessboard.
“Same thing, really.” Rafe winked at William, who was standing by the window with a cup of black coffee.
“Watch yourself,” William said flatly.
“Well,” Rafe drawled as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, rectangular parcel wrapped in bright blue silk.
“Before you dismantle my entire feudal system, a peace offering. I found this in a shop on Bond Street, and it shrieked your name so loudly the shopkeeper had to cover his ears.”
Felicity’s eyes widened. She unwrapped it to find a delicate, hand-painted kaleidoscope. She held it to the light, a gasp escaping her lips as the colors shifted. “It’s beautiful! Look, Papa!”
“It is beautiful, indeed,” William agreed, his expression softening as he watched her. “What do you say to your uncle, Felicity?”
“Thank you, Uncle Rafe!” Felicity jumped up and threw her arms around Rafe’s neck.
“Easy there, my dear! You’ll crease the cravat, and it took my valet forty minutes to achieve this particular level of nonchalance.” Rafe patted her head affectionately. “Now, off with you. Go see what colors you can find in the garden while your father and I discuss boring, grown-up nonsense.”
Once the door clicked shut behind Felicity and her governess, the air in the room shifted. Rafe’s playful grin turned into something sharper, more assessing. He poured himself a glass of sherry, despite the hour.
“You are incorrigible, Rafe,” William chided with a shake of his head.
“Does that mean you won’t join me?”
“Not before lunch.”
“Fair enough.” Rafe sat back down and relaxed into an armchair. “The lion emerges from his den. I must say, the ton is already vibrating. The Duke of Dawnhurst, back in the fray after such a post? Diamonds are being polished, and debutantes are being groomed as we speak.”
William turned back to the window, his jaw tight. “Do not start, Rafe. I have no intention of entering the fray. I am here for Felicity. She needs a season of culture, not a father who sulks in the shires until he becomes a myth. That is all.”
“For Felicity’s sake. Of course.” Rafe swirled his sherry. “And yet you’ve avoided this culture for years. Why the sudden change of heart? Did a burning bush speak to you on the road to London?”
“Do not get biblical on me.”
“Come now, William. What is it, really?”
William hesitated. “We had an encounter in the country. Felicity had run off to the next estate and became acquainted with a Miss Anne Barnet and her sister, Miss Celia. I have never seen her so engaged as when she was with her…”
Rafe paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “Ah, yes, Miss Anne Barnet and the young girl.”
“You know them?”
“Everyone knows of them, though few truly know them,” Rafe replied, his tone turning unusually serious.
“They’re under the thumb of Kirklow. A man who views his nieces as assets to be liquidated, I’ve heard.
He’s been trying to marry Anne off for three Seasons to anyone with a ledger deep enough to cover his own debts.
It’s a terrible tragedy, the death of their parents. ”
William felt a strange, cold prickle of irritation. “She mentioned a fiancé. Lord Lambridge.”
“Ah, Lambridge,” Rafe sneered. “A man whose personality is as exciting as damp wool. It’s all a tragedy, really.
Miss Barnet has more sense in her little finger than half the House of Lords, but she’s being sold to a man who wants a trophy to sit at the end of his table and agree with his opinions on turnip yields. ”
“How do you know so much about this family?” William asked, an odd protective surge in his blood.
“A man like me has ears everywhere,” Rafe laughed as he drained his glass.
William’s mind drifted. He saw Anne again, not as a victim of a marriage contract, but as she had been in the evening—so sharp, composed, and quietly defiant with such bright green eyes that spoke sonnets.
He pictured her sitting across from a man like Lambridge, her spirit slowly dimming behind a polite smile.
“He’s a bore,” he muttered, almost to himself.
“A colossal one,” Rafe agreed. “But it’s official. The engagement was toasted at White’s last week with his cronies. She’s doing it for her sister, you know. Celia’s dowry depends entirely on Anne’s cooperation.”
William looked down at his coffee, now cold. He should feel sympathy, perhaps, but mostly he felt a restless, inexplicable anger. He pushed the image of her face away, the way her hair had escaped its pins, the way she had looked up at him with that brief challenge in her eyes.
“It’s no concern of mine,” he declared firmly, setting the cup down with a sharp clink. “I have a daughter to look after and a house to put in order. Miss Celia is merely an adequate playmate for Felicity.”
“Naturally,” Rafe said, his eyes dancing with a light that suggested he didn’t believe a word of it.
William opened his mouth to deliver a retort, but the door burst open before he could find the words. Felicity came skidding into the room, her skirts swirling around her ankles, and a folded slip of cream-colored paper clutched in her hand like a trophy.
“Papa! Papa, look!” she cried, breathless. “A footman just brought it. It’s from Miss Celia!”
William took the note, his fingers brushing the heavy vellum. The handwriting was youthful and looping, likely dictated to the ten-year-old or at least encouraged by an older hand.
Dearest Felicity,
My sister has said we will take a stroll in Hyde Park tomorrow morning. Would you care to join us by the Serpentine? We shall be there by ten.
Yours Truly,
Celia.
“She wants me to go for a walk, Papa,” Felicity gushed, tugging at his waistcoat, her eyes shining with a desperation for connection that he found impossible to ignore. “Can we go? Please?”
“It is a public park, Felicity,” William said. “It would be foolish to refuse a neighborly invitation.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow at him.
“Does that mean yes?” she squealed.
“It means,” William said, glancing briefly at Rafe, who was wearing an expression of supreme, unbearable smugness, “that I shall accompany you myself.”
“Truly, Papa?”
“A stroll in the fresh air will do us both good.”
Rafe barked out a sharp laugh. “The Duke of Dawnhurst? On a morning stroll? In public? Oh my dear William, you’ll have the gossip-mongers swooning into their teacups. Shall I bring smelling salts for the onlookers?”
William ignored him, his gaze fixed on his daughter’s joyful face, though his mind was already a mile away. He wondered if Miss Barnet’s green eyes would look quite as defiant in the morning light, which sent unexpected excitement down his spine.
“Please tell Miss Grantham to set out your walking dress, and she may have the morning off, Felicity,” William commanded gently. “We leave at half past nine.”