The Determined Duchess Read online

  “A steward could do that. You never had a proper coming out.” Another fact delivered as though it should be news to her—as if he was discussing someone else’s life, not her own. “Aunt Margaret should have introduced you.”

  “I didn’t want to be introduced. I still don’t.” Felicity pressed her lips together to keep herself from saying in no uncertain terms exactly how much she didn’t want to be presented, and judged, by the Upper Ten Thousand. “The countess was respecting my wishes.”

  Like you should.

  “I understand that,” he said, which under less dire circumstances would have made her laugh, since it was so clear he didn’t understand at all. “But certain things are expected of the daughter of a baron, Lissie.”

  “Don’t call me that.” She’d lost her tenuous grip on pretense. Her voice was the only weapon she had against him. “And don’t talk to me about ‘expectations.’ Society doesn’t care a lick about the orphaned daughter of a lower baron. I doubt they even know I exist, considering my parents didn’t travel in the finer circles, and Margaret long ago exiled herself. Why should I rearrange my life for people who aren’t important to me?”

  Especially when it meant losing the people she did care about, for good.

  She couldn’t even take joy in his frustration, for he said through gritted teeth, “You shall do it because they are important to me.”

  Finally, the truth. She felt the hard, stinging slap of it, as though he had backhanded her across her cheek. It didn’t matter what she wanted. It never would again.

  Because Margaret was the only one who had ever understood how much society terrified Felicity. Even Tressa, with all her rebellious ways, could navigate social gatherings without second guessing herself.

  Without Margaret, Felicity was alone.

  “I see.” She gripped the arm of the settee; nails digging into the fabric, wishing it were his skin she tore into instead, causing him as much pain as he did her. “Because I am female, and have no fortune other than the small sum Margaret willed me, you think I must do as you say.”

  “It’s not like that, Felicity.” He sounded tired already.

  That gave her a mote of encouragement. If she could just outlast him—argue until he admitted defeat as he always had before, not necessarily because she was right but because he was exhausted from dealing with her—she might have a chance at retaining the life she loved.

  “Then tell me what it is like.”

  His next words came out as more of an exasperated growl. “It is my duty. I’m trying to do right by you, you fool woman, and you’re acting as though I am sending you to the slaughter.”

  “I am doing no such thing,” she objected. “My reaction would be entirely different if you were going to slaughter me. Provided it was already clear you could not be bargained with, I would instruct you to choose the tenderest parts of my anatomy for consumption, because they would garner you the most profit. It would be a shame for my death to not have some benefit and I’d assume—”

  “Devil take it, Felicity!” His exclamation made her pause. “It was a metaphor.”

  She harrumphed. No wonder she did not understand metaphors. “A bad one, then. And I am not a fool. I am a woman, yes, but I am not a ‘fool woman.’ Not now, not ever.”

  His eyes widened, and his face began to redden. She’d almost won. She had to aggravate him a little more, and he’d cave. Luckily, she had plenty of practice annoying Nicholas.

  “If you struggle so to manage me here, while we are alone, how do you expect to control me at social events?” She summoned her most fearsome I am a bear to deal with sneer. “Perhaps I shall tell all your friends you screamed pathetically at the frogs in your bed.”

  “I don’t expect to manage you.”

  She blinked. “Pardon?”

  “At least, not without help.” There was that damned smirk again. “I’m enlisting my sister, the Marchioness of Marlburg.”

  Felicity gulped. Nicholas, she could handle—Georgina Middleton, née Harding, terrified her.

  “So you remember her.” Nicholas grinned. “Most people look like that when thinking about her.”

  This did not surprise Felicity. The Marchioness of Marlburg was a garish, bone-thin woman who had a habit of peering down her nose, effectively making her feel like she was two feet tall. The summer she’d accompanied Nicholas to Tetbery had been the worst months of Felicity’s adolescence. Georgina had teased her mercilessly, even pushing her into the ocean.

  Tressa had punched Georgina in the nose for that. She remembered the way the blood had streamed down from Georgina’s nose in a seemingly endless supply—though Felicity now knew it had been a standard nosebleed and nothing special, scientifically.

  The smile that had started to form on her lips at the memory froze. That had been ten years ago, when such unladylike behavior could be easily overlooked.

  Just as Margaret could no longer defend her, Tressa would not be able to fight her battles now.

  “Georgina is so excited to have the opportunity to—how did she put it? Oh yes, to ‘groom you.’” Nicholas was now looking like the cat that ate the canary, one of the few metaphors that actually made sense to Felicity because it had factual basis. That did not make his grin more appealing, though. “After the wedding is over, you will be returning with me to Wycliffe. There, Georgina will teach you how to act in society.”

  That meant she had a week left at Tetbery. The world began to close in around her.

  No, she wanted to scream. Please, no. Just give me a little more time.

  But she couldn’t speak. She kept opening and shutting her mouth like a dying guppy, thrust from the water. She ought to be resolute in the face of adversity—she’d survive, she was a practical woman—but her mind sputtered. Her heart clenched terribly, as her knuckles went white, her fingernails digging into the arm of the settee.

  And she couldn’t seem to breathe.

  There she went again, trying to suck in air with nothing coming in. The vice-grip around her heart twisted, making her chest feel too tight beneath her stays. Quickly, even as black spots appeared before her eyes, her mind compiled a list of her symptoms and arrived at a startling conclusion.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, she was going to faint. Of all the times to develop feminine feebleness.

  “Lissie?” Nicholas’s voice drifted to her, yet he sounded distant. And then as the black danced across her vision, she heard footsteps, like he’d left the room.

  Excellent. Let him go far away.

  The iron grip on her heart released somewhat, though she still couldn’t draw a clean breath. And it was becoming harder and harder to stay upright…

  Until a frigid burst of water splashed across her face, drawing her from her panic. As droplets dripped down her face and onto her dress, she finally, finally sucked in a long breath of air.

  For a minute or two, she simply breathed in and spluttered, getting her heart rate back under control. The dots receded, and she could see again.

  Nicholas stood in front of her, holding an empty glass.

  “You dumped water on me,” she accused. “Even I know that is not polite behavior.”

  “Because you weren’t breathing.” There was none of the usual humor in his voice. “What the devil just happened, Felicity? One moment you were sitting there perfectly fine, and the next…you scared the hell out of me.”

  She observed the worry lines etched into his forehead, and the hard set of his jaw. Concern practically drenched his deep baritone voice, like the water that dripped down her face.

  This did not match with his earlier behavior. Which one was the real Nicholas? Could both reactions be authentic? Perhaps he wished to control her, but he did not wish for her to stop breathing.

  Her brows furrowed. In her experience, emotions ran on several different levels: a broken toe did not quantify the same as a hangnail, for the pain was much less. Being five minutes late to an appointment did not provoke the same annoyance as
forgetting entirely.

  She would have to examine his reaction later, when he wasn’t gaping at her. First things first. She took the handkerchief he handed her, dabbing at her face.

  “I suppose I cannot blame you, then.” She shrugged. He’d given her enough reasons to despise him over the years; she did not need to add attempted to save my life, the nerve to the list.

  “What happened, Felicity?” He asked again.

  She considered his question, deciding she did not owe him an explanation. One act of heroics did not change the years of differences between them. So she brushed off her skirt, blotted her face once more, and handed the wet handkerchief to him. He took it, nose wrinkling, deciding to drop it on the table instead.

  Frowning, she picked the handkerchief back up and stuffed it in her pocket. “You’re going to leave water stains on the wood.” What did he care, when he could afford brand new furniture? He had no sentimental investment in this place.

  “It would not be the worst thing to replace this table. And you’re avoiding my question.”

  Felicity rose from the settee. “Because I do not think I need to answer it. You have made it very clear what you think I will be doing, with no regard to what I want. So, I won’t be telling you anything personal. You have not earned my confidence, Your Grace.”

  She threw his title back at him, unable to resist mocking him. How he reminded her of a strutting peacock, except instead of colorful feathers he used his fortune and striking good looks to convince her of his worth.

  But that would mean he was trying to court her, as feathers were part of a mating ritual, and that didn’t work at all.

  This was why Felicity did not like metaphors.

  While she was busy trying to decide if he could be a peacock still, he got up from the couch, muttering something about “infuriating, headstrong girls who couldn’t understand he was trying to help them.” She disregarded that claim immediately. If he wanted to help her, he’d grant her some sort of annuity so not only could she stay at the estate for life, but she could keep her laboratory fully stocked.

  He waved his hand in front of her eyes. “Felicity, are you listening to me?”

  “No.” She quickly discounted smacking his hand back into his nose, no matter how tempting it was. “Listening to you will not accomplish anything. As long as you think that I should accompany you to London, you will continue to be foolishly wrong.”

  He pulled his hand back with a grimace. “Oh, for God’s sake, Felicity—”

  “I’ve heard enough for one day.” She pushed past him, not turning around until she’d reached the door. “Lady Hettie Hughes will be arriving today with her niece. I was going to greet them, but since you are here now, I suppose you will want to. Please do not offend them. They are old friends of Margaret.”

  Then, before he had time to reply, she stalked out of the room. She didn’t know much about social dictates, but she figured it was only fair to return his earlier rudeness with her own cut direct.

  He’d thrown a gauntlet down, and Felicity would make sure she won this battle of wills.

  Her life—and Margaret’s—depended on it.

  Chapter Four

  For the second time that day, Nicholas found himself standing out on the front lawn of Tetbery Estate, lamenting both the frigid cold and his forced proximity to the most frustrating woman he’d ever known. He pulled his greatcoat tighter around him, tucking his navy scarf into the front folds, and did what any man did when faced with unpleasantness he could not cajole into agreement: he scowled.

  Fiercely.

  Not that Felicity paid him any mind. She sat on a bench about three feet away from him, calmly reading a large tome. He’d managed a glimpse at the spine—Ordinall of Alkimy, by Thomas Norton. That did not improve his mood.

  He’d known before coming that Felicity continued to be fascinated by science. Aunt Margaret’s monthly letters to him and his sister over the years had always been full of praise for her clever ward’s experiments and advancement.

  “It is bad enough Miss Fields insists she is a chemist, when everyone knows women cannot be such things,” Georgiana had sniffed at Aunt Margaret’s last letter, dated a week or two before she passed. “But for the countess to encourage her is deplorable. No man will ever stand for such a scandalous wife. If I had my way—”

  He did not look forward to telling Georgiana that Felicity had passed from pure scientific inquiry into alchemy. He could almost hear his sister’s voice now, ranting about alchemy being only a step away from witchcraft.

  Hell, for all he knew, Felicity was involved in witchcraft too. There was an active coven in Bocka Morrow. A few months ago, they’d freed his friend Teddy Lockwood’s beloved Claire Deering from an evil curse.

  If the neighboring Castle Keyvnor was eerie, then Tetbery was downright sinister, with its cavernous rooms and dank passageways where no candlelight ever seemed to penetrate far enough.

  He couldn’t fathom why Felicity loved it so much here. There was nothing warm or welcoming about the tall, thin black walls rising almost impossibly high, the weight of the stone supported by four pointed arched flying buttresses ornamented with taller, thinner orbs. Pinnacles, towers, and spires completed the exterior.

  He knew all the correct names for them, because Felicity had once spent an hour droning on about the house’s architecture.

  Funny, how the one time he wanted her to talk to him, she wouldn’t. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since stalking out of the atrium.

  For a second, he considered heading back inside and leaving her to the arriving guests. He even started to turn around. Then there was the sound of rumbling carriage wheels, and the black traveling coach bearing the insignia of the Marquess of Blandford appeared in the distance.

  Nicholas bit down upon a curse. Of course it would be Blandford, his most intense political rival. It wasn’t enough that the blackguard had burned his bloody bill in front of his face. Now the man intruded upon his estate. He shoved his hands in his pockets, fists clenched.

  He’d have to hide his tinderbox. With his luck, Blandford would move on from burning bills to enflaming his house.

  The carriage pulled to a stop in front of Felicity, disregarding him. His jaw clenched, but he sucked in a deep breath, and reminded himself that nothing good had ever come out of picking a fight with one’s rival, even if said rival was a gigantic jackanape of the first order, and apparently knew his childhood enemy a little too well.

  In the course of a day, Nicholas had gone from a generally well-liked man to a man that apparently had people conspiring against him at every corner.

  Tetbery.

  The estate’s name echoed in his mind, as if it were the foulest of expletives. It was always Tetbery.

  He made his way over to the carriage, arriving just as the footman pulled open the door. He prepared himself to greet Blandford—stiff upper lip, be a gracious host, pretend your life is good—but instead of the rapscallion, an ancient-looking woman with scraggly brown hair streaked with gray stepped out, leaning heavily on her maid’s arm for support.

  Lady Henrietta Hughes. Well, that was unexpected. Felicity had said the guests were old friends of Aunt Margaret—he hadn’t realized Blandford’s family was in Margaret’s small circle.

  Felicity stepped forward, greeting Lady Hettie with the rare warmth usually reserved for her closest friend, Tressa Teague, or Aunt Margaret herself. Devil take him, she actually allowed the old dragon to kiss her cheek.

  “Dear girl,” Lady Hettie said. “You become more beautiful with each passing year.”

  Nicholas stopped himself just in time from nodding in agreement. It was undeniable, the attractive effect happiness had on Felicity’s features—that pert nose wrinkling as she laughed at Hettie’s compliment, a pretty pink blush brushing across her high cheekbones.

  Pretty blush? No, no, no. This would not do at all. He resolved to only describe Felicity from now on as "vexing," "difficult," or "seriously
not right in the head."

  Anything that reminded him she was trouble.

  Because right now, with all that all-encompassing grin upon her lips and joy so radiant in her dazzling jade eyes, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He told himself it was because he was used to seeing her so sedate, and not because he wondered what it would be like to make her smile like that.

  All he seemed to provoke from Felicity was irritation and ire.

  The footman handed down another woman, as youthful and elegant as Lady Hettie was aged and disheveled. Blandford’s daughter, assuming he’d marked her age right at eighteen. He couldn’t quite recall her name, as he’d never seen her at any of the usual society events during the Season. From what he’d heard in the rumor mill, she spent all her time at her parents’ estate, Blenheim Park, in North Cornwall.

  She was an outsider, then.

  Just like Felicity.

  He swallowed a groan. He already had his hands full with one societal misfit. The last thing he needed was another, and one related to Blandford at that. If Blandford learned how little control he, the Duke of Wycliffe of the illustrious Harding family, had over his aunt’s orphaned ward, Nicholas would never hear the end of it.

  “Uh.” No, no, no. He would not be tongue-tied, not around the Marquess of Blandford’s spinster sister and daughter. “I am Nicholas Harding, Duke of Wycliffe. Please allow me to welcome you to Tetbery Estate.”

  As one, all three women turned to face him, which he found quite frankly disconcerting. Two sets of gray eyes and Felicity’s sea-green, all watching him with such keen gazes he felt as though they had seen the innermost corners of his mind and found him wanting.

  As if they knew just how much he floundered in daily life, when he ought to be exceling. Because he had everything—money, power, privilege—yet he couldn’t make sense of anything.

  Lady Hettie’s eyes narrowed. “We have been here many times before, and never have we seen you, Your Grace, nor did Margaret ever mention you.”