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382 pages, Kindle Edition
First published August 1, 2007
“This Miss Langley is proposing that Lord Stan-don consider her hand in marriage.” Gibbens then closed his eyes and braced himself for the pending explosion.
None came. And after an indecent amount of silence, he peeked out through his lashes and discovered the old duke engrossed in reading the letter for himself. Then the second noteworthy event occurred that day.
The duke laughed.
“Some cheek!” he said, once he gathered his wits about him. “She has the audacity to inquire about the state of my health. Probably be demmed disappointed to find me fit and hardy, I wager.” He set the letter down on his desk and laughed again.
“Yes, Your Grace,” his secretary agreed. “Quite presump-
tuous.”
“Exactly!” the duke declared. “Which is why we are going to answer it.”
“Answer it, Your Grace?” A sense of foreboding ran down the secretary’s spine.
“Of course! Why, I suspect any chit with this much brass would make a most excellent duchess. And further, I’d wa-
ger she’d bring that rapscallion grandson of mine to heel.”
“But a duke? Why wouldn’t a nicely landed marquess or a long-lined earl do?”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand—a duke is so much more than any of them. A duke is heroic, and noble, a knight errant, if you will. The kind of man who is handsome and carries himself with a self-assurance that commands the respect of one and all. And above all, he is a proper English gentleman who expects a proper English lady for his bride.” She shook the snow off her cloak. “Really, what else is there left for me to do but become a duchess?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he mused, for really all he’d done to become the duke was be the next available Sterling, and he certainly possessed none of the characteristics she’d listed.
She huffed a sigh and glanced over at the passing throng of visitors on the ice. “I think what I will like the most is the respect that comes with being a duchess. I won’t have to endure Sarah Browne’s slights ever again. She won’t dare. ”
Aunt Geneva sighed. “Still, I suppose she was quite un-
done by her loss.”
Thatcher glanced up from the laden plate that had just been put before him. “Hardly. When I left her, I do believe she was quite elated. She offered me a fine salary for my troubles.”
She paused, her teacup halfway to her lips. “A salary? To be her husband?”
“No. To be her new footman.” He paused and waited and then it came.
Geneva coughed and sputtered, nearly dropping the Wedg-
wood piece. “Her what?”
“You heard me perfectly,” he replied. “I am Miss Lang-ley’s new footman.”
“Hollindrake once wrote to me that the men who fight for a cause, a noble one, have more honor than any mere gentle-
man. That you have seen things, done things, that can rend apart even the stoutest of hearts. And since you are here, and appear to be whole, I must conclude you are a brave and honorable man, and therefore hardly my lesser, even if you are our footman.”
“And this house? However could you afford such an address—even if it is empty?”
She winced. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. In for a penny, out for a pound. But in truth he was more focused on getting this last nail to pop free, and even as he pressed all his weight against the bar, she made her confession.
“We aren’t really renting it, more like borrowing it with-
out permission.”
The nail gave way with a great pop and the lid came flipping off. The bar flew next, and Thatcher went pitching head first onto the floor.
“You should be more careful,” Felicity told him, point-
ing at the floor. “I don’t want that marble chipped. Looks Italian.”
Thatcher propped himself up. How the devil did one bor-
row a house without the owner’s consent, unless they were . . . “You’re squatting in someone else’s house and you are worried about the floors?”
“Squatting? What an ugly word. Borrowing sounds somuch more . . .”
“Proper?” he teased.
She brightened considerably. “Exactly.”
Sussex, I will have you know, is a veritable desert.”
“But whatever possessed you to think you could attempt all this? Did you ever once consider what would happen if you were caught?”
Felicity glanced up at him as if he had just questioned the color of the sky or the King’s paternity. “When in doubt, a lady always appears to be completely in the right,” she said with her usual air of supreme confidence.
“What?”
“When in doubt—”
He shook his head. “No, I know what you said, but wher-
ever did you hear such nonsense?”
“Nanny Tasha.”
He was starting to wonder if an ounce of morality could be found amongst all these nannies of theirs. “I doubt she meant for you to steal a house.”
“Stealing? I prefer to think of our residency as maintain-
ing the house’s character. Why, it would be going to damp if we weren’t here keeping it warm.”
“Whatever am I to do with you now?”
She shook a finger at him. “You’ll marry me. Right now. Here. Tonight. I’ll not be ruined anymore. I want to be a proper wife.”
He laughed. “Felicity, you will never be a proper wife.”
“But I’ll be your wife. Dear Thad-her, I want to be your wife. I love you. I really do. I realized it today. When I told Tally and Pippin that I loved you, I knew it must be true. And I wouldn’t trade you for all the ducal coronets in the world. Not a single one.”
“You love me?” he asked. He couldn’t quite believe it. Yet here she was. And she’d come to him of her own free will. By following her passion.
“With all my heart,” she told him, her lips forming a lop-
sided smile.
“And this isn’t the wine talking, but you?” he asked, kneel-
ing down before her.
“No. I was quite definite on that fact before I drank too much.” She paused and blinked, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Am I drunk?”