Love Letters From a Duke (11 page)

Thatcher stumbled on the ice but caught himself before he fell. His floundering about was followed by her laughter.

“What is so amusing?” he asked.

“You,” she giggled. “I thought you were going to kill yourself trying to catch me.” She skated around him, ending with a pretty little pirouette, her lips parted and looking perfectly kissable.

“I demmed near did,” he said. “How would you feel knowing you’d killed me before I’d ever been kissed?”

Her eyes widened. “You’ve never been kissed?”

He leaned forward, close enough to catch a hint of her perfume, a wild note of flowers that was at odds with their wintery surroundings. “No, I’ve never been kissed,” he told her. “Not by an almost duchess.”

Well, perhaps he had overestimated the part about her flirting and wanting to be kissed. And the part about her being a proper English miss.

For Miss Langley’s eyes grew wide, not with interest, but indignation.

And one other thing he’d underestimated. Just how proper Felicity Langley truly was.

For in an instant the lady’s hand reeled back and came crashing into his gut in the form of a well-aimed and well-fashioned fist.

“Ooof—” he gasped as the air went whooshing out of his
chest. And to add insult to injury, his feet flew out from beneath him and he went flying up into the air and down on the ice with a great
smack
.

For a time all he could do was lay there, eyes closed, counting his blessings she hadn’t blackened his eye or bent his nose. How would he ever return to his house and explain not only to Aunt Geneva, but Staines and his batman, Mr. Mudgett, that his nearly betrothed had wrecked such havoc upon him? He was demmed lucky she’d merely flattened him, with no outward evidence of his miscalculation.

Besides the bruises on his pride and ass.

“Mr. Thatcher?” she called out.

He lay there, still as stone, as unmoving as death itself. He heard her skate back, slowly. Most likely to crow over him in triumph.

“Mr. Thatcher?” This time her plea came with a little more urgency, even, one might hope, a measure of concern.

“Oh, bother!” she whispered as she knelt beside him. “I’ve killed him!”

Thatcher felt some smug satisfaction in her distress. Good, let her think of him as on his way aloft.

“Mr. Thatcher?” she whispered. “Dear sir, please get up.”

Now he was her “dear sir.” It took all his self-control not to “wake up” and point that out to her. But his gratification turned out to be short-lived.

“Gracious heavens, Mr. Thatcher,” she was saying as she knelt down beside him. “You can’t die, not on your first day.” There was a pause as she took his hand and gave his arm a tentative shake. When he didn’t move, she continued, “Oh, dear, the agency will hardly be willing to send another footman if they find out I’ve gone and killed you.”

The agency?
His eyes almost fluttered open. She was worried about them?

“Why did I ever let Mr. Jones teach me to box…”

Thatcher made a note not to ever cross this Mr. Jones, because if this was just a paltry example of his skills…

“…for now I’ve most likely killed you! And worse yet, what if this accident is reported in the
Times
or, oh, heavens no, the
Morning Post
? I can just see it now: ‘Deceased yesterday, a Mr. Thatcher on the Thames, a footman in the employ of Lady Philippa Knolles and the Misses Langley of Brook Street.’” There was a gasp from the lady. “That would be terrible. Someone might wonder what house we were at, and if they were to come and check…”

She shook him, this time without any concern for injuries. “Mr. Thatcher, Mr. Thatcher.” When that didn’t work, she gave him a good solid nudge. “Mr. Thatcher, this will not do! You cannot die here in front of the entire city.” After a few more frantic shakes, she stopped, and suddenly he felt her bare fingers brushing back the stray strands of his hair that were falling into his face. “Please, sir, wake up! Someone will notice and it is hardly…oh, it is just not…” She reached over and traced a line over his cheek, and was nearly to his lips when they moved to form one word.

“Proper?” he finished, bracing himself as he opened one eye.

Felicity stumbled back, landing on her backside. “You devil!” she sputtered as she scrambled back up. “How dare you let me think you were…were…”

“Injured?” he supplied.

“Yes, and…and…”

“Dead?” he prompted.

She pointed a finger at him. “That as well. How dare you!”

He sat up and grinned at her. “But I wouldn’t have discovered the depths of your feelings for me if I hadn’t.”

Even as Felicity’s fingers curled into a fist, as if catching hold of the last vestiges of the warmth from his cheeks, her reliably practical nature overtook her mouth. “
Depths of my feelings?
I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Your fears over my apparent demise,” he teased, extending his hand toward her in a request for help. “One might have found your statements quite passionate.”

Passionate?
Oh, dear. She had been. And worse, he knew it. What had compelled her to pull off her glove and touch him? Let her bare fingers trace the warmth of his cheek, search for the heat of his breath? For the only one who hadn’t been breathing had been her—she’d never touched a man so intimately, felt the hint of stubble from his beard, harsh and wondrous beneath the tips of her fingers. And his lips, so firm and hard. All the while, one question had tolled inside her head louder than any other.

How would she ever find out what it was like to be kissed by him if he were dead?

Her gaze flew up toward him. No, she hadn’t thought that. She couldn’t have.

“Don’t look so alarmed, Miss Langley,” he was saying. “Your secrets are safe with me. Now will you help me up?” His outstretched hand tempted her like nothing ever had before. Not even the French wine Tally had been wont to steal from Miss Emery’s larder, or even the thought of besting Miss Browne once and for all, could match the lure before her.

In that second, her passion found its freedom at long last. Like anything that had been withheld for so long, it poured forth a bevy of images like those she might find in the pages of one of Tally’s novels.

Her hand enfolded in his, the warmth of his palm filling her veins with an tremulous heat. Instead of helping her up,
he was tugging her into his arms, until they fell together in a tangled jumble of intertwined limbs.

But it wasn’t onto the ice of the frozen Thames upon which they fell…No, her newly freed imagination raced along, skipping ahead of her good sense, carrying them to a warm, deep bed and a room cast in shadows. Her essential winter layers disappeared, and Felicity envisioned herself wearing only her chemise, and Thatcher…well, the man was as naked as the day he’d arrived in this world.

Magnificently so.

“Thatcher
,
kiss me
,
” she whispered to him in a husky
,
womanly voice that surely couldn’t be hers. And just as his head dipped down to cover her lips with his
,
as his hand cradled her breast
,
as he murmured something completely untoward…

“Miss Langley? Are you well?”

She could tell by the arch of his brows that this wasn’t the first time he’d asked her. Nor the second. Oh, heavens! She’d been woolgathering! About
him
.

Felicity closed her eyes, her hands going to her head. Perhaps she’d been the one to fall to the ice and this was the result of a very serious concussion. There had to be a lump somewhere, for how else could she explain that he’d gotten to his feet without her noticing? But there he was, leaning over her and looking up under her bonnet, so that they were nearly nose to nose, so close her gaze fell to his lips—firm and well set and oh, so very masculine—as tempting as hot chocolate or…. or…

Her first kiss.

She felt her lips purse, her eyes fluttering shut, as he asked, “Miss Langley, are you well? You look rather odd.”

Her eyes sprang open and all her fantasies went flitting away, caught in the icy wind. “Quite well,” she managed as she shook off his offer for help by scooting away from him. What was she thinking?

Kiss him? Why, it was absolutely ridiculous. She’d rather kiss a knighted merchant.

And that would be the extent of her matrimonial prospects if she didn’t stop making a cake of herself over this wretched man.

“Hollindrake,” she muttered to herself as she clamored to her feet and skated away. “Hollindrake. Hollindrake. Dearest Hollindrake,” she chanted like an Eastern swami. “Sensible Hollindrake.” Oh, she was feeling better already.

“Pardon?” he asked, as he caught up with her, his hand catching her by the elbow—mostly because he was teetering again, but his touch sent a shockwave of panic through her. No, not really panic. Something else. Something warm and tempting and, dare she think it? Wonderful.

Oh, this would never do
. Shaking him loose, she said, “I need to go home. We all need to go home. Now! I just realized that if Miss Browne is correct and His Grace has come to London, then I should be at home awaiting his card, getting prepared…”
Oh, that didn’t sound right.
“Making myself ready for his arrival.” She paused in her rambling and chanced another look into Thatcher’s dark eyes. “Imminent arrival,” she added.

“Yes, of course,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, and following her to the bench near the skate merchant where they sat down to unstrap their blades.

“Don’t you think it unusual that the man didn’t let you know that he was coming to Town?” Thatcher asked as he undid the buckles holding his blade to his boot.

Felicity tugged at her own strap to no avail. “He’s a tremendously important person.”

To her chagrin, he reached over and quickly and easily released her skate. “Too busy to inform his betrothed of his plans?”

“Well, we aren’t actually…that is to say…well, we are nearly betrothed, so that doesn’t require the same sort of
familiarity one might expect if one is entirely betrothed.”

The man let out a low whistle. “Nearly betrothed. Sounds like a slippery slope, to my way of thinking.” He reached over to help her with her second skate, but Felicity brushed his hand aside and did it herself. “He could cry off at any moment.”

“Cry off?” She rose to her feet, her entire body trembling at such a notion. “The Duke of Hollindrake is a man of honor. He would never do such a thing.”

“How can you be so sure of him?” Thatcher rose as well, once again towering over her, and Felicity realized that she’d suddenly lost her advantage. “How do you know he’s a man of honor?”

It was on her lips to tell this impudent man just exactly how honorable Aubrey Michael Thomas Sterling, the 10th Duke of Hollindrake was, when a shrill cry rose from the stalls behind them.

“My purse! My purse!” a woman shrieked. “It’s been stolen!”

Felicity spun around. “Oh, heavens, Aunt Minty!”

“That doesn’t sound like your aunt,” Thatcher said, listening as the lady continued screeching.

“That woman there! She took it,” came the cry. “I want the watch called. A constable summoned!”

“Oh, Aunt Minty,” Felicity said under her breath as she began to lope through the crowd, pushing her way toward the knot of people gathered around the growing scandal.
This wasn’t happening.
Having one’s footman nearly go toes up in front of all of London was bad enough, but an aunt who was a…

Felicity shivered to even consider such a notion. “Oh, she just couldn’t have!”

“I don’t see the hurry,” Thatcher called after. “I don’t think it was your aunt’s purse that was stolen.”

“If only it was,” Felicity replied.

“Captain Dashwell, whatever are you doing here?” Pippin said, taking a step back from the man who had haunted her dreams for far too long. Her hands fisted at her sides to keep them from trembling.

A dream lover was one thing, but a living, breathing one was an entirely different problem.

“So you do remember me, little Circe,” he said, coming up to take her hand and kiss the fingertips of her mitten. His face was more weathered than she remembered, but those green eyes were still as sharp and keen as ever. “I must say, you have grown up since last we met, though you still blush quite prettily.”

“Captain Dashwell—” she protested even as she felt the telltale heat on her cheeks rising.

Oh
,
heavens
,
Pippin
, she scolded herself.
Steady. You aren’t sixteen and he’s no danger to you…

As he had been that dark night so long ago.

Caught up in one of Felicity’s madcap marriage schemes, their interference in Lord John Tremont’s life had landed the poor man in jail, and it had been up to her and Tally and Felicity to continue his work for the King and country. She had found herself on a lonely stretch of beach near Hastings, the sort of secret inlet that was the haunt of smugglers and reckless coves—like Captain Thomas Dashwell. And when he rowed to shore, stepped out of the surf and into her line of sight, she knew her life would never be the same.

Her heart would never beat so fast as it did when he’d flirted with her, teased her, and eventually stolen a kiss from her innocent lips.

But in the four years since, so much had changed. Their countries were at war now, and they stood not united against France, but enemies.

Well
,
nearly enemies
, she told herself. “Captain Dashwell, you shouldn’t—”

“Sssh, Circe. Thomas, plain and simple, if you don’t
mind.” He leaned forward, pulled her even closer, then whispered into her ear, “The name Dashwell isn’t much loved in these parts. Most of England and a good part of Scotland, for that matter. There’s a rich price on my head—”

“Yes, I know,” Pippin said.

“So you’ve been following my adventures, have you?”

“They are hard to avoid, sir,” she told him. “You’ve caused a great number of merchants to lose their goods.”

“Better they lose their tea and silks than I my head.” He leaned forward. “For however would I steal another kiss from your sweet lips if I were to find my head stuck up on a pike?”

Pippin whipped her hand out of his and stepped back, looking left and right to see if anyone else was looking at them. “Then whatever are you doing here?”

“Stranded, I fear. At least until this ice melts,” he told her. “I came in, to do some business, you might say, and have found myself landlocked.” He waved at the ships held fast in the ice. “And without a friend to be had. At least until now.” He tried again to take her hand, but this time she was quicker and tucked it safely under her cloak.

Not that such a thing would stop Captain Dashwell, she realized, as he slanted an assessing glance at her elbow, which still poked out.

Pippin took another step back. “I daresay you haven’t done yourself any favors on that score. There is no doubt why you are friendless. Lady Josephine says you’re a scurvy, dishonorable, wretched—”

Oh, there was no use going on. The scoundrel only preened under her scolding tones.

“But sweet Pippin, I thought that was why you liked me.”

“I don’t,” she lied. “I don’t even know you.”

He tipped his head back to gaze at her, and she could see the shadow of a tawny beard on his face. For a moment as he studied her, she swore she could smell the sea on him—the
tar and the pitch and the salt that had been his calling card that long ago night they’d first met.

Yet, he’d changed as surely as she had. His shoulders had grown in breadth, and now he loomed even larger over her—not like the popinjays and pampered Corinthians of London that Felicity constantly pointed out, but as a man used to living by his wits and fighting—or stealing, most would say—for what he wanted.

“So you’ve been reading about me in the paper? Seen the accounts of me and the
Circe
? Given any thought to that kiss of ours? When was that, two, nay, three—”

“Four years, sir,” she told him. “I was but a child then, and you a regular villain to be so bold.”

“A child! With a gun in her hand and doing a man’s job for her country. Little Pippin, you were no more a child than you are now. And might I say you’ve grown into quite a fine lady. As pretty as I am dishonorable.” He reached over and with one finger gently tipped her head up. “I’ve never forgotten those eyes of yours. As blue as my heart is black.”

Pippin’s heart lurched. He’d thought of her? Remembered her?

His rough fingers held her gently and there was almost a sad light to his eyes as he gazed at her. “Tell me you haven’t gone and married someone else.”

“No, I’m not married,” she said, before she thought about it.

He grinned at her as he came closer and whispered, “I’d be sorely disappointed to discover that you hadn’t waited for me—all those long years at sea for naught.”

“I haven’t been—”

“No, of course not,” he agreed, but a mischievous light danced in his eyes as if he knew the truth. Knew her secret. “No, I have to suppose you are living in Mayfair in some grand house,” he said, in a voice that held not envy, but…well, pity. “With servants aplenty to do your bidding.”

She shook her head, unable to speak, mesmerized by the intimacy of being with him again. Just as she had dreamt. Imagined.
Desired
.

“Not in Mayfair?” he teased.

“Oh, it’s in Mayfair, on Brook Street, though hardly grand,” she whispered. Right this moment she was willing to tell him anything. “It’s empty and cold. And it isn’t even ours. Since we’ve no money, we had to steal it.”