Page 34 of A Duke to Restore her Memory
“Geoffrey Eddard Warburton, if you steal one more pinch of that dough, you will spoil your appetite entirely!” Angelica Loxley tried to sound stern, but laughter bubbled beneath her words like water over stones.
“I am merely testing the quality, cousin.” The ten-year-old boy grinned, the flour dusting his dark curls like fresh snow. Someone must ensure that these biscuits are fit for the war effort.”
Sunlight streamed through the large kitchen windows of Rosemere Hall, catching the copper pots that hung in neat rows and turning them into burnished gold. The scent of butter and sugar perfumed the air, mingling with the earthier aroma of freshly baked bread.
“The war effort, indeed!” Angelica shook her head, sending a loose tendril of pale blonde hair dancing across her forehead. “Well, I suspect your efforts to be entirely self-serving, young man.”
She turned back to her work, her slender fingers deftly cutting shapes from the rolled dough. In the morning light, her features held an almost ethereal quality—high cheekbones and a straight, narrow nose that spoke of her French heritage, softened by eyes like English bluebells.
It was a face that merged two warring nations into something uniquely lovely, though Angelica herself seemed unconscious of her beauty as she worked.
“I remember you yourself saying that serving others serves ourselves,” Geoffrey countered, attempting to mimic his tutor’s philosophical tone. “Therefore, by eating these biscuits, I serve both myself, and England.”
“Your logic would impress Aristotle himself,” Angelica laughed, then caught her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on arranging the biscuits on the baking sheet. Her movements were precise, and graceful—with the same careful attention she brought to everything she did, as if each small task were a prayer of gratitude.
The kitchen door swung open, admitting Lady Crowley, their nearest neighbor, in a rustle of expensive silks. The woman’s pinched features registered surprise, then barely concealed disdain at finding the niece of the Lady of the house elbow-deep in kitchen work.
“Lady Angelica! What on earth…” she sniffed, her gaze sweeping the domestic scene like a general inspecting a group of particularly disappointing troops.
“Good morning, Lady Sophia,” Angelica straightened, unconsciously assuming the perfect posture that her aunt had drilled into her since childhood. “We are preparing biscuits for the soldiers at the parish hospital.”
“How… charitable of you.” The woman’s tone suggested it was anything but. “Though, one cannot help but wonder whether it is entirely appropriate, given the current situation with those French savages. It might even cause some to question where… certain sympathies lie.”
Lady Sophia’s words struck Angelica with the force of a physical blow, though the only outward reaction she allowed to show was a slight tightening of her fingers on the rolling pin. She opened her mouth to respond, but Geoffrey beat her to it.
“Cousin Angelica is as English as Yorkshire pudding!” he declared hotly. “She has been teaching me to be a proper patriot, and we are making these biscuits for our brave soldiers.”
Lady Sophia’s expression soured further, as if the boy’s defense only proved her point. “Yes, well. Do give my regards to your aunt. I had hoped to speak with her about the upcoming assembly, but I can see she is otherwise engaged.”
The door closed behind her with more force than strictly necessary, leaving a sudden chill in the sunlit kitchen.
“Do not mind her,” Geoffrey said fiercely, wrapping his small arms around Angelica’s waist. “She is just jealous because you are prettier and nicer and better at everything.”
Angelica hugged him back, grateful for his kind, loyal heart. “Thank you, dearest. Now, shall we get all these into the oven? The soldiers certainly will not be impressed with raw dough, no matter how thoroughly tested.”
They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, until the sound of another entrance made them both look up. This time, it was Lady Lavinia Loxley Warburton who swept into the kitchen like an elegant ship under full sail.
“Honestly, Angelica,” Lavinia sighed, sinking into a chair with theatrical exhaustion. “Why can you not just have the maid do it? It is hardly seemly for a young lady of your station to be playing a cook.”
Where Angelica was all gentle grace and quiet beauty, Lavinia was all sharp angles and studied artifice. Even at this early hour, every dark curl was perfectly arranged, every ribbon placed just so. She had been a renowned beauty in her youth, and at forty-five she still commanded attention through sheer force of will.
“The maids are busy with preparations for tomorrow’s celebrations, Aunt,” Angelica replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “And I enjoy the work. It makes me feel useful.”
“Useful!” Lavinia waved away the word like an annoying insect. “You are to be nineteen tomorrow, my dear. It is time you thought about being ornamental rather than useful. Which reminds me…” a smile curved her painted lips. “I have an early birthday surprise for you.”
Something in her aunt’s tone made Angelica’s stomach tighten with apprehension. She recognized that particular smile—it usually preceded some grand scheme that would benefit her aunt far more than anyone else.
“Oh?” she managed, trying to keep her voice light.
“Yes, indeed.” Lavinia leaned forward, her eyes bright with triumph. “I have arranged a most advantageous match for you, my dear. You are to be married!”
The rolling pin slipped from Angelica’s fingers, clattering against the wooden worktable. “Married? To whom?”
“All in good time, my dear.” Lavinia’s smile grew more sphinxlike. “The gentleman in question is of excellent breeding, and, more importantly, considerable means. You will meet him soon enough.”
“But—”
“Now, now.” Lavinia rose, brushing imaginary crumbs from her silk skirts. “A wealthy husband is essential for a young lady’s security in these uncertain times.”
Angelica frowned, her delicate brows drawing together. “But surely I have no need for wealth? Papa left me well provided for, did he not?”
Something flickered in Lavinia’s eyes, quick as a minnow darting through clear water, but her smile never wavered. “One can never be too secure, my dear. Now, go and make yourself presentable. We are expected to attend Lady Crowley’s ball this evening.”
After Lavinia swept out, Geoffrey tugged at Angelica’s sleeve. “You are not leaving when you get married, are you? Who else will help me steal biscuits and climb trees and learn French swear words?”
“Geoffrey!” Angelica could not help but laugh, though her heart felt heavy as lead. “I never taught you such things! And no one could ever keep me from being your friend. I shall visit as much as I can—I promise.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparation. Angelica’s lady’s maid, Susannah, helped her into her finest ball gown—a creation of white silk that made her look like a fresh spring flower. The mirror reflected back a young woman caught between two worlds: her mother’s French refinement in the graceful arch of her neck and delicate wrists, and her father’s English steadfastness in the determined set of her chin.
“You look like an angel, my lady,” Susannah said, carefully adjusting a pearl pin in Angelica’s upswept hair.
“Angels do not have knocking knees,” Angelica replied wryly, “or two left feet.”
The Crowley’s ballroom blazed with hundreds of candles, their light multiplied by gilt-framed mirrors until the whole room seemed to float in a golden haze. Angelica followed her aunt through the crowd, acutely aware of the whispers that followed in their wake.
Would her mysterious intended be among the attendees? Would she recognize him somehow, like the heroines in romantic novels?
“My Lady,” a deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “Might I have the honor of this dance?”
She turned only to find herself looking up—quite a way up—into a pair of warm, brown eyes that crinkled at the corners with good humor.
Their owner was tall and broad-shouldered, his evening clothes perfectly tailored to his robust, athletic frame with nothing short of military precision.
A slight unevenness in his stance suggested an old injury, but it only added to his distinguished bearing, like a battle scare on a fine sword.
“Lord Christopher Fenwick,” he introduced himself with a bow that managed to be both proper and playful. “I promise to try not to trample on your feet too badly,” he added with a laugh that was rich and genuine, and it warmed her like a good brandy.
“Lady Angelica Loxley,” she returned with a curtsy, charmed despite herself. As he led her onto the dance floor, Angelica caught her aunt watching with a strangely unreadable expression.
From the corner, the orchestra began playing their music, and to Angelica’s surprise, she found herself moving with unexpected grace. Christopher led her with confident ease, his slight limp barely noticeable as he guided her through the figures of the country dance.
“It seems,” he murmured as they turned, “we make quite a pair of invalids, though balancing one another quite well.”
“Hardly invalid, my lord,” she replied, feeling a slight blush warm her cheeks. “Though, I confess, this is the first time I have not had to count my steps in my head like a schoolgirl.”
“Ah, but counting is vastly overrated, do you not think? Dancing should be like conversation—natural and unrehearsed.”
Their eyes met then, pools of sapphire and deep oak colliding, causing something to spark between them, quick as lightning and just as startling. Angelica felt her heart skip a single beat, then race to catch up.
She could not help noticing how the candlelight caught slight bronze highlights in his hair, or the way his shoulders filled out his coat with unconscious elegance.
“You are having dangerous thoughts, my lady.” He said softly, his eyes twinkling.
“Am I?”
“Yes, I can see you calculating how to step on my good foot instead of my bad one.”
Angelica laughed, the sound carrying across the ballroom like a sting of silver bells. Several heads turned, and she caught Lady Crowley’s disapproving frown from across the room.
“You’ve caught me. But then again, it has been said that I am a terrible strategist.”
“On the contrary,” his voice dropped lower, meant for her ears alone. “I think you are exactly what you appear to be.”
“And that is?” Angelica asked, slightly intrigued.
“Kind, genuine, and refreshingly free of artifice.”
The words touched something deep inside her, a longing to be truly known and accepted. But she could not afford such feelings, not when she was promised to another. Could she?
Their dance ended and left Angelica feeling flushed and slightly breathless. Christopher bowed over her hand, his lips barely brushing the top of her gloved knuckles, but even that slight touch sent sparks racing up her arm.
“Until we meet again, my lady.” He said, and she could not help but notice how his eyes lingered on her face, as if memorizing its details.
“You seem to have made quite the impression, niece.” Lavinia materialized at her elbow, steering her toward the refreshment table. “Though I am not sure that is quite what we are looking for.”
“We?” Angelica accepted a glass of lemonade, using it to cool her warm cheeks. “Aunt Lavinia, please—why all the mystery? Who is my intended? Might I have some say in the matter?”
“Of course you have a say in the matter, dear, but you must also trust that I know what is best.” Lavinia’s eyes darted around the room, as if searching for someone. “Ah! There is Mr. Montague. I must have a quick word with him regarding tomorrow’s meeting.”
She swept away, leaving Angelica alone with her thoughts. From across the room, she could see Christopher in conversation with several other gentleman, among them a few officers.
Even from this distance, he cut an impressive figure, his bearing somehow both militant and graceful despite his disability.
A burst of masculine laughter drew her attention to a nearby alcove, where two gentlemen stood partially concealed by a potted palm.
“—cannot imagine why old Montague is in such a rush,” one voice said, “unless he knows something we don’t about the Loxley girl’s finances.”
“Well, there is the French connection to consider,” his companion replied. “Perhaps it is better to settle these matters quickly, before anyone starts asking uncomfortable questions about her loyalty.”
Angelica’s hands trembled so badly she had to set down her glass. How dare they?
She had spent her entire life proving herself a loyal English subject, supporting the war effort, trying to be more English than the English themselves. She had eradicated and hidden what she could pertaining to her heritage—even adapted her given name to better suit to her life in England.
“Lady Angelica?” Lord Fenwick’s voice made her jump. He must have seen something in her expression, because his own was now bearing signs of concern. “Are you unwell?”
“I—” she forced a smile. “It is just a tad warm in here, is it not? I wonder, would you be so kind as to escort me outside for some fresh air, my lord?”
He offered her his arm immediately, leading her toward the terrace doors. The night air was cool and sweet with the scent of early roses, helping to calm her racing heart.
“Better?” he asked softly.
“Yes, thank you, my lord.” She drew a deep breath.
“Call me Christopher, please. At least out here—away from all that stuffiness.”
“Christopher.” Though she was well aware of the breach of propriety, his name felt just right on her tongue, like a word she had always known but just discovered the meaning of. “Do you ever feel like you are simply playing a part? As if everyone around you has expectations of who you should be, and you are constantly trying to live up to them?”
He was quiet for a long moment, and she suddenly feared she had overstepped and said too much. But then he spoke, and his voice held understanding rather than judgement.
“Each day,” he admitted. “Though, I suspect your burden is heavier than most, my lady.”
She turned to him, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that from what I have seen of you all evening, Lady Angelica, is that it is clear how carefully you guard every word, every gesture. It must be simply exhausting, trying so hard to be the perfect English rose.”
The truth of his words struck her deeply. How had he managed to see so plainly what she worked so hard to disguise?
Before she could respond, Lavinia’s voice carried through the open doors. “Angelica? Where are you, dear? Mr. Montague wishes to discuss tomorrow’s arrangements.”
“You should go,” Christopher said softly. “But remember—perfection is highly overrated. Sometimes our flaws are the things that make us far more interesting.”
He stepped back into the shadows just as Lavinia appeared, leaving Angelica to wonder if she had imagined the conversation.
But no, her heart was still racing, and her skin still tingled where his hand had rested briefly beside hers on the balustrade.
As she followed her aunt back inside, Angelica could not shake the feeling that something momentous was shifting, like ice breaking up on a river. Tomorrow, she would come into her inheritance and finally be able to take control of her own destiny.
And yet… she could not help but wonder why her aunt seemed so intent on securing her future by marrying wealthily. Why did she have the most unsettling feeling that something bigger was afoot?
Through the crowd, she caught one last glimpse of Christopher watching her, his expression unreadable. Then, a pair of lovers stepped between them, and he was gone, leaving Angelica with nothing but questions and the lingering warmth of his touch.