Page 4 of Matters of a Duke’s Heart

“You appear rather distracted, my dear.”

Felicity tore her gaze from the dazzling ballroom as she stood on a terrace, overlooking the dancefloor.

Her mother was at her side, not quite leaning on the railing as Felicity was, and Felicity immediately corrected her stance, surprised her mother had not already scolded her for it.

“I am simply observing,” Felicity answered with a s smile she did not think was convincing at all.

“For yourself or for Daphne?” Her mother’s knowing brow said she knew her eldest daughter well.

Felicity swallowed and turned her focus back to the ballroom.

The terrace level within the Cardale ballroom was mostly empty, a few lone suitors scouring the floor to see who entered.

Mostly it was for patrons who did not want to get involved with the courtship games below, and for older matrons who had already married off their children, leaving them to gossip about everybody else’s matches.

“Daphne is fine,” Felicity’s mother said when Felicity didn’t answer.

Her eyes found her sister, dressed in a blue ballgown that twinkled beneath the chandelier.

The sleeves framed her willowy arms as she spun, extending her hand outward in a graceful manner that would no doubt impress many suitors who looked on. And plenty did. “Felicity.”

“Sorry, Mama. I just—I cannot help but be protective of her. I see how they look at her.”

“She is the jewel of the ball,” Felicity’s mother agreed. “But you are, too. A crown is made up of many jewels. Take your place down there. Frankly, I am upset you have not.”

Part of Felicity couldn’t admit the truth: that she didn’t know how many more fake smiles she had in her, how much more polite, feigned interest she had left to give at the same, old boring conversation that every suitor made.

She exhaled, turning her back on the ballroom for a moment. “My place down there consists of dancing with men who simply want to tell me how many vineyards they own, or what new business deal they just secured, or how vast their name is.”

“That is all very good,” her mother told her, frowning. “These are qualities you want to hear about.”

“I understand the importance of them, yes, but… do they truly have nothing else to speak about? What of—I do not know. Their favorite color, the book they read when they are at a loss for something to do, their favorite part of their home or their garden. Do they take one cube or sugar in their coffee or two, and, at that, do they prefer the strong tug of coffee in the morning, or the steep comfort of tea? These are the things that make up a person. These are the things that would help me decide to spend my life with them.”

Her mother gave her a withering look as if she pitied her for her thoughts, even as a pinched softness creased her forehead.

“Felicity…” She took hold of her hands, squeezing them tightly.

“Your head is filled with beautiful ideals, and truly I adore that you put stock in all of these things. But those must come after everything else. You must focus on securing your future. You may know a man’s favorite author aligns with yours, and it will be terribly romantic—until you find out he has next to nothing in the coffers, and you are destitute.

What good is a romantic day in the library if there is no security that the library will remain?

Felicity’s heart ached. She understood her mother’s advice, but every man faded into one. The same faceless suitor, the same inane, boring reel of impressive financial pursuits, and they all boasted. Heavens, perhaps if some had a sense of humility about them then it would be endurable but no.

She sighed again and looked toward the sea of dancers. Suitors lined the edge of the ballroom, their eyes sharp and eager, assessing the ladies.

Felicity felt so isolated from it all, so far removed from fitting into the usual, normal way of things. A spoke of out of place on the wheel, stopping it from moving effortlessly.

“Just one dance, Felicity,” her mother eventually urged when she realized Felicity wasn’t going to answer her. “Just one suitor, one dance set. That is all I ask, if only to grant yourself some peace from both your father and me.”

After a few moments, Felicity nodded. “Mama, you have taught me to be the perfect ton lady, and I will see this through.”

The words were practiced, known, and it was the thing she told herself to get through every devastating social event, another Season resulting in disappointment. But her mother saw through those practiced words, and her smile turned sadder.

“Yes, but do not lose that lovely heart of yours. I want what is best for you, even if, at the moment, that means pushing for your security above all else. Put aside your ideals for now. Focus on what you must.” As much as there was kindness in her mother’s eyes, there was also fear, and Felicity knew she could not disappoint her family.

To her right, at the end of the short terrace corridor, were the stairs leading back down into the main ballroom. Her gaze returned to the dancefloor again, and it was only when her stomach hitched with nerves that she realized she kept looking at every dark-haired man.

That she was looking for the handsome stranger from the Vauxhall Gardens, and then she quickly stopped doing so.

He had not wanted to even dutifully help a lady in distress.

No doubt he was some arrogant younger brother, able to forgo duty and forced attendance at balls.

Another arrogant man thinking himself too good and above everybody else to be present.

Her thoughts had still wandered to him, though, finding that arrogance intriguing.

Felicity had met her fair share of suitors over the last two Seasons but she hadn’t recognized him.

Now, amid the golden opulence of the Cardales’ ballroom, she reminded herself that even if his handsome face would have fit him in among the ton and the charming suitors, he would not even look in her direction.

That cold stare had looked right through her. Among the faces of other jewels, Felicity did not stand out.

Her mother guided her back down to the ballroom, already scouring for suitors to push Felicity onto.

“Oh, look.” Her mother’s excited voice rose. “It is Lord Radcliffe! Felicity, do draw him into conversation. I find I am parched, actually. Will you get me a drink?”

Felicity looked toward the refreshments table where more champagne filled wide, dainty glasses. Notably, Lord Radcliffe was also making his way over. Felicity’s stomach dropped like a stone.

“Of course,” she answered tightly to her mother, knowing she had already put up too much of a fight as of late. “I will be back shortly.”

As Felicity left, her mother was swanned around with other mothers, all looking to marry their daughters off to eligible men, and Felicity only caught the tail end of their excited chatter. … after so long! Can you believe—

She walked away, leaving her mother to her gossip. Her patience grew thin, and she needed all her energy to endure Lord Radcliffe. When she approached the refreshment table, she smiled politely at him, hoping the grimace was not as strong as it felt.

“Lord Radcliffe,” she greeted. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Lady Felicity.” He bowed, his eyes already catching hers. She tried not to let their gazes lock, instead pretending to be interested in the selection of cakes. “Forgive me, but I could not help noticing how you had not yet danced at all tonight. We are an hour into the ball.”

“I… I am resting my ankle,” Felicity lied. “I must have twinged it during the crush at Vauxhall Gardens last week, so I am simply happy to be on the side of the dancefloor for tonight.”

Just one dance, Felicity. Just one suitor, one dance set.

“Have you had it checked out?” Lord Radcliffe’s pale brows pulled together.

His straight, wheat-colored hair was pulled into a ribbon at the base of his neck, making his pinched features look somewhat like he was sneering as he looked down at her ankle.

She ensured her dress covered her completely.

“You ought to. I have a brilliant physician. Perhaps I can even chaperone you to—”

“I have,” she lied further. “All is well. It is nothing that rest cannot heal.”

“I am certain one dance cannot do much harm,” Lord Radcliffe said, looking back up to grin at her. “In fact, you must save me a dance, even if I am your only one of the night. I shall dance you slow enough around the floor that your ankle barely aches.”

Reluctantly, Felicity nodded. “Of course. I shall save my dance for you.” She quickly picked up two glasses. “Although for now I must bring this drink to my mother, lest she swoon from the heat.”

“Later, then,” he agreed. “I will come to find you.”

Her throat tightened. It sounded much more like a threat than a lovely promise, or a desired-for thing, and Felicity only nodded and hurried away. When she returned to her mother she found herself being pinned with her mother’s cunning attention.

Felicity knew that look—it was the one her mother gave her when she had a male visitor the morning after a ball. It was the look of her mother already piecing together Felicity’s future while she herself remained none the wiser.

Suspicious, Felicity listened to the whispers around her, the bent heads lowered together, the giggles behind fans and eyes that watched sharply. “What is going on?”

“The most wondrous news has arisen!” Her mother told her, catching Felicity’s hand. She took the glass from her, smirking as she inspected the bubbling drink inside. “The Duke of Langdon is looking to marry this Season.”

“The Duke of Langdon?” Daphne gasped, and Felicity, too distracted by the whispers, had scarcely noticed her sister rejoining them. Daphne’s cheeks were flushed from dancing. Her ringlets bounced as she leaned in. “The ever-reclusive Duke of Langdon?”

Their mother’s slow grin made Felicity worry.

“The one and only. And you, my darling Felicity, are going to be one of the first ladies he will see. At least I will make every move necessary to ensure such a thing. I know you wish to marry for love, but as I reminded you upstairs you must marry well.”

“Mama—”

“I will ensure you have a most wonderful, comfortable marriage, Felicity,” she assured her as if Felicity was already engaged.

The ballroom suddenly felt very far away, and Felicity felt too small in the face of it all.

She could hear her heartbeat fluttering too fast in her wrists, her neck, her chest. Her blood roared in her ears.

She barely heard Daphne when her sister next spoke. “But Mama, there are reasons why he has not been around in society for so long. I may have not debuted yet, but I recall the gossip from…” Daphne frowned. “Seven years ago, perhaps six? I am not sure, but His Grace had a wife previously.”

Felicity thought she might faint. She did not recall the Duke of Langdon, but her thoughts went immediately to a man old enough to have been wed already some years ago.

In her mind, white hair streaked from a receded hairline, his skin lined and old, his voice rough with strict tones and chiding as he hunted for another young wife to continue his dukedom.

Her stomach dropped. No, she thought. No, this cannot be happening. My mama cannot be excited to marry me off to an old man.

“Mama,” she tried again, only to find her voice was too quiet, too weak.

Daphne chattered on and on. “Lady Tessa’s older cousin knew of the late Duchess of Langdon. Lady Sophia, I believe her name was. In fact, only last week at the gardens was she gossiping about it! We were wondering if there will be a similar scandal.”

“There was no scandal,” their mother snapped, her tone something Felicity rarely heard, especially toward Daphne. “What you recall is mere gossip!”

“Everybody believes gossip when it is convenient to provide entertainment,” Daphne pointed out in a pout. “Is he really the best choice for Felicity? What if… what if the gossip is true? She did die rather mysteriously Mama.”

“Keep your voice down, Daphne.” Their mother’s voice turned softer, urging, as she looked toward Felicity next.

As if noticing how pale her face must have gone, Felicity’s mother smoothed her hands over both her cheeks, cupping her face.

“Felicity, do not listen to such gossip. I am certain His Grace is most pleasant and charming. His former wife had an accident, is all. He is not a dangerous man. What he is is a most eligible man, one who will make a good husband, I am certain. You could be a duchess.” Her eyes sparkled at such a suggestion, but dread only pooled stronger in Felicity’s stomach as she forced herself to nod, forced herself to go along with it all.

Her fingers clenched behind her back, snagging on the ribbon that draped over the back of her dress. It grounded her for a moment as she needed.

“Imagine,” her mother murmured. “My Felicity, the Duchess of Langdon.”

“A most impressive title,” she responded but her voice was too far away. It was barely above a whisper, but her mother didn’t notice, too busy muttering about finding Felicity’s father to see if they could ask for a meeting with the duke—or that maybe they would get lucky and be approached first.

In her mother’s absence, Felicity only swayed, looking to Daphne for support.

You are the eldest, she thought. If you pursue the duke as your mother says then Daphne will be spared. Daphne will not have to find out if the rumors are true. If the circumstances of the late duchess’s death are truly tragic and mysterious.

Before Daphne could say anything, they were both approached by suitors.

Felicity, with no option but to accept, knowing she must keep her options open, nodded and slipped her hand into the next one offered. Distantly, she was aware of Lord Radcliffe watching, his eyes narrowed in anger.

No doubt he would intervene as he had at the last ball when she danced with another, but for now, he watched, and Felicity avoided his gaze.

“... and you must have heard I am distantly related to a Russian monarch,” her suitor was saying, but his words faded in and out as Felicity danced dutifully. This was her life, wasn’t it?

Resigned to doing what others told her, pretending that accepting the suitors her mother approved of was the best for her. Resigned to agreeing to whatever her parents wanted rather than finally stand up for herself.

It was how she would always be.

After one suitor, another was ready to pull her in, and then another, and Felicity knew she could not keep up her injured ankle rouse, especially not when Lord Radcliffe finally cut in.

But Felicity barely heard his snark comment, barely heard anything over the roaring in her ears.

My Felicity, the Duchess of Langdon.

The ballroom shrunk and shrunk until Felicity could no longer breathe properly.