To Marry the Duke's Daughter (After the Masquerade) by Ashley Stormes

brother. That letter was also deposited in the
fireplace. Jonathon knew his brother would appear soon enough, but he was in
no mood to humour Gregory by going willingly.
    The last letter was addressed in a
vaguely familiar hand, but it was not until he broke the seal that he recalled
his brief correspondence with Lord Henry Fenna.
    It was an invitation from Lord Fenna to
attend his upcoming wedding to Miss Jane Burnel.
    “Brilliant,” Jonathon muttered, tossing
the paper aside. “At least someone can marry.”
    He was genuinely happy for his two
friends, but the bouquet of white and red roses teased him from their perch on
the far edge of his desk, reminding him that Felicity was unaware of his foiled
plan to court her. She needed to know the truth, but how could he tell her?
The duke would undoubtedly keep her by his side while in public, and it was
unlikely that Jonathon would have an opportunity to even wave or dip his head
in recognition if they actually attended the same event.
    “I follow my mother’s advice, do the right thing by being honest with her
father, and now I have lost her,” he complained, jerking at his cravat and
untying the stiff knot with fumbling fingers. “In my mother’s defence, Lord
Avondale was already aware that I enjoyed a correspondence with her. Mother
warned me that he would not take my attentions lightly, but to ban me from his
house?” Jonathon scowled at his scuffed boots. “There must be a way to see
her, or at least take her the flowers so that she knows I am trying.”
    Sunlight glinted off the mirror on the
opposite wall of his study, and he turned to the window with a contemplative
expression. If the sun were already setting it meant he had stalked through
Hyde Park longer than he intended.
    “Perhaps the darkness will be my ally,”
he mused, unbuttoning his coat. “I am a reasonably intelligent man; I should
be able to deduce which window is hers.” Throwing pebbles seemed a romantic
cliché, but he was not limber enough to scale the exterior wall, nor did he
have an inclination for heights.
    Three hours later he paced in the small
garden behind the Avondale townhouse, his brows narrowed and his teeth
clenched.
    “Blast the duke to perdition. Why does
he need this many windows?”
    “All the better to see unwelcome
intruders,” stated a dark voice from behind a large bush.
    Jonathon quickly turned to face the
bodiless voice, holding the roses in front of him like a sword. “Who are you?”
    Chattrecombe, the butler who had so
politely told him to clear off, stepped out from behind the unruly rosebush.
Jonathon immediately felt silly; while he gestured with roses, the butler
comfortably sported an old pistol.
    “I could ask the same of you, Mr.
White, if I did not already know the answer. You were told to refrain from
this area, yet here you are.” Chattrecombe gestured in the air with his left
hand, his expression that of a man acting out a part on stage.
    Jonathon scowled. “How right you are,
Chattrecombe. But I said I would figure out a way to give Felicity her roses.
You should be expecting me.”
    Chattrecombe chuckled. “Why do you
think I rummaged about for half an hour in a quest to find my old pistol?”
    “Perhaps you heard that Napoleon was in
the neighbourhood?” Jonathon shrugged and then became serious. “I have no ill
intentions towards her.”
    “Then why are you here, at night,
mimicking the stalking gait of a burglar?”
    “Is it not obvious? I already stated
that I am trying to figure out a way to give Felicity her roses.”
    The butler seemed genuinely surprised;
he lowered the pistol.
    “I do love her,” Jonathon promised.
    “There is no need to lie to me, Mr.
White.”
    “Exactly.” Jonathon turned his back to
the butler and set the bouquet on a marble bench. Then he pivoted on one heel,
declaring, “I bought these for her. She should have them. She does not need
to know they are from me, although I know she is intelligent