The Determined Duchess

by Erica Monroe

  Lips pursed, Mallory dipped the quill in the ink and began to draw a circle, then a box around it, then a triangle around the box, and then another circle around all that. She held the paper up to Felicity. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  Felicity nodded. “It’s the alchemical symbol for the Philosopher’s Stone. That represents the four base elements together—fire, earth, air, and water.”

  “I thought that was but a myth,” Mallory said.

  “I thought so too.” Felicity’s cheeks flushed, and her heart beat fast, as it always did when she got to talk about alchemy. “But it isn’t. Mallory, I’ve created one: a real Philosopher’s Stone.”

  Mallory’s jaw dropped. “You can turn any element into gold?”

  “Er, no.” Felicity grimaced. “I’ve only managed to get the stone through the White Phase, transmuting the elements into silver.”

  Mallory grinned. “That’s still a massive accomplishment.”

  “I suppose.” Felicity sighed. If she had different goals, she’d be proud of her achievement—only a few alchemists had ever made it this far.

  But still, it felt good to hear the approval in Mallory’s voice.

  If only she’d feel the same when Felicity explained what she really needed.

  “Did you see anything else? Perhaps an experiment to bring the stone into its final transmutation? There would be a red coloring on the surface of the molten material.”

  Mallory shook her head. “No. Just the symbol.”

  “Blast it all,” Felicity cursed, with such vehemence that the crucible shook in her hand, splashing a bit of mercury onto the counter.

  “What’s wrong?” The confusion on Mallory’s face shifted into concern.

  That was the last thing Felicity needed—one more person being concerned about her wellbeing. It never ended well.

  “It’s nothing. Just spilled the mercury.” Felicity grabbed a cloth, frowning. Of all the things to spill. Mercury was a devil to clean up—it beaded and rolled around when it was exposed to air.

  She’d probably spend a quarter of an hour chasing it down.

  Mallory watched her suspiciously. “Something is bothering you, and it’s a lot more than spilled mercury.”

  Felicity was saved from a response by the door to her laboratory shifting open. She jumped in front of the table, trying to hide her experiments—until Tressa Teague popped into view, greeting her and Mallory.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Felicity turned back around to face the table. Heating the mercury could wait until after Tressa left. In the meantime, she’d work on crushing the milk thistle she’d gathered from the estate’s gardens with her mortar and pestle. It wouldn’t help with the stone—not directly—but it would strengthen Margaret’s liver when she was brought back.

  If she were brought back.

  Felicity ground the pestle into the ceramic mortar harder, taking out her frustrations on the milk thistle.

  Tressa slipped behind her, looking over her shoulder. “Milk thistle?”

  “Aye.” Felicity did not offer more information.

  Tressa’s gaze traveled pointedly to the symbol Mallory had sketched. “So you’re still going through with this, Fieldsy.”

  She’d long ago grown to accept she’d always be Fieldsy to Tressa. The nickname did not irk her as Nicholas’s insistence on calling her Lissie did—because Tressa, unlike Nicholas, cared about her.

  “What choice do I have, Tressa? Especially with Nicholas back.”

  Tressa opened her mouth to object, but then stopped, her brows crinkling. “The Duke of Wycliffe is back? Why?”

  “For the wedding at the castle,” Mallory said. “My betrothed will be at the wedding, too.”

  “Your betrothed?” Tressa blinked. “When did that happen?”

  “Recently,” Mallory said, with a tentative smile.

  “You shall like marriage,” Tressa said, with the utmost confidence. “Provided it is with the right man.”

  There was bitterness in her voice then, making Felicity wonder if Tressa was fighting with her beau, Matthew Kent.

  But she didn’t get a chance to ask about that, because then Mallory said, “I saw him, the Duke of Wycliffe. In one of my visions, I mean. When I embraced Felicity yesterday, I saw her kissing him.”

  “Really?” Tressa’s lips curved mischievously. Like Felicity, she knew about Mallory’s visions—but unlike Felicity, she did not have a need for them. “You know, I always did wonder why he followed her around like a puppy.”

  “Puppies are cute,” Felicity said through gritted teeth. “Nicholas is not cute.”

  No, he was just all hard muscle, with golden-brown hair that looked like it truly had been gifted by the gods. Felicity ground the pestle harder into the mortar, until the pestle scraped the bowl.

  “From your reaction, I’m guessing that vision was a little too close to reality for you?” Tressa watched her, that cunning tilt to her mouth becoming a full-fledged smile. “It is not the worst thing in the world, Fieldsy. In fact, being kissed is quite delightful, and it’s a precursor to many other delightful things.”

  “I do not want to be delighted,” Felicity said stubbornly, as Mallory leaned forward with rapt interest. “I want to be left alone to carry out my life’s work.”

  She felt the weight of the stares of both girls and quickly amended that proclamation. “Er, excepting you two, of course.”

  “And Margaret.” Tressa said this quietly, her eyes darkening with something Felicity had long ago learned was her I’m worried deeply about you but you won’t listen to me anyhow expression.

  “And Margaret,” she echoed.

  Mallory’s gaze flicked between them. “I thought the Countess of Tetbery passed.”

  “She did.” Felicity set down the pestle, finally. The milk thistle was now nothing more than powder. Instead, she busied herself with putting back the glassware she’d used recently onto the shelves behind the table, since it meant she could keep her back to both girls, and not see their expressions of disapproval.

  “I’ll explain it all later.” But she didn’t intend to do so. Not unless Mallory had another vision about the laboratory.

  “What does Nicholas want?” Tressa asked.

  “He wants me to go to London with him.” She pronounced the city’s name as though it were the vilest place in England—to her, it was, because it wasn’t Bocka Morrow. “He says I should be introduced to society. As if society is going to approve of me.”

  Tressa frowned. “That sounds dreadful. We won’t let it happen, of course. You can’t leave us, Fieldsy. I won’t stand for it.”

  “Thank you.” For the first time since Nicholas had arrived, Felicity felt a little more at ease. Her friend might not be able to fight Felicity’s battles anymore, but having Tressa in her corner still reassured her.

  Tressa nodded swiftly. “Always. But why would he want you to go to London, anyhow?”

  “Because it’s expected,” Mallory said. “Because we have one duty as women: to marry well.”

  “Balderdash,” Tressa bit out. “We deserve more. We deserve happiness.”

  “Which I’ll never have,” Felicity pointed out, “if he succeeds with his plan.”

  “You might find someone suitable in London,” Mallory said.

  “I highly doubt that.” With her back turned to place another group of herbs on the shelf, Felicity did not notice the wistfulness to Mallory’s words. Until Tressa tapped her on the shoulder, whispering that Mallory was concerned about her own impending marriage.

  “Oh.” She nodded, sending Tressa a grateful smile. She had not known—she never knew, when it came to other people’s emotions. Or her own emotions, lately. “Mallory, it will be fine. I am sure your family has picked out a very nice man.”

  Mallory smiled. “Thank you.”

  And for a moment, Felicity felt like she’d accomplished something almost as important as the progression into the Red Phase for her stone: she’d man
aged to make her friend happy.

  Chapter Seven

  Nicholas had walked through the garden twice with no sign of Felicity. He was just about to admit defeat when he saw her. Not Felicity, but her closest confidante.

  Tressa Teague.

  He was certain it was her. It had to be—those long legs, that lanky frame, and that head of stick straight blond hair, as if lifted from his memories and given only the slight alterations of the past six years. It was the way she walked that spoke most to him: determined, lengthy strides, swift yet graceful, chin always up and eyes always searching for trouble to fall into headfirst.

  Perhaps that was why she’d bonded with his aunt’s ward. Two outcasts, neither what society expected them to be. Until Lady Mallory had arrived, Nicholas had thought Tressa Teague to be Felicity’s only friend.

  So it was not a surprise to find Tressa at Tetbery. What was surprising, however, was where she came from.

  She emerged from an arched ivy-covered door; cut out of the stone wall that he’d previously assumed was part of the rear drawing room on the first floor. Yet he had no memory of this door from his four summer visits.

  Tetbery, he cursed silently but vehemently. It was always something at Tetbery.

  Tressa looked to make sure no one was around, and then studiously rearranged the ivy covering the wall to loop in with the ivy upon the door—thereby hiding the door from anyone’s sight, unless they knew what to look for.

  Nicholas slinked closer, feeling ridiculous as he made sure to hide behind potted plants and large trees in the garden, so that Tressa would not see him. She had never been fond of him, and he suspected she’d just come from meeting with Felicity. No doubt her opinion of him would have lessened even more by his plan to take Felicity from Cornwall.

  A plan he was no longer so certain was as altruistic as he claimed.

  Thankfully, once she’d seen to the ivy, Tressa stalked off deeper into the garden, never looking in his direction. She moved with purpose, as if she too knew exactly where she was supposed to be.

  What was it about Bocka Morrow that seemed to give its inhabitants such freedom from the doubts that clutched at his throat and churned his stomach?

  He’d been raised to believe money solved all problems. Neither Felicity nor Tressa had any real fortune to their name, yet they’d always been self-possessed. Certain of who they were. Unwilling to change to please someone else.

  He didn’t know how that felt—to be accountable only to himself. Even as a boy, he’d known that someday he’d inherit not just the dukedom and the Wycliffe properties, but Tetbery too. Tenants on these lands depended on him, as people depended upon on him to pass laws in the House of Lords that would help them.

  And he’d failed at that.

  Every mistake he made had consequences for others.

  He waited until Tressa disappeared completely from sight before stepping out from behind the trees. He half-expected to not see the door when he approached—it would not be the first time his eyes deceived him at Tetbery.

  But there it was, hidden amongst the ivy. This close, and knowing precisely what to look for, he made out the shape of a red slatted door, the paint chipped off at the bottom to reveal the aged wood. The door had clearly been there for a long time. Possibly since the earliest days of the estate, if the tall, winding oak that grew next to the door with its branches draping across the top was any indication.

  After a quick glance about to make sure no one was watching, he pushed the ivy back from the door. Thus uncovered, he wrapped his fingers around the rusted iron handle and pulled. At first, the door resisted, as if it sensed he was not welcome here.

  “Look, door,” he muttered, tugging on the handle again. “This is my estate. I could have you destroyed, you know. I’m sure the gardener has an axe—”

  Apparently threats worked with Tetbery, because the door swung open.

  “Thank you.” He felt foolish as soon as the words were out of his mouth. This was what Tetbery did to him: he started to believe in nonsensical fantasies, like doors being alive.

  Shaking his head, he stepped onto the other side of the door. And promptly regretted it, for the door swung shut behind him, without him touching it. As if by its own volition.

  Swathed in darkness, Nicholas gulped down his rising dread, reminding himself that he could not truly be in danger. After all, Tressa had just left here, distinctly in one piece.

  That did not comfort him. Tressa met danger head-on with an aplomb he found as intimidating as Felicity’s straightforward if-that-then-this logic.

  He slipped his hand in his greatcoat pocket, letting out a sigh of relief when his fingers closed around his tinder box and a bit of candle. Opening the tinderbox, he lit the candle with flint and tinder. He took a gander at his immediate surroundings, now visible in the orange flame.

  He’d expected to find himself in a storage closet of some sort, probably a gardener’s shed. He had not expected packed dirt and stone walls and a ceiling almost right above his head. He moved forward, holding out the candle in front of him.

  A long staircase rose out of the depths, with a railing along the side. He could not tell from this distance where the staircase ended—it seemed to go up and up, far longer than his range with the single match.

  He looked about, finding a candle set into a sconce on the wall. That was reassuring—somewhat, for it meant that this cavern was regularly used. He lit the candle, looped his fingers around the brass holder, and started up the stairs.

  As he climbed upstairs, he held the candle out in front of him, his gaze darting from left to right. The farther he climbed, the warmer he became; the chilly air from outside faded, replaced by a more tolerable heat. The walls had become more standardized: no longer mottled stone and dirt, but instead wood planked. He must be in the manor now.

  Then he was at the top of the stairs. He leaned in close to the door, trying to hear if anyone was on the other side. There was a rattling, like glass hitting other glass, and then a tapping. But no voices.

  Summoning up his courage—and telling himself it was absurd to be frightened on his own estate—Nicholas opened the door.

  To a room that was the stuff of his nightmares.

  One wall boasted a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, double-stacked with books bearing titles like Alchemical Interludes, The Matter of the Brain and the Body, and Verisimilitude in Actuality. A long cabinet was pushed up against the opposite wall, with seemingly hundreds of drawers, all clearly marked with tiny labels. Atop the cabinet were shelves nearly toppling from the weight of many glass bottles, and boxes of various plants and herbs he could not identify.

  But it was the specimens clustered atop the long mahogany table stretching almost the full width of the room that concerned him the most. Skeletons of rats, cats, and maybe even a bat or two—he couldn’t be certain. As if that was not disconcerting enough, there were the spidery plants Felicity had gathered yesterday, spread out next to other glasses with various viscous substances.

  Damnation. He’d ended up in Felicity’s laboratory.

  He had forgotten—purposefully—about this godforsaken place. Nothing good had ever happened to him here.

  He took a step back, and then another, hoping he could dive into the tunnel before Felicity appeared. He’d discuss this laboratory with her later, in a place where there weren’t jars on the end of the table that contained…devil take his soul, those looked like organs.

  “Get out.”

  The command made him jump. He spun around, almost smacking into Felicity. He had no idea where she’d come from. Not from the tunnel, that was sure, and he didn’t see a door anywhere else.

  “You can’t be in here.” Felicity pushed past him, taking up a stance directly in front of the table.

  He breathed a little easier, because she’d positioned herself in front of the strange jars. “I can go anywhere I want. My estate, remember?”

  She scowled at him. “Not here. This doesn’t belon
g to you. It’s mine, and only mine.”

  The fierceness in her voice took him aback. Once again, he got the sensation that he was in over his head. “What is all of this?”

  “My work.” She turned, still blocking the jars, to place a pear-shaped glass container onto the burner. “And I have much of it to do, so you need to leave.”

  He almost agreed, so eager was he to get the hell out of this room. But if he was going to truly do what was right for Felicity, he had to endeavor to understand her.

  He was not at all influenced by the fact that her round backside was framed lusciously by her black gown, or that her red hair had fallen from its coiffure to trail down her back, those silky strands calling out for him to touch them.

  Damnation.

  Before he could stop himself, he’d not only visualized cupping her rear in his hands, but what it’d feel like to have that taut arse grinding against his member. His cock twitched, so undeniably appealing was the image.

  Whatever she was lighting in that burner had clearly affected his senses.

  She turned back around, her frown deepening further when she saw him. “I don’t have time for this, Nicholas.” Her hands fell to her hips again, and he followed the movement, a certain part of his anatomy stirring eagerly at the thought of gripping her hips with his own hands.

  He let out a long breath of air, trying to steady his racing mind. None of this was helpful.

  “Tell me what you’re doing,” he said, in his most encouraging tone. She used to love talking about her experiments.

  “Right now, I’m brewing tea.” She moved over slightly, and indeed, there was a teacup off to her left side. “And wishing you’d find someone else to pester.”

  He ignored her last comment. After all the work it had taken him to get up here, he wasn’t leaving. Not until she agreed to consider going to London with him and Georgiana. “This is the same laboratory you had when we were children, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “You wouldn’t leave then, either.”

  “I should think you’d like that,” he said, arching a brow at her. “I’m consistent, and you do so hate change.”