Joy to the Duke

by Darcy Burke

  “Nothing, thank you.” Just you.

  She nodded, then clasped her hands briefly in front of her before dropping them to her sides. Was she nervous? Good. He was too.

  “What brings you here?” She stepped toward him, and he turned so they could face each other in front of the fire.

  “I was just walking through the village and found myself here.”

  “So you didn’t come to speak with me? About Hartwell House or anything else?”

  He made a faint sound low in his throat. “I don’t want to talk about that. Or St. Stephen’s Day.” Both his sisters had sent notes thanking him for changing his mind, even though he didn’t recall actually doing that. Felicity had managed him rather well.

  Poppy and Bianca had also asked if they might celebrate Christmas at Hartwood with him. The thought of them doing so had made him crumple both letters and throw them into the fire.

  Family.

  He had one, and if he could just… What? He had to do something, but he didn’t know what. Did he think Felicity could help him? Yes, because she’d reawakened everything he’d buried. Everything he’d thought was dead.

  “What do you want to talk about, then?” she asked softly, almost shyly. He was assaulted by the memory of her at eighteen. She’d been shocked when the Earl of Chilton had danced with her at the summer assembly. That had been the single greatest dance of his life.

  He suddenly wished they had a pianoforte and someone to play it.

  He returned his mind to her question. “I don’t know. I just wanted to come inside.” To see her. To feel her. “All I do since you returned is feel things. I don’t like feeling things.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s easier not to. My father didn’t like it when I felt things. He said dukes needed to be above all that.”

  “Your father isn’t here anymore, and even if he was, it doesn’t matter what he wanted or what he told you to be. You get to be who you want.” She edged closer and lightly placed her hand on his chest, her palm pressing against his lapel. “Who do you want to be, Calder?”

  Her touch was sun to the dark landscape of his soul. “I don’t know.” If she was touching him, perhaps that meant he could touch her. He reached for her face, cupping her gently, then stroking his thumb down her cheek and along her jaw.

  Her eyes narrowed seductively, and his body jerked to full sensual awareness. His cock thickened, and he yearned to take her in his arms.

  He frowned, glancing up toward the ceiling. “Why don’t you have any mistletoe?”

  She laughed softly, and it was the music he was missing. “Because I’m a fool. I never imagined I’d need it.” She slid her hand up his coat and circled it around his neck. Her fingertips slipped into the hair at his nape. “I was wrong.”

  “I should say so,” he murmured before he lowered his mouth to hers.

  This was madness. This was wrong. He had no business kissing her, and yet he couldn’t have stopped himself if the ocean had washed over him and swept him from the shore.

  It was as if no time had passed but also forever. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight to his chest. She clutched at his neck while molding her mouth to his. Then she opened, meeting his tongue and ravishing him as surely as he wanted to ravish her.

  Groaning softly, he plundered her mouth, telling her in the only way he knew how that he wanted her. Needed her. That she was the very thing his dark heart needed to heal—if it ever could.

  Their embrace was thunder and bliss, a joining ten years in the making, a dream he’d never thought would come true. She hadn’t abandoned him. She’d been taken from him, and he from her. This was the future they’d promised each other. Or at least, it could be.

  Unless he messed it up.

  He pulled back, taking his mouth from hers and setting her back to the floor—he’d completely swept her up against him. They breathed heavily as they stared at each other, still so close.

  “You’re in there,” she whispered. “The man I loved.”

  Loved. Past tense. He loved her in the present and would always love her. But what was love when it came from someone who caused misery?

  He took another step back. “I’ll consider Hartwell House.”

  “You should visit,” she said softly. Her pulse beat strongly in her throat, just beneath the sweep of her jaw, and her rapid breaths caused her chest to rise and fall in quick succession. She was a woman enraptured. He tried not to stare.

  “I’ll think about it.” He pivoted, his feet like lead. He should go, but couldn’t bring himself to.

  “Please stop in anytime.” She touched him again, her hand on his bicep. The connection galvanized him.

  He stalked toward the door. “Thank you.” He didn’t turn to look at her before going into the entry hall, where he slammed his hat on his head and swept his coat into his arms. He waited to don the garment until he was outside where it was full dusk. The icy cold of oncoming night crashed into him, banishing the heat that had sparked between him and Felicity.

  Not banishing it, no. Abating it. He now wondered if he would forever burn for her, if he always had and just hadn’t known it.

  He buttoned his coat and pulled on his gloves as he reached the street. Turning his head, he saw her standing in the doorway watching him. She was going to catch a chill—and not just from the near-freezing temperature.

  He was Chill, or had been all his life until he’d become the duke. The name now seemed prophetic, considering how he’d turned out. She was warmth and light and cheer, everything he was not. For that reason, he should stay far, far away from her.

  Chapter 6

  Built in the early seventeenth century, Hartwell House was a gorgeous manor home with cream-colored stone and five stately gables. Looking at the structure, one could not discern its disrepair. It exuded charm and warmth, which made sense because it was a home to so many in need of one.

  Felicity exited her coach and hurried to the front door. The weather had remained icy cold today. In fact, there had been ice hanging from the cottage that morning. For this reason, Felicity had begged her mother to stay home where it was warm, and she wouldn’t risk catching a chill. Mama had been happy to oblige despite wanting to visit Hartwell House.

  The door opened before Felicity could knock. Mrs. Armstrong stood inside the threshold, grinning widely. A woman in her late forties with mostly dark hair—there was gray at her temples—she was the overseer of the Institution for Impoverished Women. “My goodness, it’s Felicity Templeton! Come in, come in.” She ushered Felicity into the hall and quickly divested her of her cloak, hat, and muff.

  Felicity pulled her gloves off, smiling. “I’m Mrs. Garland now.”

  “Of course you are, but to me, you shall always be Felicity Templeton—that’s who you were last time I saw you!” She winked at Felicity, then took her gloves. “I’ll make sure these are warmed up so they’ll be nice and toasty when you go. And I’ll fetch some tea. I’m sure that won’t come amiss.”

  “It will not, thank you,” Felicity said.

  Mrs. Armstrong gestured toward a sitting room just off the entry hall. “There’s a nice fire in there.”

  Felicity left the entry hall with its dark wood paneling and moved into the sitting room. She gravitated toward the fire to warm herself. Despite the warming pan in her coach and the relatively short drive to Hartwell House, she was rather chilled.

  A movement to the right caught her eye. She saw a small boot disappear beneath a long settee. Smiling, she held her hands to the fire. “Are you playing hide and seek?” she asked.

  “No, but that sounds fun. Can we?”

  Felicity laughed, then turned so that her backside was to the fire. A young boy of maybe seven slithered out from beneath the settee. He glanced toward the doorway. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “Oh. Well, then perhaps you should go.”

  He nodded. “I just wanted to see the carving on the mantel. I’m trying to draw
it.” He held up a piece of parchment filled with illustrations.

  Felicity gave him a questioning look. “May I?”

  He handed her the paper, and she gently took it between her hands to more closely see the drawings. “Did you draw these?”

  He nodded.

  “You are exceptionally skilled. I love this bird.” Her gaze caught on a small falcon perched on a fence post. He’d captured the animal’s intelligent eyes and the delicate lines of each feather.

  She glanced toward the mantel and saw that it was intricately carved with leaves and flowers. She searched the paper and finally found his rendering of some of the flora, but it was very small. “I think you need another piece of paper.”

  “Parchment is hard to come by,” he said matter-of-factly. “I use every last inch. That’s what Mrs. Armstrong says to do.” He looked toward the door again. “If she catches me here outside of our appointed time, I won’t be allowed to visit for a week.”

  That seemed a trifle harsh, but Felicity had no idea what it took to manage an institution like this with all the women and their children. She imagined it was a challenge to maintain some semblance of order.

  “Then, I suppose you better go.” She handed the paper back to him. “Could you use more parchment, then?”

  He grinned, revealing a gap between his front teeth, which seemed to just be coming in. “Always!” Then he disappeared from the room in a flash.

  Mrs. Armstrong returned a moment later with a tea tray, which she set on a table near the hearth. “Do you take any milk or sugar?”

  “A bit of both, thank you.” Felicity perched on the settee the boy had hidden beneath. “I was sorry to hear about Mr. Armstrong.”

  Mrs. Armstrong handed Felicity her cup. “Thank you, dear. But then you’re a widow now too—and so young. Have you any children?” She fixed herself a cup of tea and then sat on the settee opposite Felicity.

  “No, we didn’t have any children.” Felicity drank her tea, welcoming the warmth of the brew.

  “We didn’t either, which is how Hartwell House came to be. We took in a young woman and her baby. Then another.” Mrs. Armstrong sipped her tea.

  Felicity hadn’t realized the Armstrongs didn’t have children of their own, but then she’d been rather young when she’d left Hartwell. “It’s a wonderful institution, such a necessary alternative to a workhouse, where mothers are separated from their children.”

  “Yes, though our secret is out, I’m afraid. We’ve had more women arriving so far this fall and winter than ever before. I tried turning people away for lack of room, but they beg to sleep on the floor if we’ve nothing else. I don’t have the heart to turn them out into the cold. Lord Darlington has temporarily housed a few people in cottages at his estate, which has been a help.”

  Felicity was more determined than ever to help. “I understand Hartwell House is in need of repairs. I was hoping you might give me a tour? I’d like to donate some money to your cause and see about getting more.” Aside from convincing Calder to do his part, she thought of people she could ask in York to contribute.

  “You’re very kind,” Mrs. Armstrong said. “I’d be delighted to give you a tour, and truly, if you have the inclination to come and spend time with the children—reading stories to them or even teaching them skills—we’d all be grateful.”

  Felicity thought of the boy she’d met and wondered if he could teach her how to draw. “I would be honored to spend time here.”

  Mrs. Armstrong smiled before drinking more of her tea. She stood and set the cup on the tray. “Shall we take the tour?”

  “Yes.” Felicity finished her tea and placed her cup next to Mrs. Armstrong’s.

  Over the next half hour, Mrs. Armstrong showed her the entirety of Hartwell House, from the uppermost rooms, where a few maids—all women who’d come here in search of shelter and care at some point—resided to the dormitory that housed other women to individual rooms shared by mothers with their children. There was also a schoolroom, an exercise room where the smaller children could run and play when the weather was poor, and a large dining room. Some of the bedrooms leaked, and they were in need of more furniture, namely beds. There was much that could be done, and she was angry with Calder for not continuing his father’s support.

  At the conclusion of the tour, they neared the small room near the kitchen that Mrs. Armstrong indicated she used as an office. “Is there anything I can readily obtain for you in the near term? Or for the children, especially with Christmas nearly upon us?” Felicity already planned to gather all the parchment she could find in Hartwell.

  “We had a lovely St. Nicholas Day party here. The residents received gifts from Lord and Lady Darlington as well as Lord and Lady Buckleigh.”

  Felicity wished she’d known of it, for she would have come too. She was not surprised when Mrs. Armstrong didn’t mention Calder’s name. “That sounds as if it was a wonderful event.”

  Mrs. Armstrong nodded. “Everyone is looking forward to St. Stephen’s Day. I’m so relieved it will be at Hartwood. I wasn’t relishing having to transport the children to Thornhill. In fact, I’d begun to consider just doing my best to host something here.”

  Felicity was now doubly pleased she’d arranged for the party to be held at Hartwood. “I’m glad you don’t have to.”

  A figure emerged from the kitchen and stopped short upon seeing them. Poppy grinned. “Felicity, how lovely to see you here.”

  “Mrs. Armstrong was just showing me all the wonderful things she’s done.”

  “Oh, stop,” Mrs. Armstrong said, blushing. “I’m going to my office now before either of you can embarrass me.” She flashed them both a grateful smile, then ducked into her office.

  “Are you staying long?” Poppy asked.

  “No, I was just about to go, in fact.”

  “I’ll walk out with you.” Poppy stuck her head into Mrs. Armstrong’s office to say she was leaving. Felicity did the same, and they exchanged farewells before Poppy and Felicity started toward the entry hall.

  “Felicity, I must thank you again for whatever influence you have with Calder.”

  Felicity wasn’t sure what Poppy could be thinking of. Yesterday he’d refused to talk about anything—he’d been upset. And then he’d kissed her, and everything had gone absolutely sideways. He had said he’d think about helping here at Hartwell House…

  “Did he reinstate the dukedom’s support of Hartwell House?” Felicity asked.

  “Not that I’m aware. Did you persuade him to do that too?”

  “I didn’t think so. What are you talking about, then?”

  “He’s invited us to spend Christmas at Hartwood.” She cocked her head from one side to the other. “Perhaps the word ‘invited’ is a tad excessive. He wrote and said that if we wanted to come to Hartwood on Christmas Eve so that we could be there to help prepare for St. Stephen’s Day, he would appreciate it. Because he doesn’t want anything to do with it.” She rolled her eyes. “Still the same icy Calder, but it’s a move in the right direction at least.”

  While Felicity was angry with him for turning his back on Hartwell House, she also understood he was a man burdened with pain and loneliness brought on by horrible expectations. She’d begun to suspect that his father’s actions toward him ran deeper than verbal cruelty, but she was terrified to learn the truth. “I’m so glad you and Bianca haven’t given up on him.”

  “We never will,” she said quietly but fiercely. “And I’m so grateful you haven’t either. I know your presence has made an impression.”

  “I didn’t say anything to him about having you for Christmas.” Felicity wanted Poppy to give Calder credit, not her.

  “Well, I still think you played a part, whether you did so on purpose or not.” She took Felicity’s hand and gave it a quick, heartfelt squeeze. “Honestly, I’ll take any positivity from him any way I can.” She smiled before reaching for her cloak.

  Felicity was as surprised by Calder’s Christmas
invitation as Poppy appeared to be. He was so vulnerable, so fragile… The things he’d said to her yesterday about not wanting to feel tore at her heart. He needed care and understanding—and she knew his sisters would give it to him if he allowed them the chance. It seemed he might be ready, or almost ready, to do that.

  “You should come too,” Poppy said as she pulled on her hat.

  Felicity donned her cloak. “I couldn’t. I haven’t been invited.” And she felt strongly he had to invite her. Having his sisters there was likely going to be challenging enough. If he was going to try feeling emotions again, it was probably best if he didn’t try to manage too much at once.

  Poppy nodded. “I understand. Bianca and I are foolishly hoping you and he will find your way back to one another.”

  So was Felicity. She sent Poppy an earnest look. “Give him time and don’t let go. He needs you, but he’ll never say so.”

  Poppy nodded, and Felicity thought she saw moisture in her gray-blue eyes.

  “I nearly forgot!” Mrs. Armstrong’s voice rang in the hall, disrupting the taut moment. “Both of your gloves are nice and warm.” She handed a pair of gloves to both Felicity and Poppy.

  As Felicity drew hers on, she sighed with pleasure. “Oh, these are lovely. Thank you.”

  Poppy leaned toward her and stage-whispered, “This is my favorite part of coming here in the wintertime.”

  They all laughed, then went their separate ways. As Felicity’s coachman opened the door to her carriage, she asked him to make a slight detour on their way home.

  A short while later, they crested a small rise, and her childhood home came into view. She’d managed to be here the last several weeks without seeing it. Why? Because it reminded her of her father and of her lost innocence. Of Calder and the way he’d broken her heart.

  Only he hadn’t. They’d been victims of his father’s machinations. And her father’s, somewhat. She had forgiven Papa, but his actions still stung. She wished he were still alive so she could talk to him about it. Maybe that would make what he’d done easier to understand.