Read Online To Marry the Duke's Daughter (After the Masquerade) by Ashley Stormes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ashley Stormes
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never feared her father’s
reactions about her emotions before she met Jonathon. Perhaps she had been too
naïve and trusting, but was it so wrong to see the best in people? Jonathon
liked that about her; he would not try to change her into a woman always
suspicious about others when he professed to love her just as she was, unless
he were lying.
She could not fathom a world in which
both men were telling her the truth. One or the other was hiding something, or
perhaps they both were.
Her head throbbed and she rubbed her
hands against her temples in an attempt to sort through the convoluted waters
of her mind. Her heart told her that Jonathon was true to her, and that he
loved her. Her head told her that her father had every right to be suspicious
of him. Her heart told her that her father loved her, but her head told her
that he had also kept her out of the matchmaker’s hands for a reason. The duke
would not leave Chattrecombe in London simply to keep an eye on a possible
fortune hunter. There was something else going on in her father’s life,
something he thought best kept hidden from her. He meant what he said about
allowing Jonathon to court her, but his preoccupation with Jonathon’s finances
made her wonder just how much money Jonathon would need to be able to—in
her father’s words— provide for
her.
London
May
1815
Jonathon’s head pounded like the fall
of a thousand hooves against the frozen ground. There were several
explanations for this, but while he would not deny brandy as a cause, he felt
the root of the issue lay in his inability to sleep.
Nothing helped. He tried various teas,
spirits, and even counting sheep, to no avail. After giving up his lease and
moving into his brother’s townhouse at the beginning of the year, he had been
unable to sleep more than two nights in a row. Though he had gone so far as to
fall deep into his cups the previous night, his pocket watch made it perfectly
clear that he had made it to another morning without shutting his eyes.
He had decided, while trying to
determine the source of the drums echoing in his ears, that if drinking did not
help him sleep there was no point in drinking. He had never cared much for
strong drink; from now on he would refuse everything but the weakest punch. He
had heard enough drums in France to prefer silence in his skull. He would
prefer to hear Felicity’s voice, but that was something he desperately tried
not to think of.
Jonathon groaned and flopped onto his
stomach, hoping that by burying his head in the tattered pillow he could put
enough pressure on his skull to ease his headache. If he could move his body,
he needed to go down to the kitchen and make himself tea and breakfast. Gregory
had made it clear that Jonathon could have a room if he took care of himself
and did not distract Gregory’s staff, and Jonathon had actually enjoyed using
his cooking skills. Today, however, he would pay a small fortune if it would
make a pot of coffee and toast magically appear by his bedside.
Unfortunately, his small fortune was
sitting in the stock market, slowly growing into a sum that would hopefully
impress Lord Avondale, if the duke ever deemed London worthy of his presence
again.
When Avondale first took Felicity from
London, Jonathon had not been overly concerned. Chattrecombe assured him that
they would return, and after visiting with the kind butler almost every day,
Jonathon had no reason to doubt him. Now even Chattrecombe was worried about Avondale’s
continual absence, although Jonathon had noted that the butler seemed more
concerned about the duke than Felicity. The duke was in some sort of trouble,
but Jonathon was unwilling to press Chattrecombe too far for information while
the butler was still willing to tell him about Felicity.
Felicity had many friends in one of the
small villages near Avondale, and she took great pleasure in teaching the
children how to read and write. She rode through the dales with her
reactions about her emotions before she met Jonathon. Perhaps she had been too
naïve and trusting, but was it so wrong to see the best in people? Jonathon
liked that about her; he would not try to change her into a woman always
suspicious about others when he professed to love her just as she was, unless
he were lying.
She could not fathom a world in which
both men were telling her the truth. One or the other was hiding something, or
perhaps they both were.
Her head throbbed and she rubbed her
hands against her temples in an attempt to sort through the convoluted waters
of her mind. Her heart told her that Jonathon was true to her, and that he
loved her. Her head told her that her father had every right to be suspicious
of him. Her heart told her that her father loved her, but her head told her
that he had also kept her out of the matchmaker’s hands for a reason. The duke
would not leave Chattrecombe in London simply to keep an eye on a possible
fortune hunter. There was something else going on in her father’s life,
something he thought best kept hidden from her. He meant what he said about
allowing Jonathon to court her, but his preoccupation with Jonathon’s finances
made her wonder just how much money Jonathon would need to be able to—in
her father’s words— provide for
her.
London
May
1815
Jonathon’s head pounded like the fall
of a thousand hooves against the frozen ground. There were several
explanations for this, but while he would not deny brandy as a cause, he felt
the root of the issue lay in his inability to sleep.
Nothing helped. He tried various teas,
spirits, and even counting sheep, to no avail. After giving up his lease and
moving into his brother’s townhouse at the beginning of the year, he had been
unable to sleep more than two nights in a row. Though he had gone so far as to
fall deep into his cups the previous night, his pocket watch made it perfectly
clear that he had made it to another morning without shutting his eyes.
He had decided, while trying to
determine the source of the drums echoing in his ears, that if drinking did not
help him sleep there was no point in drinking. He had never cared much for
strong drink; from now on he would refuse everything but the weakest punch. He
had heard enough drums in France to prefer silence in his skull. He would
prefer to hear Felicity’s voice, but that was something he desperately tried
not to think of.
Jonathon groaned and flopped onto his
stomach, hoping that by burying his head in the tattered pillow he could put
enough pressure on his skull to ease his headache. If he could move his body,
he needed to go down to the kitchen and make himself tea and breakfast. Gregory
had made it clear that Jonathon could have a room if he took care of himself
and did not distract Gregory’s staff, and Jonathon had actually enjoyed using
his cooking skills. Today, however, he would pay a small fortune if it would
make a pot of coffee and toast magically appear by his bedside.
Unfortunately, his small fortune was
sitting in the stock market, slowly growing into a sum that would hopefully
impress Lord Avondale, if the duke ever deemed London worthy of his presence
again.
When Avondale first took Felicity from
London, Jonathon had not been overly concerned. Chattrecombe assured him that
they would return, and after visiting with the kind butler almost every day,
Jonathon had no reason to doubt him. Now even Chattrecombe was worried about Avondale’s
continual absence, although Jonathon had noted that the butler seemed more
concerned about the duke than Felicity. The duke was in some sort of trouble,
but Jonathon was unwilling to press Chattrecombe too far for information while
the butler was still willing to tell him about Felicity.
Felicity had many friends in one of the
small villages near Avondale, and she took great pleasure in teaching the
children how to read and write. She rode through the dales with her
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