Chapter Nine
Nicholas passed another sleepless night in the room he couldn’t think of as anything other than his Uncle Randall’s chambers; even though his uncle was long deceased, and his father had actually been the last one to sleep in these rooms. The old duke had never seemed to mind staying in his dead brother-in-law’s quarters—he’d simply charged in, demanded the servants deliver his baggage to the master suite, and went to tea with his sister Margaret like nothing had changed.
But that had been Father. Nicholas couldn’t think of a single circumstance where his father hadn’t acted with self-righteous aggrandizement—as the Duke of Wycliffe, he assumed that the world would move out of his way, and it usually did.
No matter what he did, Nicholas could not summon that same confidence. The only time he’d felt as though he was truly doing what he was meant to do—truly making a difference—had been with his Night Watch Bill.
During his summers at Tetbery, he’d watched as Felicity changed one variable in an experiment to see if it produced a different conclusion. As in all things, she was fastidious, observing every result and taking comprehensive notes.
Science, Felicity had said, was about progress. The human race could not expect to move forward by continuing on as they always had, with the same exact habits and beliefs. So when he’d created his bill, he’d tried to improve upon the existing policing system, increasing communicating and hopefully lowering the crime rate.
But the House of Lords did not want the new and untried. They wanted the same established strictures giving them power for centuries.
There was comfort to be found in the old and routine, or so he’d always believed. Toe the mark, and never court controversy. Hardings, as his father always said, did not need to work at being important—by the grace of their lineage, they already had everything anyone could want.
Aunt Margaret, though, had been different. When she’d married Randall, it was not his title that mattered. It was Randall himself: his kindness, his inherent sense of responsibility, and his love for his family estate.
That was what had mattered to Randall and Margaret: family. They’d mourned their lack of children fiercely—not because the Tetbery title would go into abeyance without a male heir, but because they longed to share their love with a child. When their friends passed, they’d immediately volunteered to take Felicity in.
Even as a boy, Nicholas had marked how much happier they were once Felicity came to live with them.
Now, as Nicholas sat at the long dining table that had once belonged to them, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his uncle was watching him—and frowning in disapproval because he’d kissed Felicity.
He, who ought to know better than to enter into an emotional entanglement with a woman who didn’t want to be his duchess. Felicity had made it damnably clear that she didn’t want anything to do with the beau monde.
Or him, for that matter.
That was enough experimentation, I think. You may go now.
It was not the first dismissal he’d received from her over the years. Yet it was the first one to feel final, as if a door had been summarily closed—a door he hadn’t even realized he wanted to remain open.
Before he arrived at Tetbery, he’d been sure of his plan—almost as certain as she always seemed to be. Now that Margaret was gone, Felicity ought to move on with her life. As the daughter of a baron, with ties to both Tetbery and Wycliffe, she could find her place in society, and marry someone who would find all her peculiar mannerisms endearing.
He’d never stopped to question whether or not Felicity would want this future.
Or how he’d feel about her marrying someone else.
He tried to push those uncomfortable sensations to the back of his mind. Outside of this estate, he was sure, any strange yearnings for Felicity would cease. He just needed to get back to London, where things were familiar.
By the time he’d plowed halfway through his plate piled high with cold meat, cheese, and eggs, Tolsworth had entered the dining room. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
It never failed to amaze him how the butler managed to sound and look perfectly deferential, yet still convey his disapproval.
Nicholas bit back a sigh. Tolsworth had never liked him, but he didn’t dare dismiss the butler, given how many times Margaret had said her servants were like family.
Even if Felicity was certain there were no ghosts, he didn’t want to risk Margaret’s unearthly wrath.
“Miss Fields mentioned no one had informed her of my arrival.” When Tolsworth did not comment, Nicholas continued, “Did you not receive my letter?”
“Oh no, Your Grace, we did.” Tolsworth stood there, hands at his sides, that vaguely-respectful-but-not-really expression upon his old, square face.
“I assume there is a reason why you did not inform Miss Fields of my arrival.”
Tolsworth nodded.
“And that reason is?”
Tolsworth’s lips turned down in a pained grimace. “Would you want to be the one to inform Miss Fields of your arrival?”
The butler looked so aggrieved at the thought, Nicholas found himself nodding in agreement. “It wasn’t the most pleasant experience, I’ll grant you that.”
Tolsworth nodded again, yet this time Nicholas could have sworn he saw the hint of a smile on the stoic man’s lips.
“I have to ask, Tolsworth, how has she been these last few months? Since Aunt Margaret’s death.”
Tolsworth swallowed, that small smile eradicated. “There is some concern, Your Grace, that Miss Fields has not processed the countess’s demise well. It might be to your advantage to visit the mausoleum.”
Were it not for how the worry etched deep in Tolsworth’s forehead, Nicholas would have thought the man was criticizing him for not coming home for Margaret’s funeral. Instead, it sounded as though the butler was genuinely concerned for Felicity—as though he were trying very hard to delicately express something he didn’t know how to explain.
“I see,” Nicholas said. “I will take that under advisement. Do you know where Miss Fields is now?”
“I believe she said something about the kitchen, Your Grace.”
Nicholas nodded. She’d always liked baking—she’d said once that every recipe called for a specific amount of ingredients added in a specific manner, and the slightest deviation from the norm created a different result.
Perhaps that was what he had done wrong with his bill: he had deviated too far from the norm, too fast. He ought to have taken it slower, changed one thing at a time and observed the results.
How funny it was that the girl who claimed she’d never prosper in society might know how to navigate it better than he had.