To Marry the Duke's Daughter (After the Masquerade) (9 page)

Jonathon heard his mother sniff and he
looked up to see her dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Did you go to
London?” he asked her, his tone slightly awed. “You always said you would
never go back to London.”

Sylvia shrugged dismissively. “I could
not sit idly by and let your brother drag your name through the mud. When we
are finished here, I intend to tell everyone what he has done to you.”

“There is no need,” Jonathon insisted.
“Gregory had every right to ask me for money. His debts needed to be paid, and
for the sake of his honour and mine I paid them.”

“But he continues to gamble away
your
money,” Sylvia pointed out. “I
cannot let him do so, and neither can you. You have a wife to take care of,”
she added hesitantly.

Jonathon stood, pulling Felicity up
with him. “We are not yet married.”

“Good,” Carlton said, relieved. He
tucked the letter back into his waistcoat. “There is a chance this can still
be done properly. Did you take her?”

Sylvia made an odd noise in her throat.
“Do you really want to know the answer to that question?” she asked quietly,
raising an eyebrow.

“I think as her father I have the right
to know if my daughter has been ruined,” Carlton dismissed. “If he did not
take her, a proper marriage can still be arranged.”

“I did not take her,” Jonathon stated
before the duke could say anything else. His cheeks bore a faint streak of
colour. “I would have enjoyed our nights together,” he admitted, “but the only
inn we stayed at was…unsuitable.”

Carlton grimaced as Jonathon and
Felicity exchanged an amused expression. “Then why did you elope?” He wanted
to ask why Jonathon did not try to convince Felicity to remain in London; it
was obvious the young man was uncomfortable with the idea of eloping,
especially with his sudden defence of his brother and family loyalty.

“It was my idea,” Felicity declared,
positioning herself between her father and Jonathon.

“I know.” Carlton’s straightforward
reply surprised her. “The Ravenwoods told me. They wanted to make sure I knew
you were willing, and that it was Mr. White who was coerced into eloping.”

“I was not
coerced
,” Jonathon protested.

The duke raised an eyebrow. “But you
agreed to her request, despite knowing that her argument was flawed. I know
you took your brother into consideration, but as long as you had my support you
would not need to go to any extreme measure to protect her from him. Because
you love her you still agreed to go with her, despite knowing that eloping
would only make you appear more like a true fortune hunter. You would not want
that when you are trying to protect your family honour.”

“It does no such thing!” Felicity
sputtered, appalled at the notion that Jonathon could be seen as anything but a
true gentleman.

“It will not once we return to London
and assure everyone that the marriage took place with my consent, and Lady
White’s, of course,” Carlton added, nodding to the countess. “If we are lucky
our absence will not have been remarked upon, and we can put it about that we
went to Avondale for your wedding, instead of Gretna Green.”

“Avondale?”

“It sounds more romantic than eloping
in Gretna Green,” Carlton defended. “I realize I might be alone in that
thought, but it makes sense that Felicity would want to marry in Avondale. We
can return to London, host a reception, and no one in the
ton
will suspect that the marriage was anything more or less than
the desire of two lovers to be married quickly, and privately. Perhaps we can
say that Mr. White was so overcome at seeing Felicity returned that he
immediately sought me out for her hand.”

“I would have,” Jonathon put in.
“Anyone who saw us at the opera will know that I was overcome.”

Felicity warmly smiled up at him and
voiced her agreement with the plan. “But are we still getting married today?”

“We are here, aren’t we?” Sylvia
smiled wryly. “I always fancied the idea of eloping. It sounds so daring.”

Carlton shook his head in wonder as
Felicity exclaimed her concurrence with the countess. “Women are strange
creatures,” he remarked to Jonathon. The younger man chuckled and nodded in
response, earning him a slapped arm from his mother and his future bride.

Epilogue

Whitethorn House, Yorkshire

December

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“When you said delightfully wicked in a
tree, I did not assume this,” Felicity murmured, snuggling closer to Jonathon.
The warmth of their bodies was trapped beneath several wool blankets, which
provided both cover for them and padding for the wooden floor of the tree fort
beneath them.

“A tree fort is the perfect location
for watching the stars,” Jonathon pointed out, brushing his lips against her
cheek. “Every night we were apart I dreamed of watching the stars with you.”

She rolled onto her side, brushing
aside her ebony hair so she could smile across at him. “So did I. Those
dreams were nothing to the reality of it, though. I certainly never dreamed of
this
.” She slid a hand down his
chest.

He chuckled, the sound reverberating
near her ear, and tightened his hold on her waist. “Dreams often pale in
comparison to reality,” he offered. “My dreams of you certainly did.”

Felicity accepted his tender kiss with
a soft moan. When they parted she asked, “Do we have to leave tomorrow?”

“Your father has invited us to spend
Christmas with him in Avondale. Even my mother will be there,” he pointed out.
“As much as I would like to remain here with you, we should spend Christmas
with our families, as small as that family might be.” He grimaced, thinking
about his brother’s self-imposed exile from the family.

“Family is important,” she consented, a
wry smile playing at her lips.

Jonathon raised a questioning eyebrow.
“What are you thinking of, my love?”

“What do you want for Christmas?”

The question surprised him. “I thought
I already told you what I wanted.”

“You already have
me
, Jonathon,” she stated softly, a blush rising to her cheeks.
The flush brought colour to her moonlit skin, and he admired her for a moment
while she searched for the right words to continue.

“You have not spoken ill of anyone
since we married,” she finally said. “I am proud of you for that, and of
myself for not being unintentionally rude to anyone. Therefore I think we
should have a special gift…maybe a gift for both of us.”

Jonathon grinned and winked at her. “I
thought we had just enjoyed that gift, love.”

She acceded the truth of that statement
by clearing her throat and lowering her eyes. Recognizing that she really was
serious about the gift, he rested his fingers against her cheek and brushed his
nose against hers. Felicity reached up to grab his hand and pulled it down to
her stomach, her starry eyes overflowing with joy.

“Happy early Christmas, darling,” she
whispered. “We are becoming three.”

A
Preview
of Upcoming Projects:

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Fiction as A.N. Stormes:

The White
Raven

An old Varlorgian legend states that the sign of the
White Raven will herald the end of Thrnv’s power. Thrnv has taken every
measure to protect itself: each newborn undergoes a thorough search for the
dreaded symbol. When the sign appears on the king’s son, the future of Thrnv
lies on his decision. Gengas spares his son’s life, but in so doing he sets
his people on an unmarked path that could ultimately lead to Thrnv’s complete
destruction.

While Thrnv deteriorates, Unlev flourishes. The
heirs of Varlorginar grow strong from Thrnv’s weakness, and when it appears
that Thrnv collapses upon itself, Unlev becomes the new front against an old
enemy that refuses to die. The kings of Unlev unknowingly befriend the heir of
Thrnv while fighting the Terrans, and for a time it appears that the White
Raven will follow the path laid out in legend, and desert Thrnv. However, the
Terrans hide a secret within their shadowy mountains that could see Thrnv
restored to greatness.

Will the battlefields of Unlev see peace created
between the heirs of Varlorginar and Thrnv, or will the White Raven disappear
into the shadowy mountains of the Terrans, lost forever to his country and the
one who holds his soul?

Legend of the White Raven

“The owl, the dove, and the raven,”
a husky voice stated, hushing the
rumble of music and speech around him. A lavender eye glowed in the mystical
light illuminating the ballroom of Smilloc’s castle, and every figure in the
room turned to face the prophet.

“But this
shall be no ordinary raven,” he continued, eyes unfocused. “This shall be a
white raven, destined to change the order of Varlorginar. He shall come from
Wizoc’s line, his blood seething with the knowledge of his forefathers, while
his mind shall know nothing but lies. Varlorginar has fallen, and the truth is
lost.”

A murmured
cry of despair rose up from those closest to him.

“The owl
shall know the truth but not understand; the dove shall know kindness but not
have wings. Only by the will of the White Raven will they mend the bond
between brothers, and erase the fear caused by betrayal. Varlorginar has
fallen; the Knife of Light is stolen and the children of the Dragon are fled,
their lineage forgotten and their future doomed to exile unless the White Raven
wills it otherwise.

“Ash,
blood, confusion, deceit. Thus ends Varlorginar.”

Project
31.00

The Beginning

Government Proclamation No. 1

To
all Citizens

June
7, 2112

To expedite the transfer of information, the
Government will issue Identification to all Citizens. All Citizens are
expected to register their Identification by
July 7 of this year
. Upon registration, each Citizen will receive
a personal prompter. This prompter will be used for further proclamations, and
will replace all other sources of written and verbal communication from the
Government.

Any Citizen that fails to register will stand
before a Government Court and face whatever judgment said Court deems
necessary.

February
1, 3089

The
Capitol of the Central State, TX, UCNW, Earth

Sibeal

I clenched my shoulder bag tightly with
one hand, the other relaxed beside my thigh. Grateful I decided to leave my
knee-length white skirt behind in favor of the long, white pants and tall grey
boots, I shivered beneath my layers of Government clothing: a close-fitting
long-sleeve grey turtleneck, long-sleeve white button down shirt with the
collar pressed flat over a thick grey wool sweater. My feet were encased in
double white and grey socks in deliberately mismatched layers, while my hands
trembled in grey leather gloves. My shoulder bag, a gift from my university
sponsor, was a wonderful shade of blue that stood out amidst the white and grey
of the snow-covered District Capitol building.

White marble floors were cold beneath me,
and grey counters circled the perimeter of the large reception area. Only one
DC employee worked the main counter, and she was an elderly plump blonde with
tiny white-rimmed glasses that made her hazel eyes look twice as large as they
should. The tin nameplate at the edge of the counter read Margery Burgess,
DC-10.

I stood a little taller, lifting my small
chest so she could read the name and status embroidered into my sweater before
I handed her the slip of paper that had merited my journey to the DC.

“Sibeal Gilchrist, Student of Vision,
Level One,” she read off the paper, ignoring my presence. The letter was
neatly placed into a file and she typed up my information in a quick staccato,
her long fingernails scratching against the surface of the counter. I noticed
the illuminated keypad, integrated into the counter, and immediately missed my
safe desk back at my university, the keyboard an old-fashioned thin plastic
sheet I carried with my personal prompter.

Her face was illuminated as her prompter
screen glowed with my records—I could see it all reflected in her
glasses. She grunted, or made some similar sound of acceptance, and pushed one
of many circular white buttons on the counter. A snap, and a three-foot
section of the counter was pulled aside to grant me admittance to the long
hallway leading to an elevator.

“Floor twelve, Miss Gilchrist.” Her
voice was dismissive.

“Thank you,” I murmured, dipping my head
slightly and beginning the walk up the slanted corridor, my eyes darting from
one wall to the other as the pictures changed. One side showed the Government
crest, while the other bore a picture of the Governor sitting at his desk with
his advisors around him. When I looked again the wall revealed smiling
children, all clinging to their first schoolbooks. I took a deep breath before
pushing the button for the elevator, and stepped inside the gleaming metal cube
when the doors slid open.

The faint whirr of the motors was vaguely
comforting, distracting me for a brief time as I watched the floors ding by.
When the doors re-opened it was behind me, making me jump and turn around
hastily. A middle-aged man was waiting for me, a short rifle clenched in the
palm of his hand and resting against one shoulder.

“This way, Miss Gilchrist.” He turned
sharply on one heel and led me down a bright hallway, stopping before we
reached the halfway mark. “In this door, Miss Gilchrist.” He punched a code
into a keypad with one gloved finger and seams appeared in the wall, revealing
a tall, narrow door. He pushed against it and it opened with a faint hiss of
suction resisting, and motioned for me to enter.

I stepped inside hesitantly, pausing as
the door closed firmly behind me, and lifted my eyes to take in the conference
room to which I had been led. A long clear rectangular glass table was bolted
to the center of the floor, small spinning chairs with tall straight backs
placed systematically around it. The far wall was composed of twelve narrow
windows reaching from the floor to the ceiling and placed precisely two feet
apart from each other and the edges of the room. Thick violet carpet
contrasted sharply with the white walls, but it was comforting to see the
color.

“You must be Miss Sibeal Gilchrist?” A
tall, silver headed man with thick silver spectacles stood and smiled at me.
“I am Dr. Cornelius Winston. Welcome to the DC. Please, come and take a seat
while we wait for the others to arrive. You are early; a trait I appreciate.”
He waved me forward, walking around the head of the table to pull out a seat
beside a young man who had also stood at my entrance.

I accepted the seat with a soft word of
thanks and glanced quickly at the olive-skinned and golden-haired young man,
casting my eyes aside when I realized his eyes were turned towards me. I
busied myself with pulling off my gloves and placing them in my bag, my fingers
brushing against the soft blue leather before I hung the bag over the back of
my chair. My hands folded in my lap, I stared at the Government crest embossed
in the glass of the table.

“Miss Gilchrist, you are very young to be
such an advanced student. You are fourteen, correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“Your mentor took no time at all in
determining that you would be right for this project. Did Dr. Georges say much
about our work?”

“No sir, he simply told me this was an
opportunity to finish my studies early and advance in my field,” I replied
softly, tilting my head up slightly so I could look across at him. He smiled
gently at me, his elbows resting on the glass and his chin nestled against his
intertwined fingers.

“Then you are like Mr. Griffith here, and
unaware of the true honor you have been awarded. You are a first level choice,
Miss Gilchrist. There will be four more levels beneath you, but even should
you choose to leave the project and later return you will still be a first
level. When the others arrive and I discuss the particulars of this project
you will begin to understand the full measure of what we are working on.”

Romances as Ashley Stormes:

What happened to Lt. White of the ---
cavalry? Did he ever manage to win the hand of Lady Felicity Ryans, and free
himself from his older brother’s gambling debts?

What happened to Kvas and Nadezhda?
Did they ever marry? Did Alexei ever prove himself useful?

What happened to Isabel (Tygre)? Did
she ever find love, or was her past too much of a burden?

If you have ever asked one or all of the above
questions, you will want to read

After
the Masquerade

a collection of short stories and novellas
concerning the characters that never got to dance in Lady Rauley’s ballroom.

Speaking
of Lady Rauley’s ballroom…make sure you read

The Masquerade Series

The Masquerade

A Mask of Black Satin

A Tartan Mask

Mask of the Tiger

The Widow’s Mask

After the Masquerade:

To Love A Spy
(short story)

The Taste of Frozen Vodka
(short story)

Keep up with the latest
release dates by following me on Facebook or Blogger!

http://www.facebook.com/ashleystormesofficial

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