Charmed at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 1)

by Claire Delacroix

  He winked at her. “Do you really think I’d ever pass up the opportunity to order around Felicity Fields?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It will be the only time I listen to you, I’ll have you know.”

  He tapped her nose, grinning. “I’d expect nothing less from the girl who put frogs in my bed.”

  “I can think of a much better use for your bed.” Her shy smile let him know that for once, she actually meant the double entendre. “Eventually. In time.”

  His cock twitched at the very thought of her in his bed, her naked body underneath his as he thrust into her. But he could wait, as long as she needed. He wanted her first time to be perfect, as remarkable as the woman herself. He had a lifetime to learn the many secrets of Felicity Fields, and discovering how her mind worked would be the best of studies.

  For the first time, he knew that the days ahead of him would be good—for real.

  Chapter 17

  Felicity spent the morning of Christmas Eve at the church of St. David’s, serving as a bridesmaid in Tressa’s wedding to Matthew Kent. As it was the first wedding she’d ever attended, she viewed the ceremony as a learning experience, keeping mental notes of the things she most assuredly did not want at her own wedding. That helped her to overcome the anxiety of standing up in front of the village for Tressa—that, and the reminder Nicholas had given her before they’d left for the wedding.

  “Most people will be looking at Tressa, not you,” he’d said. “But if you start to feel nervous, look out at me, and know that I am there with you.”

  His words, combined with the quick yet passionate kiss he’d given her in the carriage outside of St. David’s, made her feel unstoppable.

  Once the ceremony began, she’d forgotten to be apprehensive. In the face of all of Tressa’s dreams for love coming true, she could not think of anything else but how joyful she was for her dear friend. She’d always thought Matthew Kent was a rogue, but today, as she listened to them bicker during their exchange of vows, she surmised that perhaps Tressa had needed a rogue all along.

  As she learned in the last week, the principle of opposites attracting did not just apply to chemistry, but to her relationships with people as well. She had not unlocked the secrets of the Philosopher’s Stone, but she had still achieved a great transformation.

  She was Felicity Fields, last of her line, loser of the battle against Death, but winner of so much, much more. She was in both mourning and love—two states she’d never thought could occur simultaneously. Tomorrow, she’d spend time trying to categorize these emotions further, but for now, she simply acknowledged that her feelings existed.

  As she rode in the carriage back to Tetbery, she reconsidered her list. She neither wanted hordes of villagers attending, nor did she want to be married at a church, like Tressa. She’d like to be married at Tetbery—perhaps by the Reverend Teague, since she found him the least objectionable of religious officials.

  Of course, the mere fact that she was considering her own wedding was a shock. She’d always thought she’d end up a spinster. Yet, as the wedding started, Felicity had looked out in the audience for Nicholas, and she’d felt a now familiar tug at her heart.

  Slowly, surely, she was beginning to see a future. It would be a future without Margaret—perhaps she’d always mourn that fact—but it would be happy.

  Because as Tressa had said, she deserved happiness.

  She pulled out her watch as the carriage descended the long drive to the house, checking the time. Nicholas had gone with his friends to Castle Keyvnor, for he was supposed to attend the Hambly sisters’ wedding. She had not been invited, and for that she breathed a sigh of relief. Now that she knew she wouldn’t be leaving Tetbery permanently, she wanted to clean up her laboratory and say a final goodbye to Margaret before she was placed into the crypt with Randall. While she still thought Nicholas was being overly sentimental, she had to admit it did bring her comfort to know Margaret’s body wouldn’t be alone.

  It was not the fate she had wanted for Margaret, but it was something.

  The carriage came to a stop. The driver pulled open the door and helped her down, and she headed for the front door. Tolsworth met her there, which was unusual, because she’d long ago told him he didn’t need to wait for her.

  “I think you will enjoy this, Miss Fields,” he said, a wide smile stretching across his wizened face.

  What an odd thing to say. She eyed him quizzically. “Yes, I should hope I’d enjoy my own home.”

  He opened the door wide, gesturing for her to enter. She did, and suddenly she knew exactly why he thought she’d be pleased.

  The grand hall was completely transformed. Evergreen garlands with giant red bows trimmed the white banisters of the spiral staircase, as well as the railings for the second story. Red and white hothouse flowers adorned every surface, while a large holly wreath was placed on the door to the sitting room. Every painting in the hall had been trimmed with greenery.

  It was perfect. Tetbery looked just as Margaret would have wanted it to on Christmas Eve.

  She had no time to reflect on the bitter sweetness of it all, because there was Nicholas, coming out from the atrium at the end of the hall. When he saw her, he sprinted toward her, his smile so wide it seemed to go ear to ear. She waited for him, her gaze darting from one corner to the next, marveling at the beautiful decorations.

  “Happy Christmas, Lissie.” Nicholas pulled her into his arms, embracing her.

  She rested her head against his chest, breathing in his leather and sandalwood scent, overlaid with the crisp evergreen. “Happy Christmas, Nicholas.”

  “So you like it?” He pulled back from her, gesturing to the staircase.

  “I love it. Before Margaret died, I never really thought about how festive the decorations were—I thought they were impractical, and I couldn’t bring myself to decorate without her.” She plucked a hothouse flower off the nearest table, running her finger over the petals. “But seeing the hall decorated again, I think I understand why she loved Christmas so much. I do feel hopeful, like anything is possible.”

  “Then my work here is done.” He took the flower from her, and tucked it behind her ear gently.

  “You’re supposed to be at the wedding,” she said. “When did you have time to do all this?”

  “I sent a message to Blackwater with my regrets, telling him I had a lady to impress.” Nicholas winked at her, and a welcome warmth flooded through her.

  Perhaps she’d needed a rogue too, and now she had one.

  “I rode back while you were still talking to the wedding guests,” he continued. “With the help of Tolsworth, Mrs. Mitchell, Mrs. Manning, and the maids, I was able to get all the decorations up.”

  “Thank you. It’s beautiful.” She loved all of it—and she loved him.

  “One last thing.” Tolsworth came up behind them, a sprig of mistletoe in his hand. He held it up, above their heads.

  Felicity looked up at the mistletoe. “I believe we have to kiss now.”

  Nicholas leaned in, his lips twisting into that smirk she’d grown so used to over the years. They kissed, and Felicity thought she’d never heard a rule she loved so much before. When in a moment they stopped, both out of breath and lips rosy, Nicholas placed an arm around her.

  “Did you want to go to the castle and see your friend?” she asked.

  “No,” Nicholas said. “Right here, with you, I am finally where I am supposed to be.”

  Epilogue

  December 24, 1812

  They were married at the end of the Season, which Felicity had spent in London with Nicholas. She did not much enjoy Polite Society, but it was not as bad as she’d thought it would be, for she spent many of her days visiting the illustrious museums and research facilities in London. By the time they left London for Tetbery, she had even made a few friends with similar interests in chemistry.

  But none of that compared to the joy of coming back to Tetbery. Though she had discovered she
could feel at home anywhere, as long as Nicholas was there, the old, rambling gothic estate was still her favorite place in the world. Now, they sat at the dinner table, about to celebrate their first Christmas Eve as the Duke and Duchess of Wycliffe, lord and lady of Tetbery Estate.

  “What do you think, Lissie? Would Aunt Margaret have approved?” He waved at their empty plates, once filled to the brim with two exquisite courses with a delicious dessert following.

  Felicity nodded, scooting her chair out from behind the table. “Absolutely. She would have fought us for the plum pudding.”

  “There is no better baker in all of England than Mrs. Manning,” Nicholas agreed. “Except maybe for you, my dear wife.”

  “I have not reached the same level of skill as Mrs. Manning,” Felicity informed him, though she knew enough now to appreciate the sentiment behind his comment. “My latest studies have taken time away from my baking.”

  “Should you wish to, I am certain that you could become both the most accomplished chemist and the most accomplished baker. “ He took her hand in his own, the love in his eyes reminding her once more how fortunate she was. “You are the most extraordinary woman, my determined duchess.”

  Author’s Note

  While the word “scientist” was not established until the 1830’s, I have chosen to use it throughout this novella because it is the best description for Felicity’s chosen profession, and because other terms from the Regency like “natural philosopher” no longer have the same connotation.

  The Philosopher’s Stone has been the subject of many different works throughout time, and holds its basis in alchemical texts ranging from the medieval ages to modern times. The alchemists I have mentioned in this book did indeed exist, though I have probably mangled their very complex work in my attempts at simplifying it. For Felicity’s Philosopher’s Stone, I have embellished upon described processes and created new ones, as there’s a large debate as to how the stone would have been created. When it comes to the purposes of this novel, I wanted the Elixir of Life to do more than just grant immortality, and so I expanded upon what it could do.

  My many thanks go to Gaylin Walli, who helped me research spirit lamps for Felicity’s experiment. Berzelius’s lamp was actually invented in 1820, but for the purposes of this novella, I have co-opted it for use in 1811.

  My thanks as well to Heather Ratcliffe for describing the exact ingredients needed for the embalming fluid used by Felicity. All errors in chemistry and science are my own.

  The “Night Watch Bill” that Nicholas fails to get passed in the House of Lords is a real bill, responding to the public outcry caused by the brutal murders of two East End families in December of 1811. Though the Night Watch aimed at preventing crime, it was not viewed as part of the police due to the fact that it was locally controlled by several different authorities. This led to inefficiency at best, and a failure to stop crime at worst.

  The Night Watch Bill suggested fixing this flaw by centralizing the Watch, creating the position of Assistant High Constable to supervise the petty constables and watchmen, and grouping the existing parishes into eight districts. The bill aimed at increasing accountability and opening up communication between the different parishes, as each policing unit in London largely operated independently. In fact, London would not have a centralized police force until 1828, when the Metropolitan Police Department was created.

  In May of 1812, the members of Parliament voted against the Night Watch Bill, citing concerns about a government-run police force, among other issues. I have moved this date in my novella to the Season of 1811, for the purposes of the narrative.

  About Erica Monroe

  Erica Monroe is a USA Today Bestselling Author of dark, suspenseful historical romance. She was a finalist in the published historical category for the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Romantic Suspense, and her books have been recommended reads at Fresh Fiction, Smexy Books, SBTB, and All About Romance. When not writing, she is a chronic TV watcher, sci-fi junkie, and comic book fanatic. She lives in the suburbs of North Carolina with her husband, two dogs, and a cat.

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  A Duke By Any Other Name

  Claire Delacroix

  Prologue

  Airdfinnan Castle, Scotland—December 1811

  Alexander Magnus Armstrong, Duke of Inverfyre, read his aunt’s letter again and frowned. It was after dinner and he was alone in his library, the darkness of the night pressing against the windows and a robust fire blazing on the grate. He had been looking forward to an entire winter of savoring the pleasures of home.

  The letter meant his desire was not to be.

  He poured himself a port in consolation, took his favorite seat by the fire and sipped as he read the letter again. The last thing Alexander wanted to do was to abandon his sanctuary and ride for Cornwall, but it appeared that he had little choice.

  He had baited a trap and his prey was poised to seize the cheese. It would be irresponsible to surrender the chase now.

  Even if his sister Anthea would be disappointed.

  Alexander frowned. His aunt, a baroness who had worked her way into every ballroom in London, was also his primary source of information. Penelope sent him chatty letters at regular intervals, cleverly managing to include all of the intelligence he needed amidst the drivel of who had cut whom and who had pawned their silver, substituting sterling for plate. No other soul could have read this missive and noticed the one gem of valuable information amidst the gossip.

  In the employ of the crown, Alexander hunted criminals who preyed upon high society. He had been in pursuit of a jewel thief for a year. He had guessed long ago that the villain was the same man who had seen Anthea blamed for his crimes during her first season, but soon Alexander might be able to prove it. He had to catch the scoundrel in the act. A gentleman and gem collector who had experienced losses due to this very thief was aiding in the hunt. Mr. Timothy Cushing had shown the Eye of India to many in London and was dispatching it to the perfect recipient.

  Alexander’s aunt shared the news that her good friend, Mr. Cushing, would be giving the fabulous brooch as a surprise to Lady Tamsyn Hambly, who was being married at Castle Keyvnor in Cornwall at Christmas. Aunt Penelope speculated on the bride’s delight at this surprise, for truly, who would not be thrilled?

  Clearly, Alexander would also be spending Christmas in Cornwall, although not at Castle Keyvnor. The local village and its tavern would have to do.

  He considered the calendar. Since it was only the beginning of December, he could arrive in time by carriage if he set out immediately.

  He grimaced, for he was not yet ready to don his foppish disguise again.

  Findlay entered with a tray and inhaled sharply, probably because his master had already poured his own port and was simultaneously making a face. “I apologize for the delay, Your Grace,” he said quickly. “Or is it the quality of the port that causes disfavor?”

  “Neither, Findlay. You were neither late nor remiss. I was bored with my aunt’s tattle and too impatient to wait. Any blame is entirely mine.”

  The older man stole a glance at Alexander as he wiped the decanter and ensured that all was as it should be. “Is there any detail that I can repair, Your Grace?”

  “No, Findlay. You will never change my aunt.” Alexander smiled, then folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. He surveyed the cozy library and sighed. “I will be departing at first light with the coach and six. I’ll want the black team again, though Rodney will not be pleased to have them run again so soon.”

  “If he knows now, Your Grace, he will ensure that they are pampered tonight.”

  “Yes. The big coach, please. It gives me more room to stretch my legs.”

  “Oh, Alexander!” Anthea said from the doorway. “You can’t be leaving. You’ve only just returned home.” She looked to be on the verge
of tears and Alexander hastily finished his port. At a telling glance, Findlay filled his glass again.

  It was well established at Airdfinnan that the Duke of Inverfyre could not bear the sight of his sister’s tears.

  “I fear I must, Anthea, but will return as quickly as possible.” Alexander nodded to Findlay. “Perhaps you could see to the details.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Alexander could see that Findlay was itching to know where he was going and why, but the older man didn’t ask. “Could you send Haskell to me to discuss the packing of my portmanteau, as well, please?”

  “Your portmanteau, sir?”

  “Yes, I will be gone for at least a month, probably longer.”

  “Alexander!” Anthea protested. “What about Christmas?”

  “You will enjoy the festivities without me.” When she might have protested, he lifted a hand. “I am somewhat irked to be leaving again so quickly, but there is nothing to be done about it. Dr. MacEwan insists that I take the sea air in Cornwall in December.”

  To Alexander’s dismay, a tear not only slid down Anthea’s cheek but she came into the library to sit opposite him and make her appeal. “Dr. MacEwan,” she muttered under her breath and dashed at her tears with her fingertips. “Is the air in January truly so different in Cornwall?”

  “So he insists.”

  “I think him a fool. You are more hale than any seven men I know.”

  Findlay bowed and departed, so obviously wanting to linger and eavesdrop that Alexander smiled.

  The change in his expression evidently encouraged his sister to speak her mind. “Of course, you would not have to worry so much about your health if you had an heir,” she reminded him yet again. “High time it is, Alexander, for you to take a bride.”