'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories

by Christi Caldwell

  Spear, slice, fork, eat.

  Vastly different than the mantra dunk, scrub, rinse, repeat that had played through her head just weeks ago.

  Ironically, she found herself preferring the grueling work of laundering, even with her callused hands and cracked knuckles, to this—being on display before Polite Society and Graham’s family.

  Graham’s father, who occupied the seat at the head of the table, still couldn’t be bothered with any pleasantries. What did you expect of such a man who’s been so cold and cruel to his own child? She stole another peek at the Duke of Sutton, tall, broad-shouldered, and in possession of the same heavily chiseled features as Graham. He was his son in every way… physically. The aloof set to those same features marked him so very different from his son, different in the ways that most mattered.

  She felt Graham’s stare before she glanced across the table and found his gaze on her.

  “I told you,” he mouthed. “Horrid.”

  Her lips twitched, and she quickly gathered up her napkin and hid her smile.

  Her husband winked, and the tension melted from her. With him at her side, she could face anyone and anything, pompous members of the peerage—his father—included. “I love you,” she said, the vow noiseless.

  “I love you, too.”

  Warmth blossomed in Martha’s chest.

  Just then, her dining partner jolted himself awake with a snorting cough. “Who… what… were you saying, gel?”

  “I was just commenting on the delightful company,” she answered, and pulling her attention away from the only man in the room who existed for her, Martha attended Lord Lisle’s discourse on the upcoming desserts prepared by the Duchess of Sutton’s French chef.

  After a seemingly endless repast, the Duke and Duchess of Sutton’s guests filed from the room… for… for whichever activities occupied Polite Society after they dined.

  With the duke and duchess leading the way through the corridors, Martha forced her feet forward, wanting to turn in the opposite direction and flee. Searching… for her husband.

  Where was he? She craned her neck, looking around the procession. He couldn’t have simply… disappeared. Falling back, Martha allowed the handful of couples trailing behind her to pass.

  A hand wound around her forearm, and she gasped as she was yanked down the intersecting hall. The shocked exhalation was quickly quashed by a gloved palm pressed against her lips—a familiar gloved palm.

  Martha scowled at her own entirely too pleased grin. It was all too easy to forget that this man she’d fallen in love with and married was also an operative for the Crown, capable of losing himself in crowds of all sizes.

  “Do I need to worry that if I draw my hand away you’ll scream, madam?” he whispered against her ear. His breath, containing a trace of claret and honey, teased at the sensitive shell.

  “You’d be wise to worry, Lord Whitworth,” she returned in equally hushed tones.

  Graham guided her against the wall, and propping his arms on either side of her head, he anchored her between him. Heat poured off his body in waves, his nearness, the feel of his body pressed close to hers headier than the wine that had flown so freely this night.

  She raised her mouth close to his, wanting his kiss, even as it was scandalous to long for his embrace here of all places, in the hall where anyone might pass.

  But then she registered the serious glint in his eyes.

  “What?” she asked hesitantly, her smile fading.

  “Has anyone offended you?” he asked evenly.

  “They haven’t, Graham,” she promised, running her palms along the front of his black sapphire-trimmed jacket.

  “Because if they have, I’ll order the carriages readied now—”

  “Graham,” she murmured, touching an index finger to his lips. “No one has offended me.”

  “They’re miserable affairs, though, aren’t they?”

  That she would concede to him. “Regardless, everyone has been only… polite.”

  Graham’s body went taut, and he drew away from her.

  “What is…?” Martha’s question went unfinished as a young lady turned the corner.

  Flawless, with golden curls upswept in a loose chignon studded with diamond haircombs, the olive-hued beauty was the embodiment of English perfection. An equally flawless blush filled her cheeks.

  Martha’s stomach knotted. Lady Emilia—the woman Graham’s family had sought to marry him off to.

  “Lady Emilia,” Graham greeted, dropping a bow.

  “Lord Whitworth, Lady Whitworth, forgive me,” the young woman murmured, sinking into a curtsy. “I was… on my way to join the other ladies.”

  Had Martha not been studying the voluptuous Athena so closely, she’d have missed the ever-so-slight tightening of those bow-shaped lips. A grimace. The lady had… grimaced. At the prospect of joining the duchess’ other guests? Or at having come upon Martha and Graham?

  The lady quickly had a smile in place, and it was pearl white and as perfect as the lady herself, and Martha was besieged by the sudden need to cry. “Would you care to join me, Lady Whitworth?” she asked, extending an elbow.

  Martha was so mired in the misery of meeting the woman Graham’s family had handpicked for him to wed that it took a moment for the offer to register.

  It was… an unexpected offer of support. An attempt to include Martha. For what end? For what purpose?

  The other woman stared back patiently, and this time, Martha noted the details she’d failed to note moments ago—the sincerity and warmth in her heart-shaped face. “That would be… lovely,” Martha said softly. Sliding her fingers upon the other woman’s sleeve and resisting the urge to glance back at her husband, she allowed Lady Emilia to lead her off to join the other ladies.

  Chapter 5

  Any time he’d attended his mother and father’s house parties, Graham had relished these moments of solitude.

  In fact, he’d made it a point to seek out that blessed gift whenever and wherever he could.

  Now, he found himself, as he’d been at so many of the previous parties before, alone—and wishing for the company of another.

  More specifically… his wife.

  “Psst, Graham.”

  He started.

  “Over here, Graham.”

  Following the endearingly loud child’s whisper to the opposite intersecting hall, he found Frederick lurking around the corner.

  “I didn’t hear you,” he acknowledged, the words coming out for the praiseworthy ones they were. Frederick’s furtive steps could one day see the boy with a role in the Brethren, if he so wished it. On the heels of that was the significance of finding Frederick lurking here and not in the nursery. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Fine, fine. My sisters went exploring to see the Portrait Rooms, and I was alone and bored.”

  “Well, we cannot have that.” Graham threw an arm around the boy’s small shoulders. “Allow me to take you to my most favorite of places to sneak off to during these dull affairs.”

  “Oh, they aren’t dull,” Frederick contradicted. “There’s so many people here, and the gentlemen were off taking drinks and laughing. All very exciting stuff.”

  The three children had been granted an anonymity that lent a level of intrigue to the duke and duchess’ grand affair. Graham had never shared that joy. Unlike Frederick, Creda, and Iris, Graham had been perpetually on display and had hated it all. Not wanting to kill the boy’s joy, he neatly directed them to the last room at the end of the corridor. “Now, this is very exciting stuff,” he promised as he pressed the handle. “The bill…” His words trailed off at finding that he and Frederick were not the first to appropriate the room for the evening.

  Heath.

  Graham’s brother was poised over the table as the world never saw him, sans jacket and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Graham hadn’t seen such negligence in his attire since—he scoured his mind—he couldn’t even remember.

  “Bil
liards,” Frederick whispered in reverent awe.

  “Forgive me,” Graham said stiffly. “I didn’t realize the room was occupied.” He gave Frederick’s shoulder a light squeeze. “We should—”

  “Please, won’t you join me?” Heath directed the unexpected invitation not to Graham, but rather, the little boy at his side. He completed his shot.

  Frederick raised a pleading gaze to Graham’s.

  As a rule, Graham made it a point to avoid his brother. In fairness, they both went out of their way to do so. Alas, working for the Brethren, Graham had received enough training that he could put on a false show for his son’s benefit. “Of course.”

  Letting out an excited whoop, Frederick went racing over to the red-velvet-lined table and gripped the edges of the broad mahogany piece.

  “Frederick, may I present… my brother, Lord Heath,” he said as he closed the door behind them.

  That brought the boy up short. “You’re… brothers?” He scratched at his puckered brow. “You don’t seem like you’re brothers.”

  “Indeed, we are,” Heath drawled. Wandering over to the cue shelf, Heath retrieved two additional sticks. “And come… we’re of a ducal family, but I daresay my new nephew might call me Uncle,” he offered, tossing one of the sticks across the table. Frederick scrambled to catch it. “Or, at least, Heath.” He followed that with a wink for the boy’s benefit.

  Heath? Uncle? What in blazes…?

  Collecting himself, Graham joined the pair at the table and accepted the cue. His brother didn’t even bother looking at him, instead speaking to Frederick.

  “Have you played before, Frederick?”

  The boy gave a mighty shake of his head. “I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to. My father once told me that I was too little to ever be good at it… or anything,” he tacked on, almost as an afterthought.

  That casual admission froze both Graham and his brother in their tracks. Even after a month of learning the cruelty and pain Frederick and his sisters and mother had suffered at the hands of the late viscount, the reality had the ability to cleave Graham in two every time.

  Over the top of Frederick’s head, Heath at last spared a look for Graham. And of all the wonders and shocks, it appeared that they, two brothers who’d been at odds the whole of their lives, could prove united in something, after all—a shared outrage for Frederick’s revealing admission.

  “Is…” Frederick cleared his throat. “Is it a problem that I don’t kn-know how to play?” he asked, misinterpreting the reason for the silence blanketing the room.

  Heath caught Frederick’s shoulder in a like manner to how Graham had lightly gripped him in the hall and then patted his arm. “No, lessons are perfect.” He dipped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That way, you can learn from the best.”

  It was that usual cocksure arrogance that had been the most natural of skins for his brother to wear, and it had always grated. Only this time, as Frederick giggled, there was none of Graham’s usual enmity toward his brother.

  “First, both opponents’ balls are white, but one of them”—Heath lifted it in display—“is marked with a black dot. We also require a red object ball. Each player”—he glanced to Frederick—“or team?”

  Content to observe the pair, Graham waved Heath on.

  “Each team or player use a different ball,” his brother finished. Leaning over the table, Heath brought his cue into position. “The trick to striking a ball,” he said to the boy hanging on his every word, “is to move your arm slowly back.” He demonstrated the smooth movement. “And then forward in a pendulum motion.” He urged Frederick into a like position.

  The boy practiced, his movements slightly jerky.

  “Keep the rest of your body still,” Heath coached. “Now, when you’re ready, strike whichever cue you decide.”

  Frederick continued shifting, testing the motions, and then he let his stick fly.

  The balls cracked as he found his mark.

  Frederick let out a triumphant shout. “Graham! Did you see…? I did it!”

  With a grin, Graham brought his hands together, clapping. “Bravo. As Heath said, you’ve learned… from the best.” And where that statement would have been uttered only with jaded mockery, this time… there was none.

  All Graham’s life he’d used his brother’s successes as the bellwether for his own successes… and, more commonly, failures. Only to find in this moment that he didn’t need to compete with Heath. What Heath accomplished or achieved wasn’t a mark against Graham, or evidence of any flaw in Graham. It was simply… a skill his brother possessed, independent from Graham.

  Graham went and made himself a drink at the rosewood-inlaid tantalus. As he sipped brandy, he studied the pair at play in the crystal windowpane. The full moon’s glow cast a bright shine upon the glass, bringing Frederick and Heath into better focus. They moved about the table, conversing as easily as if they’d known each other the whole of the boy’s life. All the while, they alternated between Heath’s meticulous billiards lesson and some lighthearted remark made to the boy that earned one of Frederick’s precious laughs.

  Graham glanced into the amber contents of his snifter and let himself think about the last time he’d played billiards with his older brother.

  “I don’t want to play with you. You always beat me… and you’re always mean about it, Heath.”

  “Fine. Don’t play with me, Shelly. Father is right. You’re a whiny baby who can’t do anything anyway.”

  Frederick laughed, that snorting expression of mirth at odds with the memory Graham carried of the misery he’d endured during any game with the man who now got on so easily with Martha’s son.

  Shaking off the melancholy thought, he faced the pair. “I’m afraid that must be the end of the billiards lesson for the evening,” Graham said. “Your mother will surely be stopping by your rooms.” As he’d come to learn in the short time they’d lived together as husband and wife, Martha performed the nightly ritual with each of her children.

  Frederick groaned. “Awww. Can’t I just play five more minutes?”

  Heath set his stick on the side of the table. “We can have another lesson tomorrow,” he promised. He paused. “Or perhaps Graham might deliver your next one.”

  It was a veiled acknowledgment that Heath thought he might have overstepped and now graciously backed away from that interference.

  Handing over his stick, Frederick dropped a bow. “I had a good time, Lord… Heath. Graham.” He called out the parting greeting with a wave before he dashed off.

  And Graham and his brother were left—alone.

  Tension crackled like the roaring fire in the hearth.

  “What did I ever do to you, Heath?”

  His brother straightened. “I beg your—”

  “Oh, come,” he scoffed, cutting across the false protestation. “If you can muster honesty for a small child, you can certainly spare it for the brother you’ve known your whole life.”

  “I’m not here to fight with you,” Heath gritted out. Stalking over to the enormous globe in the corner, he grabbed his sapphire jacket flung across the cylinder so quickly the object whirred in a fast counterclockwise circle.

  Let him go. Whatever had come between them… it was too far gone to repair.

  “I am your brother, Heath,” he rasped, the glass shaking in his hand. Nay… “You are my older brother, and I adored you. I… loved you.” That brought Heath to a jerky halt. “You are great at everything. Everything comes naturally to you.” When Graham had struggled with every skill, scholarly or athletic. “And yet, you had to tear me down along with him?” He should have defended Graham. Protected him. Graham gave his head a disgusted shake and set his barely touched drink on the edge of the billiards table. “You hated me as much as he did.”

  “Do you think it was easy?” Heath whispered. His brother faced him. “Do you think that being the ducal heir spared me from Father’s expectations? You… The expectations placed upon yo
u, you think were great? What do you think they were for me?”

  That knocked Graham back on his heels. For the truth was… he’d only ever seen his brother’s life as a charmed one. The cherished heir, valued and appreciated for his strengths and for the rank he’d one day inherit. What if… I too have been wrong all these years? It was an unnerving realization to confront… and yet, all too easy to see the truth there.

  “We should have both been there for one another,” Graham said quietly.

  “Yes. We should have.” Heath flashed a sad smile. “And I never hated you, Sheldon. I just forgot how to be… around anyone.” It was the closest his brother would ever come to an apology.

  And yet… what would an apology do? It wouldn’t make up for the time lost. There was only going forward. “We both shut one another out, Heath,” he murmured. Graham was as much to blame. He knew that now.

  His brother’s throat moved. He opened his mouth as if to say more. But then the walls went up once more. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Heath coughed into his hand. “Good night… Graham.”

  With that, his brother left.

  This time, Graham felt there might be something he’d believed impossible to find with his brother—peace.

  Chapter 6

  It took several long walks down three different hallways for Martha to realize the woman escorting her was either lost or had no intention of leading her to the parlor in this palatial household where the duchess currently entertained her guests.

  Given Lady Emilia’s connection to the Whitworths—the other woman and her family were close enough to have been visitors enough over the years—she should know her way about even this near castle.

  Which left the only likely alternative—she was deliberately keeping Martha from the guests.

  To what end?

  “Here we are.” Lady Emilia guided Martha into the last room in the hall.

  They’d arrived—Martha’s eyebrows drew together—in an empty room.

  A…

  “It is lovely, is it not?” Lady Emilia called out, her bell-like voice pinging off the frosted glass windows.