'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories

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'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories Page 22

by Christi Caldwell


  So it had been decided that Damian would go home with Rob from war since he had nowhere else to go. And every Christmas since, the dangerous young man, cast out from his family but still destined to inherit, had spent every Yuletide with the Blackstone family.

  Much to Harry’s delight, the Duke of Drake now sat at the pianoforte in the long hall, pounding out God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen in dramatic and passionate tones.

  He played it with a vigor that seemed to encourage cheer and all about chattered with happiness as they played cards.

  A smile tilted her lips as she gazed upon him and his strong fingers dancing over the keys. No one could play like Drake.

  He paused mid-chord and took a long drink from the snifter of brandy perched on the table beside him before he transitioned into a rousing reel.

  Harry almost laughed, for he did so with such ease. Not a note was missed.

  The Duke of Drake was a man she knew she’d never understand. He hid his truths under a mask of wicked quips and sardonic smiles. His gaze spoke untold knowledge of wonders most would never know. But he seldom said a serious word, preferring to drawl his way through most conversations.

  How she hoped he would find the sort of happiness that she and Rob had found. According to her dear husband, Drake had known very little joy in his life.

  She looked about the room which fairly glowed with good humor and surveyed her guests. A feeling of great contentment settled over her. A year ago, she’d known she would wed, but it had never occurred to her that she would wed her childhood friend, or that she would find both passion and happiness.

  Were there any two as lucky as she and Rob? She casually walked along the length of the red, silk brocaded room, taking in the happiness of those who had been invited to Blackdown.

  A hearty fire crackled in the massive Carrara marble fireplace which was decked with holly and ivy. Massive mirrors in gilded frames hung from every bit of the wall, increasing the light within the room. They, too, had been decked with Yuletide finery.

  In fact, bows of greenery swung from every place she could see and the scent of mulled wine filled the room with citrus, cloves, and cinnamon as it simmered in a pot by the fire.

  It was almost shocking to see an item cooking in such a room.

  But she loathed cold wine that was supposed to be hot. And there was simply no way to keep mulled wine as warm as it should be on the journey from the kitchens to the salons.

  So, she had decreed it would be good fun to mull it themselves.

  Richard Heath had all but rolled his eyes as he’d witnessed the attempts of the ladies to cook.

  And since the dukes had always had servants, even at war, they were no better. None of them had ever had to boil water let alone mull wine.

  So, much to everyone’s deep gratitude, they had stood aside as Heath had poured in the wine, cut the oranges, grated the cinnamon, and stirred the whole lot into a punch. And then he’d poured in a good deal of brandy from a decanter on the grog tray and set it to simmer over the blazing fire.

  Harry had all but gulped at the vast amounts of brandy that had been used.

  “If you want someone from the East End to make your punch, you’d best be prepared for it to have a bite,” Richard had proclaimed.

  And as if the good man who ruled the dark night of London could hardly bear to be at ease, he stood beside the fire, his dark eyes flicking over the company.

  His gaze landed upon Mary and, much to Harriet’s astonishment, his gaze. . . softened.

  Harry nearly gasped as she swung her own attention from Mary to Heath.

  Surely, she was mistaken.

  They hardly knew each other.

  But she observed the way in which Heath looked with utter admiration upon Rob’s sister. His dark gaze became pools of emotion as he took in her coiled, black hair and ivory face.

  It was discernible, the depth of his feeling, in the subtle flexing of his hands into fists and the tightening of his jaw. It was not anger that caused such actions, but. . . longing.

  Clearly, his admiration did not give him pleasure.

  Harriet stared at the man who had come to her husband’s aid when she had been kidnapped and suddenly wished that he, too, could be as happy as she. For surely, those who had suffered so terribly and known so little happiness, deserved joy most of all.

  But would he be a good match for Mary?

  Did she reciprocate his feelings?

  Suddenly, Harry felt rather flummoxed. She gazed upon her enigmatic sister-in-law.

  As if in answer to her question, Mary’s face tilted upward, and her sapphire gaze met Heath’s. Her cheeks blossomed apple red, her pink lips parted, and the connection between the two fairly sang.

  “My love, will you not dance with me?”

  She whipped around, laughing. “You startled me.”

  Rob gave her a warm smile. “Woolgathering were you?”

  “Something like that.”

  Rob arched a dark brow. “I know that look, Wife. You’re scheming.”

  “I do not scheme,” she corrected playfully. Harriet gave his accusation further consideration and added. “I plan. In detail.”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Indeed, you do. Now, come and dance. We must set the tone, after all. And it is imperative that Blackdown be merry and bright.”

  “I heartily agree,” she replied, tucking her ivory-gloved hand into his.

  He leaned towards her and whispered, “Do you think we should change the name?”

  “The name?” she queried.

  “Of the house,” he explained lightly. “Blackdown is so very dreary.”

  She considered his question. “It is tradition, I suppose.”

  He harrumphed. “Tradition is dreadful.”

  Harry heard the wish in his voice, the wish for something better than the past and so she smiled up at him. “Rob, now listen and listen well. You are a duke. You make tradition. If you so like we can call this house Sun Hall or Jolly Manor or—”

  “Have done! Have done, my love.” He laughed again and whisked her towards the open space before the pianoforte. “I take your point. What’s in a name and all that.”

  “Good,” she replied, happy he had so easily agreed. “Now, we can’t possibly dance alone. Not if we are to set the precedence for merriment.”

  Rob nodded then cast his gaze about. “Heath,” he called. “Come and dance. I’m certain Mary longs to do more than sit.”

  Harriet nibbled her lower lip and waited for Heath’s reply. Perhaps, such a man as he shunned dancing. After all, there likely was not a great deal of cause for such a thing where he spent the vast majority of his time. At least not formal reels.

  But to her delight, Heath took up the challenge and crossed silently to Mary.

  Rob’s sister’s lips curved in a strange smile before she slipped her fingers into Heath’s.

  Damian looked at the four of them now awaiting him to continue in his dancing tunes. He lifted his hands and brought them down dramatically. The notes of a dirge began.

  “Drake,” roared Rob.

  Drake’s brows rose ever so innocently. But then he laughed and launched into a sprightly air.

  Harry and Rob lined up opposite Mary and Heath. A strange sense of anticipation danced through Harriet as they began the intricate and cheerful turns of the dance. Weaving from partner to partner, touching hand to hand, she was certain that she noticed sheer delight color Mary’s cheeks.

  Yes, Mary liked Richard Heath.

  Harriet nearly laughed. She was far too young to be a matchmaker, was she not?

  But as she considered her own happiness, she thought, perhaps not. What better role than to make others merry?

  Chapter 6

  A sense of unease slipped through Rob as he propped himself up on one arm in the great bed which dominated the ducal bedroom. Rare winter sunlight had just begun to spill through the window and onto the Aubusson rug. The night before had been perfec
tion. Now. . . he could not fight back the worry that had been slipping through him the last days.

  “Are you unwell, my love?” he ventured, attempting to keep his deep concern from his voice.

  She sighed, then strode back to the bed, her night rail slipping over one shoulder. She looked quite pale and she took up the glass decanter of water beside the bed and poured herself a glass. Slowly, she took a delicate sip.

  “Harry?” he prompted.

  “It is just my stomach,” she confessed.

  Rob’s brow furrowed with inescapable worry. His happiness had never been sound and now that he had it, he had to make every effort not to fear its loss.

  For days, Harriet had leapt from the bed and scurried away, seemingly unwell. In fact, it happened several times a day recently and then she would quite recover. Plus, she had taken to quick naps on a chair in their rooms, something that she had never done before.

  He tossed the blankets back and padded barefoot over the Aubusson rug to her side. Carefully, he smoothed her blonde curls back from her face.

  “You look a bit done in, my darling.” He gazed down at her lovingly, not wanting her to sense his true concern. “Should we send for the physician?”

  “It is nothing,” she protested easily, placing her glass down.

  “But you’ve been unwell—”

  Gently, she took his hands and carefully studied his face.

  His heart slammed with terror for, surely, she was contemplating how best to tell him some piece of bad news.

  Rob swallowed. “Harry. . . please tell me you are not. . . ill.”

  “I am not ill,” she said quickly and, suddenly, her face bloomed with a bright smile. “Quite the contrary. I am in robust health.”

  He shook his head, struggling to understand. “Then why?”

  Her eyes all but sparkled. “I am with child.”

  He stared at her, his mouth dropping open. All his wits abandoned him then. “W-w-with—”

  “Child,” she finished for him. She bit her lower lip. “Are you pleased?”

  It had been a mark of darkness between them in their early marriage. He had been utterly determined not to have a child, to end the Blackstone line. With her help, he’d managed to come to terms with his fears, and he’d agreed to the possibility.

  Now that it was here?

  His hearted hammered against his chest. Then without further thought, he was grinning. Harriet’s child. His child. Theirs.

  “She will look exactly like you,” he proclaimed. “And no other child shall be as loved.”

  She sighed with relief. The breath that exhaled was a long one and the tension that had held her evaporated under his words.

  “Harry, this is the best Christmas gift I could ever receive,” he said softly, holding her close.

  She laughed. “It is not my doing, the timing of it, but it is a marvelous present for us both.”

  He folded his arms about her waist. “I cannot countenance how lucky we are.”

  “Nor I,” she agreed, slipping her hands up his shoulders.

  “The whole world should be as happy as we are,” he declared, so full of love he wished such a state for everyone.

  “Indeed, it should,” she agreed. “What say you? Should we partner up all of mankind?”

  Rob laughed again. How he loved her turn of mind. “Whenever would we find the time?”

  She pursed her lips in thought. For it was true. Both of them were immersed in never-ending meetings, councils, charities, political dinners, and attempts to make England and, thus, the world a better place.

  “True,” she sighed. “Perhaps then, we should just find a husband for Mary.”

  Rob shook his head. “Dear wife, let me take in our news before we go on to greater ventures.”

  Harry leaned forward and linked her hands behind his neck. Heart swelling, he held her carefully, amazed that such a thing could be happening to him, and gazed down into his wife’s perfect visage.

  “I thought,” she whispered. “I thought—”

  “Yes, Harry?” he encouraged, sensing her need to be soothed.

  She nibbled her bottom lip then she began, “I thought coming here. . . that fatherhood. . . that it might. . .”

  He caught her chin. “Darling Harry, there is no going back. I have seen those dark ways and have no wish to traverse them again. You took me by the hand and led me out of the shadows. With you, my love, there is only one place in which we shall go and that is forward. Forward with our love and forward with our family.”

  A sheen of tears filled her eyes, but they were tears of joy as she replied, “I love you, Rob.”

  “And I you, with every beat of my heart.”

  Chapter 7

  Damian Avonby, Duke of Drake, strode through the snow, determined not to devolve into trudging or self-woe.

  Perhaps Christmas with his friend and compatriot, the Duke of Blackstone, had been a mistake this year. But he had come every year for some time. Each visit in the past had been the highlight of his year, offering a family. Something he had never truly had.

  He adored his friend’s happiness. For Damian was not a believer in continued or prolonged suffering and he was delighted beyond measure that his friend had shed the pain of the past. In fact, Rob seemed happier than he’d ever been.

  Damian certainly didn’t begrudge him that. If anything, Damian had shoved his friend towards it. . . as he was attempting to do to all the men who had pulled him out of a lonely hell and included him in their brethren. Whether they knew it or not, he was bloody determined that nothing should stand in their way to happiness.

  Even so, it did now seem to provide a stark and unavoidable contrast to his own state.

  Damian knew one thing and knew it well. He would never be happy. The most he could hope for was a lack of pain and, perhaps, one day a sort of contentment. The condition had been with him for so long that he no longer gave it much thought. He’d simply accepted it.

  Now, it was. . . both wonderful and wearing to see the happiness about him that he’d had such a distinct part in.

  He gazed up at the soft grey-white sky, crystal flakes floating softly to the blanket of snow unrolling before them.

  He, Rob, and Heath cut through the white-hued meadow hunting for oak trees.

  Well, not hunting. Oak trees could not leap about, hide, or suddenly take up root and choose a new location as humans did. No, the oak trees on this estate had been here since Henry Tudor had unfurled his banners in Wales and England and had bid a final adieu to the great Lancasters.

  The roots of the trees ran as deep into the ground as did Rob’s ancestors into the tapestry of England.

  Damian clenched his jaw, then immediately forced himself to relax. He dared not tense. He dared not think of how he did not belong here and never truly would. For if he did, the stutter he had worked so very hard to conquer would claim him and then he’d never hear the end of it from Rob until he confessed what ailed him.

  There were curses to having friends.

  A friend’s concern could be one of them.

  “There!” Rob shouted happily pointing to the west.

  Rob’s good humor was so bright, so full, that a different man would have found it rather annoying. Damian certainly would have before he’d had the good fortune to make Rob’s acquaintance.

  Now, he took it without cynicism. Some people were happy without being foolish. One was not synonymous with the other.

  He followed Rob and Heath as they came upon the great oak, its branches wild and bare. Like gnarled arms, they twisted into the air, home to birds and. . . mistletoe.

  The three men leaned back, their great coats flying slightly in the winter wind, and stared up at the twisting branches. The green leaves that grew in the otherwise naked tree were quite visible and high.

  “Right then,” Heath said. “Who’s climbing?”

  “Surely you, Heath,” Damian drawled.

  Heath eyed the tree as though it might
attack him.

  Damian studied Heath then observed, “You’ve never climbed a tree.”

  “There aren’t trees in East London,” Heath countered. “So, the opportunity never presented itself. Some of us weren’t born to romp through bucolic, green fields.”

  “Point taken,” Damian replied, though he could have added that he could not recall a single moment of frolic in his childhood though there had been many, many green hills. Most of them rugged and unforgiving in the northernmost corner of England.

  Still, self-pity was for idiots, and Damian didn’t suffer idiocy. So, he turned to Rob and quipped, “And you are a newly-married man. I won’t face Harry if you break your leg.”

  Rob scoffed. “Break my—”

  “I won’t risk vexing Harry. Or your mother.” Damian gave a dramatic shiver. “I like my person the way it is.”

  Quickly, Damian assessed the tree then with little ado, he grabbed the best handholds and footholds and vaulted up the tree. He balanced easily over the damp branches and made his way to the clusters of green leaves.

  Allowing nothing to distract him from his precarious position, he whipped out a knife and began cutting.

  The two men below shouted cheers of encouragement with each set of falling greenery until there was quite a pile on the snow-covered ground.

  “Is that enough?” he called down.

  “I’ll kiss my wife in every corner,” returned Rob.

  “You already do that,” Damian drawled.

  Rob merely grinned. “Wait until you’ve a wife, old boy. You’ll see. Any excuse to kiss her will do.”

  Damian clasped a final bunch of the plant which had been part of the Yuletide season for as long as could be remembered on this isle and fought a wince. Marriage? Would he ever dare? What chance had he of such happiness?

  For one moment, he felt a flame of hope light in his chest. Perhaps, one day, he could be loved, could he not?

  But then, he shook the thought away and allowed the mistletoe to fall to the ground.

  Chapter 8

  Full to the brim with joy, Harry fairly danced down the hall. Any worry she’d had about Rob and their visit had vanished entirely with this morning’s confession. She had waited to tell him of her condition, both because she had wanted to be absolutely certain the life had taken root and because she had no idea how to tell him. It had been far easier and sweeter than she could have imagined.

 

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