Holiday Duet: Two Previously Published Regency Novellas

by Grace Burrowes

  “There will be mistletoe at Lady Chalfont’s ball, Max,” Susannah said, resuming her stitching. “You could steal a few kisses.”

  “Not a Haddonfield male born who wasn’t interested in that undertaking,” Della added, taking the place beside Max. “Admit it.”

  Max liked kissing and he liked very well all that came after it. He did not like emotional complications, entanglements, or drama. When he’d first come down from university, one young lady had set her cap for him and nearly seen him compromised. Fortunately, his sisters had taught him to pick locks with a hairpin, and what could have become an awkward scene in a linen closet had passed without incident.

  “If I were a lady,” Max said, “I would not want the fellow who kissed me only under the safe passage of the mistletoe tradition. I’d want the fellow who asked my permission before he took liberties, the fellow who sought to kiss me rather than have a holiday lark beneath a bit of greenery.”

  “You are simply no fun at all, Max,” Della muttered. “Have you considered that you might find sponsors for your investigations at the Chalfont ball? The card room will be full of older fellows who no longer want to stand up for every set. You can prose on to them about the ascendency of science and progress and all that other whatnot, provided you aren’t rude about it.”

  Susannah held her puppies up to the firelight. “You can mention in passing that you’ve made progress, and when they politely reply, you suggest the matter might be better discussed at a fellow’s club. You do still belong to some clubs?”

  “Three.” All of which were concerned exclusively with science.

  “Say you’ll come.” Della’s smile was a little forced, suggesting she wanted an ally. “If nothing else, you can partner me after Will has finished his duty set with me.”

  She was too small to be a good match for Max on the dancefloor. A pity Miss Antonia wouldn’t be at the ball. Max would enjoy partnering her, but what were the chances he’d cross paths with Mayfair’s only waltzing librarian?

  “I suppose I can put in an appearance,” he said, rising. “And in case you’re wondering, my experiments are uniformly failing these days.”

  “Who was it that said the failed experiments often yield the most interesting results?” Susannah replied, getting to her feet. She linked arms with Max and escorted him to the door, tucking his scarf around his neck as if he were eight years old.

  “Why don’t we ever gather for a family meal, Susannah? Ethan, Will, and George all pass through Town regularly. We could get Beckman up here if we enlisted Sara’s aid. Daniel and Kirsten could get away from headmastering for a few days if we asked it of them.”

  As the youngest son, Max barely knew Ethan, the firstborn half brother who’d been sent off to school and estranged from his siblings at a young age. Beckman, the spare, gloried in the life of a country squire near Portsmouth, while George was making a good start on the same role in Kent.

  The Haddonfields were thriving, but must they thrive at such distances from one another?

  “They would all come to Town for a wedding,” Susannah said, patting Max’s lapel. “If you married a well-to-do lady, your science would benefit.”

  This had become a refrain from his sisters, and their suggestion was sensible. Max could offer family connections, the lady would bring some means to the union, and everybody would pronounce it a fine match.

  Though some means was hardly a compelling motivation to make a lifelong commitment. “I’ll see you at the Chalfonts’ do,” Max said, tapping his hat onto his head. “Don’t expect me to stay long.”

  “You haven’t asked when it is.”

  “As it happens, my evenings are free for the foreseeable future. I’m guessing Wednesday, to avoid conflicting with parliamentary duties.”

  “Wednesday it is. See you then. And Max?”

  “I know. Have my evening clothes pressed. Tuck a flower into my lapel, though no sensible flower blooms this time of year. Be charming.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and escaped into the cold smoky air, already regretting his decision to attend the ball.

  “Why do I bother?” Antonia muttered, fanning herself slowly. “Why did I let Peter talk me into this again?” To any onlooker, she doubtless appeared to be chatting pleasantly with her cousin. Diana had found them a bench among the potted palms, out of sight of the men’s punch bowl.

  “Dancing was never Peter’s greatest strength,” Diana replied. “Athena and I figured that out before he’d landed either one of us on our bums.”

  Peter had nearly sent Antonia sailing into an older couple, though the gentleman had neatly caught Antonia by the arm, winked, and set her back on her feet.

  “As soon as the next set begins, I’m off to repair my hem. To think I nearly careened into Their Graces of Windham.” The duke and duchess not only danced on the beat, an accomplishment that eluded Peter, they looked enormously happy to be waltzing with each other.

  “Their Graces were a love match,” Diana said, raising her fan to keep the words private. “My abigail said the duchess comes from modest wealth, but her antecedents weren’t that impressive.”

  What did that matter, when Her Grace of Windham was so clearly the duke’s partner in every regard?

  “You will excuse me,” Antonia said, passing Diana a nearly full glass of punch. “I must away to the retiring room.” Not that any other man would ask her to dance, not after the near-fiasco with Peter.

  She ducked through one of the ballroom’s side doors and into the gallery. The cooler air was a benediction, as was the quiet. The guests raised their voices to be heard over the music and the thump of the dancers’ feet. The musicians played more loudly to be heard over a hundred conversations, until the ballroom pulsed with sheer noise.

  I miss the library.

  That thought surprised Antonia and pleased her. She’d taken on the volunteer position in an effort to do something—anything—more meaningful than literary committee work, tatting lace, and calling on acquaintances. The job wasn’t exactly thrilling, and Mr. Kessler had let his skepticism regarding Antonia’s abilities be loudly known. Nonetheless, she was beginning to look forward to the library days and to hope that the paying post would be offered to her.

  She rounded the landing on the way up to the retiring room and once again nearly landed on her bum. A pair of strong male hands on her arms steadied her, and she found herself gazing up into familiar blue eyes.

  “Mr. Haddonfield.”

  “Miss Antonia. Good evening, and my apologies for not watching where I was going.”

  The men’s retiring room was typically on the same floor as the ballroom, lest ladies and gentlemen encounter one another at awkward moments.

  “Were you lost?” Antonia asked.

  “Not lost.” He bent nearer. “Lurking.”

  His evening attire was spotless and fit him very nicely, though the width of his lapels suggested his jacket was several years out of date.

  “You are rather grandly proportioned to be successfully lurking anywhere, sir. Does the august company intimidate you?”

  He offered his arm. “Spare me from august company. I don’t mind small talk, and I came prepared for the hostess to inflict my dancing on a few of the wallflowers, but it’s the flora that sent me fleeing to Lord Chalfont’s library.”

  They reached the top of the steps, the music from the ballroom fading to a faint lilting melody. “Flora? The potted palms?”

  He took Antonia by the hand and led her to the balcony that overlooked the main foyer. “The dread greenery is everywhere. Draped from the rafters, hanging over the punch bowl. It’s even on the terrace where a man ought to be free to enjoy his cheroot in safety—not that I smoke. Even the card room isn’t safe.”

  Scientists could be eccentric. The foyer was decorated in anticipation of Yuletide, with green and red ribbons spiraling around tall candles, red bunting wrapping the stair rail, and cloved oranges hanging in the windows. Lady Chalfont was anticipat
ing the Christmas season by weeks but she—or her professional decorator—was anticipating it with exquisite traditional flourishes.

  “What’s everywhere?”

  “Viscum album,” Mr. Haddonfield replied, keeping Antonia’s hand in his. “Mistletoe, in common parlance, though the name translates from the Anglo-Saxon as something like bird-dung-on-a-twig. Damned stuff can kill a mature tree, and what do we do with it? Make a parasite into an excuse for kissing complete strangers.”

  The supper buffet had concluded prior to the present set so neither Antonia nor Mr. Haddonfield wore gloves—not that he seemed aware of her hand in his.

  “Once mistletoe gets a start,” he went on, “the only way to get rid of it is to cut off all the limbs affected or shroud them in dark cloth. Mistletoe needs light, which is why it likes to grow far out on the highest branches.”

  “I thought you were a chemist. You sound like a botanist.”

  He dropped her hand. “One of my brothers has done some plant collecting. I’m surprised to find you here.”

  Did he mean here abovestairs, or here at the Chalfonts’ ball? “I’ve torn a hem. I’m on my way to the retiring room to effect emergency repairs.” Antonia brandished the tiny sewing kit she carried in her pocket. The attendant in the retiring room would have the essentials, but Antonia’s gown was brown velvet, and not just any color of thread would do.

  “I can stitch a hem,” Mr. Haddonfield said, taking her sewing kit and striding off down the corridor. “Come along.”

  He had her sewing kit, so Antonia followed him, though what was a chemist doing at such a gathering? “Where are we going?”

  “Not the library. At least two couples looking for a trysting place disturbed my reading. I’m supposed to be in the card room, but—here we are.” He opened a door that led to a small unoccupied music room, perhaps more of a practice room. “Nobody should disturb us here.”

  He flipped the lock, and Antonia found herself, for the first time in her adult memory, alone with a man who was neither a close family friend nor a relation.

  “This is most irregular, Mr. Haddonfield.” Though instead of feeling unsafe, Antonia was relieved to have some near-solitude, and relieved to have found an ally of sorts.

  “How is this any more irregular than disporting with you among the biographies?” he asked. “I am a gentleman, Miss Antonia, though some of what I’ve seen transpiring beneath the mistletoe this evening makes me rethink my definition of the word. Let’s have a look at that hem.”

  Most irregular. “I can sew my own hem, sir.”

  “I can sew it more quickly.” He gestured toward a chair beside the fireplace. “On board ship, we had little to do besides mend sail, play cards, and clean the brine off every surface exposed to fresh air.”

  Antonia took the seat, though she had the sense of having stepped out of the frilly, frothy world of Mayfair entertainments and onto an altogether more interesting plane.

  “When were you on board a ship?”

  “Expedition to the far north,” he said, lowering himself to sit tailor-fashion on the carpet. He flipped open the sewing case and extracted a needle from the padded cloth wedged inside the lid. “Where is the damage?”

  Antonia twitched at her skirts, shifting the material so that the part of her hem right of center was draped across Mr. Haddonfield’s satin-clad knee. Antonia’s riding habits and any outfit in a military style were created by male hands, and yet, the sight of Mr. Haddonfield’s fingers measuring off her hem was unsettling.

  “Were you avoiding the mistletoe by lurking in the library?” she asked, as he threaded the needle with brown silk.

  “Absolutely. You?”

  “If I’d known Lady Chalfont had already decorated in anticipation of the Christmas season, I would have developed a megrim. I vow some men count the exact number of paces they need to cover in order to nearly collide with a woman beneath a kissing bough.”

  Even Peter had ambushed her, though she’d turned her head at the last moment and escaped with a mere peck to the cheek.

  “As do some ladies.” Mr. Haddonfield knotted the thread and took up Antonia’s hem. “My sisters dragged me here, then abandoned me, a sacrificial lamb among the vixens. This is lovely material.”

  “I like good quality. It wears better.”

  The moment should have been awkward, but with the fire crackling in the hearth, and the faint music from the ballroom, Antonia felt peace stealing over her. The fire found gold and copper highlights in Mr. Haddonfield’s hair, while his evening attire showed off his broad shoulders quite nicely. There was an earldom held by a Haddonfield family. Perhaps Max Haddonfield was that handsome cousin pressed into escort service from time to time.

  “You like fine fabrics,” he said, bending over the material. “I like kissing, in the general case, but not when it’s contrived as the next thing to an entertainment. The men lay bets in the retiring room, you know. Reminds me of public school and not in a good way.”

  “Bets?”

  He paused in his stitching to send her a brooding look. “Will Lord Bollingbrook succumb to Miss Abbott’s abundant charms? Will Mr. Peter Nagle endure Lady A’s company beneath the kissing bough when Miss Huntly has been sending him melting glances all evening? I don’t even know who those people are, but what sort of kiss can be had when only pagan tradition or matchmaking schemes inspire the undertaking?”

  He focused again on Antonia’s hem while she made herself take a slow breath. Exactly one Mr. Peter Nagle was in attendance, and Miss Huntly was both comely and well dowered.

  “Male wagering has ever been the province of utmost folly,” Antonia said, “though I agree that one ought to kiss because one pleases to, not because some dead leaves are hanging from the nearest rafter.”

  “Exactly.” Mr. Haddonfield tied off the thread and used the tiny scissors to snip the loose ends. “All finished.” He reassembled the contents of Antonia’s sewing kit and passed it to her. “My sisters despair of me.”

  This was a confession rather than a passing remark. “My cousins despair of me.”

  He smiled up at her. “Maybe that’s why I enjoy your company. Shall we return to the ballroom?”

  Antonia rose and offered Mr. Haddonfield her hand. The gesture was inappropriate, but the man had been sitting literally at her feet, for the purpose of repairing her hem. Appropriate was apparently a lost cause.

  He took her hand and rose easily. “I was regretting my decision to attend this ball. I regret it no longer.”

  He was so wonderfully solid and tall, and his smile was so unexpectedly merry. “What became of your regret?”

  “Chased off by a sensible lady to whom I could render a small service.” His smile faded with that admission, though again he kept hold of Antonia’s hand. “I would like to kiss you. Here and now, no silly tradition to take the credit or the blame.”

  “I must ask, why me, Mr. Haddonfield?”

  He stroked his thumb over her knuckles, and even his thumb had calluses. “I’m not sure why. Kissing is unscientific, but the best of my experiments have been illuminated by strong intuition as well as logic. My intuition tells me you are sensible. You don’t babble. When you smile. . .”

  To any other man, a sensible woman who didn’t babble would be boring or invisible. “I have good teeth.” Why on earth had those words come out of her mouth?

  “What you have is a hidden capacity for mischief,” Mr. Haddonfield said, stepping closer. “You guard a kind heart, you love books, your mind is lively, and you don’t suffer fools. May I kiss you?”

  Oh, to be asked. He’d wait all evening for her answer too. Under the mistletoe, Peter had puckered up like some great land-dwelling fish, using a public situation to extort acquiescence from his victim.

  “May I kiss you back?” Antonia asked. “Not simply hold still while you demonstrate your mastery of the art?”

  “I am no expert, but I suspect kissing is akin to waltzing. Success is most likely
when both parties put their best foot forward.” He slid a big, warm hand along the side of Antonia’s neck and into her hair.

  Any more brave questions evaporated from Antonia’s mind on a cloud of wonder, because really, truly, Max Haddonfield intended to kiss her.

  “Antonia?”

  “Mr. Haddonfield?” Her heart was waltzing, as were the butterflies in her tummy.

  He pressed his lips gently to hers, and so Antonia, without hesitation—without any hesitation at all—kissed him back.

  One minute, Max had been spouting inanities about the botanical properties of mistletoe, the next, he’d been courting impropriety by closeting himself with Miss Antonia in an empty music room. He’d been seized with the need to use any pretext to spend time with her someplace quiet, where sensible people could hear themselves think.

  Miss Antonia was quite sensible. Witness, she carried her own little perfectly organized sewing kit equipped with the exact colors of thread she might need to repair her ensemble. Max’s sisters didn’t do that, and he felt as if being trusted with Antonia’s petite sewing kit was a very great boon indeed.

  The lady also shared Max’s disdain for the whole mistletoe farce, which was a damned shame for the scheming fortune hunters of polite society, because she had a delightful way with a kiss.

  She maneuvered Max where she wanted him, using her fingers fisted in his hair to angle his head and her free hand on his jaw to hold him still—not that he was going anywhere. Max took a reciprocally firm hold of the Antonia, his hands grasping her sides in that tempting territory above her waist.

  She sighed against his mouth, then swiped her tongue over his lips. Desire welled, surprisingly fierce—like the woman in Max’s arms. She did it again, more gently, as if asking a question. Max answered and gathered her close as she twined her arms around his waist.

  The fire in the hearth threw out a lovely heat, the music from the ballroom faded as the set ended, and Max’s world became an investigation of how to pleasure Antonia. She liked a firm touch—on her sides, on her back, on her lovely muscular derriere. She liked sweet, slow kisses, and lots of them, and she liked to pause, cuddling closer, as if Max’s kisses were too rich to be consumed all at once.