Holiday Duet: Two Previously Published Regency Novellas

by Grace Burrowes

  “Mr. Haddonfield, you have me in a state.”

  “Max.”

  She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. “Short for Maximillian?”

  “Maximus, a deuced poor jest on a fellow with seven older siblings. I used a middle name growing up because my elders could not resist making sport of my first name.” He stroked her nape, loving the combination of textures there. Warm, soft skin. Silky tresses. Delicate lace edging her collar.

  “I feel as if I’ve had a bit too much cordial.”

  Oh, the things she said. “I feel as if you are the cordial, and I want to consume the whole bottle.”

  She smiled at him a little dazedly. A curl had come loose from her coiffure to coil at her shoulder, softening her appearance. A trill of laughter in the corridor had her stepping back, though she didn’t go far.

  “You have given me something to think about, Mr. Haddonfield. I need to make an early night of it, but like you, I was regretting my decision to attend this ball.”

  “And now?”

  “I regret that I must leave this room.”

  She bussed his cheek and rustled away, pausing for a moment to smooth her skirts and assume a very correct posture before opening the door. She put Max in mind of an actress, taking a moment in the wings to don the persona of a character whom she must portray on the stage.

  “I’ll bring another cat by the library tomorrow,” Max said, “if you’ll be there.”

  “I’ll be there all afternoon.”

  She slipped out the door, leaving Max to wonder what the hell had just happened, and how soon he could make it happen again.

  Antonia had been out past midnight, so she wasn’t at her best rising for an early breakfast. She’d left the ball immediately after parting from Mr. Haddonfield, unwilling to spoil the memory of his kisses with bad punch or another inept waltz.

  Recollections of time spent with him lingered as she poured her second cup of tea, warming her in a way that had nothing to do with the fire burning in the breakfast parlor’s hearth.

  “Shall I have the coach brought ’round, my lady?” Miller, the first footman, asked. “Looks like we could get rain or worse.”

  The library was all of five streets away, but two of those streets were not the most fashionable. Morning sun was making latticed patterns on the carpet, and Miller was being diplomatic.

  “I’ll walk,” Antonia said. “If you’d accompany me, my passing will cause less talk.”

  For Antonia to walk without a chaperone was skirting impropriety, but then, she was also skirting spinsterhood. Her companion, an aunt of venerable years, never rose before noon and most assuredly never walked anywhere a coach could take her.

  So Antonia walked when she could, where she could, and ignored the veiled questions and snide remarks. Then too, she wanted to have a peek at a certain bakery on Dinwiddie Lane and perhaps buy a hot cross bun or two.

  “You sure you don’t want the carriage, my lady?” Miller asked, lifting the lid over the warming tray that held the omelet. “Weather can turn quickly this time of year.”

  The scent of cheese and oregano wafted through the parlor, and Antonia’s belly growled.

  “No carriage this morning. I find the fresh air clears my head, though you are right about the weather. I’d best enjoy the sunny mornings when they come along.”

  And the sunny kisses. Who knew a kiss could be a source of joy? The poets maundered on about earthly love and passion and all manner of folderol, and Antonia had always attributed such effusions to literary excess.

  She was rising to serve herself a portion of eggs when Peter strode into the parlor.

  “Antonia, good morning. You there,”—he waved a hand at Miller—“set a second place for a hungry fellow.”

  Miller, may his wages ever increase, sent Antonia a questioning glance as she resumed her seat, her plate still empty.

  “Please do set a place for my cousin, though I must say, Peter, this is an unexpected treat.” An ambush. Peter was still in evening attire, which might mean he’d spent the night playing cards. Whatever the case, he didn’t mind that Antonia knew he’d been out past dawn, which sat ill with her. In his way, Peter was trying to court her. Charging unannounced into her breakfast parlor while wearing rumpled evening clothes was disrespectful.

  Miller finished arranging a second set of cutlery at Antonia’s left elbow, then took up a place at the end of the sideboard, hands behind his back.

  Peter helped himself to an enormous serving of eggs, did not ask if Antonia cared for any herself, and appropriated the teapot.

  “We caused a bit of talk last night,” he said, starting on his eggs. “You danced with only me, dear cousin. Should I be encouraged?”

  You should be hiring a dancing master. “From one dance? I no longer need stand up with every shy bachelor or gouty uncle in Mayfair, Peter. You asked for a waltz, I granted that request. When you nearly cast me into the other dancers, my ankle took it amiss, and thus I left. Watching Miss Abbott make a fool of Lord Bollingbrook under the mistletoe is entertainment for inebriates and fools.”

  Peter sent her a curious glance, then scooped three spoonfuls from the jam pot and slathered them on his toast. “Do you have a megrim, Antonia? Perhaps your female humors are vexing you?”

  Miller cleared his throat, the servant’s equivalent of boxing a guest’s ears, though if anything vexed Antonia, it was the thought of Peter encouraging Miss Huntly’s melting glances.

  “As long as I avoid the near occasion of waltzes with you, Peter, I enjoy excellent health.” Antonia passed Miller her plate, and he served her eggs and two slices of ham, her usual fare.

  “You are peckish first thing in the day,” Peter said, chewing like a squirrel. “I will remember that. Diana is the same way. A veritable virago. I say, my good man, might you fetch us another pot of tea?”

  He smiled at Miller, the eye-crinkling, jolly-good-fellow smile he frequently turned on Antonia.

  Miller, again, waited for direction from Antonia.

  “A pot of black,” she said. “My cousin is not fond of gunpowder.” Nor was Peter subtle in his machinations, for the teapot was still half full.

  Miller pointedly left the door open when he departed with the teapot.

  “I came here to apologize,” Peter said, putting down his knife and fork to pat Antonia’s hand. “I got a bit enthusiastic on the dance floor last night. Meant no harm, of course.”

  Beam, crinkle, grin.

  “You have a spot of egg on your cuff, Peter. Right next to the wine stain.”

  His smile faltered, revealing an instant of mulishness in his eyes. “I should have gone home and changed, I know that, but I wanted to make things right with you. I ought not to have asked for your waltz. I know you don’t care to dance, but people talk when a lady isn’t asked to stand up even once.”

  “And people talk when she does stand up, apparently. I am not responsible for people talking.”

  “But you are responsible for breaking my heart, Antonia. I have paid you obvious attentions, I have broached marriage with you, and you must admit a match between us has many advantages. Many.”

  Antonia was torn between the desire to end Peter’s hopes once for all, and the certain knowledge that he was making sense. She stared spinsterhood in the eye, Papa had always liked Peter, and days at the library were not a life.

  She might have discussed her circumstances with the Earl of Casriel, who had once also offered for her. He was a sensible fellow, a gentleman to his bones, and he’d keep Antonia’s confidences. When she’d rejected his suit, he’d insisted they remain friends.

  And his dancing was lovely, though he’d married shortly after courting Antonia—a love match, of course.

  Max Haddonfield wasn’t courting anybody, but he’d given Antonia a reason to hesitate where Peter was concerned.

  “I have not broken anybody’s heart, Peter, and I don’t care for manufactured drama. In point of fact, you have broached
marriage, but you have never courted me, never sought my permission to pay your addresses, never presented yourself as a suitor rather than a cousin spouting platitudes and practicalities.”

  He consumed another three bites of omelet. “You are saying I have not courted you. Fair enough. Let the courtship begin. I’ll call upon you this afternoon and we can take the coach out for the carriage parade. The park is much less crowded this time of year, and—”

  “I am not free this afternoon.” And you still have not asked if you can pay me your addresses. “As it happens, I must go out shortly.”

  Antonia was not about to leave Peter running tame in her house, though, so she poured herself another cup of tea from the fresh pot Miller brought in.

  “Tomorrow then,” Peter said. “Weather permitting. You can’t call me out for a shortcoming and then leave me no opportunity to make amends. That’s not sporting, Antonia.”

  And courtship was not a sport. Not a game to be played under the mistletoe. “Tomorrow, weather permitting, you may drive me about the park.” If Aunt Emily came along, Peter would have to keep his talk of courtship to himself.

  He gulped down the rest of his tea and rose. “I shall count the hours until then, my dear. The minutes and the seconds as well. If it’s courtship you want, it’s courtship you’ll get.”

  Miller’s brows rose nearly to his hairline. Peter bowed, blew Antonia a kiss, and sauntered out with a piece of buttered, jam-topped toast in his hand.

  The silence in his wake could have toppled castles. “Does my lady have good news to share with the staff?” Miller asked after the front door slammed.

  Brave of him. “No, I do not. My cousin presumes, and I haven’t the heart to dash his hopes.”

  Miller collected Peter’s empty dishes and cutlery onto a tray. He was typically the most discreet of men, and he was making a racket to wake the dead.

  “Just say it, Miller. I won’t turn you off, I promise.”

  Miller lifted the tray and headed for the door. “He would. He’d turn me off on any pretext and enjoy doing it. He’d cut Mrs. Pritchard or Mr. Davenport loose with even more relish because he knows your housekeeper, your butler, the lot of us, are all loyal to you, my lady.”

  Miller’s observation, offered with calm certainty, gave Antonia far more to think about than any mishap on the dancefloor could. Peter was a problem, marrying him looked increasingly like no solution at all, and yet, the alternative was to become an object of pity. What titled lady with a significant fortune could find no husband at all?

  Every girl was raised to regard a family of her own as the fulfillment of her very purpose on earth. Antonia could reject that reasoning with the rational part of her mind, while still longing for somebody of her own to love.

  Mr. Max Haddonfield wasn’t a solution either—he was a chemist of limited means and he wasn’t offering marriage, despite his luscious kisses—though Antonia would far rather dwell on Mr. Haddonfield than on Peter.

  She was nearly at the library steps, Miller marching along a few paces behind her, when Miss Dottie trotted up to her side.

  “Sister and I thought you should be warned, Miss Antonia. Mr. Kessler is inside, and he is not at all happy with you. He’s waving some letter about and stomping around like a peevish bullock. Lukey-pie bolted for the back hallway, and I don’t blame the poor dear.”

  “Splendid,” Antonia said. “Just splendid. Two ambushes in one morning. What else could possibly go wrong?”

  Chapter Four

  When Max had returned to the ballroom the previous evening, Susannah had taken him by one arm and Della by the other. Five minutes later they’d introduced him to Henry, Viscount Hamblin, an older gent who professed to be an amateur chemist with a very great interest in “progress.”

  Max had spent twenty minutes listening to his lordship impersonate a harbor cannon on the topics of power looms, coal mines, and steam engines. Those subjects had very little to do with chemistry, but they all connected to the science of amassing a fortune.

  The price of escape had been acceptance of a dinner invitation for tonight at Lord Hamblin’s home. At midday, Max was still wishing he’d eluded his lordship’s hospitality.

  “Don’t know when I last laid out your evening togs two days runnin’,” Dagger said, skipping along at Max’s side. “You will be a sar-tor-i-al wonder, you will. Should I fetch a posy for your lapel?”

  “No, thank you. You shall fetch the day-olds and begin weighing and measuring them yourself. Mind you don’t eat any samples until I’ve checked your work.”

  Dagger came to a halt, his gaze on the pickle vendor pushing his cart down the street. “You want me to do the measurements? All of them?”

  “If you don’t want to do the calculations of diameter based on circumference, I can do those when I’m through at the lending library.”

  Dagger speared him with a look. “I was supposed to help you at the library.”

  “I’ll manage on my own. Measuring the samples is more important.”

  “You don’t want me to see Lucifer. You think I’ll steal him.”

  Max did not want Dagger making a bad impression on Miss Antonia. “A library is a genteel place, Dagger. It’s a wipe-your-boots and keep-your-voice-down place where little old ladies and hopeless prigs like Alfred Paxton make themselves at home. If you’d like to peek in on Lucifer, you should, but the longer we wait to collect the day-olds the fewer of them there are. A smaller sample size means our results are less trustworthy.”

  “Which is why I’m not to gobble them all up. I know.”

  Dagger apparently pondered his options for the remainder of the distance to Bootjack Street. The afternoon was cold, not the bitter, biting cold of January, but to a skinny boy, the warmth of the bakeries would appeal on such a day.

  “I’ll say hello to Lucifer another time,” Dagger muttered. “Let him settle in a bit more.”

  “I will give him your best regards, assuming I can pry him from the arms of his adoring friends.”

  Dagger sprinted off before Max could remind the boy to keep his fingers to himself, but the warning would likely have done no good. Dagger picked pockets like some men smoked a pipe—compulsively, for comfort, regardless that it made their clothing stink and resulted in foul breath and congestion of the lungs.

  Libraries were good places. Dagger would figure that out for himself when he could keep still for more than two consecutive minutes.

  Max let himself into Miss Antonia’s domain, prepared to spread good cheer in all directions, but the two older ladies at their customary table weren’t even pretending to read.

  “Up there,” the smaller of the two said, pointing to the mezzanine.

  The other sister shook her head, as if a hopeless illness beset somebody in the house. “He is not a nice man, that Mr. Kessler. Not nice at all.”

  “He frightened the poor kitty,” the first lady reported. “What sort of man menaces a dear, helpless creature like that?”

  Lucifer was dear; he was far from helpless.

  Max unwound his scarf and pulled off his gloves, stuffing them into his tool bag. He let his footsteps reverberate on the spiral staircase and unbuttoned his coat with one hand as he went.

  “Miss Antonia?”

  “Back here.” Two words that conveyed a wealth of exasperation.

  Max found her among the gothic novels, sitting on a low stool, surrounded by piles of bound books.

  “Is something amiss?”

  “Worse than amiss,” she said, snatching a book from the stack nearest her knees. “Good day, Mr. Haddonfield, though good hardly applies. Nobody told me I was to catalog and shelve new books, nobody told me why those boxes were sitting by the back door. Then along comes Mr. Kessler, waving a vile epistle from Mr. Paxton, and three boxes and one shouted sermon later, my post is imperiled.”

  Max slid down along the bookshelves to sit opposite her in the cramped space between the rows. “Do you need your post?”

&nbs
p; She might. Her best finery was well made but hardly à la mode. She’d worn no jewels at the Chalfont’s ball, and genteel sources of employment for young women were few and far between.

  “I could find another post eventually. The issue is that I abhor failure.”

  Max took the book from her—a worn copy of Mrs. Burney’s Evelina. “Perhaps it’s Kessler who has failed. Failed experiments can teach us a lot, though they are disappointing.” Antonia looked tired to him, in a prim, annoyed sort of way. He wanted to kiss better whatever disquiet bothered her, and yet, he knew how out of sorts failed experiments left him.

  “What sort of librarian doesn’t know that new books must be shelved, Mr. Haddonfield?”

  “The sort who is purposely kept in the dark about that aspect of her duties.”

  She took back the book. “Mr. Kessler will return tomorrow. He has given me a last chance, he says, and if these books aren’t all correctly shelved by tomorrow morning, he will have no choice but to dismiss me.”

  “Then let’s be about it,” Max said. “I came here today intent on building a hinged flap on the bottom of the library’s back door, so the cats can come and go without requiring you to leave a window open. I can shelve books instead.”

  “Haven’t you a job, Mr. Haddonfield?”

  “I have a vocation, and it can wait a few hours. Where does Evelina go?”

  Antonia explained the system to him, and Max was soon arranging novels on shelves, and rearranging them as the shelves filled. The afternoon wore on with Antonia occasionally trotting down the steps to wait on a patron.

  Part of Max had been hoping that last night’s kiss had been a wayward impulse, a little indulgence between adults who found themselves in a private circumstance.

  “No such luck,” he muttered, using his folding knife to open the last box of books. These were donations, like the other two boxes, books that were far from new, but still valuable. Miss Antonia was downstairs chatting with Miss Dottie and Miss Betty as they prepared to leave—Max had been introduced when he’d fetched an afternoon tea break for the ladies.