The Duke’s Impetuous Darling: Christmas Belles, Book 3

by DeLand, Cerise

  "I’m happy to see your face.”

  “Had it not been for the kindness of that sergeant, I'd not be sitting here with you. I don't even know his name. Never will."

  "I can't imagine...." Griff sat taller and blinked away his tears. "We'll go soon. I'll persuade Wellington of the urgency."

  "I don't wish to make trouble for you, Griff. I can wait. Now that I'm here, I feel more myself. Besides, it looks like you have your hands full."

  "We do." Griff sat up, inhaling deeply, taking his cue from Alastair to talk of other issues. "The Germans and the Russians have taken part of the City. We all try to keep the peace, but there's no love for us here. And the people are starving. Tired of war."

  "Aren't we all."

  Griff grimaced. "We've lost so many."

  They sat for a minute in silence.

  Griff rose. "Finish this, please. You need your strength. We’ll join a wagon train for Calais and hopefully, be in London quickly. There's much you have to do there."

  "Report officially, yes. Go to my rooms and get a few old clothes. Talk to the Demerest family solicitor. When I call on him, I hope he doesn't faint."

  Griff locked his soft blue gaze on his. And he wasn't smiling.

  Alarm rang through him. "What's wrong?"

  "I'm not certain I should tell you this right now."

  Bee? His heart stopped. "Something's happened to Bee? That smuggler I told you about? The Customs laid a trap to get him. Did they find him?"

  "I don't know."

  Anger burned behind his eyes. "Did he hurt her? I'll kill him."

  "No. No. Mama doesn't know of this man or Bee's knowledge of him, I don't think."

  "What then? Oh, hell. Bee's married!" Some smart man who loved her quick mind and her determined soul had persuaded her and since he was presumed dead, she'd accepted him. "Who married her?"

  "No one."

  "What?" Alastair struggled to his feet. "Griff. What the hell is wrong?"

  "Not wrong. Just startling."

  "Well?"

  "I've word from Mama."

  Griff's mother wrote tomes, always had. With all the gossip of today and yesterday and tomorrow's predictions for it, her letters weighed more than a nine pounder. He'd seen them! Tons of them, literally, when they'd all been at school. "Yes?"

  "Your great uncle Harold has passed on."

  "Harold. Harold? The Duke of Kingston?"

  "One and the same," Griff told him and a smile played around his blue eyes.

  "What about him?"

  Griff shook his head. ”The man is dead."

  "I see," said Alastair, but he didn't, of course. The relevance of a man departing this earth in the peace of his bed seemed like a rude joke to Alastair. Hadn't he witnessed too many men trying to push their guts back inside holes in their bodies? "I don't understand. Are you telling me we must go into mourning when we arrive home? I tell you mourning is not a practice I wish to indulge in. I've had enough sorrow."

  "No mourning." Griff fought a smile. "But because the duke's son was lost at sea last year—”

  He was? Alastair picked through his brain. Did he remember this? Vaguely. But Griff looked at him oddly. "What else?"

  "And your uncle’s son died of wasting disease in September—”

  "September, eh? Well, that's a pity. You know, I liked Uncle Harold. The old man was a prankster. His son—”

  But Griff did not bat a lash.

  Hmmm.

  When the heir to an estate died and there was no other, there was a remedy. "So the Lords put the title into abeyance, did they?"

  Then, like so much in the past six months that had dawned on him in a rush, a flash of light, a punch to his ribs that took his breath, he sank like a rock to the chair. "Dear God."

  "Yes. You see?"

  Alastair examined his friend and gulped loudly. "And because my brother William is gone."

  Griff clasped his hands together. "Precisely."

  "I am the Duke of Kingston."

  Chapter 3

  December 21, 1815

  Marsden Hall

  Brighton, England

  With one glance in the cheval mirror, Bee approved of her new gown of silver lama trimmed in blonde lace. Though she'd never have occasion to wear it again, she'd take this with her when she left Marsden Hall to remember how grand her life once was.

  "I've never seen such a sight." Mary straightened Bee's train to flow behind her. "You're grand, Miss Belinda."

  "With your help." Bee tugged high her white kid gloves.

  When Bee accepted a position in service in someone else's home, she'd lose Mary's help and her friendship. But governesses did not have maids so she couldn't take her along. "I hope all of you in the servants hall have some free time to enjoy Christmas."

  "Mr. Simms ‘as promised it," her maid said as she fixed the pouf in Bee's red waistband bow. "He says we're due after the guests have their fill of champagne and the wine with supper. He says they'll go to bed early."

  "Like beached whales after one soup, three dishes of fish, two of chicken, a loin of veal with truffles and two pots of something I can't recall." Bee fanned herself at the thought of eating all that.

  Mary laughed. "Cook says to save room for her great meringue and profiteroles with pistachios."

  Bee put a hand to her brow. "I'll waddle until the New Year."

  With that, Bee spun for the door and made her way along the gallery to the main stairs. The house, first erected during Charles the First's reign, had grown and sprawled over the decades into a complicated pattern. Due to intrigues of the civil war, the house sported secret stairs, false floors and tiny rooms and little nooks where, it was said, many lovers had met in rendezvous. She and Alastair had hidden there as children to jump out and surprise the adults.

  Much of the house had changed when the second earl of Marsden had hired a student of Robert Adam. The two men had spread the building into a winged Georgian expanse. The elaborately carved black walnut stairway she descended stood in the original part of the house, tucked away from the eyes of those who entered the golden and white marbled foyer. At the foot of the stairs, Bee could peek around the wall toward the grand hall to see Aunt Gertrude's guests for the next seven days. All had arrived this afternoon and Simms, punctual man, had promptly ordered one footman to each to show them their rooms. One maid Simms assigned to each to sort their traveling cases.

  Refreshed and dressed for supper, they milled about and greeted each other. Simms—sharp-eyed, sharp-nosed, sharp-dressed man that he was—stood guard like a dark Cerberus at the doors to the Red Salon. In minutes, Aunt Gertrude would receive them with an official welcome and a healthy pour of an aperitif.

  Bee pushed open the door to the salon and stood, gasping at the beauty of the room aglow with dozens of candles, the walls hung with endless boughs of evergreens and holly, mistletoe too. If Alastair could only see this. He loved Christmas.

  "There you are, my Belinda." Aunt Gertrude sailed forth in a cloud of smoky satin, a tiny tiara of diamonds plus a necklace to match. Her modiste had done her justice. So had her lady's maid. Alight as she always was for any gathering, the lady seemed a decade younger.

  "Come stand here, beside me," her aunt instructed, fidgeting, bursting with glee. "There. Marjorie next, then Delphine."

  Her sisters had arrived downstairs before her.

  Marjorie arched two brows at Bee. "I love your gown."

  "Thank you." Despite the fact that Marjorie had honey blonde hair and Bee's was nearly black, they could wear many of the same colors. Because their height and figures were also the same, Marjorie would look wonderful in Bee's gown. "You may borrow it, if you like. But I do like you in the salmon."

  "Thank you. We can exchange."

  Del seemed to float in her gown of ivory tulle and ice blue satin. "I think tonight will be a marvelous success, don't you? I cannot thank you enough, Aunt, for all your kindnesses."

  Gertrude pursed her lips and examined
her with more skepticism than Bee usually noted in her aunt’s demeanor. "Set your sights on any one young buck yet, my chick?"

  "Soon, Aunt. To read their titles is one thing, to value them, another. And you, Bee? Will you set yourself to a happy evening?"

  "I will."

  "Aunt has decided we are to sit as Prinny does in his dining room in the Pavilion," Marjorie announced with a chuckle.

  "A woman beside a man and so on," said Delphine, wiggling with anticipation. "We change our attentions at each course."

  Bee laughed. Del would applaud that arrangement, the more men to enchant. "When did you change the seating, Aunt?"

  "An hour ago. Simms did it in a thrice!" She snapped her fingers.

  "The footmen," added Marjorie, "did a fine job. I inspected the table."

  "Been at work, have you, match-making?" Bee ventured.

  "The assignments seemed fine for tonight," she cooed, the sticks of her Chinese fan to Bee's glove. Bee thought her words a bit too reassuring and wondered what she was up to. "We’ll change throughout the week."

  “Oh?” Bee squinted at her sister. "That sounds dubious. Who am I to sit beside tonight?"

  "On your left, Belinda," said their aunt, "is Lord Carlson. I decided he was a good choice for you."

  Bee wanted to run but knew she’d cause a scene. What Bee knew of him was gossip her aunt had told her. He was a widower. Older than Bee by a decade or more. An active politician, he loved to talk. And talk. Well, one consolation, she'd not have to work at conversation. But she would have to work at diplomacy, for it was rumored, Carlson was a roué who pinched and tickled a lady under the table. Worse, the man actively sought a second wife.

  "And on my other side?"

  "Lord Hallerton. Recently home from the Continent, you know."

  Bee did. Hallerton had been in the news with his work with Wellington in Paris on French trade. Continental ports newly opened to Britain still required regulation. Reginald Winslow, the fourth Viscount Hallerton owned lands along the Sussex coast and so understood commerce.

  "You mustn't worry, Bee," Marjorie said, understanding her hesitance. "Hallerton is not in the marriage game."

  "To choose a man," gushed Aunt Gertrude, "we have days and days for you girls."

  "And Aunt has invited a bevy of eligible ones," said Del, bubbly with the prospects.

  "Yes, it's Christmas, my chicks, so let us begin. I say, Simms," Gertrude hailed the butler, as he entered through the private hall. Stiff as a statue in his formal navy livery with woven gold passementerie down his chest, he appeared even more officious than usual. "We should open the doors."

  "As you wish, ma'am." He strode to the far set of double doors that led to the foyer and set them wide. Guests murmured and milled about, dressed to their chins in their silks and satins, their diamonds and medals. They formed a small receiving line, choosing by rote their ranks in precedence, and filed into the salon with felicitations of yuletide cheer. Aunt Gertrude cooed her delight, took the courtesies and bows with aplomb. Then she passed the honored guest on to Bee. Marjorie and Delphine came next and all the guests came through like water through a lock. The footmen arrived with their champagne and sherry. Simms supervised like a Yeoman at the Tower, then floated away like a ghost to his duties.

  Most took chairs or settees, but a few rose to greet others. As the chatter rose to a pitch, Simms re-appeared at the doors. Fighting to suppress a smile lest his all-too-stoic face break like glass, he stood aside to reveal three more recently arrived guests. All were tall, powerfully formed males who smiled like loons.

  Bee caught her breath.

  Aunt Gertrude gasped, rose and halted, one hand to her bosom. "Dear heavens."

  The guests turned to the sight that so stunned her.

  "Happy Christmas, Mama," said the vision on the threshold. Griffith Harlinger, the earl of Marsden, appeared hale and hearty.

  Bee stared at Griff who'd grown more imperial since she'd last seen him. He stood foursquare on the threshold, his royal blue and gold trim uniform a formidable exclamation against the white foyer walls. A benevolent smile wreathed his face. His brown hair tussled, his sculpted cheeks pink from the wintry winds, he opened his arms to his step-mother and with a cry, she rushed in.

  As he bent to embrace her, Bee examined the two men behind him.

  One in a uniform of scarlet with gold bands, had a hopeful smile, curly auburn hair and soft grey eyes. Looking anxious, he scanned the crowd until he paused to stare at Delphine. At Griff’s introduction, he greeted Aunt Gertrude, then walked haltingly toward Delphine with help of a cane. Her youngest sister locked eyes with Major Lord Bromley, Neville Vaughn, the man whom she'd once loved and lost because she had no dowry.

  Beside Bromley stood a man whom Bee knew... and yet not.

  He smiled at her, this man.

  A phantom of some dream she'd had, he was as regal, as broad-shouldered as Griffith Harlinger, his friend. Closely shaven, his sun-kissed hair glistening, his endearing sable eyes shining, he wore an ebony serge frock coat and pinstriped blue satin waistcoat, smart formal attire. His frock coat contrasted with his crisp white cravat. The black and white were stark on him, but highlighted his bright blond hair and a certain frailty she’d never noticed in him. Some hazy memory drifted through her mind of this man in a bright red coat with gold buttons and a tall military helmet with black plumage. In this formal attire, he seemed strange, but familiar.

  His eyes grew probing, heavy with a question. But he did not wait for her answer. He strode toward her as her heart picked up a rhythm.

  He took her hands, his gaze darting over her features in nervous flicks. "Am I so changed, dear Bee?"

  An angry slash marked a line from his left cheek to his chin. His skin, save for that scar, was burnished as if he'd worked daily in fields. The bronze complemented his eyes and hair, giving him a patina of a Greek heroic figure. But he did not stand quite erect and held his left arm tight to his chest in a black velvet sling. Worse, he was thin, nigh unto gaunt, the hollows of his cheeks etching sharp angles to his once boyish but still handsome face.

  Her aunt was rejoicing, exclaiming and crying. Excusing herself to her guests with a hand to her throat, she squeezed the arm of her step-son. "Look who's come home!"

  Her guests murmured their cheer. A few politely applauded.

  Marjorie and Delphine welcomed the young colonel whom they'd always called cousin, then came to embrace this other man who accompanied him. He, in turn, greeted their aunt.

  Bee stood, unmoving, marveling at him in silence.

  "Have I so shocked you, Bee, that you cannot find a word for me?"

  She shook her head while tears fell to her cheeks.

  "Oh, please don't cry," said this apparition and stuffed a handkerchief into her hand. "I hoped that you'd squeal in delight."

  Marjorie and Del laughed.

  Aunt Gertrude grinned up at her step-son Griff, lost in her joy.

  Simms coughed to catch their attention. "If you will all follow me—” he said, motioning for the family and the three men to follow him out the door.

  Marjorie led the way. Del had gone white with shock at the sight of Bromley. Recovering her aplomb, Del hurried to hook one arm through Bee's and another through this strange visitor's. Simms shooed them along and closed the doors on the guests.

  "Now then," said her apparition to them all. "I must talk to Bee."

  The others drifted to the corner to more remarks of delight.

  This man took her hand, kissed the back and grinned. He was no apparition, but solid flesh and warm smiles.

  So in spite of her decades of lessons in decorum, in spite of her knowledge of rules for young ladies, in spite of the fact that the best of society waited behind Aunt's closed doors, she seized his hand and led him toward the nook at the hook in the stairs.

  He chuckled.

  And she laughed.

  "How scandalous," he joked.

  "Daring." But she coul
d not care.

  She tugged him into the cranny where they'd hidden as children in games meant for laughter. In the shadows where no one might witness her hazard her reputation, she faced him and touched him. His injured arm. His dashing, darling, wounded face. His reality confirmed, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, then rose on her toes and she kissed him. And kissed him.

  * * *

  And he kissed her back.

  Her lips were the dream he'd remembered. Her eagerness the delight he'd hoped she display. She sighed and sank into him. He nestled her in his good arm and stroked her back with the other.

  "How are you here?" she breathed and gave him no time to answer. Her mouth claimed his again.

  He broke away, breath a necessity. But he pressed his lips to her cheek. "Oh, Bee. My darling, I wish I'd come sooner."

  "Why didn't you? Where were you? I knew you still lived. I heard you. I did. Cry my name in the night."

  He stroked the arch of her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I did. So they tell me. I was out of my head."

  Light from the hall candles flickered over her face. Surprise and delight had mingled so sharply that for only the second time since he'd known her, love for him shone in her eyes. "In pain? Oh, my dearest."

  He relished her endearment, choking on his sadness. "I couldn't come sooner."

  She searched his eyes. "They wouldn't let you?"

  "Not that, no. You see there is much to explain. I was not myself."

  "I understand." Her hands were busy, brushing the sling for his twisted arm, smoothing the wool of his frock coat across his shoulders. Her touch was the fire he'd imagined in his delusions of home and hearth. Though he knew not his own name, he knew hers and the potential of their mutual love, as yet unclaimed.

  He took both her hands in his. "Come out of here. I must sit in the light. I must tell you what happened. How I am now. And who."

  * * *

  Still aquiver with shock and joy, Bee let him take her hand and lead her down the hall to the back parlour. A verdant green, the room was always warm from its proximity to the adjacent orangerie. Tonight the staff had set a steady fire burning behind the grate. Once inside, he closed the doors behind them and indicated she should sit closest to the flames on the end of the upholstered tapestry Turkey Sofa.