Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  “Oh!” Celia widened her eyes. “I’m sure I can manage.”

  “Nonsense, dearie. You’ve probably never dressed yourself a day in your life. We won’t want you to start when staying underneath His Grace’s roof. ‘T’wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Thank you,” Celia stammered finally.

  “Now what have you got there?” Margaret scrutinized the dress. “I reckon you have something even finer inside.”

  “Well...”

  Margaret opened the door to the wardrobe. She rifled through the clothes and selected an azure dress. “I reckon this blue will look quite lovely on you.” She held it beneath Celia’s face and beamed. “So it does.” She leaned closer. “There’s many mighty fine people in the house now, but don’t you worry. We’ll make sure you’re the very fairest.”

  “The other guests arrived?” Celia asked faintly.

  “So they did. ‘Twas quite late in the night. We were worried it would be quite scandalous, with you being so young and pretty and all, alone with the duke. But no need to fret now. You have more chaperones than you could ever desire.”

  “Splendid,” Celia said faintly.

  Margaret’s lips twitched, and Celia’s skin flushed. Likely Margaret thought Celia wanted to spend more time alone with the duke.

  “What are the names of the other guests?” Celia asked.

  “There’s quite a few.” Margaret’s eyes sparkled. “Lord and Lady Somerville, Lord and Lady Worthing, the Duke and Duchess of Belmonte.

  “How impressive,” Celia said faintly.

  “Indeed.” Margaret tilted her head. “Your face has gotten quite pale.”

  “I must be nervous.”

  “When you’re the daughter of an earl?” Margaret smiled. “You have nothing to worry about.” She leaned closer to Celia. “And you are the only young lady of marriageable age.”

  “Oh,” Celia squeaked.

  Margaret winked.

  Celia was certain none of the servants in London would have dared to wink to a guest, but the household was so warm and welcoming.

  “Now stand up,” Margaret said firmly. “I’m going to make you beautiful. It will be a most easy task.”

  Celia stood, conscious of her heartbeat thumping quickly as she felt the strange sensations of someone dressing her.

  She strove to think if Theodosia had ever mentioned any of the guests.

  She was thankful Theodosia had spent so much time in Antibes with Admiral Fitzroy’s family and not in London.

  “All set,” Margaret declared.

  Celia turned toward the mirror.

  Her locks were arranged in beautiful tendrils that framed her face. The blue dress seemed to make her complexion brighter.

  “His Grace will like it,” Margaret said proudly. “I look forward to dressing you for the ball.”

  Celia’s smile tightened. Surely Theodosia would be able to send for her by then?

  A knock sounded on the door, and Celia strode over oriental carpets that felt too thick beneath her feet, forgetting that Margaret could answer it.

  She flung the door open, half-expecting to be dragged from the room and scolded for being inside.

  The duke stood before her.

  Goodness.

  The man’s appearance lacked flaws.

  “Your Grace,” she stammered.

  His eyes softened. “You look lovely.”

  Celia shivered. Heat seemed to rise in her body, and she strove to look away. Nowhere was as interesting as him.

  “I thought I would escort you downstairs,” the duke said.

  “Oh.”

  “So I could introduce you to the other guests,” he added hastily.

  “Naturally.”

  “Where is your companion?”

  She inhaled. “I should tell you that a man came. He rather swept her away, and they are off to Gretna Greene.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose love is a powerful force.”

  “You do seem calm about it,” she murmured.

  “Perhaps I’ve read too much poetry. One does during the war.”

  Her gaze grew more serious. “Where were you based?”

  “Much time in Russia. The British wanted some officers there to collaborate with them in their fight to secure the Eastern front from Bonaparte.” He shivered. “I still remember the onslaught of cold and wet rain. I remember the deaths of brave, strong men, felled from the weather and the inability of their shirts and breeches to remain dry from the rain”

  “What you are working on will change all that.”

  “I hope.” He extended his arm to her. “Shall we?”

  Celia swallowed hard.

  The dim light flickered over the velvet fabric of his jacket, emphasized by the curve of the duke’s arm. The material was expensive, exquisite, but it was the arm underneath that drew her attention.

  She’d hoped she might spend most of the time in Lady Theodosia’s room, having servants send up trays of food, just as she’d once carried for visiting guests. She’d hoped the largeness of the manor house, and the duke’s commitment to research, would make it easy for her to stay sequestered in the room.

  To be honest, she’d known better.

  Perhaps she’d dined with him.

  But she’d made her own way to the dining room, and she hadn’t touched him.

  One didn’t touch dukes.

  One revered them.

  Respected them.

  Perhaps one lived one’s whole life without even seeing one.

  They were a rare class even in the ton, and they weren’t supposed to spend time with lady’s maids.

  But what would Theodosia do?

  She would take his arm, and not think anything of it.

  Celia accepted his arm.

  It might be impossible for the velvet of his attire to heat her, but fire seemed to rush through her body, not caring that it was blistering cold outside, and that even the luxurious drapes failed to halt the procession of wind from the windows’ cracks. The duke might be interested in science, but basic laws of nature seemed upended in his presence.

  She strode beside him.

  The duke’s legs were long, but he matched her smaller strides.

  They ambled down the steps, and she slid her fingers over the great wooden bannister.

  Voices sounded from another room.

  She glanced at the duke. “How many people are here?”

  “Six.”

  Celia widened her eyes.

  Six aristocrats.

  Six people who could discover that she was not one of them.

  Six people who could send her back to London in disgrace, ensuring Theodosia was not able to elope successfully with the vicomte and that she would be forced to confront Lady Fitzroy’s wrath.

  His eyes widened. “It is too cold in this wing. Has the fire been lit?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “The room might be too large.”

  He frowned. “There should be a better system for heating.”

  “Would you have fires along all the walls?”

  “I imagine a new fuel entirely. One that we can burn and will not risk taking the walls with it.”

  “As in coal? For that is hardly clean.” She wrinkled her nose, and he laughed.

  “It is important to first decide what one wants. It is too easy to do what is expected of one.”

  “Such as live in cold rooms?”

  “Precisely,” he said.

  She nodded, but it was not heat she thought of but her life.

  I was the daughter of an earl.

  He was kind to me.

  She shook her head.

  It didn’t matter.

  He had not left her any accommodation in his will.

  Lady Fitzroy was correct. She was lucky to have been allowed to stay.

  She would hardly have wanted a fate of a street urchin. She’d even been allowed to study with Lady Theodosia and Lady Amaryllis until she was twelve.

  But still...


  Should she expect more?

  “How thoughtful you look,” the duke said.

  “It’s an occupation not reserved to scientists,” she said.

  He laughed, and she flushed. For some reason she was very comfortable with him.

  “No need to be shy. Besides I believe you’ve met Lord Worthing before,” the duke said.

  “Indeed?” Her voice rose to a higher pitch than she intended, and she coughed hastily.

  She tried to recall if Theodosia had ever said anything about him to her.

  Perhaps she might feign illness.

  Perhaps—

  But in the next moment they rounded the corner.

  The breakfast room was before them, and sitting at a long table were six other people and the duchess.

  Thank goodness Margaret had insisted on dressing her nicely.

  She couldn’t let anything make these people suspicious of her.

  If only Theodosia hadn’t been so certain the weather would hamper the other guests’ arrival. Likely she would be horrified at her mistake.

  Celia hoped the vicomte and Lady Theodosia were making good progress toward the border.

  The duke held open the door, and Celia entered the breakfast room.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  Maids might be allowed to clear the dishes from the breakfast room if the footmen were occupied otherwise, but they were never ever supposed to visit themselves.

  She was vaguely conscious of men rising from the seats.

  “Lord and Lady Worthing, the Duke and Duchess of Belmonte, and Lord and Lady Somerville, may I please present Lady Theodosia Fitzroy.” The duke uttered the words casually, as if unaware of the lofty positions of these people.

  Celia’s heartbeat quickened, but she managed to sink into a curtsy.

  “Dear Lord,” one of the men said. “She looks quite pale.”

  The duke’s gaze turned to her at once. His eyes roved over her face. Finally they widened. “Have a seat, Lady Theodosia.”

  She sank onto a chair. The breakfast room overlooked the garden. Sturdy chestnut trees soared toward the still gray sky. Inches of snow lined each branch, as if threatening to spill on anyone who ventured underneath them.

  “Do you favor cheese or jam?” the duke asked.

  She turned to him. His brows were furrowed. Surely the man couldn’t be making her breakfast?

  “Give her both,” a female voice said. “Please forgive the duke. His prowess in science does not extend to every subject. He resembles my husband.”

  “Darling,” another man, evidently her husband, said in mock fury.

  “I’m Lady Somerville.” The woman’s warm eyes gleamed. “Though since we’ll spend the next few days together, you are quite welcome to start calling me Rosamund at once. I have a feeling we are going to become great friends. My husband is a scientist. It is a hard life.”

  “Don’t mind them.” The duke placed a plate of food before her. He’d piled bread, cheese, jam and eggs and meat over the blue and white china.

  “Are you constructing a pyramid, Salisbury?” one of the men asked.

  “Don’t discourage him,” Lady Somerville said quickly. “He was being thoughtful.”

  “A novel concept for him,” another man grumbled.

  The people laughed, regaling themselves with more stories.

  Celia’s unease might still be present, but these people, despite their propensity to jest, seemed every bit as affable as the servants below the stairs.

  “Thank you,” Celia whispered to the duke.

  “Oh, I’m quite heroic occasionally.” His eyes sparkled.

  “Very occasionally,” the man opposite him emphasized.

  “Then I’m honored,” Celia said.

  The guests laughed again, but the man opposite her seemed to still scrutinize her.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Theodosia.”

  She stiffened.

  This must be Lord Worthing. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him.

  “The pleasure is mine, Lord Worthing,” she said, hoping the name was correct.

  His shoulders sank a fraction of an inch, and her own did the same.

  “Tell me,” she asked Lady Somerville quickly, “How did you meet the duke?”

  Lady Somerville immediately went into a lengthy history of her acquaintanceship with the duke. Apparently it involved Lord Somerville and Lord Salisbury taking many walks together where they would exclaim at the most minute forms of nature.

  “You mustn’t malign all scientists,” another woman said. She had a strong American accent, and Celia blinked.

  She’d never met an American before.

  “The Duchess of Belmonte is an excellent ichthyologist,” the duke said.

  “How splendid,” Celia said.

  Not that she knew what an ichthyologist was.

  She tried to remember if her governess had ever mentioned the field to her.

  It did sound complex.

  “Lord Worthing mentioned you would be able to get us an axe,” the man beside the American woman said.

  “Er—yes,” the duke said. He narrowed his eyes. “You really think bringing in a tree from outside is a good idea?”

  “It is,” Duchess of Belmonte said.

  “But it’s a tree.”

  Duchess of Belmonte sighed. “It’s going to become a Christmas tree. Provided we can find one that meets our height and trunk width requirements.”

  “You have them?”

  Duchess of Belmonte nodded gravely. “My parents always had Christmas trees. They are popular in America.”

  “You probably adopted traditions from other cultures when you decided to start a revolution against your home country,” the duke said.

  “Likely,” Duchess of Belmonte said sweetly. “Besides England does have a habit of bringing greenery inside during Christmas.”

  “Like that mistletoe,” Lord Worthing said. “Hanging over the entrance to this room. You must have romantic servants.”

  The duke shrugged. “They’ll be hanging greenery all over the house. Tonight is Christmas Eve after all.”

  “Then you should be careful to spot it,” Lord Worthing said.

  The duke stiffened.

  They must have stood underneath the mistletoe when they’d entered the room together.

  Celia focused on her food.

  There might be several feet of snow on the ground, but the room seemed that it must be situated somewhere in the Sahara. She glanced toward the hearth, but the fires’ flames did not seem to be blazing in any different a manner than always.

  Pretending to be Lady Theodosia was going to be difficult.

  Because unlike Lady Theodosia, there would never be any option of the duke to court her.

  And at the end of the week he’ll know.

  She took a sip of her tea, but the warm liquid did not soothe the quickening of her heart and the unease flowing through her.

  This is for Theodosia’s happiness.

  “That was a lovely breakfast,” Rosamund said. “Though now I would really like to take a nap.”

  “Of course,” the duke said.

  “The children should be sleeping, and I would love to take advantage of the quiet.”

  “You traveled a long time,” the duke said.

  “Oh, I adore the countryside,” Rosamund exclaimed.

  “She kept on trying to paint it when we were traveling,” Lord Somerville said. “Her hands are stained.”

  Rosamund elbowed him. “That was a beautiful sunset. You must admit it.”

  “And now your hands are pink and orange.”

  Rosamund sighed. “Thank goodness for gloves. Hopefully the stains go away before the ball.”

  “Have you tried using oil and water?” Celia asked.

  “No,” Rosamund said.

  “It works quite well,” Celia said. “I recommend it.”

  “How darling of you,” Rosamund said. “Thank you.”

  T
he others soon left and the duke and Celia were alone.

  “I’m sorry there were so many,” the duke said. “They can be overwhelming.”

  “They were wonderful,” Celia said. “You’re lucky to have them.”

  A knock sounded on the door, and a footman appeared. “Your axe, Your Grace.”

  The metal glinted in the candlelight.

  “Er—thank you, James.” The duke rose and took the threatening instrument. It seemed absurd amidst the floral wallpaper and lace curtains of the breakfast room.

  “Very well, Your Grace.” The footman bowed, but his pupils seemed a trifle wider than Celia would have thought normal and he hurried from the room.

  The duke glanced at Celia and smiled. “Normally I would go to my laboratory now, but how about we surprise the others?”

  “We?” Celia asked faintly.

  “What do you say we cut down a Christmas tree? I’m sure I can chop one down every bit as well as an American.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Most certainly. Though I would be grateful for any aesthetic help you might be able to provide.”

  “Oh.”

  It’s better not to be alone with him.

  The thought came into her mind quickly.

  The duke was everything dangerous.

  He might be kind and sweet and sometimes even amusing, but he held the same danger as a ferocious wolf or musket-shooting enemy.

  For where her heart was concerned, no one was more likely to harm it.

  “I suppose I should ask my mother to chaperone, but...”

  “I would not want your mother to be outside in this weather either.”

  “We won’t go far,” the duke said. “There are some promising trees near the East Wing.”

  “Then let me put on warmer attire.”

  “Meet you at the entrance in five minutes?”

  “Yes.” She turned around abruptly. It wouldn’t be proper for him to see the extent of her smile.

  Chapter Nine

  The wind howled outside, tree branches tapped against the walls of his house, but as Frederick paced the portico of the manor house, he only had one thought: Lady Theodosia was magnificent.

  He’d imagined condescension when he’d forgotten yet another important person, and irritation when he hadn’t been sufficiently impressed by some piece of gossip.