Lady Theodosia had never asked him for gossip.
He’d spent the entire evening with her, and she’d never spoken about her friend the countess or happening upon a princess. She’d not laughed at anyone’s failure to follow the careful etiquette of the ton, published in leather bound books with the titles embossed in gold or distributed in pamphlets such as Matchmaking for Wallflowers.
No.
Lady Theodosia was different.
He’d been foolish to suggest her desire to run a household was uninteresting. If she wanted to marry, then he should not laugh at those desires.
She was driven to achieve something useful.
Perhaps it was a dream that others also shared but that did not make it less important.
For the people in her life, her dream would help them more than any most advanced chemical formula he might develop in his laboratory. He had sufficiently eccentric research interests for both of them.
Finally the door opened, and she appeared.
And he knew.
He knew he was going to marry her.
He knew he was going to share the rest of his life with her.
He might not know everything about her yet, but he didn’t need to do so.
It wasn’t the first time that Frederick had known something quickly.
He’d always known he was more interested in chemistry than medicine. He’d never once contemplated a lifelong obsession with composing poems or painting watercolors.
He was tempted to tell her right then and there, but she didn’t need to think him mad.
Not when most of London’s high society seemed to think the same thing, merely for his interest in the formation of useful materials.
“Your Grace.” She gave him a smile. It was almost nervous, unpracticed, unsuave. It shouldn’t have made his heartbeat quicken. Shouldn’t such physical reactions be reserved for women who’d actually sought to seduce him?
But Lady Theodosia’s sweetness was enough.
His heart still squeezed.
It didn’t matter in the least that she wore a long dark cloak that would have to be termed shapeless. It didn’t matter that most of her hair, those delightfully glossy locks he’d longed to touch once he’d seen them, were tucked underneath her hat. The only thing that mattered was that she was here, beside him.
It seemed absurd he’d been so resistant to her arrival, and he was thankful whatever had prevented her mother from attending the house party had not prohibited her.
“Let me show you the trees,” he said, aware that he’d stared at her for several moments too long. “They’re not far away.”
“How fortuitous of your gardener,” she said.
He grinned. “I think he is fond of the trees for their habit of not shedding their leaves. Raking is only so interesting.”
“Then he is wise,” she said.
“Or he harbors a secret obsession for Christmas,” Frederick mused.
“It is the loveliest holiday,” Celia said.
“Do you think so?” Frederick asked.
“Naturally.”
“For Easter is warmer. And the fifth of November is more exciting—”
“I prefer to find fire in a hearth,” she said.
He grinned. “My gardener is not the only wise person on this property.”
Her smile faltered for some reason, and he decided to change the topic. “Is this your first time in Yorkshire?”
“Oh, yes.” She frowned. “Except for last year. I crossed through Yorkshire on my way to London from Scotland.”
“Then the county could not have been that memorable.”
“The coach’s curtains must have been closed.”
The statement was peculiar. It took days to cross through Yorkshire. It was hardly something that could be traversed without notice.
“Are those the trees?” she asked quickly, and he nodded, distracted by her enthusiasm.
They wandered toward the row of pine trees. Their thick scent filled the air, and their dark green color appeared more vibrant against the crisp white snow.
“Do you have a favorite one?” he asked.
She smiled. “I assume that when Duchess of Belmonte mentioned a width, she desired a thick one?”
“And branches with full needles, and a height that is decent though which would not pose too much of a problem for decorating.”
“You do not desire to risk anyone’s ankles?”
“Not in the pursuit of hanging up ornaments.”
“Then I suppose we must be scientific about it,” Lady Theodosia said.
Her eyes sparkled with humor, and for the first time he realized that she was clutching something in her hand.
“Is that—”
She opened her palm.
“Measuring tape,” he said. “Where did you find it?”
She smirked. “A woman never travels without it.”
He took the thick linen fabric in his hand. Inches were carefully marked onto the fabric.
“Now,” Lady Theodosia said. “There are twenty trees. Let’s see which ones best meet the specifications. We would not want the Duchess of Belmonte to be distressed that we had picked the wrong one.”
“That would be impossible,” Frederick said.
“Which criteria should we begin with,” she asked.
“Width,” Frederick said. “Not of the trunk, but of the—”
“Widest point of the branches,” Lady Theodosia finished for him. “That is an excellent idea. When we select the top trees, we can eliminate the ones that do not meet our height and fullness criteria.”
“Splendid,” Frederick said.
They might be making the process of choosing a tree more complicated than it needed to be. In fact he was fairly certain Lady Theodosia had such good taste she could have easily selected a fine one. None of the trees, truly, were obviously poor selections.
But choosing a tree could not possibly be more delightful.
Measurements might bore other people, but never Frederick.
One didn’t become a scientist without a high regard for numbers.
Facts were the dearest things in the world, even when they were hard to discover. Particularly when they were difficult to discover.
He was still holding the measuring tape, and he gave Lady Theodosia one end. “Walk to the farthest corner of the tree.”
She nodded, her eyes gleaming, and stepped back.
FREDERICK FROWNED. “In hindsight that might not be the best way to do it.”
“No?”
Celia’s shoulders sank. He’d seemed so happy. But perhaps it had been foolish of her to take out the measuring tape from the sewing kit she’d brought in case any of Lady Theodosia’s dresses needed adjusted.
He was so clever.
And I’m a maid.
Obviously the calculations he did were more complex than those measuring the branches of pine trees.
His gaze seemed to bore into her, and she shivered.
Perhaps she’d upset him.
Or perhaps...perhaps she’d given away her identity somehow.
“It is a mistake to walk backward,” he said, his voice firm.
“Indeed?” She furrowed her brow, not quite comprehending him.
“It is,” he repeated again, “For it means you’re walking away from me.”
Her eyes widened, and he closed the gap between them, his boots crunching on the snow.
He cupped her face in his hands, seeming to find wonder in it that no one had found before. She shivered, conscious of his leather gloves, the material far smoother than that of any servant’s.
Her heart thudded.
Surely...
He cannot intend to kiss me.
Not him.
Not a duke.
This cannot be real.
Because she knew about real life.
She’d lived it for twenty years.
Real life consisted of cleaning and mending. Sometimes when she was very lucky it
consisted of peering into the housekeeper’s ledger to resolve accounts, but real life never, ever consisted of handsome dukes kissing her.
But the determination in his gaze seemed very real, and the feel of his lips feathering against her own seemed even more real. And then finally she felt the sweet and utterly realistic sensation of his tongue against hers.
It should have felt awkward, overly intimate, but instead it was exquisite, heavenly.
Perfect.
She pulled away. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” He seemed more amused than horrified, as if he’d had plenty of experience of women desiring him.
“Because,” she said, “You do not know me.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But it feels longer.”
“Indeed?”
This time he widened his eyes. “Not to mean that time with you feels like an eternity. That-that would likely not be flattering.”
“No,” she agreed, but her lips twitched.
He grabbed hold of her hands again and squeezed them. A delightful shiver cascaded through her body.
“I’ve spent a full day with you,” the duke said. “I’m happy the others arrived so much later yesterday.”
“That’s not a reason to kiss me.”
He grinned. “Naturally not.”
“You don’t know my history. You do not know my likes and dislikes.”
He laughed. “I know you express a mysterious fondness for measuring tape, one many people do not share with you, and I also know you suit the color blue.”
“There’s more to me than that.”
“I’m sure,” he said gravely. “I know you like math more than any woman I’ve ever met before.”
“It’s organized. It makes sense.”
He scrutinized her. “And are there things that do not make sense?”
Celia was silent.
She considered her father, the earl, and her grandfather, also an earl, and her great grandfather, also an earl, and how despite their impeccable reputations, despite even the fact she was slightly older than Theodosia, she was working as a maid. “Yes.”
He tilted his head, assessing her with those clear, bright intelligent eyes. “Tell me about your parents. After all, you’ve met my mother, and I haven’t met yours.”
Her smiled tightened.
She’d never met her mother.
Or at least—she couldn’t remember her.
There must have been a moment when she’d been handed to her mother. Had her mother known then that she was dying? Or had she imagined all the things they might do together?
The older servants had told her she’d loved Celia.
“I wish I might have—” She paused. She was Lady Theodosia to him, and Lady Fitzroy was still alive. “You are lucky to be close to your mother. One is fortunate to have one’s mother involved in one’s life.”
“I suppose I am,” Frederick said thoughtfully. “Even if she can be a dashed pain at times. All that music.”
She smiled.
“You are so beautiful.” His voice was hoarse, and she was certain his face had been further away a moment ago.
She stared at him, transfixed, musing over the chiseled features of his face that would surely win any prize were they to compete with the statues and portraits in his art collection, and the glorious chestnut locks that crowned his head. It was his eyes though, a brilliant dark brown, that captured her attention. People called him cold and aloof for his antisocial tendencies, but fire seemed to dwell in his eyes, and they seemed to excel at the ability to make her legs quiver.
She stepped rapidly backward, hitting the branches of one of the pine trees.
His lips quirked, but before she had time to blush, he narrowed the gap between him. The scent of cotton and pinecones wafted about her. He smelled like Christmas and all things marvelous, all things perfect, all things she should know better than to dream about.
He moved toward her and held her in his arms.
The experience should have been unnatural. His chest was not supposed to be touching hers, his arms weren’t supposed to be clasping her waist, and his hands certainly weren’t supposed to be moving across her body.
And yet it already felt like the most natural thing in the world.
The prospect of being separated from him seemed horrible, so instead she succumbed to the sweet sensations.
“Darling.” The husky sound of his voice sent her heartbeat throttling.
And then his lips touched hers.
She was being kissed again.
He wasn’t the first man to kiss her.
There had been that footman.
Men had a tendency to notice her.
But those encounters had been nothing, absolutely nothing, like this.
His lips tasted like Christmas.
Cinnamon, cloves and orange danced on his tongue.
This time even the sturdy tree branches could not stop her knees from quivering.
He grasped her closer to him, and his lips continued to meld with hers as his tongue conversed with her own in a language she’d never known existed.
Heavenly.
It was heavenly.
They might not be sitting on clouds attired in togas as the world moved beneath them, but Celia was certain nothing could be more wonderful than this.
She didn’t need to be ensconced in a fluffy paradise.
She didn’t need to be in cerulean skies as the jeweled colors of the earth and oceans flitted below her.
She only needed to be in his arms.
Other servants had raved about kisses that lasted for hours but felt like mere seconds, but Celia had never believed it possible.
Despite her punctuality and general timeliness, grasping time seemed to disappear.
At some point the duke swept her into his arms and carried her into a folly. Snow fluttered down. Each flake was beautiful, distinct, but all she wanted to see was him.
Servants had warned her against succumbing to baser desires, and she’d rejected the men who’d propositioned her before.
But Frederick was a greater force.
The duke was a hurricane and tornado and blizzard all at once. He was the North Wind, and the Pacific. He was everything.
She couldn’t say no.
She didn’t want to.
“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured.
His kisses had ventured lower.
She’d never given much thought to her neck, and certainly not to her collar bone, but Frederick feathered kisses over the regions with reverence. His lips seemed to luxuriate in her skin, and made her crave....more.
It was magnificent.
And wonderful.
And—impossible.
The horror of what they were doing struck her.
He couldn’t be kissing her.
No matter how heavenly it felt.
She needed to remember she was in service, and once this Christmas visit ended, she would return to being a servant.
Perhaps she would serve Theodosia, but she would never be a woman whom he might court.
She never intended anyone to court her.
She’d long ago resigned herself to not becoming involved with any man.
Some married, yes, even those in service. But housekeepers? No. It was difficult to raise children, and when one married, one had a habit of acquiring many.
No.
“Don’t think so much,” he murmured.
“You are a scientist. Isn’t thinking what you advocate everyone to do?”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Sometimes I spend too long seeking to impress other people who are only interested in impressing others. It is a common predicament in academic circles, though likely not confined to them. And now I’m blathering again.”
“I don’t mind.”
He could speak about anything. It didn’t matter. Especially when those topics made his face animated.
But kissing...
They couldn’t do this.
> It was impossible.
She removed his arms from hers. “We should cut down the tree.”
“Good thinking.” Frederic rose and glanced at the rows of windows that overlooked the folly. “No one should be on that side.”
“Splendid.” Her voice sounded weak as she stared at the long row of windows.
Perhaps no one should be on that side of the house, but the manor house had guests in it now.
They strode back to the pine trees. Celia’s feet wobbled over the uneven snow, and the duke held onto her hand to steady her.
They ambled toward the tree, and the duke picked up the axe and brushed away the thick snowflakes that fluttered to the ground.
“Stand far away,” he directed, and she moved away.
She didn’t manage to pull away her gaze from the adorable manner in which he concentrated on chopping down the tree. The sound of metal striking the tree trunk seemed to thunder, and pine needles flew into the air, merging with the snow.
Finally he stepped to the side, pushing it away, and the tree crashed onto the snow.
For a moment she was sad, but then the duke turned and his lips spread into a wide grin. “Let’s go back.”
She joined him, and he picked up the base of the tree, and dragged it as they strode to the manor house.
“Your Grace!” The butler widened his eyes.
“You’ve noticed the tree,” the duke said.
“It would be difficult not to do so,” the butler said, scrutinizing it. “Was there something wrong with it? Would you like me to send for the gardener?” “
“That won’t be necessary, George,” the duke said, “Though you’re welcome to help me carry it into the ballroom.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” The butler picked up one side of the tree. “I suppose this house doesn’t need pineneedles on the floor.”
Celia followed the two men until they reached the ballroom.
Chapter Ten
Lady Theodosia’s head seemed to have tilted permanently up once they’d entered the ballroom, and Frederick smiled.
Her eyes rounded with obvious wonder.
“You are not what I expected,” he said.
“No?” Her cheeks pinkened.
Other women would have given him a knowing smile, raised their perfectly plucked eyebrows, and murmured something about their superiority, one well matched to Frederick’s own.
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe Page 8
