Warmth spread through Frederick. He may have stopped kissing Celia, but he still felt her hands on his skin.
Was this why so many of his acquaintances had desired to marry?
“You do have nice homes in London,” he teased her. “You must have seen a ballroom before.”
Her cheeks darkened to a lovely rose color. “N-naturally.” She swung her head. “There’s simply less...space.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “We are good at having space in Yorkshire.”
“Though I imagine your tenants’ walls do not stretch nearly that high.” She gestured to the ballroom wall, the long height adorned with portraits and sculptures.
“Perhaps.” He tilted his head toward her. There was something he wanted to ask her. Something that seemed to strike him as as very important. “Could you imagine living in Yorkshire?”
It was not a marriage proposal.
That would come later, he was certain.
But nothing could happen if her answer was not yes.
This was his home.
He hadn’t been to London, even to visit, in years.
“I would love to live here,” Lady Theodosia said softly, gazing through the large windows at the snow covered Dales. Then her cheeks pinkened. “I mean... I would not need to live in London. Many places interest me. Derbyshire, Cornwall, Norwich...”
“Norwich?” He scowled. “You are simply listing places.”
“You find Yorkshire superior to England’s other counties?” her eyes sparkled.
How on earth had she begun to tease him?”
“Yes,” he grumbled. “Superior to the regions outside of England as well.”
She sighed. “Perhaps. I have not traveled so much.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Except for France and Scotland.”
“Y-yes,” she said hastily. “Except for those places.” Her gaze tilted to the tree “Do you think it needs decorations?”
“The tree?” Frederick frowned. He would far rather linger on discussing her preferred regions.
“Perhaps it’s supposed to look natural? Like the trees outside.”
“We can ask the duchess when she wakes up.”
“Are you speaking about me in my absence?” The duchess’s American voice rang out. “How positively delightful.”
They were there.
All his guests.
They looked rather more refreshed than they had when he’d last seen him.
“Oh.” She stopped.
“You noticed the Christmas tree?”
“Yes. It’s wonderful!” she squealed, turning to her husband. “I didn’t think it would actually happen.”
“I want you to feel comfortable,” Frederick said.
“And that’s what makes you a lovely host.” She strode toward the tree, eying it in obvious awe.
“And I can reassure you that we made the optimal selection,” Frederick said. “We even measured them.”
“Indeed?” The duchess raised her eyebrows.
“Yes.”
“Lady Theodosia,” Rosamund said. “Why don’t I introduce you to my children?”
“I would love that,” Lady Theodosia said and glided toward them.
Frederick shivered. The room was cold. How had he not noticed that? He gestured toward the butler. “Please see that someone lights the fire in the hearth.”
“Very well, Your Grace,” the butler said.
The other men were eying him curiously.
Oh, no.
Likely they wanted to interrogate him.
Not what he had in mind for Christmas.
Frederick braced himself for the onslaught of questions.
They did not take long to come.
His friends had the efficiency of a firing squad.
And they seemed to take the same illicit pleasure in his unease.
“Lady Theodosia was all alone in the manor house with you last night.”
“Mother was there. I can’t help it if her companion decided to elope suddenly.”
“So nothing happened?”
“Naturally not.”
The others still assessed him, and he shifted his legs, thinking of the folly.
Frederick frowned. “You didn’t happen upon us outside?”
“Isn’t there a pleasant folly by your pine trees?” Miles asked.
“But we do have expectations for a certain degree of privacy—”
The men laughed.
“I’ll have to make sure to wander there with my wife sometime,” Rupert said. “Just to check you picked the right tree.”
“Of course we did,” Frederick grumbled.
Marcus reflected. “You seem happy.”
“Impossible. I had the worst presentation of my scientific career.” Frederick tried to scowl. The others were expecting him to scowl. This was England. One wasn’t supposed to boast about one’s good fortune. It wouldn’t be proper.
Never mind propriety.
Being grumpy took far too much effort. He couldn’t even muster up any complaints about the weather, and he was certain with the snowstorm last night and the likely promise of future ones, that he should be able to think of some criticisms of the recent meteorological patterns over his portion of Yorkshire.
But dash it, he was happy.
The edges of his lips had a definite urge to soar upward.
It was too easy to consider Lady Theodosia.
The sweetness of her smile.
The pleasantness of her demeanor.
The mirth in her eyes.
“Good heavens,” Rupert said. “I do believe the man is far away.”
“Likely walking up an aisle in his dreams,” Miles said.
“Nonsense,” Frederick said. “Men don’t walk up aisles. They wait. Not that I knew you were speaking about—”
“Weddings?” Marcus said. “I’m afraid it’s obvious. I knew at once too.” He glanced at Rosamund. “It took my wife longer to realize we were meant to be.”
“But he’s taking Lady Theodosia on visits to the folly already,” Miles said.
“I didn’t say that,” Frederick said quickly.
It wouldn’t do for these men to have the wrong impression.
Even if it was the correct impression.
These men might be his best friends, but perhaps one day, Lady Theodosia would be his wife.
Lord knew, that’s what her family desired.
It was emblazoned all over Matchmaking for Wallflowers.
Or at least it had been put on page four, which was entirely too close to the beginning of the pamphlet for Frederick’s comfort.
The women seemed to have disappeared. Likely to create ornaments out of goodness knows what. They were probably folding paper in all sorts of intricate chains and shapes, as if intent to make the tree even more of a fire hazard than it already was.
He glanced at the tree again.
It did look magnificent.
It should look absurd—no one could think that a pine’s tree place was indoors, but the dark green needles seemed to go brilliantly with the warm wooden panels of the ballroom’s walls.
THE AFTERNOON WENT by quickly. Rosamund, Louisa, Veronique and Celia made Christmas ornaments. The servants set copious amounts of Christmas drinks before them: eggnog, mulled wine and negus, when they weren’t busy tying ribbons, mistletoe and any form of greenery to doorways, ceilings and chandeliers. It was perfection.
But it was the duke’s lips on her own that she felt most clearly.
It didn’t matter that they’d stopped kissing hours ago. When her eyelids flickered down, his lips seemed to be on hers again. The room spun, and magic existed.
She was relieved the other women were there.
Speaking about other things, even when pretending to be a member of the ton, was preferable to contemplating Frederick’s kiss.
As pleasant as the experience had been—and Celia was certain it was impossible to have a more pleasant experience, any memories were followed b
y the facts:
1.) She was a maid.
2.) He was a duke.
3.) And she was lying to him.
In a few days she would be gone, and Frederick would be relegated to the past. Perhaps Polly would be able to share Matchmaking for Wallflowers articles in which he appeared, likely announcing his betrothal to a woman who did not hide her identity from him, a woman who could not conceive of ever having to do so, for she was perfect already.
“This ballroom will look lovely for Friday’s ball.”
“There’s going to be a ball?” Celia’s voice squeaked, and she took a sip of negus quickly. The drink burned her throat, and she tried not to cough.
“Yes,” the duchess said happily. “It will be the first one in years.”
“How splendid,” Celia said.
Theodosia had not mentioned a ball.
Lady Fitzroy had not mentioned a ball.
Theodosia had already been wrong about not knowing any of the guests.
Celia swallowed hard. “I was not aware you were having a ball.”
“One of your neighbors usually hosts a ball at her estate this time of year. She married the Marquess of Bancroft last year and is planning to winter in Italy with the Duchess of Alfriston.”
“I refused to be convinced for some time,” the duke said.
“But he yielded,” the duchess said triumphantly.
“My dance slippers should be used,” the duke said. “It’s only logical.”
The others laughed.
Celia had a feeling balls were great expenses and not particularly logical at all.
“When will it be?”
“The day after tomorrow,” the duke said. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” she squeaked. “Naturally not.”
It had been settled, likely before she’d gotten here.
“Perhaps the duke will propose,” Rosamund whispered. “I’m very good at matches. And you seem ideally suited.”
Celia felt her skin pale. “Surely not.”
Rosamund shrugged, but her lips quirked.
Chapter Eleven
He might propose.
The words rang through Celia’s mind.
It was the last thing she’d thought of when she’d gone to bed, and now she’d woken, it was the first thing she thought of.
Obviously Rosamund was being overly romantic.
One didn’t crown oneself lead matchmaker in one’s town without some proclivity for sentimentality.
Celia needed to leave at once.
She glanced outside.
Even though the condensation clouded her view, it was clear a snowstorm had started. Wind rattled against the manor home. A branch must have snapped off, for she jumped.
If she left, she would need to leave now.
Lady Theodosia had already been gone for two days. Surely that would ensure they had a sufficient head start?
She couldn’t wait. She couldn’t apologize.
She hastily stuffed Lady Theodosia’s dresses back into her case. She wouldn’t worry about the creases now. She could fix them later, after a great deal of apologizing to Lady Theodosia.
She snapped the case shut and sprinted down the stairs.
The steps creaked beneath her. It seemed some past ancestor here had built-in warning systems.
No matter.
She quickened her pace.
She wondered what Frederick would think.
No. It was easy to give in to him. Far, far too easy.
The way he gazed at her.
The way he made her laugh, more than anyone else in the world. Those things should not be weapons, but they struck more fear in her than anything else in the world, as if he had been clasping a sabre in his hand.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Likely it was the butler coming to investigate. Likely he hadn’t thought anyone would be coming inside at this hour, and he certainly wasn’t prepared for anyone leaving.
She stepped out the door, despite the ever-thickening snowflakes.
She wouldn’t be able to get far.
Perhaps she should try the neighboring manor house? She hurried in the direction of the building.
FREDERICK MOVED INTO the parlor and waited for the others to make an appearance.
Today was Christmas Day.
The grandfather clock seemed to tick slowly, and he forced himself to pick up a book. Last week he’d delighted in John Herapath’s kinetic theory of gases, but the man’s innovations, as exciting for progress as they were, did not stop his mind from wandering to Lady Theodosia.
He closed the book and walked to the window.
The snowflakes galloped downward, as if competing at the Ascot.
And then he saw...
Her.
He blinked.
The chit must be mad.
No woman in the world could have reached her age, the maturity emphasized by an abundance of curves that made him force his gaze on the tree behind her, without being cognizant that coats were a requirement for a Yorkshire winter.
The woman seemed equally unaware of the conveniences of hats, mittens, or scarves. Frederick had always considered stoles and pelisses to be the more ridiculous items of female garb, containing a worrying dearth of warm-supplying materials considering their accompanying lofty price, but he would even see one of those with pleasure.
He rushed toward the door, weaving past poufs and armchairs, and flung it open.
“Lady Theodosia,” he shouted. “Come inside.”
She stepped back.
Blast.
The woman seemed...afraid.
He’d been so proud of himself for cultivating his reputation. If women thought him a beast, their mothers might be less prone to thrusting their daughters on him.
He glanced at her lustrous dark locks, her face, pale from the cold—he hoped not from unhappiness at seeing him, the soft curves of her figure, her valise—
He paused.
“Why are you holding that?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I thought I would go—”
“Just like that? Just into a snowstorm? Without even saying farewell?”
She shivered.
“It is dangerous outside,” he said. Not bellowing the words took more effort than he’d thought possible.
“But I cannot stay. It’s—it’s not proper.”
“Perhaps the kiss lacked propriety. Then again, so does freezing to death.”
She glanced downward, and her cheeks flushed. “Forgive me.
“So you intend to knock on people’s doors in the hopes you won’t chance upon a murderer.”
“Most people are not murderers. In fact, proportionally the likelihood of me finding a murderer is even less likely than me having ten children.”
He swallowed hard.
Having ten children involved certain mechanisms that might be pleasant to linger upon.
Hurt surged through him.
They’d kissed.
And it had been good.
Really good.
And yet she intended to saunter out the door, not even saying goodbye to him. Disappearing into the snow, as if snowstorms were not dangerous things.
“I-I must,” she said.
Her voice trembled again.
Blast.
“What are you scared of?”
She was silent, and his stomach sank.
So it wasn’t anything except him.
He grimaced. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t intend to frighten you.”
“I don’t mean to be a bad host,” he continued. “I’m not accustomed to it.”
“You don’t plan for Yuletime blizzards?”
He shook his head. Her eyes were sparkling again.
Thank heavens.
He grinned back.
His lips felt tight, as if he wasn’t quite accustomed to doing it.
She’d tried to run away.
She was too good for him.
Of course it was easy to speak n
egatively.
She deserved someone...more. Someone who was not referred to as the mad duke. Someone who had not made himself a pariah to even most scientific people. Somebody who didn’t spend most of his days locked in his laboratory mixing potions together—particularly those of the faulty variety.
There were men who would be joyful, were there a blue sky, and not worried for the ramifications of their scientific experiments.
She should be with someone like that.
Someone whose mind was clear, devoted to her, because, Lord knew, she deserved the best. She’d tried to run away. A death mission. At what point had he become somebody whom even the people he seemed to get along with thought best to flee from?
He took her inside. Heavens, her lashes were so thick. Her skin was soft, and he yearned to stroke it and capture her lips with his again. But instead he stood rigidly. “I didn’t realize I’d hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” she said quickly. “You were...wonderful. So wonderful. And I shall remember this for the rest of my life. You’ve given me such good memories—”
He pressed his hand over her mouth. Energy surged through him as he felt her lips against the palm of his hand.
Her eyes widened.
“They needn’t be just memories.” Frederick’s throat shouldn’t have become itchy. He’d never been prone to allergies, and there wasn’t a furry cat or pollen spewing plant in the area. And yet his throat still seemed to close off, and he grabbed Celia’s hands in his own.
He didn’t want to think about what might have happened to her if he hadn’t chanced upon her.
She was so slender, and it was easy to imagine the wind whisking her up and carrying her away and—
His heart squeezed, and he clutched hold of her hands. “Promise me you won’t do that again.”
Her hands might be gloved, but heat still coursed through him at their sudden closeness.
He stared into her eyes. How had he never realized that green was the very loveliest color in the world?
Everything had changed, he realized.
It seemed ridiculous that somebody might so thoroughly disrupt his life. But he’d known, from the first time he’d seen her, that she was important.
And she’d run away.
“Is there...something wrong with me?” His voice was definitely hoarse now.
Her eyes widened again. “No, no.”
“Then what would possess you too—”
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe Page 9
