by Edith Layton
A white-faced footman appeared, and then another, and then her butler came to see what caused the commotion, his own vest half-buttoned over his nightshirt, his hair still wild from sleep. They sniffed at the duke’s breath when he demanded to see their mistress, and bit their lips. Then they lit some more lamps and saw the look in the duke’s wild icy eyes. They led him to the salon and left him there to pace.
“Owen!” Elizabeth cried when she opened the door. She raced into the room to see him. Her hair was still in a night braid, she wore a wrapper buttoned to her chin, and one cheek—the one that had obviously just been resting on her pillow, was rosy, while the other was white as the rest of her face was—with fear. “My dear,” she said tremulously, coming up to him and reaching up one trembling hand to lightly touch his cold, cold face, “whatever is the matter?!”
“Nothing now,” he murmured, and pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.
At first, she stiffened in shock. Then, she relaxed, and her hands went to his shoulders and she murmured something to him; then she sighed and opened her lips against his, and drank as deeply of him as he did of her.
They clung together. When he finally had to breathe other, less sweet air than her own breath, he raised his lips. He laid his head alongside hers. But he didn’t loosen his grip. And neither did she.
“No!” he whispered fiercely into her hair. “No, you shall not! You shall not marry anyone but me. Never, I won’t have it! You are mine, and have always been, and so it shall be. Do you hear?”
“I hear,” she said, but he heard her voice shake, and drawing back, saw her eyes were filling with tears.
And so he had to kiss her again, and again, and then go to a chair with her, and take her on his lap and kiss her yet again.
“So,” he said at last, lifting his lips from hers, but refusing to remove his hand from her breast, because there was only so much he could bear to deprive himself of now, after so long a hunger. “So. There it is. I’ve been a fool, Elizabeth. All the while, there you were, and I could not—would not, see what was before me. Because, I suppose, so long ago, I was shamed at wanting you. Because,” he said, when she attempted to speak, “you were my best friend’s sister, and in those days, that most lamentable of creatures—a girl.”
He smiled with her, but it was a smile that almost broke her heart. “I guarded myself against it then,” he said. “My guard remained even when I’d no use for it any longer. What a fool I was. Please, Elizabeth,” he said seriously, touching his hand to her chin, her cheek, her hair, “listen. Murcer’s a good man. Maybe better than me,” he added with a hint of his old pride to give the lie to that claim, “but he’ll never love you as I do. Or as I can. I want to marry you and give you that parcel of children. I need you more than he does, to be sure. You must marry me, for I do love you, and always have. And somehow, I must have known it without knowing until I thought I might lose you. Then I went quite mad, to be sure.
“But think,” he insisted, his eyes on hers, “why else have I never loved anyone else? I never have, you know. There never was, nor ever will be anyone else for me. I know that now. I only wish I’d known it before. We’re wasting valuable time, my love. No. I’ve wasted it. Tell me that it’s only me. I can’t be that wrong. Foolish and blind, in the past, yes. But I can’t have misread your lips. Your kisses can’t have lied. You never have. Don’t start now. Will you have me? Will you love me? Will you forgive me?”
She touched his face as a blind woman might, trying to make herself believe what she saw in the rising dawn light.
“Say you can come to love me,” he insisted, his eyes searching hers.
“I do, I have, I always shall,” she finally said.
When he raised his lips from hers again, he sighed. “I’ll go slower, but not much,” he said with a crooked smile. “for we’ll marry soon, though never soon enough for me.”
It wasn’t until the sun was well up and they were laughing at the way he’d dressed himself, and he was smiling to himself at how he’d almost succeeded in undressing her and himself again, that she thought to ask.
“And what of the gingerbread dreams?” she asked with sudden concern.
“What of them?” he asked, shrugging one shoulder as she tried to tie his neckcloth for him. “I found the gingerbread at Gunthers’. Did I tell you? No? I must have had more important things on my mind,” he said with a tender smile. “But the same stuff, I’d swear it. I was wrong. Some gingerbread is delicious. Not the kind from our childhood. Gunthers’. In any event, I couldn’t rest because something was disturbing my sleep, and I doubt it was gingerbread, after all. Still, you were right. Something was trying to work through my thick head, and come into the light.”
He gazed down at her, and stilled her hands by holding them tightly in his. “It’s clear,” he said, “I missed sweetness and spice, tartness and savor in my life. I’ve found it now. Gingerbread? No. I doubt I’ll ever dream of it again. It’s not as sweet as your lips, you see,” he explained, bending his head to hers.
“Owen—” she managed to whisper before their lips met, because there was nothing else for her to say. There never had been, for her. She couldn’t remember ever being happier. She never had been. But she had the delicious feeling she would be even happier soon.
It was a long time before the Duke of Blackburn found himself in his own bedroom at last. And then it was not to sleep, but only to dress again. Because he had so much to see to before Christmas. Because he was simply too happy to seek the oblivion of sleep.
The Duke of Blackburn raced around town like a man possessed in the days before he and his promised bride were to leave for his home in the countryside. But there was so much for him to do. Presents to buy, Elizabeth to get alone for a moment so he could kiss her gifts to give, a dark corner to find so he could kiss Elizabeth, farewells to make, and Elizabeth to hug. He passed most of his last night in town in Elizabeth’s arms, and only left her when he realized he was almost at the end of his self-control. Soon, he promised her, as he left.
Soon, he told himself, as he stood in his own bedchamber, preparing for bed alone, soon. He flung open his window, as was his wont, and then finally went to bed, thinking of Elizabeth. And slept at last, and smiled as he did.
A few hours later, as dawn crept across London’s sky, far beneath his window, and a little to the side, in the adjoining house, another window snapped closed.
“There!” Miss Araminta said, giggling. “Done, at last!”
“And well-done,” Mrs. DeWitt agreed, taking the last of the lot from the oven.
“We sold every bit,” Miss Araminta exclaimed, “and they said that they want more.”
“They’ll have to wait until next season,” Mrs. DeWitt said firmly. “The holiday is almost upon us, and so our work is done. This batch is for the duke. You saw the lovely basket he sent, did you? Well, I admit, I peeked. Two hams, a goose, cakes, liquors, and fruit as well. You’d think the man was feeding an army! So this batch is entirely for him. Not Gunthers’. They’ll have to wait until next year.”
“But we will make more, next year?” Miss Araminta asked fearfully.
“Indeed, we shall,” her sister informed her. “No one complained, and we made quite a tidy profit.”
“Well, who could complain?” Miss Araminta said. “We baked by night, when all were sleeping, and shut the windows at dawn before they awoke. And after all, even so, who would complain about such a lovely scent as freshly baking gingerbread?”
“One never knows,” her sister said astutely, “the thing is that persons think that people of our degree should toil not, neither should we spin. Lucky that the duke is our nearest neighbor, or at least our oven’s nearest neighbor. He never spoke a word of complaint though his rooms must have smelled like a bakeshop each midnight.”
“Well, such a gentleman is never home at night, anyway,” Miss Araminta said, “but now that he’s to wed, I suppose he’ll be keeping regular hours. Do you think that will be a problem
for next year?”
“I doubt it,” her sister said, smiling, “for I hear Miss Elizabeth prefers the countryside anyway, and so I don’t doubt they’ll be there next year at this time. Perhaps they will even have a babe by then—ah, well. Such a nice young woman. Far more suitable for our duke than that Davis chit. That’s his good fortune. Now, about ours. Do you know how much profit we have made this year?”
“I think so,” Miss Araminta tittered, “and just think! If we fashion houses as well as men next year, for I hear it is the coming thing—so cunning: little houses made of gingerbread—we can have twice as much profit!”
“Houses?” Mrs. DeWitt said contemplatively, “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But speaking of houses…I’ve more news for you, Sister. I have figured it out. We can put the monies we earned from the gingerbread to good use as usual. We shall use some to buy presents for the family. Handkerchiefs and scent and such for the men and women, and books—improving texts, for the children. And we can give some to our favorite charities, as ever at this time of year, of course.
“And then, for us,” she said with an air of great import, her bosom swelling with pride, “if I use just the interest from poor Reginald’s investments, and you put in the interest from poor Papa’s legacy—we can do the last house this very year!”
“No!” Miss Araminta breathed.
“Yes,” her sister said with satisfaction, “for some anonymous donor has made a contribution to our welfare as well. I don’t know who it is, but I shall not question Providence.”
“Perhaps some of our good works have come back to us?”
“It may be so,” Mrs. DeWitt observed, “but however it happened, we have enough without touching our capital: this year, we can buy the last house.”
“And then we shall own every house on this street, shall we not?” Miss Araminta asked anxiously.
“So we shall,” her sister said with pleasure, “anonymously, of course, as we keep all our financial dealings secret, just as Papa always cautioned us, for it isn’t right to flaunt success. And as he always said: the appearance of frugality is good for the mind, soul, and one’s neighbors. But speaking of neighbors, we shall have our choice of them entirely now. For we shall own every house on this street—save for the dear duke’s, of course.”
“And it’s lovely that he has his, for he’s such a good neighbor. And one must have some young people in the vicinity, after all,” Miss Araminta said.
“Indeed. Well then: Happy Christmas,” Mrs. DeWitt said, raising her glass of sherry.
“Happy Christmas,” her sister echoed, raising her glass. She peered at her sister over the top of it, “And, next year? A new year, perhaps new houses? And not just of the gingerbread variety? There are streets full of houses in London, houses that would be perfect for our friends and purposes…not to mention the rents that come due.”
“Why, Araminta, you have grown greedy,” Mrs. DeWitt said, “but do you know? I believe I shall drink to that!”
The sisters clicked glasses and giggled. But the window was closed and so no one heard them.
Especially not the Duke of Blackburn, cozy in his bed. He slept on, undisturbed, smiling in his sleep, dreaming of his lady and her warm fragrant kisses that tasted so sweet and spicy—even better than the fading scent of gingerbread.
* * *
MIMI’S GINGERBREAD PEOPLE
Dough:
3 cups sifted flour
½ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1½ teaspoon cinnamon
1½ teaspoon ginger
½ teaspoon nutmeg
½ light molasses
½ cup melted butter or margarine
½ cup sugar
1 lightly beaten egg
Icing: 1¼ cup confectioner’s sugar, ¼ cup milk
Mix together sifted flour, baking soda, baking powder, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg. Combine and then add slowly to spice/ flour mix: light molasses, melted butter or margarine, sugar.
Add lightly beaten egg and mix into batter slowly, until dough forms. Divide dough into 2 balls, flatten between sheets of waxed paper.
Refrigerate ½ hour up to overnight.
Roll dough 1/8- to ¼ -inch thick, cut with cookie cutters.
Bake 350 degrees lightly greased cookie sheets 8 to 12 minutes, or until slightly brown—with cookies still soft on top. Remove carefully, cool on rack. Decorate when cool.
Icing: Mix confectioner’s sugar and milk—add food coloring as desired.
Makes approximately 18 to 20 big burly Gingerbread men or hefty Gingerbread wenches or 3 to 4 dozen charming little gingerbread boys or girls.
The Last Gift
It was twilight in the woods, morning everywhere else. But the winding path was so bracketed by brambles and buttressed by ancient trees that it was easy to forget the real hour of day. Brown and gray autumn leaves made a ragged carpet underfoot. Overhead, the bare branches they’d fallen from touched and linked, blocking all but a glimpse of the leaden sky. Brush and vines to either side of the narrow lane interlaced, forming dense thickets solid as walls. A few last ragged leaves rattled whenever the chill breeze blew, which was continually. It wasn’t the best place to be on a bleak November morning. But so far as Skylar could see—which was admittedly not very far at the moment—there wasn’t any better place to be right now. At least not in this dreary district he’d been stupid enough to decide to visit.
It was nothing like the place he’d just left. That had been the point. He’d thought it a clever one then. He didn’t now.
London had been on the verge of Christmas the day he’d gone riding out of it. Even though the day was weeks off, London was a city of commerce and knew to a nicety how it should prepare for the holy day, and the unholy glee of all the money to be made from it. The streets, as always, had been filled with bustling people, beggars, shoppers, and strollers. But even now, the shop windows were beginning to sparkle with trinkets. The pavements in front of them were crowded with roving venders selling their usual goods, their ranks swelled by those crying Seasonal treats from chestnuts to pasties, pastries, and pies. Organ grinders, trumpeters, and carolers were already out in force, filling the frosty air with song. Children, monkeys, and bears danced for pennies. Pine, balsam, and fir, ropes of greens festooned windows, carriages, and buildings…
Skylar looked around, scowling. Even the greens were gray here. The only sounds were the dry leaves crunching under his horse’s hooves. And the occasional cry of a rook. And the wind.
But he’d asked for this.
It was unfortunate he’d made the comment just as his friend took a sip of wine. “What?” Robert had sputtered, or tried to, gagging and hacking as the wine slid down the wrong way.
Heads turned. The hostess of the fashionable ball they were attending spun around. Their host hesitated, wondering if his guest’s back wanted a good pounding, and worried about taking such a familiarity. There was no need. Skylar obliged as those in his vicinity were stepping back from the spray. The coughing soon dwindled to wheezing, and the partygoers went back to pretending not to have noticed.
It was, after all, what they’d been doing all evening. Skylar and his friend had been standing near the refreshment table at the side of the ballroom in the crowded London town house. But they were carefully and covertly watched—or rather, what they were watching was being watched. Not just because they were both attractive young gentlemen. But because they were both eminently eligible, as Skylar had just commented before he made the statement that caused his friend to choke.
This fashionable ball had been the bait; both of them were momentarily caught. Now there was much speculation on what would come of it. Netted by invitation, it only remained to be seen if they’d snap at any particular lure. But though they’d danced and chatted with the most popular young women present, the only sensational thing to happen so far was when one said something to the other to make him sputter and cough.
Not that they
were hard to watch. When he wasn’t red-faced from gagging, Sir Robert Pruitt was a handsome fellow. Fair, medium height, with a fresh face and an amiable grin. Of an old wealthy family, he was as charming and convivial as a man with half the income he was rumored to have. His companion that night, Skylar Cameron, now Lord Cameron, still “Skye” to his oldest friends, was another story altogether, a more dramatic one. He was new to Town, having lately come home from the wars to take on his titles and inheritance. Tall, lean, and dark, with strong clean-cut features, he still bore himself straight as the soldier he’d recently been.
“Lud!” Robert finally gasped, his eyes watering. He looked down at his previously pristine neckcloth, dragged out a handkerchief and began dabbing at it. “It’s a good thing I was drinking Rhine and not a claret. I’m damp but not done for. Sorry if I showered you, Skye, but what a thing to say!”
“How much of it have you been drinking?” his friend asked curiously.
“Just this glass. But I couldn’t believe my ears.”
“I can’t see why you’d even be surprised, much less start imitating a geyser.”
“Can’t see why?” Robert asked, amazed. “You saying such a thing? No one here interests you? Not one of these charmers? Instead, ‘What I want is an old-fashioned girl,’ says you. You?”
“And why not?”
Robert stopped mopping his shirtfront and eyed his friend suspiciously, looking for a quiver of a lip or a glint of a smile, anything to show it was a jest. Lord Cameron’s high-planed face didn’t show much emotion at any time. Now he only lifted an eyebrow over one of his long gray eyes to make an eloquent point of his interest.
Robert narrowed his own eyes, seeking a sardonic answer, aware his friend was better at such. “Well, confound it,” he finally said irritably, “you said it so sincerely you had me half-believing you.”
“Believe me wholly, my friend,” Skye said with a wry smile. “I spoke truth.”
“What?” his friend whispered, his round eyes rounder with astonishment, “With the Incomparable herself saving you dances? And our hostess, that adorable little Merriman chit, saving a place at her side at dinner for you? And that dashing Lady P. watching your every move? An old-fashioned girl? When you’ve got ’em all just waiting for you to say the word!”
