Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Now that she thought of it, the other had worn clothing on a par with Papa's. Strange she hadn't realized that, although she hadn't been looking for reasons to send the man away.

  Her cheeks burned, and she stared at her half-eaten plate. How could she possibly have been duped? Had her desire to wed allowed her to be taken in by a rogue?

  She had heard stories of ladies who married men of whom their families disapproved, only to come crawling back in disgrace a short time later. Or of men who broke off engagements shortly before the wedding, or even worse, ran off with another woman. Such scandal. Such heartache.

  Eliza glanced fleetingly at the man. His plate was empty already. A servant stepped forward to clear it, but the man held up his hand and served himself more food. He ate as if famished, which did not appear to substantiate his claim, and what duke would serve himself?

  The duke's piercing blue-green eyes caught her looking, and she returned his gaze, even though it was hardly proper to do so. After a moment, he smiled at her and raised his glass.

  She did likewise, and Jean sighed happily.

  "I am sorry," her sister said, "but I cannot keep silent longer. Why, that was the most romantic thing I have ever witnessed. Wanting the church and everything to be perfect."

  "I thought it was perfect," Papa murmured, his chest puffing out slightly.

  Eliza swallowed some of her drink. "Everything will be perfect when I marry the Duke of Wyndale."

  The man sitting beside her father lifted his head. His lips curled into a lopsided smile, and he nodded ever so slightly, as if accepting her challenge.

  Good. She might have been played like a fool—she was not altogether certain, though in her heart she had begun to believe it—but she would do all she must in order to ensure she was not taken advantage of again. Her reputation would not suffer for this, whether she married this man or another or none at all.

  He nodded again.

  She returned the gesture and the half-smile. This was a game they were playing, one that could well ruin her Christmas, and that of her family. Perhaps she should have done as she had been about to in the church—tell the truth. But it was not just her reputation on the line. Her family would suffer from the scandal as well. Status meant everything.

  As a duke would know.

  His long fingers wrapped around his glass, but he did not raise it. His gaze seemed vacant, as if he was were lost. Why would he agree to marry her and then give her a means to walk away if she so chose? What would he have to gain from marrying her? He was clearly far wealthier than her family, and his title was vastly more prestigious.

  The realization hit her all at once, and she pushed her plate away, knowing she could not eat another morsel. He was not concerned with saving her reputation, but his own. Though how could she blame him for wanting to seek out the imposter?

  A shoe touched hers beneath the table. She glanced up and caught the duke's gaze. Another nod. He knew that she knew.

  Or perhaps she was being silly. Imagining that he understood what she was thinking. How could they communicate nonverbally when they did not know one another?

  "If you all will excuse me." Eliza eased her chair back and stood.

  The duke, and her father, and her brother brother-by-marriage stood when she did, and the duke said, "I will accompany the lady to her room, if I may." He waited for her father to consent, which he did with a nod, waving her maid, Barrow, back to her position near the wall.

  No. Barrow should come along to chaperone, but the duke had already stepped beside Eliza, gesturing for her to lead the way.

  Head high, shoulders back, she marched forward. She felt like a rudderless boat, adrift at sea, with no aid in sight.

  When she reached her bedroom door, she faced her escort. So many things to say, and yet, none of them passed her lips. All she could offer him was a mere, "Thank you."

  "The pleasure is mine, Eliza."

  "Miss Berkeley" She pursed her lips. "We are not familiar enough yet to be using first names, Your Grace."

  "Ah, but we are familiar enough to have nearly wed, not even an hour ago." His lopsided smile returned.

  She held up her hand. "I do not know you—"

  "As I do not know you." His smile died. A "V" formed between his eyebrows, the crease giving him an air of solemnity. "We are both in a position to help one another."

  "I assume you wish for me to tell you everything that transpired between me and Steph—"

  "He was not Stephen." His hooded eyes and harsh tone had her retreating a step, until her back hit against the still-closed bedroom door. "I am."

  "As you say," she managed to say, coolly. She fanned her face. "It is rather warm. I think I would prefer a walk." Walks were a common activity for her, a means to try and clear her head.

  He did not move for her to pass. "May I join you?"

  "No."

  His eyebrows rose. "No?"

  "Barrow can accompany me."

  The playful smile flashed for a moment. "You do not trust me to be alone with you?"

  "Certainly not!"

  "What if I am also in the mood for a stroll? I would like to see the grounds."

  "Of course you would like to see what little I, and my family, have to offer you." Her dowry was small. Surely he realized that.

  He tsked with his tongue. "My dear, let me assure you, I do not need anything from you."

  "So I gather." Eliza tried to keep her tone light, but she could not help glowering at him. She clenched tight fistfuls of her skirts to hide her shaking hands, but doing so wrinkled the material. If she was to be married, she could not have her best dress marred, so she released her hold on the fabric and instead, clasped her hands behind her back. "Why postpone the wedding? Why face me at all? Why not just go and find the other man and settle between you who is the actual duke?"

  "Ah, yes, I thought you would figure that out. Yes, I am here to find the man and hold him accountable for all he has done."

  "Why the two weeks?"

  "I would rather not be hunting him down physically, by coach or by horse, so close to the holiday. Can you blame me for that? Your reputation surely means a great deal to you—"

  "And means nothing to you." She eyed his tightened lips. The gentleman was more than pleasing to look at, which, in turn, made her glance away.

  "My dear, what kind of gentleman would leave you in such a dire position? If you wish for me not to wed you, merely say the word, and I will do all I can to try to ensure your reputation remains intact."

  Would he be able to do such a thing? It was such a bold claim, after all.

  "Or…" He tapped an elegant finger to his cheek. "Or we could marry, and your family will have much to gain from it."

  "And you…? What would you gain from it?"

  "Every gentleman needs a wife to bear him children."

  Her blood ran cold, and she shivered. "A matter of convenience for you, then."

  "Precisely." His smile, this time, did not seem as bright or wide.

  "I also thought…" She shook her head. "I need some air," she murmured, and brushed past him.

  At the front door, she collected her bonnet and her pelisse to counter the briskness in the air. Barrow opened the door for her, and soon she was walking along the familiar path she most enjoyed taking. Oaks and other tall trees and bushes dotted the landscape. Soon enough, snow would cover their branches, enhancing their beauty. She enjoyed strolling during the winter best of all, especially immediately after a blanket of snow settled on the ground.

  It did not take her long to realize she was not alone, that two sets of footsteps followed her. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the supposed duke approach. His gait was long and easy, his strides wide. Everything about him screamed power and virility.

  She peeked to ensure Barrow was nearby. The idea of being alone with the duke did not sit well with her. Would it ever? Could she seriously contemplate marrying a man she did not know?

  "What is
your favorite color? What fabric do you prefer?" His questions startled her, even though she had not expected their entire trek to be one of silence.

  She shook her head. "You do not need to worry about that. I have all I need."

  "I do not mind," he said.

  Her nose wrinkled. "Do I not dress appropriately for you?" she asked, wincing at her harsh tone.

  He stopped mid-step before falling back in line with her. "I did not mean to suggest anything of the like. As the wife of a duke, you will want for nothing."

  But did she want to be the wife of a duke? She had not agreed to marry the first duke because of his title.

  She wanted to apologize for her outburst, but the more the silence between them grew, the more she felt she had missed her chance to.

  "How did you meet him?" His hushed words had her casting a sideways glance at him.

  "On a walk such as this one." Eliza casually peeked behind them. Barrow kept such a respectable distance away she surely could not overhear them.

  Her finger pointed toward the street. "That way, near the road. He was driving his coach."

  The man's eyes watched her, and she felt as if she were performing a play for him. "Driving?"

  She could not help smiling as she explained unnecessarily, "Yes, controlling the horses himself without a coachman."

  He halted, forcing her to do likewise. "And you thought nothing of it?"

  "I did not." She leveled his stare. "He asked if he might trouble me for a bite to eat. Of course. I had to invite him over for luncheon, and we talked and talked and…" Her hands spread out.

  "What did you converse about?"

  "Everything." She frowned. "And nothing. He asked me a lot of questions." Now her lips curled upward. "Not unlike you, actually."

  "So charming." He shook his head, and his soft laughter surprised her, and him, too, it appeared. "You just accepted him from the very start?"

  "We had no reason not to." Eliza lowered her head. How naïve they had been. "I do wonder how he knew you were coming."

  "Why he ran off, you mean." At her nod, he added, "I am glad for it. To think you could have been bound to a charlatan with no honor—"

  "Do you have honor?" she asked, her voice hardly audible on the chilly breeze.

  The man stared at her.

  His silence was quite telling.

  Chapter Four

  Only five minutes after Stephen returned to the manor, Lord Welles asked for—demanded—a word with him. The duke followed the shorter man into his study and was unsurprised when the door was shut behind them.

  "Have a seat," Lord Welles said, gesturing toward a chair.

  Stephen's lips twitched into a frown. They were not sufficiently close for Welles to be so informal, although he did have to keep in mind, the man thought they had known each other for some time now.

  "Thank you," he said easily.

  He expected the lord to follow suit, but he walked around the desk and placed his palms upon it, leaning forward. "What happened this morning?"

  A fair question. "I was delayed."

  "What circumstances could possibly make a duke late to his own wedding?" The man straightened, his eyebrows tight and low over his eyes. His anger and frustration were altogether understandable.

  "Why, trying to secure a perfect wedding present for my bride."

  Eliza's father's eyes appraised him, and, apparently, found him wanting. "And?"

  "And…?"

  "Were you successful?"

  "Alas, I was not, but with the extension, I will have ample time to better prepare. Eliza deserves only the very best."

  "That she does." The lord finally sat, and Stephen breathed easier for it. It had been four long years since he last had to deal with a parental figure.

  "Yes, well, if there is nothing else…" Stephen moved to stand.

  "There is. You seem… different today."

  He relaxed, as much as he could, back into the chair.

  "I…"

  What answer could he possibly give?

  "You swore to never harm her."

  Stephen laid a hand on his breast. "I will never do her any wrong."

  The shorter man shook his head. "You already did this morning. Being late and then delaying the wedding…"

  "I will spend the days leading up until our nuptials making that up to her."

  "See that you do." Lord Welles gestured toward the door.

  This stung. Normally, everyone treated him with the respect due a duke. Because of his title, not because he had earned it. Here, the imposter had broken that trust, and made Stephen seem to be the villain in the story. Well, then, I shall just have to rewrite the ending.

  Chapter Five

  An overwhelming sense of relief washed over Eliza when the duke left her side once they returned to her house. The heavy seesawing of emotions throughout the morning had exhausted her, although she rather thought she might enjoy a conversation with the duke, if the topic were not the fake duke.

  Barrow trailed behind her as she rushed to her bedroom. How thrilled she had been to dress in this gown a few short hours ago. At this moment, she could not get it off quickly enough.

  Without a word, as if sensing her needs, Barrow moved to aid her. In short order, she was changed into a much simpler green dress.

  "Thank you," Eliza said.

  "Of course, Miss Berkeley. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  Her mouth opened and shut again. "I would like to write some letters, if you please."

  "Very well."

  Her maid fetched her a goose feather quill and a large sheet of parchment. Eliza cut it down to size, and set about asking questions about a certain duke and all details concerning him. She copied the letter in triplicate and sealed the three copies with wax. She addressed them to friends who lived far enough away that word might not have reached them yet, regarding her linkage to the duke. Persons she could trust to give her a true and accurate picture of the man, as well as enough details that she could settle once and for all in her mind, once and for all, which of the two was the actual duke.

  She sighed heavily and rubbed her aching temple. This Stephen was a very handsome man, and she could not deny she felt more of an attraction to him than she had the supposed imposter.

  Perhaps the best course was to marry him. Her options were limited as the second daughter of a poor baron. She could do far worse than the Duke of Wyndale.

  Yes, for her family's sake, she should accept. That he had offered seemed to be in his favor, yet, she had the feeling few ever displeased or disagreed with him. What would it be like to be married to such a man? Her stomach tightened in a delightful way, and her heart raced, as she imagined being his wife. She had never been this excited as her wedding day to the supposed imposter had neared. A marriage without love, though…

  Did he truly intend to go ahead with the wedding? His delaying the wedding could merely be his attempt to try to find a means to back out of marrying her altogether. If that was the case, she could only hope he would try to salvage what would remain of her reputation.

  But if he did mean to wed her, well, she would only go through with it if she was convinced he would make her happy. I do hope he is a decent man and will make a good husband for me.

  Good looks and wealth. He was everything she should want, but all she truly desired was love. Perhaps that was too much to ask for. How could she bring herself to trust a man who looked so similar to one who had been using her? The other Stephen could have ruined her, and all because she had fancied herself in love. Until she knew who this Stephen truly was, she could not possibly allow herself to fall in love with him.

  Supper neared, but her appetite remained missing. Another walk might help, but she could not face bundling up again. Instead, she opted to retire to the drawing room, where she brushed the keys of the pianoforte with her fingers. Though not as grand as the one at the church; however, this pianoforte still made wondrous music.

  After a few
practice strokes, she launched into a song, and then another, losing herself in the music. Only the sound of hands clapping pulled her out of her reverie.

  She twisted around on her seat to see the duke standing a yard away. Why did she find it so hard to think of him as Stephen?

  Her hand touched her chest. "You startled me."

  "My apologies. I did not mean to. Your music is quite charming. Wistful even."

  Wistful. No one had ever called her music that before. Then again, she had never been so wistful while playing before.

  "Thinking of him?" He moved closer to her.

  "Actually, I was."

  His strong features froze into a mask she could not read. "Do you miss him?"

  "Everything happened so quickly with him. It seems like a blur now. Unbelievable. Inexplicable. I think…"

  "Go on." Without asking, he sat beside her, far too close.

  Instinct had her sliding to her left, away from him. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Barrow polishing a candlestick. At least they were chaperoned. Her heart fluttered at the thought of being alone with him, a stranger, the one she was betrothed to.

  And yet, had she not already been betrothed to a stranger?

  He flexed his long fingers and tapped a few keys.

  "Do you play?" she asked. It occurred to her, she knew less than nothing about this duke at all.

  "A few songs." His eyes shone. "I would like to play you a song, if you wish."

  "And I would like to hear it."

  "After you finish your sentence."

  A condition. Always a condition with him. The man was as exasperating as he was charming.

  The thought gave her pause. He, indeed, was, indeed, charming. Why was he not wed already?

  Her throat spasmed as she swallowed, and she coughed slightly.