Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  "Are you all right?" His hand covered hers, and warmth spread from the point of contact, reaching out like flames throughout her body.

  "Quite. I am… I am not altogether certain what I had been about to say."

  "You were speaking about him. The imposter." His voice was low, but non-threatening. He squeezed her hand before releasing it.

  She clasped her hands together to try to prolong his warmth. "I did not know enough about him to have accepted his offer. He was good looking and charming, really, rather like you, and yet he remained a stranger. Perhaps I wished more to be wed than I cared for the one I would marry."

  "I see," he murmured.

  But did he? Did he understand her position? How could he? As a duke, surely he had been given everything in life. Whatever he wished for, he claimed it as his own.

  Would she be just another item for him to own?

  Did that matter?

  Certainly it did.

  Chapter Six

  It had been years since Stephen last touched a pianoforte's keys. To his trained ears, his lack of practice was evident, so evident he almost stopped playing. Only the intent eyes of the lady beside him forced him to push through it. Eventually, his fingers cooperated, and he tempted the instrument to play something resembling music.

  When he finished, Eliza said, "That was…"

  "Not as good as yours." He grimaced. Failure was not something he was accustomed to, and why he had offered to play in the first place, he did not know.

  She did not disagree with him. His frown only deepened, but then, he smiled. Eliza did not feel the need to agree with his every word… Was that for good or for ill?

  "Who taught you to play?" Her fingers hovered above the keys. "I have not seen a male pianoforte player before."

  "My mother."

  "Ah." She nodded as if that explained much.

  "She always wished for a daughter, but I was her only child."

  Again, that same nod.

  He fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortable. "Did you play for him?"

  Eliza paused and tilted her head, considering. "No. There was no time for it."

  Ah, something he had over the imposter. This greatly pleased him, which, in turn, worried him.

  "Do you know this tune?" she asked as her fingers gently pressed the keys, soft and melodious.

  "I do not."

  Her eyebrows neared each other. "Follow my lead and do the same as I do, only up two octaves."

  A kind and patient teacher, she reminded him of his mother, although he had not appreciated his mother's praise quite as much as Eliza's. One particular part of the song vexed him seriously, however, and even Eliza grew a little impatient with him.

  "Like this." And she played note after note with a grand flourish.

  Once more, his fingers, as if they had doubled in thickness in the last twenty minutes, did not always land on the proper keys.

  "Here." Eliza placed her dainty hand on top of his and applied just enough pressure to force the correct notes from his fingers.

  After the last note died away, her hand lingered on his.

  He inhaled, breathing in her fresh, clean scent, ambergris, with a hint of lily.

  Before he could react, or shower her with gratitude, she pulled away and stood. "I should go."

  And off she went.

  He watched her swaying hips. Green suited her. That dress… while he had seen far lovelier ones on other ladies, Eliza did know how to look elegant, despite its simple lines and modest fabric. How would she look in the finer clothing he could provide her?

  Her maid followed her, leaving him a moment of solitude, broken when his coachman entered the room, his hands behind his back. "Your Grace, I have news for you." He revealed a letter.

  Stephen accepted it, nodded, and waited for privacy before breaking the seal.

  Stephen,

  I don't know why you felt the need to run off like a thief or petty criminal. You have done no wrong, and that phony will be found soon enough. Return home. Lady Uriana, Lady Susan, and Lady Barbara were all most disappointed at your sudden departure. Ewan has been making eyes at them, so if you do not return… their affections may be shifted.

  I am merely looking out for your best interests.

  Friend for life,

  Lewis

  He read and reread the letter. Staring into space, he allowed his mind to wander and belatedly realized he had smashed the letter into a ball.

  No, he would not return home like a dog with his tail between his legs, on the off-chance the imposter would make another mistake and be finally caught. He would take the matter into his own hands. A lion he was, a hunter. Or maybe a dog after all, but a hound dog chasing after the fox.

  Which meant he should begin sniffing around. Chasing after Eliza's skirts wasn't enough.

  Although she did provide a most tempting distraction…

  Chapter Seven

  Two nights passed. Eliza spent her time avoiding both her family and her betrothed, who was staying in the guest room her previous betrothed had occupied. The spectacle she had made of herself at the pianoforte, touching his hand like that—how wanton he must think her! She must have looked desperate. Why, next thing you would know, she would be kissing him, throwing herself at him, willing to let him do as he wished with her. Some women did, she knew, but they were no ladies at all, and she was a lady, through and through.

  When her mother asked Eliza to help prepare gifts for the tenants for Boxing Day, she readily agreed. Stephen was nowhere to be seen, and she did always enjoy aiding her mother with this task. The spirit of giving around the holiday always brightened her mood, and it did this day, too.

  "You seem happy," her mother remarked.

  She startled. "I am."

  "I didn't know what to think at first, when the duke postponed the wedding, but he does seem to care for you so."

  Seem to care. She lowered her head to hide her grimace. After a moment, she glanced up to see her mother staring at the doorway. No one was standing there.

  "The way he just looked at you… it is how your father stared at me during our first dance."

  "Just looked at me?" Eliza's fingers suddenly became clumsy, and she almost dropped a present.

  "Here. Yes, he was watching us… watching you… as we were working. He was smiling. He does have a nice smile, does he not?"

  "Yes," Eliza murmured, her face growing warm. The idea that Stephen would want to know what she was up to meant he wanted to know more about her. And she should want to learn more about him, too, especially if they were to wed.

  If he deceived her, though, as the other man had… she would never forgive herself. And she would never forgive him, either.

  The next morning, she could not quite remember her dream: more flashes of color than anything else, woke her. She felt so moved by it, she seized the leftover paper from her letters and wrote about it. It came out in the form of a poem, only a small one, and she rather liked it.

  A knock sounded at the door. Barrow, to help ready her for the day. Once the morning ritual was completed, Eliza sent her away and reread the poem.

  Another knock, harder, firmer than Barrow's ever was.

  "Come in," she called, expecting it to be her sister. She and her husband had decided to stay through the holiday, and until the Epiphany.

  But her blonde-haired, blue-eyed sister, who looked so like her, did not enter. The duke appeared instead. She shoved the poem she still held into her reticule and graced him with a smile, trying to hide her fright, shock, and even anger. Her heart thundered in her chest, like a horse's hooves during a foxhunt. This was beyond improper!

  "How are you this morning?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly.

  His full lips quirked. "I notice you have a tendency to neglect calling me anything, whether 'Your Grace' or 'Stephen…'"

  "Which would you have me call you?"

  "Whatever pleases you the most, of course."

  His smile cajoled one
out of her. "Very well, then, Stephen." It felt strange to call him the same name she had called another man, one she had thought she loved but realized, almost too late, she did not.

  "Something else has not escaped my notice."

  "Oh?" She raised her eyebrows and took a step away from him, although he did not advance toward her. And another step when he closed her door, leaving them alone in her bedroom. So improper, and yet, she was not about to call for her maid to join them. Not unless he did something untoward, which she both wanted and did not want, with equal fervor. Something about the man, his presence, robbed her of the ability to think. It had not been like this with the other Stephen. Not even distantly similar.

  "If I am not mistaken, and I am quite certain I am not, you, my dear, have been avoiding my presence. Is this true?" He took one long stride toward her.

  She stood tall, spine straight, meeting his gaze. "Perhaps," she admitted after a long moment.

  "May I, then, presume to ask you to join me for another walk? I did enjoy our first stroll."

  Eliza hesitated.

  Did he roll his eyes?

  "Chaperoned, of course." He extended his arm toward her. The way his clothing tightened against his muscles mesmerized her.

  She shook off her thoughts and waited for him to open the door before accepting his arm. They crossed paths with Barrow on their way to the front door, and the trio departed the house, the maid once again close enough to watch over them, but far enough away not to overhear.

  "I would have you tell me about yourself," Stephen said, after a few moments.

  "And I would like the same of you, if you please." Suddenly, the day felt warmer than it had been, and her coat stifled her.

  "That is reasonable. My mother died when I was eighteen, and my father three years later."

  "Oh," she said, faintly. What could she say? An apology seemed so insufficient, but what else could she offer? "I am so sorry for your losses."

  He shrugged as if it did not matter, but the rigidness in his jaw suggested otherwise. "Life could be worse, I suppose. I'm entitled and wealthy, and I get what I want."

  Any softness she had felt toward him vanished, transformed by his coldness. "And that includes me, does it not?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Why? You could marry any lady. I know you have asked some of the servants about the charlatan's activities, so you are seeking the other duke, but you do not need to remain here and pretend to have feelings for me or marry me. There is no need for—"

  "Eliza…" The way he said her name, she knew he would not favor her with a reply concerning the other duke, and she was right. "I pride myself on being observant. For instance, I saw you put something in your reticule earlier."

  "You are ignoring me."

  "Merely changing the course of our conversation."

  "I would have you answer me."

  "After you answer me."

  She lifted her chin, defying him.

  For some time, they walked in silence, at an impasse. Neither was willing to be the first to break.

  "I was curious," he finally said, halting.

  She stopped as well, and faced him. "Curious?"

  "To know the lady who would have almost blinded the imposter into making a mistake."

  "And now that you know me, why linger?" That he answered her question first pleased her, yet, perhaps he was putting on an act, to prove something to her that might not be true.

  "I do not know you. Not completely. Hence, my question," he added pointedly.

  She stared off into the horizon. No one knew about her poetry. What would he think? Why did his opinion matter? "It is a poem," she said slowly.

  "A poem. That, I had not expected." His grin lit up his face. "May I read it?"

  To share her work? The thought had never occurred to her. "I would rather not."

  "Oh." His obvious disappointment made her reconsider.

  "Well, maybe I could read it to you. Would that be sufficient?"

  "Quite." His smile dazzled her, but she frowned. She could not bring herself to trust the man. The other Stephen, she had trusted too freely, and she had almost been made a fool of and ruined for it. Until she learned who exactly who this Stephen was, she could not allow herself to dare risk falling in love with him.

  Trying to slow her racing heart, she removed the crinkled paper from her reticule and smoothed it out. Stalling, she cleared her throat and glanced up at him from beneath lowered lashes. He crossed his arms, waiting patiently, a hint of that smile yet lingering.

  Emboldened, she started:

  Blue as the waters of the sea.

  Green as the grass beneath our feet.

  Here, she paused and looked upon him once more. Yes, those two lines certainly described the hue of his eyes.

  Cheeks burning, she continued:

  Dark as night when we sleep,

  Bright and beautiful and yet dim and marred.

  For a long moment, in which she carefully folded the short poem, and tucked it away for safekeeping, and dared not watch him again, all was silent.

  "That was lovely," he said.

  He'd taken far too long to respond. "You do not have to bear false witness to me," she said stiffly.

  "I am not. I was trying to determine the source of your inspiration."

  "A dream."

  "Ah." The duke slid closer to her. "And what was the dream about?" From the way he moved, the way he squinted, there was no doubting he understood her poem, maybe even more than she did.

  "I think you might know," she whispered, shyly.

  He tilted his head downward, and she knew what was about to come, yet, she did not stop him. His lips touched hers in a soft kiss. At first, it was ice, so cold and frigid, Eliza wanted to pull away, to save herself, but then something changed. The kiss burned so brightly, so brilliantly, she could not catch her breath, nor did she want to. Consumed, yes, that was the word for it. Give and take until nothing of the two remained, only their combined parts as one.

  As soon as the kiss ended, he prepared for another, but Eliza placed a shaking hand on his chest—so strong and solid—and shook her head. Standing so close to him, kissing him as she had… Barrow, who stood a respectable distance away to give them a slight measure of privacy, had never before had a reason before to step up as a chaperone. Perhaps she did not now, because she knew they were supposed to have already been wed, but still, what must the maid think of her?

  "Too soon?" He did not increase the space between them, leaving her to be the one to step back, which she did. "Because of him?" he spat out.

  She shook her head again. "When you kiss me, I cannot think. I cannot—"

  "When I kiss you, all I can do is feel."

  "What of love?" She had to know.

  "What of it?" he countered.

  "Of course," she whispered. A fool yet again, and with a man bearing the same name as the previous male who had offered the prospect of a loveless marriage.

  Without a glance at him or her maid, Eliza hurried back to the house. The sooner he left, the better. Still, she knew he would remain there until his quest to find the other duke had been completed. Who knew how long that would take? The idea of seeing him again soured her stomach, but she refused to give into tears. Anger, not sadness, would be her recourse.

  Or perhaps it would be better not to feel at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Love. Already. As if it were possible to fall in love so quickly. As if he wanted love.

  But he did not like seeing the hurt in her eyes. It almost made him chase after her, but as he did not know which words would help to fix the situation, he opted against it.

  After three more days of being avoided, Stephen started to think maybe the whole marriage thing was not a good idea. During the kiss, he had been certain she wanted him, but now he wasn't so sure. Maybe she did not even know herself. Besides, wanting and loving were two different things. Yes, he wanted her, but love, love…?

  The next day
, his fingers trailed along the spines of the books in the library before removing one at random.

  "You like to read?"

  He returned the book and turned on his heel to face her. "Eliza."

  She clasped her hands in front of her. A blue dress today; it suited her well, but it did remind him that he needed to order her new ones. Their time apart had left him the chance to follow leads on the imposter, none of which blossomed into anything worthwhile. All in all, he felt very much a failure.

  "I would not think someone like you would have time to read." Her shoes whispered against the floor as she approached the window.

  "Someone like me? I assure you, dukes are literate."

  "Oh, I did not mean dukes." Her voice sounded too sweet, sweet as poison.

  "What did you mean?" He joined her at the window, standing closer than she liked, or, he hoped, closer than she would ever dare to admit she liked.

  "I know all about you." She shifted from examining the world outside to meeting his eyes.

  "Do you, now?" He smiled down at her.

  "I know you gamble more than you should."

  "Many men gamble," he protested.

  "Perhaps, but do those other men also have dalliances with as many ladies as they can, without ever picking one to actually settle down with?"

  His happiness at her seeking him out faded. Whomever she had been communicating with, he did not appreciate having details about his life shared, whether they were the truth or not.

  "Well?" she demanded. Her voice was stern, but her eyes were tragic.

  "I beg your pardon?" She had to know other gentlemen did as he had, but that she was so wounded by it stilled his tongue.

  "Do you deny it?" Her eyes pierced his.

  He wanted to lie, he did, but he could not bring himself to do so.

  "I do not…" She stalked away toward the door.

  "Eliza—"

  "No." Her hand barred him from stepping toward her, and she fled the room.

  The small room now seemed much bigger without her in it, as if loneliness had taken over. The view outside the window was beautiful, but he could not enjoy it. A sense of loss overwhelmed him. He had never allowed himself to become attached. Friends were one thing, but to open his heart… He could not handle another loss after the deaths of his parents. It would shatter him.