Blue Moon Magic

by Dawn Thompson

  “Here! What are you doing with that?” Oberon said, clearly out of patience now.

  “Nasturtium,” Puck pronounced. “Very tasty in a salad.”

  Oberon leaked an unattractive snort and slapped it out of Puck’s hand. “Do you think of naught but your stomach?”

  “Waste not, want not.”

  “I am not liking this,” Oberon said. “We only have the moon this night to work our magic, a blue moon at that, and the bridegroom groans, but does not wake thanks to you. Not to mention neither one of them has made their wish.”

  “He will rally. See? His valet collects him.”

  “And how, pray, will you work your magic on an unconscious man, friend Puck?”

  “Easily, sire,” Puck replied, with a wink. “I will do what you brought me here to do … what I do best … I will bring him dreams…”

  * * * *

  Nigel could only see directly in front of him, as he walked beneath the bower trailing climbing vines and summer’s last roses. All around him, the very air shimmered with an ethereal sugary frost. Even the ground-creeping mist was spangled thus.

  He was not alone, she was here … the girl in the robin’s-egg blue gown; it did match her eyes. How clear and bright they were, sparkling with a soft, inner glow. She seemed to float, her feet hidden in the mist. Her lips—parting ever so slightly—opened like the soft pink petals of a rose unfolding. She smiled up at him, and dawn broke over his soul.

  The scent of violets rushed up his nostrils drifting from her skin, from her sun-painted hair. He stroked the golden curls with his eyes, almost able to feel their silky softness. They were short-cropped, threaded through with grosgrain ribbons that matched her gown utterly.

  Without warning, her arms slipped around him, drawing him close, her tiny hands fisted in the back of his superfine tailcoat. Something stirred in his loins … something that hadn’t stirred in a very long while. Soft ripples of throbbing sensation, like liquid fire, brought him to full arousal. His pelvis jerked forward forcing his hardness against the seam of his breeches. A soft moan escaped him. His lips were hot and dry as hers drew nearer, and he moistened them with the tip of his tongue and let the gentle breeze cool them dry before those dewy petals touched them.

  If ever a man could yield to a single kiss, he was the man and this was the kiss. It was his favorite fantasy, but it was the woman yielding to the kiss in his air dream, never himself. He drew her closer, tasting her honey sweetness deeply, and she melted against him. All that stood between him and her soft, malleable flesh was a flimsy piece of robin’s-egg blue muslin. It was more than he could bear, and when she took his hand and plunged it down inside her bodice, he sucked in hasty breath.

  He had reached the point of no return. The feel of her hardened nipple against his open palm was torture. The blood pumping through his veins pounded relentlessly in his ears. His heart skipped its rhythm. Stabbing knives of icy hot fire riddled his loins until he feared his sex would explode. How could this be? He hadn’t even been introduced to her. He had only seen her in a brief glimpse before the heavy flowerpot crowned him King of Misfortunes.

  All at once gentle fingers walked through his hair gingerly, as if they were probing for something. Why did his head hurt? Two strange voices were speaking in hushed whispers. Nigel couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Why was everything so disjoined? Where had the golden goddess gone, the breathtaking beauty who had brought him to the brink of ecstasy only to leave him tight against the seam? He groaned, and the glitter-spangled mist evaporated. Everything was falling away. His eyes came open, and slowly focused upon Henry, doctoring a sizable lump on his head. Nigel’s heart sank. It was only a dream…

  * * * *

  “See?” Puck drawled. He was reclining on the windowsill in the bedchamber of Nigel’s suite. The window was open, and he was propped there with one furry, cloven-hoofed leg dangling precariously outside, while playing random notes now and then upon his flute that none save the faeries could hear. “He’s come ‘round just like I said he would,” he went on. “I do not know why you worry, Oberon, you know dreams are what I do best.”

  Oberon arched his brow. “Ummm,” he grunted, leaning against the bedpost watching Henry applying a cold compress to the lump on Nigel’s head. “And what of his lady fair? The musicians are already gathering in the ballroom, and they haven’t even met. How will you give her a dream? She will hardly be sleeping now.”

  “I have something else in mind for her,” Puck said.

  “Would you care to tell me what that might be?”

  “Heart’s ease,” Puck pronounced between notes on his flute.

  “And where, pray, are you going to find wild pansies at this time of year in the middle of London Town? They only bloom in the springtime, and in our enchanted glades. You aren’t in the forest now, friend Puck.”

  “Just leave everything to meeeeeeeee!” Puck said, toppling off the windowsill.

  Oberon rushed to the window and stared down, arms akimbo. Below, Puck had landed in a lush sculptured hedge edging the foundation of Raintree House. “Yes,” he said shaking his head, “I can see how well in hand you have the matter.”

  Puck scrambled out of the hedge. “When I’ve mixed my potion and the young lady drinks of it, she will fall madly in love with our buffoon at first sighting.”

  “It seems to me we tried that tack before, old friend, with less than favorable results.”

  “Relax,” Puck said, dusting off his flute. “You know love potions are what I do best.”

  “I thought it was dreams!”

  “Those, too,” Puck added smugly.

  * * * *

  Puck was late, but that was nothing new. He was precocious, easily distracted, and scatterbrained, none of which was acceptable now. Invisible, Oberon paced the periphery of the ballroom, his gossamer redingote spread wide on the gentle breeze sweeping in through the open terrace doors. His opalescent crown of spun spider silk had gone awry. He scarcely noticed. Where was the perplexing creature? He should have known better than to call upon Robin Goodfellow, the notorious Puck. He should have brought Tatiana instead. At least then he could have enjoyed a dalliance for his pains. Romance was in the air after all. Why should these jingle-brained mortals have all the fun?

  Oberon had all but given up when Puck trotted in through the terrace doors from the garden beyond, one perfect calla lily in his hand, a smug smile crimping his lips, and a twinkle in his eye. Oberon had seen that twinkle before. He definitely should have brought Tatiana instead!

  “Where have you been?” he barked at the shaggy-legged nature spirit. He swept his arm wide toward the musicians, who had struck up a lively country dance. “The ball has begun.”

  “I was … detained,” Puck replied, twirling the calla lily in his nimble fingers.

  “I knew it! I knew you’d never find heart’s ease here now. Get rid of that ridiculous flower and do something! They come, Lady Arabella, and the earl. See how he gazes at her. You weave well the gauze of dreams, friend Puck, but she pays him no mind. Well? Cast one of your spells or something?”

  “I already have done,” Puck said with not a little satisfaction, exhibiting the lily.

  “That is no wild pansy,” Oberon snapped. “Do I look like a peapod pixy to you?”

  “Do not look at it, in it,” Puck said, shoving the lily under Oberon’s nose.

  A shimmering amethyst liquid trembled inside the lily cup. Oberon’s winged eyebrows lifted. “Surely not heart’s ease?” he said.

  “Well … not at first. It started out as wild myrtle, there’s a little park where it grows down the lane. A few words—you know the spell of making—and voila, heart’s ease!”

  Oberon rolled his eyes. “Another of your hair-brained spells,” he said. He threw up his arms in defeat. “Well, there’s nothing for it, it will have to do. How do you propose to get her to drink it?”

  “That’s the easy part,” Puck drawled. He had begun to tap his
cloven hooves to the beat of the music. Oberon had forgotten that his good friend Robin Goodfellow could not keep still when there was music or dancing or revelry in general. “Sooner or later,” Puck went on, “our Nigel will fetch her a claret cup, or a ratafia—dreadful stuff, ratafia—I do not know how these mortals can stand it. And then, I shall simply tip my lily and—”

  “Be careful!” Oberon interrupted him, steadying the tilted flower in Puck’s hand. “You will spill it!”

  Puck winked. “A drop is all that’s needed,” he said. “There is enough nectar in this little cup to infect half of London with love madness.”

  “Well, get to it then,” Oberon charged him, and stood shaking his head as the jolly woodland creature danced out on the ballroom floor, weaving in and out among the couples on his way to the refreshment table.

  Wild myrtle had mysterious healing powers of its own, without Puck’s dubious bungling magic, that was one consolation at least, and it had proven quite effective in promoting fertility. Technically, no harm would be done if the spell failed to work, but no help for the situation would be had, either. It was too late now. As if it mocked him, a shaft of blue moonlight stabbed down through the open terrace doors laying a puddle of silvery shimmer at his feet. Pollen motes traveled up and down the moonbeam as if they had a purpose. The country dance had ended, and the orchestra had begun a quadrille. Across the dance floor an introduction was taking place. The Dowager Lady Raintree was introducing Arabella to Nigel, while the girl’s hawk-nosed chaperon looked on. The woman had a face that would clabber cream. Even if the nectar did work, how would they ever escape the Lady Mary Whalen, and where was Puck?

  To his horror, Oberon soon found out. Lily in one hand, flute in the other, Puck had climbed up and was dancing the length of the refreshment table. Had he gotten into the claret cup? Ye gods! Wine was the trickster’s passion, and Oberon made a beeline for him, thankful that the revelers could not see how close Puck’s cloven hooves were coming to their quail in aspic, rook pie, and eggs with truffles.

  “Get down from there!” he seethed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Having a bit of fun,” said Puck. “The night is young. Where’s the harm?”

  “The moon is waning, and you are half-castaway. You know how foxed you get on mortal spirits. Stay put, and let me see if I can nudge the young lady closer to the table before you spill that nectar altogether…”

  * * * *

  Arabella looked up into eyes so black they seemed unreal. It was almost as if they were completely devoid of color the way they were dilated. She felt only marginal guilt over the flowerpot. She remembered it falling, but couldn’t for the life of her recall her hand nudging it over the edge; must have been the wind. She had only gotten a brief glimpse of the earl lying flat out on the cobblestones in the mews before Lady Mary Whalen whisked her away. She was getting a good look now.

  He was strikingly attractive—hair as black as sin curling about his earlobes, his face all angles and planes capturing dramatic shadows in the candle glow. How tall he was, and how gracefully he moved her through the steps of the quadrille. One would never guess he had come so soon from being knocked unconscious by a heavy crockery pot brim full of nasturtiums. Why was he gazing at her like that? Did no one ever tell the gudgeon it was rude to stare? Had he seen her acting like a ninnyhammer on the balcony? He must have done. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks. The heat in them narrowed her eyes. Arabella did not need a mirror to tell her she was blushing. It was her most grievous fault.

  “I’m sorry for your mishap earlier,” she said grudgingly.

  “Oh, that,” he said. “‘Twas nothing. Believe me I’ve suffered far worse on the Peninsula.”

  So that was why she hadn’t seen him in Town before. Why was he staring like that? “Is something amiss, my lord?” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are staring, sir.”

  “Forgive me,” he gushed. “It is your eyes … they are the exact color of that lovely gown.”

  Arabella cleared her voice. “Your tactics are … predictable, my lord,” she said. If he thought she would be swept off her feet by that old threadbare cliché, he was very much mistaken. “Why, next you will be telling me that I recall to mind the image of a Greek goddess, or that you’d seen me in a dream, or that my hair shines like spun gold. Really, my lord, you will have to do better than that.” After three unsuccessful seasons, she could hardly be choosey. Yes, he was certainly handsome enough, but still, didn’t she have a right to expect something less contrived?

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I was about to bring it up—your hair that is—it does shine like spun gold. And now that you mention it, I did have a dream … At least I think it was a dream. It was … wasn’t it?”

  “I do believe you are quite addled from your little mishap, sir,” she said. “How could I possibly know what goes on in your dreams?”

  “You couldn’t … if they were ordinary dreams,” he said.

  Arabella was about to offer a witty come-back to this arrogant earl, when something nudged her, and she almost stumbled into him. She took it for a blatant gust coming from the courtyard beyond, for it bellied the skirt of her robin’s-egg blue frock until modesty demanded she take it back from the wind. A lady simply did not show her ankles, least of all to the likes of this strange person. He scarcely seemed to notice. His hooded gaze was buried in the cleavage of her décolleté. It was beyond enough!

  The quadrille ended somewhat abruptly, except for the flute, which continued to offer its lilting strains long after the rest of the orchestra had laid down their instruments. The tune was unfamiliar, but oh, how it soothed and blunted the edges of her budding petulance toward her enigmatic dancing partner.

  “Someone needs must tell the flautist that the quadrille is done,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The flautist,” Arabella said. “While his solo is lovely, it is somewhat late don’t you think? The dance has ended.”

  “What flautist?”

  “You do not hear the flute music?”

  The earl shook his head that he did not. “Come,” he said warily. “Let me get you a claret cup. All those turns on the dance floor have made you giddy, I think.”

  Taking her elbow in his hand, he led her to the refreshment table. Giddy indeed! She did hear flute music. That flower pot had definitely addled him.

  They were the first to reach the punch bowls. There wasn’t a footman in sight, and the earl reached for a crystal cup. “No, wait,” Arabella said, laying a hand upon his butter-soft superfine sleeve. Her fingers grazed his wrists in the process and hot sparks of invisible fire raced up her arm sending the oddest sensations to places in her body heretofore virgin territory. “Not the claret,” she said. “Someone has dropped a lily in the punchbowl. I shall have the ratafia instead.”

  “As you wish.” Reaching into the claret bowl, he lifted the lily out and added it to a vase of flowers gracing the end of the table. “It must have fallen in,” he observed, moving on to the ratafia on the other side of the arrangement. “Not very appetizing.”

  A footman appeared to serve the claret cup, and another to dole out the ratafia. The earl accepted a cup of the latter and handed it to her. Precious few stood on that line. The majority preferred the claret to the watered-down liqueur flavored with bitter almond and sweet fruit kernels.

  “Aren’t you having any?” Arabella queried.

  He didn’t answer directly. His eyes were fixed upon the crowd gathered around the claret cup bowl. “Could they be foxed this quickly?” he said half to himself.

  “Excuse me?”

  Nigel Reardon, Earl of Everton, pointed. “Look…”

  * * * *

  “What have you done?” Oberon gritted through clenched teeth. Tearing off his crown of spun spider silk, he tossed it down and jumped upon it. “Look at yourself! Look at them!”

  Drenched from horned head to cloven ho
ofs and dripping claret, Puck shrugged. “I slipped…” he said around a hiccup.

  “So you bathed in claret and dropped the lily in the bowl,” Oberon concluded. “All have drunk the draught save she for whom it was intended. How now, friend Puck? No—I recant. You are no friend of mine. A simple little task to grant the wish of two star-crossed souls born to be joined and you muck it up. That is why she’s had three failed Seasons, you know. Her soulmate here was marching to the colors. You cannot tamper with fate. You are getting old, I think. How do you propose to fix this fine mess you’ve made?”

  “That?” Puck said, crooking his thumb toward the milling revelers. “Oh, I cannot fix it. There is no cure for the heart’s ease love spell. It is forever. Ergo, the reason it is so coveted. Those who drink of the nectar will fall in love with the first creature they set eyes upon once it passes their lips. But you know this.”

  “How well I know,” Oberon snapped. “I had hoped you’d be more careful this time, and now look. The Duke of Steain is fawning over Lady Archmont, and there—behind that potted palm, the Duchess of Steain with … who is that, the Lord Chancellor? Syl’s eyebrows! Do something!” Now he’d done it. Blaspheming the great god Syl would surely bring repercussions.

  Puck glanced about. “Very well,” he said. Arabella and the earl were still standing alongside the refreshment table. Heaving a sigh, Puck dipped his finger in the claret bowl, and held it poised over the cup of ratafia in Arabella’s hand. He was just about to lower it into the cup, when Oberon arrested him with a quick hand.

  “Wait!” he said. “Their eyes are fixed upon the madness you have caused. What if she looks at another when she sips it? It is too risky.”

  “Is that all?” Puck said. “Stand back.” Prancing forward, he lowered his finger into the cup. “All that’s needed is one drop,” he said. Waiting until the cup touched her lips he raised one cloven hoof and brought it down upon the tiny leather slipper peeking out from under the hem of Arabella’s frock with force enough to make her dainty toes smart. Her head snapped toward the earl as she swallowed. “Done!” said Puck.