The closer she got to the library, the more quickly she walked. She’d probably gone too fast. There were no young ladies behind her any longer and no gentlemen appeared to be approaching from the opposite direction. She was lost. That’s what she was. She spun in a circle, completely unsure of the location of the library. She turned back in the direction in which she’d come.
Sitting in the middle of the corridor, staring at Cerian as if she hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere, was the cat.
That same gray cat she’d met in the silver closet. Only this time, the cat had a sprig of holly tied loosely around her neck. Quite a jaunty Christmastide cat, Cerian had to admit.
She bent down and held out a hand. The cat walked directly toward her, passed her by, ignoring her hand, and kept walking, swishing her bushy tail as if to say, “Follow me.” Cerian plunked her hands on her hips and watched the cat go. She’d never met such a bold cat. Cats, in her experience, were mostly concerned with staying out of the way and avoiding people they didn’t know; this cat seemed to relish attention. It marched down the corridor. When the cat stopped about twenty paces away and turned back to give her a doleful look, Cerian realized the animal did indeed intend for her to follow.
Her brow furrowed and shaking her head, Cerian rapidly fell in line behind the cat. The feline plodded along, making three turns, bypassing several rooms, and finally coming to stop in front of two large ornately carved wooden doors. Cerian followed the entire way, though not without questioning her sanity for being led about by a household pet. Finally, she glanced up at the doors and blinked. The library. Why, that ever-so-helpful cat had led her directly to the library.
Cerian slipped through the doors holding her breath. The cat happily trotted in behind her. That cat was unique, no doubt about it. Cerian watched the animal prance past Oliver who was standing next to a large desk, his legs crossed at the ankles. The cat bobbed past him, the sprig of holly hugging its neck like a jolly little Christmas decoration.
Cerian looked up at Oliver. A brace of candles sat on the desk behind him and he appeared to be staring at something on the ceiling.
Cerian glanced up.
“Behold the errant mistletoe,” he said with a laugh.
And there it was, fastened over the settee, hanging from the chandelier.
Cerian made her way over to where Oliver stood. “How did you know there would be mistletoe in here?”
“Merely an educated guess. Stood to reason since this is one of the first rooms both the ladies and the gentlemen will stumble upon together.”
“Ah, so I expect we’ll have company soon, then.”
“No doubt,” he replied.
Cerian twisted her fingers together and concentrated on keeping her foot from tapping. “’Twill be interesting to see who it is, actually.”
He laughed at that.
“My money is on Lady Selina,” Cerian added.
“I think that would be a safe bet, my dear Miss Blake.”
Cerian swallowed. Ooh, the way he said, ‘My dear Miss Blake’ made her tingle inside.
She crossed her arms over her chest to quell her nerves and took a few steps over to the settee to stare up at the mistletoe. “Seems a bit of a letdown, really.” She sighed. “The mistletoe wasn’t the least bit difficult to find.”
“I have a feeling the ladies in charge of this particular charade intended ease of locating the mistletoe to be of the utmost importance.”
Cerian nodded. “No doubt.”
“What should we do with it?” he asked, his question hanging in the air like the spicy scent of mulled wine. “Now that we’ve found it?”
For a moment Cerian wondered if he meant … If he meant … No, he couldn’t mean that. Cerian gulped this time. Then she snapped her fingers. “We should hide it,” she announced, a mischievous smile on her face.
“Hide it?” The duke blinked twice.
“Yes. Won’t that be the most fun? Then when Lady Selina comes rushing in, we can pretend we know nothing about it.”
He regarded her with something akin to admiration alight in his eyes. “Miss Blake, I like the way you think.”
Cerian couldn’t tamp down her answering smile. “Thank you, your grace.” She executed a perfect sweeping curtsy. “Now if you’ll just…” She righted herself and stepped upon the settee. “Help me up.”
The duke offered her his hand, and she stepped up and reached for the bough of mistletoe. She pulled it down, tripped over her skirts, and fell into his arms, just as the door to the library opened and Lady Selina, Lord Esterbrooke, and Sir Gilliam came rushing inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cerian’s feet barely touched the ground, before the duke cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and announced to the room at large, “Miss Blake, I believe you owe me a kiss.”
Her eyes wide, all she could do was stare at him, her heart thumping like an insane rabbit’s foot in her chest. Her breathing hitched; the room spun. Did he really expect her to—?
The moment the duke’s lips met hers, her head tipped back and she stumbled a bit. His arms went around her to hold her, steady her, and her hands went up to grasp at the lapels of his coat. His mouth continued to move over hers, so warm, so strong, so intoxicating. And then.…
Her lips parted. Had she done that on purpose? She groaned a bit in her throat. Had that been on purpose too? Then the duke’s tongue slid in between her lips and she forgot to think. It was the most amazing feeling. She shuddered and grasped at him. She stood there, bent slightly backward over his strong, warm arm, lost in a sea of emotions she didn’t even understand until someone—it had to have been Lady Selina—cleared her throat, loudly.
The duke pulled away, his mouth leaving Cerian’s. He straightened her and steadied her and kept an arm at the small of her back while the two of them turned to face the small group of onlookers. Cerian glanced up. Her cheeks must be bright red. A few more of the gentlemen and ladies, including the Davis twins, entered the room. Oh no. Had they seen too? Was the entire house party a witness to her scandal?
“Yes, well, seems the two of you were overly enthusiastic about the game,” Lady Selina said in a voice ripe with pique.
“Those were the rules, were they not?” the duke said with a charming smile. How could he be so nonchalant after … after … that kiss? Cerian felt as if she couldn’t even stand up straight, let alone deliver witty repartee to their audience. Thank goodness for the duke and his quick wit. He’d made it out to be nothing more than part of the game. And yes, of course, that’s what it had been, hadn’t it? But Cerian couldn’t stop thinking about the way his hot tongue had played inside her mouth. That hadn’t been part of the game. It couldn’t have been.
To their credit, Lord Esterbrooke and Sir Gilliam, had glanced away and were busily examining paintings on the wall as if they hadn’t seen anything, and the Davis twins, with all four cheeks a lovely shade of pale pink were doing their best to seem intently engaged in their own conversation. Something about cake.
“Have you seen the cat?” Cerian offered, but a quick scan of the room yielded no cat. The twins, who’d seemed interested at the mention of a cat, both quickly became disinterested once no feline was produced.
Meanwhile Lady Selina swept her bright blue skirts into her hand. She arched a brow. “It seems the mistletoe has been found in this room, ladies,” she said, ostensibly to the twins. “We might as well look elsewhere.” And then they were off, all of the other occupants of the room including the two other men. The twins hurried after them as if they were unwilling to stay in the same room with Cerian and the duke.
Cerian couldn’t look at him. She could only stare at the tips of her slippers barely visible beneath the hem of her gown. “I should … It’s time for … Mama will be waiting.” She curtsied quickly, excused herself, and hurriedly made her way through the door.
* * *
Cerian rushed upstairs to her room as fast as her legs would carry her. She’d nev
er been so glad of Mama’s afternoon nap rule. She couldn’t breathe. Her mind kept replaying the moment in the library when the Duke of Markingham—no, Oliver—had kissed her. The firm pressure of his mouth. The nervous anticipation in her belly. And then, the feel of his tongue sliding across her closed lips and the moment her lips had parted just barely, barely and then …
Ooh, she just couldn’t think about it. She pressed a hand against her roiling middle and took several deep breaths. Her maid came running up to her. “Let me help you out of your morning dress, Miss.”
“Yes, thank you,” she breathed.
Several minutes later, once Cerian was settled into bed in her shift, she still couldn’t relax. She snuggled under the covers and closed her eyes, intent on actually falling asleep for once. She counted ten. Nothing. Twenty more. Unsuccessful. Fifty. No results. She squeezed her eyes shut and wrinkled her nose. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
But instead of fat little sheep jumping over a fence, all she could conjure was Oliver Townsende’s strong hands on her arms, pulling her closer, and his mouth lowering to hers.
Lady Selina had been shocked no doubt. As were the other occupants of the drawing room. And the looks on their faces when he’d said she owed him a kiss. Why, it was without a price.
Mama bustled into the room just then. And Cerian squeezed her eyes shut more tightly, hoping Mama would leave her alone if she believed her to be asleep. Of course, that was too much to ask.
“Cerian. Cerian, my dear. Wake up.”
Reluctantly, Cerian pulled the coverlet away from her head. “Yes, Mama?”
But she knew exactly what her mama would say even before she said it. Mama came hurrying over and sat on the edge of the bed, jostling her. “My dear, you are the talk of the party, and I could not be more proud.”
“Proud?” Of course she was proud. For once her daughter had chosen the most eligible, titled man in the room.
“The Duke of Markingham appears to be quite taken with you, dear. You’ve done so well. Oh, just imagine … a duchess in the family. Mrs. Halifax will be so jealous and I cannot wait to —”
A twinge of guilt tugged at Cerian. “Mama. Please don’t get your heart set upon—”
“Perhaps we’ll have a spring wedding. Yes. Yes. Early spring.” Did Mama just wink at her?
Cerian shook her head. “Truly, Mama, it was only a Yuletide frivolity. I do not think—”
But Mama wasn’t listening. She already had that far-off look in her eye. She stood and made her way back to the door. “Yes. Yes. Spring. You rest now, dear. Must get your beauty sleep for the dancing tonight.”
Her mother left the room humming to herself. Cerian winced. She should have thought the entire thing through a bit better. She hadn’t exactly considering getting Mama’s hopes up quite so high when she’d agreed to Oliver’s proposal. And now, oh, Mama would never recover from the disappointment once she learned that the duke had absolutely no intention of proposing. Why exactly had she believed this was a good idea, again?
Cerian rubbed her temples. When had this all become so complicated? She didn’t want to hurt her mama. Truly, she didn’t. She and Mama just didn’t quite see eye-to-eye on the issue of marriage. Mama had wed a copper tradesman, not expecting to rise to any greater heights socially, and then when Papa’s business had done so well, that combined with Cerian’s first cousin turning into a duchess and then a viscountess … well, it had all been too much for Mama to ignore. She truly thought she was doing right by her daughter by attempting to make an advantageous Society match. It wasn’t Mama’s fault that Cerian was horribly frightened and intimidated by the idea of having a title in front of her name. The scrutiny, the responsibility. It was all too much for her. Cerian didn’t know how to behave in front of these beautiful perfect people. She was much more comfortable hiding in a silver closet with the Christmas cat.
For some reason, Mama had allowed her to remain unmarried in Wales. Perhaps she’d always hoped Cerian would make it to London Society. Oh, Cerian didn’t know. All she knew was that Mama was now hell bent on securing the best match possible and Cerian had gone and got her hopes up to ridiculous heights by agreeing to the Duke of Markingham’s little game. Oh, she wouldn’t blame Mama if she disowned her when this was all over. And where was Papa? Safely back in Wales happily working while his wife and daughter pretended to be a part of the London winter Season, that’s where he was. She envied Papa at the moment.
Groaning, Cerian slunk back under the covers and squeezed her eyes shut again. The image of his grace’s captivating blue eyes haunted her until she fell into a fitful slumber.
* * *
Oliver went outside. Straight outside. Out onto the balcony. He needed a blast of cold air. Freezing cold air to cool the ardor his supposedly innocent kiss with Miss Blake had caused.
He counted ten. He counted twenty.
Still not working.
He hadn’t brought a coat. The icy wind blew across his exposed skin. He braced his hands along the frosty balustrade in front of him and stared off across the barren winter landscape. What the deuce had that been about?
He’d kissed Miss Blake. Kissed her a bit too long and far too enthusiastically. And now he was suffering for it. It was true that they’d planned this, this supposed courtship, and it had come as no surprise to him when they’d been discovered under the mistletoe. No, that had all gone quite according to plan. What had not gone according to plan, however, was his reaction to her simple kiss. And the fact that he was beginning to actually like Miss Blake. Like her quite a bit. Even more disconcerting?
He thought about her a bit too often.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He was waiting for her when she came out of the retiring room. Cerian glanced over both shoulders, convinced that the oh-so-handsome Duke of Markingham was not standing in the corridor in his formal black evening attire waiting to speak with her.
“Miss Blake,” he said, confirming what she’d already suspected when she’d realized no one was behind her. The oh-so-handsome Duke of Markingham was standing in the corridor in his formal black evening attire waiting for her.
“Your grace.” Did she look a fright in her golden evening gown that Mama had insisted brought out the flecks of color in her eyes? Oh, she knew she wasn’t hideous. Enough gentlemen had made unwanted overtures for her to be somewhat assured of the fact that she possessed a modicum of good looks. But she was still far from a beauty. She was no Lady Selina and the duke had been actively hiding from that lady. There was very little hope he was actually attracted to Cerian. Why, the man was in search of a duchess for goodness’s sake, a gorgeous incomparable, not a nobody from Wales who merely had a bit of coin jingling in her pockets.
“I had hoped you’d allow me to escort you to the drawing room so I might have a word with you,” he added.
Cerian pasted a smile on her face, but her insides fell. After their kiss that afternoon, she hadn’t quite known how to treat him or how he would treat her, but a talk wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. If he wanted to talk, however, so be it.
“I’d like that very much,” she replied, wondering if that were true. It depended upon what he said.
He offered his arm and she slipped her hand around it, marveling at the strong warmth emanating from beneath his claret-colored dinner jacket.
Cerian concentrated on watching her golden slippers move along the parquet as they made their way to the dining room.
“Seems the entire house party is talking about us,” he began.
She pursed her lips. “No doubt they’re agog at our antics.”
He nodded.
“It is what we wanted, after all,” she pointed out.
“Indeed.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Then he repeated both actions. Twice.
“Your grace?” she prompted.
“Forgive me, Miss Blake, but I seem to find myself in a singularly unique position this evening.”
She cl
eared her throat slightly, and they began walking again. “How so, your grace?”
He cracked a smile. “Because I feel as if I ought to apologize to you and beg your forgiveness for my behavior earlier today in the library.”
Cerian’s face went hot. She pressed her free hand to her cheek. “Oh, there’s no need to—”
“But, the problem is I don’t feel sorry for it. The truth is, I rather enjoyed it.”
Now her face was on fire. Of all the things he might have said to her on the way to the dining room, this had certainly not been one Cerian had imagined. Not at all. “You … you enjoyed it, your grace?” She concentrated twice as intently on not tripping.
“I did indeed.” He had a look on his face that could only be described as devilish. “So, I’ll ask you, Miss Blake. Do you want an apology from me? I’ll certainly offer you one if you’d like.”
Cerian took a deep breath. Asking her if she wanted an apology was tantamount to asking her if …
“I find myself wondering, Miss Blake, if you enjoyed our kiss as much as I did.”
* * *
Cerian had no earthly idea how she made it into the dining room and back to her seat without breaking into a fit of hysterical laughter or crying or both. She was mad, that’s what she was. She had to be mad or she wouldn’t have stopped the Duke of Markingham in the corridor a moment ago, turned to him, looked him in the eye and said, “Actually, your grace, I quite enjoyed it.”
What manner of saucy hoyden had she become? Why, Mama would wash her mouth with soap. Well, perhaps not given that an eligible duke was involved, but Mama should. And Cerian hadn’t felt a bit repentant of her words either. Instead, she’d given Oliver a sultry look over her shoulder and preceded him into the dining room.
It Happened Under the Mistletoe: A Holiday Novella Page 4
