"Please enjoy the meal," she insisted.
"But, Miss Partridge, aren't you and the duke goin' ta eat?" asked one of the adults.
"Of course we will, later. But you're our guests now."
"Tain't right," insisted another. "We can't eat before you."
"Oh! Well, all right then," she conceded, taking a spot between two of her students. "We'll be happy to dine with you."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Phillip had taken a spot on the other end of the long table. Good. She could enjoy her dinner without having to look in those soulful blue eyes.
Chapter Nine
Jeanne descended the staircase from her mistress's chambers. Lady Amelia didn't look ill, but she had decided against attending the ball tonight. She wouldn't give a reason, but had sent Jeanne to notify her brother not to wait for her.
The earl was probably in his study. Hopefully, he wouldn't be angry about Her Ladyship's change of plans. She raised her hand to knock on the door of the study and nearly leaped out of her slippers when the earl himself spoke from behind her.
"Miss Brown, is my sister nearly ready?"
Jeanne spun around to dip into a curtsey. "My Lord, Lady Amelia has decided not to attend the ball. Perhaps you would like to speak with her?"
"Blasted women," the earl muttered. "One can never rely on them! I told her I needed her to make an appearance with me at the Kringles' Christmas Ball. Bartlett will probably be disappointed, too. It seems he's taken quite an interest in her. I suppose he's one of the few men who could put up with her chatter and preposterous ideas, since he can't hear anything she says."
Jeanne's head popped up, and she stared, momentarily forgetting protocol. "Can't hear, My Lord?"
"Hunting accident at university. His gun misfired, and he ended up losing most of his hearing. I hear he's a top-notch lip reader, but if he can't see your face, he doesn't know what you're saying. Nice fellow. I wouldn't have minded him as a brother-in-law. But knowing my sister, he's probably better off." Shaking his head, he called for Marks to have the carriage brought around.
Jeanne's mind whirled. The day before, when they had left the duke's home, Lady Amelia had been upset. Jeanne had thought perhaps Her Ladyship had been unwell, but that hadn't been the case. The duke was just like all other men in her life, Lady Amelia had said. When he didn't like something she had said, he had simply ignored her.
But the duke hadn't been ignoring Lady Amelia. He simply hadn't heard her! And what had the earl said, about having the duke as a brother-in-law? Had he asked for her hand? She whirled around to find her mistress.
She found Amelia in her study, absently staring at a blank page in her journal.
"My Lady! Please forgive me for intruding, but I must share something His Lordship told me." Quickly, she relayed her conversation with the earl.
****
Amelia gasped, suddenly understanding the reason Phillip hadn't responded to her confession the day before. He'd been facing away from her when she'd told him. He hadn't ignored her! How could she have misjudged him so badly?
It all made sense now. The times when he'd seemed distracted, and she'd had to repeat what she said. The way he watched her carefully whenever she talked. The way Robert and Desiree always touched his shoulder lightly and waited until they had Phillip's attention before speaking. She'd thought he didn't approve of her writing career, but he simply hadn't heard her.
She had to get to the ball, quickly.
"Jeanne, have Marks summon a carriage, and then come back here to help me get dressed."
"Yes, my lady. Right away."
Amelia was half dressed by the time the servant returned. If she'd had her way, she wouldn't have done anything to her hair. But Jeanne reminded her the carriage would take a few minutes to arrive, so she'd impatiently submitted to her maid's primping and arranging.
The moment the butler announced the carriage was ready, she flung her cape over her shoulder and nearly flew down the stairs to the marble tiled foyer. A hastily summoned Giles barely had time to stuff his hat on his head as he hurried to accompany her.
****
Phillip took another pastry from a passing waiter's tray. He paced, partly to keep his mind off his nervousness, and partly to keep from being stopped by every matron with a marriageable daughter. A part of him was flattered. But there was only one with whom he wished to share his title.
Where the devil is she? Colorful gowns swirled all around him, and beautiful women descended the staircase, but he didn't notice any of them. He searched the faces of the guests as they arrived, but the one he needed to see wasn't among them. Was there some problem at Sudbury House?
Last night at the children's Christmas party, she'd been a wonderful hostess. After the dinner, she'd gathered the children around her and read the Christmas Story from the Book of Matthew. And then she'd reminded them of their manners before handing out their gifts. The children, as well as their parents, had appreciated the books.
He noted several heads turning toward the staircase. A new arrival must have been announced. He turned, and his spirits lifted. Amelia's brother, Edward Partridge appeared at the top of the stairs. Amelia should be right behind him. His heart beat faster as he waited.
But the earl descended the stairs alone. His heart stopped for a moment.
Where was Amelia? Had she decided to come later, by herself? It would go against convention, but his Amelia wasn't one to follow the rules. Perhaps he'd better speak to Edward.
He made his way to the earl, who, now that he was no longer betrothed to the Dragon Lady, was a commodity among the unmarried ladies of the ton. Edward was surrounded by the mamas of available women, and Phillip had to wait his turn. Some of the mamas cast a welcome toward the duke, and he did his best to greet them properly. He finally reached the earl.
"Sudbury."
Edward turned around and executed a small bow. "Good evening, Your Grace. Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas to you, too. Er, has your sister arrived?"
"Amelia? No, she has apparently come down with some sort of affliction. Her maid told me she didn't feel well enough to come. She sends her regrets."
"I… see. I trust she recovers soon."
Phillip backed away. What would he do now? He had no desire to stay and socialize with anyone else. Parties held no appeal for him without Amelia there. With her, he felt like celebrating. She had seemed healthy this afternoon. What could have happened to her? He wanted to ask, but Edward was already in conversation with someone else. But Phillip could see Edward's mouth and easily deciphered the earl's words.
"Of course, Amelia never was one for parties and dressing up and such. My mother had an awful time getting her to cooperate during her season. She finally had to give up when Amelia told her in no uncertain terms she had no intention of getting married." Edward paused. "Of course, I thought perhaps she might have been interested in Bartlett."
Might have been?
"Well, she had been looking more…girlish, lately. You know, with the hair and the lace and such. She behaved like a young girl. But today she came down to breakfast in one of her drab old frocks. It was almost like she was in mourning."
Could she have been upset with him about something? He searched his mind. What could he have done?
His first reaction was to admit defeat. How could he have thought he could win the hand of a woman as special as Amelia? What would she see in him?
But another voice reminded him of her sunny smiles whenever they were together. The way she worked hard for people less fortunate than her. There was no better woman to head Bartlett Manor than Lady Amelia Partridge. He needed to find her and fight for her. Was there even a chance for them? He went in search of a servant to fetch his coat.
Chapter Ten
The carriage ride seemed endless. Along the way, she mentally rehearsed what she would say to Phillip. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, Your Grace." No, that wouldn't do. What if he hadn't been waiti
ng for her? Hopefully he wouldn't have found it odd that Edward arrived before her. Perhaps she could simply say, "How lovely to see you again, Your Grace."
The carriage drew up before the Kringle mansion, and the door opened. A gold-braided cuff decorated the wrist of the hand extended to her. She took a deep breath and rose to climb the steps down. "Please be there," she whispered.
She would surely be one of the last to arrive at the party. Would Phillip still be waiting for her? A servant took her cloak, and she braced herself. Another servant waited at the ballroom's entrance, and when he saw her he reached for her card, but she shook her head. "I — I need a moment." The man nodded and stepped back.
A bank of potted pear trees festively decorated with ribbons and ornaments for the holiday graced each side of the wide arch leading to the ballroom. Amelia decided to look for Phillip through the branches of the trees, so she could go to him immediately.
She leaned forward, trying to see the partygoers through the branches of the tree. But it was nearly impossible to make out any one figure through the sea of humanity. She should have known. The Kringles' party was the prime event of the holiday season. Lord and Lady Kringle held court in one corner of the room, greeting their guests. She took another step but froze when she realized her hair had caught in one of the ornaments on the pear tree. She tried to disengage herself but managed only to get herself more firmly entangled. Embarrassingly, the skirt of her dress, in her twisting and turning, had caught on some lower branches and was pulled up into the tree, exposing a shocking amount of her legs.
Goodness! How ever would she get out of this? Absently, she recalled a song she'd heard about a partridge in a pear tree. She wasn't sure whether to giggle at being part of a Christmas carol or sob at her dilemma. Should she call out to one of the servants in the foyer? Would they even hear her?
Suddenly, her skirt fell back in place. A second later, the ornaments released her hair. A deep voice behind her murmured, "There you are, Lady Amelia. I trust you and your lovely gown have not suffered any ill effects from your mishap."
"Phil — Your Grace!" She dampened her excitement and cleared her throat, dipping into a deep curtsey. "Again, you have rescued me. Thank you."
He executed a formal bow. "It was my pleasure. Your brother told me that you were ill, and I feared you would not be here tonight." He extended his elbow. "Shall we join the ball?"
"I would love to, but first I need to tell you something. I tried to tell you earlier, in your library, but I'm afraid you may not have heard me."
"I apologize. I am listening now."
She faced him directly so he could see her lips and understand what she said. "I — I write books. Love stories. I like to write them, and my publisher tells me they are becoming quite popular. I don't want to stop writing them. I have a pen name, so no one needs to know, but I wanted to tell you. Would that bother you, knowing what I do?"
"I have already read some of your stories. They're quite wonderful."
Her jaw dropped. "You — you knew?"
"Yes. A few weeks ago, when you read aloud to the students, you hardly looked at the page. You didn't have to, because they were your own words. The next day I went to the bookstore and purchased every available title by A. P. Worthington."
"And…the idea doesn't repulse you?"
"I shall be proud to be associated with the author of such tomes as The Demure Duchess and The Tempestuous Ton. He sobered. "Would it repulse you to be associated with a disfigured, hard-of-hearing duke who must work hard with his hands to restore his crumbling estate?"
Amelia held her hand to her heart. This must be the kind of love she'd read about, even written about, but never experienced.
"I would be honored at such an association, Your Grace."
He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her. "Shall we seal this agreement with a kiss?"
About the Author
During her first career, Patricia Kiyono taught elementary music, computer classes, elementary classrooms, and junior high social studies. She now teaches music education at the university level.
She lives in southwest Michigan with her husband, not far from her children and grandchildren. Current interests, aside from writing, include sewing, crocheting, scrapbooking, and music. A love of travel and an interest in faraway people inspires her to create stories about different cultures.
Another great read from Astraea Press!
Prologue
December 27, 1812
Chairs weren't the only things flying at this year's annual Kringle Ball. Throw in a duke, two appallingly outspoken ladies, an earl, a young naval officer, and enough fists to make Gentleman Jackson proud, and you have successfully recounted every delicious detail of this past season's unmatchable scandal.
One has to wonder how it all started. Some say Gatewood was merely defending his sister's honor. Others say Norcross seduced the wits out of not one but two women in the very same night! And the worst of the gossip, though it pains me to admit to it as such, comes to us in the form of a first-hand account. Miss Tess Warren was seen smiling, yes smiling (such a vulgar act to begin with) at the Duke of Gatewood not minutes before he was beaten with a chair. Now, what the devil (and please pardon my language, it really is inexcusable, but given the circumstances it must be said) does Miss Tess Warren have to smile about? And what, dear readers, has caused the good duke to lose his impeccable manners, not to mention his mind?
~Mrs. Peabody's Society Papers
Chapter One
London, England
December 24, 1820
It had come to this. Confining himself behind the walls of his study to avoid the festivities of the Christmas holiday.
Donovan Ellis, Seventh Duke of Gatewood, wanted nothing more than to forget this season and all the foolery that went along with it. There would be no wreaths hung on the doors and no candles adorned with greenery would line the mantel. He'd threatened to dismiss Cook if she served him syllabub or Christmas pudding. Even so, I wager one of the servants will at least put a Yule log on one of the fires.
Donovan lounged in his high-back chair, sipping brandy and watching the fire. The snapping and crackling of the logs soothed him, broke the eerie silence of the townhouse.
He glanced sideways at the polished walnut table on his left, and his gaze settled on the silver tray bearing the decanter of brandy. Firelight flickered off the cut crystal and splintered, sending amber glints dancing across the floor. When Lawrence, the butler, had brought the spirits, Donovan had told him not to bother lighting the oil lamps, just one of the candles on the mantel and another on the small table by his chair. The dull glow did no more than place the study in shadow. That was fine with Donovan; the dark ambiance fit his grim mood.
A draft swept through the study, dimming the fire. The flames on the candles swayed, and the darkness swooped closer. Shadows climbed from the corners and loomed over him. He glanced toward the bay window, checking that it was securely latched. But the reflection of the fire in the panes was all he could see.
As he started to turn back toward the fire, a circle of bright light, high up near the top of the glass and just beyond the window, caught his attention and he squinted, trying to make out what the object was. Perhaps starlight? Even as he tried to convince himself of that, the orb grew bigger, floated closer and lower to the ground.
Donovan sat transfixed, unable to look away as an illuminated figure approached the window, passed through without pause as if the glass and wall weren't there, and glided across the room, stopping close enough to the fire to be cast in its light.
Donovan blinked several times, his mind warring with what he saw. He glanced down at the glass in his hand. "I could have sworn this was my first brandy." Lifting his head, his gaze again met the vision. "But I must be foxed and seeing things. Or my eyes fool me."
Dark brown eyes — his dark brown eyes — stared back at him. Had it not been for the fact that he was sitting and the phantom was stan
ding, he could have been looking in a mirror. The vision before him had the same dark wavy hair, broad shoulders that seemed to fill the room, and chiseled jaw.
The apparition crossed his arms. "Could there not be another explanation?"
Hearing the phantom speak with his voice unnerved Donovan, gave him pause. It took a moment for understanding to sink in.
"Ah. Dreaming, then. And not a very good dream, since I'd never wear such an outrageous burgundy tailcoat." Donovan gestured in the specter's direction with his glass. "Then again, I suppose I'm not actually wearing such foppish attire but having a nightmare."
A smile tugged at the corners of the ghost's mouth. "So you'd prefer to reason that you're dreaming—"
"Having a nightmare… and a bad one at that."
"Very well, having a nightmare, rather than actually believe I'm real?"
Donovan drained his glass then reached for the decanter, desperately in need of another. "On the contrary, I'm a logical man. And as such, I know it's impossible for me to be lounging in my chair and standing in the middle of the room at the same time. Not to mention that you cannot be me if I'm me, unless this is a bad dream."
"Yet you see me… you're speaking with me."
Donovan waved his hand. "That proves nothing." He brought the refilled glass to his lips and drained the contents.
"Well then, you won't object if I pour myself a glass of brandy."
"Not at all. Happy to share," he said. The initial shock of seeing a ghost glide through the wall had scared him, had been frightening indeed. But having a drink with himself as if they were old chums from University? Donovan smiled at the situation's inherent humor.
The apparition walked over to the ornate walnut cabinet and retrieved a wineglass. He strode back, hefted the decanter, and poured a generous amount into his glass. Then the specter sat in the black leather high-back chair opposite Donovan's.
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