My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  Polite laughter greeted this as the decanters were passed around again.

  “The duke does have a way with the ladies,” Peter Fenton said, “but real danger is more likely to come from those disgruntled soldiers.” Jake glanced at him, surprised that Fenton would exert himself even to this extent. Fenton shrugged and turned to Richard. “So, Ensign Parker, what are they saying in the Horse Guards?”

  “Word is that French soldiers are not faring well as civilians. No jobs. Life is tough. They are looking to Napoleon to save them by some miracle,” Richard said. Jake was both surprised and irrationally pleased at the young man’s insight.

  “They are cagey about it, though,” Hamilton said. “One fellow asks another, ‘Do you believe in Jesus Christ?’ The other responds, ‘Yes, and in his resurrection.’ Then they drink heartily to his health. Everyone knows who he is.”

  Jake glanced around the table to see how others might be responding to this. He focused his attention on Lindstom, but the man’s countenance remained impassive while others expressed concern or outrage.

  Lord Alfred stood and said, “Gentlemen, fascinating as this discussion is, we had best rejoin the ladies or I may be consigned to exile along with Bonaparte.”

  As soon as the men rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Lady Henrietta clapped her hands and announced, “We shall all repair to the music room where there will be tea or other drinks of choice as well as biscuits and sweetmeats.”

  “I like the sound of ‘drinks of choice,’” Lord Jamison said jovially.

  “She also mentioned biscuits and sweetmeats.” His wife’s stern tone was belied by a smile.

  “Oh, did you hear her, Alfred? If I’m not careful, I shall be joining you in exile.”

  “That you will, Phillip.”

  The men all chuckled at this exchange; the women mostly just shook their heads knowingly.

  Jake brought up the rear as the guests followed their hostesses to the music room below. The ladies in their colorful gowns, the men in pristine black and white, and the buzz of chatter put him in mind of an assortment of exotic birds. He was not surprised to find Peter at his side.

  “Had you heard of that toast of Napoleon’s soldiers?” Jake asked quietly. “It was not a common salute when I left Paris in the spring.”

  “I have heard of it,” Peter admitted. “If it as common now as Hamilton implied, it would bear watching. But right now, I am more interested in ‘watching’ that fetching Miss Henshaw.”

  “You were fortunate in your dinner partner.”

  “As were you, my friend. As were you.”

  Although a number of chairs and benches were strewn about the walls, the center of the room had been cleared for dancing, and when Jake and Peter entered the room, Lady Henrietta was already organizing the dancers into pairs and groups. Jake managed to suppress his grimace of disgust at seeing her partnered by Willitson. So? Would there be an announcement?

  Lady Georgiana was at the piano and in effect “supervising” the three professional musicians who were playing a bass and two violins. The music was a rousing tune that had the dancers swinging from one partner to another. Periodically, Lady Georgiana would signal the music to an abrupt stop, catching a couple under the mistletoe decoration hanging from the ceiling. Other dancers and onlookers would then chant,

  Come one, come one, come all, come all,

  Look who’s under the kissing ball.

  Whereupon the gentleman would pluck one of the white berries, present it to his partner, and kiss her.

  The nature of the kiss, of course, varied with the couple. Lord Alfred gave his friend Lady Hermiston a chaste peck on the cheek, and the two of them—both battling degrees of arthritis—escaped to the sidelines. Gerald gave his lady, whom he had known since they were children, a kiss of such length and mock passion that they had the whole room laughing and clapping.

  Jake had seen Lady Henrietta “caught” under the kissing ball not once, but twice, first with Hamilton, then with Willitson. He tried, despite his gritted teeth, to force himself to be indifferent as Hamilton drew her close and kissed her soundly. Jake thought Willitson’s kiss, though, was more intense and more meaningful. He was sure their audience saw it that way as well, for they expelled a collective sigh. Then the music struck up again and other couples were caught—or managed to be caught.

  In the twists and turns of the dance, Jake had had several partners, even Lady Henrietta twice. But suddenly when the music stopped and the chanting started, it took him a moment to realize that it was he and Lady Henrietta under the kissing ball. It took him another moment or two to find a white berry to present to her; after all, the ball had seen to a good many kisses at that point.

  “Oh, just kiss her,” someone said—Jake thought it was Richard.

  Nervous and thinking only of kissing her, he found a berry, placed it in her outstretched palm, and closed her fingers over it, holding her gaze as he did so. He found it hard to read her expression, but in any event it was not rejection. He drew her close, pressed his lips to hers—and nearly lost control at her response and his response to her response. Friendly catcalls, clapping hands and stamping feet brought them to their senses and he handed her off to her next partner in the dance—but not before seeing the wonder in her gaze that precisely mirrored what he was feeling.

  Looking back at it later, Jake thought he had been in something of a daze through the rest of that long “kissing ball” dance. Afterwards, there had been caroling with many of the company gathered around the piano and others on the sidelines, all singing enthusiastically the time-honored tunes, himself included. It was in the midst of “Deck the Halls” that disaster struck.

  Suddenly Lady Davenport, who had a pleasing soprano singing voice, stopped in mid note on the other side of the piano from Jake, and, staring right at him, her voice in a high pitch of excitement, said, “I have it! At last it has come to me! The Duke of Holbrook! You are the very image of one of his sons! But I forget which one.”

  Lady Georgiana had stopped playing and all eyes turned toward Jake. He looked around pretending to search for the person she was addressing, then feigned surprise to realize she was talking to him. “Oh, unlucky man, he then,” he said with an embarrassed laugh.

  Lord Ralston, who stood some distance away from Jake, raised his quizzing glass to peer at Jake for a long moment. “Can’t see it myself,” he said. “And I went to school with two of Holbrook’s boys.”

  Jake was glad when Peter Fenton jumped in with, “Nor can I and I have known that family forever it seems.”

  Lady Davenport was clearly embarrassed as she said, “Oh, I am so sorry. It just burst out of me—and the resemblance seemed so very, very strong to me. But of course it has been years and years . . .” Her voice faded.

  “Never mind, my dear,” Lady Jamison said. “I make such mistakes all the time.”

  “Very understandable,” some gentleman mumbled. “Now, where were we?”

  Whereupon Lady Georgiana and the musicians started the tune again and everyone joined in, the incident apparently forgotten. But Jake happened to glance at Lord Alfred and the found the man staring at him rather intently.

  Shortly after that servants wheeled in a flaming wassail bowl and a wassail song brought the caroling to an end. And then the party had broken into small pockets of conversation and finally people began to leave amidst many a “thank you” and “we had such a good time.”

  When he climbed into bed, Jake thought he had survived that scare with Lady Davenport. And he thought the tabloids would correctly report, “A good time was had by all.” But at least there had been no “interesting announcement” for them to crow about. Most of all, his mind dwelt pleasantly on that kiss, and even at the memory, his body tightened, and he dreamed of something beyond a kiss.

  * * * *

  Retta kicked off her slippers, st
retched her legs out straight before her, and leaned back in her favorite barrel chair in the sitting room. Her mind went to that kissing ball dance and focused on the one kiss that had meant the most to her: Jake’s. She relived the feel of his lips on hers, the way her whole body seemed to awaken to his touch.

  She accepted the nightcap her aunt offered her and Madame Laurent. She sniffed at it and raised an eyebrow. “Cognac?”

  “I thought we deserved something more than lemonade or ratafia,” her aunt replied.

  “And so we do,” Retta said. “I think our Christmas party went very well.”

  “Very well, indeed, my lady,” said Madame Laurent.

  Retta sat up straighter and waved her glass at her aunt’s companion. “Oh. And you, Madame. What is this thing between you and the good Doctor Lindstrom?” Retta was by no means inebriated, but she knew she had drunk enough this evening to loosen her tongue.

  Madame blushed and said primly, “I am sure I do not know what you mean.”

  “Doing it too brown, Celeste,” Aunt Georgiana said languidly. “Besides, we think it is wonderful—do we not, Retta?—that you have . . . an interest . . . at this point in your life.”

  “Well.” She sounded reluctant. “Sir Cecil did send me flowers this week.”

  “Which I noticed you wore tonight,” Aunt Georgiana said.

  “I think it is nice—very nice,” Retta said stifling a yawn.

  “We have much in common,” Madame Laurent said. “He, too, lost property in France during the revolution. We both have hopes in the new Bourbon regime.”

  “I hope it works out for you,” Retta said politely. She turned to her aunt. “And you, my lady. I think I may have a bone to pick with you.”

  Her aunt set her empty glass on a nearby table. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “As you just said to Madame Laurent, ‘doing it too brown, my dear.’ You know very well that it was no accident that I was caught three times—three times!—under the kissing ball. At a party I was hosting!”

  “’Tis hard sometimes to see who is where in the midst of a lively dance.”

  Retta merely snorted softly, stifled a yawn, and excused herself. Despite feeling sleepy only moments before, once in bed, she lay there staring at the canopy, which was faintly visible in light from the banked fire. As a social gathering, the party had been a success. As a means of sorting out her feelings about Jake Bolton, it had been a disaster. That kiss. Oh, that kiss. That kiss had complicated her life immensely. There was no way she could be so unfair as to accept David’s proposal when she was in love with another man.

  She turned her face into the pillow. Oh, my God! It is true. I am in love—in love!—with Jake Bolton.

  The next day, still struggling with her feeling for Jake Bolton, she sought to gain a better handle on the situation by trying to bring her friends, Hero and Harriet, up to date:

  Dear Hero and Harriet,

  I am assuming that, as my dearest friends in all the world, you will forgive my writing you together and sending one of you a copy. Remember those lengthy missives we used to share during school holidays? We poured our hearts out to each other and worked through such monumental problems! I wish the issues in my life today were so simple.

  First of all, your reservations about that bet were well-founded, though not entirely for the reasons you stated at the time. I previously wrote you both about going to the docks and Rebecca’s choice of a “suitable specimen.” As I have come to know Mr. Bolton, I am more and more certain that he is capable of winning that bet for me, though I am sure he thinks the whole thing is a bit silly.

  I admire so much about this man! And yet—I have so many unanswered questions about him! In many ways he is honest and straightforward in his dealings with me, but I always have the feeling that he is holding back, that there is much, much more to him than he is allowing the world—well, me at least—to see. Did I mention before that he is quite handsome and has absolutely gorgeous blue eyes? I am sure you can tell that I find him most intriguing. I am equally sure that you understand how thoroughly unsuitable that idea is! If only I had met him at a ball or at some ton soiree. And yet . . .

  Our lessons proceed apace, and he is learning faster than I hoped. Perhaps too fast? But I dare not challenge him, for I simply must win that bet! I find the idea of giving up Moonstar far more devastating than I ever imagined when I so glibly agreed to that wager. Why must I always learn the lessons of life too late????

  Finally, on the topic of that infamous bet: I am sure the two of you foresaw better than I the intrigue and secrecy that would be necessary to keep up this charade. I find I am not comfortable with that aspect at all.

  She went on to recount social affairs she had attended lately and finished by telling her friends of the Christmas party, though she found she was not quite ready to share—even with Hero and Harriet—the truth of her overwhelming reaction to that kiss—or the previous one.

  Chapter 14

  Retta would have liked to withdraw into herself to try to come to terms with her feelings for Jake, but there were still traditional Christmas activities to get through. In the absence of the real mistress of Blakemoor House—her stepmother—Retta felt she should try to keep those traditions for the rest of the household. To this end, she and her aunt requested that Jeffries, Mrs. Browning, and Monsieur Aubert, the Blakemoor chef, meet them in the morning room to discuss plans for a festive Christmas dinner. The five of them sat around the wicker and glass table, the chef with a notebook at hand.

  “We simply must have a plum pudding,” Retta said. “I know that is not something that appeals to you, Monsieur Aubert, but it is traditional in English homes.”

  Monsieur Aubert nodded. “I made one last year, if you remember, my lady. I shall prepare two or three other desserts as well. And for the main course, my lady?”

  “Ham would be nice,” Aunt Georgiana said.

  “Last year I was instructed to roast a goose,” Monsieur Aubert suggested.

  “Oh, yes, by all means,” Retta said. “A Christmas goose. And ham. And filet of sole. And those wonderful Brussel sprouts you do, and peas, and—oh, whatever else you wish, Monsieur. I trust your judgment fully. But the real reason I ask you to meet with us this morning is that I should like you to produce a like menu to be served in the servants’ hall on Boxing Day—with only a limited buffet for the family then.”

  “My lady?” Monsieur Aubert seemed confused.

  “Boxing Day should be for those who make our lives easier. We will limit duties of all staff as much as possible that day. Mrs. Browning? Mr. Jeffries? You will see to that, will you not?”

  “Yes, my lady.” They spoke in unison.

  Then Jeffries as the highest ranking servant in the household, cleared his throat and said, “Uh, my lady, I am wondering if Lady Blakemoor left these instructions? Or perhaps sent them from Austria?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did not. But she is not here to object, is she? Both Lord Alfred and Lord Heaton endorse this plan for the holidays.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Again the two spoke in unison, and Retta caught them exchanging a look of mutual understanding. When the three had left, Retta looked over her own notes again.

  “I do miss the yule log ceremony we always have in the country,” she said.

  Her aunt nodded. “’Tis hard to go out into the forest in the middle of London to choose a yule log. Perhaps we could send your brothers among the trees of Hyde Park.”

  “Do be serious, Aunt!”

  Aunt Georgiana’s tone did turn serious. “I miss the children. Christmas should be about children. What with siblings and cousins galore, the Blakemoor country house always had a gaggle of children about for the holiday house party. Seeing their faces light up when Father Christmas made his appearance was such a treat! I remember one year—you must have been about thr
ee—he gave you an orange the size of a small melon. Your little fingers could barely grasp it.” She sighed. “But then you all had the lack of grace to grow up.”

  “Such a lamentable action on our part.”

  “And none of you seems in any hurry to produce the next lot for me to dote upon.”

  Retta laughed. “Rebecca is the only one of us in any position to remedy that situation—and she has been married less than six months. You must allow her time.”

  “Yes, she is. And is that not a shame? You are the eldest. It is high time you were settled, my girl.” Aunt Georgiana shot her an inquiring look.

  Retta, who almost never felt uncomfortable with her beloved Auntie Georgie, did so now. She shrugged and looked away. “When a suitable partner presents himself . . .”

  “Perhaps he already has.”

  “What do you mean?” She could not control the anxiety that even she heard in her voice.

  “Retta, my dear, I have watched you for several weeks now with Willitson and Sir Michael and that other fellow—what is his name? Oh, Mathisson. Baron Mathisson. A baron, a viscount, and a knight. And you find none of them ‘suitable’?”

  Retta busied herself with jotting a note, then merely twirled the pencil in her fingers. “When you put it that way, it makes me seem terribly shallow.”

  “No, my dear. Shallow is not a word anyone could toss at you. Your work with the Fairfax sisters, as well as your attendance at the literary league’s meetings, belie that term immediately.”

  Both were silent for a moment, then Retta ventured, “Auntie Georgie, are you happy? I mean do you regret not having had children of your own?”

  “William and I wanted a family, of course, but life just did work in that direction for us.”

  “But you were young when we lost Uncle Mickelson. Did you never think of remarrying?”

  “Not really.”

  Retta leaned forward. “But why? That is, if I am not being too intrusive.”

  “I do not mind your asking, my dear.” Her aunt seemed lost in the past for a few seconds. “I hardly know how to respond. What William and I had—well, it was special. Anything else would have seemed second best and I just could not accept second best.”