by Diane Farr
“What—how—” she stammered.
“It’s midnight. It’s Christmas. I wanted you to have bells,” he said simply.
Celia’s heart, full to overflowing, welled in her eyes. Memories of Christmases past, lost to her forever and unbearably sweet, suddenly touched the present—but the present was also unbearably sweet, and the present was hers to keep. The love she had lost and the love she had found caused past and present to blur together, and the future beckoned with the promise of new joy. The terrible weight of fear—fear she had carried for so many months that she had become inured to its constant presence—fell from her like a stone. She would never be homeless again. Her father’s voice tolled in her memory, reading from a beloved Book: Perfect love casteth out fear.
Celia burst into tears. “Oh, Jack!” She buried her face in his waistcoat. His arms came around her, strong and comforting. “I don’t care if you’re mad as a hatter. You are the k-kindest and b-best man in the world.”
He kissed her again, of course, promptly and thoroughly. By the time he finished, the bells had fallen silent. “I’ve arranged for a wassail bowl in the servants’ quarters,” he said, a little unsteadily. “And music. I’m sure we would be welcome, if you’d care to go.”
“Fraternizing with the staff? Your mother would not approve,” murmured Celia.
And then she remembered. Her eyes flew open wide. “Oh, Jack—I almost forgot.” She clung to his lapels again, looking anxiously up at him. “She—she no longer wishes us to marry. The duchess, I mean. She will do what she can to prevent it, she said.”
“What!” He looked stunned. “Are you sure?”
Celia nodded, ashamed. “I should have told you. She has—she has withdrawn her support. We had the most frightful row. She has ordered me to vacate Delacourt as soon after the New Year as I can.”
A slow smile spread across Jack’s features. “Perfect,” he exclaimed.
“Perfect?”
“Yes! I thought something was not quite right about all this. But you have set my mind at rest. You have removed my last lingering doubt, in fact. If she opposes the match, I know we will be happy! Marry me, Celia.”
She cocked her head to one side, not sure she had heard him correctly. “But, Jack, your mother—”
“Oh, hang my mother! Will you marry me, or won’t you?”
Celia bit her lip. “I ought not,” she said, distressed. “Your family will not like it. And truly, Jack, when I think of all the grand ladies you might marry—”
“Nonsense. This is England, my dear girl. I am only allowed to marry one lady.”
“Yes, but it shouldn’t be me!”
“It will be you,” he promised. “You, and no other.” His arms tightened round her in a way calculated to turn her breathless. “If you tell me you are indifferent to me after all the liberties you have just allowed me to take, you will give me the most shocking opinion of your character.”
She blushed and ducked her head to hide her smile. “Well,” she admitted, “I am not indifferent to you, precisely—”
It was some time before Celia was allowed to finish her sentence, and by the time she was able, she had forgotten what she was going to say.
………
The Duchess of Arnsford tossed and muttered on her pillow, troubled by fever dreams. It seemed to her that Delacourt was burning. Everything she had tended and protected for so many years was going up in flames while she stood helplessly by, watching as everything she cared for was destroyed.
She hovered for a moment beneath the surface of awakening, the nightmare still clutching at her as she tried to escape it. Then she fought it off, breaking into consciousness. “Fire,” she murmured, her voice slurred with laudanum and sleep. And then, more strongly, “Fire!”
With a gasp, she sat upright and struggled to throw off the heavy bedclothes that were smothering her. But Hubbard was there, looming up out of the darkness like a guardian angel. Hubbard’s strong hands gripped her arms.
“Ssh, now, madam,” said Hubbard soothingly. “There’s nothing amiss. You’re dreaming.”
The duchess stared dazedly at Hubbard’s features, all but invisible in the near-dark. The leaping, dancing flames of her nightmare receded, resolving themselves into the dying embers of the fire glowing faintly in the grate. It was not Delacourt that burned, but only the familiar torment gnawing at her vitals. She was awake. But the alarm she had heard in her dream still sounded.
“No fire,” she said numbly. “There is no fire.”
“No, madam.”
“What is that sound?”
“Bells, madam.”
“Why—why are bells ringing if there is no fire?”
“It’s Christmas. Do you go back to sleep, dear ma’am. There is nothing to worry you.” Hubbard reached behind her to plump up her pillows.
“Christmas,” repeated the duchess incredulously. Pain stabbed her, hard, jerking her out of the mists of her drugged dream. Anger came with the pain, as she realized she had been frightened out of her sleep by some idiot ringing bells in the middle of the night. “We have never rung bells at Delacourt for Christmas. Who gave such an order? Why was I not informed?”
Even as she spoke, the bells died away as if sensing her displeasure. Hubbard did not immediately answer, however, but tossed and punched the pillows with swift efficiency, seemingly focused on the task at hand.
“I ought to have told you,” Hubbard admitted at last, settling the pillows behind the duchess. “But I did hope you would sleep through it. I never dreamed a few bells would kick up such a racket! Fit to wake the dead, it was. There, now. Do you lie down again, ma’am, and we’ll see if we can make you comfortable.”
But the duchess still sat upright, straining her eyes in the dimness to make out Hubbard’s expression. She had the oddest notion that Hubbard was keeping something from her. She smiled thinly. “What! Am I no longer mistress of Delacourt? Who dared to give such an order without consulting me?”
“‘Twas Lord Lynden,” said Hubbard gruffly. “So don’t be thinking you are not mistress here! ’Twas only one of Lord Lynden’s notions.”
Annoyance and relief flashed through the duchess. “John,” she said crossly. “I might have guessed as much.” She settled back against the pillows, shivering as the pain settled back with her.
Hubbard’s sharp eyes missed nothing. “Shall I poke up the fire, then?”
She was not cold, but nodded, not trusting her voice until she mastered the pain once more. It was always worse at night. She would lie awake, now, until dawn. It mattered little. Sleep brought no refreshment these days.
Her eyes followed Hubbard as she crossed to the grate and wielded the poker. The light grew, outlining Hubbard’s homely features, plain night rail and cap, and the thick gray braid that hung down her back. There was something about her folded lips and tense shoulders that sent a frisson of suspicion through the duchess.
“I wonder what possessed John, to order bells for Christmas,” Her Grace wondered aloud. She watched Hubbard as she spoke. “And without a word to me! It seems odd. Did he think I would forbid it?”
“You weren’t well,” said Hubbard shortly. “I fancy the notion seized him just this evening.”
“Ah.” The duchess’s hands clenched on the edge of her counterpane. “To celebrate his sister’s betrothal, no doubt. A pretty thought.”
She had been unable to keep the bitterness from her voice, and Hubbard looked up, her brows knitting. She straightened, then, and stood with her hands clasped loosely before her. “No, Your Grace. Or, at least, that wasn’t all of it.” Her words sounded rough with suppressed emotion.
Fear licked through the duchess, but she kept her voice pleasant and steady. “What is the rest of it, Hubbard? I think you had better tell me.”
Hubbard walked to the bed and sat on the edge of it, facing the duchess. The very fact that she would take such a liberty told Her Grace how strongly moved her henchwoman was. Hubbard stared i
ntently at her, her expression unreadable. “I’ll tell you, if you’re wishful to know. But I’m afraid you won’t like it.”
“Tell me,” said Her Grace.
“Very well; I will. I’d rather you hear it from me, when all’s said and done.” Hubbard sighed and looked away. “Lord Lynden fancies Miss Delacourt. Everyone on the staff has seen it and remarked on it; if you hadn’t been keeping to your rooms lately, you’d have seen it, too. I was thinking you’d be pleased, until I heard what you had to say about her. Now, I know you won’t be. But when his lordship asked that everyone on the staff—everyone who cared to, that is—find a bell and ring it at midnight, as close to the grand staircase as might be, but out of sight—and said it was a surprise for Miss Delacourt, so on no account to let her know about it—why, what were we to think? In order to keep the secret, we had to know he was meeting Miss Delacourt on the grand staircase at midnight.” Hubbard stole an uneasy glance at the duchess, who was sitting as motionless as if she had been turned to stone. “And one of the housemaids saw Lord Lynden tiptoe out this evening and hang mistletoe over it. With his own hands.”
A tiny sound escaped the duchess. Hubbard’s face went almost fierce with compassion. “It’s not difficult to add two and two, is it, dear ma’am? Especially since he ordered up a Christmas party, with music and dancing, to begin directly after, in the servants’ hall.”
Gladys Delacourt, now convinced she was the last true Duchess of Arnsford, buried her face in her hands. So this was what a Pyrrhic victory felt like. She had schemed and worked and striven to bring all this about, and her accomplishments had turned to ashes even as she triumphed. Elizabeth would marry Blenhurst, a match she had tried for years to promote. And John would marry Celia—a project to which she had turned her hand only lately but which was, nevertheless, the most important project of all. Dead Sea fruit, all of it. A complete disaster.
A sudden hitching sensation seized her diaphragm. It had been so long since she had either laughed or sobbed, she was not sure which of the two was overcoming her. A little of both, she supposed. It was shameful to lose control in this way, but she could no more suppress it than she could hold back the tide. She began to utter a queer little barking sound behind her hands, over and over.
She felt Hubbard’s weight leave the bed. “Madam!” cried Hubbard, sounding frightened. “Your Grace! Oh, lud, I oughtn’t to have told you. It could have waited for morning. Dear ma’am, how can I help you? Oh, ‘tis cruel, to see you so distressed! What afflicts you? Is it the old pain, or a new one?”
The duchess shook her head weakly. Agony ripped through her, and still she laughed. Or sobbed. She emerged from behind her hands, however, and managed to smile at poor Hubbard.
“A new one, dear Gertrude,” she said. “I believe they call it ‘irony.’”
………
In the hush that followed midnight, Celia sat beside Jack on the top step of the curving staircase, surrounded by fragrant greenery. Music sounded faintly from the servants’ hall. The tail of a gay red bow trailed across her skirt. This surely was the best Christmas of her life.
She leaned her head against Jack’s shoulder and played with the ribbon absently, a foolish little smile wavering across her face. “I don’t deserve to be so happy.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No one does. I am happier right now than any mortal deserves to be.”
“I mean to keep you this happy if I can. Always.”
“I couldn’t bear it. I should expire from joy.” She nuzzled his arm. “Jack?”
“Yes, love.”
“What shall we do, exactly?”
“I shall send a notice to the London papers. And send for Hadley, you’ll be glad to know. He’ll arrive with the rest of my wardrobe. You won’t recognize me once he’s done with me.”
“Oh, dear. I do hope you are wrong about that.” She chuckled. “But—you’ll stay here, then? At Delacourt?”
His arm tightened around her. “Yes. I’ll not leave you to fight the dragons alone. We shall have the banns read right here in the village, starting the day after tomorrow.”
She relaxed dreamily against him. “Oh, how lovely.”
“You’re still in mourning, so we can’t have a large wedding. No sense in waiting for the Season and dragging you off to London for a round of betrothal parties and all that. Unless you’d prefer it—?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No. There will be time for all that later.”
“Yes. Marry me soon, Celia.” He whispered it close to her ear and his warm breath made her shiver happily. “Let’s not give anyone time to say us nay.”
A tiny pang of guilt creased her forehead. “We cannot escape that, I fear. Your mother will be livid.”
“I daresay it will do her good.”
“I hope so.” Celia smiled, but there was still a hint of worry in her eyes. “She says I do not have the makings of a duchess in me. She believes I am completely hopeless. That however earnestly I might try, I will forever fall short of the standards she has set.”
Celia pulled back against Jack’s encircling arm, looking anxiously up at him. “She’s right, you know. I am pert and opinionated and familiar with the servants and—and I have no accomplishments—I don’t play the pianoforte, and I don’t play the harp, and I can’t speak French—and, oh, Jack, I’m afraid I will never be anything but what I am!”
Jack grinned the lopsided grin she loved. “Thank God,” he said fervently.
We hope you enjoyed ONCE UPON A CHRISTMAS. For more books by this author, please visit Diane Farr’s website at http://www.dianefarrbooks.com. You can read more about the Delacourts in THE NOBODY … coming in July 2012 from Signet e-books. A bonus preview of PLAYING TO WIN follows.
PLAYING TO WIN by Diane Farr
Chapter 0
"But there is nothing to explain," said Trevor Whitlatch. "It is quite simple, madam. You will either compensate me for the goods you stole eleven years ago, or you will suffer the consequences."
A tense silence ensued, broken only by the soft ticking of an ormolu clock on La Gianetta's elegant mantlepiece. Mr. Whitlatch had not raised his voice, and his smile had not wavered. Nevertheless, Gianetta's admirably strong instinct for self-preservation warned her that her visitor was dangerous.
With an effort, she hid her alarm behind a smile as smooth as Mr. Whitlatch's. Her smile had bewitched many men over the years. She hoped it retained enough charm to see her through one more crisis.
On the other hand, Mr. Whitlatch was probably young enough to be her son. Her power to bewitch men in their prime had faded of late. Bah! If the smile failed, she would try tears. Surely one weapon or the other would melt the ice glittering in Mr. Whitlatch's gaze.
She swept her graceful hands in a dramatic, self-deprecating gesture, and addressed Mr. Whitlatch in the throbbing tones that had once held audiences spellbound. "Ah, m’sieur, you must understand! The world was a different place in 1791, was it not? I was so bewildered, so frightened—all of France in such turmoil! I was leaving my home, all my possessions behind. My life was in ruins. I hardly knew what I did. I never meant to take the rubies off your ship, m’sieur; it was a mistake."
"Yes, it was," he agreed. "A serious mistake." Mr. Whitlatch's swarthiness gave his grin the swift, white flash of a tiger's snarl.
He leaned back in the fragile, spindle-legged chair, jammed his hands in his pockets and stretched his long, booted legs across her Aubusson carpet. The effect of this rudeness was that La Gianetta's elegant receiving room seemed suddenly small and stuffy. Trevor Whitlatch was a large man. He inhabited an impressive physique, and several years at sea and abroad had darkened his already harsh features. This, together with the careless way he shrugged into his clothes, gave him an out-of-doors air that dwarfed most interiors. Gianetta fervently hoped her delicate furniture would hold him. She could ill afford to replace it.
Mr. Whitlatch's unexpected demand could not have come at a more unfortunate t
ime. She was bitterly aware that her desirability increasingly depended upon illusion. She still possessed her hypnotic, lightly-accented voice and remnants of the exotic beauty that had made her famous, but she knew that her prominence among London's demimonde was due more to her celebrated name, and the style in which she lived, than what remained of her personal attractions. If her creditors began to suspect how perilously close to bankruptcy she was, they would hound her into debtors' prison.
She schooled her features into a look of gentle inquiry. "May I ask what makes the collection of this old debt suddenly a matter of importance? I thought, naturally, that you forgave my little misstep. A small thing to miss, among the riches you bore on that ship alone—and you with so many more ships, so many more voyages! I daresay you would have given me the rubies, had I asked for them. Such a generous young man you were! And I so destitute! I believed if you noticed the loss at all, you considered it a charity, m'sieur."
His smile turned sardonic. "I prefer to choose my charities, madam, not have them forced upon me by theft."
"Then why did you not demand the jewels' return immediately? I have heard nothing from you for eleven years. Can you blame me for thinking you considered the rubies a gift?"
"Yes, I can blame you," he said affably. "I do blame you. I thought I made that clear."
"Ah, yes, today! But then? Then, m'sieur? I would have returned them to you at once, I swear!" La Gianetta made play with a fine pair of eyes.
Mr. Whitlatch was unmoved. "Return them to me now," he offered.
She spread her hands helplessly. "Now? I do not keep them in my house, m’sieur."
"No, you don’t," he agreed blandly. "Because you sold the rubies immediately upon your arrival in England."
