Love and Other Perils

by Grace Burrowes

  “Were you lost?” Antonia asked.

  “Not lost.” He bent nearer. “Lurking.”

  His evening attire was spotless and fit him very nicely, though the width of his lapels suggested his jacket was several years out of date.

  “You are rather grandly proportioned to be successfully lurking anywhere, sir. Does the august company intimidate you?”

  He offered his arm. “Spare me from august company. I don’t mind small talk, and I came prepared for the hostess to inflict my dancing on a few of the wallflowers, but it’s the flora that sent me fleeing to Lord Chalfont’s library.”

  They reached the top of the steps, the music from the ballroom fading to a faint lilting melody. “Flora? The potted palms?”

  He took Antonia by the hand and led her to the balcony that overlooked the main foyer. “The dread greenery is everywhere. Draped from the rafters, hanging over the punch bowl. It’s even on the terrace where a man ought to be free to enjoy his cheroot in safety—not that I smoke. Even the card room isn’t safe.”

  Scientists could be eccentric. The foyer was decorated in anticipation of Yuletide, with green and red ribbons spiraling around tall candles, red bunting wrapping the stair rail, and cloved oranges hanging in the windows. Lady Chalfont was anticipating the Christmas season by weeks but she—or her professional decorator—was anticipating it with exquisite traditional flourishes.

  “What’s everywhere?”

  “Viscum album,” Mr. Haddonfield replied, keeping Antonia’s hand in his. “Mistletoe, in common parlance, though the name translates from the Anglo-Saxon as something like bird-dung-on-a-twig. Damned stuff can kill a mature tree, and what do we do with it? Make a parasite into an excuse for kissing complete strangers.”

  The supper buffet had concluded prior to the present set so neither Antonia nor Mr. Haddonfield wore gloves—not that he seemed aware of her hand in his.

  “Once mistletoe gets a start,” he went on, “the only way to get rid of it is to cut off all the limbs affected or shroud them in dark cloth. Mistletoe needs light, which is why it likes to grow far out on the highest branches.”

  “I thought you were a chemist. You sound like a botanist.”

  He dropped her hand. “One of my brothers has done some plant collecting. I’m surprised to find you here.”

  Did he mean here abovestairs, or here at the Chalfonts’ ball? “I’ve torn a hem. I’m on my way to the retiring room to effect emergency repairs.” Antonia brandished the tiny sewing kit she carried in her pocket. The attendant in the retiring room would have the essentials, but Antonia’s gown was brown velvet, and not just any color of thread would do.

  “I can stitch a hem,” Mr. Haddonfield said, taking her sewing kit and striding off down the corridor. “Come along.”

  He had her sewing kit, so Antonia followed him, though what was a chemist doing at such a gathering? “Where are we going?”

  “Not the library. At least two couples looking for a trysting place disturbed my reading. I’m supposed to be in the card room, but—here we are.” He opened a door that led to a small unoccupied music room, perhaps more of a practice room. “Nobody should disturb us here.”

  He flipped the lock, and Antonia found herself, for the first time in her adult memory, alone with a man who was neither a close family friend nor a relation.

  “This is most irregular, Mr. Haddonfield.” Though instead of feeling unsafe, Antonia was relieved to have some near-solitude, and relieved to have found an ally of sorts.

  “How is this any more irregular than disporting with you among the biographies?” he asked. “I am a gentleman, Miss Antonia, though some of what I’ve seen transpiring beneath the mistletoe this evening makes me rethink my definition of the word. Let’s have a look at that hem.”

  Most irregular. “I can sew my own hem, sir.”

  “I can sew it more quickly.” He gestured toward a chair beside the fireplace. “On board ship, we had little to do besides mend sail, play cards, and clean the brine off every surface exposed to fresh air.”

  Antonia took the seat, though she had the sense of having stepped out of the frilly, frothy world of Mayfair entertainments and onto an altogether more interesting plane.

  “When were you on board a ship?”

  “Expedition to the far north,” he said, lowering himself to sit tailor-fashion on the carpet. He flipped open the sewing case and extracted a needle from the padded cloth wedged inside the lid. “Where is the damage?”

  Antonia twitched at her skirts, shifting the material so that the part of her hem right of center was draped across Mr. Haddonfield’s satin-clad knee. Antonia’s riding habits and any outfit in a military style were created by male hands, and yet, the sight of Mr. Haddonfield’s fingers measuring off her hem was unsettling.

  “Were you avoiding the mistletoe by lurking in the library?” she asked, as he threaded the needle with brown silk.

  “Absolutely. You?”

  “If I’d known Lady Chalfont had already decorated in anticipation of the Christmas season, I would have developed a megrim. I vow some men count the exact number of paces they need to cover in order to nearly collide with a woman beneath a kissing bough.”

  Even Peter had ambushed her, though she’d turned her head at the last moment and escaped with a mere peck to the cheek.

  “As do some ladies.” Mr. Haddonfield knotted the thread and took up Antonia’s hem. “My sisters dragged me here, then abandoned me, a sacrificial lamb among the vixens. This is lovely material.”

  “I like good quality. It wears better.”

  The moment should have been awkward, but with the fire crackling in the hearth, and the faint music from the ballroom, Antonia felt peace stealing over her. The fire found gold and copper highlights in Mr. Haddonfield’s hair, while his evening attire showed off his broad shoulders quite nicely. There was an earldom held by a Haddonfield family. Perhaps Max Haddonfield was that handsome cousin pressed into escort service from time to time.

  “You like fine fabrics,” he said, bending over the material. “I like kissing, in the general case, but not when it’s contrived as the next thing to an entertainment. The men lay bets in the retiring room, you know. Reminds me of public school and not in a good way.”

  “Bets?”

  He paused in his stitching to send her a brooding look. “Will Lord Bollingbrook succumb to Miss Abbott’s abundant charms? Will Mr. Peter Nagle endure Lady A’s company beneath the kissing bough when Miss Huntly has been sending him melting glances all evening? I don’t even know who those people are, but what sort of kiss can be had when only pagan tradition or matchmaking schemes inspire the undertaking?”

  He focused again on Antonia’s hem while she made herself take a slow breath. Exactly one Mr. Peter Nagle was in attendance, and Miss Huntly was both comely and well dowered.

  “Male wagering has ever been the province of utmost folly,” Antonia said, “though I agree that one ought to kiss because one pleases to, not because some dead leaves are hanging from the nearest rafter.”

  “Exactly.” Mr. Haddonfield tied off the thread and used the tiny scissors to snip the loose ends. “All finished.” He reassembled the contents of Antonia’s sewing kit and passed it to her. “My sisters despair of me.”

  This was a confession rather than a passing remark. “My cousins despair of me.”

  He smiled up at her. “Maybe that’s why I enjoy your company. Shall we return to the ballroom?”

  Antonia rose and offered Mr. Haddonfield her hand. The gesture was inappropriate, but the man had been sitting literally at her feet, for the purpose of repairing her hem. Appropriate was apparently a lost cause.

  He took her hand and rose easily. “I was regretting my decision to attend this ball. I regret it no longer.”

  He was so wonderfully solid and tall, and his smile was so unexpectedly merry. “What became of your regret?”

  “Chased off by a sensible lady to whom I could render a small s
ervice.” His smile faded with that admission, though again he kept hold of Antonia’s hand. “I would like to kiss you. Here and now, no silly tradition to take the credit or the blame.”

  “I must ask, why me, Mr. Haddonfield?”

  He stroked his thumb over her knuckles, and even his thumb had calluses. “I’m not sure why. Kissing is unscientific, but the best of my experiments have been illuminated by strong intuition as well as logic. My intuition tells me you are sensible. You don’t babble. When you smile. . .”

  To any other man, a sensible woman who didn’t babble would be boring or invisible. “I have good teeth.” Why on earth had those words come out of her mouth?

  “What you have is a hidden capacity for mischief,” Mr. Haddonfield said, stepping closer. “You guard a kind heart, you love books, your mind is lively, and you don’t suffer fools. May I kiss you?”

  Oh, to be asked. He’d wait all evening for her answer too. Under the mistletoe, Peter had puckered up like some great land-dwelling fish, using a public situation to extort acquiescence from his victim.

  “May I kiss you back?” Antonia asked. “Not simply hold still while you demonstrate your mastery of the art?”

  “I am no expert, but I suspect kissing is akin to waltzing. Success is most likely when both parties put their best foot forward.” He slid a big, warm hand along the side of Antonia’s neck and into her hair.

  Any more brave questions evaporated from Antonia’s mind on a cloud of wonder, because really, truly, Max Haddonfield intended to kiss her.

  “Antonia?”

  “Mr. Haddonfield?” Her heart was waltzing, as were the butterflies in her tummy.

  He pressed his lips gently to hers, and so Antonia, without hesitation—without any hesitation at all—kissed him back.

  One minute, Max had been spouting inanities about the botanical properties of mistletoe, the next, he’d been courting impropriety by closeting himself with Miss Antonia in an empty music room. He’d been seized with the need to use any pretext to spend time with her someplace quiet, where sensible people could hear themselves think.

  Miss Antonia was quite sensible. Witness, she carried her own little perfectly organized sewing kit equipped with the exact colors of thread she might need to repair her ensemble. Max’s sisters didn’t do that, and he felt as if being trusted with Antonia’s petite sewing kit was a very great boon indeed.

  The lady also shared Max’s disdain for the whole mistletoe farce, which was a damned shame for the scheming fortune hunters of polite society, because she had a delightful way with a kiss.

  She maneuvered Max where she wanted him, using her fingers fisted in his hair to angle his head and her free hand on his jaw to hold him still—not that he was going anywhere. Max took a reciprocally firm hold of the Antonia, his hands grasping her sides in that tempting territory above her waist.

  She sighed against his mouth, then swiped her tongue over his lips. Desire welled, surprisingly fierce—like the woman in Max’s arms. She did it again, more gently, as if asking a question. Max answered and gathered her close as she twined her arms around his waist.

  The fire in the hearth threw out a lovely heat, the music from the ballroom faded as the set ended, and Max’s world became an investigation of how to pleasure Antonia. She liked a firm touch—on her sides, on her back, on her lovely muscular derriere. She liked sweet, slow kisses, and lots of them, and she liked to pause, cuddling closer, as if Max’s kisses were too rich to be consumed all at once.

  “Mr. Haddonfield, you have me in a state.”

  “Max.”

  She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. “Short for Maximillian?”

  “Maximus, a deuced poor jest on a fellow with seven older siblings. I used a middle name growing up because my elders could not resist making sport of my first name.” He stroked her nape, loving the combination of textures there. Warm, soft skin. Silky tresses. Delicate lace edging her collar.

  “I feel as if I’ve had a bit too much cordial.”

  Oh, the things she said. “I feel as if you are the cordial, and I want to consume the whole bottle.”

  She smiled at him a little dazedly. A curl had come loose from her coiffure to coil at her shoulder, softening her appearance. A trill of laughter in the corridor had her stepping back, though she didn’t go far.

  “You have given me something to think about, Mr. Haddonfield. I need to make an early night of it, but like you, I was regretting my decision to attend this ball.”

  “And now?”

  “I regret that I must leave this room.”

  She bussed his cheek and rustled away, pausing for a moment to smooth her skirts and assume a very correct posture before opening the door. She put Max in mind of an actress, taking a moment in the wings to don the persona of a character whom she must portray on the stage.

  “I’ll bring another cat by the library tomorrow,” Max said, “if you’ll be there.”

  “I’ll be there all afternoon.”

  She slipped out the door, leaving Max to wonder what the hell had just happened, and how soon he could make it happen again.

  Antonia had been out past midnight, so she wasn’t at her best rising for an early breakfast. She’d left the ball immediately after parting from Mr. Haddonfield, unwilling to spoil the memory of his kisses with bad punch or another inept waltz.

  Recollections of time spent with him lingered as she poured her second cup of tea, warming her in a way that had nothing to do with the fire burning in the breakfast parlor’s hearth.

  “Shall I have the coach brought ’round, my lady?” Miller, the first footman, asked. “Looks like we could get rain or worse.”

  The library was all of five streets away, but two of those streets were not the most fashionable. Morning sun was making latticed patterns on the carpet, and Miller was being diplomatic.

  “I’ll walk,” Antonia said. “If you’d accompany me, my passing will cause less talk.”

  For Antonia to walk without a chaperone was skirting impropriety, but then, she was also skirting spinsterhood. Her companion, an aunt of venerable years, never rose before noon and most assuredly never walked anywhere a coach could take her.

  So Antonia walked when she could, where she could, and ignored the veiled questions and snide remarks. Then too, she wanted to have a peek at a certain bakery on Dinwiddie Lane and perhaps buy a hot cross bun or two.

  “You sure you don’t want the carriage, my lady?” Miller asked, lifting the lid over the warming tray that held the omelet. “Weather can turn quickly this time of year.”

  The scent of cheese and oregano wafted through the parlor, and Antonia’s belly growled.

  “No carriage this morning. I find the fresh air clears my head, though you are right about the weather. I’d best enjoy the sunny mornings when they come along.”

  And the sunny kisses. Who knew a kiss could be a source of joy? The poets maundered on about earthly love and passion and all manner of folderol, and Antonia had always attributed such effusions to literary excess.

  She was rising to serve herself a portion of eggs when Peter strode into the parlor.

  “Antonia, good morning. You there,”—he waved a hand at Miller—“set a second place for a hungry fellow.”

  Miller, may his wages ever increase, sent Antonia a questioning glance as she resumed her seat, her plate still empty.

  “Please do set a place for my cousin, though I must say, Peter, this is an unexpected treat.” An ambush. Peter was still in evening attire, which might mean he’d spent the night playing cards. Whatever the case, he didn’t mind that Antonia knew he’d been out past dawn, which sat ill with her. In his way, Peter was trying to court her. Charging unannounced into her breakfast parlor while wearing rumpled evening clothes was disrespectful.

  Miller finished arranging a second set of cutlery at Antonia’s left elbow, then took up a place at the end of the sideboard, hands behind his back.

  Peter helped himself to an
enormous serving of eggs, did not ask if Antonia cared for any herself, and appropriated the teapot.

  “We caused a bit of talk last night,” he said, starting on his eggs. “You danced with only me, dear cousin. Should I be encouraged?”

  You should be hiring a dancing master. “From one dance? I no longer need stand up with every shy bachelor or gouty uncle in Mayfair, Peter. You asked for a waltz, I granted that request. When you nearly cast me into the other dancers, my ankle took it amiss, and thus I left. Watching Miss Abbott make a fool of Lord Bollingbrook under the mistletoe is entertainment for inebriates and fools.”

  Peter sent her a curious glance, then scooped three spoonfuls from the jam pot and slathered them on his toast. “Do you have a megrim, Antonia? Perhaps your female humors are vexing you?”

  Miller cleared his throat, the servant’s equivalent of boxing a guest’s ears, though if anything vexed Antonia, it was the thought of Peter encouraging Miss Huntly’s melting glances.

  “As long as I avoid the near occasion of waltzes with you, Peter, I enjoy excellent health.” Antonia passed Miller her plate, and he served her eggs and two slices of ham, her usual fare.

  “You are peckish first thing in the day,” Peter said, chewing like a squirrel. “I will remember that. Diana is the same way. A veritable virago. I say, my good man, might you fetch us another pot of tea?”

  He smiled at Miller, the eye-crinkling, jolly-good-fellow smile he frequently turned on Antonia.

  Miller, again, waited for direction from Antonia.

  “A pot of black,” she said. “My cousin is not fond of gunpowder.” Nor was Peter subtle in his machinations, for the teapot was still half full.

  Miller pointedly left the door open when he departed with the teapot.

  “I came here to apologize,” Peter said, putting down his knife and fork to pat Antonia’s hand. “I got a bit enthusiastic on the dance floor last night. Meant no harm, of course.”

  Beam, crinkle, grin.

  “You have a spot of egg on your cuff, Peter. Right next to the wine stain.”

  His smile faltered, revealing an instant of mulishness in his eyes. “I should have gone home and changed, I know that, but I wanted to make things right with you. I ought not to have asked for your waltz. I know you don’t care to dance, but people talk when a lady isn’t asked to stand up even once.”