Christmas Cinderellas

by Sophia James

‘And the house reaches out somehow to claim you, too, doesn’t it? Reeling you in with its history and its solidness? Is your aunt coming to stay for Christmas?’

  ‘She is. And your father was pleased to hear it, for he enjoys her company.’

  ‘Alistair Botham is arriving with all his family as well. Seems he is feeling lonely over there in Wales. And Seth Douglas has asked me if they can join us, too, if there is room.’

  ‘A long table of good friends and family,’ she replied. ‘What could be better than that?’

  ‘A night alone with you,’ he returned without pause, and kissed her soundly. ‘You are curvier now than you were on the night we first made love, Ariana, and I like it.’

  ‘The night Alexander was conceived...’

  ‘And I pray to God we will have other children as easily. Lots of them, I hope. But a girl next time, with your eyes and smile, would be agreeable.’

  A cry from the cradle had them both bending, and she lifted her son in her arms and rocked him quietly.

  ‘Your papa is just instructing me on your brothers and sisters, sweetheart. How do you feel about that?’

  When he closed his eyes again and fell back into slumber they both laughed.

  ‘We have some time now, if you are willing?’ North whispered.

  ‘When am I not?’ she whispered back.

  ‘Ariana, I love you more than I have ever loved anyone before—a thousand times more. If I had not jumped into that doorway on Regent Street—’

  She interrupted him. ‘We would have found each other anyway. I swear it. We were meant to be together, and all that had come before for both of us was only leading up to this.’

  She put Alexander down and tucked him in. She would ask the nanny to come and sit with him while she took North upstairs, but first...

  Leading her husband over to the lintel of the door, she bade him look up.

  ‘Mistletoe?’ The smile on his face was knowing.

  ‘You told me it is a custom that began in Greece in marriage ceremonies, because of its association with fertility, and I know the Georgians continued it in the games they enjoyed at Christmas.’

  ‘You are an expert now? A reformed lover of the season? A woman with an abundance of Christmas knowledge?’

  ‘Only because of you, my North,’ she answered, and leaned in to kiss him.

  Invitation to the Duke’s Ball

  Virginia Heath

  For my Grandpa Reg, who loved Christmas

  and always put his tree up in October.

  Chapter One

  December 1818

  Eliza Harkstead was, without a shadow of a doubt, the blandest person in the room.

  In a sea of jewel-coloured silks and sumptuous warm velvets she was an insipid, uninspiring and monotonous festival of brown. From the unruly and nondescript dark curls pinned ruthlessly to the top of her head to the tips of her practical tan boots she was as drab as a dust sheet in a gloomy old attic. And, visually at least, as dull as dishwater that had been used to wash a sink full of chocolate pots.

  Instantly forgettable and practically invisible.

  So brown, in fact, that she blended perfectly with the panelling.

  To test that theory, Eliza was sorely tempted to splay herself against the Duke of Manningtree’s ancient woodwork in the forlorn hope that she might miraculously disappear from his depressingly cheerful Yuletide festivities completely before they had really started.

  Two hours in and already she knew it was doomed to be a depressingly long three days. At this punishingly slow rate it would feel more like three weeks by the time the wretched masquerade ball crawled around on the day before Christmas Eve.

  Eliza loathed balls at the best of times—largely because she was always on such a tight budget that she felt miserably underdressed. But at a masquerade, where everyone went ridiculously over the top, even in her very best coral frock she was doomed to be uninspiringly underwhelming. Although at least it wasn’t brown.

  She stared down at her mud-coloured skirt and sighed. Her own stupid fault, she supposed. When she had been told this was an informal ‘getting to know you’ afternoon tea, which would be followed by an invigorating tour of the grounds, she had believed it. But, while she was sensibly dressed for the anticipated walk, everyone else had obviously come here to shine.

  Dukes did that to people.

  All the gentlemen wanted to become his friend and all the ladies—all the many, many, many hordes of single ladies, gathered here in their droves—wanted to become his wife. Her silly cousin Honoria included.

  And while they waited for the Duke to return from his ‘urgent business elsewhere’, those same ladies swarmed around his tall, dark and handsome brother. She had met the dashing and effervescent Lord Julius Symington before—not that he would remember her, of course. He was quite the catch in his own right, with his own estate and fortune bequeathed to him by his eminent father, so if the ladies failed to snare themselves the Duke on this visit at least they still had the spare.

  The poor man would have to beat them off with a stick if they became any more boisterous. Already those eager girls were practically climbing over one another to inch a little closer to his person.

  All rather pathetic, in Eliza’s humble opinion, but mind-numbingly predictable. For surely every single female of good breeding wanted a husband of even better breeding in order to feel complete. That she didn’t made her the exception, she knew.

  ‘Do you think he will be more handsome than his brother?’ Honoria was not only openly staring at the viscount, she was doing so longingly. Fluttering her eyelashes and simpering over her fan for all she was worth. ‘Because it is hard to imagine anyone being more handsome than Lord Julius.’

  Her poor cousin had only been out a year, and at just eighteen, in Eliza’s unsought opinion, was much too young to be making doe eyes at a man a decade older. She was still a child—albeit one encased in a petite but fully developed woman’s body—and was still to develop an ounce of common sense.

  ‘Stop gaping, Honoria. It’s undignified.’

  ‘I want him to be aware of my partiality...just in case the Duke decides to cast his net elsewhere.’

  ‘Men don’t want to be handed a woman’s affection on a plate. They prefer the thrill of the chase. Look at Lord Julius’s face.’ Currently surrounded by seven equally simpering and fluttering young ladies, he appeared ready to bolt at any moment. ‘He is not enjoying any of this attention.’

  ‘Do you think I should go over there too?’

  It was like talking to a brick wall.

  ‘Absolutely not! Stay here. Stop staring at him like a starving dog at a butcher’s window and try to be a bit mysterious.’ If she was any more obvious, poor Honoria might as well be carrying a placard. ‘Better still, turn your back to him and focus your attention on this magnificent art collection. It’s lauded as being one of the best in England.’

  She steered her immature cousin in the direction of the fireplace, where a very stern-faced ancestor of the Duke posed resplendent in Tudor garb, captured for posterity in vibrant oils.

  ‘Look—that’s a Holbein.’

  ‘I always thought Holbein was a place in town. I am sure Mama has taken me shopping there a time or two.’

  Eliza almost groaned aloud. ‘That is Holborn, dearest. This is a Holbein... E. I. N. He was a sixteenth-century painter who—’

  ‘Honoria!’ The dulcet tones of Aunt Penelope came out of nowhere. ‘What are you doing over here when Lord Julius is over there?’ She grabbed her daughter’s arm and pierced Eliza with irritated glare. ‘Shouldn’t you be attending to Lady Trumble?’

  Eliza bit her lip at the insulting jibe. ‘Great-Aunt Violet is having a whale of a time with her friends.’

  Aunt Penelope might want to deny that Eliza was actually part of the family as well as
her great-aunt’s companion at all costs, but if it didn’t bother Great-Aunt Violet, and it certainly didn’t bother Eliza, she was not going to deny being a blood relation purely so the social climbing Penelope could save face.

  ‘As you can plainly see, she doesn’t currently require my assistance in any way.’

  Not that she ever did in reality. Great-Aunt Violet was as sharp as a chisel and as wily as a fox. She needed a companion about as much as Honoria needed to simper over Lord Julius.

  ‘Then at least go and sit over there.’ Penelope gestured to the empty line of chairs at the very back of the room. ‘Out of the way. You are not an invited guest, Eliza.’

  Something her aunt had been at great pains to remind her all the way here.

  ‘You are here in a servant’s capacity. And, as such, you really shouldn’t be socialising.’ She cast a critical eye over Eliza’s brown walking dress and rolled her eyes. ‘Especially not in a frock as dull and plain as that one.’

  With her daughter clamped to her side, Aunt Penelope marched off in the direction of the Symington spare, sliced a path amongst her silly daughter’s rivals and practically thrust the child at him while they both simpered for all they were worth.

  It was painful to watch.

  Then, to make Eliza’s living hell complete, another group of young ladies, thus far excluded from the space to simper, set up shop before her and began an overly boisterous game of charades in the vain hope that they might draw the gentleman’s eye. Each considered and narcissistic mime was accompanied by much squealing and artful breathy laughter which grated on each and every one of Eliza’s sensible nerves.

  It all begged the question—if they were this desperate to court Lord Julius, what nonsense would they resort to for his brother the illustrious Duke?

  Longingly, she stared towards the open door to her left. With the Duke’s arrival depressingly imminent, would anyone notice if she slipped away?

  A quick glance to the right confirmed that her indomitable Great-Aunt Violet was in her element and thoroughly enjoying holding court amongst the gaggle of older matrons ensconced in the corner. As she was the only person in the room likely to miss her, or even talk to her for that matter, and Aunt Penelope would be delighted to see the back of her, Eliza decided to seize the opportunity and escape, secure in the heady knowledge there would be a book in what was bound to be the well-stocked library with her name on it. Because there was always a book with her name on it, and she would much rather lose herself in its fascinating pages than sit here slowly dying inside from the interminable boredom of the most tiresome of all house parties.

  A friendly footman pointed her in the correct direction, and after a full five minutes of walking the length of a gallery aptly named the Long Gallery, she finally found Jerusalem. The biggest, tallest, most book-stuffed library she had ever seen.

  The dark oak shelves spanned between shiny marble floor to the towering domed ceiling, covering every inch of wall. Enormous arched windows flooded the space with light, while a fireplace which must be a good eight feet wide by eight feet tall crackled brightly with enough comforting warmth to effectively banish the brisk December chill outside, irrespective of the sheer size of the space.

  Overwhelmed and overawed, she spun in a slow circle and inhaled the wonderful aroma of print-covered old pages. Perhaps this dreadful week wouldn’t be quite so bad after all now that she had found this oasis?

  There really was nothing like the comforting smell of books. Books that would expand her mind or whisk her away to exciting places and great adventures she secretly yearned for but was too sensible to chase. There was enough here to keep her thirsty mind sated for twenty years or more, and in the absence of any chance of a decent conversation, which the outspoken and inquisitive aspects of her character adored above all else, it hinted at salvation.

  Spoilt for choice, she ran her fingertips over a row of leather spines in the closest bookcase until she found an old friend—The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha was one of her father’s favourites, and he had read it to her and her mother, from cover to cover when they had been snowed in at an inn one Christmas. Seeing as she was stuck here now, albeit without all the snow and the lively company, it seemed a rather fitting choice.

  With the book in her hand, she went in search of a chair to sit in, but bizarrely found none. What sort of person had such a magnificent library and didn’t put a single seat in it?

  The sort that didn’t read, that was who.

  What a criminal waste of all this knowledge and escapism.

  Her already low estimation of the elusive but doubtless pompous and self-absorbed Duke of Manningtree went down several notches. Even his enormous windows failed to have windowsills big enough for her to rest her bottom on.

  In desperation, she wandered to the furthest end of the library, only to discover it continued via a narrow book-lined passageway tucked into the corner and hidden from plain view. Intrigued and determined, she followed it, turned the corner of some more bookshelves—and stopped dead.

  His head bent over a huge desk in this small anteroom, a tawny-haired man in spectacles was scratching copious notes into a huge ledger with economic haste. At her gasp, he looked up, clearly surprised by her intrusion, bright blue eyes blinking back at her through the lenses of his glasses.

  So very handsome it quite took her breath away.

  Like her, he was plainly dressed. He wore an austere dark coat over an equally plain dark waistcoat. The comforting uniform of those born to serve.

  ‘I am sorry to have bothered you, but I was looking for a chair...’

  And the only visible seat seemed to be the cosy-looking leather chesterfield on the opposite side of this small and secret reading nook.

  ‘And finally I have found one. Do you mind if I sit here for a little bit and read?’

  She waved Don Quixote for good measure. He didn’t smile. Which was a shame, because he had a very pleasant face. An excellent pair of shoulders too, if the fit of his unfussy black coat was any indication.

  ‘I promise I shan’t disturb your work.’

  Apparently he needed to give her simple request some thought, which he did with an exceedingly put-upon expression, before he huffed out a sigh. ‘If you must.’

  He might well be good-looking but his manners could do with some improvement she decided, and she seriously considered telling him so before stomping off to find somewhere else to while away the afternoon. But as this distant and silent library was the farthest she could get from the house party without leaving the house, and because she was much too stubborn to be bullied out of this magnificent library by a man with undoubtedly the same lowly rank as she, Eliza dug her heels in.

  It was one thing being put in her place by Aunt Penelope—after years of consistent censure whenever they collided she expected nothing less from her—but it was quite another thing entirely from a complete stranger with an inflated sense of his own importance.

  ‘Oh, I must, sir. As I fear my very sanity depends upon it.’

  She wouldn’t allow his lack of manners to spoil her blissful and very likely short-lived stretch of freedom. Her sensible papa would urge her to use diplomacy to get what she wanted, rather than the pithy observations which came to her naturally, so she forced herself to smile, acknowledging that she might be feeling tetchy more because of Aunt Penelope than because of this clerk.

  ‘You have my word I shall be as quiet as a mouse.’

  Despite her obvious olive branch, he failed to smile in return. Instead, looking bemused and a tad irritated at her intrusion, he went back to scratching whatever it was he was scratching so intently with his quill while she settled into the sofa, opened her book and tried her damnedest to forget he was there.

  Which, for some reason, and despite her stubbornness, proved to be completely impossible. Perhaps because she could sense he
was staring at her and, for some inexplicable yet overwhelming reason, she really wanted to stare back.

  Chapter Two

  Marcus tried to ignore her while he waited for the inevitable nonsense to begin. As much as he tried to shield himself from the voracious husband-hunters at what could only be described as his mother’s annual Yuletide menagerie, there was always at least one dangerously intrepid young lady who took matters into her own hands and calculatedly sought him out, recklessly unchaperoned.

  To say it was an irritation, when everybody else, including his mother, thought him to be with his solicitor on urgent business until two, was an understatement. A quick glance at his pocket watch conveniently placed next to his ledger on the desk, showed he had a scant ten minutes of freedom left, and he really needed each and every one of them if he was to get the weekly estate accounts finished today.

  Clearly he should have hidden in his dressing room instead of the library. But because he loved the library, and it was usually the last place any of those determined young ladies ventured, and because he’d had all the chairs removed as a precaution, an unwelcome unaccompanied female visitor here so early in the proceedings was a surprise. Especially as there was so much going on in the drawing room on this, the first interminable afternoon of three interminable days.

  Yet she had gone duke-hunting on the off-chance anyway.

  Any second now those exceedingly pretty eyes would lift from the pages of the book she was pretending to read and she would either gaze up at him through those ridiculously long, dark lashes shyly or she would do it boldly.

  They both knew that she knew he was the Duke of Manningtree.

  He might have deftly avoided the cloyingly predictable balls in the ton for the past year, but he had been dragged to hundreds of the damn things before that so he had to accept that his face was instantly recognisable. But alas, Marcus the man wasn’t anywhere as attractive or interesting as his Dukedom, and he sincerely doubted any of those women ever really saw him anyway. Which was why he had withdrawn from blasted society in the first place.