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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

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BOOK: Madrigals And Mistletoe
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He blanched. “Indeed, no, madame! That would be quite dreadful indeed.” At which, he made a last quick bow in Cordelia's direction and edged himself busily down the corridor.
Cordelia turned back to the window, strangely calm for one who had just whistled away the chance of becoming a wealthy young lady of rank and title. The bubble glass glistened for a moment in the sunlight and she had to squint slightly to look through it. The first snows were falling white on the ground and the ready ranks of under butlers and parlour maids were slowly dispersing to resume household chores and last-minute errands before the season's joy was finally upon them. Cordelia was just turning away from the window when her eyes were arrested by the sight of Rhaz, dark hair unmistakable against the snow, looking up at the rounded window as if by impulse. She could not be sure, but she was almost certain, by the imperceptible lifting of her spirits, that he had seen her. He raised his hand to his mouth and allowed a kiss to float slowly upwards in the cold sunshine. Cordelia closed her eyes and could almost feel the intangible caress settle upon her lips in a teasing, wonderfully poignant invitation for more. Her hands were still guiltily touching her lips, her face flushed as though the embrace had been real, rather than an ethereal salute of the spirits, when Seraphina tripped into the sunshine and headlong into Rhaz's strong, ready arms.
Cordelia noted with mingled amusement and chagrin that the naughty creature had decided to forgo a bonnet and that her footwear was more suited to the dance room than to the frosty, slippery Christmas morning. Not surprising then that she should plunge headlong into the duke's arms, for first sleet is notoriously slippery and elegant buckled pumps—no matter how fashionable the satin—are not likely to offer much protection against a sprained ankle or an icy fall. The fifth duke was though. Very handsomely he scooped her up in his arms before laughingly settling her down again and conversing with her with a sudden earnest frown that constricted Cordelia's heart and forced her to turn from the window.
She was unused to missish tears, but she could not deny the sting at the back of her eyes as she realised she would have to resign herself to her fate more quickly than she had imagined. If Rhaz was in love with Seraphina, there was nothing more in the world she could hope for than to maintain the honest friendship of both. She adored Seraphina and would never contemplate providing the smallest obstacle to her happiness. The ready understanding that had seemed to develop between herself and his grace must be allowed to die a natural death. The sentiments she felt for him were not at all sisterly and best forgotten, given that she wished to spare both him and Seraphina all pain. If she felt pain, then so be it—it would be private. The relief of not imminently having to wed Lord Henry coursed through her veins once more. That, she knew, would have been untenable.
To give one's heart to a man was one thing. To marry another under such circumstances was untenable to her innocent, honest thinking. She sighed as she caught sight of herself on the glass that reflected her figure and merry, sprigged Christmas trim. Doubtless she would soon be putting on caps and sitting with the dowagers at the season's festivities. She dully reflected that, if she could not have Rhaz, she did not care.
EIGHTEEN
Unbeknown to Cordelia, the conversation that was ensuing in the forecourt was very dissimilar from the one her mind insisted on superimposing on her fantasies. Seraphina had indeed fallen headfirst into the duke's strong, capable arms, and whilst he had broken her fall and thus spared her the indignity of careering face first across the icy path, his words upon catching her were not nearly so loverlike as Cordelia supposed. He was scolding her, in fact, for being such a widgeon as to careen headfirst into his impeccable morning coat of Bath superfine, superlatively cut by Weston and fitting so closely to his frame that it could almost be taken for a second skin. Seraphina had rather pertly commented that the garment was too close fitting to crease, so his grace need have no fears on this score. At which, his grace had set her down firmly on her own two feet and chuckled throatily at her impudence.
“Have you no sensibility, Miss Seraphina? I daresay it is not at all the thing for a young lady to be noticing matters relating to my intimate attire!”
“I daresay not, your grace, but etiquette is one lesson I simply cannot get the mastery of!”
The duke's eyes twinkled appreciatively. “Touché, Miss Seraphina! Perhaps your sister and I are not suitable teachers! Is it possible that it is
we
who are at fault? I am given to understand that, if the tutor is able,
any
instruction may be satisfactorily accomplished. Do you not find this to be the case?”
His tone grew suddenly serious and he eyed the younger Miss Camfrey speculatively. He was interested in her answer, for if, as he suspected, his good friend was smitten, it was as well that he approved of her character. Frederick would never want a biddable wife—heaven forfend!—but one open to reason would be essential. He watched as Seraphina coloured quite delightfully, her recalcitrant locks flowing freely from her shoulders, blithely regardless of the fact that they should be safely tucked up beneath a bonnet of gay chip straw at the very least.
Seraphina's sky blue eyes darkened almost imperceptibly to lapis lazuli. “I am not sure I understand the direction of your thoughts, my lord! If you consider my music master to be having an undue influence on me—”
“I did not say undue.”
The words hung in the air between them until Seraphina's eyes widened suddenly into comprehension. “You mean . . . ?”
The duke nodded. “Exactly. I mean that I consider him to be having some influence upon your behaviour and outlook and that—if I may say so, madame—resounds entirely to both your credits. You will make an excellent wife, Miss Seraphina!”
Seraphina looked into the handsome, searching face and felt a strange jerk of the heart. Not because the man before her played havoc with her senses—his jaw was too firm and his features too dark for her taste—but because he spoke of marriage, and in a sudden, quite overwhelming fit of sudden self-knowledge, Seraphina knew she could not have him for all the teas of the orient.
“Your grace, I am sorry. I have tried to love you—indeed I have—but I find I simply cannot!” She blurted out the words so quickly that they fell from her lips in a tumble the duke found hard to decipher. “You are excessively handsome and undeniably charming and I do so
wish
to love you, but you see . . . you see . . .” She bit her lip, too shy to continue. Impossible to confess she was in transports over a mere music master when the highest-ranking peer of the realm was doing her the singular honour of offering for her hand!
The duke's smile was wry as he took her hand in his and walked with her a little way from the prying eyes at the windows and into one of the private shrubberies that ran off from the more formal winter gardens. He was not to know that at least two sets of eyes wistfully witnessed the unorthodox, unchaperoned action.
The elder Miss Camfrey drew herself up tall, dried her eyes firmly and made for her chamber. There were some urgent, last-minute adjustments she needed to effect to her dress. If these adjustments required more than a few tears, a disgusted sniff at some particularly nasty smelling salts and a stern lecture on how not to behave like a silly, moonstruck halfling, none but herself was the wiser.
Frederick's laughing, sky blue eyes blazed sudden, icy fire as he watched the wrenching spectacle of his dearest friend compromising his only true love. If he were so reckless with her reputation as to take her unchaperoned into the briar rose garden, it could mean only one thing: He had taken her there to propose. Though he might wish, at that moment, to thrust a dagger through the heart of his dearest friend, he did him the justice of knowing that Rhaz did not play fast with respectable, well-bred young women. Before the day was out, the engagement would be announced.
Frederick's heart was heavy as he watched the last of Seraphina's delicious train of ribboned silk disappear behind the yew trees and roses. Christmas seemed suddenly but a dreary thing to the normally effervescent Lord Frederick. The letter from Mr. Beckett rustled in his pocket. Ironic to think that the tidings it bore had the power to alter his life and they were now as useless as the parchment the words were written on. What use were stupendous royalties and sudden financial freedom when the woman he loved was plighted to another?
Slowly, he crossed to the stables, eyed up most of the horses with disfavour and settled on a long, lonely but much needed walk. He hardly noticed that his shining doeskin top boots were almost knee-high in snow or that, even as he walked, soft flakes were falling about him. Cold and the endless need to march ever onwards had been miserable features of the Iberian campaign, but they made him well equipped to cross several paddocks without thinking, taking the slippery, ice-encrusted styles as unconsciously as he took air.
Many a surprised labourer looked up from his tilling to see the tall, muscular figure appear as if from nowhere. Though he was dressed unpretentiously, there was no doubting he was a gentleman born and bred. Accordingly, several caps were doffed in his direction. The actions were wasted, for Frederick, Lord Argyll, was far too lost to see.
 
 
The duke beckoned to Seraphina and she haltingly stopped two inches from his immaculate garb. Her eyes were cast down, so she could not see the glimmer of humour that crossed the duke's aquiline features as he bade her take the white stone seat beside him. Gingerly, she did so, taking care not to let her train get caught up in some of the thorns that tangled with the sweet scent of the roses.
“I am devastated to learn that my suit does not please, Miss Seraphina!” The duke could well have asked
what
suit, but he desisted, finding it more amusing to elicit the information from Miss Camfrey herself.
Seraphina nodded earnestly. “I am very afraid your mama will be displeased, your grace!”
For an instant, the duke scowled in filial outrage. He might have known the meddlesome dowager would have a hand in this somewhere! He said nothing, however, merely nodding gently and allowing her to continue.
Seraphina, finding him less of an ogre than she feared and needing a confidant since she dared not tell Cordelia the impecunious direction her affections were taking, peeked up at the duke and decided she might as well confide in him as anyone, since he was not likely to lecture her nor was he likely to break her confidence. Accordingly, satisfying herself on the point that he did not expect her to suddenly change her mind—he gravely assured her that he did not—she settled down to pour her heart out and confess to the unsuitable attraction she felt for a mere captain—a gentleman possibly, but fallen upon hard times definitely.
Rhaz listened to her words with interest. True, she was a mischievous little sprite,
quite
unlike Frederick's usual predilections, but he reckoned that her case was not entirely without hope. Indeed, having watched his good friend carefully over the last few evenings, Rhaz could swear Argyll was well on the way to formulating a sincere attachment. His thoughts ran to the teasing conversation he'd introduced and Frederick's uncharacteristically clipped answers. If he had formed a preference for Miss Camfrey, then his annoyance at the lighthearted teasing was explained. He wondered whether Frederick, too, was suffering from the same delusion as his love and concluded that he probably was. Somehow, the Camfrey household was suffering under the startling misconception that he, Rhaz Carlisle, the fifth Duke of Doncaster, was about to make some kind of declaration to Seraphina of the auburn hair.
How wrong they were! How could their thoughts not lead them in another direction entirely? Surely it was obvious that he was smitten beyond belief with that which was out of reach to him: Cordelia of the laughing eyes and jet black hair, of quiet strength and strong, dispassionate honesty. Cordelia of integrity . . . Cordelia of his life.
Seraphina was looking at him expectantly, awaiting a response. He raised his brows. She repeated the question, her cheeks flushed from the effort of fabricating a reason why both he and she would not suit.
“Could not you say, your grace, that I am too flighty for your tastes? I am, you know!”
Since the words were uttered with a certain naughty pride, the duke did not think it necessary to politely disagree with her. Instead, he nodded quite seriously—though the lights behind his deep, dark eyes belied his tone—and announced that she was too flighty by far.
Seraphina nodded and reflected further on why they would not suit. “Could not you say I would make an extraordinary duchess, your grace? I would forever be muddling people's rank and getting up to pranks quite unfitting to my station!”
When the duke replied that undoubtedly this was so, Seraphina looked at him suspiciously and tapped her little, elegant foot crossly against the soft, orderly grass. “Well, then, your grace! I cannot see why you persist! Release me at once, I beg you, that I may go
force
the good captain to take some notice of me!”
The duke was diverted for an instant. “Am I to understand the good music master has desisted from all attempts to attract?”
Seraphina blushed a little, remembering certain intimate moments, certain electrifying glances, the touch of his hand upon her back, his mouth. . . .
“Captain Argyll has been everything that is a gentleman, your grace! He is simply suffering from a curmudgeonly belief that, since I am intended for you, it is improper in him to entertain hopes!”
The duke looked at Seraphina in some surprise. How could Frederick—addlepated as he sometimes was—have so misunderstood the situation? Had Rhaz not practically
told
him that he was in love with Cordelia? But what exactly had he said? Thinking back, Rhaz could only deduce that it had been an episode of errors, for if he had not mentioned Cordelia by name, Frederick might well have thought his interest arrested in Seraphina. Certainly in looks she more closely conformed to his usual type. . . . In a heartrending flash of insight he realised how his good friend must be suffering. He jumped up, startling Seraphina with the suddenness of his actions.
“Miss Seraphina. I bid you pardon. I must go, but I beg you not to worry your beautiful head over this business. I shall have the lover's knot untangled for you before the day is out!”
“But what shall I tell Mama? She shall be so excessively cross with me for refusing someone as illustrious as yourself!”
The duke looked at her and a grin lit up his often stern features. “My dear Miss Seraphina! Take a moment, I beg you, to reflect a bit. Here, let me help you with your pins. You are in the most abominable shambles and I would hate anyone to think it the result of our little tête-à-tête!”
Seraphina blanched at the prospect. “Indeed, no! I am in a scrape again, am I not?”
“Not if you allow me to clip up these lovely locks of yours. Hold still. I have a sister, so I am used to such trifles.”
The duke wisely refrained from mentioning the countless lovers who had also helped him to perfect the practice of acting as a ladies' maid. He looked Seraphina up and down critically, adjusting the hem of her gown just so, unsmoothing a ruffle just there. At last he was satisfied and rewarded her with a smile.
“Have no fear, Miss Seraphina! All will be well. By the by, reflect, as I said, on what has occurred between us. You need not suffer a scold from your mama, for as sure as I am standing here I cannot recall ever having asked for the pleasure of your hand!”
“True!” Seraphina dimpled mischievously. “You must think me a hopeless hoyden! I preempted you, did I not?”
Rhaz grinned. “As a matter of fact, Miss Seraphina, I shall have to say
not!
Marrying you was the farthest thought in my head!”
“Oh!” Surprise battled with startled annoyance in Seraphina's heart. It was lowering to think that the honour of attracting a duke had not been hers, after all.
“But . . . but . . .” She felt ridiculously silly and was at a loss to fathom why the duke had been so assiduous in his attentions to the family.
Rhaz winked. “I adore you, Miss Seraphina, but not as a wife. I think a sister would suit me charmingly.”
Seraphina blinked until she finally understood the import of his words. “You mean . . . ? You cannot mean . . . ?”
BOOK: Madrigals And Mistletoe
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