Madrigals And Mistletoe (19 page)

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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

BOOK: Madrigals And Mistletoe
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The duke nodded. “I know it is not very gentlemanly of me, but I hope to rid you of that pompous windbag—”
“Lord Henry? Excellent notion, my lord! I shall help!” Seraphina was eager as she announced her intention of undermining Winthrop. Her eyes were just assuming a wicked sparkle when the duke stopped her short with a rueful shake of his head. “Leave the poor man be, Miss Seraphina! I shall deal with him in my own way, I assure you! I only hope I can convince Miss Cordelia—”
“Fustian! I shall
force
her to marry you!”
“How very unflattering! But I thank you for your sentiments all the same! Allow me, however, to forge my own path with your sister.”
Seraphina sighed. “Oh, very well, your grace! But if you should change your mind—”
“I shall urgently ask your assistance! Shall we abduct her?”
“Now you are being ridiculous, my lord! We shall merely tell her it is her duty to ally the family to your great fortune.”
“You shall do no such thing!” The duke's tone was sharp.
Miss Camfrey sighed. “Very well, your grace! Have it your way! I must say, though, I'd prefer
you
as a brother to Lord Henry!”
“I shall endeavour to please you, Miss Camfrey! And now, I fear, you must excuse me.”
So saying, Rhaz made her an elegant bow, lifted her hand but slightly in the direction of his lips and released her.
 
 
True to form, of course, Frederick was nowhere to be found. The great house was aroar with the sound of yew logs spitting in all the grates. Rhaz was momentarily diverted from his search by the delicious smell of chestnuts and mince pies that wafted up from the kitchens and took the chill out of the pleasant Christmas morning. For an instant, he wondered whether he dared invade Cook's domain and demand some of the tasty plum puddings he knew would be cooling on racks in the same tempting manner they had all the Christmases past. Poor Cook would doubtless suffer heart failure if yet another Carlisle were to poke his noble nose below stairs where he had no business. By all accounts—both voiced and merely hinted at—his mother had done more than enough of that sort of meddling to last them all through to yet another Christmas.
His attention was distracted by the
tap-tapping
cane of the dowager herself, who eyed her son speculatively and demanded that he take some china tea with her, for he was “forever gadding about” and she was sure she would catch her death before he paid her any due attention. Rhaz, used to this maternal treatment, smiled with remarkable charm and allowed himself to be momentarily diverted from his quest.
Despite his imperious mother's dominating, scheming and thoroughly machinating ways, he was fond of her and felt a small stab of guilt that he was going to so thoroughly pull the rug from her matchmaking intentions. Accordingly, he settled her in state on one of his prized Staffordshire chaise longues, ordered a footman to rustle up a rug and a comforting potation of negus “to revive her spirits against the chill” and promised to be a very good boy in the future. The duchess regarded him suspiciously from out of her beady eyes, but since the fifth duke looked as meek as a lamb, she merely harrumphed and called for the attentions of the “sweet young lady with the divine red hair.”
His grace smiled to himself and nodded. No question where the Camfreys had come by their confounded impression he was courting Seraphina. The dowager was about as transparent as a glass vase. He promised to ask the under butler to locate this guest and could have laughed out loud to watch the vexation cross his dear mama's features.
“Could not
you
find Miss Seraphina? I
despise
the practice of sending minions all over the house when one can quite as easily accomplish the task oneself.”
The duke nodded earnestly. “Excellent, Mama! I shall not bother Jenkins, then, for
you
, I am certain, would wish to locate the younger Miss Camfrey yourself. If it is any consolation to you, she was out in the rose garden not long since.”
The duke neglected to tell her Seraphina had been with him. The news would have cast the dowager duchess into transports, but would not serve his case well with Cordelia, should she come to hear of it. The duchess glared at him, but since she had been hoist by her own petard, she could say nothing more on that score. Rhaz took the opportunity of withdrawing speedily before her devious, scheming mind could dream up any further romantic errands.
NINETEEN
Rhaz's self-congratulations on a narrow escape came to a sudden, abrupt and quite unexpected end when his tasselled Hessians padded noiselessly across the thick-piled carpet of the morning room and into the wide, rather public area leading to the grand stairs. Almost of their own accord, as if sensing, rather than seeing a presence, his eyes moved upwards across the cantilevered steps to the third floor, where his dark gaze caught those of an embarrassed Cordelia, who had been too mesmerised by the magnificent spectacle he presented in immaculate velvet to lower her lashes becomingly or withdraw before his eyes were upon her. And they were now. Without thinking, he took the stairs as lightly as a dancer, breaching the distance between them until Cordelia felt he must surely hear the whispers of breath that shuddered from her body in strange, near painful spasms. If he did, he was inflamed by them.
Never speaking a single word, he drew her into the little-used drawing room and shut the door. His eyes did not leave hers and though Cordelia's mind screamed in agitation, her heart played traitor, moving towards him when she should have moved backwards. The action was not missed by Rhaz, who was more tempted than ever before in his life to lock the damn door and have done with the proprieties. Still, she was a guest in his home, though she would soon be its mistress. But not
his
mistress! No, he would have her as his wife or not at all.
He therefore refrained from locking the tempting little lock, but cast caution to the winds and allowed the bronze handle to remain firmly shut. This, of course, was contrary to all propriety, but my lord was having a hard time thinking of etiquette when his mind yearned to devour the beautiful young woman before him and extinguish forever the blaze of anxiety that emanated hot from her cheeks and silvery eyes. He wanted to kiss away all cares and declare her his. He wished to . . . He wished to . . . But no, that was his body speaking, not his mind. With his mind he wished to cherish, to love, to desire, to hold.
This he did, holding Cordelia close until it seemed that their bodies were moulded together and the feather-light kisses with which he covered her face were harsh brands that proclaimed her his irrevocably. He could see her eyes dilate as the nape of her neck extended towards him, yielding before he touched it. It was agony to plant a kiss as light as a butterfly when he wanted more, so much more.
He was just busying himself with her elegant pearl clasps when she remembered who he was and for whom he was destined. Cordelia was suffused with a liquid shame, for Rhaz was Seraphina's and his actions not those of a brother. She had seen them traverse the rose garden and she had come to the same conclusion as Frederick, Lord Argyll. Rhaz did not trifle with ladies' reputations. There could be only one explanation for the turn among the wild pink and cherry briar roses and that explanation would forever be a barrier between them. With an effort she pushed the duke away and allowed her misery to blaze into profound anger. Before she knew what she was about, she had dealt Rhaz a stinging blow across his face that hurt her hand almost as much as his cheek. She was glad of it, for it gave her something else to think of beyond the profoundness of her misery.
“That is for my sister, your grace! Pray do not approach me again. If I behaved wantonly this time, like a veritable hoyden—well, I admit my shame! But you acted without honour either and that I find hard to forgive! Shall we, for the sake of my dear Seraphina, pretend that nothing has occurred between us? I assure you it is the only way I know to go on!” She did not wait for a reply, but in tears fled the room.
My lord was very thoughtful as his reflection looked back at him unseeingly from the glass on the other side of the room. Mistress Cordelia had not been unattracted. With his own fingers he'd felt her, pliant in his arms. More than pliant—a willing partner . . . The memory stirred him to new passion and he had to touch his cheek in order to sober himself. A stinging blow! He suspected his little vixen had taken her frustrations as well as anger out on him.
Well, she was not indifferent, and yes, the rebuke had been earned. She was, after all, still engaged . . . He sighed. How he
wished
Lord Henry would hurry up! Matters would have to come to a head soon before he ended up doing something scandalous like . . . like . . . The naughty Seraphina's words came back to haunt him. Yes, perhaps he
would
abduct Cordelia! A little dimple played round his mouth as he thought of the logistics of such an outrageous notion. There would be the sleighs, the church bells, the mad dash across the border into Scotland, the uncomfortable damp when the snows returned and their conveyance was duly snowbound.. . . Reality shook him from this pleasant nonsense. Her grace the fifth Duchess of Doncaster was not going to be beset by scandal. She would be married in pomp and in dignity and as damn early as possible! So swearing, Rhaz slipped back down the stairs to resume his search.
From the music room, he could just catch the mellifluous strains of Scarlatti dancing through the heavy oak panelling.
He at once thought the good captain must be within, but found, to his astonishment, that it was Seraphina instead who had settled herself down by the harpsichord. She coloured when the duke stared at her in surprise. It had never occurred to him that Frederick might actually be
able
to impart some of his immense gift to the tongue-tied creature who he'd once rescued from the precipice of social disaster.
“That is very good!”
“Now it is
your
turn to be unflattering, my lord! Your tone speaks volumes for your faith in me!”
“I must confess to astonishment, Miss Seraphina!”
“Excellent, for I am practicing for the Christmas pageant this afternoon! Lady Bancroft shall be attending.”
“And since she is such a shimble-shamble scuttle-headed gabster—”
“Your grace!” Seraphina pretended shock but she could not prevent a giggle escaping her pretty mouth. The duke blithely ignored her.
“She will undoubtedly frank a hundred wafers at least announcing your newfound skill!”
“I only hope she writes to the Countess of Glaston, for I shall dearly love Lila Mersham to be apprised of the fact!”
“And so she shall if I have to send round a couple of footmen to announce it!”
The duke's suddenly blithe spirit was infectious. Seraphina chuckled as she closed the instrument and dutifully replaced her gloves. As she laughed up at him, she noticed the red patch above his cheek. The sight arrested her, for she could think of no one who could inflict such a dreadful thing upon a man who was quite the wealthiest, noblest and most singularly well-endowed gentleman in all of England. The offence was one for which lesser men could be sent to prison or death and she could not help wondering at it.
The duke followed her eyes with his own and made a rueful grimace. “I had hoped it would not be too noticeable!”
Seraphina shook her head in sympathy. “It shall not be, for Cordelia is almost a witch when it comes to herbal remedies and elixirs. I shall call her for you and she will conjure up some preparation that will salve it upon the instant.”
The duke's lips twitched at the irony. “In this instance, Miss Seraphina, I have to report you are at fault! Mistress Cordelia is far more likely to infect the other side than to offer a cure!”
“Infect the other side? What can you mean? An assault upon the person is not infectious, my lord!”
“I do hope not, for otherwise, I might spend the rest of my life permanently featureless. The bruise raises my cheek and causes my eye to narrow to a slit, does it not?”
“Don't be so absurd, your grace! But . . . Good God! Don't say Cordelia inflicted that upon you?”
“Indeed she did!” The duke was strangely cheerful despite this admission. He might have had to pay with a faint bruise to his person, but the scent of her hair still tickled his nose and the mere thought of her lips, her neck . . . He tried to concentrate.
Seraphina was clapping her hands in whoops. “Just wait till I tax her on this, your grace! Slapping a peer of the realm must surely be worse than some of the harmless pranks
I
have been scolded for!”
“Don't tease her, my dear! Our matters are in a sad tangle, and until we can somehow untangle them all to our satisfaction, Christmas will seem bleak indeed. I shall talk to your music master”—he watched Seraphina's eyes widen and her blush deepen—“and I shall intercede for you with your sister. If you truly love a man who is not your social equal, I can see no reason to allow society's priggish proprieties to stand in your way. As for your sister, Lord Winthrop and me—something will have to happen. I have strange hopes, for the sun
will
cast streams of light through the windows and that has always been an omen to me.”
His words were firm, sensitive, romantic and strangely reassuring. Instead of rushing off to tease the poor Cordelia, Seraphina decided to let her be. The first strains of the carollers could be heard far off in the distance. If she fetched her muff and took a brisk walk outside, she could perhaps meet them on their walk up to the great house.
 
 
The fifth duke cast a weary look at the drawing room door. He did not wish to be caught in his mama's wily net once more. No doubt, by now she would have tumbled to the fact that he had been taking a turn in the rose garden with Seraphina. His life would be hell if she did, for she would immediately start preparing for his nuptials and all but trap him into a declaration. No, he must tread carefully and not trust to the soothing properties of the negus to mellow his fiery mama. Accordingly, he did
not
take the main stairs as the waiting footmen fully expected. Instead, he doubled back across the gallery and out through a little used side entrance with a handy set of servants' stairs to the rear. He was fortunate that everyone was too busy with the last-minute business of hanging holly and mistletoe to notice his descent upon the lowly steps.
In less than no time he was striding towards the stables. If Frederick was not within—and he'd had his chamber checked—then he must be somewhere in the wilds of his woods. The snow was making everything white and glimmering, but the forests would be silent and dark, laden with snow and ready, in whispering anticipation, for the coming of heavenly Christmas.
It was unlikely that Frederick took a horse, for the man always preferred his own two feet to a stallion's sturdier four, but Rhaz was just thorough enough to check. If Frederick had taken a thoroughbred he might be anywhere upon the estate. If he had not, there might yet be time to catch him before the day's festivities and the advent of the great Christmas pageant. Given that Seraphina was performing, Rhaz guessed that Frederick would not be likely to play truant, however much his wayward, solitary heart might wish him to. Still, if some of the romantic threads that had them all caught up in muddled confusion could be unwoven before the church bells pealed, the fifth duke would be well pleased. He suspected now what ailed his friend and in all honesty he wished to relieve his mind. It was hard enough for him, knowing that Cordelia was truly engaged. There was no need for Frederick to suffer from the same sorrow when Seraphina was heart whole—or at least with regard to himself—and fancy free. A hint of that to Frederick might remove some of the gloom from his face and make him a more congenial Christmas compatriot than he was currently shaping up to be.
The familiar, warm smell of hay and manure assailed his senses as he stepped into the stables. The lofts were full of straw and saddles and sidesaddles of all descriptions hung neatly from great hooks jutting out from the slate brick walls. The deep, fragrant smell of polished leather mingled with the scent of the mares and the matched bays that pawed restively at the ground. A quick glance at the stalls revealed that, whilst several of the stallions were being exercised, they were all carriage horses and therefore unlikely to have been taken out by any of the guests. Rhaz was just wondering whether he should head for the woods on foot or mount his magnificent jet black beast when he heard a faint whispering at the far end of the stalls. Intrigued—for his grace was unused to his grooms whispering in his presence—he trod carefully past his teams and made his way to the south side of the stables. The sight that met his eyes stopped him short.
Lord Winthrop, red whiskered and blustery, was busily engaged in hanging a piece of bright green mistletoe above one of the stalls. Helena—horsy, bossy Helena—was simpering madly and blushing to the roots of her dull, deadly straight brown hair. Rhaz would have quietly retreated, but his head horseman had just entered from the far end and he had no desire for the sight to be shared amongst his grooms. Accordingly, he placed his own muscular and very substantial body between the last stall and the far entrance to the stables. Anyone glancing down would have seen only his grace the duke and none, of course, would have had the presumption to approach him.
Henry—dear, pompous Henry—announced to Miss Moresby that she was truly the fairest of creatures, deliciously rounded in all the correct places, a cosy armful if ever he saw one. For an instant Rhaz was amused, for he had never before thought of the lustreless Miss Moresby in such ecstatic terms. When she tittered a little and moved towards Lord Winthrop, however, something snapped inside Rhaz.

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