Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

Madrigals And Mistletoe (8 page)

BOOK: Madrigals And Mistletoe

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“What I mean, Mama, is that his lordship was probably recommending you to quite some other person! Are you sure it was Plutarch?”

“No, but it sounded deadly dull at all events!”

There was no answer to this, for Cordelia could only think her mama very likely right. Her betrothed, though singularly unimaginative, tended to regard himself as an authority on most subjects. He would look down on a Gothic because that was the correct thing to do. Similarly, though he would blanch at the thought of
reading
what was in his extensive library, he would have ensured he had all the classics and most of the Greek and Roman works at least. All properly leather bound and placed upon his shelves according to height and colour, no doubt! She pinched herself for this uncharitable thought. Lord Henry had been sincere and kind enough to make her an offer. She must never allow herself to sneer at him, however silently. For the tenth time that day she wondered whether she could, in all kindness, jilt him. She sighed and thought not. Even if Seraphina
did
contract a spectacular marriage with the duke, it would be grossly unfair of her to insult him and make him a laughingstock before all society.

No, best make the most of things and try, at least, to accord him respect if not total comprehension. Rhaz's black eyes mocked her in her imagination.
He
would not cry compromise, she was sure. If he . . . But, no, her thoughts were running on far too dangerously. Perhaps the imminent lesson with the captain would do her some good. Surely, the serenity of the harpsichord might serve to soothe her tumultuous passions. Perhaps she would sing, too. Very likely the discipline of honing her voice and concentrating on scales would reduce her pulses and force her to a steadiness that Lord Henry would approve of if he only took a moment from his thoroughbreds to think on it.

She stood up. “I am ready when you are, Captain Argyll!”

He smiled into her perfect features and wondered why on earth his heart did not flutter as it did when addressed by her wayward sister. Still, he
liked
what he saw of the clear, steady grey eyes and the soft expression that lit her face when she spoke. He wondered at the faint wistfulness he detected behind her dark, sultry lashes, but he was far too polite to inquire. Instead, he stood up and made a small, slightly deferential bow to the ladies. Whilst he took care not to be high-handed, he was also loath, in his new role, to be too subservient. The attitude he adopted must have been most satisfactory, for Ancilla smiled benignly on him and bade him a very good morning. Cordelia followed him through the door with only a small, quick backwards glance at her sister. It was no joy to her that her piquant face looked miserable.

EIGHT

Rhaz, Lord Doncaster, thundered across the turf at breakneck speed. The dewy leaves and faint flashes of cornflower and yellow left but a hasty, ill-formed impression on his faraway mind. For a moment he felt himself transported not to the far side of his bounteous estate, but to the formal rigours of the ballroom, with its bright gilt drapes and fashionable red silks. Candelabras of brilliant crystal seemed more real to him than the scent of horseflesh and leather that crept into his nostrils and jostled to find space in his thoughts.

As his mount slowed to a trot and finally edged towards the inviting water, my lord's eyes closed, shuttered against the morning sun and the tumultuous images that kept surfacing, unbidden, into his consciousness. He set his gun down and swung his legs over the stallion, murmuring soothing words of praise. Such kindness was typical of the dukeâsecond nature rather than concerted effort.

It would certainly have taken more than a little concerted effort to forget a certain Miss Cordelia Camfrey, whose laughing silver grey eyes were becoming a source of discomfort to the duke. And her deep, rich ebony hair . . . He sighed. So nonsensical to be fretting over a woman, and one that he had met just once, at that. Still, he'd felt an intangible connection that did not stop at mere admiration. For the hundredth time he cursed himself for a fool for not taking advantage of those smiling wide lips when he'd had a chance. A curious thought crossed his mind yet again and he shrugged it off crossly.

No, it was
not
time he consider marrying. Nor was it likely that he would honour the line with a connection so far beneath him. Lastly, of course, there was the small matter of her tardiness. Quite simply, he had been a laggard. The sad result of this circumstance was that the lady in question was alreadyâvery definitelyâengaged.

His grace sighed as he plucked an elderberry from a wild bush and flung the fruit as far as he could into the river. He'd made inquiries and nothing that had been presented to him thus far served to dispel the gloomy knowledge that Lord Henry Winthrop was a pompous windbag with nothing more pressing on his brain than the hocks of his carriage mounts.

The duke stared wryly into space and wondered what such a likable young lady was doing accepting the hand of such an unlikely suitor. The answer was not very far away, and it made the furrows on my lord's brow deepen considerably. The moment he had stared into Miss Cordelia Camfrey's honest eyes he had been struck by the strength of her character. It was disappointing to feel she was marrying for money, but he could think of no other explanation likely to serve, except rank and title. Either way, the thought left a bitter taste in Rhaz's very masculine mouth as he turned his horse around and made for the house.

“Helena, I
do
wish you would stop being such an addlepated jaw me dead! I do believe you are more interested in the stables than you are in my comfort!”

Whilst cousin Helena made haste to deny this accusation, Rhaz could not help feeling the truth was well founded. Helena Moresbyâhis cousin by marriage and chatelaine of the large country seat he was pleased to think of as a home away from homeâwas ineffably a woman of the countryside, more interested in the horses than their master. At times, Rhaz was grateful for this singular lack of attention from her. He was used to being fawned upon by any number of people and being treated as second fiddle to any bug-bearing, lice-infested, flea-faring stallion was just the sort of irony that his quick, incisive brain enjoyed.

Still, he could do without the ceaseless prattle and inevitable scolding as he handed the reins over to his head groom and asked for the time. Lady Helena pointed shortly to a clock and bade him not sit on the well-stacked bales of hay, for his riding clothes were wet and like to dampen the stable straw. At first, Rhaz thought she was quizzing him and his fine, mettlesome jaw moulded into a quick grin. The gesture was not met with humour, but rather by a grunt and a stern adjuration to do as he was bade.

Grumbling somewhat at this summary treatment in his own home, Rhaz checked that the horse was adequately hosed and housed, then made his way up to the great doors of the country retreat. His cousin followed in his footsteps, lamenting roundly that he had not purchased
half
the animals she would have liked him to have done at Tattersall's latest auction.

My lord did not trust himself to reply. Tattersall's had been nothing short of a dead bore. The only animal of interestâa midnight stallion of promising originâwas indisputably short in the hocks. Its owner, a florid man with a belly that protruded from faded buckskins, had looked unaccountably put out by his grace's churlish refusal to sport his blunt. But refuse he had and unwittingly forged for himself another vapidly jealous enemy. Such things ceased to bother Rhaz, who was now inured to the self-seeking pettiness that seemed to be the cloying outcome of rank and fortune.

Instead, as he headed towards his conservatory, he bent his mind to a way he might honourably rid himself of his guest. Lady Helena Moresby was a good-hearted soul but a sad trial to one who wished to be left to his own devices. He wished to be free, without fear of unintentional rudeness, to make his own purchases. He thought fretfully that he should not have to apologise for being astute enough to resist being humbugged into buying high steppers short on their paces. Rather gloomily he reflected that Lady Helena was almost as bad, by all accounts, as the good Lord Henry.

He smiled at her politely and murmured that he would like to take the morning to look over his accounts. When she had gone, he stared at the sun filtering through the delicately curved windowpanes of his conservatory roof. Though he was pleased with the way Nash had used the revolutionary new curved iron glazing bar to good effect, his thoughts were by no means on the elegant domed glass above his head. True, the odd splash of sunlight reminded him, unaccountably, of sparkling silver grey eyes, but he forced himself to look beyond this intruding image. Something short of unkindly
evicting
poor, well-meaning Helena had to be done about her. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. He dragged his reflections two steps back and cocked his head to one side. Helena as trying, sap skulled and equine mad as Lord Henry? The strangest germ of a notion began to reveal itself in his intelligent, well-ordered and intolerably handsome head.

Miss Haversham peered at Seraphina with semiblind eyes. Her hands trembled slightly as she selected a book from her heavy, mahogany shelves. “If it is not too much trouble, dear. . . .”

“Not at all!” Seraphina moved across the room to help. As her eyes flickered over the title she sighed:
Mrs. Parsons Guide to Good Husbandry and Household Harmony: A Treatise on Etiquette and Other Matters Relating to the Home
. It would, she considered, be a long morning.

Miss Haversham fussed over her and rang the little tea bell by her side. It was not long before a tray of refreshments was wheeled in and Seraphina bidden urgently to partake. Seraphina's thoughts were far away as she smiled politely and bit into a coconut-and-treacle macaroon. She wondered about how her sister was doing and, more, the types of teaching methods the good Captain Argyll employed.

When she finally took up the tome, there was such a decided flush upon her cheeks that it was well that her hostess's eyesight was not all that it used to be. Seraphina should have been suitably edified by the instructive text, but sad to say, she was not. As the hands slowly crawled across the newfangled pendulum clock that was Miss Haversham's pride and joy, the young Miss Camfrey was devising plots and stratagems to ensnare her tutor. Reprehensible, of course, but understandable in a lady just out of the schoolroom and in the first, fresh, diverting and infinitely delectable throes of love. The Duke of Doncaster, it should be noted, was just a fuzzy, inconsequential mist of memory to her.

Her grace the duchess, had she but divined the errant direction of Seraphina's thoughts, would have choked upon her teacup. Rhaz Carlisle, the fifth duke, teetered only on the brink of Seraphina's consciousness. In truth, as her thoughts delightfully wondered, he wasâhad he but known itâalmost banished over the precipice of her psyche. He would have chuckled to learn of this fact, for my lord enjoyed, more than most, an ironical turn of mind.

Still, it was as well he did
not
know of it, just as it was fitting for the dowager duchess's meddlesome plans that
she
was not aware of the novel trail of the younger Miss Camfrey's musings.

Seraphina plotted and schemed as she mouthed aloud the sanctimonious pronouncements of Mrs. Parsons and her guide to a harmonious household. Ordinarily she would have laughed aloud at the receipt for thinning hair that Mrs. Parsons seemed to think would sooth any balding spouse. It required fresh honey to be poured into a still along with precisely a dozen handfuls of vines and a vast quantity of rosemary drops. The sap from this was to be allowed to drop until it turned sour. Mrs. Parsons evidently considered it beneficial to turn sweet to nastyâa fitting testament to the priggish style and self-righteous preachings of the remainder of the vile volume. With relief, Seraphina noticed Miss Haversham nodding off. When the older woman's chin had finally drooped into her chest, she closed the offending piece of literature and tiptoed from the room. She was politely escorted down the hallway and out the honey-coloured Bath-stone building. The light outside was blinding, but a welcome relief from the dim, chintz-curtained room within. Seraphina's maidâa saucy little snippet of a thingâseemed equally delighted to make her escape.

On the spur of the moment, Miss Camfrey decided to waive away the little gig that awaited her patiently outside. Instead, she took a left turn down the long, winding cobbles of Melden Terrace and turned right into town. From there, it was but a hop, skip and jump past Hookham'sâshe had forgotten entirely to step in for Ancilla's Minerva Press volumesâand a short walk to Pritchard's, the music shop. What she bought there must remain a secret, but it was a thoughtful, determined and slightly mischievous Seraphina who wended her slow way home.

“You have an excellent tone, Miss Cordelia!”

“Good luck rather than dedication, I am afraid, Captain! I really ought to apply myself more.”

“Would you care to join in our lessons?”

Cordelia's mouth twitched. “The ones you
hope
to give, Captain?”

He laughed, but there was a firmness about his jaw that did not fool the perceptive Miss Camfrey. “The ones I
intend
to give!”

The sudden glint in his eye made Cordelia almost sorry for the outrageously absent Seraphina. The captain looked just the type to brook no nonsense. Probably just what Seraphina needed, on reflection, though Cordelia was only too happy she did not need to attend the inevitable fiery sessions. “Perhaps now and again I shall, Captain, but I am perfectly positive Seraphina would prefer to study by herself.”

The captain looked sceptical and raised such comical brows that Cordelia allowed a chuckle to escape her. “Truly, sir! When she applies herself I am convinced she will be as butter in your hands.”

The captain permitted himself a luxurious image of this that would probably have brought a blush to both sisters' cheeks. He said nothing, however, but neatly stacked the scores in a rosewood cabinet trimmed with a medley of rare zebra and tulip wood. When he commented on the cabinet, Cordelia's eyes lit up. It seemed it was one of the few reminders she had of her dear papa. It was he who had installed the music room and procured all the furnishings including the little spinet and the harp that remained, as yet, untouched.

The captain noticed Cordelia stifling the sparkle of unbidden tears and became silent. Her eyes sparkled silver and for an instant he was struck by the ethereal quality of her beauty: jet black hair against creamy skin and dreamy pink lips that put the most exquisite of autumn blooms to shame. Still, his heart beat steadily and he experienced none of the flutter of sapphire and auburn that Seraphina's strange mix of colouring wrought inside him.

He checked the time on a tiny fob he pulled from his modest waistcoat of serviceable green merino. Time, he thought, that his errant pupil returned. If she did not, he would take a walk through the woods and whistle some of the dark refrains that seemed to jostle through his mind. Dark as in mysterious and haunting rather than as in purely sinister. He could hear deep bass wrestling with the lighter, sweeter, more velvety tones of cello and lute. There could be no doubt that the renegade Miss Seraphina was contributing to the urgent notes that seemed to press against his temple in an attempt at passing through the boundaries of intangible to real.

Cordelia could see his thoughts were far away as she nodded quietly in his direction and shut the door behind her.

“Good morning, Miss Seraphina! Too beautiful a morning to waste indoors, is it not?”

“I thought you were coming to find me and scold!”

“Should I have been?” His keen eyes raked her up and down and she had the goodness to blush.

BOOK: Madrigals And Mistletoe

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