Mischief & Mistletoe (A Christmas Novella) (2 page)

Newgale, Christmas 1841

The calotype print was tucked into the frame of the dresser mirror. Taken only a month before his death, it was the only true image they had of their father. He sat on his favorite bench, dressed in his admiral’s uniform though it no longer fit his gaunt form. Apparently, it was a new type of portrait that captured the exact image of a person—a gift from the Duke of Willyngham.

The day it was taken was the day Emma discovered her
fiancé
had once been an officer in her father’s company.

Have you ever been on a ship—gah! The memory plagued her. What a paper scull she had been.

She hadn’t even realized the duke had had an older brother, or that his time in the Royal Navy—a promising venture, brief though it had been—had ended abruptly after his brother’s death, cut short by his duty to his family name. Apparently, he was not the cherished son, and he had taken every opportunity to earn his father’s umbrage. He had come into his title reluctantly and with much rancor, and the only father figure he had ever esteemed happened to be her own, but that was the only commendation she would allow him—that he had somehow earned her father’s respect—and that he had had enough regard for her father to wait until he was cold in the ground before coming forth with his final decision.

Scoundrel that he was, the Duke of Willyngham was apparently not the sort of man who cared for anyone but himself. He had merely wished for a breeding vessel was all. Emma understood that now, despite that her father’s portrait somehow belied the fact. She eyed the calotype. Whatever his reason for commissioning that portrait, she was certain it was entirely selfish.

“It’s cold,” she said plaintively, and shivered.

“Get dressed,” Cecile returned easily.

Emma crossed her arms, refusing to acknowledge it might be
his
presence here that affected her so profoundly. Certainly it wasn’t for his sake she found herself so persnickety this morning.

She was happy Jane, her maid, had gone home for the holidays, but only Jane would have truly understood. Nor would she have endeavored to correct her as Cecile seemed so determined to do.

“Emma, dear. You mustn’t do this to yourself.”

“I am
not
afraid to face him,” Emma reassured her brother’s wife. “If only I can find something to wear, I shall be merry as a cricket, I assure you!”

Cecile eyed the mountain of dresses that had already been discarded upon the bed and with a groan of distress, Emma shoved the gowns aside and sat glaring at the calotype. Having tried nearly every dress she owned, she was now at a loss. And truth to tell, she’d never felt more like weeping than she did at the instant—although precisely why she felt like weeping she could not fathom. In effect, this decision had been made long, long ago. Clearly he had
not
changed his mind, so why should she care what he thought of her dress?

Cecile lifted up for Emma’s scrutiny a lovely bottle-green gown, trimmed with blond lace. “How about this one?”

Emma sighed and shook her head, feeling like a wayward child. “No.”

“Perhaps he’s changed his mind?” Cecile suggested, as she searched diligently through the wardrobe for another suitable gown. “I could let you borrow the velvet plum…”

Emma glanced up and frowned. “I don’t want him to change his mind.” And the velvet plum was far too lovely… it wouldn’t do.

Really, it was better to have discovered sooner, rather than later, just how inconstant her betrothed could be. That he had spared her the scandal as long as he had in light of her father’s illness and death she was grateful for, but all else about the man rankled—everything, down to the fact that he’d chosen the holidays to invade her life once more.

Emma was certain he couldn’t care one whit how she fared for not once in nearly three years had he enquired after her well being. He had never even bothered to give her a choice in the matter of her future—or the courtesy of an explanation. He’d simply left her wondering all this time, waiting for a public announcement that was certain to ruin her life—well, she was tired of waiting. She wanted it to be over.

Now.

Lord! She had been such a silly little girl full of silly dreams, but no more. She had mistakenly believed that because her father and mother had found love, and her dear brother Andrew had found it with his lovely wife, Cecile, that she, too, could—and would—find love as well. Even more foolish yet… she had truly believed she might find love with
him
—that blackguard who had already left a trail of broken hearts!

As for that article in the Times… Emma learned only after bedeviling her brother that
The Times
had printed a scandalous account of his involvement with one of Queen Victoria’s Ladies in Waiting. Apparently, there was a suspected out-of-wedlock pregnancy that most people assumed had been conceived by the duke of Willyngham. As it turned out, the poor woman simply suffered from an illness, but it said quite enough that the entire lot of them—except apparently, Queen Victoria—were willing to blame it upon the duke so readily. No doubt he had manipulated the Queen with that rogue smile of his! Well, thankfully, the Queen was newly married now and hopefully immune to the charms of the Duke of Willyngham! Emma, for one, was determined to guard her heart at all cost. “That man is as cold as Newgale in winter!” she swore.

“He must have had something to recommend him for your father to hold him in such high esteem?”

Emma glanced at the calotype, glowering at it. “Whatever that might be,” she said. “How dare he simply appear now of all times!” With merely four days remaining until Christmas, his presence was bound to cast a pall over the entire occasion.

“It’s possible he’s changed his mind,” Cecile offered once more.

Emma gave her sister in law a censuring glance. “Really, Cecile, I wouldn’t marry that man now if I were dying and he held the only keys to Heaven.”

“Tsk.” Cecile admonished, and shook her head with disgust over the gown she held in her hand. She tossed it upon the bed, not bothering to offer it for Emma’s consideration.

“Oh, yes! That one,” Emma exclaimed, leaping up from the bed.

If he wanted indifference, so be it. She vowed to be as dispassionate as he seemed to be. The very last thing she intended to do was to dress to please the cad. Seizing the gown Cecile had tossed away, she made her mind up at last, nodding with satisfaction as she held it before herself in the looking glass. “Yes, this one will do quite nicely,” she declared, looking past the calotype. “Sorry Papa.”

“Hmmm?” Distracted, Cecile turned to look at her and then, spying the gown she held in her hand, exclaimed in dismay, “Oh, Emma!” She scrunched her nose. “Not that one, please!”

“Yes, this one,” Emma said stubbornly, and smiled.

“Oh, my dear, puce does not suit you at all!”

“Precisely,” Emma said. “And I’ve never cared much for the gown, besides. It’s ugly. The buttons are too big and the bosom much too snug. But that’s entirely the point, isn’t it?”

Cecile’s face screwed, clearly not understanding. She looked at Emma as though Emma had gone completely off her head, and then heaved a sigh, telling Emma, without so much as a word how thoroughly she disapproved of her choice and went straight out the door, closing it, shaking her head and leaving Emma to brood all alone.

Plum, puce; it was all the same, really—she’d like to see the duke wear plum, in fact—plum pie right in the face! The thought of it, childish as it was, made her smile a little.

It took Emma at least another full half hour, and a dozen glimpses into the looking glass, before she felt confident enough to leave her room. But once she did, she felt more than prepared to face the duke of Willyngham at long last.

As expected, she found the fiend ensconced in the library with Andrew, the door slightly ajar as they spoke in low tones behind it. She stood for an instant, bracing herself for the worst, and overheard him saying, “I assure you, Peters, I have not changed my mind.”

“Willyngham… have you given the least thought as to how this may appear to others?”

“It’s for the best,” the duke insisted.

Even as she told herself it didn’t matter, Emma’s heart twisted a little at his words.

“I had hoped with time—”

Emma didn’t wait to hear any more.

The last thing she wished was for Andrew to change the scoundrel’s mind. With as much dignity as she could muster, she threw the door open wide and entered the library, lifting her chin as she met her brother’s surprised gaze.

“Good morning,” she said cheerily. “Pardon, I couldn’t help but overhear. But the duke is correct, Andrew. It
is
the best recourse for all. I only wonder why it took so long for
His Grace
to finally make up his mind.” At last, she glanced at the duke, and at the sight of him, her heart tumbled a little in response.

As though he were master of this domain, he was seated in her brother’s deep blue damask chair before the window, while Andrew paced before him like an uninvited guest. Demon, that he was, his dark brows arched at her bald declaration, but he did nothing more to acknowledge her. No greeting, nothing. He simply sat, observing her, his dark blue eyes appearing slightly amused.

He wore blue, but a blue so dark as to appear black—like his eyes, she reasoned. And his boots, indeed, were black as well—black and coated with sand. Her brows rose. Had he gone down to the cliffside? she wondered. To relive the moment of her greatest humiliation, no doubt—but really, it didn’t matter. She narrowed her eyes, daring to lift her gaze to his face again. This time she resisted the urge to wrench her gaze away. Though Lord-a-mercy,
that
face—it was the same face she recalled, the one that had deceived her, the one that she had fallen in love with at first glance. His cheeks were still shadowed, his eyes still jaded. Indeed, it was that same face that had once led her to believe she could make a difference in his life.

He tilted her a look, one that might have once made her heart go aflutter, but she refused to let it affect her any longer.

Her brother sounded appalled. “But Emma, you cannot mean to say you are in agreement with this madness?”

Emma tore her gaze away from the duke. “Of course, I am.” She was through being mesmerized by the man. If her heart skipped a beat whenever he looked at her, well then, it was on account of her fragmented nerves and not a trifle more. Arching her own brow with equal disdain, she turned to face her brother. “It has been sheer folly drawing this out so long. Really, Andrew, we must thank
His Grace
”—she gave the duke a pointed glance, one with little benevolence—“for taking Father’s passing into consideration, but now it is past time to be done with this business—long past time to make this very mutual decision public. In fact, we should post it in the
Times today
.”

“Mutual?” Andrew and Lucien both echoed at once.

Devil take him if he’d meant to challenge her, but the question came of his mouth of its own accord.

Lucien straightened within his chair as Emma turned to face him, her smile decidedly frosty.

“Of course,” she said without flinching. “Do you not agree,
Your Grace
?”

Her barbed use of his title was beginning to grate upon his nerves, but for the first time in his thirty-one years, Lucien found himself at a complete loss for words. She stood before him, proclaiming
his
decision a mutual one, challenging him with her dauntless posture and with those deep brown eyes—eyes that were far more knowing then he recalled. She had seemed such a fragile little miss then, with unwavering doe eyes that had managed to make him feel profane in comparison. He frowned at his thoughts, and her chin lifted another notch. He nearly choked over the challenge. “Yes,” he relented, clearing his throat. “I do… I do, indeed agree.”

“Gad, Emma! Post it in the
Times
?” her brother asked incredulously.

“Of course,” she answered flippantly. “Why not?”

“You may rest assured it shall be posted,” Andrew said irascibly, “though the account will be anything but lauding, I assure you. The truth is that those hounds will write what they choose and not what you please!”

“Not necessarily,” Lucien countered. “I have connections.”

“Oh?” she challenged. “The same connections who once affiliated you with Lady Victoria perchance?”

Lucien opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.
Bloody shrew.
The question completely gobsmacked him. He had not, in fact, impregnated Lady Victoria, but until she had been found to be a virgin and the growth in her belly to be a medical mystery, everyone assumed it. In fact, all Lucien had attempted to do was to solicit the help of an expert physician for the poor woman—a chap he had met while in the Navy—the same man, in fact, who had treated their father. It was through him that Lucien had kept abreast of the Admiral’s illness.

“Emma,” Andrew pleaded, ignoring him.

“Andrew,” she countered, returning her brother’s plea.

Lucien forced himself to settle back into the chair to watch the two spar, respectfully abstaining from their quarrel. He stole a sip of the port Andrew had offered him, and then Emma managed to astound him yet again and it was all he could do not to choke as he swallowed.

She smiled and asked pertly of her brother, “Andrew, dearest, might you excuse us a moment, please? I have something I wish to say to His Grace.
Alone
.”

Clearing his throat in surprise, Lucien downed the half-full glass and set it down upon Peters’s desk.

“Please, Emma,” her brother entreated.

Her voice was calm but firm. “I shan’t be but a moment, Andrew.”

Her brother heaved a weary sigh. “Very well, though I shall be waiting in the corridor.” He came forward and grasped her shoulders, placing a tender kiss upon her forehead, and then he eyed Lucien pointedly, looking in the moment exactly like his father. “Willyngham,” he said as he withdrew, and Lucien recognized it for the warning it was meant to be. He had to give the man his due. He seemed to care not a whit for the difference in their station when it came to his sister. Lucien nodded his acknowledgment, and then waited until Andrew had closed the door behind him before looking at the little shrew.