Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 40
“No, he is enchanted,” the Contessa whispered. “Only look at him!”
Dorothea raised her eyes, but Cecil had turned to speak to his hostess, and the only enchantment in view was on the rubicund visage of Lord Wellough.
“Monsieur Dufair wishes to sketch us together,” the Contessa said. “Perhaps that will make Mr. Hale jealous.”
Dorothea rolled her eyes at this absurdity. The Contessa beckoned to Dufair, who eagerly complied. To Dorothea’s surprise, Mother offered to play piquet with Lord Wellough. That didn’t stop his ceaseless commentary on Dorothea’s beauty and desirability as a wife for some lucky man. Cecil must have tired of flirting, for he spent the evening discussing land management with Restive and the vicar.
The instant Dufair finished his sketch, Dorothea pleaded fatigue and hurried up to her bedchamber. Sarah helped her undress, ran the bedwarmer between the sheets, and bade her sleep well.
Which she couldn’t afford to do yet, so she climbed out of bed, opened a book, and sat by the dying fire—but that made her drowsy, so she took up her knitting, which kept her more or less awake until the ladies came upstairs.
Mother barged into the room. “Why are you still up? How impolite of you to retire early, when there was nothing wrong with you but contrariness. First you forced me to stay here for Christmas, and then destroyed what small pleasure I might have had. Not that I expect anything better from you, Dorothea—not even common courtesy towards our hosts.”
This was nonsense; Lady Alice didn’t blame her in the least for leaving, and Lord Restive didn’t care one way or the other. All the same, a pang of sadness washed through Dorothea. She hated to spoil Mother’s enjoyment of Christmas, which had always been her favorite holiday.
But it was too late for that. She reminded herself that she would have spoiled Mother’s Christmas even more at Lord Forle’s estate.
“Poor, dear Lord Wellough is so taken with you that he can’t keep his eyes off you. To make up for your unkindness, I took it upon myself to play piquet with him.”
“I don’t want his eyes on me,” Dorothea said. “He’s old enough to be my father.”
“Your father, let me tell you, is still in his prime,” Mother said with sudden and rather dreadful primness. “Lord Wellough deserves the courtesy of smiling acceptance of his compliments, but no, you could do nothing but frown.”
That was unfair. “I did not frown. I smiled as best I could whenever he addressed me directly, even though I find him repellent. If I had flirted with him, you would have scolded me for unmaidenly behavior.”
“There is a vast difference between smiling at a rake such as Lord Restive, and I hope you are ashamed of yourself—and an older gentleman who recognizes the bounds of propriety. You made an utter fool of yourself today, for it is plain as a pikestaff Restive means to bed that dreadful foreign woman.”
“She’s not dreadful. I like her.”
“It is all of a piece, you unnatural child, and to top it all off, you flirted with that fortune hunter throughout dinner.”
Dorothea saw her chance. “Mr. Hale is charming and good-looking, too. I could spend hours talking to him. We share a great many ideals.”
“Ideals?” Mother almost spat the word. “Seditious nonsense. Henceforth, you must avoid him. As I said before…”
And on and on. When her mother at last ran out of complaints, Dorothea climbed between the now-cold sheets and bade her goodnight.
Chapter Six
The gentlemen soon followed the ladies upstairs, urged on by Restive, who said they must rise early to fetch the Yule log. Cecil snorted at this obvious excuse, for judging by the exchange of glances between Restive and the Contessa, he wished to get on with his evening’s private entertainment.
A tryst, certainly—but for mutual pleasure or as payment of a sort? Had the Contessa wangled an invitation from Lady Alice to spend Christmas at Restive Manor, or had it been prompted by Restive? Would the medallion change hands tonight?
Once Restive joined her, Cecil should listen at her door, although the notion repulsed him, but first he would search Restive’s room. If he found the medallion, so far so good—a point in Restive’s favor. It wasn’t treason to win a holy relic at cards.
He returned to pondering Dorothea. Why had she chosen to spend Christmas here? Why had her father’s servants agreed to stage an accident at Restive’s gates? Sir Frederick gave his daughter unusual freedom, but if he had learned of her plan, he could have solved her problem by simply informing his wife that she and Dorothea must spend Christmas at home.
With a groan, Dorothea climbed out of bed, donned thick stockings, slippers, and a warm woolen dressing gown, and paced back and forth to stay awake.
The house creaked in its sleep, as old buildings often do. What if Lord Restive didn’t go to the Contessa’s room, or vice versa? Dorothea yawned. If they intended to seduce one another, why didn’t they just get on with it?
That led to futile musings about what a seduction would entail, except that the participants in her imagination were herself and Cecil Hale.
Exasperated at her own folly, she tiptoed to her door and listened. Not a sound. She opened the door and peered into the darkness. One solitary lamp burned on the table at the head of the stairs.
She was pulling the door to when light flickered in the distance. She shut the door all but the tiniest crack. Soft but brisk footsteps approached. The owner of those feet wasn’t trying to conceal his progress—and why should he? Everyone knew what was going on.
Lord Restive stopped at the Contessa’s door, and after a soft tap and a swift exchange of whispers, was admitted. The door closed quietly behind him. At last!
How long did a seduction take? Ten minutes? An hour or two? Most of the night? Dorothea wished she weren’t so innocent. The worst she had done (or best, for it had been rather fun) was share kisses and caresses a year ago with Johnny Magee, a darling of a tinker. He’d been gentle and kind, explaining for her future reference how lovemaking worked—but Lord Restive and the Contessa were both experienced and had no reason not to plunge into heated passion, or so she assumed.
She couldn’t afford to wait long. After a few minutes of silence, Dorothea put a candle in the pocket of her dressing gown and tiptoed down the passageway. She hastened across the landing and reached Lord Restive’s door. She pushed it open, meeting more darkness save for the glow of the banked fire. She crept inside, closed the door, lit the candle with a spill, and went straight to the dressing room.
His jewelry case came first, but no medallion lay amongst his rings and cravat pins. She tried the drawers of the dressing table, which contained sundry items such as combs, knives, razors, a leather strop, soaps, handkerchiefs…and no medallion.
Hurriedly, she checked the pockets of three coats and then the shelves. Nothing. Maybe he had hidden it at the back or bottom of the clothes press—although he had no reason to hide it, for he had won it in fair play. On the other hand, given its reputation, locking it up would make sense.
She should try his bedchamber again. Perhaps she hadn’t been sufficiently thorough. What about the other keys in his bedside table? Had she missed a locked case or box in his room? Perhaps one belonged to a cabinet in the library, or a desk elsewhere in the house, or a strongbox.
She crept toward the door—and stopped.
Footsteps again! She opened the door to the bedchamber, dithering. If someone was passing in the corridor, she must wait in one of these rooms. If someone was about to enter the bedchamber or dressing room, she must be elsewhere entirely.
Elsewhere beckoned, in the shape of Lord Wellough’s dressing room—one place she definitely didn’t want to be.
She opened the door and peeked in. Her candle revealed dark curtains covering the window, a few valises in one corner, and a dressing table, with clothing laid over a chair. Silence reigned; Lord Wellough, in the next room, must be fast asleep. She snuffed her candle and went through the door.
An arm of iron grabbed her, and a hard hand covered her mouth. She struggled frantically, and a voice said in her ear, “It’s I, Cecil Hale. I’ll remove my hand if you promise not to make a sound.”
She nodded, heart beating fit to burst her chest, and he drew his hand away, but still held her firmly against him. “I don’t know what in Hades you’re doing here,” he said in the barest whisper, “but it’s not safe. Stay perfectly still and don’t say a word.” His breath was hot on her ear.
She thought he would let go of her now, but he didn’t. With his free hand, he pulled the door almost closed. Then he stilled and did nothing but hold her and…wait.
For what? Was he spying on whoever was in there? Eavesdropping—as he’d done earlier on her and her mother. But she dared not ask; somehow, she felt compelled to obey. It must be, she thought, that I feel safe with him. That if it truly were dangerous to be here—which it wasn’t—he would protect her.
She relaxed into his embrace. Now that she had calmed a little, she began to be not only curious…but excited. She had never, ever been in such a close embrace with a man. She’d hugged her brothers and kissed Johnny Magee, but this was much different.
Cecil’s powerful arm encircled her just below her breasts, which rested upon those strong muscles and tingled as if they relished it. This was pleasant but a bit mortifying, for he wasn’t the least bit interested in her in a sexual way.
But there was no point in being mortified, so since she couldn’t move an inch or say a word, she let her body enjoy his embrace. Unexpected heat coursed through her. The tingling shimmered from her shameless breasts to her private parts. She closed her eyes and reveled in the sensations.
Damnation, thought Cecil, how was he supposed to concentrate on work while holding this luscious woman in his arms? His cock reacted in an entirely predictable manner. He mustn’t let her bum brush the bulge in his breeches. She was an innocent and would shrink in dismay. She might even shriek and ruin everything.
Everything being his mission. His personal hopes didn’t stand much chance, judging by where he’d found her tonight.
He peered through the crack in the door, unsurprised when the intruder proved to be Charles Dufair.
Something in Mr. Hale’s stance changed, and Dorothea opened her eyes. Perhaps he was disgusted at the way she leaned against him. How very lowering.
He pulled back a little. Definitely disgusted. Annoyed at herself, she peered through the crack in the doorway. It wasn’t Restive in the dressing room, but Monsieur Dufair. Heavens, was he looking for the medallion, too? What was Cecil’s role in this? Surely he didn’t want the medallion as well…
Suddenly he moved her away from the door. “Shh.” She glanced about… Oh, no! There was a light in Lord Wellough’s chamber. The old gentleman mumbled something unintelligible, and footsteps sounded. What if he came into the dressing room?
Thank God Cecil was here, for he would protect her from that horrid old man—but he would then find himself in the awkward position of being obliged to marry her. The gentlemen’s code of honor was such a nuisance! She wouldn’t marry Cecil, of course, but for the sake of his reputation, they should leave immediately.
What a pity, for despite his lack of interest, she’d been having more fun than in simply ages. When she tried to turn, he shushed her again. His arm still around her, he backed her not towards the corridor, but to the windows. A second later, they were ensconced behind the heavy curtains.
Like lovers in an alcove. Every other gentleman who had tried to get her into such a situation had seemed a threat, but not Cecil. She should be aghast at the possible consequences. It was utter folly to enjoy this, but she couldn’t help it. She stifled a giggle.
“Hush!”
That made her laugh even more. She put her arms around him and muffled herself against his chest. Then the door to Lord Wellough’s bedchamber opened, and she did her best to stay still.
“He must have gone to that slut’s room by now,” the old man said. “Damn, but I’d like a piece of that!” To whom was he speaking? No one responded, and only one pair of feet padded into the room. He must be talking to himself. “But the young chit’s even better. Gad, that golden hair! Muff must be golden, too.”
That stilled her utterly. She wasn’t sure what that last comment meant, but she could guess. Cecil held her close. “You’re safe,” he breathed, so close that his mouth almost touched hers.
Which distracted her from Lord Wellough and his vile comments. Safe from other men, yes. Safe from herself? Definitely not. She wanted to kiss Cecil Hale.
A moment later, she heard Wellough enter Restive’s dressing room. After several seconds’ pause, he trod onward to the bedroom. He didn’t exclaim in surprise, which meant Charles Dufair had made his escape.
Cecil eased them from behind the curtains, took her by the hand, and led her toward the corridor. He opened the door a little way. Stealthy footsteps sounded, then the closing of a door. “Now’s our chance.”
So much for kisses. He would escort her to her bedchamber, where she would crawl into her cold bed. She resigned herself to warming it with more shameless imaginings.
They hurried silently along the dark corridor, past the all too revealing light at the head of the stairs, and onward to her chamber. He opened the door and stood back to let her pass.
Then he followed her inside and shut the door behind him.
She turned, astonished and…excited. Heavens, how forward of him. Was he perhaps a little attracted to her after all?
No, he was frowning. “I have no designs on your virtue, but we have to talk.”
How stupid of her to think he might want her. Firmly, she reminded herself that what interest he had shown was nothing but a charade. Now he wasn’t the least bit lover-like. His mien was forbidding, his voice stern. He didn’t want to kiss her at all. He just wanted to talk.
So did she, as a matter of fact. She wanted to know what was going on—after she’d had a chance to kiss him. But that wouldn’t happen, so she said, “How dare you come into my room?”
“Don’t be missish.” He went over to the fire, stoked it a bit and added a log, and lit a candle. He turned, an ill-tempered crease between his brows. “This is a serious matter. I want to know why you were in Lord Restive’s dressing room this afternoon, and why you were in his bedchamber tonight.”
She put up her chin. “That is none of your business.”
He ignored that and went relentlessly on. “Even if you didn’t intend to entrap Lord Restive” —his sardonic tone said he didn’t believe her— “then why did you arrange to spend Christmas here despite your mother’s plans? Don’t give me the same story about avoiding Lord Forle.”
How dare he? “That story, as you put it, is true. My mother would have found a way to catch me alone with him by underhanded means, since I wouldn’t go near him of my own volition.”
“I daresay,” he said dryly, “but you didn’t have to come here to avoid him. You certainly didn’t have to go to Restive’s bedchamber to avoid him. You didn’t have to lie to me about your feelings for Restive—” He stopped in mid-sentence. “You’re right, that’s none of my business. If that’s why you came here, just say so, and I’ll...accept that explanation.”
She balled her fists. He would accept her explanation? He had no right to demand anything of her, much less to judge her, just because he was Papa’s minion and her sometime minder. How horrid of him to imagine she’d hoped to seduce their host! Next he would scold her, just like Mother. Dorothea’s erotic imaginings dissipated like smoke, leaving a sullen trace behind, a reminder of a far from extinguished fire.
Perhaps that lingering desire was why she felt compelled to defend herself. Her fingers uncurled of their own accord. “I didn’t lie to you. I would scorn to trap Restive or any other man.”
“No,” he said with an unamused laugh, “you have so many suitors that you could choose one by the mere lifting of a finger.”
“Yes, and it’s horrid. Do they see nothing but this pretty face?”
Chapter Seven
Ordinarily, Cecil would have been embarrassed at his gauche comments, which revealed too much about his own feelings. Fine, he would wallow in mortification later, but for now he must concentrate on his mission—rather than her high color, her quickened breathing, and her ripe, kissable lips.
She wrapped her arms around herself as if aware of his lascivious thoughts. He ordered his libido to desist. “Your beauty is so extraordinary,” he said gruffly, “that they don’t see past it to your intelligence and genuine concern for those less fortunate.”
Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Did he detect a softening in her stance? Perhaps, but he mustn’t soften in return. He had a job to do. “Unfortunately, this is nothing to the point. I repeat: why did you come here? You could have refused to go to Lord Forle’s. You’re not afraid to defy your mother.”
“No, but it doesn’t do any good.” She walked to the window, parted the curtains, and gazed into the night. At last she turned and said wistfully, “I would have much preferred to stay home for Christmas. Mother didn’t want to be elsewhere either, but she’s so set on marrying me off that she deprived herself of her favorite festivities. We deliver baskets of food to all the tenants, and we have a lovely celebration to which all the village comes, and everyone mingles, rich and poor, high and low. It’s no wonder she’s so angry at me now.” Her lip wobbled. “I wish I could make her happy, but I can’t.”
Reluctantly, he dragged his mind back to the mission at hand. If she was telling the truth—and he wanted to believe her—other possibilities came to mind. Sir Frederick Darsington trusted her with covert work. “Did your father ask you to come here rather than Lord Forle’s?”
