Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 43
“You have no idea how delightful you are,” he said. “I still have the mistletoe in my pocket.”
Hoping he liked her as much as he seemed to, she donned her boots, pelisse, woolen cap, and gloves, and ventured with him into the wintry afternoon. They meandered along the paths in the shrubbery and into the rose garden, which was dreary now but must be beautiful in summertime.
“Did you believe Monsieur Dufair?” she asked.
“It explains his sneaking into Lord Restive’s room last night. If he saw Restive go to the Contessa, he knew he had plenty of time to take the medallion, finish the sketch, and return it before Restive returned.”
Well. That certainly answered one of her questions—about how long a seduction would take.
Cecil raised his brows. “What is it? You’re blushing again.”
“Nothing!”
“The last time you said “Nothing!” like that, you wanted a kiss.”
“I always want a kiss, but this is much worse. Or rather, it’s more improper.”
“But not necessarily worse?” He whipped out the mistletoe and dropped a kiss on her lips. “Tell me.”
Heavens! She put her gloved hands to her burning cheeks.
“Or don’t.” His smile teased.
She got ahold of herself and changed the subject. “Why do you want Lord Restive to bring the medallion to where we all can see it and be told it is a copy?”
“Because so far I see no solid reason to suspect anyone. We must watch how Restive and the Contessa react to the news—with disappointment, for example, or anger, chagrin, even uneasiness. A good spy won’t reveal much, but we can always hope.”
“Very well.” How, she wondered, could he switch so easily from personal matters to espionage? She was all a-twist with thoughts of desire, with hopes of love.
They continued through the rose garden, wandered past the stables and around to the kitchen garden, and made their way slowly back. At last it began desultorily to snow.
“Oh, how lovely!” she cried. “It so seldom snows right at Christmastide.” She turned to him enquiringly. “I’ve never asked—where is your home?”
“Farther north, on the Welsh borders.” He looked as if he might say more, but then his brows drew together.
“What is it? What are you thinking?”
His smile, when it emerged, seemed slightly strained. “What wouldn’t you tell me earlier?”
Oh, no. “Please don’t make me blush.”
“That bad, is it?” His smile was genuine again. “You’re more kissable than ever when you’re flustered.”
She huffed, but couldn’t help smiling back. “No, it’s not bad, precisely. It’s just not an appropriate subject for conversation.”
He snorted. “I’d say we’ve crossed that bridge already, Dorothea.”
How sweet of him to use her given name without asking permission. The growing informality between them enchanted her. To the devil with embarrassment. “If you must know, it’s because last night, when I was planning to search Lord Restive’s rooms, I wasn’t sure how much time I would have.” She paused. “Because I had no idea how long a seduction takes.”
“And now you want to find out?”
Yes. “No! It’s unnecessary, because you just told me Monsieur Dufair had plenty of time to search.”
“Ah. What a pity.” He broke into laughter. “If you could see the look on your face, my dear. Much as I would love to seduce you…” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“I thought you would say that. I suppose you’re invoking the gentlemen’s code of honor.”
“You don’t approve of a code of honor?”
“Yes, as long as it makes sense. I understand that a gentleman shouldn’t truly compromise a lady unless he intends to marry her, but what about the sort of thing my mother tries to arrange?” She hesitated, then decided to test him a little. If he were genuinely as reasonable as he seemed… “She tried several times to trap me with Lord Boltwood—once, we were just talking in a corridor—but when I deliberately spent an hour in private with Tinker Johnny, she laughed it off because he wasn’t eligible. Everyone knew I had kissed him, too!”
“You kissed Tinker Johnny?”
Just what she’d anticipated! She removed her hand from his arm. “Don’t you dare make a fuss about it.”
“I’m not fussing, merely surprised. Ladies don’t usually kiss tinkers—but Johnny’s a handsome fellow.” He didn’t look outraged, but maybe he was politely hiding his feelings. She eyed him narrowly. If anything, that twitch of his lips meant amusement. Most likely, he didn’t care whom she’d kissed.
Annoyed now, she planted her hands on her hips and glowered. “Johnny Magee is a wonderful, kindhearted man. Just because he’s a tinker doesn’t mean he’s not a worthy human being. He explained much about—about what goes on between men and women. I wouldn’t have known anything otherwise, so I’m grateful to him.”
“You needn’t defend him. Apart from his involvement with the smugglers, I liked him.”
Why must Cecil be so agreeable? She was used to arguing about senseless social rules, particularly the code of honor, which often led to duels over mere nothings. “Just because a gentleman and lady are alone together for a few minutes, it doesn’t mean they should be forced into a marriage they don’t want.”
“I concur—as long as nothing untoward has happened.”
She huffed. “Even a kiss or two?”
He grinned. “Kisses are relatively harmless.”
Did that mean her kisses hadn’t affected him much? It wasn’t fair, because she longed to kiss him again.
“It’s where they lead that’s a problem.” He tucked her arm in his again, and they headed toward the house.
Humph. She was a problem, was she? Then why wouldn’t he dispute with her? “What if the lady were trapped? What if the gentleman ravished her?”
“Then he’s no gentleman. Her male relatives should force them to wed, spirit her away before he gets his hands on her again, and knock him on the head and throw him in the Thames, thereby solving her problem. She’s no longer ruined and can eventually marry again.”
She gaped. “How very violent of you. I thought you would say it was her fault that he ravished her.”
“Definitely not! A gentleman should control himself,” he said austerely, “whether he wants to or not.”
Did that mean he didn’t want to control himself? Or didn’t want to seduce her? “So…a seduction is acceptable, according to your code of honor, if both parties intend to marry.”
He pondered. “Unwise, perhaps, but not dishonorable either.”
She bit her lip. She’d had enough of being wise, but unfortunately, a lady didn’t propose marriage.
That little voice inside her posed its usual question: Why not? But this time she just couldn’t.
He halted and took her hands. His gaze was full of tender understanding. Or maybe it was just kindness. She wished she didn’t want him so badly.
He leaned in with a smile. She put her hands on his shoulders and put everything in her heart into that kiss.
“Dorothea! Come indoors this instant!”
Chapter Ten
The inevitable interruption—Lady Darsington bellowing from her bedchamber window—was almost welcome, for much as Cecil wanted to propose marriage, he intended to do so in private, after disclosing his circumstances to Dorothea.
The place he’d claimed as home was his uncle’s estate, which he stood to inherit. He hadn’t spent much time there growing up, because of the estrangement between his father and uncle; now, he dwelled in London most of the time. After his father’s death a few years earlier, he’d inherited a small property not far from his uncle’s estate in Wales. Cecil had immediately reconciled with the old fellow; he was a decent sort, far more worthy of an honorable position than Cecil’s father had ever been.
Sooner rather than later, his secret must out. He just had to find the best way to reveal it without turning Dorothea against him. She might consider him a hypocrite for hiding his origins. For professing to believe in progress while he stood to benefit from the status quo.
Meanwhile, there was this damnable business of espionage requiring his attention.
He dressed for the evening celebration and left his bedchamber to see what he could do to help with the preparations. The Great Hall must be a-bustle with servants scurrying to and fro…
Utter silence reigned below. Then a furious female voice cried: “I shall marry a plain mister or no one!”
Good Lord. That was Dorothea.
“Now, now,” Lady Alice said, “it’s Christmastide.” Sharply, she added, “Back to work, all of you.”
Movement recommenced, subdued speech broke out, and Cecil proceeded down the stairs. Trestle tables had been set up, and a huge cauldron by the hearth would hold the lamb’s wool, a favorite wassail at Restive Manor.
Lady Alice ushered Lady Darsington away from the drawing room, with Mrs. Kelly following. “You must calm yourself,” she said. “If you cannot stay in the same room with Dorothea without indulging in a shouting match, then I suggest you help Mrs. Kelly serve the lamb’s wool.”
She noticed Cecil and said, “There you are, Mr. Hale. Please go to the drawing room and help Restive with his guests. There is brandy, and also ratafia, I believe, but I don’t have a footman to spare.”
“My pleasure,” Cecil said. She thanked him, but Lady Darsington glared with such hatred that even he was startled. With difficulty, he prevented himself from glaring right back. How dare she upset Dorothea?
In the drawing room, his darling stood next to the Contessa, fists clenched, her complexion blotchy, her eyes moist. She turned away from his concerned gaze. This was his fault; he shouldn’t have kissed her with such passion in full view of the house. Her mother must have given her the worst dressing down of her life.
If only he could sweep her off her feet and ride away with her over his saddle bow. Alas, duty required him to stay.
He helped Restive serve drinks to the vicar and Lord Wellough, and settled them comfortably by the fire. By this time, Dorothea seemed more composed.
“Did your mother scold you dreadfully?” He took her hands and uncurled those clenched fists. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you out there where she could see.”
“I wanted you to kiss me.” But she didn’t tighten her fists again. “I am used to her tirades, but never before has she shouted at me in public. I can’t believe I lost my temper and screamed at her. I’m so mortified.” She wiped away a tear.
“Why?” the Contessa asked. “It is natural to shout at one’s family. How else can one…how do you say it, clear the air?”
“It didn’t clear the air. It made matters worse. I wish she would just leave me be.”
“She cannot,” the Contessa said. “I have known women like her. It is proper for a mother to interfere, but she must also know when to stop.”
Dorothea nodded bleakly. “I’m getting so tired of it. Whichever way I turn, she tries to trap me into wedding a man of her choice—always a wealthy peer, no matter how stupid or ugly or depraved he may be.”
“She will have to stop once you actually do get married,” Cecil said.
“I believe you’re right,” she said with a tremulous smile. “The only way to—to get past this hurdle is to do so.” She took a deep breath. “Get married, I mean.”
“An excellent notion.” To hell with his expectations; he would put the question to her tonight, confess all, and hope for the best.
“I believe so,” she said. “I wish…”
“You wish…?”
Her eyes met his for a long moment. Then she took another deep breath. “I have an idea, Mr. Hale. Perhaps we should elope and get it over with.”
Dorothea’s heart thudded fit to burst her chest. How she’d summoned the courage, she had no idea, but she’d done it. She’d proposed to him. Albeit in a jesting sort of fashion, but…
“Before or after the Christmas pie?” Cecil shot back.
Dorothea gave a little hiccupping laugh. Was that a yes? Breathlessly, she managed a response. “After. I refuse to elope on an empty stomach.”
“And leave us to deal with your bedlamite mother?” Restive asked, then murmured, “She is in the doorway, listening to us aghast.” He raised his voice again. “For shame, Miss Darsington.”
Dorothea was tempted to whisper, but instead she stood her ground. She was going to marry Cecil. She would not give in, and if Mother scolded again, she refused to let it mortify her. She summoned a titter. “I’m sure you would do perfectly well without us, my lord.”
“Fortunately, my patience will not be tested,” Restive said. “It’s snowing, and every carriage within miles is broken.”
“What about fleeing on horseback?” Cecil asked plaintively. “Surely you have a few hacks to spare, Restive.”
“No, you chose to come here for Christmas, and here you must stay. Cecil, give Miss Darsington some brandy. She needs bolstering.”
Obediently, he poured her a brandy. Their eyes met again, and their fingers brushed as he passed her the goblet. “A pity we can’t abscond, but duty calls,” he said.
Which was an inadequate effort at reassurance, but Cecil wasn’t about to blurt out everything in his heart with the old besom eavesdropping.
Back to business. Dufair appeared, sketchbook in hand. Cecil turned to Restive. “Monsieur Dufair wants to finish sketching the St. George medallion, and we’d like to see it. I’m sure the others would, too.” With a jut of his chin, he indicated the vicar and Lord Wellough.
“Yes, yes!” Wellough said. “It’s a piece of great historical interest. You’ll appreciate it, vicar, for it’s of spiritual interest too, as it was blessed by St. George himself.”
“Dear me.” The vicar did his best not to look skeptical.
“A holy relic?” the Contessa gasped. “Truly?”
“Yes, the story goes that it brings victory to its owner,” Wellough added. “It’s said that William the Conqueror wore it to the Battle of Hastings.”
The Contessa tutted. “That is not a proper use for a holy relic.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Dorothea said. Her mother hovered with an air of suppressed fury, but Dorothea gave no visible sign of concern. She was full of spirit and courage. How could he not adore her?
“You must lock it away,” the Contessa said. “What if your enemies were to steal it? I shudder to think what my cousin would do if he possessed it.” She grimaced. “He is a soldier in the French Army, and very ambitious. He says he will one day conquer the world.”
If the Contessa wanted it, would she so baldly state her motive? Judging by their conversation on the way to the Yule log, she found politics tedious and wars entirely stupid, interfering as they did with comfort and enjoyment. But if she were sufficiently wily…
“Have no fear, it is safely in England, and here it will stay,” Wellough said. “Where have you been hiding it, dear boy?”
Restive shrugged. “This is all nonsense, but I’ll get it.” He beckoned to Cecil to accompany him. Once they had crossed the Great Hall to the stairs, he said, “My dear fellow, was that a proposal of marriage?”
“I hope so.” Cecil couldn’t contain his smile.
“I couldn’t believe my ears. She’s usually rather reserved.”
“Not with me, she isn’t. My acceptance was entirely sincere.”
“But think of the girl’s mother!”
“I’d rather not.”
“I overheard her trying to convince Wellough to propose. Poor man—he has enough troubles without making a fool of himself over a girl less than half his age. In any event, her dowry isn’t nearly enough to get him out of the basket.”
Cecil shrugged. Fortunately, Wellough’s lack of funds wasn’t his problem.
“You’ll have to tell her the truth about yourself,” Restive said.
“I know.”
“She may not take it well. Did you hear her screaming at the old bitch?” He raised his voice to a falsetto. “‘I loathe the peerage and all it stands for. I will die in a ditch rather than associate myself with it. I shall marry a plain mister or no one!’”
“I am a plain mister,” Cecil said.
“For now,” Restive said.
“I may always be a plain mister.”
“Unlikely,” Restive said. “You’re doomed to inherit a peerage, but you’re incorruptible, so that’s a point in your favor. I doubt you’ll suddenly turn stupid or ugly, and if you’re depraved, you hide it well.” He paused, considering his friend. “Don’t be uneasy, old fellow. Your charm will win you the prize.”
Cecil wasn’t so sure. Dorothea lived by a code of honor—not one he entirely understood, but if she had sworn not to associate with the peerage, wouldn’t she feel obliged to keep that oath?
“Seduce her. Then she won’t have a choice.”
Cecil controlled his temper. Restive was a good friend, but he didn’t understand, and in any event, Cecil had a job to do. He must concentrate on that and woo Dorothea later.
Restive lit a candle from one of the sconces and led the way into his bedchamber. He plucked the medallion on its silver chain from atop several mufflers hanging on the back of the door.
“Hiding it in plain sight?” Cecil asked.
“Why would I hide it? It’s not worth much.” When Cecil raised inquiring brows, Restive said, “It’s a copy, my dear fellow. Not the genuine medallion.”
Cecil let out a breath. “Yes, so I gather. Dufair hesitated to tell you, for fear you would become enraged and demand Edgar Darsington’s blood. I assured him you wouldn’t do it with his sister and mother present.”
Restive blew out the candle and left it on the landing. “How did Dufair know?”
“Something about a jeweler’s mark hidden on the reverse.”
Restive nodded. “Unfortunately, I didn’t notice it until I reached home. A pity, since I made a point of winning it because I feared it would get into the wrong hands. That lad is a fool. Takes after his mother.”
