Holiday Duet: Two Previously Published Regency Novellas

by Grace Burrowes

  “Like that?” she asked.

  “Exactly like that, and then flounce off in high dudgeon. That part’s important because most men won’t deal well with having been bested. Make your exit while you can, no lingering about to gloat.”

  Miss Antonia’s smile was impish, filling her gaze with sheer glee. She gave Max’s arm a glancing pat.

  “High dudgeon will take some practice, but I will work on it. Mr. Paxton isn’t the only patron inclined to haughty airs. Nobody warned me about that. Did you come here for a particular book, Mr. Haddonfield?”

  “I came here to see how Lucifer is faring, though perhaps he’s gone out on feline business.”

  Miss Antonia swished past him, which allowed Max to confirm that indeed, the luscious meadow-y, summery scent came from her.

  “Lucifer rarely goes out during the day. He takes his responsibilities as a member of the staff quite seriously, though he apparently thinks he’s been given the job of butler rather than mouser.”

  “He’s settling in well?” Dagger would be disappointed.

  “He has made conquests, Mr. Haddonfield. Come along.” She descended the steps and continued on to the reading table. “Ladies, excuse the interruption, but has either one of you seen our Mr. Lucifer?”

  One of the old dears lifted her book of sermons to reveal the top of Lucifer’s head peering over the edge of the reading table, as if he, too, had been enjoying the reverend’s spiritual guidance.

  “Lukey is such a dear thing,” she said. “A gentleman in every sense.”

  “He likes Betty best,” the other added. “A pity the library has only the one cat. They are not the solitary creatures we make them out to be, you know. They enjoy company as much as we do.”

  Lucifer squinched his eyes at her, as if concurring in her opinion.

  “One cat is more than enough,” Miss Antonia began. “We have apparently eradicated the mouse problem, and that suggests—”

  “You need another,” Max said. “One should keep loyal patrons happy. As it happens, I’m in a position to help.” He bowed to the ladies and departed before Miss Antonia could marshal any arguments.

  “I can smell the books on you,” Peter said, smiling as he bowed over Antonia’s hand. “Very scholarly, my dear.”

  Antonia could nearly smell the amusement Peter’s tone exuded. To him, her little lending library frolic was a passing fancy to be indulged until she came to her senses. Coming to her senses would involve marrying Peter, keeping Papa’s fortune in the family—she and Peter were second cousins, once removed—and having Peter’s babies. The title had gone to a first cousin, and that happy fellow was larking about somewhere in Italy.

  Antonia was trying to reconcile herself to taking the sensible course. Peter was a decent man, good-looking, and not given to excesses. She might not be miserable with him and she would do her best to ensure he wasn’t miserable with her. He was willing to overlook her great, hopeless age and her propensity to read at all hours. He was a known quantity who wouldn’t expect her to manufacture any romantic effusions.

  Was it possible to be too sensible?

  “Have you rung for tea?” Antonia asked. “I could do with a cup myself.”

  Afternoons at the library were quiet and chilly, but then, afternoons at home this time of year were quiet and chilly—also dull.

  “I did not want to presume,” Peter said. “How goes your grand adventure at the library?”

  Peter’s reluctance to presume was a recent invention. Usually, when he was under Antonia’s roof, he assumed the privileges of family and expected the deference owed a guest.

  Antonia tugged the bell pull twice. “I do so enjoy having endless time to read.”

  “Some believe novels upset the delicate humors of a lady’s imagination.” He offered this observation while using a spill to light the silver candelabra on the piano.

  “Some men.”

  “And many women.” He shook out the flame on the spill and tossed the unused paper into the fire on the hearth.

  At the library, nobody would have wasted a spill that had at least three more uses left. Here, the footmen would replenish the blue porcelain spill pot on the mantel daily.

  “As it happens,” Antonia said, “I was reading about how to make good beer. There’s more to it than one suspects.”

  Peter’s smile faded into perplexity. “Beer, Antonia?”

  Every household consumed a quantity of beer. Most servants’ compensation included allotments for ale, candles, and tea. The commodities could be of much greater value than the coin earned. Antonia had had a vague grasp of those realities—she did oversee her housekeeper’s and butler’s books—but hours of reading had enhanced her understanding.

  “Beer, Peter. We both drink it, most larger households brew it. A bad batch can result in terrible ailments, while good beer and ale is an English point of pride.”

  “So you’re honing your housewifely arts?”

  Must he sound so hopeful? “I’m familiarizing myself with the library’s inventory, also reading about the lady aeronauts. Napoleon’s official balloonist was a woman, and—”

  “And look what happened to Napoleon.”

  Antonia was beginning to find Peter’s smile, which showed off perfect white teeth and made the corners of his eyes crinkle, irksome.

  “The Corsican conquered most of Europe before suffering a defeat that many attribute to bad weather and worse luck.”

  Peter’s smile disappeared. “Have you been reading French histories again, Antonia?”

  That tone, which conveyed both disappointment and a touch of asperity, was part of why Antonia had yet to consent to the sensible match Peter proposed.

  She took a seat, grateful for the deep cushion of the reading chair by the hearth. “Why insist that women learn French if we’re not to use that skill to learn what the French know?”

  “Learn French recipes,” Peter said, pacing the width of the parlor. “Enjoy French opera, nip over to Paris to buy some French fashion, but don’t trouble your pretty head with drivel spouted by failed revolutionists.”

  Antonia had no illusions about her looks. Her head, like the rest of her, was plain. Moreover, she was constructed on too grand a scale to ever qualify as pretty. Peter stood an inch taller than she did, only because she never wore heels unless she was on horseback, while he consistently trotted around in fashionably heeled boots. When she danced with him, they were the same height.

  Max Haddonfield, by contrast, had a good six inches on her, and he was well muscled. If Antonia stood up for a waltz with him, he’d neither dither nor hesitate, and he didn’t stare at her chest either. He had the most marvelous blue eyes, so calm and intelligent, but not too—

  “I did not come here to argue politics with you,” Peter said, slouching against the sideboard. “I came to extend an invitation. The sisters and I are to attend Lady Chalfont’s ball on Wednesday and we’d like you to join our party.”

  The autumn entertainments were fewer and less crowded than their springtime counterparts. Many families had already departed for the countryside, where they would spend Yuletide and greet the New Year.

  “I sent regrets to Lady Chalfont.”

  “Why would you do that? She hires excellent musicians and sets out a formidable buffet.”

  The first footman arrived with the tea tray, which—thank the good offices of a well trained kitchen staff—included some cheese rolls. Antonia used the delay to frame a reply to Peter’s question, though she resented the need to explain herself to him.

  “I would prefer to remain at home when the weather is so dreary.”

  Peter took the opposite chair and poured himself a cup of tea, adding milk and sugar, and putting two tea cakes onto his saucer.

  “But you trudge off to the library in a frigid downpour, Antonia, there to impersonate a cit’s spinster daughter while you fill your head with French political fairytales. What’s the real reason you declined her ladyship’s invitat
ion? Do you fear to have an empty dance card?”

  Five years ago she might have admitted to that error. Now she feared being late for her shift at the library the next morning.

  “Few men have the height to partner me competently,” she said, paraphrasing Mr. Haddonfield. “Putting up with those who enjoy leering at my bodice grows tedious.”

  “My dear, you must not fault a man for admiring nature’s bounty when it’s immediately before his eyes.”

  Antonia was almost certain Peter had meant that as a joke. “I fault a man for poor manners. I suppose both Diana and Athena are attending this ball?”

  “Of course.”

  Antonia’s female cousins were bright women whose company she honestly enjoyed. One or the other of them would sit out most of the dances with her, and they’d pass an enjoyable evening among the dowagers and wallflowers.

  “Very well, I will attend, but do not expect me to make a late night of it.”

  “Save me your supper waltz, my dear.” Peter finished his tea in a few gulps, stuffed the two cakes into his pockets, and scampered off without bothering to bow over Antonia’s hand.

  She sat alone in the parlor, grateful for the solitude, already regretting her decision to attend yet another ball when she’d rather be home curled up with a book. The one fellow whose company she honestly enjoyed—the Earl of Casriel—had made a love match at the end of the previous Season. He and his countess were rumored to already be in anticipation of an interesting event.

  What would that be like? To conceive a new life in intimate congress with a man whom one loved madly? With a man who loved one madly in return?

  Antonia could read every volume in her library and still not learn what such an experience entailed, an odd and lowering thought for a woman whose idea of bliss was a rainy afternoon spent reading in solitude.

  “You’re next,” Max said to Beelzebub, who purred contentedly amid the morning’s calculations. The surest way to inspire a cat out from under the sofa was to spread work on the desk and commence measuring and recording. Wherever Max set down his pencil or ruler, there the cat was, looking as comfortable as a marmalade tom ever had.

  Though Beelzebub wasn’t a typical exponent of his gender. When the ladies called from the alley, he yawned and closed his eyes. When Dagger set out a saucer of milk, Hannibal and Edward both got their share at the same time, while Beelz hung back, waiting to lick up whatever the other two missed.

  “You content yourself on scraps and leavings,” Max said, scratching the cat behind the ears. “Maybe when you can settle into your own library, you’ll regain some confidence.”

  Clearly, Beelz had been somebody’s pet. He was tame to a fault and happiest curled up next to Dagger in the nook by the fireplace. Dagger had a way with the shy ones—or they had a way with him.

  As if Max’s thoughts had conjured the boy, the window banged open and he leapt into the room. “More day-olds,” he said, setting a sack on a corner of the desk. “Stinkin’ damned cold outside.”

  “Frigid,” Max said, peering into the sack. “Did you eat half the samples?”

  “Nah. Folk are buying more bread now the weather’s turned. I know to wait until you’ve done the measuring before I eat ’em.” He snatched a small loaf off the desk, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “You done with this one? I fancy some cheese toast.”

  “I’m through with it. I’ve found a home for Beelzebub.”

  Dagger left off tossing his bread about. “Already? It’s too soon. Lucifer just left and Edward and Hannibal will mope. Beelz won’t get fat—he’ll never get fat as long as other cats are around.”

  “The library where Lucifer went wants another cat.” Not exactly true, though the two old ladies who read there day after day would enjoy a second cat. Miss Antonia was another matter entirely.

  Dagger gnawed a bite off the loaf. “Two cats in the same library?”

  “Lucifer is friendly. He and Beelz get on well, and two cats are hardly more trouble than one.” Max hadn’t quite convinced Miss Antonia on that point, but her practical air hid a soft heart.

  She was also pretty when she smiled, interesting when she didn’t, and not a typical librarian. Max’s curiosity where she was concerned refused to abate, even when he took up the pleasurable job of making the day’s measurements.

  “You having any luck with this batch?” Dagger asked, taking a quarter-round of cheddar from the window box.

  “That was a half wheel of cheese only yesterday morning.”

  Dagger flipped out a blade much too lethal-looking for the innocent smile he aimed at Max. “Growing boys—”

  “Don’t use that filthy knife on your comestibles. Use a proper cheese knife.” This lesson—different utensils for different situations—was an ongoing exercise in frustration. Dagger’s world valued efficiency, meaning tools that served in multiple capacities.

  The world Max had been raised in valued. . . he wasn’t sure what. Having many specimens of the same item, and justifying the proliferation of possessions by decreeing one knife was for fruit, another for steak, another for bread.

  And none of those would ever, ever be used for self-defense.

  Neither world suited Max, and thus he escaped into the world that did, where measurements, hypotheses, and careful observation advanced the welfare of the species.

  Dagger fetched the cheese knife from the sideboard. “If a body was hungry enough, he wouldn’t bother over which knife he used. You lot don’t get hungry.”

  “We do,” Max said, setting aside the last of his figures. “When you’ve finished eating, you can copy my calculations into the journal. No luck so far, but we have many trials yet to go.”

  “I’m getting tired of eating bread,” Dagger said, around a mouthful of cheese. “Never thought that day would come.”

  “Eat some apples with that bread and cheese, Dagger, or your bowels will seize.”

  Dagger paused in his chewing and farted. “They ain’t seized yet.”

  “Haven’t. They haven’t seized yet.” Max managed not to smile, but the boisterous, irreverent vulgarity of boyhood was cheering. Also ripe as hell.

  “Let’s see your pockets, Dagger. I’m off to call upon my sisters.”

  Anytime Dagger had been out by himself, Max subjected him to this indignity. Fortunately, the boy’s pockets were empty—this time.

  “I’ll be back before dark,” Max said. “Beelzebub goes to his new home tomorrow.”

  Dagger tossed the loaf of bread aloft again. “Not if he ain’t here he won’t.”

  “If he’s not here, then Hannibal will go instead.”

  Max wasn’t sure he could do that—Hannibal and Edward were a couple, and dear to him, but Dagger had a scheming mind and was attached to Beelzebub.

  “He’ll be here.”

  “See that he is.”

  Max bundled up against the elements and prepared for the trek to Mayfair, mentally considering the day’s calculations. Walking was good for thinking, but today, science wasn’t interested in keeping him company.

  Instead he was distracted by a shy lady with fine gray-blue eyes, one who loved books and hadn’t yet learned how to put a bounder in his place. She and Beelzebub would get along famously, which was some comfort when a man contemplated parting from yet another friend.

  Chapter Three

  “You must join us at Lady Chalfont’s ball,” Susannah said. “You never get out anymore.”

  “Haddonfields are known to be charming,” Della added, draping a linen towel over the porcelain teapot. “You can’t be charming if you’re always off doing your experiments and burying your nose in scientific treatises.”

  “Della is right.” Susannah aimed a look at Max over her embroidery hoop. She was stitching a scene of gamboling puppies for what looked like a throw pillow cover. Her husband, Willow Dorning, was dog-mad, and Susannah in her quiet way was Willow-mad. Della was rumored to have set her cap for another of the Dorning brothers, but that rumor
was apparently false—or premature.

  Both sisters were biding for the nonce at the Haddonfield family town house. The owner of the dwelling and oldest Haddonfield sibling, Nicholas, Earl of Bellefonte, had taken his countess out for an ice. That excuse covered myriad deceptions, such as when Nick and Leah sought a private hour in his woodworking shop behind in the stables.

  “One can be charming anywhere,” Max said, “but what’s the point of being charming to a lot of young ladies who see me only as a means of marrying into a titled family?” He had a respectable competence from a deceased pair of great aunts, but he used that to fund his experiments.

  Della rose to move the fire screen, though the parlor struck Max as cozy enough. Della was small and dark, the Haddonfield changeling. The rest of the siblings were tall, and but for Max, blond. He had been born blond, but as he’d matured, his hair had darkened. His brothers had claimed that was evidence of his brain curdling as he became more enamored of science.

  He’d always felt that the lack of blond hair gave him something more in common with Della than with the rest of their siblings. She was the youngest girl, he was the youngest boy. She was as yet unmarried, and he was. . .

  Running a foundling home for stray cats. “Why did you marry?” he asked Susannah. Of all his sisters, she’d been the most bookish and retiring, something of a Shakespeare scholar.

  “Because I could not imagine life without Will. He saw me for who I truly am, and he became a part of my heart. If we live in a hut in the Outer Hebrides subsisting on cabbage soup, I want to be with him.”

  They did not dwell in a hut, but they did live a retiring life on a small country estate with a bloody lot of canines.

  “I cannot imagine life without science.”

  Della passed him a tray. “Have another sandwich. Life with science left you peaky and gaunt.”

  Like Dagger, Max wasn’t all that keen on eating more bread. His experiments left him awash in bread, most of which Max gave to Dagger to do with as the boy saw fit.