Holiday Duet: Two Previously Published Regency Novellas

by Grace Burrowes

  “Marcus has hired a professional decorator, though she’s something of a mystery,” Lady Eliza said, dipping her quill into the inkpot, letting the ink pool into a drop at the tip of her pen, then fall back into the bottle.

  “The answer is no, my dear,” Ralph Hennepin murmured, head bent over the invitation he was writing. “No professional decorations. You haven’t the coin.”

  He said that as if reminding a small girl that she’d neglected to bring her parasol, so she must suffer the disobliging beams of the sun in her eyes.

  “And where in my settlements,” Eliza asked from her side of the desk, “does it say that the annual expense of kitting the house out for the holidays is to come out of my accounts? When the coach must be repainted, you pay for that, though it’s also an annual expense.”

  The increasingly foul weather meant Ralph was trapped in the house for the day, and Eliza had seized the moment. The sooner her invitations went out, the more likely they were to be accepted. The holidays could be so busy for those who spent them in Town.

  And yet, somehow, the holidays could be lonely too.

  Ralph sent her a calculating glance. “I admit that I pay for the repainting of the coach. That is an entirely different matter. The coach is attached to the stables, and the stables are a masculine province.”

  Eliza put pen to paper, this invitation going to Lord Grimston. His lordship was unlikely to accept—enthusiasm for the holidays was not among his noted fortes—but Marcus had demanded that some invitations be sent to the less fashionable, the elderly, the widowed, and other unfortunates.

  “My mare bides in your stables, husband. You made me pay for her new saddle.”

  He sprinkled sand over vellum and sat back. “That sidesaddle was made for your elegant backside, Eliza. Nobody else in the household has a prayer of using it. It’s as personal to you as a ballgown or a pair of shoes.”

  He was looking directly at her. Eliza realized how rare that had become, but then, she rarely looked at him. They read their respective newspapers at breakfast, they arrived separately to social affairs, they retired to separate chambers in the evening.

  Now that she was looking at Ralph, she realized he was more handsome than when she’d married him. Then, he’d been down from university for only a year or so. Now, he’d developed gravitas to go with his dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and trim figure.

  “My saddle is my expense,” Eliza said, “though the stables are your province. You dwell under this roof. You expect me to entertain all of your friends and enemies here, but the cost of those gatherings comes entirely from my accounts. Do you know, sir, the difference between the expense of hosting one of my at homes, versus the cost of one of your political dinners?”

  He cocked his head at the angle that warned Eliza she was about to be charmed.

  “How could I know such a detail, my dear, when both undertakings are entirely in your capable hands?”

  She named him a figure that had his brows coming down as he set aside his pen.

  “That much? A single dinner costs that much?”

  “I hire extra footmen to ensure the food arrives to the table hot, and that means we keep extra livery on hand for those footmen. Cook needs more help in the kitchen for the evening itself and several days prior. The wine you fellows consume boggles the mind, and you lot stay up so late debating that we can run through a week’s candles in a night. Beeswax, of course, lest it be said that Ralph Hennepin is pinching pennies. I am very aware of your consequence, Ralph, and I try my best to protect it.”

  “But, Eliza,” he said gently, “you gamble. I know you have gone to Marcus for assistance more than once. He never says anything, but your creditors stopped approaching me, and he’s the logical source of relief. One doesn’t care to be indebted to one’s brother-in-law.”

  “Everybody gambles, and Marcus would be horrified if I asked anybody else for money. He likes to be of use and considers scolding me periodically to be his duty. I merely give him the pretext for the exercise that delights him most in the whole world.”

  That was a bouncer, and Ralph’s smile said he knew it as such. “Does the Regent allow his loyal subjects an opportunity to show their regard when he expects us to pay his enormous bills?”

  “Marcus is not the Regent. He worries for Papa, and chiding me gives him a target for his anxieties. The day grows chilly. Shall I pour us some brandy?” In theory, ladies did not take strong spirits. In private, theories were of little merit.

  “Please,” Ralph said. “Snow is lovely, but chilly and hardly convenient.”

  Eliza brought him his drink. “Was that a comment directed at me?”

  Ralph took the brandy, set it aside, and much to Eliza’s surprise, tugged her down onto his lap. “My wife is lovely, make no mistake about that, but she’s a puzzle as well.”

  Eliza hadn’t sat in her husband’s lap for ages, not since they’d courted, probably. She surrendered to the urge to curl against Ralph’s chest.

  “You are warm,” she murmured, “and you puzzle me as well.”

  Ralph had such a marvelous way with a caress. His hands drifted across her back in sweet, slow strokes, and Eliza closed her eyes, the better to listen to his heartbeat.

  “I puzzle you? Eliza, I am the most forthright of fellows. I go about my business, I dote on the children, I meet your father or brother for dinner at the club at least once a month. I ride out on decent mornings and stand up with those of your friends whom you deem it appropriate for me to partner. How can I be anything like a puzzle?”

  Life went along, relatively smoothly, like a stream flowing over and around rocks and fallen logs. Then something happened—a washed-out bridge, a storm, a farmer with a new irrigation scheme—and a change of course became possible.

  Eliza had that sense about this rare midday privacy with her husband. She could pat his lapel, stand up, and go back to rewriting invitations, or she could talk to Ralph as they’d once talked to each other about everything.

  “In your recitation of duties and appointments, Ralph, you do not mention this wife who puzzles you so.” She burrowed closer, hiding her face against his throat. “I miss you.”

  His hand on her back stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I miss you. Once upon a time, you danced with me before you stood up with anybody else. I always had your opening set. Once upon a time, you’d bring your breakfast plate down to my end of the table and share the paper with me. Once upon a time… I’m not too old to have more children, Ralph. Not nearly.”

  He still came to her bed, but nothing like enough to suit Eliza.

  “One doesn’t want to impose on the woman he has pledged to protect from all harms,” he said slowly.

  Eliza kissed his cheek. “Does one want to neglect that woman? To fill his days with business and his evenings with dinner at the club or political discussions? Is it so awful to spend time with me, Ralph?”

  He gathered her into an embrace, and Eliza braced herself for a lecture about sentiments mellowing and marriage being a cordial alliance rather than a romantic folly.

  Ralph sighed, probably rehearsing his explications, and Eliza abruptly wanted to cry. Marriage was not supposed to be lonely, for God’s sake. Marriage wasn’t supposed to be a constant battle to win a spouse’s notice.

  “I have concluded,” Ralph said quietly, “that I bore you. You are so vivacious and friendly. I am a dull old stick who can only talk politics and the latest gossip on ’Change. I try not to avoidably annoy you with my presence.”

  Ralph was an honest man. Eliza treasured that about him. But was there a limit to his honesty?

  “I have concluded,” Eliza said, “that you are keeping a pretty, clever, wicked mistress, and you find me tedious and tiresome. You would rather stand up with anybody but your own wife. I don’t even like to play cards, Ralph. The chairs are seldom comfortable, and finding a partner worthy of the name is nearly impossible.”

  A gust of bitter wind rattle
d the windows and even moved the heavy velvet curtains a few inches. The fire danced in the grate, and the candles flickered.

  “Eliza, are you saying you gamble to get my attention?”

  “Do you carp at me for exceeding my budget just to remind me that I have a husband?”

  His hold on her became more snug. “My dearest darling, I do believe we have been at cross purposes. I miss you too.”

  Thank God. Thank God, thank God, and thank Marcus for suggesting that Eliza seek her husband’s help with the invitations.

  “I am actually quite talented at whist,” Eliza said, “and I don’t really want a holiday decorator telling me what to do with our house. As to that, I’d rather nobody else hired Lady Mistletoe’s Holiday Helpers.”

  “You will explain your reasoning to a poor, befuddled husband, please.”

  “You are not befuddled. Witness your ability to spot worthy investments. I don’t want anybody else hiring Lady Mistletoe, because Marcus’s decorations—and his open house—must be the talk of Mayfair. Lady Mistletoe has a reputation for doing exquisite work, and I will ensure Marcus’s buffet is equally impressive. He will set the standard for holiday entertaining, see if he doesn’t.”

  Ralph rose with Eliza in his arms and shifted to the sofa facing the fire. “You are scheming, my dear. Marcus will not thank you for meddling.”

  “I am not meddling, I am helping. Marcus has nobody else to aid him in his search for a wife. If the ladies aren’t dazzled by his understated wit or rare smiles, they can at least be impressed with his holiday decorations.”

  “You are daft,” Ralph said, nuzzling Eliza’s throat. “Marcus is a dear fellow, but he has no charm, less wit, and his smile is more fleeting than summer lightning. I love how you smell right here,” he said, pressing a cool nose to Eliza’s throat. “Gives me ideas.”

  “We didn’t lock the door, dearest.”

  “The staff would never intrude, and you used to like it when we didn’t lock the door.”

  He kissed her right below her ear, and Eliza shivered, not with cold. “Do that again.”

  “Leave Marcus in peace, Eliza. Peace on earth and all that. He’s gracious enough to host this open house, and you should be content with that.”

  Eliza was growing anything but content. As Ralph untied the ribbon of her décolletage, she made a mental note to tell Lady Stephanie Hambleton how expensive Lady Mistletoe’s services were—unbelievably exorbitant would do. Her ladyship’s penchant for exaggeration and gossip would do the rest, and Marcus—who had a lump of coal where his heart should be—would come across like Father Christmas determined to secure himself a bride by the New Year.

  “Did you mean what you said about more children, Eliza?”

  All thoughts of Marcus and holiday brides flew from her head. “Another child would be the most precious, wonderful, and dear Christmas present you could give me, Ralph. I mean that with my whole heart.”

  “Then I will devote my whole heart to ensuring your holiday wish is granted.”

  The campaign to see Amanda and Emily settled into Marcus’s house traversed an unexpected route, led by Charlotte and Lady Margaret, supported by Aunt Penny, and further advanced by a horde of ill-spoken urchins.

  As evening approached, the children had taken over the library, where Marcus’s footmen had passed out blankets, sandwiches, and other provisions suitable for Lady Mistletoe’s minions. After darkness had fallen, and Aunt Penny had chivied Charlotte, Amanda, and Emily up to a well-heated nursery, Marcus found Lady Margaret at the library desk, trying to work by the light of a single candelabrum.

  “They’ve sung themselves to sleep,” Marcus said, stepping gingerly around a heap of blankets from which a mop of blond hair peeked. “I have never heard so much seasonal music, nor seen so much gingerbread disappear so quickly.”

  Lady Margaret sat back and rubbed her eyes. “They are good workers, and I am lucky to have them. They will need a substantial breakfast, and I would appreciate it if—assuming the weather obliges—you could send them on their way with a hot potato or at least some bread and butter when they leave.”

  Marcus peered at her ladyship’s sketches. “You are working on plans for the gallery. Might the children start on that task rather than go trudging off through the snow first thing in the day?”

  He could feed them breakfast and lunch that way and dispatch a few footmen to see that the youngest reached whatever destinations they needed to reach. Then too, London merchants would clear the walkways by midday, and the going would be easier for the children.

  “We could make a start,” Lady Margaret said. “I will need another hour or two finishing the plans, and you will have to approve them first thing in the morning. Has it stopped snowing?”

  “Let’s have a look, shall we? We can leave your elves to their deserved slumbers, and you can work in my office.”

  Where Marcus would light every blessed candle in the room for her, rather than see her toil in near darkness for the benefit of a dozen scamps and rapscallions.

  “Go along, your ladyship,” said a sleepy female voice. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

  Lady Margaret rose and gathered up her papers. “Thank you, Daisy. I’ll be across the corridor.”

  Marcus picked up the candelabrum and escorted her ladyship to the office.

  “You must be ready to make an extended visit to your father’s house,” Lady Margaret said. “I have brought more upheaval to your doorstep than even I had foreseen.” She sank into the chair behind his desk with a weary sigh.

  Marcus passed her a pillow. “That chair belonged to my father. The seat could use restuffing.”

  When she’d situated the pillow to her satisfaction, he draped his old morning coat over her shoulders and went about lighting more candles.

  “You need not cosset me,” Lady Margaret said. “I am quite used to fending for myself.”

  He lit the candles on the mantel and set the candelabrum on the desk. “That is not exactly true, is it? You fend for your daughter, for a dozen cast-off children, and probably for the various seamstresses and merchants who supply your wares. I suspect that the very last person you fend for is yourself.”

  She sent him a peevish look. “Is that the pot calling the kettle black? You worry over your papa, you are guardian to your brother’s daughters, you accommodate your sister’s social schemes and even allow me to invade your home with cloved oranges and satin ribbons, but your own wishes and wants go unacknowledged.”

  He could not read her mood, but he knew very well how he’d like to end this interesting, challenging day.

  “Not unacknowledged, but very often set aside for the sake of duty. I do have a wish I’d like to indulge, though, if your ladyship is willing.”

  Another look, more puzzled than peevish. “You have been beyond hospitable and accommodating, my lord. If your wish is within my power to grant, I am happy to do so.”

  Marcus twitched at the old coat, drawing it more closely about her shoulders. “You don’t sound happy. You sound out of patience, ready to plant somebody a facer.”

  She wrinkled her nose, making her look very much like Charlotte. “I am out of charity with my brother. He has been much on my mind lately. I have conducted myself not as most widows do, with a view to my own discreet pleasures, but as if I were still unmarried and subject to Society’s censure. Society has all but forgotten me, so whose favor am I trying to win with my saintly behavior? I have already stepped over the threshold of strict propriety by engaging in trade, or something close to it. I have no wealth, no youth, no influence, nothing Society values, and yet the good opinion of strangers has bounded my every thought and word.”

  “And this brings your brother to mind?”

  “Lucien is hopelessly proper, and I will never please him. Not ever. A mistake made in good faith years ago has condemned me in his eyes for all time.”

  Marcus knew her brother only in passing, and the earl did seem rather stuffy.
“Have you forgiven yourself for this supposed lapse?”

  Lady Margaret’s smile was a blend of a cat in the cream pot and a queen holding court. “I have forgiven myself, at long last, and no thanks to my dear brother. I also know what holiday boon I’d ask from you, my lord.”

  “Not another rehearsal of King Wenceslas’s saintly tale, please, my lady. I am the servant of duty at all times, but another rendering of that song will propel me to the outer reaches of either martyrdom or imbecility.”

  Her ladyship rose, Marcus’s coat draped over her shoulders. “I would like another kiss, my lord. A passionate, lovely, wonderful kiss, freely given, freely shared. Not duty. The furthest thing from duty. I know your sister seeks to find you a bride, and I wish you the joy of that undertaking, but first, I’d like a little discreet joy for myself—if you are willing.”

  If he was willing? Willing? Of course he was willing, though something in her ladyship’s admission wanted more discussion.

  Later. Later, they could discuss everything from kissing boughs to meddling family to the royal succession.

  “The wish I was hoping you’d grant, my lady, is another kiss.” He drew her forward by grasping the lapels of his old coat. “A kiss freely shared between adults of like minds and willing bodies.”

  She went up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. “Passionate bodies, please. I’d like a passionate kiss, as passionate as our first kiss.”

  Oh, Marcus could do much better than the little moment they’d shared the previous night. Much. He got a firm hold of her and sat her on the edge of the desk, then stepped between her knees.

  “Hold on to me,” he whispered. “Please, hold on to me tightly.”

  He kissed her with all the longing and wildness he never acknowledged, all the determination and joy he could muster. She kissed him back, answering him taste for taste and sigh for sigh, her hands plundering his person and his wits. Marcus felt as if he were London on Christmas morning, the church bells pealing wildly as blinding sunshine poured down on pristine snow, every street corner filled with song.