Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  Her time with him had been the greatest fortune of her life.

  The butler cleared his throat.

  Noisily.

  “Excuse us here, Mr. Durham,” the butler said. “The holidays have played havoc here. The servants will get back to normal soon. They should outlaw days off entirely. Far too destructive to a young girl’s routine.”

  Mr. Durham—obviously it was not really Frederick, smiled.

  “Allow me to introduce you to the other servants,” the butler said, and they turned away.

  It took a moment for Celia’s heart to resume something like a consistent pitter patter.

  “You are pale,” Polly said. “Are you sure you’re well?”

  “I must have caught a cold when I was away.”

  Polly nodded gravely. “Natural enough in winter.”

  “Quite.” Celia scrubbed a pot with vigor.

  It had been embarrassing to be relieved of her lady’s maid duties, but she was now happy to only have to venture upstairs in the early morning when the rest of the house was sleeping.

  She didn’t need to see the smug scorn of Lady Fitzroy, and the confusion of Lady Amaryllis whenever she was present.

  No, it was far better to be here and to worry about washing dishes even if Polly and Cook asked her too many questions about her time away.

  It seemed the most difficult thing in the world to not share everything she’d experienced in Yorkshire.

  All she thought about was Frederick.

  But she couldn’t abide the thought of her dreams being met with pity.

  She should have known better.

  She shouldn’t have allowed her heart to become so fragile.

  “Can I help with that?”

  It was the new footman.

  The man who resembled Frederick.

  She blinked.

  No.

  Likely she’d become mad.

  “I must wash these dishes,” Celia said.

  “I’ll help you.” The footman dipped his hands into the murky water.

  “You’ll stain your attire,” she said.

  “Mr. Durham,” the butler said. “Move away from that area.”

  Her smile faltered, and the man disappeared.

  Footmen didn’t help scullery maids.

  Footmen sauntered loftily about in crisp ivory and ebony suits, cognizant the sheer fortune of their appearance had bequeathed them with good positions. Everyone knew the ladies of grand homes favored symmetrically formed faces, an abundance of height, and muscular features in the men chosen to whisk food onto their plates.

  Celia focused on scrubbing the dishes, finding pleasure on removing the grimy food. If only it were so simple to dispose of the rest of the unpleasantness in the world.

  She glanced to see if the new footman was still about, but he was absent

  She continued to work.

  A strange sensation filled her, almost as if she missed him.

  Ridiculous.

  Perhaps the dullness of the task had made her more prone to the most fanciful leaps of imagination.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  How on earth had Frederick thought being a footman was anything easy?

  He’d always assumed it entailed some degree of balance with which to carry platters of food and an ability to fit into the measurements of the previous footman’s uniform.

  Apparently there was much, much more to it, and Frederick was not excelling at it.

  He might have mastered cerebral tasks, but being in service required an abundance of additional skills he’d never thought to appreciate.

  His feet ached at the end of the day.

  But it didn’t matter.

  The chief problem with being a footman remained that his duties took him into the main house, and far from the kitchen.

  He would see Celia.

  “You’re smiling a lot, considering it’s your first day,” the butler said.

  Frederick straightened.

  Perhaps privacy was a word that did not apply to servants.

  “I am grateful to have this position,” he said stiltedly.

  “See that you improve,” the butler said. “Your work today merited no pride.”

  The harsh sentiment stung him.

  What would it be like if he depended on the butler’s reaction as a gauge of the steadiness of his income?

  He focused on Celia.

  Soon he would see her. He rounded the corner, feeling the rough tile beneath his feet. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling, and he lowered his torso. Whatever improvements had been made to the upstairs section of the house had not been applied uniformly.

  But when he returned to the kitchen, she was gone.

  “Where is Celia?” he asked.

  The butler frowned. “I wonder at your ability at determining her name with such speed, given your proclivity otherwise toward incompetence.”

  Frederick was thankful he didn’t have the various scientific articles he’d published with him, lest he be unable to resist the urge to wave them at the butler’s face. Not brandishing his invention of waterproof fabric took sufficient fortitude. He’d taken the frockcoat Celia had made with him, though some of the other fabric had disappeared with Celia’s things.

  “I must insist there be absolutely no fraternizing with maids,” the butler continued. “You are here to work.”

  “Er—yes.”

  “I hope I do not need to remind you how easy it is for me to dismiss you.”

  “No,” Frederick said quickly.

  He needed to see Celia. Losing his position would hardly abet that task.

  He glanced around. “So what happens now?”

  “Bed,” Charlie, one of the footmen said. “Follow me.”

  Frederick followed Charlie up the creaking stairs, carrying a tallow candle that emitted a pungent smell. The rest of the house was adorned with art. Paintings and art lined the corridors, displaying the English countryside and European capitals, Roman goddesses and rococo flourishes. These walls were unadorned, unless one counted the paint peeling from them.

  It occurred to Frederick he didn’t know what the servants’ quarters in his own estate looked like. Were the walls painted? Were they maintained?

  He swallowed hard.

  He didn’t know.

  He’d lived there nearly all his life, but he’d never visited the servants’ quarters.

  They reached the third floor, and Frederick bent his head to avoid the ceiling. The corridor was narrow, and he followed Charlie to a tiny room. He’d visited it to change into his footman’s uniform, but the room was colder now. Wind swept in from the window, and the streets remained noisy, even at this hour, with the sound of clomping horses and wheels crunching over cobblestones.

  He sank into the bed eagerly, only to be met with a prickly sensation. Hay spilled from the comforter, and the sheets were rough against his touch. Something seemed to shuffle in the corner of the room.

  Vermin.

  He closed his eyes.

  Tomorrow he would speak with Celia.

  It was a comfort to know he was in the same building as Celia.

  But it would have been more of a comfort if they’d spoken.

  THE NEXT DAY HE ENTERED the kitchen. It thronged with maids, cooks, footmen and the ever-scowling butler.

  No matter.

  Celia was at the sink, her back turned to him, oblivious to his presence.

  She should have fallen into his arms when she’d seen him.

  But she’d seemed more confused, and he’d wanted to hold her and tell her she didn’t need to do that work anymore.

  He supposed it hadn’t helped he’d been in a footman’s uniform when they’d spoken or that he’d been introduced as a Mr. Durham.

  Tonight, after the dinner party, he would tell her.

  In the meantime he would continue to work.

  A doorbell sounded, and he crept on the steps.

  He’d been proud of his ability to avoid Lady Fitzroy, d
ucking behind doors and paying inordinate attention to the ceiling and walls whenever she appeared.

  He wondered how long it might take her to recognize him.

  People didn’t tend to look at footmen, only noticing if some work was done incorrectly.

  “Admiral Fitzroy,” the butler announced in a lofty voice. “Please go into the parlor.

  Frederick crept down more stairs.

  So Admiral Fitzroy was one of the dinner guests. Frederick could damage his reputation irrevocably if people discovered he’d been posing as a footman.

  It was the sort of thing people didn’t do.

  It was illuminating to see how the household was run. He’d always supposed the mistress of the house ran it completely, but he saw how much work the housekeeper and cook did in managing their staff and ensuring the household and kitchen ran efficiently.

  He admired Celia’s dream to become a housekeeper. He’d laughed when she’d first mentioned her dream, but he realized now how much ambition she’d had to possess such a dream.

  It would be so easy to think her life horrible, her burden too large. She could so easily resent Lady Fitzroy more, but she didn’t.

  She was sweet and good natured to everyone.

  He’d loved her before, but now he’d witnessed her in her working environment, his love had only filled.

  He couldn’t wait to speak with her.

  Even if Admiral Fitzroy was upstairs with Lady Fitzroy.

  Even if it would make far more sense to be quiet, and wait until the kitchen was less busy and when the house was devoid of potentially curious aristocrats.

  He entered the kitchen.

  Celia was so beautiful, even when her back was toward him.

  Even when she was completely consumed in her work.

  He strode toward her.

  “Mr. Durham,” the butler said. “We are not chatting with the maids now—”

  Frederick flickered his hand impatiently at the butler.

  Some of the servants looked at him curiously.

  He was a footman, and higher on the social chain than Celia, even if she was the daughter of an earl.

  “We are ready to serve the fish course,” the butler said. “If you could please take the platter, Mr. Durham.”

  Frederick was not going to be taking any platters anywhere and he continued to stride toward Celia.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “We need to speak,” a male voice said. “Sweetheart.”

  Celia stiffened.

  It must be her imagination.

  Frederick was a duke. A duke who despised London. A duke who despised her.

  But the footman had looked like him...

  She hated hoping.

  She needed to resign herself to her lot.

  But her heart still quickened, and even as she cursed herself, she found herself turning toward the voice. “Frederick?”

  It was him.

  It was truly him.

  Her voice wobbled. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m waiting for your answer,” he said.

  “What was the question?” the cook asked grumpily. “Celia, if you’re delaying the footman from bringing the fish platter upstairs... Please, answer his question.”

  Frederick smiled.

  He sank to the ground and kneeled before her. The other servants stopped their bustle.

  “Celia, my love, will you please marry me?”

  “Waste of a footman, if you ask me,” one maid said. “She’s a scullery maid.”

  Celia stiffened.

  They were right. He was far, far too good for her.

  Her hands were puckered from the dirty dishwater, and stains speckled her once immaculately starched apron.

  “She’s going to become a duchess,” Frederick said.

  There was silence, but then laughter sounded. Obviously, a statement like that couldn’t be real.

  The butler cleared his throat. “Hurry up. We need the fish course.”

  “The fish course can be late.” Frederick took her hands in his, and the familiar energy surged through her. “I love you, Celia.”

  “But—” Celia remembered not struggling for words before, but now her heart seemed to be beating far too quickly, and her tongue seemed to be growing at a rapid rate.

  She swallowed hard. “But why are you dressed like that?”

  “If you don’t want to be a duchess, then I’ll be a footman if it means I can spend the rest of my life with you.”

  The servants’ whispers heightened, as if a wind gust were trapped inside the kitchen.

  One didn’t declare oneself a duke, especially when one was dressed as a footman and delaying one of the courses. Not on any night, but especially not when the countess had guests.

  Joy surged through her, but she tried to tell herself she must be conjuring the vision of him kneeling before her on the kitchen floor. If music had started playing, she wouldn’t have been able to distinguish if it was her imagination or not.

  After all the fact that Frederick was here, in London, in the servants’ quarters... That must be something her imagination had conjured.

  The man was simply being overly romantic. Perhaps he’d listened to some overly sentimental music or had attended an opera recently.

  Naturally Frederick couldn’t mean to actually marry her.

  She could never be a proper duchess on his arm.

  She wasn’t fit to marry a country squire, much less a man like him.

  And yet...

  It was too easy to linger in his gaze, and she steeled herself from him. Fire danced in his dark eyes.

  That look must be more dangerous than poison.

  “You can’t mean that,” Celia said.

  Frederick raised his chin. “Of course I mean it.”

  “You told me it didn’t mean anything,” she whispered. “After we’d—”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “And what makes you change your mind now?”

  “Lady Theodosia. I-I spoke with her.”

  Footsteps sounded, and in the next moment the door to the kitchen swung open.

  The butler appeared.

  “Mr. Durham,” the butler’s voice boomed. “What on earth are you doing on the floor?”

  “I do believe he’s proposing,” Polly cried out joyfully. “Though she ain’t given him an answer yet!”

  “You better make it a yes,” Frederick said. “I’m afraid I’m not a very good footman.”

  Celia smiled. “I’m not good enough for you.”

  “That’s nonsense. I couldn’t care less about your parents.”

  “I’m not sure whether he’s truly very romantic,” Polly said dubiously.

  “I mean,” Frederick said, “I do not care about your parents’ birth. All I care about is you. And the fact is that you are the sweetest, gentlest, kindest person I know. And I want to spend the rest of our lives together.”

  “But what about your position? What will people think?”

  He shrugged. “They will be scandalized. It will give them some entertainment. Lord knows it’s important in this dark weather.”

  “So we would be doing them a favor?” Celia’s lips twitched.

  Frederick nodded. “We might even be doing the horses a favor—fewer societal events to bring us to.”

  “Better say yes,” Polly said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Even the grumpy butler seemed to have the urge to wipe his hands against his eyes.

  “If you’re sure...”

  “Absolutely,” Frederick said.

  “Then yes,” Celia breathed, her heartbeat thudding.

  “Let’s start the rest of our lives together.” Frederick swept her into his arms and held her against his chest. Her legs dangled, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She narrowed the gap between their faces. Extra space when none was necessary was a ridiculous concept.

  The butler cleared his throat. “I know you are new here Mr. Durham, but I
assure you footmen do not make a habit of sweeping scullery maids into their arms.”

  “Not one of my job duties?” Frederick winked.

  Celia wrapped her arms around him more tightly. He seemed...happy. Not at all like a man honor bound to marry the woman with whom he’d been intimate, no matter the lowliness of her birth.

  The butler’s face reddened. “Indeed not. If you would like to bring in the fish course.”

  “Grab that fish platter, Celia,” Frederick said.

  He walked toward it, still clasping her easily in his arms. He bowed down, and Celia picked up the platter.

  “Upstairs, now,” he said.

  “But, Mr. Durham!” the butler shouted. “You cannot mean to bring Celia up there. No matter how happy the occasion.”

  “I do,” Frederick said.

  “But it’s improper,” the butler said. “Undignified! Inelegant.”

  “I don’t care,” Frederick said.

  The butler gasped, and in the next moment Frederick had kicked open the door leading to the stairs. He carried Celia up the winding, rickety staircase.

  “You really shouldn’t,” Celia said.

  “Oh, but I should,” Frederick said. “They must have the fish course.”

  Footsteps sounded.

  “I think the butler is following us,” Celia whispered.

  “Let him.”

  “We’ll scandalize the guests,” Celia said.

  “Let them be scandalized.”

  “Do you really mean that?” Celia’s voice wobbled as they entered the sumptuous surroundings of the main house. Perhaps they’d stopped speaking about the presentation of the fish course.”

  “Of course,” Frederick said, his voice gentler. “As long as I have you. For forever and ever.”

  “You do,” Celia breathed.

  Voices sounded from the dining room, now visible, and footsteps thudded behind them.

  Frederick kissed her, and the fish platter careened and toppled onto the floor. Thick French sauce spilled onto the Turkish carpet.

  The butler emitted a moan, and the guests rushed toward them, their tails flapping under their sudden gusto.

  “Your Grace?” one asked. “You’re in London!”

  Admiral Fitzroy’s face whitened. “If this is about your ridiculous habit of throwing water around on perfectly good scientists...”