Madrigals And Mistletoe

by Hayley A. Solomon

  Cordelia felt her cheeks stain red. Her delicious bosom rose and fell as she attempted to answer mildly. Whilst she had much to say to her mama in private, she would not have her gossiped about, even if the man doing the talking was her intended.

  “Recall to mind, your lordship, that it is my mother of whom we speak!” The severe tones were lost on Henry, who was looking past her towards the footmen setting up impromptu trellises outside.

  “Dashed if I don’t have a mind to one of those ices!”

  Cordelia gave up in disgust. When Lord Henry, quite forgetting her presence, ambled off to secure his place in the long line of waiting guests, she shook her head and made her way inside.

  “I see you took my advice!” The voice nearly overset Cordelia, for it so neatly matched the one in her head. She whirled around to find Doncaster negligently propped against a wide, alabaster pillar. If possible, he was more handsome than she remembered him, though his nose was straighter and his mouth slightly wider than she had first supposed.

  “Indeed, sir! Though I now find I have more to thank you for than I had immediately imagined!”

  He looked amused. “There is no accounting for tastes, is there?”

  “Possibly not, though I suspect that in this case society is more discerning than it usually proves to be.”

  His eyes softened. “May I take that as a compliment? It is refreshing for I am so used, you see, to being served Spanish coin.”

  “A sore trial, I am sure! Yes, I did mean it as a compliment though I am sure I may have overstepped the bounds somewhere!”

  “You mean beautiful young women do not usually commend admiring gentlemen?” His tone was suddenly flirtatious and Cordelia looked up, colouring.

  “Don’t talk flummery to me if you please!”

  “Is it flummery to say I admire you? I could have said your eyes shimmer like candlelight and the curves of your mouth are infinitely”—there was a hushed pause before his dark eyes burned into hers, and, in a low, breathtakingly intimate tone, he whispered—“kissable.”

  Cordelia felt as though she was stunned. All her three seasons had not prepared her for such brazen, flagrantly romantic and quite unsuitable conversation.

  She decided to ignore the wild fluttering of her heart and the intimate smile that lurked in the depths of bold, black eyes. “Now that would be flummery, sir!”

  A decided twinkle entered my Lord Doncaster’s eyes. “A sense of humour, too,” he murmured, quite unrepentant and in just as familiar a tone.

  “Do stop it, sir!”

  The twinkle turned into a gleam. “I do believe, Miss . . . ?”

  “Good heavens! We are not yet introduced!” Cordelia’s hands flew to her mouth. “Miss Camfrey, sir!”

  “Excellent! I do believe, Miss Camfrey, that you must be the first among your sex to depress my pretensions!”

  “You must lead a charmed life, then, Sir . . . ?”

  “Lord, actually!”

  “Yes, I had suspected as much. At first I thought you must be in the military—your authoritative air, you know—”

  His lordship cocked his head to one side and folded his arms, a distinct light of enjoyment flitting across his near perfect features. “And now?”

  “Oh, now I am certain you are a lord, for all the world is kowtowing to you! Besides, I have it on the best authority you are a member of the Four Horse Club.”

  “True, though it is extraordinary how fast word travels.”

  “Yes, well, that is so, of course! Society is bound to gossip—so very diverting.”

  “I am glad to hear I am a source of amusement, ma’am!”

  “No, that is not what I meant—”

  “I am teasing!”

  Miss Camfrey dimpled and she peeked outrageously at the impeccably clad gentleman. “I suspected as much. It is tremendously refreshing to have someone understand my irony.”

  “Tremendously refreshing to hear it, Miss Camfrey! The world takes itself too seriously!”

  “I think so, too. But come, sir! I have very prettily exchanged names with you, but you have not, I believe, returned the favour!”

  “Only because it would be improper to be so forward!”

  Cordelia wrinkled her nose. “Shall I fetch my mama to introduce us? I hope you don’t intend being so absurd, my lord!”

  “I revel in absurdities, Miss Camfrey!” She rewarded him with a smile that shook him to the core. Their elegant repartee was going farther than he had first intended, but he wondered, rather ruefully, whether that mattered. “Well then, since you insist—and I defy you to suddenly kowtow to me—I am Rhaz, Lord Doncaster.

  Cordelia’s head felt as though it was spinning. She did not know why she should feel so faint with surprise, for it was no secret that the duke was back. He was looking at her rather wistfully, so she recovered her poise in an instant and allowed the laughter to shine through her speaking, misty grey eyes.

  “Ought I to curtsy, your grace?”

  “Quite probably. It seems to be what every young lady does when she sees me. Quite unaccountable, really, when I stand six foot two in my stockinged feet. You’d think they would try to stretch, rather than sink!”

  “Perhaps I should stretch then!”

  His ready laughter was tinged with a hint of devilry as he murmured subtly and with a wealth of unspoken innuendo, “How eminently suitable, for then our lips will be practically touching!”

  As Cordelia registered his meaning, the words hung like dew between them. A heartbeat of wild yearning, then the light went out of Cordelia’s eyes. The duke saw it and raised quizzical brows.

  “I was funning, Miss Camfrey!”

  Cordelia waited until her heart was beating at a more manageable pace.

  “Your grace, I think I should tell you I am betrothed.” She was in an agony that he should think her forward for making too much out of his flirtatious gallantry. He seemed to understand something of her feelings, for he took her hands lightly and maintained the same rallying tone.

  “I should think so! The men of England would not be such slow tops to let a diamond like you pass through their fingers!”

  Cordelia smiled, relieving that she had set the tone for their dalliance, if such this could be called. More like the unbridled enjoyment of one mind’s wit meeting with an answering comprehension.

  “I must go.”

  The duke nodded, though for once he was silent.

  Cordelia hesitated, then addressed him with sad finality. “Good-bye then.”

  Once again, his grace nodded. As Cordelia made a small, self-conscious curtsy, she heard a faint, self-mocking murmur. She could swear he had reverted to French, erasing her firm farewell with a warmer, more promising, “Au revoir.”

  THREE

  “I suppose your grace will think it entirely the thing to jaunter around the country with no more—no more I say!—than two portmanteaus and a little slip of a halfling for a tiger!”

  His grace the Duke of Doncaster did not seem at all perturbed by this monologue, but bent his mind, instead, to the intricate task of fastening his shirtsleeves and pulling on a skintight coat made exactly to order. His valet, catching sight of the excellent fit, allowed himself a small sigh of vicarious pleasure before continuing on his tirade.

  “Mark my words, your grace! Your Hessians will disgrace me.”

  “Ah, there is the crux of it, Jennings! Your overweening pride among the upper servants! You harangue me day after day simply because I refuse to increase your consequence by filling two of my carriages with . . . with . . . what exactly do you wish me to convey?”

  “Only what is proper, my lord! Your hunting dress, your evening garb, your greatcoats, a mere dozen starched cravats—”

  “Only a dozen? For shame, Jennings!” The humour in his grace’s mellifluous voice was unmistakable.

  Jennings scowled and ostentatiously handed his employer the requisite top boots of Parisian leather. The duke looked down and saw his dark,
richly handsome face perfectly reflected in the shine.

  “I will concede you are the devil of a dab hand at boots, Jennings!”

  Considerably mollified, the valet brightened perceptibly and began putting his mind to the manner in which the whole of my lord’s extensive attire could be transferred to two middling portmanteaus. His grace did not bother to try to reason with him—Jennings, known to his master for more years than he cared to remember, could work miracles.

  “Does your grace intend to be long out of town?”

  “Just so long as long as my mama is in town!” For the first time, the duke looked up from his boots and stared directly at his valet. Something quite akin to a rather mischievous grin crossed his likable face. The impression was confirmed by a broad and most undignified wink.

  Jennings threw his hands up in despair. Whenever would the duke learn what was owing to his consequence? Winking indeed! Still, he had to concede his grace had a point. The Dowager Duchess of Doncaster would arrive like a whirlwind in the night, issuing orders from dawn to dusk, meddling where she had no business to and otherwise turning his grace’s well-ordered household into a state of bedlam. It had been done before and the underservants dreaded it. What was worse, she was likely to scold his lordship to death, just as though he were not Rhaz Carlisle, fifth Duke of Doncaster and a peer of the realm.

  The valet’s outraged demeanour melted somewhat. He was very fond of the fifth duke, despite his reprobate penchant for levity and his strong, stubborn, implacable will at times. True, they would rub along better if his grace heeded his words a trifle more, allowing his hair to be cut à la Titus, permitting a few gold seals to hang ornately from his waistcoat, agreeing, perhaps, to just a hint of scent. . . . But no! The duke was unreasoningly firm, quite unmanageable, in fact.

  Still, Jennings had to concede enormous admiration for him—for he was no prink of fashion or jaw-me-dead gabster. He could handle his pistols and his wine with equal equanimity, he was as fine a huntsman as he was shot and he had such a bruising left fist that even Thomas Cribbs hesitated to step into the fray.

  The valet, though he would die before admit it, was inordinately proud of his employer. As he was wont to recite to the kitchen staff until they were positively bored to tears, his grace the fifth duke could ride to an inch and race a curricle with consummate skill. Everyone knew that no one but the most foolhardy and green ever challenged him to such a contest. Also—and this was said with much satisfaction—his grace could stare down encroaching fribbles enough to make them squirm.

  Unfortunately, her grace the dowager duchess, though annoying, could not possibly be placed into that category. Her son, when he saw her, was thus unfailingly polite and even, to the undiscerning, disconcertingly meek. He was obliging enough to escort her to routs and balls and even the odd turn at Vauxhall or the theatre. He submitted to her endless catechisms, advice, complaints, gossip and admonishments with bland charm, giving her to understand he appreciated every wise word of counsel. Of course, she never noticed the stubborn tilt of his chin or the whimsical expression in his eyes that exuded amusement rather than concentration.

  It was a peaceable enough arrangement, for his grace never objected to having his menus overset or his residence thrown open to soirees and other such hideous entertainments. More likely than not he would merely amble over to his private quarters and forget the whole affair entirely. Certainly, when he was engrossed in some piece of edifying literature or playing the harpsichord he’d had installed in the library, nothing could be farther from his mind than the opulent festivities he was sponsoring—and no doubt paying for. The duchess could rail and admonish all she liked, but beyond a deceptively meek smile she could elicit nothing of consequence, particularly not a promise to be better behaved in the future.

  It was quite provoking for the poor duchess, who delighted in meddling and managing. Matchmaking was high on her list of activities, for she positively yearned for grandchildren now that her own little nestlings had flown the coop. She connived and schemed relentlessly, but to no avail. It seemed whenever she cunningly arranged a ball so that the duke might happen to fall in the way of Miss So-and-so, he wriggled so skilfully from the net that the duchess was never able to discern for sure if the mischance had been by accident or design.

  Just such a mischance was now about to occur. Jennings stifled a grin of his own and commented, with meaning, that the housekeeper had been informed of the duchess’s intent. Her grace would be residing in town a fortnight before setting forth to Andover, where she was to attend the christening of her newest godchild.

  “Bella’s son? Remind me to send a gift.”

  The valet assented, knowing that the duke’s generosity was legendary. Bella’s son, whoever he was, would be assured a gift of extraordinary proportions. The duke allowed Jennings to help him with his coat. The superfine fitted so snugly to his lean, muscular frame that help with the buttons was welcome.

  “My visit to Huntingdon will be precisely fourteen days, Jennings.”

  The valet completed his task, an unwary twinkle appearing in his eye. “The coincidence overwhelms me, your grace!”

  The duke responded with a happy grin. It was not his habit to gossip with servants, but Jennings was such a minefield of information and so very loyal to boot that he had practically no compunction at all.

  “If the duchess is attended by a bevy of young ladies of gentle breeding and excellent birth, do please ask Danvers not to hesitate to proffer my sincere apologies at being forced to miss them!”

  “I shall not, your grace!”

  Jennings entered into the joke with enthusiasm. Surveying the duke critically, he at last nodded his head in sublime satisfaction. Despite the deplorable lack of seals and jewels, he had to admit his grace looked supremely elegant and unremittingly handsome. A credit, in fact, to anyone who had the honour of valeting him.

  Doncaster watched this process with a slight twitch to his mouth. “Do I pass muster, Jennings?”

  “You will do, your grace.” From which my lord was assured he was as fine as nine pence, for if he were not, the venerable Jennings would have had all morning to spend on the subject.

  “Excellent! Inform Mistress Chawleigh to lay the covers for two tonight. Captain Argyll will be arriving from Plymouth.”

  “Captain Argyll, my lord! I saw that he was mentioned in dispatches. How very pleasant for you.” Jennings was approving, for a nicer, less rackety young man he would be hard-pressed to find.

  “Your eagle eyes miss nothing, do they?”

  “No, my lord.” Jennings was immodestly firm on this score.

  Doncaster swallowed a laugh. “We will celebrate the honour in the best style I know. I’ve ordered up some of the ’79 burgundy from the cellars.”

  Jenning’s tone was dry. “Just as well the duchess only arrives tomorrow.”

  The duke looked up with a smile. “Quite,” was all he said.

  Ancilla Camfrey shut her lips tightly and folded her arms. It was very seldom that she was ever stubborn, for despite her frittersome ways she really was very fond of her two daughters and could, by skilful management, be twisted around either of their little fingers. On this one point, however, she was adamant.

  “Seraphina, you shall have a new music master just as soon as I can find one!”

  Seraphina pouted. “Why, Mama? I am really quite grown, now! I am too old for the schoolroom and refuse—refuse—to be sent back!”

  Ancilla saw the mutinous tears that sparkled at the back of her daughter’s vivid, wide-set eyes.

  “Please don’t fuss, Seraphina dear. You will thank me for it I promise you! If you will only apply yourself—”

  “Apply myself? I hate the harpsichord! I hate singing stupid madrigals!” I—”

  “You don’t hate music, however!” Cordelia’s light voice was firm and soothing. Seraphina looked up, her sister put up her hand and smiled. “You can’t cozen me into believing you don’t adore Handel or Vival
di—I’ve seen how you close your eyes at recitals! What is more, I’ll wager my last quarter’s allowance you are not indifferent to the opera.”

  “Delia, that is different!” Seraphina’s voice was almost a wail. “Mama wants me to have a fusty old tutor again and I won’t have it! I simply won’t have it!”

  Miss Camfrey’s perceptive eyes could see her sister was working herself up into an unwelcome tantrum. She stood up and looked sternly into her lovely, elfin face.

  “Seraphina, we are trying to spare you another humiliating debacle! You need not be a hundred percent proficient like Lady Amelia Trent—”

  “She can’t sing!”

  “Very true, but it is not polite in you to point that out! Besides, madame, your own singing needs revision I am told!” Ancilla was so stern that both daughters looked at her in surprise. “I have had a dozen or so morning calls with sly old tabbies insinuating the same. I may not have been in the great chamber when Seraphina made her debut, but I am not such a slow top not to know what has occurred!”

  Seraphina found herself colouring, but still managed to mumble, “Fustian!”

  Miss Camfrey, seeing the telltale signs of colour adorn her sister’s cheeks understood her to be coming round despite the unladylike term. She therefore raised her eyebrows significantly to her mother and left the room. Soon, Ancilla did the same, leaving Seraphina alone to recover her thoughts. If she was not reconciled to the idea of further tuition, at least she had an inkling of the need for it.

  It was much later in the day, when all disharmony was long since forgotten, that Mrs. Camfrey came by the note. She was sifting idly through the mail, amused that her sister Jeeves had franked at least a half dozen sheets again, when she came by something quite unexpected among the usual assortment of bills and invitations. She stared at the gilt-edged wafer in surprise mingled with puzzlement.

  “When did this arrive, Pendleton?”