Madrigals And Mistletoe

by Hayley A. Solomon

  Cordelia could see his thoughts were far away as she nodded quietly in his direction and shut the door behind her.

  “Good morning, Miss Seraphina! Too beautiful a morning to waste indoors, is it not?”

  “I thought you were coming to find me and scold!”

  “Should I have been?” His keen eyes raked her up and down and she had the goodness to blush.

  “Possibly! I loathe and detest lessons, you see!”

  “I think I do, for you have very neatly managed to avoid me for all of one week now.”

  “I did not think you had noticed.”

  “Foolish girl! When I am paid to teach you? Come, come!”

  Seraphina bit back a moment’s disappointment that this was the reason he had missed her. Frederick, of course, would never give her the satisfaction of knowing quite how she had cut up his piece. He had toyed with the idea, often enough, of either kissing her or spanking her, but since neither of these actions would have been appropriate to the role for which he had been paid, he’d determined at last to give her a little leash. In this, he was rewarded, for Seraphina had suffered many agonies for her stubbornness and was now more than happy that he had sought her out at last.

  “Where are we going?” Frederick stepped up amiably next to her.

  “I was collecting wild figs and pinecones for Cordelia’s syrups. They are famous around here, you know!”

  “I did not, but I am not surprised. She appears very capable. Here, let me take that.”

  Without warning, he seized the basket she was carrying and spun it round to his left, so that they were now ambling amiably side by side towards the forest.

  Seraphina felt her breathing quicken and became very aware of his hand dangling only inches away from her dimity day dress and almost touching her. Indeed, when she briefly stumbled over a pebble their hands did make contact and the sensation was memorable to both parties.

  Frederick, however, refused to take advantage of the circumstances. He was very aware that Seraphina, despite her high spirits, was only a very green girl, highly impressionable and still patently an innocent. Though these facts alone made his muscles involuntarily tighten, he chose, rather painfully, to ignore the urge that came as naturally to him as breathing. The self-control he inflicted upon himself made the walk necessarily rather quiet, but neither minded, for Seraphina’s wrath seemed to have yielded to a softer and infinitely pleasanter type of companionship.

  At length, they stopped. Both had been so lost in their thoughts that neither had picked so much as one pinecone, never mind uncovered any of the wild figs that grew abundantly in the forest. The uncommonly hot day seemed to remember its season and slowly turn to autumn, as a wind swept through the trees, rustling the pretty red leaves and shaking a good many off upon the ground and through Seraphina’s shining auburn hair.

  Despite his good resolutions, Frederick could not help but comment that Seraphina looked like a wood sprite, her deep auburn hair a perfect match to the autumn colours that surrounded them. She blushed prettily, her mouth opening in surprise at her first compliment from the man who had begun to haunt her dreams.

  When he indicated to a gnarled wood stump, wide and weather-beaten, she sat down smiling, but her heart was beating loud and she was perfectly certain he could hear.

  Frederick gathered up a moss-covered stick that lay buried at their feet. Tapping it against a nearby rock, he beat a rhythm that was steady and predictable. He raised his brows and whistled. When Seraphina asked him what he was doing, he asked her what tempo he was beating. The march was easy to recognise, just as he’d hoped. Pleased with this game, Seraphina clapped her hands and asked for more. Frederick was astonished by her perspicacity, for he moved quickly through rhythms until she was recognising complicated septets without much thought. Finally, with slight devilry in his eyes, he beat out a simple 3/3 time. She wrinkled up her nose.

  “A waltz?”

  “Indeed, Miss Camfrey! And I was hoping you would do me the honour.” He bowed mischievously and despite Seraphina’s hesitant mutterings that the dance was “fast” and she had not yet acquired permission from the patronesses of Almack’s, it was not long before she was in his arms, his soft, sensuous whistling burning deep ripples of awareness into her ears and, as it seemed to her, her very being.

  Frederick longed to allow matters to progress, but he was a gentleman and Seraphina was entrusted to his care. So he took the moment to teach her a little about artistic composition and just why the waltz required such an unusual rhythm.

  Flushed, Seraphina concentrated hard, and from the few salient questions she asked, Frederick understood that his task was not as daunting or as hopeless as he had first conceived. A little originality in her lessons and the fair Seraphina would blossom. He looked at her wistfully and wondered which beau would eventually whisk her away.

  It was in these circumstances, then, that Miss Seraphina began her lifelong love affair with music. I could say more than just music, perhaps, but for the moment I will desist. The workings of Miss Camfrey’s heart were still tangled up in youthful expectations and confusions. She expected to be duchess—the idea of being wife to a simple music master was unthinkable. If the prospect nevertheless imposed itself upon her dreams, none, save herself, could know.

  Rhaz’s lips widened into a deep curve as he set his seal upon the wafer-thin parchment. If this did not send the good Lord Henry posthaste down to Huntingdon, nothing would. He offered as bait a couple of tidy roans and the chance of sending some prize mares to stud. The Duke of Doncaster’s Arabian stallions were legendary among the ton. Lord Winthrop would be foolish beyond belief if he did not take up such an unexpected and rare opportunity.

  Next, he tore open the envelope that awaited him in his study—the conservatory had become unseasonably hot—and he settled down on one of the comfortable chaise longues scattered tastefully about.

  He almost laughed out loud at Frederick’s comical descriptions of his charges and the beautiful wayward daughter he would, for his sins and penance, be forced to teach. Rhaz chuckled deeply, for the thought of his friend hamstrung with regard to any amorous pursuit was a great joke. He scanned farther and nodded more seriously at Freddie’s projections for the future. If he could scribble off an entire score in an evening, it would not be long before the young Lord Frederick would be famous.

  Just to make certain, the duke took up his pen and began to write once more. This missive he thought very carefully about sending, for he was generally loath to meddle in any affairs but his own. Still, if Mr. Beckett had any doubts, or the unnamed partner became suddenly short of funds or inclination, the noble seal of Carlisle never did any harm. Frederick would undoubtedly succeed on his own merits but if Rhaz was of a mind to smooth things along, it was his prerogative, surely, as a friend.

  The estate book loomed large on the table. For the next several hours, his grace found himself closeted with it. This might sound more gloomy than it actually was, for Rhaz held a deep interest in innovative agriculture and sponsored several ingenious plans to modernise the estate’s farming techniques. The saving in labour was put to good use, for he had a vinery planted, the crop for which he widely distributed among his tenants, a handy incentive to implementation of his profitable and newfangled plans.

  He was pleased to note that, for the first time, the estate was doubling its turnover, allowing him to order every chimney swept and a winter’s worth of firewood delivered to the dependents of Huntingdon. This still left him with more than he had projected spare, but this was of small consequence to the duke, who had so large a fortune that estate revenues were a mere pittance in the grand scheme of things.

  Careful calculation revealed it had been a record breeding year for grouse and pheasant. Accordingly, in the spirit of Christmas coming, he pardoned two notorious poachers whom the gamekeeper had incarcerated pending sentence and ordered a free lunch for all. This benevolence was in addition to the usual midwinter Christmas fare tradit
ionally served up on the estate. To create a balance in his woods and fields, he specified grouse, partridge and selected fowl to be chief upon the menu. If a couple of jugged hares and potted woodcocks also found their way into the festivities, my lord was bounteous enough to turn a blind eye.

  Of course, when word of this benevolence reached London, he knew he would be pronounced “Mad Rhaz” or “Bad Rhaz” or some such thing, for peers of the realm were notoriously clutch fisted and wary of the populace getting above themselves. None of these things particularly concerned his grace, however. Whilst he was perfectly prepared, when circumstance arose, to do the pretty and follow the wiles of the ton, when matters of personal conscience were involved, the fifth duke forged his own path and damned the consequences.

  He would have been surprised to know how closely a certain Miss Cordelia Camfrey followed these selfsame principles. Half the pomades, barley, nasturtium, herbs, chamomile and sage she nurtured were stilled or dried and pounded into potations not for herself, but for the dozens of urchins she refused to turn from her door.

  No matter how hard times were with the Camfreys, or how frugal she endeavoured to be, Cordelia never allowed the needs of the sick and the poor to be overlooked where she could help it. Now that they were a little more removed at the dower house, beggarly visits were more infrequent, so she’d taken to sending baskets of remedies down to the local parishes.

  Still, as Rhaz gazed thoughtfully out of the window, he knew nothing of this. What he did, know, however, was that the memory of Miss Camfrey refused to be shaken from his mind. He found this at once self-indulgent and annoying, for he had never before had trouble dismissing thoughts—even outrageous ones—from his head.

  It was not just her beauty and honesty, though these were powerful factors. What was it then? A magnetism that tightened every one of his singularly lithe muscles and made his patience in not immediately courting her strained to the limits. Damn Lord Henry and damn him again! He wondered how soon he could lure him to Huntingdon and whether his bizarre, shadowy wisp of a scheme would wash. He thought not. He sighed and buried his head back in the accounts.

  For all the gossip and talk, Rhaz, Lord Carlisle, was no scoundrel. If Cordelia was not free, he would endeavour to forget.

  NINE

  Seraphina sat thoughtfully upon her bed. She was careful not to let the candle’s small flame catch upon the airy chintz bed hangings that hung lavishly from their posts. She was glad that despite Cordelia’s protests she had bought the more expensive shade, for the draperies offered a pleasing luminescence to the room and made her feel very snug indeed.

  Carefully, she unwrapped the small parcel from Pritchard’s and opened it carefully. It was a score. Mr. Pritchard had personally selected it for her when she’d explained the types of notes that appealed and hummed but a few bars of the haunting melody Captain Argyll had so effortlessly piped by the waterside.

  This score, of course, was different, but in its own way Seraphina thought it captured some of the essence of melody and tone that had so appealed that day. She set the crisp paper down carefully, afraid that she might knock the taper over in her interest. Her heart beat a little, for she felt rather silly and was not quite certain that she would be able to accomplish what she hoped to.

  She glanced at the notes and despaired, for the arpeggios were daunting, and in truth, it was a long time since she had practiced anything at all. With a sigh she tried to read only the treble, and from this, she managed to painstakingly elicit a tune of extraordinary lightness and depth. She read again, but soon reading was not enough, for the effort of imagining the notes was too great for one as unskilled as herself.

  She swung her legs off the bed and threw a frothy robe about her shoulders. Then, her feet still unslippered and her hair all atangle, she picked up the taper and the score and tiptoed out of the room. Her toe stubbed against the cocoa-coloured door—the exact shade of her walls—and she allowed herself a faint, heartfelt yelp of pain. No one appeared to stir, however, so she closed the door carefully with the hand that held the score and took the cantilevered stairs two at a time until she reached the pink marble landing. The house seemed strange and dark and unexpectedly cold, though several yellowing tapers sporadically lit the way in simple chandeliers. Most, though, were melted down by now, so Seraphina knew the hour was late indeed.

  She found the music room by dint of a little guesswork, for the tapers stopped at the landing. Pushing the door open, she accustomed her eyes to the dark until the light of her own flame revealed candles laid neatly by. She lit several of these—Cordelia would have disapproved, she was sure—and sat down at the harp. Slowly, surely, she fingered the central tune of the melody, though the crotchets did not flow and every small piece of plucking seemed daunting in magnitude.

  The sweet notes came alive as her stiff fingers relaxed and she remembered, at last, to tune her much maligned instrument. This process was by nature painstaking, for she had always considered tuning a bore and consequently never paid much attention to the finer points. She was determined, however, and this counted for much, for she achieved a tolerable degree of harmony and by the faint light of dawn had at least managed to pluck all the central notes of the melody.

  Tired fingers set down the score as she rubbed her eyes and realised that the night was fading and the early bustle of the scullery maids was likely to begin. One last time, she took the harp between her knees and began to play. She closed her eyes as the lilting notes floated into her ears. By now, the tune was as smooth as silk, though unechoed by the more intricate chords or edified by subtle, lilting arpeggios. Still, the music remained warm, haunting and sensuous, and it caused a delicious sense of well-being to waft through her senses.

  When she opened her eyes, a familiar form leaned against the doorframe. The first thing that Seraphina noticed was that he was wearing little beyond buckskins and slippers. His muscular torso gleamed in the flame light and Seraphina thought she had never seen anything more beautiful to behold. Her eyes moved up to his face, where the firm thrust of his jaw was clearly visible through the soft, unbound locks of chestnut that tantalisingly brushed against his cheeks.

  She had no time in the half second she’d taken all this in to look any farther. Her heart was stammering painfully in her chest as he rushed forward and ripped the score out of her hands. His lips curled ominously and there was none of the lazy blue laughter in his magnetic eyes. Instead, they were sea blue stormy and fury was etched on every feature.

  “I hope you are satisfied, Miss Seraphina dear, to have made a mockery out of me! And there, I thought you were such an innocent.”

  Seraphina was bewildered beyond belief, all her joy in the discovery of music, in the painful steps to rediscover her ability to create that music, dashed.

  Frederick was advancing on her, but not in the heavenly way of her childish dreams. His look was black and his scowl prodigious as he edged towards her, his powerful, semiclad body a menace rather than a delight.

  “I have no notion what you mean!”

  “Do you not?” Frederick was disbelieving as he drew closer and ripped the precious score in two. He had no notion of how Seraphina could be playing his music, or where she could have come by the notes. All he knew was that she could play and that she must, somehow, have tumbled to his identity. The thought was painful, for though he’d looked upon her indulgently as wilful, he’d not formerly regarded her as underhanded.

  The shock of hearing his own melody lilting from the music room had quite discomposed him. Up all night, caught between his writing, his composing and his wayward, strictly untutorlike thoughts with regard to Seraphina, he’d paced up and down the hallways, finally deciding to nip outside for a breath of fresh air. Though the front doors were always firmly barred at night, he’d remembered the French doors leading out from the morning salon. Doubtless they’d be left unlocked, for they led out only to the topiaries and herb gardens and could not be accessed from outside.

&n
bsp; His heart had nigh on stopped when the familiar theme wafted into his consciousness. Though greatly simplified, there could be no mistaking that the score was his. He was mystified, for Mr. Beckett had only just organised the printing and the music was still too new to be circulating generally. Heedless of the unsuitability of his attire—unusually so, for he had removed his undershirt and not even remotely thought of a gown—he had marched over to the music room, his thoughts abuzz with confusion, curiosity and a gnawing, heart-stopping concern.

  The sight of Seraphina playing his music was, for an instant, the fulfilment of every fantasy he could ever have dreamed of. Her luscious, long auburn locks fell about her in a veritable swath of beauty and the concentration on her face added depth to her character. Not that he was thinking much about character, for the creamy expanses of her shoulders were clearly visible and her frothy nightdress was not designed, evidently, for use outside her bedchamber. Indeed, it seemed a waste of perfectly good fichu and gauze, for the amount that it revealed made its function rather superfluous. Frederick felt his breathing deepen and in that split second knew that he had never in his life wanted a woman as much as he wanted Seraphina.

  The bitter thought that she had deceived him, that she could play with feeling better than most, though she was still diffident and a trifle stiff, shocked him. He forgot that she was ignoring the arpeggios, the bass, the intricate little fingerings he’d prescribed. He forgot, too, that her time was slow and her plucking a trifle inconsistent. What he saw was Seraphina at the harp playing music she could not possibly have come by through chance. That meant she knew exactly who he was and was making a May game of him, but for what reason he had not yet divined. All this came to him in a flash. As Seraphina backed away, he moved towards her with growing determination and anger.