Madrigals And Mistletoe

by Hayley A. Solomon

  He wondered, for a moment, whether Frederick had tumbled to the fact that he had written to Mr. Beckett, offering to stand patron for the composer. If Lord Argyll had, he might well have a reason to be furious, for such an act would have gone badly with his insufferable pride.

  Still, Mr. Beckett’s polite rejection of the offer on the grounds that Frederick was a rapidly rising star in his own right had meant that Rhaz had not had a hand in his startling success among the ton. Every ball his grace now attended appeared to have Frederick’s soulful, fashionable themes strummed out or fluted with touching eloquence.

  “Your grace, I hope you are not such a gudgeon as to leave your guests standing outside in the chill night? They have had a fair dose of the outdoors, I assure you. Invite them in and have done! I hope the wax candles have been lit as I ordered?”

  His duke cast Frederick a look of mock dismay. Instantly, the stiff distance that had risen up between them vanished. This, Frederick inferred, must be the famed Miss Moresby. He had heard his softhearted friend grumble too much about her chatelainage of Huntingdon to guess anything else. She was lucky. If he were the duke and she his cousin, he would have booted her out a long time since. But that was Rhaz. Too softhearted under his firm exterior for his own peace of mind.

  His grace shrugged almost imperceptibly, as if reading Frederick’s dire thoughts. Suppressing a wink, he solemnly ushered the party in and asked whether they had all been introduced. In the sparkling candlelight, Miss Moresby appeared to more advantage than usual, her brown hair acquiring some of the light’s lustre and her unfortunate plumpness appearing less obvious in the dimmer lit space.

  “Indeed, no! I am most anxious for an introduction. Most anxious!” Lord Winthrop had removed his beaver and was staring at Miss Moresby as if one transfixed. His words, however, held a pompous condescension that made both Ancilla and Seraphina exchange secret glances of mirth.

  Rhaz saw immediately how the wind blew with Winthrop. Perversely, he was torn between delight at the cunningness of his plan and ire that Lord Henry could be so faithless to the fair Cordelia. Delight won out. After all, the baron’s meeting with Miss Moresby had been the whole ridiculous purpose of this suddenly enlarged excursion.

  His manner was smooth and graceful as he took his cousin’s hand and presented her to the group, whose interest in her varied from mild curiosity to burning regard.

  Miss Helena Moresby, belatedly remembering the manners she had sadly forgotten on first formulating her acquaintance with the group, dropped a slightly off-centre curtsy and announced that she was delighted.

  If she wasn’t, Lord Winthrop very clearly was, and as Rhaz slipped away with Mrs. Camfrey to check on the condition of their patient, he buzzed about Helena as if he were a man awakened from a very long slumber. It would not be long, the duke thought, before he would be wishful of crying off from his betrothal. Quite how this was to be achieved was a matter still puzzling the duke, for it would be unthinkable in Winthrop to do such an ungentlemanly thing. Still, something would have to occur. . . .

  “Miss Camfrey, I have brought your mother! Show her, my dear, that she need have no qualms on your behalf.” The duke’s tone was light, but his own heart held fears.

  Cordelia was looking wan, despite her cheerful aspect and obvious determination not to be a burden upon the household. “See, Mama! I am as right as a trivet!”

  “I am pleased, Cordelia! Such a nonsensical thing to happen! And on his grace’s estate, too.”

  “For that I must apologise, ma’am. The miscreants shall be well punished. A hanging is most likely, though we are still trying to locate the first varmint.”

  “No!” Cordelia sat up and winced a little in pain.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Not a hanging, I beg you! The poor devils have probably not had anything to eat for a sennight. Cannot you leave them be?”

  “To set a lawless example to their peers? I think not, Miss Cordelia.” Rhaz’s voice was suddenly hard. The anguish of seeing his loved one soaked in blood was not something likely to induce compassion in his breast, though the fact that Cordelia, the aggrieved party, should feel this way further increased the intensity of his feelings for her.

  “But—”

  “Hush! We shall speak of this later.”

  Cordelia nodded and rested back on the pillows. She was still feeling a trifle light-headed though she would have scorned to admit it.

  “Is Seraphina below stairs?”

  “She is, with Captain Argyll, Lord Henry and the most peculiar—” Ancilla remembered herself and coloured. “Beg pardon, your grace! I had forgotten Miss Moresby was your cousin.”

  “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Camfrey! Miss Moresby is extremely capable and I am certainly fond of her in my own way, possibly in smaller rather than larger doses. But I have to agree, she is peculiar! ”

  “How intriguing! I shall have to come down and see for myself!”

  “Certainly not!” The duke and Ancilla spoke in unison.

  “You shall stay up here, Cordelia, and rest. I’ll not have Lord Henry prosing over you downstairs until you are utterly knackered.”

  “Mama!” Cordelia was shocked at the unmannerly expression.

  “Now don’t be coy, Delia dear! Cant expressions are very useful in dire emergencies. Besides, I am perfectly certain his grace will overlook the irregularity.”

  “Indeed I will, Mrs. Camfrey! And may I add my own plea to yours? Stay upstairs where you are comfortable, Miss Cordelia. A flesh wound can sometimes become quite surprisingly nasty if care is not taken.” He flashed her such a blazing look of sincerity and—was it passion? —that Cordelia’s heart beat faster but she could not be certain. Still, something either in his tone or his stare made her desist from further objection. Besides, she felt delightfully cosseted and not having to make small talk with her betrothed came as an unexpected relief.

  “Very well then. I shall allow myself to be petted to death!”

  The ironic twinkle was back and Rhaz was so relieved that he grinned for some heart-stopping seconds in her direction. Neither noticed the thoughtful Mrs. Camfrey leave the room, though for once she was not too scatty to take care of proprieties. The door, when Rhaz finally noticed, was three inches ajar.

  “Do you play chess?”

  “Chess? I adore it!” Cordelia smiled at the duke and thought that if they played he would surely win, for his very person was the most immeasurable distraction to her.

  “I have recently acquired a new set. Will you give me the felicity of playing with me? Everyone I have applied to thus far has turned me down.” For an instant, Rhaz’s thoughts flew to Frederick, who had declined the offer of a game the night before both their lives had became so thoroughly entangled with the Camfrey sisters.

  “Certainly, though I shall be a bit clumsy with my arm in a sling!”

  “You are too graceful to be clumsy, Miss Camfrey! I suspect you shall be a challenging adversary.”

  “Why, your grace?”

  “Because you have keen intelligence and ready wit. Do you wish to toss for white or shall you claim a woman’s prerogative?”

  “We shall toss, your grace.” Cordelia’s voice was firm.

  It must be reported that the next few days were probably the happiest of Cordelia’s life. Dr. Siddons arrived during the late afternoon of the following day. He tut-tutted over the wound, nodded approvingly at his grace’s makeshift treatment of the injury and at the firm sling and declared himself satisfied. Cordelia won several of the games the duke harangued her to play, but her concentration was sadly impaired by the duke himself. This, however, was not an unfair disadvantage, for his grace’s wits were similarly addled by the laughing, silver-eyed woman of his dreams.

  Aramiss and Drixon duly arrived from Winthrop’s estate in Hertfordshire and were most satisfactorily coupled with the duke’s finest stallions. As a consequence, Lord Henry was in his most effusive, amiable element, the intricacies of the procedure
argued about at length with the charming Miss Moresby, who had no patience for a woman’s reticence about such earthy matters.

  Despite his grace’s insistence that she use his first name, Cordelia resisted, ever conscious that his heart belonged to Seraphina, not to her. At times she puzzled over the matter, for certainly, he did not seem unduly inclined to spend time with her delightful little sister. Had the duchess possibly mistaken the matter? But, no, Ancilla had declared she was emphatic on this point. His mother surely must know best what was in his heart? She was probably in his confidence. Cordelia sighed and determined to enjoy every innocent moment she shared with the man.

  This she did, enjoying strolls through the topiary gardens when she was a little stronger, ever conscious of the duke’s magnetism. It seemed they shared the same tastes in practically everything, for when his grace showed her his extensive library, she became so animated that he had to smile rather delightedly and show her all of his especial treasures. She was so knowledgeable about editions and folios that the duke was hard-pressed to satisfy her voracious appetite for what he had to show and discuss with her. Only one thing marred the precious time.

  Th duke asked her, rather abruptly, what she was doing betrothed to a fool like Winthrop. She was so shocked at the suddenness of the question that she’d found herself defending Lord Henry when all she wished to do was concur wholeheartedly with the duke. When Rhaz pressed her, oversetting her reasoned arguments that Winthrop was both amiable and kind, tears threatened to well up in her eyes. Rhaz was so gentle that she was forced to say she had no need of his sympathy, for Winthrop was both rich and titled. This gave the duke pause. Though he scrutinised her closely, she did not seem to him to be the type to marry for reasons so base as this. Cordelia looked miserable, so he turned the subject to lighter matters, but there was no doubting a small distance had developed between them for those few moments. He longed to take her in his arms and order her to tell Winthrop to go to the devil, but he restrained himself. Cordelia, he hoped, would prove her mettle and come to this point herself.

  Presently, it was time for the visit to end. Cordelia’s return to health was now complete, so there could be little to delay the inevitable. His grace promised that they would soon be reunited and all the guests naturally assumed he referred to the onset of Christmas. He did not, for his cunning mama had given him no hint of what she intended. When he waved the party good-bye then, it was with the simple hope that matters would come to a head as if by some miracle. He earnestly hoped that Winthrop would soon relinquish his rights to Cordelia, for if he did not, his grace knew he would go slowly insane.

  He walked slowly back to the house and ordered preparations to be set in tow for his departure. It was his duty, of course, to return to his principal seat for Christmas. The dowager duchess depended on it and, though she was a devious old soul, he loved her. Home, then, but after that . . . After that, he would have a certain very definite conversation with Miss Cordelia Camfrey of the silver eyes.

  SEVENTEEN

  The duchess was in her element, ordering all the dust covers removed from the most unused wings of his grace’s large, almost palatial residence. Since such an undertaking was beyond the powers of even his own extensive staff, she’d blithely consulted the register of superior housemaids and spent a lively morning interviewing several dozen at the very least. Those fortunate enough to have passed her beady-eyed scrutiny were now set busily to work, dusting, polishing and sweeping just as if his grace’s residence were not always immaculate in appearance and irreproachable in aspect.

  Several times the cook held up his hands in horror and vowed to send in his notice, for the dowager duchess seemed to forever confuse the menus, change them at will and scratch illegible notes all over the carefully inscribed name plates. This was only marginally better than her inspection of the pickled partridges and her wholly unsolicited advice on the best way to dress a plover. Her grace seemed to look with disfavour on the common method of employing bacon to preserve and insisted that all the poultry be laid about in charcoal. This fine state of affairs did little to appease the already stressed cook and kitchen hands. Even the scullery maids fell under the duchess’s watchful scrutiny until the jangling of nerves was matched only by the clattering of pots and kettles and pans as nervous fingers dropped where ordinarily they would not.

  Finally, it was up to the much tried housekeeper to respectfully implore the duchess to remain within her own domain and not to venture again into the kitchens. After extracting a promise that the footmen be decked in new liveries to complement the green wooded shades she had chosen for all the drawing rooms and reception areas, her grace was finally dislodged from below stairs.

  She had a merry time redraping all of the upstairs rooms with fine muslin silks in holly green and cherry red. When that was done, she purloined several of Rhaz’s best hothouse flowers in order to make scented potpourri. The head gardener was nearly stuttering in agitation as her attention moved from his blooms to his carefully tended citrus trees.

  From his hothouses, she snipped off nigh on a hundred limes, oranges and lemons, the better to produce spicy pomanders laced with jasmine and whole cloves.

  Actually, the household breathed a little easier with this particular activity, for there was no denying the aroma it produced was pleasant to the senses and pervaded the house with the fresh, delicate scent of Christmas to come. Not a small consideration, either, was that the tedious activity of punching the cloves through the fruit kept the duchess more than occupied for some several days.

  The ducal residence resounded with the chopping of wood, the sweeping of chimneys, the polishing of door knockers and the painting of stuccoed terraces inside and out. Throughout the commotion, Rhaz, Lord Doncaster, cast a wary eye to the residence, pleased with the outcome but anticipating a revolt from within.

  Every year his staff threatened to leave and every year they stayed on, mindful of the goodwill that pervaded his estates and the loyalty that they owed him. Once the duchess had been relegated to the decoration of receiving rooms and other public areas, equilibrium was restored and the imminent revolt turned to the usual anticipation of the festivities that lay ahead.

  Already, church bells were beginning to peal as novice bellringers practiced the all-important commission assigned to them. The first flakes of winter were falling and, with them, the pinecones that were so integral to the season. Many a housemaid could be seen escaping the drudgery of polishing for the novelty of collecting them up in great baskets, the better to decorate fireplaces and add a woody scent to all the ready fires that were to burn in their grates.

  Somewhere in the middle of all this, the Christmas party arrived. The duchess nodded in blithe satisfaction, for it appeared her schemes were working. The snows were falling in abundance, and as she had hoped—no, planned—it looked as though all the Christmas guests would be snowed in. Ample time for Rhaz to make Seraphina’s acquaintance!

  And what a charming sister she had, she thought, looking from one young woman to the other as they alighted from the chaise. Strange that she had not taken much account of Cordelia on her visit to Ancilla. Ah well, handsome was as handsome did. Miss Seraphina was undoubtedly a beauty, and if Rhaz’s roving interests could at last be forced to settle, the younger Miss Camfrey would do very nicely indeed.

  It was all his grace could do not to rush to Cordelia’s side, take her in his arms and kiss away her cares. As it was, he noted her troubled brow with vexation and wished with all his heart that matters could come to a head. To this end, he had earlier delighted Miss Helena Moresby with more finery than she had ever before beheld. Consequently, her plump little figure, though never likely to cut a dash, looked a comely sight to the good Lord Winthrop.

  Over the next few hours, if Rhaz had not been so nearly involved himself, he would have laughed aloud to see the stolid Lord Winthrop alight upon her like a bee to honey and murmur terms of endearment that were more than liberally laced with words like
“saddles” and “bridles” and “piebalds” and “bays.” Lord Henry alone was permitted to enter into a discourse on the relative merits of splints and liniment bindings on forelegs and hocks. To him, Helena excitedly divulged the ingredients of her particular potion for curing restiveness in flighty greys. This Lord Henry noted down with interest and in turn offered grave advice on the correct consumption of hay and other dried grasses.

  Frequently, Cordelia cast a speculative glance on the pair and rather wished that they could arrive at some kind of understanding. The betrothal was becoming more and more painful to her, for whilst she could have countenanced the match when her heart was whole, she realised in perfect faith that this was no longer so. Whatever happened and whoever the debonair Lord Rhaz finally took to wife, she knew of a certainty that her heart was his. If Seraphina made a match of it, she would reconcile herself to being his sister. She could ask no more.

  But she could not share her life with another or produce an heir when it was Rhaz and Rhaz alone who could unlock the secrets of her soul and the desires of her body and soul.

  She spent hours pondering the conundrum until finally, on Christmas morning, her patience snapped.

  The day dawned bright and sunny, though snow lined the paths and glistened like so many twinkling stars. There was an air of anticipation all about as servants bustled here and there, excitedly preparing for the midday feast that was to be as sumptuous a meal as Doncaster Place had ever known. All of the steps were draped in holly and ivy and fir, and red berries sprouted merrily from many of the succulent, verdant green leaves. Rhaz proclaimed himself satisfied when he viewed the spectacle, and just as he always did on Christmas morning, he took the opportunity of thanking his staff, who had lined up in formal rank from lowest scullery maid to the most senior gardeners, cooks, abigails, housekeeper, butler and personal valet. All turned towards him with light shining in their eyes, for in truth Rhaz was a very well-loved master and the residence of the fifth duke could not have been happier or better run.