In a mellifluous voice he thanked them for the year’s work, for the topiary gardens and the vineries, the cleaning, the calculating, the cooking, the boot shining, the pressing and the incalculable little things that served to make his household so exemplary a home. He, then, in the true Carlisle tradition of Christmas, drew forth a ceremonial bag of green velvet and withdrew from it shiny shillings, penny pieces and golden sovereigns that made the younger household staff gasp in wonder. He handed the coins and the bag to his housekeeper, who bobbed a smiling curtsy and promised to distribute the largesse. Looking on from the faintly green-tinged crown glass windows Cordelia could not suppress a smile. The sight had so much charm and Christmas spirit it was bound to delight, no matter how heavy the heart of the beholder.
She turned to be faintly admonished by Lord Henry, who eyed her with a disapproving stare and announced that she might “catch her death” in nothing but one of Ancilla’s castaway day dresses of scarlet merino. Cordelia had spent a careful evening gaily decking it with shining military style buttons and delicious holly green trim.
“Indeed, no, Lord Henry. I am perfectly comfortable I assure you.” But the light dimmed from her eyes nonetheless, and the round-headed windows that looked beckoning before now looked dull and lustreless.
Rather than leaving the point, Lord Winthrop manfully pressed it, pointing out that “dear Miss Moresby” advised a posset against the cold and was herself wearing sensible kid half boots and a riding habit of thick, dark wool. By this time, Cordelia, though patient by nature, had had more than enough of Lord Winthrop’s homilies. To have those of Miss Moresby added to the list seemed the outside of enough. She nodded politely, however, and murmured something singularly inane but appropriate to the occasion like “Is she really?” or “How delightful!” or some such thing. Encouraged, Lord Henry expanded further until it seemed to Cordelia that the whole of this magical Christmas morning would be spent listening to the secondhand, hackneyed and rather unoriginal sentiments of her betrothed.
It cannot be commended in her, of course, but the fact that her patience suddenly faltered was understandable under the circumstances. Just as Lord Henry was muttering that “dear Miss Moresby” might be prevailed upon to give her a pointer or two about the correct alignment of a sidesaddle when alighting a frisky beast, Cordelia found her eyes flashing and her tolerance sadly astray.
In rather ringing tones for the disciplined young lady she generally proved to be, she asked Lord Henry rather testily why he did not simply ask Miss Moresby to become his betrothed, since the whole process of re-educating her to Miss Helena’s ideas would be tedious indeed.
To her astonishment he seemed rather struck by the idea. Her sarcasm eluded him, for he was simpleminded and filled with too inflated a sense of self-importance to suspect she might be bamming him. Accordingly, he cocked his head to one side and gave the matter his due consideration much to Cordelia’s mingled astonishment and relief. Eventually, however, he shook his head rather regretfully and came to the ponderous conclusion that he could not.
“Why ever not?” Cordelia was ready to push him into it if she had to.
“Confound it, woman! You know perfectly well why I cannot. A man cannot throw his cap after two young ladies and I have already made an offer to you!”
“Well, unoffer then!”
“Withdraw my word as a gentleman? Never!”
The two glared at each other, both thoroughly irritated and equally miserable. They were at a complete impasse until Cordelia suddenly realised that, if Winthrop wanted to be released, then it would not be churlish of her to oblige him.
Accordingly, she heaved a profound sigh that Winthrop interpreted as regret and she as relief, and she declared that, if honour precluded Henry from doing the deed, it did not so preclude her.
“Call me a jilt, Lord Winthrop, but I hereby release you from all your former declarations. You are free to betroth yourself where you will, for I find, quite unaccountably, that we do not suit.”
Lord Winthrop tut-tutted and begged her not to take matters too much to heart. Though she could never possibly be quite as singular a female as Miss Moresby, she nevertheless could take comfort in the fact that she had several excellent points and needed only the guidance of some superior male to steer her course when she tended to stray. With this pronouncement he very genially offered to be this stabilising influence on her character, albeit in a guise different from husband. Cordelia was just formulating a scathing reply when he good-heartedly continued, saying that he accepted his release simply because he knew the Camfrey family would always be well cared for and thus pecuniary concerns would no longer be an uppermost consideration. At this, Cordelia’s mouth dropped, for truly she could not conceive what the addlepated windbag was talking about.
“I refer, of course, to your sister’s imminent betrothal to Doncaster. She may consider herself honoured indeed that despite her flightiness she has managed to land such a prize.”
At this, Cordelia found her tolerance stretched to the limit. Rather wryly she concluded that, in releasing Winthrop from his word, she had done them both an immeasurable favour, for as sure as anything she would have throttled him in a sennight had she had the misfortune of actually becoming his wife.
There was a moment’s uneasy silence between them whilst each stared at the other a trifle uncomfortably. Finally, Lord Winthrop made Cordelia a deep bow, pressed a clammy hand into hers and assured her that he was a very happy man.
Cordelia dimpled and the hapless Henry must have realised his faux pas, for he mopped his brow and began retracting his former comment, explaining that he was actually miserable—quite the saddest man on earth.
Miss Camfrey murmured rather inaudibly—for she was caught between exasperation and a chuckle—that he had better not let Miss Moresby overhear him say such a thing.
He blanched. “Indeed, no, madame! That would be quite dreadful indeed.” At which, he made a last quick bow in Cordelia’s direction and edged himself busily down the corridor.
Cordelia turned back to the window, strangely calm for one who had just whistled away the chance of becoming a wealthy young lady of rank and title. The bubble glass glistened for a moment in the sunlight and she had to squint slightly to look through it. The first snows were falling white on the ground and the ready ranks of under butlers and parlour maids were slowly dispersing to resume household chores and last-minute errands before the season’s joy was finally upon them. Cordelia was just turning away from the window when her eyes were arrested by the sight of Rhaz, dark hair unmistakable against the snow, looking up at the rounded window as if by impulse. She could not be sure, but she was almost certain, by the imperceptible lifting of her spirits, that he had seen her. He raised his hand to his mouth and allowed a kiss to float slowly upwards in the cold sunshine. Cordelia closed her eyes and could almost feel the intangible caress settle upon her lips in a teasing, wonderfully poignant invitation for more. Her hands were still guiltily touching her lips, her face flushed as though the embrace had been real, rather than an ethereal salute of the spirits, when Seraphina tripped into the sunshine and headlong into Rhaz’s strong, ready arms.
Cordelia noted with mingled amusement and chagrin that the naughty creature had decided to forgo a bonnet and that her footwear was more suited to the dance room than to the frosty, slippery Christmas morning. Not surprising then that she should plunge headlong into the duke’s arms, for first sleet is notoriously slippery and elegant buckled pumps—no matter how fashionable the satin—are not likely to offer much protection against a sprained ankle or an icy fall. The fifth duke was though. Very handsomely he scooped her up in his arms before laughingly settling her down again and conversing with her with a sudden earnest frown that constricted Cordelia’s heart and forced her to turn from the window.
She was unused to missish tears, but she could not deny the sting at the back of her eyes as she realised she would have to resign herself to her fate more quickly th
an she had imagined. If Rhaz was in love with Seraphina, there was nothing more in the world she could hope for than to maintain the honest friendship of both. She adored Seraphina and would never contemplate providing the smallest obstacle to her happiness. The ready understanding that had seemed to develop between herself and his grace must be allowed to die a natural death. The sentiments she felt for him were not at all sisterly and best forgotten, given that she wished to spare both him and Seraphina all pain. If she felt pain, then so be it—it would be private. The relief of not imminently having to wed Lord Henry coursed through her veins once more. That, she knew, would have been untenable.
To give one’s heart to a man was one thing. To marry another under such circumstances was untenable to her innocent, honest thinking. She sighed as she caught sight of herself on the glass that reflected her figure and merry, sprigged Christmas trim. Doubtless she would soon be putting on caps and sitting with the dowagers at the season’s festivities. She dully reflected that, if she could not have Rhaz, she did not care.
EIGHTEEN
Unbeknown to Cordelia, the conversation that was ensuing in the forecourt was very dissimilar from the one her mind insisted on superimposing on her fantasies. Seraphina had indeed fallen headfirst into the duke’s strong, capable arms, and whilst he had broken her fall and thus spared her the indignity of careering face first across the icy path, his words upon catching her were not nearly so loverlike as Cordelia supposed. He was scolding her, in fact, for being such a widgeon as to careen headfirst into his impeccable morning coat of Bath superfine, superlatively cut by Weston and fitting so closely to his frame that it could almost be taken for a second skin. Seraphina had rather pertly commented that the garment was too close fitting to crease, so his grace need have no fears on this score. At which, his grace had set her down firmly on her own two feet and chuckled throatily at her impudence.
“Have you no sensibility, Miss Seraphina? I daresay it is not at all the thing for a young lady to be noticing matters relating to my intimate attire!”
“I daresay not, your grace, but etiquette is one lesson I simply cannot get the mastery of!”
The duke’s eyes twinkled appreciatively. “Touché, Miss Seraphina! Perhaps your sister and I are not suitable teachers! Is it possible that it is we who are at fault? I am given to understand that, if the tutor is able, any instruction may be satisfactorily accomplished. Do you not find this to be the case?”
His tone grew suddenly serious and he eyed the younger Miss Camfrey speculatively. He was interested in her answer, for if, as he suspected, his good friend was smitten, it was as well that he approved of her character. Frederick would never want a biddable wife—heaven forfend!—but one open to reason would be essential. He watched as Seraphina coloured quite delightfully, her recalcitrant locks flowing freely from her shoulders, blithely regardless of the fact that they should be safely tucked up beneath a bonnet of gay chip straw at the very least.
Seraphina’s sky blue eyes darkened almost imperceptibly to lapis lazuli. “I am not sure I understand the direction of your thoughts, my lord! If you consider my music master to be having an undue influence on me—”
“I did not say undue.”
The words hung in the air between them until Seraphina’s eyes widened suddenly into comprehension. “You mean . . . ?”
The duke nodded. “Exactly. I mean that I consider him to be having some influence upon your behaviour and outlook and that—if I may say so, madame—resounds entirely to both your credits. You will make an excellent wife, Miss Seraphina!”
Seraphina looked into the handsome, searching face and felt a strange jerk of the heart. Not because the man before her played havoc with her senses—his jaw was too firm and his features too dark for her taste—but because he spoke of marriage, and in a sudden, quite overwhelming fit of sudden self-knowledge, Seraphina knew she could not have him for all the teas of the orient.
“Your grace, I am sorry. I have tried to love you—indeed I have—but I find I simply cannot!” She blurted out the words so quickly that they fell from her lips in a tumble the duke found hard to decipher. “You are excessively handsome and undeniably charming and I do so wish to love you, but you see . . . you see . . .” She bit her lip, too shy to continue. Impossible to confess she was in transports over a mere music master when the highest-ranking peer of the realm was doing her the singular honour of offering for her hand!
The duke’s smile was wry as he took her hand in his and walked with her a little way from the prying eyes at the windows and into one of the private shrubberies that ran off from the more formal winter gardens. He was not to know that at least two sets of eyes wistfully witnessed the unorthodox, unchaperoned action.
The elder Miss Camfrey drew herself up tall, dried her eyes firmly and made for her chamber. There were some urgent, last-minute adjustments she needed to effect to her dress. If these adjustments required more than a few tears, a disgusted sniff at some particularly nasty smelling salts and a stern lecture on how not to behave like a silly, moonstruck halfling, none but herself was the wiser.
Frederick’s laughing, sky blue eyes blazed sudden, icy fire as he watched the wrenching spectacle of his dearest friend compromising his only true love. If he were so reckless with her reputation as to take her unchaperoned into the briar rose garden, it could mean only one thing: He had taken her there to propose. Though he might wish, at that moment, to thrust a dagger through the heart of his dearest friend, he did him the justice of knowing that Rhaz did not play fast with respectable, well-bred young women. Before the day was out, the engagement would be announced.
Frederick’s heart was heavy as he watched the last of Seraphina’s delicious train of ribboned silk disappear behind the yew trees and roses. Christmas seemed suddenly but a dreary thing to the normally effervescent Lord Frederick. The letter from Mr. Beckett rustled in his pocket. Ironic to think that the tidings it bore had the power to alter his life and they were now as useless as the parchment the words were written on. What use were stupendous royalties and sudden financial freedom when the woman he loved was plighted to another?
Slowly, he crossed to the stables, eyed up most of the horses with disfavour and settled on a long, lonely but much needed walk. He hardly noticed that his shining doeskin top boots were almost knee-high in snow or that, even as he walked, soft flakes were falling about him. Cold and the endless need to march ever onwards had been miserable features of the Iberian campaign, but they made him well equipped to cross several paddocks without thinking, taking the slippery, ice-encrusted styles as unconsciously as he took air.
Many a surprised labourer looked up from his tilling to see the tall, muscular figure appear as if from nowhere. Though he was dressed unpretentiously, there was no doubting he was a gentleman born and bred. Accordingly, several caps were doffed in his direction. The actions were wasted, for Frederick, Lord Argyll, was far too lost to see.
The duke beckoned to Seraphina and she haltingly stopped two inches from his immaculate garb. Her eyes were cast down, so she could not see the glimmer of humour that crossed the duke’s aquiline features as he bade her take the white stone seat beside him. Gingerly, she did so, taking care not to let her train get caught up in some of the thorns that tangled with the sweet scent of the roses.
“I am devastated to learn that my suit does not please, Miss Seraphina!” The duke could well have asked what suit, but he desisted, finding it more amusing to elicit the information from Miss Camfrey herself.
Seraphina nodded earnestly. “I am very afraid your mama will be displeased, your grace!”
For an instant, the duke scowled in filial outrage. He might have known the meddlesome dowager would have a hand in this somewhere! He said nothing, however, merely nodding gently and allowing her to continue.
Seraphina, finding him less of an ogre than she feared and needing a confidant since she dared not tell Cordelia the impecunious direction her affections were taking, peeked up at the
duke and decided she might as well confide in him as anyone, since he was not likely to lecture her nor was he likely to break her confidence. Accordingly, satisfying herself on the point that he did not expect her to suddenly change her mind—he gravely assured her that he did not—she settled down to pour her heart out and confess to the unsuitable attraction she felt for a mere captain—a gentleman possibly, but fallen upon hard times definitely.
Rhaz listened to her words with interest. True, she was a mischievous little sprite, quite unlike Frederick’s usual predilections, but he reckoned that her case was not entirely without hope. Indeed, having watched his good friend carefully over the last few evenings, Rhaz could swear Argyll was well on the way to formulating a sincere attachment. His thoughts ran to the teasing conversation he’d introduced and Frederick’s uncharacteristically clipped answers. If he had formed a preference for Miss Camfrey, then his annoyance at the lighthearted teasing was explained. He wondered whether Frederick, too, was suffering from the same delusion as his love and concluded that he probably was. Somehow, the Camfrey household was suffering under the startling misconception that he, Rhaz Carlisle, the fifth Duke of Doncaster, was about to make some kind of declaration to Seraphina of the auburn hair.
How wrong they were! How could their thoughts not lead them in another direction entirely? Surely it was obvious that he was smitten beyond belief with that which was out of reach to him: Cordelia of the laughing eyes and jet black hair, of quiet strength and strong, dispassionate honesty. Cordelia of integrity . . . Cordelia of his life.
Seraphina was looking at him expectantly, awaiting a response. He raised his brows. She repeated the question, her cheeks flushed from the effort of fabricating a reason why both he and she would not suit.
Madrigals And Mistletoe Page 18