All I Want for Christmas Is Blue

by Shana Galen

  “There will be another and another. You will never be free.” She held the handkerchief beneath her nose, breathing in his scent. It might be all she had left of him after tonight.

  “Is that so wrong?” he asked suddenly. “Would it be so terrible if I deciphered a missive here and there or compiled a report on an enemy of the Crown?”

  She closed her eyes, pain lancing through her. “That will not be enough for you. The Barbican group will become your life. Again.”

  “No. I admit it was my life, but I was little more than a boy then. I did not understand what was important. Listen, Helena. I do not have to travel. I could stay here in London and do my work. You have the opera. Tell me”—he shook her lightly—“what do I have?”

  She hadn’t considered that. She had thought he sought to reconcile with his family and reestablish himself with the ton, but that was not a calling. And she knew her husband. He was far too intelligent and had too much depth to be satisfied with a life of endless routs and balls.

  “I haunt whatever theater in which you perform or wait at home for you, like some sort of puppy.”

  “I never asked that of you!”

  “And I want to be where you are,” he said, his hand on her arm soothing, caressing her as did his voice. “But I want something of my own. You have your music. Could you give it up, if I asked?”

  “Yes!” she said fiercely, but inside her very soul trembled with fear at the suggestion. She would die if she could not sing. She would wither and die.

  “You lie. You would hate me for even asking and if you gave it up, you would grow to resent me.”

  “Is that how you feel about me?” she asked, the words spilling forth.

  He pulled her into his embrace, his warm body heating hers. “Never, but I need more than dressing rooms and my box at King’s Theater. I am no longer four and twenty, no longer eager to traipse the globe in search of danger.”

  “You are hardly an old man,” she pointed out.

  “And yet I have seen more than enough danger for a lifetime. I want to spend every night with you, listen to you sing, watch you transform from Ifigenia or Desdemona or the Queen of the Night back into my Helena. But I want this too.” He reached behind her and lifted the missive. “Don’t you think it possible I could have both?”

  She stared at the vellum, her body visibly shaking now. She wanted it to be possible, but she’d gambled and lost before. How could she trust him to put their marriage first when he’d always chosen the Barbican group?

  She stepped back, and he released her. Her tears had stopped, but she held the handkerchief to her nose, as though holding him close as long as she could.

  “I don’t know, Ernest.” She backed toward the door. She wanted to believe he could balance work and marriage now, but if she was wrong, their marriage was over. “I simply do not know.”

  She crossed the room and opened the door, blinking when she all but collided with the duke and duchess.

  “My apologies,” she said with a curtsy. “He is all yours.”

  The thought made her ill, her belly cramping in fear. She’d never allowed anxiety to control her before. How she wished now she could go back and tell Blue she’d been a fool. He did not have to choose. She trusted him to cherish her and pursue his work.

  Could she ask less of him when he gave her that same courtesy?

  In the vestibule, she waved away the footman who approached with her cloak. Instead, she turned back to stare at the library door.

  It hadn’t closed completely. Not yet.

  Blue could not believe Helena had walked away. He could not allow her to go. He had to make her understand he was not choosing the Barbican over her. He chose both of them, but if he could not have them both, he would choose her again and again and again.

  “Helena!” He started after her, but made it no farther than the door, where his parents blocked his way.

  “A word, Ernest,” the duke said, pushing into the library. The duchess closed the door, trapping him. Blue shoved the missive into his pocket, still unwilling to toss it in the fire as he should have done.

  “I have nothing to say to you.” He looked from his mother to his father. “I had hoped we might begin again, but I see that is not possible.”

  “But that is exactly what we wish to discuss with you.” The duchess held out her hands in a pleading gesture. “We want to begin again as well.”

  Blue stilled, his mother’s words taking him by surprise. She’d never spoken like that before. “I’m listening.”

  “That is why we invited you tonight.” His father rounded the desk and sat in the chair. Blue saw his gaze flick to the book open on the top of the desk, but it did not linger. The duke pulled open a drawer and unearthed a file. “We hoped to bring you back into the fold, so to speak.”

  Blue allowed his gaze to linger on the file and then touch on his parents’ faces. “And how, exactly, do you intend to do that? By introducing me to every debutante this Season? I have no interest in some silly green girl who wishes to giggle and flutter her lashes.”

  “And we have come to terms with that,” his father said. “Your mother will no longer introduce you to debutantes.” He gave the duchess a stern look.

  She sighed and nodded. “No. I will not interfere.”

  Blue frowned. Surely his parents could not be saying they accepted his marriage to Helena. If that was the case, they would have embraced her when they’d had the chance.

  “You do not need to pretend for us any longer,” the duke said. “We accept you, no matter whose bed you share.”

  Blue was rarely surprised, but he felt his brow wing upward almost of its own accord.

  “You are prepared to accept Helena?” he asked carefully.

  “The opera singer?” his mother said on a gasp. “She is the reason we asked you here tonight. Ernest”—the duchess placed her small bony hand on his arm—“you need not pretend any longer.”

  “Pretend? Madam, I have no idea what you mean.”

  “We know what you are, Ernest,” his father said. “And we are prepared to accept you.” He opened the folder and pushed it toward Blue. “Sign here and there will be no more pretense.”

  Blue followed the progress of his father’s hand across the desk as he slid the folder toward him. Their eyes locked, Blue trying to read something in the duke’s dark gaze. Finally, he looked down.

  “An annulment?” He shook his head, stepping back. His mother grasped his arm, digging her fingers into his bicep.

  “Ernest, everything has been taken care of. All you need do is sign.”

  Carefully, he removed his mother’s hands from his arm. Why the hell had he been such a fool? He should have known his parents cared for nothing but their own misguided sense of honor. He had shamed them by marrying an opera singer, and now they would be rid of her.

  “Why the devil would I sign?” He pulled the quill from his father’s outstretched hand and tossed it on the desk. “Helena is my wife, whether you approve or not.”

  “There is no need for the sham marriage any longer,” the duchess said, her tone pleading. “You needn’t pretend affection for an opera singer. We accept you for what you really are.”

  “What I really am?” Blue looked from his father to his mother. Clearly, he was missing something. “And what the devil do you think I am?”

  Blue stared in utter disbelief as his mother’s cheeks colored. Whatever she thought he was, it embarrassed her to say it.

  “A sham marriage,” Blue said quietly. He turned on his father. “If you do not think my marriage to Helena authentic, why do you think I married her?”

  The duke cleared his throat. “As a disguise, of course.”

  “For my work with the Crown?”

  Helena would love that idea. The Barbican group had almost torn them apart and threatened to do so again. It was far from the reason for their union.

  “No, because you...” The duke cleared his throat. “Because your natu
re is...because you prefer...”

  Blue closed his eyes and shook his head, gritting his teeth in frustration. “What is it about me that makes everyone believe I’m a...”—he glanced at his mother—“that I prefer baritones to sopranos. I am not a sodomite.”

  His mother gasped and stumbled to a nearby chair.

  Blue rolled his eyes. “That is what you are saying, is it not?” he demanded.

  “Ernest, watch your language!” the duke ordered.

  “You can accept my preference for men, but I can’t speak of it?”

  “Then you admit you are a—you prefer men?”

  “No!” He raked his hand through his hair and paced away. His thoughts raced, and he struggled to contain and organize them. Finally, he paused in front of the desk, the damned annulment papers staring up at him.

  “I have no qualm with the sort of man you describe. To each his own, I say. And I must admit, it is quite generous of you to accept me as I am. But I am not as you say. I am married, in truth, to Helena. There is no sham about it.”

  “Then you...” His father began.

  “Have carnal relations with her?” Blue nodded vigorously. “Yes! Frequently. I tumble her as often as I can.”

  “Oh, good Lord!” His mother hid her face in her hands.

  Blue knew it was wrong, but he was enjoying himself now. “I am sorry, duchess, did I offend your sensibilities? You can accept me if I prefer to roger men, but if I dip my...sword in my own wife, I am an abomination?”

  “Ernest! Cease!” the duke roared.

  “I will, but first I want you to understand two simple matters. One, let there be no doubt in your mind that I prefer women. I love women—their rounded hips, their full breasts”—he moved his hands to illustrate and his mother’s face turned from tomato to beet—“their plump bottoms, and especially their—”

  “Ernest!” his father bellowed.

  Blue stifled a smile. “The second matter you must understand is that I love my wife. Deeply, madly, and unreasonably. I love her more than life itself. I would no more sign these annulment papers than I would cut off my own nose. If you accept me, then you accept her. We are a matched pair, and you cannot have one without the other.”

  “And you would choose her over your own mother and father, your own family?”

  Blue placed his hands on the arms of the duchess’s chair. “Over and over and over again. But the question, Madam, is will you choose your precious family honor over your own son?”

  “I’ve had enough of this!” The duke stood. “Either sign the papers, Ernest, or leave this house. Forever.”

  Blue locked gazes with his father. The older man’s lips were pressed tight, his cheeks bright with patches of color. Blue lifted the annulment paper, walked to the fire, and threw it in.

  “No!” the duchess cried.

  “Get out,” the duke ordered.

  “Gladly.”

  “I cannot stand the sight of you.” The duke held out his arm for his wife and she clutched it as though it were a rope tossed in a churning sea. Heads held high, they marched out the library door.

  Blue watched them go, uncertain whether he should laugh or tear his hair out. They were idiots, and so was he if he allowed anything to come between Helena and himself.

  He yanked the missive from his pocket again and held it out to the fire.

  “Wait!”

  Six

  “Don’t burn it,” Helena said, pushing the door open. Blue’s vivid eyes widened.

  “You are still here.”

  She moved toward him. “I could not leave you. I wanted to tell you, and I heard your conversation with your parents.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it, I think. Spies aren’t the only ones who can eavesdrop.”

  A ghost of a smile played on his lips at the echo of his earlier words. “Then you know I chose you.” He held the vellum toward the fire again. “I will always choose you.”

  She placed her hand on his wrist and pulled the vellum between them. “I should never have doubted. Earlier, I spoke from fear. Lady Elizabeth told me about the annulment, and when I found you with the missive, it was the last blow. I couldn’t help but think perhaps you would be better off without me.”

  “Never.” He pulled her into his arms, holding her against his chest, her cheek pressed against the wool of his green coat. “I would be nothing but a husk of a man without you.” His voice rumbled through her, raising gooseflesh on her arms and calves.

  “And I won’t allow my insecurity to turn you into a husk. You love your work, Blue. You should go back to the Barbican group.”

  He pulled back, holding her at arm’s length. “No. I’ve chosen you.”

  “And I was wrong to make you choose. You can have us both.” She took the vellum from his hand and shook her head at the strange markings. “Why shouldn’t you decipher codes or dispatch orders or write reports? I fail to see what the appeal is”—she handed the vellum back—“but one look at you when you work, and it’s clear you love it. I’d never take that away from you.”

  “Are you sure?” The smile on his face showed so many white teeth she was all but blinded.

  She was not sure, but she had to trust in him. She owed him that much and more.

  “Yes, go tell Wolf or Hedgehog or whoever it is that you’re back. But”—she raised a finger—“I have one request.”

  “Anything.”

  “Wherever you go, and whatever you do, you take me with you.”

  In answer, he took her in his arms for a kiss.

  Blue shook the snowflakes off his greatcoat and settled himself beside Helena in the carriage. A warm brick lay at their feet, but her attention was on the snow falling outside the windows.

  “I cannot believe it’s snowing! Isn’t it lovely?”

  “You are lovely,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and settling his chin on her shoulder. “And finally, we are alone.”

  “We might have been alone sooner, had you not insisted on reading that tedious book.”

  She’d had to wait approximately seven minutes while he decoded the missive and returned the book to its shelf. He might have taken it with him, but he wanted nothing from his father’s house. They’d left without a farewell or any interference, and now Blue rapped on the roof of the carriage to begin the jaunt home.

  When they reached the flat, he’d have to send his manservant to deliver the decoded missive to Baron. Unless he was wrong—and he was never wrong—it detailed a plan to aid Napoleon’s escape from St. Helena. That news could not wait. Not even for Christmas.

  “The theater is closed tomorrow,” she said, turning to embrace him. “You know what that means.”

  “We can lay in bed all day, inventing new and ever more illicit ways to pleasure each other?”

  “That was not precisely what I would have said, but yes.”

  “Good. Let’s begin now.”

  He took her mouth with his, sliding his hands under her cloak until the heat of her body enveloped him. The taste of her was familiar and yet wholly intoxicating. He could have kissed her for hours, but her hand loosed his cravat and unfastened the buttons of his shirt. She bent and kissed his throat, teasing her way along his jawline until he arched his neck to give her access.

  She settled on top of him, lifting her skirts to straddle him. He loved this position, and he immediately brushed his fingers up her legs until her garters gave way to the bare skin of her thighs. He could feel the heat of her sex pressed against his hard cock, and he need only loose the fall of his breeches to be inside her.

  She moved her pelvis, teasing him with the promise of what was to come. Their mouths met again, and he dragged his lips away to feast on the swells of her breasts. Her cloak slid in his way, and impatiently, she unfastened it and allowed it to fall across his knees.

  His hands cupped her bare bottom, and she hissed in a breath when he moved her body against his in a rhythm they both knew well. Her hand reache
d for him, sliding confidently along his hard shaft through his straining breeches. He laid his head back against the squabs, eyes closed in anticipation.

  But something made him open his eyes—a sound or a feeling or a tingling of unease. He cracked his lids and started at the pair of eyes peering down at him from the hatch above.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Bonde said, sticking her head into the coach. Her hair dangled down in long golden ribbons.

  Helena screamed and jumped with fright, falling back against the squabs and scrambling to push herself into a corner.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Bonde jumped down with a smooth leap that barely ruffled her skirts.

  Blue gathered Helena in his arms. “Shh. She’s a friend—or at least she was until now.”

  Helena trembled, but that didn’t stop her from aiming a vicious glare at Bonde.

  “Now what? Another spy?”

  “Agent,” Bonde corrected, “and I only need a brief word.” Bonde spread her hands in apology.

  “Here.” Blue handed Bonde the decoded missive. “I presume this what you came for.”

  Bonde took the vellum gingerly. “Baron needs it deciphered—”

  “Done.”

  She unfolded it.

  “Unless I miss my guess—”

  “And you never miss your guess,” she answered, still looking at the vellum.

  “Exactly. Our old friend Bonaparte plans an unauthorized excursion to the Continent.”

  “Someone will have to put a stop to that.” She raised a brow at him then slid her gaze to Helena. “I suppose you aren’t up for it.”

  He ran a hand up and down Helena’s arm to keep her warm. She didn’t appear frightened—much more annoyed—but an icy breeze pierced the warm carriage through the open hatch above.

  “I have other plans this Christmas.”

  “I’m sure you do. Sorry to interrupt, but it’s a pleasure to finally meet your wife.” She held a hand up. “No need for introductions. We frown upon that sort of thing in the Barbican group.” She jumped onto the squabs, and Blue frowned at the dirt her boots left on his velvet seats. Bonde grasped the edges of the hatch and prepared to pull herself up.