Fair Maiden

by Cheri Schmidt

  She felt his deep chuckle against her back, and when he whispered into her ear, his mouth moving against her earlobe, she felt gooseflesh spring up all over her skin, “I could never deprive you of such things, my darling. For as long as we live you shall be lavished with sweets and dressed in the finest silks and the most delicate laces.”

  “You do plan to fatten me up!” she accused. “Can you afford to dress a plump girl so elegantly?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “You should never indulge a woman so much.”

  “Nonsense.” After brushing her hair aside, his mouth pressed against her neck.

  Later that evening whilst they sat together in his study, Christian abruptly cut his curse off mid-syllable with a few growled murmurs.

  Contessa bit back a giggle. She could almost see the profanity still hovering at the edge of his lips. “What is it? No one is ill, I hope.”

  He flicked his wrist and tossed the message he’d been holding onto his desk. “No, but I wish it were that simple…. Mother has planned our ball for this Friday instead of next.” After pulling such an angry face, she was completely taken aback when he laughed suddenly and said, “The same evening as Muriel’s Egyptian Masquerade. She’ll not be pleased.” He laughed again, and his dimple deepened.

  “What are we going to do?” She set down the copy of Robin Hood she was reading, moved toward the desk, and lifted the invitation to read it.

  His expression sobered. “We have to go.”

  “How can we? What if I—?”

  “If we don’t attend, Mother will disown me.”

  “I do not believe she would, she loves you…”

  “Perhaps she wouldn’t disown me completely, but her feelings would be deeply injured, especially after going to all the work it will take to plan such a party.” He took the missive back. “I can’t do that to her.”

  “I see your point. We must honor your mother.”

  Christian lifted one eyebrow and looked her up and down. Today she was dressed in a pale blue gown of such thin material she feared tearing it with each movement. “We’ll order a golden ball gown for you, something similar to your wedding dress. And do your hair half up, and half down.”

  “Oh.” She touched the elaborate chignon Tabitha had done for her that day. “Christian, that is brilliant!”

  Smiling with a cunning twist to his mouth, he gathered her hand into his and kissed the ring. “I’ll order the dress tomorrow.”

  “Will there be enough time to have it made?”

  “If I pay Mistress Madison enough coin, she’ll get it done in time.”

  The gown was done in time, and it was lovely, even though she’d seen embroidered silk much like this far too often over the past several weeks. The sleeves were longer than most of the gowns at this ball would be, but also shorter than her original dress. The train was much shorter, and it was bustled in the back, just in case they had to alter her wedding gown again. The differences were quite clear to her, especially with the more modern cut to the bodice, but also subtle enough to fool anyone not paying attention.

  “You look lovely, my dear,” said Tabitha, pressing soft white gloves into her hands. “It’s time.”

  “Thank you, Tabitha, I appreciate everything you do and have done.”

  “It is my pleasure. Now get moving before His Lordship begins bellowing.”

  She laughed and left the chamber.

  Christian was waiting for her at the base of the staircase. He was a vision in black and white. The coat, with its long tails, fit him perfectly, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. The gray-striped vest was an elegant contrast to the pure white shirt and cravat he wore. He took her hand, led her out the front and then tucked her into the carriage. With a tap from his walking stick against the roof, they left his townhouse and set off for his parent’s home at the north end of London.

  The marchioness truly had gone all out for this event. The décor took Contessa’s breath away when she and Christian entered the dining room. A lavish feast was spread out along an enormous sideboard, with a row of servants flanking each end. In the center stood an elaborate ice sculpture of several doves flying around one another, the curve of their wings connected to form a heart shape. But almost more overwhelming to her senses were the aromas of the many dishes available. Heavenly. Her stomach grumbled, and she placed a gloved hand over her middle.

  The room filled with guests as they sat around the long table. Then the delightful sights and smells were forgotten and replaced with fear. If….

  “Relax,” whispered Christian. She found it difficult to take his advice because she could feel the tension in his limbs even when not touching him. He was just as concerned about this situation as her.

  “How…?”

  “Minced Pie?” he said, holding a platter filled with many little pastries.

  “Aye, um, yes. Thank you.” She took one and set it onto her plate. Was she supposed to eat this with her fingers or with a fork?

  “Either will do,” he said softly, because apparently she’d been scowling down at the food.

  She chose the eating utensils, praying she would not drop them. But her hands trembled so badly the cutlery clattered against the dish, emitting a light tinkling noise. Terrified of drawing attention, she set the fork and knife down and tucked her hands into her lap. Hoping no one would notice if she did not eat.

  A bite of bread held in Christian’s fingers appeared before her nose.

  Startled she looked at him.

  “You must try the French bread, darling, Mother’s cook makes some of the best I’ve ever tried.”

  She accepted it and then noted with panic that many eyes were on her and him. Her mouth was too dry to swallow the morsel which was acceptably tender on the inside and crusty on the outside. She was too worried. Almost franticly, she reached for her cup, and gulped down a good amount of the contents.

  “Do you like it?” asked Christian.

  She nodded, wishing she could enjoy the meal without so much fear consuming her.

  The awkwardness did not improve. “Christian,” began his father. “Tell us how you met Contessa, would you?”

  His throat worked as he swallowed. “We met at…the Wimple’s. She walked in, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

  Then his mother chimed in, “Contessa, dear, tell us more about your family. What are your parent’s names?”

  She remembered that from her dream. “James and Annabelle.”

  “And their titles?” the marchioness asked, her tone making it quite clear she was bothered Tessa had omitted something so very important.

  “Sir and lady James of Camberly Lemere.” Contessa offered, hoping that was enough.

  Bless the servant who offered Lady Sparks some asparagus, and distracted her from inquiring more.

  Another bite of food was presented from Christian. She opened her mouth, hoping, as she was certain he was hoping, that if she were chewing they may not ask her any more questions.

  “I do not know them. Do you, darling?” the marquess queried of his wife.

  Lady Sparks speared two small pieces of the vegetable. “I was told they were in France, but we did send an invitation to the address Christian gave me. Contessa, why was it they could not come again?”

  “I told you, Mother, her father has been unwell, and it was very short notice,” said Christian.

  “Oh, yes, I remember now. I do hope he is feeling better soon. Is it anything serious?”

  “No, just an old…horsing injury,” offered Christian.

  The remainder of the meal moved along, and Christian was able to steer most of the conversation away from her. She sat quietly listening because she was too terrified to speak or draw any more attention her way. To her relief, there were no incidents with her turning into a ghost. She felt faint, however, and realized that holding her breath whenever Christian was forced to lie was the cause.

  “Are you all righ
t?” came the quiet query.

  Meeting Christian’s gaze, Tessa nodded mutely and then shot a look toward the doors.

  She could kiss him for catching on so quickly. “This has been a lovely dinner, Mother. If you will excuse us, I think Contessa and I will go out for some fresh air.”

  “Glad to see you behaving like a proper gent, Christian.” Peter had entered the balcony as well, and slapped his brother on the back. “You had me questioning if my older brother was truly someone I should look up to or not. Although, it was not wise of you to put her in such a questionable situation…”

  Christian looked at Peter, and said, “There was never any situation, Peter.”

  Appearing unconvinced, Peter adjusted the ruffled cravat at his neck. “How do you explain the forced wedding?”

  Clearly bristling at that comment, Christian ground out, “It’s not forced. We both want it so.”

  After first shrugging, Peter extended an elegant hand in her direction. “May I have a dance with my soon to be sister-in-law?”

  She and Christian looked at each other.

  Before they could answer, however, the marquess stepped into the moonlight and reached for her as well. “I do believe it is my privilege, as the soon to be father-in-law, to claim the first dance with my son’s lovely fiancé.”

  Contessa wanted to swallow, but her mouth had gone stone dry again. The man’s rumbling tone, whilst there was a certain kindness to it, was stern enough she dared not argue. He took her by the hand.

  Unable to hide the fear upon her face, she looked back at her groom as she was led away. It was no comfort to see the same concerns reflected back to her from his tight expression. Her gaze shifted to Peter, who was watching this odd exchange with unmasked curiosity.

  “Contessa?”

  With a large amount of bashfulness and a considerable amount of reluctance, she met eyes with the older gentleman who patted her fingers gently. She’d been afraid to look at him too closely until now—when she had no choice but to. So this is where Christian got his dark eyes, his handsome mouth and that irresistible dimple. If his mother’s looks had whispered of Christian’s future, his father’s shouted about it and confirmed it. Contessa dropped her gaze—she couldn’t think about that now.

  “We will be able to meet your parents before the nuptials, will we not?” Lord Sparks asked.

  “Yes, sir,” she offered in weak reply. Oh, no, she thought, turning wide eyes toward the dance floor as it moved closer. How could they wed without her parents there? They would be expected in attendance. Some silly excuse about a horsing accident simply would not do. Nor would it work twice.... Perhaps they would have to elope, because she could not do this again; she could not cope with the intense level of suspense. What if…? Oh, dear. What if…?

  Barely collecting her composure, Contessa faced Christian’s father as a quick melody sprang merrily from the musician’s instruments. He bowed. She curtsied and then stumbled through a dance Christian had tried to teach her beforehand, but apparently the lesson had not stuck.

  The marquess chuckled softly, “I must confess, these new polkas were difficult for me to master as well.”

  New? Oh, yes, Christian had said this was a new trend. Thank heavens, for it helped to mask the fact she knew very little of the dances practiced in this era.

  When the music ended, she wanted to weep with joy, thinking the man would now release her back to Christian, but he did not. His fingers tightened around hers when she attempted to extract herself.

  “Trying to escape so soon?” Lord Sparks asked. Humor twinkled in his dark gaze.

  “No, sir, I just thought—” she cut her winded reply short, not at all knowing what she really meant to say.

  “Ah,” said Lord Sparks as the music began for the next dance, “this is much slower in pace. And therefore, better for conversation.”

  Conversation? Panic rose up in her throat again. At any moment she could vanish…what would the marquess do?

  To her relief she never did find out as Lord Sparks spun her about the ballroom chattering on and on about Christian more than asking questions about her. She was able to be polite and nod silently whilst focusing her attention on the steps and her prayers to stay amongst the living.

  To her dismay, however, it was Peter who rescued her from the marquess instead of Christian. Looking around, she found him dancing with a woman who’d been introduced as his aunt. He smiled and nodded, apparently trying to offer comfort, but she knew he’d kept a keen watch on her the entire time, because, from her perspective, it seemed his nerves were rather tattered.

  “May I cut in, Father?” asked Peter of the marquess.

  Nodding, he said, “It has been a pleasure, my dear.” Lord Sparks took her hand, bowed over it and then kissed her knuckles just before turning on his heel and heading toward the refreshments. She watched him go, and realized where Christian had inherited his commanding walk.

  “Shall we?” asked Peter as he placed one hand upon her back.

  She caught a whiff of his cologne. It was a pleasant combination of musk and spice, but her worries about turning into a ghost would not relent. If death did not reclaim her soon, she just might faint.

  He started guiding her through the steps even though she had not replied, likely because the music had already begun.

  “Has Christian been good to you?”

  Tessa blinked. “Do you not know your own brother?”

  “I know him quite well. However, his actions of late have been rather…out of character.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Peter smiled. He did not have that adorable dimple. What a shame, she mused, for he could have been such a fine-looking man. He had the same wavy brown locks as Christian, their mother’s pretty blue eyes, and well balanced features, but without that dimple…. Maintaining the smile, he explained, “The Chris I know would never have lured a sweet girl like you to his bedchamber, and—”

  “And what?”

  He shook his head with disapproval written in his gaze. “Mother described the state of his dress…it was not at all proper.”

  “It was a simple misunderstanding. I think Christian is a gentleman as noble as any knight.”

  “A knight, you say?” asked Peter, smirking.

  Realizing her error, perhaps a little too late, Contessa looked away, cringing inside. Of course knights weren’t as abundantly common in this era as they had been in hers. She squared her shoulders, released her lip from between her teeth and trudged on with feigned confidence. “Yes. Christian has been on his best behavior. I am honored to be called his.”

  Again he smiled, and kindness shone from his expression. “I must say, that news is quite a relief. I’d feared that he forced this upon you.”

  She could see there were many things to like about Peter; he too, was a good man. “You must have known he would never do such a thing.”

  “I do believe that.” He paused. “Well, I thought I had. He was behaving so strangely.”

  Unable to argue the point, because it was true, Tessa again looked for Christian. His eyes were on her, and he still looked rather worried. After a few more turns about the ballroom, the dance finally ended and Peter began leading her to Christian. Relief was one way to describe how she was feeling at the moment, and urgency was the other.

  But just as they were nearly there, she returned to spirit form.

  Peter halted, and turned to look at her, obviously noticing her arm was no longer linked with his. She drew back, and revealed herself, praying he would not see how transparent she was.

  “Thank you for returning my fiancé,” said Christian, stepping between her and his brother. “I don’t think I like sharing.”

  Trying to look around Christian, Peter frowned and said, “A little overprotective, aren’t we? I wasn’t quite finished speaking to her.”

  She tucked in behind Christian trying to hide, thankful his back was to a wall, and hopeful no one else would notice she was no
t dressed exactly as she had been before.

  “For now, you are finished. Again, thank you, Peter. I will take it from here,” said Christian.

  “Do I get to dance with the lovely bride?” asked someone she’d heard speak before, but she could not place him right away, and she was unable to see around Christian’s shoulder.

  “Perhaps later, Brendan. I think she is in need of a break for a moment or two.”

  “Surely you jest. A break from dancing already? The evening has only just begun…”

  “Is her health really so frail? Mother said—” began Peter.

  “Mother is wrong.” She could hear the anger rising in Christian’s tone. “Contessa is quite well, I assure you.”

  Truly he was the key to breaking this spell, because the second he uttered her name, she returned to the living. Tessa looked down, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was still in the ball gown.

  Curling hands around his arm, she inched out from behind him.

  When he saw her, Brendan bowed and extended a hand. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

  “I said not right now,” growled Christian, with more feeling than before. He was beginning to sound overbearing. She held on tighter.

  “Oh, come now, Christian, what is the point of this ball if your good old friends do not get the chance to speak with your fiancé, and therefore get to know her better?”

  “I said later.” And with that, he turned to face her, linked his arm with hers and nearly dragged her from the ballroom he was in such a rush.

  They ran right into Lord Sparks. The older man came close to spilling his punch, which had the pungent odor of rum wafting from it. “Here, now, Christian, watch your step.”

  “Sorry, Father. We were just going to get some refreshment, as well.” Christian looked at her, and she watched in horror as his eyes rounded to the size of peaches, because she’d just gone ghostly again.

  “I do think you’ve chosen quite well, Christian. Such a dear.” Lord Sparks reached forward and chucked her under her untouchable chin, then blinked when his finger found nothing but air. The marquess then shrugged his big shoulders and said to Christian, “I am sorry for it, but I also knew taking your allowance would encourage the proper amount of motivation. And I had to do something to make your mother happy. I do have to sleep with the little minx, you know.”