The Advent of Lady Madeline

by Pamela Sherwood

  Madeline’s siblings had also accepted him without reservation, and Hugo had grown fond of each and every one of them, and not only for Madeline’s sake. However contentious and quarrelsome they were as a family, he couldn’t help liking them as individuals.

  And they had all gathered here this afternoon in the Great Hall to decorate the Christmas tree, already glittering with tinsel and fully seven feet high. Madeline’s sisters. Hal and Reg—he could call them that, now, though it had taken some adjustment on his part. The Langdales and their children; Lady Margaret—taller and prettier—was still deeply smitten with Hal, who continued to treat her with the careless kindness of an older brother. Young Jason. Elaine had even managed to drag Gervase down from his chamber for this.

  And at the center of the festivities, the Duke and Duchess of Whitborough, the latter sitting with a carved wooden chest upon her lap. As Hugo glanced in her direction, she smiled and beckoned to him.

  “Mon beau-fils, I have something for you.”

  Curious, his arm still firmly about his wife, he went over to her. Opening the chest, Her Grace held it out to him, revealing a tray filled with beautiful, handmade ornaments in every conceivable color and shape.

  “I welcomed you to the family on Madeline’s wedding day, my dear,” his mother-in-law began. “This just makes it more official.” She indicated a dark blue ornament, oblong, with his first initial—stitched in gold thread—on one side and a gold tassel dangling from its end. “Happy Christmas, chéri.”

  “Come and hang it,” Madeline invited, smiling as she reached into the chest and took out a rose and silver ornament marked with an M. “Right next to mine.”

  More moved than he dared admit, Hugo kissed Her Grace on the cheek, then took up his ornament and did as his wife suggested, placing it on a bough adjacent to the one she chose.

  “Well done!” Whitborough declared heartily, and a murmur of assent rippled through the Great Hall.

  One by one, the Lyons family hung their ornaments on the tree, then as a finishing touch, Hal climbed the ladder and placed an intricate crystal star on the top. Descending carefully, he stepped back with the rest of them to admire their handiwork.

  “I think it’s the best tree we’ve ever had!” Juliana exclaimed, gazing raptly up at it.

  The duchess rested a hand on her daughter’s bright head. “You may be right, petite.”

  Looking up at the shimmering star, Hugo caught sight of something else almost directly overhead: something white and green, secured to the branches of the chandelier by dangling scarlet ribbons.

  “Another first, my love,” he remarked to Madeline, nestling in the circle of his arm.

  “Never before have you received your very own Christmas ornament?” she queried, smiling up at him.

  “That goes without saying. I was about to observe that never before have I kissed my wife under the mistletoe. And now seems like an excellent time to start.”

  And with that, Hugo proceeded to suit the action to the word.

  Thank You

  Thank you for reading The Advent of Lady Madeline, the prequel novella in my new series, The Lyons Pride! I hope you enjoyed it.

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  Lord Gervase Lyons is the hero of Devices & Desires—the first full-length novel in the series. A young man of wit, intellect, and ambition, Gervase harbors a secret passion for a woman he thinks he can never have—but fate has a way of bringing about the impossible. Read on for an excerpt…

  Devices & Desires: Excerpt

  * * *

  Available in January 2016

  Heap on more wood!—the wind is chill;

  But let it whistle as it will,

  We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.

  —Sir Walter Scott, Marmion

  Yorkshire, December 1880

  “Good God, are your brothers still arguing?” Sir Anthony Stirling demanded of his godson. “That billiards match was more than two hours ago!”

  “That makes no difference, unfortunately,” Lord Gervase Lyons replied. “You’ve heard of fellows who don’t know when they’re beaten? Well, that’s Hal. And then there’s Reg, who never knows when he’s won. They’ll be arguing every stroke until the Last Trump has sounded—or until my lady mother has found other employment for them.”

  “The latter appears a distinct possibility. I believe she intends to have them oversee the raising and decoration of the Christmas tree.”

  “On which they will no doubt argue the placement of every ornament and strand of tinsel,” Gervase said dryly. “Having no desire to subject myself to that, I thought it best to retire to the library with you before Mother enlisted my services as well.”

  “Very politic of you,” Sir Anthony remarked. “And it will give us some time to discuss your future in private, will it not?”

  Gervase smiled. “I knew I liked you best of all my godfathers, sir.”

  Sir Anthony raised an eyebrow. “As I am your only godfather, that compliment holds rather less water than it might, my boy!”

  Gervase’s smile broadened into a grin. They understood each other very well, he and Sir Anthony, and always had. “But enough, I hope, to grant me a full hearing?”

  For answer, his godfather sank down upon one of the padded leather armchairs by the fire, gesturing to Gervase to take the one opposite. “So, how old are you now—twenty?”

  “Twenty in September, sir.”

  “And flourishing at Oxford?”

  “My tutor believes so, yes.” Indeed, Gervase’s tutor cherished hopes that he’d earn a First next year, when Final Schools were held. Gervase himself did rather more than hope: First-class honors were firmly in his sights, and barring an unforeseen disaster, he meant to have them.

  “And your father is no closer to making a clergyman of you than he was two years ago?”

  Gervase shuddered. “God forbid, sir—if you’ll pardon the expression!”

  “Consider it pardoned.” Sir Anthony’s shrewd grey eyes regarded him appraisingly. “Well, then, I assume you have another plan for your future?” You wouldn’t be your parents’ son if you didn’t was the unspoken implication.

  “Yes, I mean to study law, actually.”

  “The law, is it? Well, there’s no disgrace in such a career. Indeed, I think you would make a very creditable barrister—and perhaps, in due course, a Queen’s Counsel.”

  “Thank you, sir, but you see—I don’t wish to be a barrister.” Gervase took a breath. “I intend to become a solicitor instead.”

  “A solicitor?” Sir Anthony’s brows rose. “A barrister would be far more prestigious—”

  “I’m the son of a duke,” Gervase pointed out. “I should think that sufficiently prestigious for anyone. You see, sir, I’ve thought this through quite thoroughly,” he continued in his most persuasive tone. “There may be more… cachet in being a barrister, but a solicitor wields just as much influence—and possibly more power. A barrister, however skilled, must still depend upon a solicitor for employment, especially during the early stages of his career. A barrister must depend upon a solicitor for payment—and that, I think, I should find intolerable.” He paused, searching Sir Anthony’s face. “I trust I need not explain why—to you, of all people.”

  “Indeed.” His godfather eyed him intently. “Does your father know of your plans?”

  “Not just yet, sir.” Gervase’s mouth crooked. “I am fortifying myself for just such an event. I expect it to be quite… cataclysmic.”

  “Very prudent. He’s had his plans for you rather set in stone these last five or six ye
ars.”

  “I’m well aware of that.” And if he’d taken as much time to get to know me as he did hatching his precious scheme, perhaps he would have understood why it could never work. “But I wish to be my own man—not spend my life as the Duke of Whitborough’s.”

  The very thought chilled him. A tame cleric dwelling in his father’s living, beneath his father’s eye—and thumb—for the rest of his life. It didn’t bear thinking of. As the heir, Hal might have to remain close, but Gervase would be damned if he’d follow his brother’s example.

  “Hmm.” Sir Anthony drummed his fingers on the chair’s armrest. “If you’ll permit me to play devil’s advocate for a moment, your father might not be altogether displeased to learn of your plans. Especially if you plead your case as articulately as you have for me.”

  Gervase stifled a sigh. “With respect, sir, unless His Grace can convince himself that this was all his idea, I expect him to be very displeased indeed.”

  “And your mother? Have you apprised her of what you intend?”

  “Mother has known since last summer that I won’t enter the Church. She is surprisingly calm about it.”

  “Sensible woman,” Sir Anthony approved. “She knows a true vocation when she sees one—or, in your case, doesn’t see one.”

  “That could be.” It was likewise true, Gervase reflected, that the Duchess of Whitborough tended to be less overbearing than her husband—at least when it came to her younger children. Reg, the heir to her French properties, was her favorite, and she guarded his rights jealously.

  But that was an old grievance, with which he’d come to terms years ago. It would suffice, for now, that his mother would not oppose his plans. Indeed, she might even support them, if only because she thought it salutary for his father not to have his own way all the time!

  “You’ll need someone to take you on as an apprentice,” his godfather mused aloud. “Even with a university degree, you’ll have to put in several years as an articled clerk.”

  Gervase did his best to quell his rising excitement. “I’m not afraid of hard work, sir.”

  Sir Anthony nodded acknowledgment. “Which is why I hold out every hope of your succeeding in this endeavor. I’ll tell you what, my boy—once the New Year begins, I shall ask among my acquaintances if they know of any solicitors who’d be willing to take you on, once you’re finished at Oxford.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Gervase said fervently.

  “And when the time comes to speak to your father, I will support you then as well.”

  Gervase exhaled, almost giddy with relief. “Thank you,” he said again. “Truly, sir, I could hardly ask for anything more.”

  Sir Anthony gave him one of the rare smiles that transformed his rather saturnine face. “You’re a likely young man, Gervase. The cleverest in a clever family, I shouldn’t wonder. Are you sure you don’t wish to be a barrister? You argue most eloquently on your own behalf.”

  Gervase smiled. “Quite certain, sir. But I am flattered that you think me eloquent.”

  “You should go far, with that tongue and those wits,” Sir Anthony predicted, leaning back in his armchair and stifling a yawn. “Pardon me, dear boy! When one gets to be my age, a nap in the afternoon becomes less of an indulgence than a necessity.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to your rest.” Gervase rose from his chair. “And thank you again for your support, and for—well, for listening, I suppose.”

  His godfather smiled, his eyes already closing. “I find it refreshing to talk to someone who knows exactly what he wants. So many young people don’t, nowadays.” He yawned again, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Very far indeed,” he murmured, not even stirring as Gervase solicitously draped an afghan over him before stealing from the library.

  Easing the door closed behind him, Gervase made his way along the passage, his spirits considerably lighter than before. No doubt there’d be a reckoning when he finally revealed his future plans to his father—the Duke of Whitborough was nothing if not autocratic—but with Sir Anthony’s support and his mother’s lack of opposition, he stood a good chance of prevailing.

  A burst of laughter issued from the Great Hall, further down the passage. Laughter, followed by a snatch of song: “A-wassail, a-wassail, all over the town—”

  His younger sisters, Elaine and Juliana, the most musical of the family. In spite of his earlier reluctance, Gervase found himself drifting towards the source of that sound. Denforth Castle, en fête for the Christmas holidays. For all his cynicism, that was still a sight worth seeing.

  The carol broke off amidst more laughter, as his sisters debated the next lines. And Gervase could hear the hum of other conversations now, a medley of different voices, including his mother’s rich, throaty contralto and his father’s deep, authoritative baritone. Their Graces of Whitborough, presiding over their considerable brood.

  Pausing outside the doorway, Gervase peered into the room. From this distance, he could study his family more objectively… like the outsider and observer he so often felt himself to be. His gaze rested first upon his mother, who never ceased to command with her very presence: Helene de Sevigny-Lyons, regal and still beautiful, in spite of or perhaps even because of the silver threading her black hair like tinsel. Swathed in a crimson velvet cloak—his mother loved rich colors—she stood in the center of the Hall supervising the decoration of their Christmas tree, fully seven feet high this year.

  And where Her Grace was, His Grace could not be far away—at least, not at Christmas. The duke and duchess fought as fiercely as they loved, but somehow, that ceased to matter once the snows began to fall. And there was Father, Gervase observed, casual as a country squire in tweeds and riding boots, his tawny hair rumpled and standing on end, striding about to examine the tree from every angle and occasionally countermand his wife’s orders. The servants, long accustomed to such dissension, worked stolidly on.

  And speaking of dissension, there were his two older brothers, ostentatiously ignoring each other on opposite sides of the tree… though Gervase would have wagered the contents of his library that they were darting hissing asides criticizing each other’s handiwork when they thought their parents weren’t listening. Young Harold, called “Hal”—his father’s heir and namesake—must have got off a particularly stinging rejoinder, to judge from his smug expression… and Reg’s fulminating one. But then Hal was one of fortune’s darlings, supremely confident of his charms and secure in his position as firstborn.

  Insufferably complacent, Reg would have said, jutting out that masterful chin of his. And Gervase might have agreed, had he not found Reg equally insufferable in his way. Aggressive, competitive, determined to prove himself the best at every masculine endeavor… the army should provide sufficient outlet for his energies, Gervase mused. Reg would be joining a cavalry regiment in the New Year—a natural choice, as he rode like a centaur.

  With something like relief, Gervase sought out his sisters and found them more peaceably engaged at the other end of the Hall, sorting through baskets overflowing with holly, ivy, and mistletoe. Madeline, Hal’s twin but dark-haired like their mother, her slim form just beginning to ripen with her impending motherhood, was directing the placement of greenery, while her husband, Hugo, Viscount Saxby, hovered protectively. And there was Elaine, golden and cheerful as a sunbeam, starting up another carol, accompanied by vivacious, flame-haired Juliana, still in the schoolroom but promising to equal her sisters in beauty and charm.

  A small dark shadow wandered disconsolately between his elders. Jason, the youngest at almost eleven—and probably feeling his lack of importance very much at this moment. The changeling, Gervase had heard his little brother called, which he privately thought was unfair as the boy’s coloring was actually quite similar to their mother’s, and as for his height… well, Jason had some growing yet to do, and not everyone could be as tall as Hal or Reg. Gervase was a good two to three inches shorter than they, with grey eyes rather than blue and hair more bronz
e than gold. Given the choice, he’d have preferred to be dramatically dark like Jason.

  There’d be whining in a moment, Gervase thought, watching the frown developing between the boy’s brows, the pout forming on his lips. Or at the very least, a complaint of how bored he was. But before either could take place, the duke strode over to rumple his youngest son’s hair, then swept him up—all smiles now—into his arms with easy affection.

  He spoiled that boy shamelessly, Gervase thought. But it was Christmas, and what was the harm with a bit of spoiling then? And the duchess had always found dealing with her youngest child difficult—for reasons that none of the family ever openly discussed.

  Family… for better and for worse, these people defined him, Gervase realized. Not in his entirety, perhaps, but he would not be the person he was without them. And if he wanted, he could walk right into the room now, and become a part of the scene. Instantly recognized and accepted, as a son of the house should be. And his parents would smile at him, his sisters would invite him to help sort greenery, and his brothers might even take a moment from their ongoing competition to ask his opinion on some Christmas tree-related matter.

  He took a step toward that laughing family group—and then stopped dead in his tracks.

  She passed before the doorway, her hands full of ivy, their glossy leaves the same color as the dress that clung so delightfully to her newly mature figure: just eighteen and set to make her debut in spring. Richly waving hair the color of ripe chestnuts, velvety brown eyes like a doe’s… eyes doubtless fixed on handsome, golden Hal—as was only right, fitting, and proper.

  And Gervase found his feet moving, seemingly of their own volition, carrying him past the Hall and towards the staircase leading up to his chamber—and some much-needed privacy. He’d come back later, he told himself. When he felt more confident of his ability to conceal these highly inconvenient and inappropriate yearnings.