Once Upon a Christmas

by Diane Farr

  Manegold collapsed limply against her thigh, gazing up at her with frank adoration. Celia could not help laughing a little. “Flatterer,” she scolded him.

  He butted her hand with his head and she began absent-mindedly stroking the thick fur behind his ears. “I think I should bide my time, don’t you?” she asked the cat. “It would be silly to enact a scene, or stamp my foot and cry ‘I won’t!’ like a baby. Nothing may come of this preposterous idea. In which case I would have behaved disgracefully for no reason at all. And whatever you may think of Her Grace—” she looked warningly at Manegold, but he seemed disinclined to argue. Satisfied, Celia continued. “Whatever you may think of Her Grace, I owe her a great deal.”

  She leaned down and pressed her cheek against the top of Manegold’s head. His throaty purr rumbled against her fingertips. “I’ll tell you what I think,” she whispered. “I think Her Grace is the most powerful woman I ever met. She frightens me, Manegold. But I think—I really think—that no amount of power satisfies her. She would control everything and everyone around her if she could. I believe she has chosen me for her wretched son only because she believes she can control me. I certainly have nothing else to recommend me.”

  Manegold bumped his cold nose into her chin, his eyes closed in feline bliss. She smiled. “Do not contradict me,” she admonished him, pulling back to gaze with mock sternness at the furry face. Manegold blinked owlishly at her, then closed his eyes and continued to purr.

  “I’m rather fond of my theory,” mused Celia, still stroking the cat. “If Her Grace has the power to insist that her son marry a girl of her choosing, why not choose someone born and bred to the role? Hmm?” Manegold did not venture an opinion. “I’ll tell you why. Because such a girl would have powerful friends. She would have a family. She would have ideas of her own as to how to go on in the world, or how to run a great house like this, or how her children ought to be educated.” Celia shivered. “Here am I, a sort of quasi-cousin, so, at the very least, my surname is acceptable. But I have never moved in aristocratic circles. I am utterly alone, and utterly dependent upon Her Grace. I am a blank slate upon which she can write. Or so she believes.”

  Celia took Manegold’s ruff in both hands and gently shook his face. He opened his eyes just a slit and purred loudly at her. “I knew you would agree with me,” murmured Celia. “How much of what she is telling me is utter rot, would you say? What of that nonsense about never speaking one’s mind? And her notion that it is our solemn duty to preserve the social order, because rank is bestowed by divine providence? I think it wicked and prideful. What do you think?”

  Manegold sneezed.

  Celia chuckled. “Quite right. Your rank has been bestowed by divine providence. But I am speaking of the humans in the household.” She sighed, and shifted the heavy cat to hug him a little closer. “You’re a great comfort to me, Manegold.”

  She sat for a while, her face pensive, as Manegold drifted off to sleep on her lap. The window’s cold began to penetrate her shawl. Her papers lay scattered across the window seat. She ought to move and address these issues, but still she sat, turning her morning’s interview with Her Grace over and over in her mind.

  It seemed to her that the most likely outcome of the duchess’s matchmaking would be failure. In which case, of course, there would be no harm done. If her efforts were crowned with success, surely it would be because both Celia and the unknown Lord Lynden desired the match—wouldn’t it? So then again, there would be no harm done.

  And yet her nerves were jangling with alarm. Why did she feel so apprehensive? What was she dreading? Every girl dreamed of marriage. And here she was being offered a chance at marrying far, far above herself. This was a triumph, surely? She ought to be marveling at her luck, not shaking in her shoes.

  Perhaps she would fall in love with Lord Lynden. Now, there was a cheerful thought. And why not? It wasn’t as if she loved another. He might turn out to be a perfectly agreeable young man.

  But her optimism faded as she mentally reviewed the members of his family. Whether he resembled his humorless and controlling mother or his rude and imbecilic father, she knew she could not stomach him as a husband either way. His sisters seemed to take after their mother for the most part. Elizabeth, the eldest, was as chilly as she was handsome. Augusta was nearly as handsome, but more openly shrewish; she had a petulant and whiny way with her that set Celia’s teeth on edge. Caroline and Winifred, the youngest, were two peas in a pod—sniggering little prigs who thought far too highly of themselves, and for no reason that Celia could fathom. Caroline had her father’s tendency to corpulence, and his goggling eyes. Winifred was arrogant and pert. Neither was attractive by any stretch of the imagination. What would their brother be like?

  Celia looked down at the sleeping cat, warm and limp on her lap. She knew two things about the mysterious John Delacourt that gave her a glimmer of hope. One was that he had chosen Manegold for a pet, and apparently held the cat in so much affection that even Monsieur Andre, the kitchen despot, who detested cats in general and Manegold in particular, dared not harm the animal.

  The other was the duchess’s statement that he found his family “irksome.”

  Lord Lynden might turn out to be human after all.

  Chapter 5

  Shortly after noon on the 22nd of December, Jack Delacourt trod up the shallow marble steps approaching the facade of his ancestral home. He hoped he wasn’t about to make a cake of himself. If he had misread the signs and there really was no girl, he was going to look a fool.

  Well, he was going to look a fool regardless. But if some fledgling harpy was lurking about the place, ready to sink her talons into the Marquess of Lynden, it would be awfully good sport to foil her—and have a bit of fun in the bargain. He supposed one day he would outgrow the delight he took in annoying his mother, but that day had not yet arrived.

  During the journey, it had occurred to him that his mother might have prevailed upon Lady Elaine what’s-her-name’s parents to bring her to Delacourt for Christmas. Lady Elaine was a prim and colorless schoolgirl who had unaccountably taken his mother’s fancy a year or two ago. The duchess had been trying half-heartedly to foist her onto Jack ever since. He almost hoped it would be she; the practical joke he had devised would work perfectly on Lady Elaine.

  As he reached the top step his eyes lit with genuine pleasure to see Munsil himself, not some nameless footman, waiting for him.

  “Munsil, by Jove!” Jack exclaimed, seizing the butler’s hand and vigorously wringing it. “Merry Christmas! Well, I suppose it’s a few days early for that, but it feels like Christmas, eh? Devilish cold out here in Oxfordshire. I daresay it shall snow tonight. I say, I am glad to see you looking so well, dear chap. At your age, too! Don’t know how you do it. This place wears me down in a fortnight.”

  The butler gently disengaged his hand from Jack’s and bowed, his cheeks tinged faintly pink with mingled pleasure and embarrassment. “And a merry Christmas to you, my lord, I’m sure. May I say how very glad we are to see you?”

  “Say anything you like. It’s been the deuce of a long time, hasn’t it? Six months or more. If you’re looking for Hadley, he’s not coming,” Jack added, seeing Munsil’s eyes traveling past him to the mud-splattered chaise at the end of the front terrace.

  Munsil’s eyes returned to Jack’s face, their expression almost startled. “Not coming, sir? I trust he has not met with an accident.”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that! I’ve given him leave to visit his own people for Christmas, that’s all.” It wasn’t all, however. There were additional reasons why his devoted valet had been left behind. Jack bit back a laugh at the thought, and waved a careless hand. “I say, didn’t you have a nephew or something who had ambitions to become a valet? If you’d like to send him up to my rooms, I’ve no objection. He can wait on me as well as any other.”

  Had Munsil not been a paragon among butlers, his jaw would have dropped at this. “My nephew? Well, as to t
hat, sir, I don’t like to put Will forward—”

  “Why, you didn’t, man! I suggested him myself.”

  “Yes, but—forgive me, my lord, but he’s young yet, and has no real experience. I wouldn’t care to send you a member of my own family unless I were perfectly certain he’d give satisfaction—”

  “Pooh! Nonsense. Send him along. It’ll be good experience for him, what? I promise not to thrash him if he scorches my shirts.”

  Munsil bowed deeply, apparently overcome by Jack’s generosity. “Thank you, sir. It will be an honor. I’ll see to it that he does his best for you, of course.”

  By this time several footmen had arrived upon the scene, and Munsil began swiftly directing them as to the transportation of his lordship’s baggage from the coach to his chambers. Jack turned toward the wide marble staircase, idly beginning to strip off his gloves, but paused at the sight of a stranger.

  It was a girl, all right, and not the witless Lady Elaine. Jack froze, every sense on the alert as he assessed her. He had caught her in the act of coming through the door to the north passage, where she had hesitated, one hand on the doorknob, as if ready to whisk herself back out of sight. When she saw that her presence had been noticed, she apparently decided, with every sign of reluctance, that she must stay. Her hand dropped from the doorknob and she stood like a wild creature at bay, staring tensely at him with wide, apprehensive eyes.

  She was nothing like what he expected. She resembled none of the girls who had previously found favor in his mother’s eyes. She looked small and soft and vulnerable, traits the duchess generally despised. A halo of silky brown ringlets framed her face, which was really quite lovely in a blurred, soft-focus way, as if some artist had drawn the prettiest face imaginable and then gently smudged the edges of the portrait. The effect was appealing—sweet, rather than beautiful. Her eyes were huge and velvety brown. Her skin was fair and fine-textured, but not fashionably pale. Her complexion was more like ivory than porcelain. As he watched, the apprehension faded from her eyes and a tentative little smile wavered across her face. She looked—why, she looked rather adorable.

  And she was in mourning. What the deuce—?

  Almost too late, Jack remembered his role. He straightened, digging beneath his thick greatcoat for the quizzing glass he had secreted there, and pulled it out, raising it to his eye. He then fixed his gaze, with his eye hideously magnified, upon the unfortunate young female and adopted what he hoped was a repulsive leer. “Oh, I say! What have we here? Aphrodite in black! How simply awful! Too, too depressing!”

  The girl’s smile faded. Jack turned to find Munsil staring at him as if he had just sprouted horns. “Munsil, old thing,” drawled Jack, “would you be so good—?” He indicated the muffler and greatcoat that covered him from neck to heel, and Munsil, all emotion wiped from his expression, stepped forward to divest him of these outer garments and hand them to a waiting lackey. As his outfit was revealed, Jack was careful not to meet the eyes of anyone who knew him well. Fortunately, apart from Munsil, the only two footmen present who had seen him before were occupied with the baggage.

  He turned back to the girl, striking a careless pose. “Now this is more the thing, don’t you think? The festive season is upon us, you know. Festive! Fa-la-la-la-la!”

  The girl’s eyes, already enormous, widened further as she took in the glory of his pink pantaloons and the waistcoat garishly striped in lime and puce. The purchase of that waistcoat had nearly brought Hadley to tears. As a kindness to his valet, Jack had not allowed him to see the pantaloons, and had immediately packed him off to spend Christmas with his relatives. Pink pantaloons were not generally worn, and Jack had searched in vain for a tailor with a sense of humor strong enough to willingly make him a pair. He had had to pay through the nose to obtain the ghastly things, and promise the tailor that he would never divulge the name of their reluctant creator. Still, now that he saw the electric effect they were having on everyone within sight, he was sure they were worth every penny.

  The girl was looking speculatively at him, her mouth slightly pursed in the expression of one who has decided that, despite her doubts, she will reserve judgment.

  “By the by,” drawled Jack, peering at her in a fair imitation of his father’s short-sighted stare, “who the devil are you?”

  He was sure the strong language would offend her, but it had no discernible effect. “Celia Delacourt,” she replied promptly. “And who the devil are you?”

  Jack was so surprised, he burst out laughing. “Jack Delacourt, at your service!”

  Munsil stepped hastily forward. “Miss Delacourt, allow me to present your cousin, the Marquess of Lynden.”

  She inclined her head and curtseyed. Jack resisted the urge to bow. “Cousin, did you say? Cousin?” He raised the quizzing glass again. “Balderdash. Never saw her before in m’life.”

  Munsil looked appalled, but as he opened his mouth to speak the girl intervened.

  “I am, more properly, the daughter of your father’s cousin, my lord.”

  “Eh?” said Jack blankly.

  “My grandfather was your father’s uncle.”

  “Eh?”

  She bit her lip and tried again. “My grandfather was Lord Richard Delacourt. Younger son of the 15th duke, you know.” When he still stared uncomprehendingly at her, she repeated patiently, “Your father’s uncle.”

  “Never met him, either,” said Jack. He then startled Munsil by digging an elbow suddenly into the butler’s ribs. “Not my father! His uncle! Haw! Haw! I’ve met my father. Eh?” He threw back his head and emitted the laugh he had been practicing for the past three days. It was painfully loud, and struck all the notes of a horse’s whinny. It had caused John Emerson to laugh so hard that the boy had fallen off his chair, right in the middle of Boodle’s. Jack was frightfully proud of it.

  Before the group assembled in the entrance hall could recover from the stupefying effect of Jack’s new laugh, Augusta appeared on the landing above. He galloped up the stairs to wring her unresponsive hand. “Gussie!” he shouted. “Practically my favorite sister! How have you been, old thing?”

  Augusta scowled, and tried in vain to remove her hand from Jack’s grip. “Oh, John, for pity’s sake! You make my head go round and round,” she complained. “Let me alone, can’t you? And don’t call me Gussie!”

  He immediately seized her and bussed her cheek. She let out a smothered squawk and swatted ineffectually at him. Jack jumped away, let out another peal of loud, whinnying, laughter, and galloped off down the hall toward his bed chamber.

  Once there, he collapsed into whoops.

  His hilarity was interrupted by a hesitant scratching on the door, followed by the entrance of Will Munsil. Jack grinned at the lad. He looked to be no more than sixteen or so, a shy boy, ready to burst with excitement and pride at being called to wait upon his lordship. He bowed nervously, and began a rather breathless and stammering speech acknowledging the honor Jack’s notice had bestowed upon him, how he meant to do his utmost to give satisfaction, et cetera, but Jack cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  “Never mind all that,” said Jack. “You may unpack my bags, if you think you’re up to the task.”

  “Yes, my lord! Certainly, my lord!” Will rushed to begin, and Jack watched covertly as Will, rather nervously, lifted out the contents. The lad never paused once. He seemed to handle each garment with equal reverence, and not to notice any peculiarities of color or cut. This was just what Jack wanted: a temporary manservant who would neither suggest what Jack ought to wear, nor argue with the choices he made. But at some point, Jack decided regretfully, he would have to disabuse the boy’s mind of the idea that he would ever be a valet. He obviously had no eye at all.

  Back in the hall, Lady Augusta continued down the stairs, still scowling. Celia took a deep breath. “Your brother is certainly—unusual, cousin,” she said hesitantly. “Is he always so—so boisterous?”

  “Oh, there is never doing anything wi
th John,” said Augusta crossly. “He’s been mad since he was a boy. It’s my belief he gets worse every year. Nothing he does astonishes me any more. I say, have you seen my novel lying about? I’ve misplaced it.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” said Celia. “Perhaps—”

  “I shall alert the staff,” said Munsil, bowing. Augusta departed, still apparently in search of the novel she had been reading, and Munsil returned to his supervision of the busy footmen struggling with his lordship’s baggage.

  Celia went quietly to the small drawing room adjacent to the library and sat on one of the satin-covered divans. She had begun to tremble. She could scarcely take in the enormity of the thing.

  Lord Lynden was mad. Mad since childhood, and getting worse every year. How casually Lady Augusta had imparted the information! And that frightful woman who controlled the entire household and all its inhabitants, that dreadful, despotic duchess, meant for Celia to marry him.

  Why, it was monstrous! But it explained everything. Celia felt the missing piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place, and she understood Her Grace’s inexplicable kindness to a poor relation. No wonder she chose Celia to succeed her, rather than some high-born lady, bred to the role! Who better than a powerless orphan, to coerce into marrying the family lunatic?

  God bless Grandpapa for leaving this ghastly family! How had he found the courage? And more importantly, how would Celia find the courage? For leave she must. That much was clear. She hadn’t the strength, she hadn’t the power, to fight the duchess on her own turf. And that poor, afflicted young man would be no help whatsoever. He had seemed so pleasant and jolly at first, when she had accidentally overheard him speaking to Munsil, that she had almost hoped, for a moment—but it was useless. No girl in her right mind could find happiness with the creature she had just met.

  It hardly mattered what Lord Lynden’s opinion of her might be. However little he might want to marry her, Celia was sure his mother would find a way to force him. Her only hope was escape.