Once Upon a Christmas

by Diane Farr

  All this had occurred in the space of a few heartbeats. Then Blenhurst noticed Jack’s entrance and rose, a smile of pleasure lighting his face. Jack glared at him for a moment, then nodded brusquely. “Blenhurst,” he said shortly, as the duke bowed.

  He was not well pleased when the duke approached him, but it was impossible not to shake the fellow’s hand. “Lynden, how have you been?” inquired the duke heartily. Some of Jack’s belligerence must have registered at this point, for he fell back a pace and his smile became strained. “It has been a long time. Too long, I suppose.”

  Not long enough, thought Jack. “It has been a while,” he said stiffly.

  The duke flushed. “Yes. Indeed. I hope to make amends for my—neglect.”

  Jack’s gaze sharpened. Why, the rascal thought he was angry because he had never offered for Elizabeth! When he looked at Jack he saw a protective brother shielding a broken-hearted sister. The absurdity of this tickled Jack’s reprehensible sense of humor. An unholy grin tugged at his reluctant features. Elizabeth had no heart to break, but Blenhurst couldn’t know that. Probably fancied that Elizabeth had been weeping into her pillow every night for years, mourning his defection. Well, let him think it.

  He clapped a hand on Blenhurst’s shoulder, his good humor partially restored. “Excellent,” said Jack grimly. “Where’s the tea?”

  Only then did he allow his eyes to stray to Celia. She looked perfectly placid; not guilty or self-conscious at all. He could not decide whether that observation ought to make him feel even more cynical, or whether it ought to relieve his mind. He sat rather crossly beside her.

  Elizabeth handed him a porcelain plate approximately the size of his palm. A microscopic sandwich, its filling indistinguishable, was centered upon its delicate surface. He consumed this item without comment while Elizabeth poured him a dish of black tea, and passed his plate back for more when she handed him his cup. She looked very severely at him, but declined to scold him for his gluttony. He credited Blenhurst’s presence for that.

  The foursome embarked upon an excruciating round of small-talk. Jack did not contribute unless directly addressed. He ate his way steadily through half the sandwiches and about a quarter of the biscuits, watching Celia with a jealous eye. This ruffled her composure not one whit. She seemed completely unaware of his scrutiny, which made him feel more peevish by the minute.

  Neither of his parents took tea in the afternoon, but eventually his other three sisters joined them. Their presence, however enlivening, made it even less likely that Jack would discover an answer to the questions now burning in his brain. He excused himself and spent the next several hours hanging about moodily in the library, hoping that Celia would wander in. She did not, and by the time Jack went to dress for dinner he was feeling sulky as a bear.

  Will had laid out his dinner clothes. Jack stood over them for a moment, silently marveling at Will’s laborious attention to detail, his painstaking care, and his utter lack of taste. The ensemble so prettily laid before him was hideous. That particular shade of puce, when paired with maroon, was, in a word, repulsive. Nevertheless, Jack did not suggest a single change. Without a murmur, he donned everything Will had chosen. He no longer cared much about scaring off his would-be bride—he was just feeling ornery. When he saw the result in the mirror, he was inspired to send Will down to fetch a sprig of holly—with berries—from the greenery he and Celia had gathered. This he fastened to his lapel. As he had hoped, the crimson berries added immensely to the garish effect. He went down to dinner a vision of ugliness.

  When he appeared in the drawing room, his mother’s upper lip lengthened in disapproval. “Your clothing is ill-chosen, John,” she said icily.

  Jack feigned surprise. “Is it? No, no, ma’am, I feel sure you are mistaken. I’ve always been a well-dressed chap. But a man can’t wear the same thing year after year. Must keep up with the fashions, you know, if I choose to live in Town.”

  “I speak not of the cut, but of the colors.”

  He twisted comically, trying to squint down his own body. “Blenhurst, do you see anything untoward?”

  Blenhurst smiled blandly. “It is a long time since I lived in London,” he said diplomatically.

  “Elizabeth, I appeal to you.”

  But Elizabeth looked even more vexed than his mother did. “No, John, you do not,” she said tartly.

  It was so rare that Elizabeth made any sort of joke, wittingly or unwittingly, that the company was startled into laughter. Elizabeth flushed, first with wrath and then with pleasure, as she belatedly realized that she had said something witty.

  “Touché!” said Jack admiringly. “My dependence is upon cousin Celia, then. Celia, what say you? Am I a figure of fun or of fashion?”

  He had been hoping to make her laugh, but she was giving him that odd, pitying look again. Much to Jack’s regret, Munsil stepped into the room and announced dinner at that moment, sparing her the necessity of replying.

  He could not help noticing that Celia herself was very prettily gowned. She was wearing a white silk dinner dress trimmed with jet—not as pleasing as colors would have been, but a great improvement over unrelieved black.

  As he placed her hand upon his arm to lead her down to dinner, she smiled at him. He immediately felt the last vestiges of his sulkiness melt away. He had never been one to stay in the sullens for long, and somehow Celia’s touch on his arm made it difficult to remember what his grievance had been. He only wished he knew whether she was wearing half-mourning in deference to the Christmas season or in honor of Blenhurst’s visit. It was impossible to tell.

  During dinner, Blenhurst inquired whether he would have the pleasure of seeing their mutual friend, Mr. Conrad, at the festivities this year. Her Grace took that opportunity to inform him, with majestic unconcern, that they were having nothing more than a quiet family gathering. Poor Blenhurst’s expression of dismay was apparent to the entire party. He swiftly recovered, but Jack felt sorry for both Blenhurst and Elizabeth. What a cow-handed thing for Mother to do! It wasn’t like her to be so clumsy. Inviting Blenhurst as the sole guest to a family party was clearly intended to force his hand. The unfortunate chap looked completely thunderstruck. Elizabeth’s cheeks were burning, and she was stirring the food about on her plate as if she had completely lost her appetite.

  It occurred to Jack, thoughtfully chewing, that if he were Blenhurst, he would immediately start making up to Celia in an attempt to thwart his hostess. He instantly determined to keep a sharp lookout and head the fellow off if he started in Celia’s direction. Purely for Celia’s sake, of course. It was his cousinly duty to ensure that her head wasn’t turned by the attentions of a chap who was only using her to shield himself from Her Grace’s machinations.

  This noble resolve cheered him up a bit, as it gave him an excellent excuse to attach himself firmly to Celia’s side when the gentlemen joined the ladies after dinner. He found the prospect oddly agreeable. Besides, it was important that he spend as much time as possible in Celia’s company—in order to determine what game she was playing. If any.

  But despite Her Grace’s bald maneuvers, which should have frightened the fellow off, Blenhurst surprised Jack by fixing his attention on Elizabeth from the moment the gentlemen entered the room. Of course, he supposed, it was a bit difficult to do anything else. Elizabeth was playing the pianoforte. Her playing lacked fire, but her skill was superior. Her dazzling mastery of the keyboard always commanded the respectful attention of anyone within hearing.

  Augusta was turning the pages for her sister. When Elizabeth finished the piece, everyone murmured applause, and Her Grace called Augusta away. Jack immediately turned his attention to Celia. Blenhurst walked to the pianoforte.

  Elizabeth busied herself in gathering up the pages of her music. They seemed to have become unaccountably unwieldy.

  “It is always a pleasure to hear you play,” said Blenhurst quietly.

  Two sheets of music suddenly slipped from Elizabeth�
�s grasp. Blenhurst deftly caught them. “Thank you, Your Grace,” Elizabeth managed to say. She gave a strained little laugh. “So clumsy! I don’t know what is wrong with my fingers tonight.”

  She made as if to get up from the piano bench, but Blenhurst moved to stop her. “I hope you do not mean to run away? It would give me—I’m sure it would give everyone—great pleasure to hear you play again.” When she hesitated, he offered her a tentative smile. “I would be happy to turn the pages for you, if Lady Augusta is otherwise engaged.”

  Elizabeth bowed, and seated herself stiffly on the bench again. “You are very good,” she said unhappily, and began to dig through her music, averting her eyes from the duke. He stood over her, gravely watching her as she attempted unsuccessfully to mask her distress. She pulled a piece from the pile, seemingly at random, and placed it on the music stand. Blenhurst helpfully reached over and held the corner. She began to play.

  The music rippled forth, complicated and tuneless. Blenhurst followed the closely-packed notes on the paper with some difficulty, but turned the pages promptly enough that Elizabeth was able to continue playing without any break. Her fingers stumbled nervously from time to time, however, causing her to bite her lip with vexation. She seemed relieved to reach the end of the piece. Blenhurst joined in the applause, but Elizabeth, clearly eager to depart, pulled the music from his hands and hastily rearranged the pages, rising from the bench and preparing to join the others. Under cover of the hum of conversation that had broken out, Blenhurst leaned toward her and spoke in a low tone.

  “Lady Elizabeth, I hope you will be frank with me. Is it my presence that is distressing you? Would you—would you rather I removed myself? I need not stay past tomorrow, if you desire me to go.”

  Elizabeth gave a tiny gasp. “No,” she said, in a strangled voice. Her face was, by this time, almost scarlet. Her eyes met his fleetingly, but then lowered again as she bent over her task, aimlessly stacking and restacking the music. “I am merely—I am—I am mortified that you have been—” She broke off then, struggling for composure, and gave another unconvincing little laugh. “Your Grace, I feel we owe you an apology. We have invited you to a party that is no party at all. I beg you to believe that I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I see.”

  “You must wish you were anywhere but here.” She gave him an unhappy little smile. “I do not blame you in the least.”

  Blenhurst smiled too, with an effort. “You are mistaken. Your apology is quite unnecessary, in fact. I don’t know why it is, but everyone seems to believe that a newly widowed man wishes to be left alone. Actually, the opposite is true. Especially, I find, at Christmas. I am glad to be anywhere but home.”

  Elizabeth looked up uncertainly. Her disbelief was palpable. Blenhurst gave a wry chuckle. “I am speaking quite seriously, I assure you. I was dreading Christmas. Your mother’s invitation was most welcome.”

  “You are all courtesy, Your Grace,” said Elizabeth tonelessly.

  “Nonsense.”

  But at least the high color had drained from her cheeks. She looked unhappy, but no longer embarrassed. Her gaze grew thoughtful as she searched his eyes and saw only sober truth there.

  “You must think I accepted the invitation with unbecoming alacrity,” he said, trying to speak lightly.

  Elizabeth shrugged, trying to match his unconcern, but it was clear that he had somehow injured her feelings. “Not at all. I suppose it was the only one you received.”

  It was, of course. He was going to disclaim, but realized that his previous words had already made that clear to her. It was Blenhurst’s turn to feel his cheeks reddening.

  Chapter12

  “Look at poor old Blenhurst,” whispered Jack, leaning toward Celia. “Care to lay any bets regarding his future?”

  Celia gave him a look of reproach. “I do not,” she said severely, moving slightly farther away on the sofa.

  “I daresay you’re not the gambling sort.” He could not resist winking at her, she looked so prim and disapproving. This brought a little color into her cheeks, but she bit her lip and looked pointedly away, returning her attention to Elizabeth’s performance.

  Jack grinned. He had made a beeline for Celia the instant the gentlemen had walked into the room, and, upon reflection, was much inclined to believe that his maneuver, rather than Blenhurst’s inclination, had forced Blenhurst into Elizabeth’s orbit. This had completely restored Jack’s good humor.

  He stretched his long limbs, laying one arm carelessly across the back of the sofa. Celia immediately straightened her posture, placing several inches between her person and the sofa back. She actually looked a little alarmed. Jack leaned over to her again. “What’s amiss?” he whispered.

  The combination of his arm behind her and his body leaned in brought the two of them extremely close. He caught a whiff of some elusive perfume, warm and strangely stirring. He could see her individual eyelashes as they swept down against the soft curves of her face, just above her cheekbone. The sight was bewitching. Then she turned her face to his, and the lashes swept up, and he was staring into her eyes. Mesmerizing. He began to feel drugged and reckless.

  “Jack, for heaven’s sake, take care. You must not sit so close to me.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked exasperated. How sweet. “Because if you do, I shall remove myself to that chair over there.” She pointed determinedly at an empty chair.

  He could not tear his eyes from her face. He supposed he had a very silly grin on his face, but he couldn’t help it. “Why?”

  She moved to go. He pulled back at once, placing his hand penitently on her arm. “Don’t go! I shall behave myself.”

  She stayed, but looked both ruffled and wary. There was something else in her expression, too, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Her next question was very strange indeed.

  “Do you always feel worse in the evenings?”

  “Worse?” Jack cocked his head, as if he might not have heard her correctly. “Worse than what? Do I seem to be in pain?”

  Her eyes searched his face, then dropped. “I beg your pardon. I don’t mean to pry.”

  His brows flew up in genuine astonishment. “Now, look here—”

  “No, no, pray—! I should not have asked.” She looked embarrassed. “Let us talk of something else. How—how well your sisters play! And Elizabeth better than the rest, I think. It is a pleasure to hear her.”

  “Yes, it is. But there is something I would rather hear.”

  Her expressive eyes widened apprehensively. “Is there?”

  “You know there is. Come now, cousin, confess! Someone has told you that I suffer from a weak constitution, or a chronic complaint of some sort. I would very much like to know who has slandered me in this ridiculous fashion, and what you have been told.”

  She was so pretty when she blushed. Her eyes darted round the room, and she seemed to draw strength from confirming that they were surrounded by others. She heaved a small sigh, and then faced him squarely. “Very well. Since I have spoken out of turn, I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

  He waited, one eyebrow quizzically lifted, and watched as she struggled to find words. Soon she leaned earnestly forward, pressing her palms together. “Jack,” she said, sounding a little breathless. “Do you not know that you are—eccentric?”

  “Eccentric? Yes, I suppose I am. It’s fashionable to be a little eccentric, you know.”

  She shook her head determinedly. “No, dear cousin, you are more than a little eccentric.” She indicated his clothing with a wave of her hand. “I do hate to say this, but your mother is right. This is not a proper costume to wear.”

  “Oh. That. I can explain—”

  “No, pray let me finish. It is not just your clothing, Jack. Your behavior is sometimes rather—odd. And, you know, most gentlemen do not have a keeper.”

  Jack stared. “A keeper?”

  Celia nodded pityingly. “Do you not wonder why your fami
ly engaged Hadley to look after you?”

  “What the deuce—? I engaged Hadley,” spluttered Jack.

  “And you engaged him as…what?” asked Celia gently.

  “He is my valet!”

  “I’m very glad you chose him from among the applicants, for you apparently chose well,” said Celia soothingly. “But you told me yourself that he rules you with an iron fist. He is something more than a valet, Jack. Think! Is not your way of life a little—different—from other gentlemen of your station?”

  “Good God!” Jack was so flummoxed he could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Do you mean—no, it is impossible! You can’t believe that I am mad?”

  But her sweet expression, so fearful and yet so compassionate, spoke volumes.

  Suddenly it all fell into place. He remembered the practical joke he had meant to play, and realized that he had played it with stunning ineptitude. His inability to keep to the role he had chosen had doubtless made his behavior appear erratic—at best! He had dressed like a buffoon, and then a sensible man, and then a buffoon again—he had behaved like a leering idiot, and then a garden-variety idiot, and then a rudesby, and then a decent chap, and topped it all off by falling into a fit of jealous sulks—deuce take it! His own behavior had turned the tables, and the joke was on him.

  Jack burst into laughter. He laughed so long and so hard that the entire room turned to stare, but he could not stop. It was just too killingly funny. He roared. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He dropped his head into his hands and shook with helpless guffaws. And it only made matters worse when Celia jumped up from the sofa, wringing her hands and crying, “Oh, what have I done?”

  He could hear his mother irascibly inquiring what was wrong with him and commanding him to stop this foolishness, stop it at once, but that only made him laugh harder. He could hear Blenhurst, with mild jocularity, asking that he let the rest of the company in on the joke, but he could not stop laughing long enough to speak. He could hear Celia vehemently requesting that everyone talk of something else, and then begging his family to help him, help him recover—as if he had fallen into some terrible fit. Which, he supposed, he had. But it was well worth it. This was surely a joke that would make him laugh whenever he recalled it, for as long as he lived. He could hardly wait to tell it at Boodle’s.