by Diane Farr
A quick rap sounded on the door, followed by the hasty entrance of Elizabeth herself. “Mama!” she cried, in a voice of suppressed excitement, and dropped into a curtsey. Her eyes were bright with something that looked very much like happiness, and her cheeks were uncharacteristically pink.
Even through the fog of laudanum, a sense of foreboding gripped the duchess. “What is it, daughter?”
“Good news,” replied Elizabeth, exultation in her voice. “Blenhurst is even now with my father. Madam, he has offered for me!” She flew forward in an access of glee and lightly kissed her mother’s cheek.
A powerful gust of rage and chagrin cut through the laudanum haze and swept through Her Grace. She stared up at Elizabeth, feeling the color drain from her face. And then, for the first time in her life, the Duchess of Arnsford fainted.
Chapter 18
At twenty minutes before midnight, Celia buttoned herself into a velvet pelisse. It would be cold in the hall.
The entire family had gone to bed early. She and Jack would be the only ones to see Christmas in. That made her sad. But then, she had expected to feel a bit depressed tonight. It was sweet of Jack to offer to stay up and help her welcome Christmas.
It had been a strange Christmas Eve. There had been no sense of pleasurable anticipation, no family preparations for Christmas. Part of the reason was that, just as Liz Floyd had told her, Christmas was not celebrated in the great houses of England as it was among the common people. And although there was to be a traditional feast tomorrow, a feast naturally meant less in a house where one dined well every day. Besides that, whatever preparations were being made were being made by the servants, not the family. There might very well be a bustle and a fragrance in the kitchens, but the kitchens were far away. The duchess’s sudden indisposition had also thrown a pall over the proceedings—she had been too unwell to come down to dinner. Hubbard had assured everyone that there was no cause for alarm, but it would have been strange to make merry in Her Grace’s absence, even had the company felt so inclined.
In fact, this Christmas Eve would have been a night much like any other night—if not for the betrothal of Lady Elizabeth and the Duke of Blenhurst. They had entered the drawing room before dinner arm in arm, escorted by Elizabeth’s papa, who was beaming and rubbing his hands together like a delighted schoolboy. Celia, Jack, Augusta, Caroline and Winifred had all looked up, startled. Jack had been the first to realize the significance of the tableau. He had rushed forward to wring Blenhurst’s hand and clap him on the back, and the entire room had immediately broken into excited exclamations. The girls had all flown to surround Elizabeth. It was the only moment of spontaneous joy Celia had witnessed since she came to Delacourt. Well, in that sense, perhaps the family had had one Christmasy moment after all.
She turned up the collar on her pelisse and ran her fingers through her curls, frowning a little. What had Jack meant, she wondered, by observing her so closely this evening? It had been very difficult for her to behave normally. She felt just like a—a cauldron full of boiling soup. Smooth and blank on the outside, but with all sorts of commotion bubbling and knocking about inside. Too many feelings. Too much to think about. So much, in fact, that her only course was to try to not think at all.
A quarter to twelve. She picked up her candle and crept out to the passage, then tiptoed down its dark and silent length to where it opened out onto the gallery. Light bloomed somewhere below, casting a warm, faint glow on the curving double staircase. The scent of pine filled the air. Celia felt her spirits lift immediately; the familiar fragrance of Christmas made her smile in spite of herself. She tiptoed to the railing and peeped over it down into the hall.
The light was coming from the fireplace. Jack, or someone, had lit a fire—nothing like a Yule log, of course, but a cheery little fire that crackled and leapt and did its best to warm and brighten the austere foyer.
Suddenly she felt a prickling awareness that she was not alone, and immediately heard Jack whisper, “Hist!” just behind her. She jumped.
“Jack, you wretch! I nearly dropped my candle.”
“Sorry.” But his grin was unrepentant. He placed one finger in front of his lips to signal silence, and gently pulled her toward the top of the staircase. The touch of his hand on hers gave Celia the oddest sensation—cold and hot and breathless. For the first time, it occurred to her that there was something a bit scandalous about meeting her cousin alone in the dark.
“Where are we going?”
“Just to the top of the stairs. That’s where I asked you to meet me, remember?”
She managed a tiny laugh. “I hope you don’t mean to throw me down them.”
“I don’t, actually. I try never to shock the servants. Only think how unpleasant for them, to find your lifeless corpse at the foot of the stairs on Christmas morning! I daresay Munsil, at least, would give notice.”
“Yes, Munsil is uncommonly fond of me.”
They had reached the top of the stairs, but Jack kept his hand on her arm, steadying her. The candle wavered a bit in her hand as she looked up into his face. His eyes appeared very dark in the half-light, and he was smiling softly in a way that intensified her sense of danger—but she was not afraid at all that he would harm her. She was afraid of something else, but could not think, somehow, what she was afraid of, or why.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’re very trusting, aren’t you, to meet a madman all alone at midnight?”
She tried to match his light and teasing tone. “I wouldn’t meet just any madman. Only you.”
“Celia.” He took the candle from her nerveless grasp and pulled her slightly closer. “I have a confession to make,” he whispered. He reached behind her to set the candle on the newel post, and for a moment she felt herself pressed against his chest.
For that moment, Celia forgot to breathe. “Wh-what is it?”
His smile was both amused and rueful. “Well, to begin with, I’m the world’s worst prankster. At this moment I wish I could pass it off as pure lunacy, but that’s the coward’s way out. I’m not mad. Really and truly, Celia. I’m not mad.”
Compassion flooded her. “Oh, Jack.” She longed to touch him again; it was an effort to keep her hands at her side. “Only a madman would think of calling that a confession.”
“Ah, but it is! For if I am not mad—and I am not—there is really no excuse for my behavior. None whatsoever. So, you see, I owe you an apology. Several apologies. And I am sorry, Celia. Sorrier than I can say.”
She studied his face. He seemed very serious. “I’m not sure I understand you,” she said uncertainly.
“I’ll try to explain. But, as I just told you, there is really no excuse I can offer.” Jack sighed. “Bear with me, cousin; this is very difficult for me to own. But, you see, I thought you were some mercenary little toad my mother had dug up to bully me into marrying. She’s tried that sort of thing before. And I got wind of your being here—or, at least, I suspected that you were—and I didn’t know you—and—well—I’m afraid my friends in London egged me on by making silly bets—” He broke off. Even in the semi-darkness, she could tell he had turned beet red. He looked extremely embarrassed. “The long and the short of it is, I arrived here with my plans already set.”
“What plans?”
“To behave as repulsively as I could—trying to frighten you off, you know. I don’t know why you thought I was mad—I was just trying to be an ass.”
Her eyes widened in bewilderment. “But Lady Augusta told me you were mad.”
Now he looked genuinely astonished. “The devil she did! Augusta? Why on earth—” Then he seemed to remember, casting his mind back over the scene of his arrival. A slow smile gathered on his face, and he started to chuckle. “Well, I’ve no one to blame for that but myself, have I? What a comedy of errors!”
“Ssh! You’ll wake everyone if you laugh out loud. Jack, honestly—truly—are you not mad? Not at all?” Celia searched his face anxiously, trying to make
sense of what she saw there. She was suddenly aware that she was clinging to the lapels of his jacket and that his arms had gone round her waist in a sustaining clasp—to keep her from falling down the stairs, she told herself. No need to feel embarrassed. No reason to feel all shaky inside.
“Not a whit,” he promised her solemnly. “So, you see, I have behaved abominably. But despite the shocking hoax I have played, I hope you will consider the other consequence of my confession.”
Celia blinked dazedly at him. She was still struggling to come to grips with the idea that Jack’s outrageous behavior had been deliberate. “Consequence? I don’t quite follow you.” She was sure she ought to feel angry, but she was too puzzled to be angry.
All hint of laughter had vanished from Jack’s expression. He gazed intently at her face, seeming to study her. “If I am not mad, I am nearly as great a prize as the present Duke of Blenhurst.”
Celia knew at once that the off-hand way he said it was meant to disguise the fact that he was in deadly earnest. “Prize? What do you mean?”
“Why, a sane marquess is a better catch than a mad one,” he said lightly. “And although my title is a notch lower than Blenhurst’s at the moment, I think a girl might do worse than to marry me. I daresay you have been disappointed that Elizabeth snagged His Grace—”
His meaning suddenly struck her like a bucket of ice water. Celia gasped, wrenching herself out of his arms with a suddenness that almost made her stumble. “Jack, I ought to slap you!” she spluttered. “How dare you insinuate—oh! Are you joking? Of all the absurd, ludicrous—”
Relief and delight transfigured Jack’s face. “Sorry!” he said quickly. “I don’t mean to insult you—”
“Well, you have done!”
“How so? Blenhurst is quite a fine fellow, don’t you think?”
“I daresay! He may be a paragon; it is not my concern! Good heavens, as if I would ever be called upon to form an opinion of one so far above me! And as for what you are hinting—what I think you mean—oh! Of all the preposterous notions—”
Jack’s brows drew together in a momentary frown. “Above you? No such thing. You are yourself the granddaughter of a duke.”
“Great-granddaughter—and that is neither here nor there! How could you think such a thing of me?” She covered her face with her hands, mortified. “What made you think it?”
Jack’s hands came up to cover hers. He gently tugged her hands away and held them in his own. She turned her face away from him, still agitated. “I’ll tell you what made me think it,” he said quietly. “Jealousy, pure and simple.”
That brought her eyes back to his, but her feathers were still ruffled. “Jealousy? You were jealous of Blenhurst?” She shook her head at him in baffled amazement. “Jack, you are mad!”
His face lit with laughter, but there was something else in his expression, something she had not seen before. His arms went round her again. “Perhaps I am,” he whispered. “At the moment.”
He bent his head and Celia instinctively closed her eyes, suddenly dizzy. She felt his lips graze her forehead. It was the lightest possible caress, but it made her shiver. Her face must be very close to his; she could smell his shaving soap. Oh, what was the matter with her? Her anger had vanished, forgotten. She could neither move nor speak. She simply clung to him, confused and breathless, unable to make sense of anything. He pulled her close against him, and her arms went round him as if of their own volition.
“So you aren’t prowling about Delacourt in search of a husband?” he murmured.
She choked. “I never prowled in my life,” she told his waistcoat.
“A poor choice of words,” he agreed.
“Pray rid yourself of the notion that I came here for any other reason than to oblige your mother,” begged Celia, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity despite the fact that her face was pressed against Jack’s coat buttons. “She invited me, and I accepted.”
“Ah. She didn’t say why she invited you?”
A pause ensued. Celia found it necessary to remove her cheek from Jack’s chest. She leaned back against his arms and looked into his face, troubled. She saw by his gravity that he knew full well why his mother had invited her.
No wonder he had thought her interested in Blenhurst. He thought she needed to marry. Well, it was a logical solution to her difficulties, wasn’t it? He thought she had been eager to assist the duchess’s schemes. Perhaps he even believed the idea had been hers! The thought seemed to drain the color from Celia’s cheeks.
“Your mother knew I needed a home, and she offered me one. Do you think it remarkable that I accepted?”
“Not at all.” But Jack’s expression was guarded.
“She did not mention your name until well after my arrival.”
Some of the reserve left Jack’s demeanor, and he heaved a tiny sigh of relief. “Thank God. We are going to be frank with one another after all.”
“Certainly we are.”
“Excellent. You need not tell me the entire tale at once. Let us skip to the point where my crafty parent did, in fact, mention my name. I take it she then revealed her fell designs. What, cousin Celia, was your reaction? Dismay? Or relief?”
Celia felt the color return to her face in a rush. “Well—a little of both, I am afraid.” She was blushing again. “Pray recall that, at that moment, I did not realize you were mad.”
Jack gave a crack of laughter. “True! You had not met me.” His grin was warm with affection, and she could not help smiling back. Her smile seemed to ignite something in the back of his eyes, and the lighthearted nature of the moment subtly shifted.
He was still holding her at the waist, Celia realized. She tried rather half-heartedly to pull out of his grasp, but at the end of the maneuver she somehow ended up against his chest again. How did that happen? she wondered dazedly.
He cradled her, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. “You haven’t asked me why I wanted you to meet me here,” he whispered into her hair.
“To—to see Christmas in,” she said faintly.
“Yes, but why here?”
“Because of the evergreen, I thought.” Oh, this was so foolish. She ought not to hug him like this. Celia pulled out of his arms and stepped back, hugging herself to keep from committing any further idiocies. Why was he smiling at her in such a way?
“Look up,” he said.
She did. He had hung mistletoe in the arch over their heads. Her eyes barely had time to register this fact before he took shameless advantage of her upturned face, and kissed her.
It was a swift kiss, and gentle, but Celia jumped back as if it had burned her. She pressed her hands to her cheeks and stared at him, eyes wide with shock. It was just as if the scales had fallen from her eyes and she could suddenly see, with blinding clarity, what a fool she had been. It was too much; she could not sort out her emotions amid the jumble of confusing images whirling in her brain.
She had hidden her attraction to Jack behind the safe and comfortable screen of compassion, believing him to be a pitiable creature—but Jack was not pitable. In that case, she was forced to face the things he made her feel. Her feelings for cousin Jack, she realized in dismay, were not cousinly at all. And some secret corner of her self had known that all along.
What a mad thing to do, to creep out and meet him at dead of night! She had been hoping he would kiss her—and she hadn’t even realized it. Well, her secret wish had come true. And now she was ashamed of herself for wishing it.
“Why did you do that?” she whispered, blushing painfully. “It was not—cousinly.”
“What I feel for you is not cousinly,” he said. His voice was not quite steady. He took her hand in his and held it, as if afraid she would run from him otherwise. “Celia,” he said urgently, “I shouldn’t pounce on you like this, I know—you have not had time to accustom yourself to the notion, and you barely know me—”
“That’s not it,” she said, trying to free her hand. He did n
ot let go, however.
“I’ve behaved like a prime idiot the entire time you have known me—”
“That’s not it, either! Jack—”
“I don’t ask you to give me an answer tonight. I’m sure you cannot. Or, rather, you cannot give me the answer I wish to hear. But if you would give me a chance—”
“Jack, for pity’s sake—”
“Oh, Celia, please. Please.” He was pulling her into his arms again. She was too weak, too confused, to resist. “Don’t say no,” he whispered. “Whatever you say, please don’t say no.” It sounded like a prayer. And then he kissed her again.
And she did not, in fact, say no.
This kiss was completely different from the first one he had given her. It was ardent and aching and filled with passion, and Celia felt herself responding to it with a passion that matched his. She fancied she could hear their hearts pounding amid the thunderous rush of feelings thrilling through her. Her very ears were ringing with it, almost like—bells.
Why, it was bells.
She tore her mouth away from his and opened her eyes, disoriented. He was smiling down at her, a smile that was both tender and foolish. “Merry Christmas, Celia,” he murmured, touching her cheek softly.
He bent to kiss her again, but she placed her palms against his chest and held him at bay for a moment, too amazed, too surprised even to kiss him—although a second ago she had believed that nothing could have distracted her from that agreeable occupation.
He grinned at her expression. It must have been a sight. The sound of bells filled the air from all directions—the dinner gong was sounding in the dining room, the single bell in the belfry of the palace’s chapel was tolling with its hoarse clang, hand bells were tinkling from several rooms nearby, and someone was shaking sleigh bells outside the front door. Several someones. The sleigh bells were louder than all the rest.