A Christmas Gambol

by Joan Smith

  His arms closed around her, holding her tightly against him. A surge of warmth engulfed him as they stood together, her curls tickling his chin, while a faint aroma of flowers wafted around him.

  Cicely was startled at his response. She had acted on the spur of the moment, intending only to show her gratitude. She hadn’t expected Montaigne to crush her against him in a bear hug and not let go. In fact, his arms began to tighten until Cicely became acutely aware of the hard wall of his chest and his masculine warmth. She wasn’t prepared for the way her body responded, either. An unfamiliar thrill lifted the hair on her arms and sent shivers of delightful apprehension down her spine. She sud­denly felt awkward, with her arms around his neck.

  She glanced up shyly and dropped her arms, but still Montaigne held her loosely around the waist, as if he didn’t want to let her go. His dark eyes gazed at her in a strangely intimate, questioning way. The way a man looked at a woman he found at­tractive ... The heat began in Cicely’s chest and rose to her head, until she felt uncomfortably hot and breathless. She remembered Anne’s lecture—she was too old to be doing this with Montaigne.

  “Well, aren’t you going to let me go?” she asked gruffly.

  His expression dwindled to disappointment, then changed to a casual smile so quickly that Cicely wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined that brief grimace. “I was hoping for a kiss,” Montaigne said, dropping a careless peck on her cheek. Her skin felt as if it had been scalded. Then he released her and gave himself a mental shake.

  “I’ve heard of killing the messenger of bad news,” she said, adjusting her shawl. “I didn’t know you were supposed to kiss him if he brought good news.”

  “No doubt it was your throwing yourself into my arms like a hussy that raised my hopes. That is not a complaint, Cicely,” he added, smiling. He had never called her Cicely before, except when he was angry. How odd. He had realized she was all grown-up now.

  “Tell me what Murray said. Did he really like it?”

  They took up a seat in front of the grate.

  “I can’t imagine why he would lie about it. He spoke of an early release date. Ten thousand copies, in three volumes.”

  “And I don’t have to pay him anything?”

  “Au contraire.” He mentioned the sum Murray had in mind.

  “I shall buy the fur-lined cape for Morland’s party,” she said. “But did he not complain of the pig in the garden? Sir Giles felt—”

  “He particularly enjoyed that scene,” Montaigne announced with the greatest satisfaction. That should write finis to Sir Giles. “Its homey humor matched the tone of the rest.”

  “I can’t believe it. I shan’t sleep a wink tonight.”

  “There is the problem of what name to use for the author, since it is fairly well established that you wrote Chaos. The two books are so different Murray feels it would lead to confusion in the readers if we tout you as the author of both. I feel a villain for having saddled you with authorship of the infe­rior novel, making it impossible—well, difficult at least—to claim the honor of your own.”

  “I don’t care about that,” she said. “My family and close friends will know I wrote it. They’re the only ones who matter to me. It can be by another anonymous lady. A provincial lady. Or we can just make up a name. Aunt Ethel, perhaps,” she said, laughing.

  “Chaos is not a book that will last. After a few years, and a few more volumes from your pen, folks will forget about Eugenie, and you can claim full honors for Georgiana. Chaos will be chalked up to your first, youthful effort.”

  “I’m really not at all concerned about that.”

  “Well, it has been bothering me. I’m relieved you take it so lightly. We should celebrate, Cicely. Shall I ask the butler for a bottle of Fairly’s champagne?”

  Cicely felt again that strange discomfort she had felt when Montaigne held her in his arms. It was the way he studied her, with a pensive, penetrating gaze, as if he were looking at some creature he hadn’t seen before. It left her ill at ease.

  “I’m already floating on Morland’s champagne,” she said. “Did you ever sit down to such a feast before?”

  “Yes, at Carlton House. I never before heard a lady lavish so much praise, however.”

  “I wanted to find out a little about it—for my re­search, you know. It was all so beautiful and tasted so funny. It was that French chef who was to blame.”

  Blame! His lips quirked in a smile. What would Morland say if he heard that? “Jacquiers is top of the trees. He cooked for Louis the Eighteenth before coming to England.”

  “No wonder Louis was fat as a flawn. Everything so rich, and the desserts all awash in sour cream.”

  “It was liqueurs that gave the cream that taste.”

  “That’s right. Dick told me.” She soon returned to the more interesting topic. “What about revisions? And a contract. Shall I call on Murray?”

  “He’ll call here tomorrow morning, since you’re going out with Witherspoon in the afternoon.”

  “I’d forgotten all about it. Witherspoon seems nice,” she said, thinking back to the earlier part of the evening.

  “Our touring of London will have to wait another day. I’ll be in touch with Meg to see what is on for the evening. And now, I expect I should leave, since it is three A.M.”

  “Is it really? I don’t feel a bit sleepy.”

  “London is seducing you into bad habits.”

  “I shall be quite spoiled when I return to Elmdale. I must write to Anne before I go to bed. She’ll be so excited for me.”

  “Send her my regards. And now I must be off.”

  She accompanied him to the door. “Did you man­age to eat your humble pie, or were you too busy gourmandizing on the French fare?”

  “I didn’t get around to it. I’ll send Morland a note tomorrow.”

  Montaigne waved the butler away when he came to open the door. He wanted a last moment alone with Cicely. But once the door was open, an arctic blast of air made lingering impossible.

  “Thank you, Monty,” she said, reaching for his hand.

  He lifted her outstretched hand and brushed a light kiss on her fingers. “À demain,” he said and left.

  Despite the cold breeze, Cicely stood a moment, watching as Montaigne left. He had never kissed her hand before. What had come over him? She de­cided it was all part and parcel of London manners. Now that Cicely was becoming “seduced” by Lon­don, he was treating her like a London lady. That’s all it meant. It would be foolish to go thinking it meant anything more.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  Mr. Murray called on Cicely early in the morning to arrange the details of her contract. He was en­thusiastic about her work. Together they discussed a few modest changes, which she undertook to make. The book was to be published in the new year.

  After such a start to her day, the rest of the morning was an anticlimax. The visit to Bedlam was never intended as a pleasure jaunt, but it was made extremely uncomfortable by the company of the Duke of Morland. Witherspoon had told Debora of the outing, she had told the duke, and he had in­vited himself along, using the ploy that his presence would insure good treatment, as indeed it did. They were greeted most cordially and given a guided tour of the premises.

  Cicely could not think Morland’s pointing and gawping and laughing at misfortune was pleasant, even for lunatics. Their case was so miserable she felt ill. The worst ones were locked up in cells, where they ranted and raved, pounded the walls, and pulled their hair. The less violent inmates sat around the place on benches or the floor, looking so desolate she wanted to cry. The ragged clothes, the clotted hair, the fetid air, the indifference of the guards, and the futility of it all were enough to drive a sane person to madness.

  “If they wasn’t mad when they went in, they soon would be,” Morland said, with a rare insight, when they left. “Can’t imagine why you wanted to see ‘em, Sissie. The stuff of nightmares. Let us stroll along Bond Street to clear our palat
es.”

  Witherspoon had received his invitation to Hast­ings and was eager to oblige His Grace. Cicely was becoming a little known in London. A few heads turned to see her on the strut with the duke. Mor­land insisted on buying her a memento of the trip to Bedlam. She had great difficulty controlling his generosity. He felt a little diamond brooch was just the ticket. Cicely finally agreed to accept a fan made of ivory slats ingeniously painted to show the Parthenon when closed; when opened, its silk ex­pansion showed a peacock in full display.

  “It will always remind me of you,” she said with unsteady lips, as her eyes flickered over the peacock elaboration of his toilette. Then she quickly closed the fan, lest he take offense.

  “It does look a little like Hastings,” he said, smil­ing at the picture of the Parthenon.

  As he had taken a fancy to the brooch, he bought it as well, saying it was for Debora. His intention was to force it on Cicely at some later date. He imagined it was Witherspoon’s presence that made her so reluctant to take the trinket.

  The duke dropped Witherspoon off at the Albany and drove Cicely back to Berkeley Square, where he invited himself in to say good day to the Fairlys, in hopes of receiving an invitation to lunch. Fairly was out, but Meg had just returned from shopping. Mor­land was desolate to learn Cicely was busy that afternoon. She had uphill work convincing him he could not accompany her to her meeting with Palin and Moore. “It is a business meeting,” she insisted.

  “Gad, what a bluestocking you are, Sissie! This evening, then,” he said. “What are you and Fairly doing, Meg?”

  “Nothing in particular. Perhaps a concert.”

  “Then you’ll dine with us,” he said. “Won’t take no for an answer. Deb will love to have you. She is blue as megrims lately. Don’t know what ails her. She does nothing but lie in her bed, complaining. I’ll have some entertainers from Drury Lane in to sere­nade us afterward. Or perhaps a little dance.”

  Cicely, who had had quite sufficient of His Grace’s company, said, “Montaigne mentioned dropping by to do something this evening, Meg.”

  “Excellent! Bring him along,” the duke said. “P’raps he can cheer Deb up. Blue-deviled lately, poor girl.”

  “I cannot answer for him,” she said.

  “Make him come. Don’t take no for an answer.”

  Morland soon left to arrange the dinner and evening’s entertainment. He decided that dancing was better than a musical evening after all. Waltz­ing would provide a good chance to get Cicely in his arms. Dashed pretty chit, and lively. Always some­thing pleasant to say. He’d give her the little brooch that evening.

  The meeting with Palin and Moore went off with no difficulty. Meg decided that Sissie shouldn’t go alone and made Fairly accompany her. As the meet­ing occurred at Covent Garden, he was well enter­tained by the actresses, who were in rehearsal for a new production.

  Montaigne, busy at the House, didn’t call on the Fairlys that afternoon. Cicely wrote him a note directed to his home, telling him he was invited to the Morlands for dinner and entertainment after. She had no reply. Montaigne didn’t receive the note until he returned home at six-thirty, at which time he wrote to the duchess apologizing for the tardiness of his reply, declining the dinner in­vitation, but saying he would drop in later for the entertainment.

  It was another elaborate evening. Two dozen guests had been scraped together at the last min­ute. The French chef had been busy with his min­ions, creating a menu fit for Lucullus. An orchestra was hired. Morland had spent some time in his li­brary searching out titles that might make an ex­cuse to lure Cicely into that room for a little flirtation. No harm in it. He was a gentleman, and she wasn’t a deb, after all. A dashed bluestocking. Up to every rig and racket in town.

  Cicely wore again the rose gown with Anne’s diamonds. As a courtesy to the duke, she brought along the peacock fan. The mansion on Grosvenor Square was as elaborate and overadorned as she expected. From the exterior, it resembled St. Paul’s, with a huge dome on top. Inside, a bevy of liveried footmen and maids in frilled aprons scuttled about the vast marble expanse of hallway. Three huge half-circle arches of green Galway marble led into the saloon. They were surrounded by dark, soaring walls of carved teak. Number­less lamps gleamed on red brocade and enough gilt to furnish a palace. And with all its finery, the house was ugly as sin. Nothing matched or harmonized with anything else. The host and hostess were dwarfed by the thronelike chairs they sat in.

  The first of Morland’s dinners had been an inter­esting novelty. During the second, Cicely became bored. There was no intelligent conversation but only an endless round of gossip and loud laughter. The food was too rich, there was too much of it, and too much wine.

  By the time the meal was over, Cicely felt stifled. She longed to go out for a long walk in the fresh air, but it was impossible. The gentlemen remained behind for port until nearly ten o’clock. Cicely found herself looking to the arches, wishing Montaigne would come. Per­haps he wasn’t coming. She feared the duke would make a dash for her when the gentlemen joined the ladies and took the precaution of sitting with Debora.

  The duchess was a little stiff with her. “Witherspoon tells me Dickie took you to Bedlam this afternoon,” she said.

  “His Grace decided to accompany Mr. Witherspoon and myself. We had planned the outing a few days ago,” Cicely replied, hoping to make clear the duke’s coming was none of her doing. Thinking to ingratiate Debora, she asked, “Did you like the diamond brooch he bought you?”

  Debora stared at her with bright curiosity in her amethyst eyes. “He didn’t buy me a brooch,” she said.

  “Oh, dear! I’m sorry! No doubt it was to be a sur­prise. I shouldn’t have spoken.”

  “No doubt,” Debora said in icy accents. Then she rose and went to sit with Lady Varley.

  When the gentlemen finally came, the duke headed straight for Cicely. She was uncomfortably aware of those violet eyes staring at her accusingly from across the room.

  “It is to be a waltzing party,” he said. “Just an informal little do. No need to bother with cotil­lions and minuets. We shall have the first waltz, Sissie.”

  “I think you should have the first set with your wife,” she said.

  He laughed merrily. “Deb wouldn’t thank me for that. She’ll stand up with young Weatherspoon, her new flirt. Not the thing for a gentleman to hang on his wife’s skirt tails, Sis. Look a dashed quiz. We shall have the first set.” He had spent the afternoon in Witherspoon’s company but hadn’t bothered to learn his name.

  As Fairly was leading some lady other than Meg to the ballroom, Cicely assumed this was another London custom and went along with Morland. He was an exuberant waltzer, if not a particularly good one. He swooped and whirled and cavorted about the ballroom, arms driving up and down like a pump handle, coattails flying. Fortunately the room was large and the dancers few, so that he didn’t cap­size anyone.

  When Montaigne stepped in at ten-thirty, the first thing he saw was Morland swooping about like an inebriated swallow, while Cicely held on for dear life. When she looked up and spotted Mon­taigne, she made a pleading face. His bad humor faded to be replaced by amusement. He would let her suffer! And besides, it would look odd for him to cut in. As soon as the set ended, he went to her rescue.

  “Ah, Monty!” Morland said. “What kept you? You missed a dandy dinner. The côtelettes de mouton à la française were rather special, if I do say so myself, eh, Sissie? I daresay you was sunk to one of those wretched beefsteaks at your club.”

  Morland didn’t wait for a reply but rattled on with other features of the menu until the music re­sumed, and Montaigne swept Cicely into his arms.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  “I see I was greatly missed by Morland. Did you miss me?” he asked, glinting a curiously intimate smile at her.

  “Wretchedly! I am beginning to have grave doubts about this house party at Hastings. It is to last nearly a week. I shan’t be able to get into
my gowns by the time it is over.”

  Montaigne was in good spirits to hear the duke’s overpowering style was beginning to pall on Cicely. “You can hide your avoirdupois under a fur-lined pelisse,” he said playfully.

  “I wish I had it now, and I’d go out for a walk. I know how a Strasbourg goose feels.”

  Montaigne’s easy glide about the floor was a pleasant change from Morland’s erratic flight. His conversation was also a relief from the inanity that had preceded it. He asked how Cicely’s busy day had gone. He heard a sensible account of her two working visits and an amusing recital of the trip to Bedlam. Yet he was aware of the genuine con­cern lurking beneath her tale of Morland’s antics at Bedlam.

  He was especially gratified when Cicely asked him what he had been doing at Whitehall. Ladies didn’t usually take any interest in politics. He waited until the set was over, then led her to the re­freshment parlor and told her of the latest political imbroglio.

  “That loose screw, Czar Alexander of Russia, has fallen prey to a mystic, Madame Krüdener, and is trying to bind Europe in a Holy Alliance. It is more a profession of faith than a political document. Something to the effect that the nations have no other sovereign but God. It recommends that the people fortify themselves to practice the duties Christianity enjoins on them. Meaningless verbiage that wouldn’t stand up a minute once a shot was fired. The simpleminded king of Prussia and others are going along with it.

  “Since our king is hors de combat, the matter has fallen into Prinny’s incapable hands. Our constitu­tional government prevents him from committing England to such an alliance without the consent of Parliament—thank God. We are hoping the thing does go to Parliament. We would have a heyday with it, but of course that wily devil Castlereagh will wiggle out of it somehow. Perhaps have Prinny write a personal letter of approval that falls short of a formal agreement.”

  “Is that the way you spend your days? Here I pic­tured you making sensible laws for our welfare.”