A Christmas Ball

by Emily Bryan

  He brushed a tendril of hair from her face, his touch so warm her knees nearly buckled. “The ambassador’s wife wishes to be friends with you. It would help me if you let her.”

  “Help you?”

  “In my task.”

  Mary smiled to mask her hurt. “Ah, you mean will I cultivate her friendship and give you any juicy gossip she spills about her husband?”

  “I would not ask, were it not important. The safety of Nvengaria, and perhaps England, might depend on it.”

  “That important, is it? You know that as a Scotswoman I would cheerfully watch England sink into the sea, as long as the Stone of Destiny washed up again on our shores. But then I have many English friends I would not like to see hurt. Nvengarians, as well. I will help you for their sake.”

  “Thank you.” He sounded relieved.

  Mary kissed him lightly on the chin, pretending his warm skin under her lips didn’t make her heart hammer. “You could have convinced me without the kiss. Not that it wasn’t pleasant.”

  Valentin continued to trace her cheek, his other hand still on her waist. “My feelings for you have nothing to do with the ambassador. I would stay here with you all night, showing you what I want with you, but I should not leave him for long.”

  “Now I know why the Grand Duke sent you. You are good at flattering others to help you.”

  “I would never flatter to gain help. That smacks of deceit, and I tired of that long ago.”

  Mary wondered what he meant by that, and realized she knew so little about Valentin. He was younger than she was, but she wasn’t certain how much younger. She knew nothing at all of his life in Nvengaria, and her Nvengarian friends had surprisingly little information about him.

  She softened her voice and let her hand drift to the medals pinned to his broad chest. “Of course I will help. I will befriend Mina, as she wants me to call her, and report all she tells me. As the ambassador says, I am a good friend to Nvengaria. Perhaps we should return to them, now, before they plot any assassinations.”

  “It is not a laughing matter. The ambassador might do just that.”

  Mary felt a qualm. “You’re right. Nvengarian politics, from what I have seen, are exciting and deadly. I’ve promised to help. We should go now.”

  Instead of releasing her, Valentin cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs warm on her cheeks. His eyes held concern, wariness, and a vast watchfulness that she’d noticed in him before. He could be as volatile as any of his countrymen; she’d seen that when he’d hunted for kidnappers last year. But he was also very good at containing his violence, honing it until it became as quiet and deadly as a sword.

  Valentin kissed her lips again, his touch almost gentle. “Thank you,” he said, and finally let her go.

  The next day Mary, Julia, and Sir John rolled from the Lincolnbury house in Curzon Street to a Grosvenor Square mansion by invitation of the Nvengarian ambassador and his wife. Julia was excited, reasoning that acquaintanceship with a duchess, even a foreign duchess, would carry much weight when she entered her second Season. She had fussed over what to wear until Mary had nearly gone mad, but as they traveled the short distance to the ambassador’s residence, Mary found herself as nervous as Julia.

  Mary worried over her own appearance, but for a different reason. She’d peered anxiously into her mirror for a good half hour before they left, wondering if the fine lines at the corners of her eyes were entirely noticeable. Should she cover them with powder? Was she that vain?

  She was, if a little powder meant Valentin would not notice how elderly she was. But he would discover the lines sooner or later, especially if he kissed her again like he had in the anteroom. He likely had already noticed them. In the end, Mary left off the powder, but dared to touch her cheeks with the tiniest bit of rouge.

  As Mary suspected, this was not to be an intimate visit with Duke Rudolfo and his wife. When they entered the ambassador’s mansion, two other English gentlemen Mary did not know, along with their wives, strolled the drawing room. Julia looked dismayed until she realized she was the only young, unmarried lady present.

  The gentlemen retired to the billiards room, leaving the ladies to tea and the pianoforte in the high-ceilinged drawing room. Long windows brought in winter light to touch gold highlights into the French chairs, delicate tea tables, and ladies’ gowns. Mary sat at the satinwood Sheraton pianoforte at Duchess Mina’s insistence, the ambassador’s wife having heard that Mary played well.

  Mary let her fingers take her through the Mozart minuet while her gaze strayed to the doors to the adjoining billiards room, which stood ajar. The click of balls and male voices drifted out, but Mary was aware only of Valentin, who’d discarded his coat to play in shirtsleeves. The half-open doors gave Mary tantalizing and maddening glimpses of him leaning over the table to shoot.

  Mary turned back to the keyboard for a difficult passage, pleased at the way the notes rippled from her hands. Mary had excelled at music as a girl and had mourned when her husband’s gambling debts had taken away her beloved pianoforte. She’d practiced some at the Lincolnburys’ these past weeks, but this was a fine instrument, well tuned.

  When she lifted her head again, Valentin was standing in the doorway of the billiards room, his cue upright beside him. Without his coat, his tight shirt clung to his torso, his Nvengarian uniform having no waistcoat. Mary fumbled a chord, her heart racing.

  Valentin watched until she reached the end of the piece. The ladies clapped, Julia with enthusiasm. Valentin said nothing at all. He gave Mary a long look, then turned silently and went back to the game.

  Julia came to the pianoforte, still clapping, and slid onto the bench beside Mary. “Tell me what I should play, Aunt Mary. Something the duchess will like.”

  She meant something she would not mangle too embarrassingly. Mary sorted through the music on top of the instrument until she found an easy piece Julia already knew. She laid it out for her, then rose and left Julia to it.

  Duchess Mina smiled at Mary and patted the cushions on the sofa next to her. Julia launched into her piece rather loudly, and Mary sat down, her hands hurting for some reason. She must have held them too stiffly on the keys.

  Duchess Mina leaned toward Mary and spoke into her ear. “I saw him watching you. Valentin, I mean. It is difficult for him.”

  Mary glanced at the other ladies, but they sat together on another sofa listening to Julia, not the ambassador’s wife. “Difficult?”

  “That piece you played. It was a favorite of his sister’s.”

  “Valentin has a sister?” Mary asked in amazement. She’d never heard anything about a sister.

  “No more, my dear,” Duchess Mina said. “Her name was Sophie. She died, poor thing, when Valentin was about twenty.”

  “Oh.” Mary’s heart squeezed. “How sad.”

  “It was more than sad. It was terrible.” The duchess leaned closer. “Our old Imperial Prince came to call one day when Valentin was not at home. Valentin had been sent away by the Imperial Prince himself, on ‘official’ business. The prince found Sophie alone and expected her to show him hospitality.” Duchess Mina lowered her voice. “If you know what I mean.”

  “I’m not certain I do.”

  “Ah, my dear, you English are so innocent.”

  “I’m Scottish,” Mary murmured.

  “I mean he wished to seduce her. Valentin’s sister resisted, as you might expect, so the old prince, he took what he wanted. No one refused the Imperial Prince anything.” Duchess Mina shook her head. “Then he let his manservant have her, to punish her for being so stubborn. Sophie could not live with the shame. Not many days later, she took her life. I do not blame her for this.”

  Mary put her hand to her throat. “Dear heaven. He never told me.”

  “He does not talk about it, no. But his need for revenge is great.” Duchess Mina put her open fan between the two of them and the rest of the room. “His hatred for the Imperial family of Nvengaria is great also. It is
said he will stop at nothing to destroy every last one of them.”

  This was news to Mary. “I know he once tried to kill Prince Damien. But he has reconciled with Damien, hasn’t he? He escorted Damien’s cousin Zarabeth to Scotland last year, where she married my brother. Zarabeth has only high praise for Valentin.”

  “He bides his time, my dear. My husband Rudolfo, he so worries about Valentin. Of all the men the Grand Duke could have sent with us to England, he chose Valentin. To remove him from Nvengaria perhaps? Was he plotting something against Damien again?”

  Mary thought carefully before she replied. She had learned enough about Nvengarian politics to know they were never straightforward. People could have a dozen different loyalties and choose which one best suited the moment without thinking themselves inconsistent. Gossip and whispers were effective campaigns to destroy a rival. Valentin had warned her to watch the ambassador; now the ambassador’s wife told her to watch Valentin.

  “Valentin must miss his sister very much,” Mary ventured.

  The duchess shrugged. “He keeps much to himself.”

  Julia’s piece came to an end. Duchess Mina dropped her fan and applauded, and Mary followed suit.

  “Most excellent, my dear,” Duchess Mina crooned to Julia. “Your playing, it is so delightful. Now, you must sit next to me and tell me all about your English Christmas customs. I have been given the use of a house in Hertfordshire, and I intend to celebrate a very English Christmas this year. I want to know everything about the Yule log and the bowl of wassail and maids stealing the foot-men’s trousers.”

  Julia went off into a peal of laughter, and Mary raised her brows.

  “But is this not so?” the duchess asked, not the least bit embarrassed. “I read that if the footman does not fill the house with holly on the day of Christmas, the maids may take his trousers.”

  Mary fought the urge to laugh as loudly as Julia. “I am afraid we never practiced such a thing at Castle Macdonald.”

  “But Aunt Mary is Scottish,” Julia said, popping her head up. “Men there don’t wear trousers. They wear skirts.”

  “Kilts,” Mary said.

  The duchess smiled a sly smile. “Yes, I have seen these Scottish men. Your brother, Mrs. Cameron, he wears the kilt, no? And Lord Valentin has told us about your customs—the black bun, and the first-foot man, and other intriguing things.”

  “Not all of which is practiced in England.”

  “No matter. Miss Lincolnbury, you must come to my house in Hertfordshire and show me how to be very English. We will have some Scottish things, too, and on Twelfth Night have the—how do you call him?—the Lord of Un-rule?”

  “Misrule,” Julia said. “You put a bean in a cake, and whoever gets it in his piece is the lord that night. Everyone must obey him for the night.”

  “Excellent. We have a similar custom in Nvengaria, but our Lord of Misrule commands that all ladies must kiss him.”

  Julia giggled. “Oh, I think I should like Nvengarian customs.”

  “Then it is settled. You will come. I go tomorrow to be ready for Christmas Day.”

  Julia’s face fell. “Oh, but I cannot. Papa has many meetings in the City, to do with his importing business, I think. We are staying in London for Christmas.”

  “Mrs. Cameron could accompany you, could she not? My husband, he stays in London as well, to do business with your king, but he will join us when he can. He will speak to your father. I’m sure all will be well.”

  Mary glanced at the billiards room again. Framed in the half-open door, Valentin bent over the table to take a shot, his body like a taut spring. He lined up his cue with the precision of a hunter, then made a sudden, tight shot. Balls clacked and rolled into pockets, and the other men groaned.

  Mary’s heart squeezed as Valentin turned away, lost to her sight. If the ambassador stayed in London, so would Valentin. That meant Mary would see little of him for the rest of her visit to England. At New Year’s she would return to Scotland, leaving London and Valentin behind.

  Which was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

  She waffled. “I expect my son from Cambridge any day now. He will look for me in London.”

  Duchess Mina waved that aside. “Send him a letter and invite him to Hertfordshire. He can attend us ladies.”

  Julia gave Mary an imploring look. “Please, Aunt Mary? Hertfordshire is ever so much closer to Cambridge anyway. Just think how it will be if I can tell everyone I spent Christmas with a duchess.”

  It would be a social feather in plain Miss Lincoln-bury’s cap. The visit would also enable Mary to watch the duchess and learn what she could about the ambassador. She sighed.

  “Very well. I will ask your father.”

  Julia flung herself to her knees and hugged Mary’s lap. “Thank you, thank you. You are the best aunt in the entire world. Even if you aren’t really my aunt.”

  Mary looked up to see Valentin at the door again, his blue eyes quiet but his body tense. He nodded once at her, as though she’d made the correct choice, and turned away.

  Later, when Mary departed with Julia and Sir John, Valentin, coat restored, saw them into the coach. He said nothing to Mary, but she felt the rough edges of a paper press against her gloved palm as he handed her in. He stepped back to let a footman slam the door, while Duchess Mina waved them off like an excited schoolgirl.

  Mary kept the note hidden until they reached home, treasuring it as though it were a diamond he’d bought specially for her.

  Chapter Three

  Valentin’s heart beat faster when he saw Mary coming toward him through the lowering fog in Hyde Park. The hour was late, and it was cold, but she walked steadily in her sensible cloak and hood. Practical Mary. The cloak would hide her identity from the casual passerby as well as warm her.

  A prim-looking woman walked several yards behind her. Her maid, he guessed. A respectable Scottish widow could not be seen walking about alone, especially near dark.

  “Can she be trusted?” Valentin asked in a low voice as Mary stopped beside him.

  “A good evening to you, too.” Mary took his offered arm and strolled away with him on a path that led across a wide green. The park spread out to their left, offering a view of horses and carriages on the Rotten Row at the south edge.

  Valentin liked the feel of Mary’s slim hand on his arm, liked her body warming his side. Her plaid skirt rippled out from her cloak as she walked—Macdonald plaid, the tartan of her clan.

  “Yes, I trust her,” Mary answered. “She’s Scots and loyal to my family. She might disapprove of my behavior and tell me so bluntly, but she would never spread tales outside the family. I read your note. What is this clandestine meeting all about?”

  “Where is Hertfordshire?” he asked.

  “You bade me meet you in secret to ask where Hertfordshire is? Would it not have been simpler to consult a map?”

  He let the ridicule flow past him, liking the sound of her voice no matter what she said. “I need to know all about it. The duchess mentioned her plans for her English Christmas, but I have not seen this house she speaks of. Is Hertfordshire far from London?”

  “No, it is only a few hours north, and quite picturesque, as I recall. The duchess longs to skate on a pond and savor English country Christmas traditions.”

  “You will go with her?”

  “Julia wants to. And I admit, it would be good for her. She is not wrong that making friends with an ambassa-dor’s wife will raise her worth on the marriage market.”

  Valentin watched the horses and riders fade behind them into the fog. “You speak of marriage so coldly.”

  Mary shrugged. “I made the mistake of marrying for love—passion, rather. I hope Julia never does the same.”

  “It is not your fault that your husband turned out to be a fool.”

  Mary looked up at him, her eyes tight. “You are blunt.”

  “He hurt you and left you destitute. You had to beg for help from your brother.”

>   Mary’s glance turned cool. “Egan was happy to have me live again at Castle Macdonald. And I never begged.”

  Valentin smiled. “No. Not you.” He imagined Mary standing ramrod straight in front of her brother as she explained that her husband had died penniless and that Egan was stuck with her. It must have shattered her spirit to do even that.

  “In Nvengaria it is considered honorable to marry for passion,” he said. “We prize love over riches. If a marriage must be arranged for political reasons, it is agreed that both parties can fulfill their desires with whomever they wish outside of the marriage, without retribution.”

  “How very convenient.”

  “I would not know. I never married.”

  “Why not?” She sounded curious. “Did you never find anyone who ignited your passion?”

  “Not until I went to Scotland.”

  Mary flushed. “You tease me. I am a widow of five-and-thirty and have a son who has started at Cambridge.”

  They took a turn into a damp, narrow walk screened by hedges, where light fog wove ghostly fingers through bare branches.

  “These things, they are part of who you are,” he said.

  “How old are you, Valentin? I never asked.”

  Valentin had to calculate; he so little thought about such things. “Seven-and-twenty as the English would say it. But I am logosh.”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “Full logosh are considered men at fifteen, ready to take a mate and produce offspring. Here your son does not even begin university until he is seventeen or reach his—how do you say it?—majority—until he is one-and-twenty.”

  “And then he goes on his grand tour.” Mary’s smile was strained. “Before he even considers taking a wife. My husband was seven-and-twenty when he married me, the same age you are now. Only I was seventeen, making my first bow. And now here I am, a widow walking alone with a young, dashing ambassador’s aide. What a scandal.”

  Valentin leaned to look under her hood, inhaling in her scent trapped by her cloak. “Nvengarians would not consider us a scandal at all. They would celebrate it.”