Though Serena had been trained for this from a young age—with the assumption that she would one day grow up to be the Duchess of Frye with her own house parties to throw—she was finding that the reality was not quite the same as the actual practice.
Serena did not know what to do with that discovery.
She had been raised to be a lady!
A perfect lady and gracious hostess!
Smile!
She had taken to stealing moments in the butler’s pantry where she might be alone to breath deeply and have a moment’s respite and not smile.
Those stolen moments were hardly calming though. New, even more troubling thoughts intruded. If this life she had prepared for was truly exhausting and unfulfilling, what did she wish for instead? What alternatives were there for a lady who had been raised to be a duchess or, at the very least, a countess?
What she wished for was to ask Greyson why he kept staring at her with those inquisitive eyes of his, to demand that he explain what he knew about love, and perhaps apologize to her for what he’d said in the newspaper.
How ridiculous.
Foolish.
Impossible.
Instead, Serena went to visit her mother in her bedchamber.
The duchess was still abed, looking very pale and wan. “How fares everything with the house party?”
“Very well.” If one did not mention Sophronia and Bridget and the absent duke and Greyson Jones’s gaze.
“Has the Duke of Frye arrived yet?”
“No, he hasn’t. He hasn’t sent word either.”
“Pity, that. I hope he is well. But ’tis his loss I suppose.” The duchess was holding more of a torch for the duke than Serena. Especially now that she wasn’t sure that she fancied being a duchess with a ducal-sized household to manage. “Are there any other interesting suitors?”
“Mother! At least try to be subtle about it.”
“Why? I’m a mother speaking to my daughter and I might be on my deathbed.”
“You are not on your deathbed. If I didn’t have a physician’s report and Viola telling me otherwise, I might even suspect that you are deliberately malingering to avoid the house party.”
“Why would I wish to avoid a house party that I have arranged? Especially when my maternal guidance is needed. We do need to find you a husband, Serena. Planning a wedding should cheer you up.”
“Well, I do hope you recover soon,” Serena said. “There is a perfect suitor here for me, but I am distracted by Bridget and Sophronia’s shenanigans.”
“What are they doing now?”
“Putting on a play. An utterly ridiculous play.” Serena couldn’t even bring herself to mention the lovesick swan and the pirate from Shropshire. And those were only her scenes. As for the rest of the play, the less said about it the better.
“I should think that’s for the best,” her mother said.
“Oh?”
“It keeps them occupied in a predetermined, confined location. Do you really want them running wild, interfering with the menus, concocting entertainments, conversing freely with our guests?”
“You do have a point.”
“Of course I do. Mothers always know best. Now what were you saying about a perfect suitor?”
“Lord Gosling has much to recommend him...” Serena began. As she listed his many fine qualities, her thoughts kept straying to Greyson. What did he know of love? What did she? And what had he done to make his arms so strong and muscular? Inquiring, swooning girls wished to know.
In the hothouse
It was unbelievable but true: even a monstrous residence like Kingstag Castle could feel too small when too many guests were cooped up inside for days on end. The snowstorm had by now limited the outdoor activities—one could hardly skate on the frozen pond when it was covered in two feet of snow. Many guests passed the hours in the drawing room, playing games and gossiping. Bridget and Sophronia wrangled many more into their theatrical production.
Serena was delighted to be showing the hothouse to Lord Gosling.
Alone.
Just the two of them.
He had approached her in the foyer—she’d just been returning to the guests after one of her moments of respite in the butler’s pantry. Lud, but he was resplendent in his perfection. Why, he managed to seem golden even in the faint winter light, like a ray of sunshine on a snowy day.
“Lady Serena! I heard there was a hothouse here at Kingstag and I was wondering if I might entice you to walk through it with me.”
“I would love to, Lord Gosling.”
Linking arms, she led the way. The room was a fair size, made of glass, incredibly warm, and stuffed with a variety of plants from specimens gathered all over the world.
Falling snowflakes melted as soon as they hit the glass ceiling.
“Our gardener keeps the fires burning, which helps keep the plants warm enough to grow and thrive, even in the depths of winter. It’s how we are able to grow oranges, which our cook likes to use.”
Oh blast. She had to speak to the cook about dessert. There had been a problem with the cakes.
As they strolled through the small, hot space, Gosling admired the plant life and Serena admired him.
She could certainly look at a face like his over the breakfast table every day. They probably did make an attractive couple—she would have to engineer a walk past a mirror so she could be certain. She imagined family portraits of him, her, and their future son and daughter. She imagined how they might look together as they made an entrance at a London ball.
“What a wonderful orchid,” he said, pausing to examine one in particular. “I’ve never seen this variety in real life, only illustrations. As you must know, they are difficult to cultivate in this climate. Not every flower is meant to flourish in an English country house.”
“You must study botany,” she said.
“I study things of beauty,” he murmured.
Their gazes locked.
A blush crept upon her cheeks.
What a perfect thing to say.
“I must also compliment you on the house party thus far. Everything has been exquisitely planned and managed, all the guests are enjoying themselves and praising their time at Kingstag. I think I speak for all the guests when I say what a perfect hostess you are. A perfect specimen of womanhood.”
Serena replied automatically, “What a lovely compliment. Thank you.”
She tried to smile, but found herself faltering.
Because receiving this compliment was not as wonderful as she had always anticipated. Who wished to be considered a perfect specimen? She was beginning to wonder if she was like that orchid: not meant to flourish in an English country house.
Perhaps she and Frye had dodged a bullet.
Damn it, Greyson Jones!
Of course, these were not thoughts one would ever intimate to someone like Lord Gosling, whom she of course still considered a prime specimen of husband material. One did not throw off years of training and expectation overnight.
“I do look forward to hosting gatherings of friends at one of my country estates, when I am married. I shall need a wife who would enjoy assisting me in such hospitality.”
Lord Gosling gazed at her.
Gah, he was perfect. She wanted to take a ruler to his features and confirm that they were indeed as symmetrical as they appeared. He would probably laugh about it, and offer some humble statement because he was so perfect. But he wasn’t insufferable. And he wasn’t vague, like some men. In fact, he’d just made his intentions quite plain.
Serena waited for her heart to start fluttering and pounding because Lord Gosling intimated that they might be a perfect couple.
But lud if there wasn’t a little voice inside of her whispering but don’t you want more?
She was spared from responding by the intrusion of other voices—one low, one lilting.
“It looks like we have company,” Gosling remarked.
“Indeed.” It was Greys
on, with a woman on his arm. It was Mrs. Carlyle, a married woman whose husband was on a diplomatic mission. She was invited because she shouldn’t spend Christmas alone and also because she would help even out the numbers without competing with Serena for any beau.
Not in the matrimonial sense, anyway.
Serena experienced a surge of irritation upon seeing them. How dare he interrupt her perfect moment with Gosling, which might have led to a proposal or a kiss.
“What a luxury, isn’t it? A hothouse in the dead of winter,” Greyson remarked as they joined them. Mrs. Carlyle clung to his arm, quite like one of the vines twining itself around the trunk of a citrus tree.
“I believe January is the dead of winter and we are only in December,” Serena pointed out.
“Are you calling one of your guests a liar, Lady Serena?” Greyson teased. “That doesn’t seem like something a gracious hostess such as yourself would do.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I would never,” she replied sweetly, while wishing she could silence him with the power of her furious gaze alone.
“Well, by January, I shall be en route to a hot climate where plants like these grow wild, year-round, unstoppably.”
Serena snapped to attention. This was news to her.
“Where are you going?” she asked. She’d never imagined him leaving. Not that she cared. Of course she didn’t care. It hardly signified to her.
“India. I have a diplomatic assignment. Orders from the King, et cetera, et cetera.”
“I was not aware you were involved in politics,” Gosling remarked.
“Foreign Office. Discreet sort of stuff. Probably shouldn’t mention it, but it does impress the ladies.” Greyson grinned.
Mrs. Carlyle laughed and fluttered her lashes. “Does this mean that you are a spy? Here I thought you were merely a diplomat.”
“I couldn’t tell you if I was a spy, now could I?” Grey winked.
“Oh, you could trust me to keep a secret,” she replied. Cooed, really. Serena experienced an urge to inflict violence upon the woman. Flirting like that when she was married!
Or was it that she was flirting with Grey?
“How kind of you to take time to visit us when you have such important work abroad,” Serena said politely. But then the mask fell. “When do you leave?”
“After the holiday. There’s nothing like Christmas in England, now, is there? I couldn’t miss that.” Greyson gazed deeply at her; she had the feeling he wasn’t talking about Christmas at all. What, then? And now her heart started to flutter and beat in an irregular rhythm, at the prospect of Greyson leaving, of all things.
“Of course. There is nothing like an English Christmas,” she replied. But her curiosity was piqued. How had she never known this about him? Frye had never mentioned it...Did he even know?
Where was the duke, anyway?
And why had she not thought about him at all?
Serena waited patiently for joy to bloom in her heart at the news that this man with the cruel words printed in all the newspapers would be gone, possibly forevermore. Instead, there was something like yearning and curiosity and a mad desire to get him alone and demand satisfaction. By satisfaction, she meant answers to all her questions, naturally.
Chapter 6: In which there is more play practice.
The next afternoon
As Grey made his way from luncheon to play practice, he found himself actually looking forward to it. Which isn’t to say he hadn’t enjoyed the other entertainments offered at the house party so far—sleigh rides through the magical woods around Kingstag castle before the snow had become too deep, card games and musicales, fine feasting, caroling, and, his favorite, watching Lady Serena bustle about while pretending to be enjoying herself, but in fact sneaking off to quietly take panicked deep breaths in the butler’s pantry.
She didn’t realize it yet, but this life might not be for her.
She probably didn’t realize there were other options.
His blood-pumping organ gave an extra hard squeeze because there was another option: him.
Grey had always loved her, but never expected anything to come of it. A woman like Lady Serena was to wed a man like His Grace, the Duke of Frye. But if that was no longer the life she wished for and she was no longer betrothed...
That blood-pumping organ clenched again.
This was really Grey’s one and only and last chance to win her heart.
Hence his enthusiastic acceptance of the invitation to the house party.
But Serena hadn’t exactly given him a warm and encouraging reception.
Hence his enjoyment of play practice. Where she had to at least pretend to like him.
Today they all wore fragments and scraps of their costumes as the full costumes were not yet ready. Grey wore his eye-patch and the cape; his perfectly good tricorn hat had been deemed “in need of improvements and flair” and had disappeared.
The trio of Grey, Serena, and (argh) Gosling stood on the makeshift stage.
Gosling, wearing a snowy white jacket, uttered his one line: “Quack, my love! Quack, my love!”
Serena couldn’t hold back her giggles and burst into laughter. Her lovely lilting laugh was one thing, but what was really enchanting was seeing her let down her guard.
Bridget frowned. “Serena, your character isn’t supposed to laugh.”
“But it’s funny.”
“Not to your lovesick swan. His story is a tragedy and it won’t do to have you mocking his pain.”
Gosling made an appropriately sad face.
“Carry on!” Sophronia shouted. That was Grey’s cue.
He stepped into center stage with a dramatic swish of giant cape and delivered his line: “Argh, my lady.”
Serena placed her hand on his forearm and declared, “I swoon” as she sort of collapsed in his general direction. He lunged forward to catch her and held her close for oh, two or three blessed seconds longer than necessary.
“I’m not convinced by your swoon, Serena,” Bridget said.
Sophronia concurred. “It appears more like you’ve been conked on the head with a blunt object rather than overcome with lust and desire for our Lord Pirate Captain. Who, I might add, was cast precisely for his abilities to inspire a woman to be overcome with lust and desire.”
Then Sophronia winked at him.
Grey, being a flirt, winked back.
“Apologies that I haven’t spent much time practicing my...swooning,” she said tensely.
“Isn’t it one of the things perfect Englishwomen do?” Grey teased. “Arrange flowers, play the pianoforte, paint watercolors, and swoon?”
“It so happens that swooning is not one of the critical life skills included in a young English lady’s education. But do remind me to show you my watercolors.”
“Carry on,” Sophronia barked. “And remember you are in love. Madly in love!”
Love. Serena caught his eye. His heartbeat slowed, then stopped, then started again. She didn’t immediately look away. And he couldn’t imagine a better Christmas gift than that: hope that he might have a chance.
“Wake up my lady,” he said, resuming the lines. “There is danger and adventure out yonder.” He gestured to the rest of the room, but really, he meant the whole world. Or, say, India. “You don’t want to miss it.”
“Oh, danger!? Adventure!? Where?!”
“Well, not here, in Shropshire, naturally. We must get to my ship!”
He reached out for her hand, to lead her to his imaginary horse, which would take them on a perilous journey across imaginary England to whatever great adventures lay beyond.
Rather than recite her next line, Serena looked up from the script. “Bridget, this is ridiculous.”
“Actually,” Bridget said, “the line is 'But we shall be besieged by my lovesick swan.’”
“Quack, my love! Quack, my love!”
Serena sighed.
“Very well, my Lord Pirate Captain, let us go at once to your ship.”
Despite the lack of drama in her delivery, Grey swept her into his arms. His heart thudded. They had never been this close before, and now they had an audience for an embrace he’d much rather enjoy in private.
“It shall be a dangerous journey, but I vow to protect you.”
She awkwardly clasped the lapels of his jacket as the cape he wore fell in folds all around them. This was really a dangerous amount of fabric.
“I need you, as I am prone to swooning at the slightest provocation. One wonders how a lovely spinster with such a delicate constitution has managed to even survive into adulthood. How lucky I have been not to have fallen and hit my head on a rock and suffered an untimely demise, given all this swooning I do.”
“That’s not the line!” Sophronia shouted.
Serena rolled her eyes. “Oh, Captain, I shall cling to you forevermore with my delicate lady arms.”
“I wish to be clung to by your delicate lady arms.”
Gad, these lines were ridiculous. He felt absurd saying them, even if they were the God’s honest truth.
“Halt!” Bridget shouted. She regarded them thoughtfully, while tapping a pencil against her lips. “I’m just not feeling the passion between you two.”
And that was enough, enough for Serena. She disentangled herself from his embrace and the voluminous cape and stepped aside. Facing the director and stage manager, with arms akimbo, she really gave it to them.
“This is absurd! There are no pirates in Shropshire or lovesick swans! And why is my character such a ninny? And now you want passion? You are eighteen years of age. What do you even know of passion?”
“This is only act one, Serena,” Sophronia said with a cackle.
“But I haven’t time for acts two and three. I have things to do. Important things to do.”
Sophronia wasn’t having it. “No time to fall in love! Hummph.”
Chapter 7: In which our hero and heroine conspire to avoid an international incident.
Later that afternoon
At the Christmas Wedding Page 15