Holly and Hopeful Hearts

by Caroline Warfield

  “There is a horse in the forecourt, and it will not move. Odd looking beast. Small head and too long in the back. And one blue eye! Whoever heard of a horse with blue eyes?”

  James turned toward the voice at the door, and met the eyes of Nathan Belvoir, Earl of Hythe.

  For all his youth—Hythe was three years Sophia’s junior and seven years younger than James—he was head of the Belvoir family, and James would prefer to have his blessing to court the man’s sister. From the hostility in young earl’s blue eyes, it would not be forthcoming.

  “My horse,” James explained mildly. “Seistan.”

  “The horse is lame, Hythe,” Lady Felicity told her brother, “so Lord Elfingham cannot travel on tonight.” She turned to the young woman in spectacles who had entered behind Hythe. “Will you inform the duchess, Cedrica?” The girl nodded and went back outside.

  “He cannot stay here,” Hythe declared, his brows almost meeting as he frowned. “You should have stopped in the village, Winderfield, or whatever your name should be. The duchess will not want your sort mixing with her guests.”

  James schooled his face to show no reaction. At least two insults in as many sentences: the denial of his title and his legitimacy, and the “your sort” comment. Sophia would doubtless be displeased if he challenged Hythe, or simply punched his smug face.

  Or punched Wesley Winderfield, who was grinning like a loon at Hythe’s elbow. Weasel Winderfield was some sort of a distant cousin and had been heir presumptive to the Duke of Winshire after the untimely deaths of the duke’s three sons one after the other, and then of his eldest son’s heir, his only known grandson. Weasel was most disappointed when Winshire’s second son proved to be not nearly as dead as reported, the inconvenience of said son’s return compounded by the tribe of offspring he presented to his father when he arrived in England.

  Weasel’s presence here was unfortunate but not unexpected. He was an acolyte of the man most determined to prove James a bastard: the man who owned this house, the Duke of Haverford.

  James shrugged. “The village is full, Hythe. They sent me on here.”

  Sophia was displeased, but not with James. She tugged on Hythe’s arm and whispered to him, so quietly that James had to strain his ears to hear over the chatter of the onlookers. “That is not for you to say, Hythe. Please do not embarrass yourself and me by being so rude.”

  Whatever Hythe was about to reply was interrupted by the arrival of the duchess herself, the messenger fluttering in her wake. The Duchess of Haverford was an elegant and still lovely woman who looked in no way old enough to have a son in his thirties. James regarded her hopefully. She was the wife of the man most determined to spoil his father’s return, but also a dear friend of his uncle’s widow, the Dowager Countess of Sutton. Would the duchess support him? Tolerate him? Cast him and his horse out?

  She stopped a few paces away and looked him up and down. “Elfingham,” she said. “Welcome, my dear.” Her smile warmed her face, and she held out both hands to James in greeting. “You are very welcome. Cedrica has told me about your horse, and of course you must stay as long as you wish.”

  Chapter 4

  “You must admit he is very handsome,” Felicity insisted as she and Sophia finished wreathing the doorknocker in greenery and ribbons. Sophia had been drafted into the job since Cissie Ellison had wandered off somewhere. Cedrica had gone to organize a room for Lord Elfingham, although where she would put him in the crowded house, Sophia had no idea.

  “Handsome is as handsome does,” Sophia reminded her.

  Elfingham had behaved very handsomely indeed, showing no offence at Felicity’s rudeness or Hythe’s. He had taken his horse to the stables, accompanied by a group of young men to whom he was explaining the horse’s virtues. Hythe, who would sooner cut off his arm than join them, nonetheless followed the horse with his eyes before seeking consolation in the billiards room with that horrible man Weasel.

  Felicity echoed her thoughts. “He has beautiful manners, Sophia. You know he does.”

  Sophia could not help but nod. His manners had been one of the things she noticed when they first met. The exotic horseman in his foreign robes, his dark eyes meeting hers, had inclined his head politely and said, in perfectly enunciated English, “Forgive my temerity in speaking without an introduction, my lady, but have you perchance mislaid this child?”

  What a fool he must have thought her. She had been near speechless—from the horror and excitement of the child’s near escape, of course. She was twenty-five and well beyond being overset by a charming smile and an attractive person, however tall and broad and well put together.

  She thought about this morning’s dream and shivered, but Felicity did not notice. She was still enumerating Lord Elfingham’s virtues. “He dances divinely, and he does not assume that the person with whom he is dancing is a brainless ninny.”

  Sophia nodded again. He was as graceful on the dance floor as he was on horseback, with a way of focusing all of his attention on his partner.

  And he was much in evidence on the dance floor, he and his much younger brother Lord Andrew. Whether James Winderfield senior, now Earl of Sutton, had married the Persian mother of his children might be in doubt, but most hostesses found it convenient to suspend judgment, particularly after the rumor-mill began to churn out stories of the wealth that was suddenly pouring into the Winshire coffers from trading enterprises that spanned the Middle East, and reached into China and India at one end and the countries of the Mediterranean at the other.

  The two young men had money, looks, and manners. Even if the questions over their birth were resolved in the negative, they would still be welcomed as spare partners in most of London’s ballrooms. And if the new Earl of Sutton had, indeed, sired his offspring within the bounds of holy matrimony, as he claimed? Then the sons of the next Duke of Winshire, whatever questions might hang over their tainted bloodlines, would be valuable quarry in the marriage hunt.

  “Do you think the horse is really injured?” Felicity asked. “It does seem a coincidence, him turning up like this.”

  “It was limping,” Sophia said, keeping her own speculations to herself.

  Had he followed Felicity here, to the Haverford house party? How audacious if he had!

  Again, Felicity’s thoughts marched with hers. “I think it very romantic if he has followed us, Sophia. Into the very jaws of his enemy! They say,” she dropped her voice to a thrilled whisper, “the Duke of Haverford and the Earl of Sutton cut one another in the actual presence of the Prince Regent. Cut one another dead!”

  “We shall not repeat gossip, Felicity.” Sophia tied the last ribbon and deftly twitched its loops into position. “There. We are done. Step back and see what you think.”

  Over her sister’s shoulder, Sophia could see Lord Elfingham and the other young men returning from the stables. Hythe would not agree to a match between Lord Elfingham and Felicity, not unless the House of Lords found in Lord Sutton’s favor, and perhaps not even then.

  “Come. Let us go and see how the decorating is going in the parlor,” she said. She would remove Felicity before the tempting man could reach them. This time. It would be a long few days until Lord Elfingham was on his way again.

  Chapter 5

  “How did you come to be in this part of the country?” Lady Felicity asked James.

  Lady Sophia, sitting across the dinner table from them, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  James let his amusement at the interrogation color his voice as he answered. “I have been inspecting various of my grandfather’s properties, Lady Felicity, and was heading back to London to keep Christmas with my family, with a saddle bag full of presents for the children.” He shrugged. It was true, though they would keep the feast on the sixth of January according to ancient custom, rather than the twenty-fifth of December as the Western church did.

  “You celebrate Christmas? Are you a Christian then? I thought you would be a Mahometan.”

&n
bsp; Lady Sophia took advantage of the more casual dining rules Her Grace encouraged to hiss her outrage across the table. “Felicity!”

  “Lord Elfingham does not mind, Sophia. Do you, Lord Elfingham?”

  Not at all, James realized. The child’s naive curiosity was refreshing after the sly innuendoes and baseless assumptions he faced wherever he went. “I am happy to answer honest questions, Lady Sophia,” he assured the elder sister. “Curiosity is natural, and I would rather be asked than for people to make up their own stories.”

  “Then answer it.” Hythe’s impatient response from his place some distance down the table showed his mind was on keeping watch over his sisters, rather than his own dinner partner.

  Lady Sophia turned her indignant glare on her brother.

  James smiled at Lady Sophia and ignored Hythe. “I am a Christian, Lady Felicity, as are my whole family, though some of the people of my father’s kingdom—my brother’s now—follow the way of Islam. Our church was founded in the first century: some say by the Magi when they came back from seeing the baby Jesus, while some say by the Apostle James.”

  His answer raised more questions, and he found himself describing Christmas at home to an audience of half the table.

  Not, he noted, Lady Stanton, a haughty woman who had already snubbed him as they met in the drawing room before dinner. She sniffed before ostentatiously looking away. James had been grateful to discover that the Duke of Haverford was not in attendance. It would have been difficult to be polite to the leader of the attempt to strip James and his brothers and sisters of their legitimacy.

  Lady Stanton sat near the head of the table not far from the duchess, talking to Lord Archer, who James knew to be in the Haverford camp on the legitimacy question. Hythe was seated at the illustrious end, too. James preferred the company here, near the foot.

  The bright-eyed girl Felicity Belvoir had introduced as her friend, Esther Baumann, looked around with transparent delight, obviously happy to be at either end of the table. She held back when the others commented on the Christmas traditions in which he had been raised, comparing them with their own.

  He thought to please Lady Sophia by involving her sister’s friend. “Miss Baumann, how does your family celebrate?”

  The girl blushed, looked down at her plate, and then opened her mouth.

  Weasel Winderfield interrupted, with a smile for the girl and a sneer for James. “Miss Baumann is a Hebrew, cousin.”

  “Ah!” James said. “My apologies, Miss Baumann, for making an assumption. You have your own festivals, of course. Khanuká was in November this year, was it not?”

  Miss Baumann flicked him a surprised glance, and he smiled warmly. She must feel as out of place here as he did. “My father’s kingdom had many People of the Book, as the followers of the Prophet call them: we are Christians, but our people also included Jews and Múslimun.

  “Sounds like your father’s kingdom was a paradise. Perhaps you should have stayed there,” Weasel grumbled.

  “Are you really a prince, then, Lord Elfingham?” Lady Anna? Or Lady Elinor? He had been introduced to both in the drawing room. This one, whichever she was, was taking in his deliberately English appearance with wide eyes.

  “A bey, my people would say. Not in England, my lady. Here, I am a mere viscount.”

  He kept his eyes on the lady, but caught the edge of Weasel’s glare. Weasel was a good nickname for the man. James would be careful to count his fingers if he had cause to touch his cousin.

  Lady Felicity took up the questions. “You said your brother’s kingdom now. Is he the oldest then?”

  “I am my father’s eldest son,” James explained. “But inheritance in the kaganates of the Kopet Dag goes to the one chosen, who may not be the eldest. And,” his shrug belied the wrench, “my father needed me in England. So Matthew became kagan in my father’s stead, and here I am.”

  The questions kept coming, until the duchess stood, giving the signal for the other ladies to rise. James rose with the gentlemen, and watched them as they followed their hostess through the doors that connected with the drawing room.

  “A port, Elfingham?” asked the ethereally beautiful young man who had moved to the seat to his left. The Earl of Somerton was clearly prepared to be friends, and James should probably stay and be civil. His tiredness triumphed over his mission to charm the ton, but he smiled sincerely as he made his explanation. “Thank you, my lord. But I travelled a long way today, and I must seek my bed if I am to be in time for the Christmas service.”

  That fetched a few raised eyebrows and another hostile glare from Weasel.

  “I do not imagine I shall be up in time to attend church,” Lord Somerton said cautiously, and was reassured by a chorus of agreement.

  James just grinned. “I will perhaps see you later in the day then.”

  As he made his way across the hall, the footman stationed there answered a knock on the door. James paused to see the new arrivals. The first, he knew. The Marquis of Aldridge, elder son of the Haverfords, undoubtedly here to spend Christmas Day with his mother. The other was enough alike to be a brother. Aldridge had one, but he was somewhere overseas; in Russia, James had heard.

  Aldridge murmured something to the footman that had him hurrying almost at a run to the drawing room. Aldridge and his companion had barely divested themselves of their coats, hats and mufflers before the duchess rushed into the hall and hurled herself at the other man.

  “Jonathan. Jonathan. I had no idea. When did you get back? How are you? Let me look at you.” She hugged and patted the newcomer, pushed him away to take him all in, then hauled him close for another hug, all the time babbling, laughing, and weeping. The prodigal son was back for his fatted calf, apparently. “Jonathan, you are home. Oh my dear, I am so glad. I could not have asked for a better Christmas present.”

  From the doors of the drawing room and dining hall, other guests spilled into the hall to see what the commotion was about.

  James watched Lady Sophia smiling at the duchess and her two sons. He understood the duchess’s sentiment. If he could ask for the Christmas present of his choice, it would be Lady Sophia as his bride.

  Chapter 6

  The Belvoir ladies sat in the duchess’s box at Saint Agnes in the Holly. James had missed the opportunity to escort them on the way to church when they accepted a ride in the duchess’s large barouche. He followed the short route through the woods and arrived at the little stone building in time to hear Lady Sophia declare she would walk home.

  Taking one of the chairs put out for surplus houseguests at the front of the nave, James schooled himself not to turn and watch Lady Sophia at her prayers. He was conscious of her, though, and, after the service stood ready at the door with an arm for each sister, offering his escort.

  Lady Felicity took his arm without hesitation, and Sophia accepted a beat behind, falling into step as he led them out of the churchyard.

  Lady Felicity had clearly been thinking about the conversation the previous evening. “You mentioned presents for the children, Lord Elfingham. How many children do you have?”

  Cheeky young woman. James laughed. “None, my lady, and no wife, either. But I have two brothers yet in the schoolroom, and nieces and nephews, nine of them when we left the mountains, but it will be ten now. The oldest, Zahrina, can read the story of the Nativity at the Christmas Eve bonfire, which makes me feel my years.”

  Lady Sophia must have heard the wistful note in his voice. “You miss them.”

  “I do, Lady Sophia, especially at festivals such as these. My family has been split in two, and though our love will bridge the distance with prayers and letters, we may never meet again this side of eternity.”

  “Tell me about the Christmas Eve bonfire,” Felicity demanded.

  James obediently described the festivities: the whole household gathered in the courtyard with candles while a child read the age-old story, the kindling of the bonfire, and the carrying of the light into the house
to herald the beginning of the Christmas festivities.

  “Then after the church service on Christmas Day, we return home to a feast,” James explained. “We have fasted from all animal products for the whole of December, my ladies, so our Christmas dinner includes dishes made with lamb and chicken, and how we relish them after the fast!”

  With Lady Sophia holding his arm, even clinging to it when one foot slipped on the ice, James gave a bare fraction of his attention to the prattle of her sister. Even when she moved her delightful curves back to the proper decorous distance he was aware of them: every nerve, every muscle, alert to her.

  He had held her in his arms briefly in dances, and remembering the innocent movement of her body fueled heated imaginings that made him grateful for the winter overcoat concealing the rather too revealing pantaloons dictated by English fashion. Tight leg coverings and cutaway coats made it hard for a man to keep his private thoughts to himself as modesty and morals required.

  And in his dreams at night, it was her he rescued from the path of a racing curricle, sweeping her to safety in his arms and being rewarded with a kiss and more, so that he woke aroused and restless.

  * * *

  * * *

  Back at the house, Sophia and Felicity went up to the room they shared to change from the walking dresses they had worn to church.

  Sophia did not know what to think of Lord Elfingham. He spoke so easily of prayers, and fasting, and church services. Few of the other single men had risen in time—and Lord Elfingham had not only attended, but paid attention and known the responses, too. He had even joined in the singing!

  Their maid was just putting the finishing touches to Felicity’s hair when the knock came. Sophia opened to find Hythe bristling in the hall.

  “May I come in?” Brother-like, he did not wait for an answer but brushed past her, already speaking. “Soph, I have to…” He stopped at the sight of the maid. “Oh. Theodosia.”