Holly and Hopeful Hearts

by Caroline Warfield

  And she kissed him back. For a moment—for one long glorious moment, while time stood still and the world ceased to exist—Sophia Belvoir kissed him back.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sophia was twenty-five years of age, had been betrothed twice, and had been kissed under her share of kissing boughs. But she had never been kissed like this. This was no respectful salute on the cheek or brief, light brush across the lips. His mouth settled over hers, and what he did with his lips and then his teeth and his tongue set her senses reeling. Her consciousness would have narrowed entirely to those delicious sensations, except he held her firmly in his arms and the feel of his long strong body against hers caused parts of her body she seldom thought about to suddenly demand her immediate attention.

  My goodness. My goodness gracious. No wonder girls were kept so closely guarded! She was a hair’s breadth from throwing caution to the wind and…

  Sophia stiffened and drew back, and was inordinately disappointed that Elfingham let her go. His dark eyes were watchful, but a smile played around those lips she had just been kissing. She licked her own lips, and he caught his breath as his eyes riveted on the movement.

  Sophia shook her head to try to clear it. “Lord Elfingham, the tradition requires just a simple peck on the cheek, nothing so…” She did not have words for the type of kiss they had just shared.

  Elfingham reached up and plucked a berry from the bunch. “There are at least another twenty,” he said, his expression absurdly hopeful. “I am sure I could improve with practice.”

  If he improved any more, Sophia would burst into flame.

  She shook her head, backing away. “That is the kind of kiss that belongs to dalliance,” hoping she sounded firm. “I am not the kind…” She blushed. She did not at all mean to say that she was not the kind of woman men dallied with, true though it might be. She gathered her scattered dignity. “I hope I have not given you the impression I am available for dalliance, Lord Elfingham, for I am not.”

  The amusement on Elfingham’s face faded, and he dropped to one knee, his eyes fixed on Sophia’s. His voice vibrated with sincerity as he said, “It is the kind of kiss that belongs in marriage, Lady Sophia. I would never insult you with less. My esteem for you, my respect… I did not mean to speak so precipitously, but the kissing bough was there, and you looked so charmingly.”

  He was not offering marriage, surely. He was courting Felicity; everyone said so.

  “You would do me the greatest of honor if you would consent to be my wife, Lady Sophia.”

  He had got carried away by the kiss, and her scold led him to think he owed her a proposal.

  “You do not want to marry me, Lord Elfingham. It was only a Christmas kiss. We shall not regard it.”

  “I have dreamed of kissing you for months, and I want to marry you more than I want to take my next breath,” the unaccountable man said.

  Could it possibly be true?

  But before she could adjust to the idea, the door slammed open, and Hythe burst into the room.

  “What is going on here? What are you doing with my sister, you blackguard?”

  Lord Elfingham rose calmly to his feet, brushing at his knees. “I was proposing marriage to your sister. Lady Sophia, I do not demand an answer now. Just tell me you will think about it.”

  “She will do nothing of the kind, Elfingham, or Winderfield, or whatever your name should be.” Hythe was nearly dancing with rage. “She has more sense than to throw herself away on a baseborn mongrel.”

  Sophia put her hand on Hythe’s arm. “Lord Elfingham has behaved with the utmost respect, Hythe. You have no reason to be so alarmed.”

  Her brother glared at her. “Really? Then why do you look as if you have been thoroughly kissed, Sophia Belvoir? And by the same scoundrel, I’ll be bound, who was seen kissing your sister in the garden not half an hour ago!”

  Sophia felt herself pale, as she turned to Elfingham for an explanation.

  “Yes, I came here from talking to your sister,” he confirmed. “She castigated me for not making it clear which sister I was courting and told me where to find you.”

  “See, he admits it!”

  Elfingham rounded on Hythe. “I gave a brotherly peck on the cheek to the woman I hope to make my sister, and if you were watching, Hythe, you know that to be true.”

  “That is not what Weasel says,” Hythe declared. “‘Kissing and cuddling,’ he said, but you need not think you can compromise her into a betrothal, you swine.”

  Elfingham threw his hands up then turned back to Sophia. “My cousin lies, my lady. I wish to marry you, not your sister. Not any other lady on this earth. You do believe me, do you not?”

  “Sophia knows you are all but promised to your cousin Charlotte,” Hythe insisted.

  “Not one other lady on this earth,” Elfingham repeated.

  Sophia put her fingers to her forehead, where a headache was beginning to pound. “Go away, please. I have work to do here.” It was not polite, but she needed them out of the room.

  Elfingham stretched a pleading hand. “Talk to Lady Felicity, my lady. She will assure you—”

  “You have your answer.” Hythe sneered. “She does not want you.”

  “Both of you!” Sophia said sharply. “I do not want either of you, here, in this room, cutting up my peace.”

  Elfingham hesitated then turned for the door, his shoulders slumped.

  “Sophia…” Hythe began in his ‘I am male and will be tolerant of a mere female’ voice. Now, more than ever, it set her back arching.

  “Not another word, Hythe. Out. Now.”

  Hythe retreated toward the door that Elfingham was holding open, his open face showing alarm, then an incipient sulk, and then—as he passed Elfingham—smug satisfaction. It was the last that prompted her to call after Elfingham as he closed the door.

  “Lord Elfingham?”

  He opened the door again, poking his head inside, his eyes wary and anxious.

  “Hythe is wrong. I have not given you my answer.” He smiled, and more of him appeared in the doorway, but she heard her brother’s voice protesting from the hall, and said, “Go away, my lord. We shall talk later.”

  He withdrew his head and shut the door. Well. It was what she asked, no—demanded. Foolish then to want to weep because he had not stayed, had not held her again, and kissed her into submission. If he had been kissing Felicity, she did not want him. Of course she didn’t. Not that she believed Weasel Winderfield, not for a moment. A brotherly kiss. It was possible, was it not?

  Sophia shook her head slowly, stupid tears filling her eyes and brimming over to run down her cheeks. How could anyone prefer plain, boring, opinionated, managing Sophia to pretty, charming, sociable, conforming Felicity? Or Lady Charlotte Winderfield, who was both beautiful and graceful? It was a foolish dream, and Elfingham was playing some kind of game. Undoubtedly, he had left the room and forgotten all about her immediately.

  Her maudlin thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. If either of those two had returned, she would give them something to think about.

  She rose to her feet, scrubbing away the tears with the back of her sleeve. “Enter.”

  It was Cedrica with a tea trolley. “My dear Sophia, what has happened?”

  The tears welled again, and she fought them back. “Nothing, Cedrica. Hythe and Lord Elfingham were just… It is nothing. I am being silly.”

  “Lord Elfingham sent me. No. Not exactly. He came looking for a maid to bring you tea. He said you were working hard and needed to be looked after. I thought I would bring it myself.”

  “He asked me to marry him.” Sophia had not expected to blurt that out, but Cedrica did not seem surprised.

  “And what did you say?” Cedrica continued calmly preparing the tea, and Sophia found herself telling the whole story, from the rescue in the village to the kiss that Weasel claimed he saw.

  “I would not believe Mr. Winderfield over Lord Elfingham,” h
er friend mused, handing her tea prepared just the way she liked it, and a plate with some of Monsieur Fournier’s dainty little cakes.

  “Cedrica, I cannot marry a man who has been courting my sister!”

  “Sophia, it is plainly obvious even to someone like me, who has never had a suitor, that Lord Elfingham is interested only in you, and if you think about it you will see that I am right.”

  A knock at the door proved to be a maid with a domestic crisis that required Cedrica’s immediate attention, and she hurried away, leaving Sophia to her tea, a plate of dainty cakes, and her thoughts.

  Chapter 10

  Weasel had made himself scarce. After searching the house for the lying worm, James gave up and went to prepare for the party. He would not fight with Hythe if he could help it. He never again wanted to be the cause of that pinched crease above his lady’s nose. He could trust Felicity to set Sophia straight about that peck on the cheek, but could he trust Sophia to believe her sister?

  The conundrum of why Sophia found it so hard to accept that he was courting her bothered James as he and Adam Halevy negotiated with the footman deputed to valet them. The footman had initially been determined to turn his charges into European gentlemen wearing costume, but when James explained his plans to make his defiant transformation into his old self, all but for the short warrior’s beard he did not have time to grow, the servant became enthusiastic.

  And he was delighted with the results. “You do look that fine, my lord.”

  A scarf striped in red and yellow showed at the neck. Over his white silk shirt, he wore the quilted cotton banyan he had found in the duchess’s supply of costumes. It made a fine coat once he’d unpicked the side seams to the waist, removed the sleeves, and turned the collar to the inside. It was bright scarlet, and he’d found a band of gold, red, and blue trim a hand-span wide that the servant sewed down both sides of the front opening and around the neck. More of the same trim formed a sash around his waist to hold the coat closed.

  For the trousers, he’d found a woman’s divided skirt in a navy so dark as to be almost black, trimmed at the hem with three pleats accented with thin gold braid. Taking some of the width out of both sides gave him wide trousers that fit him to mid-calf over his riding boots.

  He regretted the beard. The bare head was wrong, too. He should be wearing a massive sheepskin hat, traditional wear for the tribesmen amongst whom he had grown to manhood. Still, he nodded at his reflection in the mirror. “It will do,” he said.

  “Monsieur le vicomte looks very fine indeed,” Adam agreed.

  “Now for you,” James told him.

  They had contrived an undergarment from a long length of purple cloth with a broad figured border in purple, white and gold. Adam had protested that he could fit into it three times and it would trail behind him on the floor, but James pleated and tucked one sleeve, the servant copying him on the other arm, until the fabric border just reached the wrist, and then fastened each shoulder with a bold brooch: gold at least in color, and studded with stones that had been cut to catch the light—paste, Adam said, but satisfactorily large and sparkling. They fastened each end of a heavy chain to the brooches so it draped across the chest.

  Next came the pleating at the waist, front and back, to kilt the garment up above Adam’s shoes and form the horizontal draping James remembered from ancient wall friezes and pottery. A broad belt was cinched tightly to hold this pleating in place.

  “I look ridiculous,” Adam grumbled.

  “Patience, man,” James counseled, taking up the white damask curtain with the heavy gold fringe that his servant accomplice had abducted from some unknown room. This he draped under one arm and fastened at the top of the other.

  The wig and beard were next. The servant had taken two curled Jacobean wigs, cut a square ended beard from one and fastened it to the other, so that, as Adam pulled the contraption on over his head and settled the beard under his nose, the elegant Frenchman disappeared and was replaced by a haughty ancient Persian.

  “Let us see the hat, then.” Adam sighed, but his eyes sparkled.

  The servant had painted an Elizabethan ruff with gold paint and wrapped it around an old top hat, first removing the brim. The result was a tall gold pleated cylinder, broader at the top than the bottom. A wrap of braid finished the base. Adam was silent as he examined his reflection.

  “Very fine,” the servant said wistfully.

  “Here is your staff, oh Shah.” James handed Adam a long carved walking stick they had found, also painted gold by their willing servant. “See? Ahasuerus to the life.”

  “English kings.” Adam’s mouth twisted in a smile. “I do not think so.”

  “I reckon gold tassels on the boots would be right proper, my lord,” the footman ventured.

  He was right, too. Gold tassels that swung as James walked, catching and then losing the light. Not that gold tassels were going to make up the ground he’d lost with Sophia, but still…

  “See what you can find,” he told the servant. “Adam, go on ahead and find your lady. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  So it was that when he left his chamber, three gold tassels dangled from the front of each boot and proved a tempting target. A white kitten darted out from under an occasional table when James stopped to close the door behind him and took a flying leap at the tassels, as James discovered when he felt the sudden weight.

  He took a careful step, expecting the small passenger to drop away, but it buried its claws and its teeth into its golden prey and glared up at him.

  “Foolish creature,” he told it, going down onto the knee of the other leg so he could remove it, carefully lifting each paw to detach the tangled claws. “These gaudy baubles are to attract my lady, not a fierce little furry warrior.” He lifted the kitten in one hand and held it up to continue his lecture face to face. “Now where do you belong, hmmnhmmn? Have you wandered off from your mama? Do you belong to this house, I wonder, or did you come with a guest?”

  The kitten squeaked a tiny meow.

  “No, little one. I will not put you down to chew my tassels, or to trip one of the great ladies or to be trodden on by one of the gentlemen. You are a pretty little fellow, are you not?” He tucked the cat against his chest and rubbed behind its ears, prompting a loud rusty purr incongruously large for the small frame of the kitten.

  Although focused on the kitten, he was aware of footsteps approaching. It was Hythe, who looked uncomfortable in a tight-fitting jerkin over short ballooning breeches that allowed several inches of clocked stocking to show between the hem of the breeches and the thigh-length fitted boots. The short robe, flat cap, and heavy flat chain gave a further clue, and Hythe had tried for authenticity by stuffing padding under the jerkin—a pillow, perhaps?

  “Henry the Eighth?” James ventured, half-expecting Hythe to walk past without speaking or make another intemperate verbal attack.

  Instead, the younger man nodded. “My sister Felicity picked it. Er… I wanted to speak with you… I owe you an apology, Winder… Er… Elfingham. My sister Felicity told me that… Well, the fact is I made an accusation without checking my facts.” Hythe nodded again, clearly feeling that he had said what he needed to say.

  “Very handsome of you, Hythe,” James said.

  Hythe ran a finger around inside his collar, flushing slightly. “Yes, well. The thing is… You will tell Sophia that I apologized, will you not?”

  Ah. Clearly Sophia had expressed her discontent.

  “Sisters can be a trial, can they not?” James said, and Hythe warmed to the sympathy.

  “Just because she is older, she thinks she can…” He visibly remembered his audience. “Sophia is of age and will make her own decisions, but I think it only fair to tell you that I have advised her to wait until after the hearing at the Privileges Committee before she makes any decision.”

  James inclined his head. “I understand your position.” Which would not prevent him from doing his best to persuade Sophia to ig
nore the advice.

  Time to change the subject. He held up the little kitten. “Do you happen to know where this little chap belongs?”

  Hythe flushed still deeper. “So that’s where he got to. He… ah… appears to be mine. In a way. The housekeeper’s cat had kittens, and this one seems to have adopted me. Little nuisance.”

  But Hythe’s hands were gentle as he took the kitten from James, and he tucked it under his chin, his other hand coming up to fondle the furry head.

  “I’ll just put him back in my room so he doesn’t get in anyone’s way. Foolish boy, Snowball. Do you wish to be lost? Was the fish not to your taste?”

  Hythe retreated back down the hall. James could not hear individual words, but from the sound of his voice, he was continuing his loving scold. And James had managed to have what almost amounted to a conversation with his intended brother-in-law. He would count that as a win.

  * * *

  * * *

  The overwhelming majority of the guests were English kings and queens. The parlor was full of them, of Romans in togas, several Greek gods and goddesses, a fool in motley, and a Persian king who was hidden unrecognizably behind a crimped black beard. Nebuchadnezzar? Darius?

  A Greek goddess flitted across the room, and a Roman gladiator went to follow her then subsided when a Greek god glared at him. Lord de Courtenay keeping an eye on his and Grace’s silly little sister.

  “We need this room just for people to promenade and be seen,” said a voice from behind her.

  Sophia’s Elizabethan ruff was a nuisance, so high that she had to turn her entire body to see Cedrica, who was standing just behind her shoulder, looking surprisingly charming in a shepherdess costume.

  “So I have arranged for dancing in the music room and have had supper laid out in the large dining room,” Cedrica was saying. Her usual diffidence intruded. “Was that sensible?”