Christmas Cinderellas

by Sophia James

  ‘Ah...but then who would drive the old ladies home?’

  ‘I am sure I could manage it, Your Grace.’

  ‘You can drive a coach and four?’

  ‘I confess I have never done it, because society has strange rules when it comes to females and big carriages, but...’ She glanced at the loose reins in his hands and shrugged with haughty bravado. ‘It doesn’t appear particularly hard. I can drive my father’s phaeton perfectly adequately, and I sincerely doubt four horses are more troublesome than two.’

  ‘Then give it a go.’ He gently waggled the leather ribbons at her in challenge. ‘You’ll have to prove your mettle before I relinquish command later and drown myself in wassail.’

  Never one to shrink away from a challenge, Eliza took them. The well-trained horses didn’t blink an eye.

  But if she had hoped having something to do other than be aware of the Duke would calm her nerves, she was wrong. As she attempted to concentrate on the dark road ahead she could feel the weight of his stare as he watched her, which inevitably led to self-consciousness.

  ‘Am I doing something wrong, Your Grace?’

  ‘You are doing a splendid job. But you know that already, don’t you, Miss Harkstead? You are not one to feign ignorance or weakness to make a man feel superior.’

  ‘Do you need to feel superior? Because as an illustrious duke, Your Grace, surely you already are?’

  He smiled, then shook his head. ‘I thought we had an agreement whereby you don’t fawn or defer to me in any way.’

  ‘I was hardly fawning. If anything, I was being impertinent, Your Grace.’

  ‘And there it is again...the fawning. There’s at least one toadying Your Grace in every sentence. Call me Marcus and please try to forget I am a duke. For it is only a title and really says nothing else about me at all.’

  In that moment she realised he didn’t particularly enjoy being a duke—and he was right. Dismissing him as nothing but a duke did him a great disservice, because the man beneath the lofty title was actually rather...lovely.

  ‘All right, Marcus...’ How delicious that sounded on her tongue. ‘You have my word I shall never Your Grace you again.’

  ‘Thank you, Eliza.’

  He lingered over the vowels as if savouring them, thankfully unaware his disarming deep voice played havoc with her nerves.

  ‘However, you do realise this new informality between us is going to put a great many noses out of joint? My aunt Penelope’s especially. She has still not forgiven me for apparently stealing Honoria’s thunder.’

  Mortifyingly, she realised that sounded as though she was suggesting he had taken a fancy to her—mostly because Great-Aunt Violet had repeatedly told a po-faced Aunt Penelope she was convinced of it, which in turn had given Eliza false hope that perhaps he might. That was a far-fetched prospect in the grand scheme of things, no matter how much the fanciful romantic part of her approved of it, so she quickly clarified in case he ran a mile.

  ‘We servants are supposed to be seen and not heard, remember?’

  ‘As if Honoria could ever steal your thunder, Eliza. Or anyone else for that matter.’

  He gave her an odd look, then quickly looked away to stare at the road, leaving her wondering as to the exact meaning of the compliment.

  Was it a back-handed compliment, on account of her customary forthrightness in comparison to all the other ladies at the house party? Of course it was. Because if it wasn’t then the only other way to take it was that he considered all the other ladies paled into insignificance against her. Much as she would love that to be true, and as much as the mere thought of this intoxicating gentleman being enamoured with her thrilled her, she had to face facts.

  She could call him Marcus until she was blue in the face, but he was still a duke and she was still a bookkeeper’s outspoken daughter. Assuming it was a back-handed compliment was undoubtedly more sensible.

  ‘My father despairs of my forthrightness. He is much more even-tempered and reserved than me.’

  ‘But not so reserved that he didn’t run away with his employer’s daughter. Tell me that story. Your parents’ scandal intrigues me.’

  ‘It began just before Christmas...’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. One week before, to be exact, when my father started a new job as bookkeeper to my grandfather. To hear my mother tell it, she took one look at him and her heart was lost.’

  They both smiled at the improbability of that claim.

  ‘And was your father similarly afflicted?’

  ‘Apparently so, because he recklessly took advantage of a piece of mistletoe.’

  ‘The impertinent scoundrel.’

  ‘I believe my mother was not the least bit offended by the impertinence, for she kissed him back and has always claimed that one kiss was all it took to know they were destined to be together.’

  ‘And they eloped off the back of it?’

  She nodded. ‘On Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Astounding...’ He frowned, staring off into space before shaking his head. ‘That really is the most bizarre coincidence. It eerily echoes my own parents’ story.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘My mother met my father just days before Christmas, and also claims that just one kiss was all it took. I believe there also might have been mistletoe involved—although knowing my mother I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover it wasn’t. But my father proposed on Christmas Eve and they were married by special licence.’

  A bizarre coincidence, indeed. ‘Then we are both the products of reckless unions.’

  He stared at her oddly. ‘Successful reckless unions. Perhaps there is a moral there?’

  Was he suggesting they be reckless too? Her pulse quickened at the thought.

  ‘It looks like snow.’ A nicely inane thing to say to cover a potentially awkward moment. ‘I should imagine Manningtree Hall looks beautiful in the—Oh...’ Out of nowhere, the driveway had ended and there was a crossroads. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Left.’

  She tugged on the ribbons but couldn’t seem to get the horses to move quickly enough as they barrelled towards a bank of grass and the inevitable ditch. All at once his arm came around her and he added his strength to the task at hand while enveloping her completely with his big body.

  ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘My fault.’

  His lips were next to her ear now, which made it difficult to focus on anything other than them.

  ‘I should have warned you sooner. Four horses take a bit longer to turn than two.’ With inches to spare, he managed to straighten the carriage. ‘That was close.’

  As was he. It felt wonderful.

  ‘But no harm done.’

  He let go of the reins and shifted slightly. Eliza made the mistake of turning towards him to agree and found herself gazing into the fathomless depths of his eyes, still partially caged by his arms and entirely happy to remain so.

  ‘Thank goodness...’ She couldn’t seem to look away. Didn’t have the strength to move. It felt scandalously intimate.

  She watched a single snowflake land on his face a moment before another landed coldly on hers, and they both smiled in wonder as more magically followed.

  ‘You were right about the snow...’ His fingers brushed a flake from her cheek and she felt his touch everywhere. ‘I hope it settles.’

  ‘So do I.’ Recklessly, she hoped there would be a blizzard—one which snowed them in and gave them more time together.

  His gaze searched her face, then dropped to her mouth where it lingered. Then lingered some more.

  She found herself worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, because she now tingled with awareness, silently willing him to close the distance between them and put her out of her misery. Wanting him to kiss her. Needing him to kiss her. Desperate t
o discover if just one kiss really was all it took to know...

  His head dipped.

  She leaned closer.

  Then their foreheads crashed together, thanks to an enormous pothole in the road.

  Chapter Eight

  Seize the blasted day?

  He was sorely tempted to strangle Julius for putting such ridiculous ideas into his head. The only reason he wouldn’t was because it was hardly his brother’s fault that he had chosen to ‘seize the day’ at the single most inappropriate moment and had nearly killed four sweet old ladies as a result of his recklessness.

  For at least the fortieth time that day Marcus rubbed the throbbing bump on his head and thanked his lucky stars the pothole had shaken him out of the magic spell he had been cast under, thereby forcing him to grab the reins before they careened into the previously unseen cart coming in the other direction.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, his pathetically failed spur-of-the-moment attempt to steal a kiss had created an awkwardness between them which had not existed before, and they had spent the final ten minutes of their interminable journey making tortured small talk. And all the while Julius’s blasted mistletoe had been burning a mocking hole in his pocket as fate and Christmas had both laughed at him.

  Since then it had gone from bad to worse. He had hardly seen her during the wassailing, and as he had been formalising the right words for the journey home, in order to subtly probe if she might be as interested in him as he was in her, disaster had struck.

  Although it had been blatantly obvious that it wasn’t a real disaster, it would have been downright bad manners to call the tenacious daughter of an earl a liar at the time. Hence, instead of driving the old ladies home with Eliza beside him, he had been forced to carry another passenger in her stead. One who had apparently also encountered a pothole in the village, conveniently disguised by the most flimsy blanket of snow, twisted her ankle and fallen prettily at his feet in supposed pain.

  In desperation, he had managed to grab Eliza briefly before the enormous debacle of dinner and asked her if she would meet him very early for breakfast. He had ordered the kitchen to have a smidgen of the banquet of breakfast food ready at eight, instead of nine, only to be thwarted again.

  Because at eight that morning, standing next to her on either side like sentries, had been Lady Broadstairs and her daughter Honoria. Which meant they had not had more than a minute alone since he had so awkwardly deposited her in the village square last night. And now all he had left was the dreaded masquerade ball, before she departed the following day with everyone else and it would be much too late to seize the day.

  But seize it he must. He already knew he would bitterly regret it if he didn’t. Because time was running out. Rapidly.

  He eyed the peacock-blue silk waistcoat laid on the bed and hoped it might miraculously change his luck, despite Julius begging him to wear the red. Red, like green, burgundy, pink, orange, yellow and all the other colours of the spectrum he knew the names of but had never seen, looked insipidly like the usual palette of brown to him.

  But he could see blue. Never mistook blue for anything other than blue. So tonight, while he was second-guessing himself about everything else, he needed at least that reassurance. One piece of reliably solid ground while every other aspect of his normally ordered life seemed to have been thrown up in the air.

  Realising he was wasting precious time, he donned it, shoved the wilting piece of tragically unused mistletoe in his pocket, then put on his coat. After one final look in the mirror, he dashed down the stairs early, to receive all his mother’s guests properly—as he had faithfully promised when she had been a surprisingly good sport about the radical and chaotic changes he had implemented upon her carefully orchestrated mealtimes. With another one hundred guests invited on top of the fifty or so who had been here for three days, she genuinely needed to have all hands on deck tonight.

  That, of course, wasn’t his only motive. He wanted to be there in case Eliza slipped in early. As soon as he saw her, or his trusty lookout Gibson did, there was not a cat’s chance in hell Marcus wasn’t going to immediately write his name on her dance card for the very first waltz. And then, perhaps rashly, the second too.

  ‘Good evening dear.’

  His mother, always one to embrace the full spirit of a masquerade, was dressed in a baroque ensemble, complete with an ostentatious Venetian mask sprouting dyed ostrich feathers. She smiled as she looked him up and down with approval.

  ‘You look especially handsome this evening. Even if you aren’t wearing a costume. All we need is the finishing touch...’ With a flourish, she turned towards an extensive array of gaudy masks on the table, part of the vast collection she had accumulated over the years at eye-watering expense, and pondered them.

  ‘Please—I beg of you. No mask for me. Everyone present will know who I am when I greet them anyway.’ Not to mention they would probably have to be daft not to recognise him in a stupid mask.

  ‘Nonsense, dear. It is a masquerade. As the host, you absolutely have to wear a mask to the festivities. It is our Christmas tradition.’

  ‘I didn’t have to wear one last year, and I cannot recall you complaining then, so it’s not that much of a tradition.’

  ‘That was last year, dear. This year I positively insist. Family traditions are almost as important as family, and as long as there is breath in my body I shall uphold ours. Masks are so romantic, don’t you think?’ She sighed. ‘Besides, you know they have a soft spot in my heart. It was thanks to a masquerade that I met your father...’

  Right on cue, here came the guilt. A weapon his dear mama used ruthlessly.

  ‘Don’t you remember how he adored our Christmas masquerades? What would he say if he heard you refusing to wear a mask?’

  ‘You can spare me the lecture, Mother.’

  Behind him, Julius was sprinting down the stairs to join them.

  ‘I’ll take the biggest one you’ve got. That way I can use it as a shield if any of the ladies get out of hand.’ He slapped Marcus on the back. ‘I suggest you do the same, big brother. In fact, if you go for one of those painted plague mask monstrosities, you can protect yourself from the tenacious ladies who will be doing their best to accost you under all those ridiculous balls of mistletoe dear Mama has hung everywhere.’

  Before their mother could select one, his brother snatched up a terrifying-looking devil’s face which was framed in a halo of sharp metal flames.

  ‘This should do the trick. If all else fails I can use it as a weapon as well. Now, where’s the brandy?’

  Marcus was sorely tempted to follow him. There was so much nervous energy pumping through his veins, such an uncharacteristic sense of haste and fear of time running out, a bit of Dutch courage wouldn’t go amiss.

  ‘This one is perfect for you, Marcus!’

  As his brother stalked off, his mother held aloft a surprisingly small but expensive-looking mask which he had never seen before. It was painted with harlequin diamonds in varying shades of blue, each diamond no bigger than a quarter of an inch in height and edged in what looked suspiciously like gold.

  ‘Please tell me you haven’t been shopping again? I swear you must already have a mask for every day of the year.’

  ‘Not at all, darling—well, perhaps I did buy one or two.’ She grinned unrepentantly. ‘But this one is old. Practically an heirloom. In fact, this was your father’s favourite and it matches that lovely waistcoat perfectly. He always loved blue too.’

  Before he could argue, she lovingly traced her fingers over the surface with such tragic longing that any attempt at reasonable argument evaporated, and he didn’t have the heart to be unreasonable. Beaten into submission by his own noble conscience, he allowed her to tie it on.

  When she stepped back to admire her work there were obvious tears in what he could see of her eyes behind her own mask.r />
  ‘You remind me so much of him in both looks and character, Marcus. You are so alike that sometimes it is uncanny...and I forget he is gone...’ Her bottom lip trembled slightly before she banished her tears with a brave smile. ‘You are such a credit to the Dukedom. So very diligent and responsible. Sensible to your core.’ She smoothed her hand down his cheek before straightening his lapels to hide the obvious catch in her voice. ‘He would be so proud of you.’

  ‘I know.’ They had all adored his father. ‘But I cannot take the credit. He taught me everything.’

  ‘Not everything. You have built on his good work, just as he did on his father’s, and that reminds me of him too.’ She stepped back to assess her work. ‘And, exactly like him in his prime, you look so handsome tonight that all the ladies will be fighting over you.’

  If she was trying to buoy him up, that was the most depressing thing she could say. If he couldn’t even manage a bit of peace at breakfast, thanks to their aggressive guests, things didn’t bode well for tonight, when they would all be demanding his attention.

  ‘There will be some diamonds in the room tonight,’ his mother said.

  Only the one diamond. As far as he was concerned, all the rest were paste.

  ‘So make sure you dance, darling. Even if it is only just once. You never know...history might repeat itself and—’

  ‘The first carriages are arriving, Your Grace.’ Gibson interrupted before she could finish her sentence, and thankfully it distracted her from whatever hopelessly romantic pearl of wisdom she was about to share.

  Instead, she ushered him towards the ballroom, retrieved his fearsome brother Beelzebub from the refreshment table and made sure all three Symingtons were in their correct places in the receiving line before she instructed the waiting footmen to throw open the doors.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Whoops.’ Aunt Penelope feigned shock as red wine quickly soaked into the front of Eliza’s coral evening gown. ‘I do apologise.’

  Eliza could barely breathe, staring down at the huge bleeding stain as her stomach sank to her toes. Her beloved silk dress—her one and only remotely fancy evening dress—was completely ruined.