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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

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BOOK: Madrigals And Mistletoe
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Cordelia was looking wan, despite her cheerful aspect and obvious determination not to be a burden upon the household. “See, Mama! I am as right as a trivet!”
“I am pleased, Cordelia! Such a nonsensical thing to happen! And on his grace's estate, too.”
“For that I must apologise, ma'am. The miscreants shall be well punished. A hanging is most likely, though we are still trying to locate the first varmint.”
“No!” Cordelia sat up and winced a little in pain.
“Beg pardon?”
“Not a hanging, I beg you! The poor devils have probably not had anything to eat for a sennight. Cannot you leave them be?”
“To set a lawless example to their peers? I think not, Miss Cordelia.” Rhaz's voice was suddenly hard. The anguish of seeing his loved one soaked in blood was not something likely to induce compassion in his breast, though the fact that Cordelia, the aggrieved party, should feel this way further increased the intensity of his feelings for her.
“But—”
“Hush! We shall speak of this later.”
Cordelia nodded and rested back on the pillows. She was still feeling a trifle light-headed though she would have scorned to admit it.
“Is Seraphina below stairs?”
“She is, with Captain Argyll, Lord Henry and the most peculiar—” Ancilla remembered herself and coloured. “Beg pardon, your grace! I had forgotten Miss Moresby was your cousin.”
“Think nothing of it, Mrs. Camfrey! Miss Moresby is extremely capable and I am certainly fond of her in my own way, possibly in smaller rather than larger doses. But I have to agree, she is peculiar! ”
“How intriguing! I shall have to come down and see for myself!”
“Certainly not!” The duke and Ancilla spoke in unison.
“You shall stay up here, Cordelia, and rest. I'll not have Lord Henry prosing over you downstairs until you are utterly knackered.”
“Mama!” Cordelia was
shocked
at the unmannerly expression.
“Now don't be coy, Delia dear! Cant expressions are very useful in dire emergencies. Besides, I am perfectly certain his grace will overlook the irregularity.”
“Indeed I will, Mrs. Camfrey! And may I add my own plea to yours? Stay upstairs where you are comfortable, Miss Cordelia. A flesh wound can sometimes become quite surprisingly nasty if care is not taken.” He flashed her such a blazing look of sincerity and—was it passion? —that Cordelia's heart beat faster but she could not be certain. Still, something either in his tone or his stare made her desist from further objection. Besides, she felt delightfully cosseted and not having to make small talk with her betrothed came as an unexpected relief.
“Very well then. I shall allow myself to be petted to death!”
The ironic twinkle was back and Rhaz was so relieved that he grinned for some heart-stopping seconds in her direction. Neither noticed the thoughtful Mrs. Camfrey leave the room, though for once she was not too scatty to take care of proprieties. The door, when Rhaz finally noticed, was three inches ajar.
“Do you play chess?”
“Chess? I adore it!” Cordelia smiled at the duke and thought that if they played he would surely win, for his very person was the most immeasurable distraction to her.
“I have recently acquired a new set. Will you give me the felicity of playing with me? Everyone I have applied to thus far has turned me down.” For an instant, Rhaz's thoughts flew to Frederick, who had declined the offer of a game the night before both their lives had became so thoroughly entangled with the Camfrey sisters.
“Certainly, though I shall be a bit clumsy with my arm in a sling!”
“You are too graceful to be clumsy, Miss Camfrey! I suspect you shall be a challenging adversary.”
“Why, your grace?”
“Because you have keen intelligence and ready wit. Do you wish to toss for white or shall you claim a woman's prerogative?”
“We shall toss, your grace.” Cordelia's voice was firm.
 
 
It must be reported that the next few days were probably the happiest of Cordelia's life. Dr. Siddons arrived during the late afternoon of the following day. He
tut-tutted
over the wound, nodded approvingly at his grace's makeshift treatment of the injury and at the firm sling and declared himself satisfied. Cordelia won several of the games the duke harangued her to play, but her concentration was sadly impaired by the duke himself. This, however, was not an unfair disadvantage, for his grace's wits were similarly addled by the laughing, silver-eyed woman of his dreams.
Aramiss and Drixon duly arrived from Winthrop's estate in Hertfordshire and were most satisfactorily coupled with the duke's finest stallions. As a consequence, Lord Henry was in his most effusive, amiable element, the intricacies of the procedure argued about at length with the charming Miss Moresby, who had no patience for a woman's reticence about such earthy matters.
Despite his grace's insistence that she use his first name, Cordelia resisted, ever conscious that his heart belonged to Seraphina, not to her. At times she puzzled over the matter, for certainly, he did not seem unduly inclined to spend time with her delightful little sister. Had the duchess possibly mistaken the matter? But, no, Ancilla had declared she was emphatic on this point. His mother surely must know best what was in his heart? She was probably in his confidence. Cordelia sighed and determined to enjoy every innocent moment she shared with the man.
This she did, enjoying strolls through the topiary gardens when she was a little stronger, ever conscious of the duke's magnetism. It seemed they shared the same tastes in practically everything, for when his grace showed her his extensive library, she became so animated that he had to smile rather delightedly and show her all of his especial treasures. She was so knowledgeable about editions and folios that the duke was hard-pressed to satisfy her voracious appetite for what he had to show and discuss with her. Only one thing marred the precious time.
Th duke asked her, rather abruptly, what she was doing betrothed to a fool like Winthrop. She was so shocked at the suddenness of the question that she'd found herself defending Lord Henry when all she wished to do was concur wholeheartedly with the duke. When Rhaz pressed her, oversetting her reasoned arguments that Winthrop was both amiable and kind, tears threatened to well up in her eyes. Rhaz was so gentle that she was forced to say she had no need of his sympathy, for Winthrop was both rich and titled. This gave the duke pause. Though he scrutinised her closely, she did not seem to him to be the type to marry for reasons so base as this. Cordelia looked miserable, so he turned the subject to lighter matters, but there was no doubting a small distance had developed between them for those few moments. He longed to take her in his arms and order her to tell Winthrop to go to the devil, but he restrained himself. Cordelia, he hoped, would prove her mettle and come to this point herself.
Presently, it was time for the visit to end. Cordelia's return to health was now complete, so there could be little to delay the inevitable. His grace promised that they would soon be reunited and all the guests naturally assumed he referred to the onset of Christmas. He did not, for his cunning mama had given him no hint of what she intended. When he waved the party good-bye then, it was with the simple hope that matters would come to a head as if by some miracle. He earnestly hoped that Winthrop would soon relinquish his rights to Cordelia, for if he did not, his grace knew he would go slowly insane.
He walked slowly back to the house and ordered preparations to be set in tow for his departure. It was his duty, of course, to return to his principal seat for Christmas. The dowager duchess depended on it and, though she was a devious old soul, he loved her. Home, then, but after that . . . After that, he would have a certain very definite conversation with Miss Cordelia Camfrey of the silver eyes.
SEVENTEEN
The duchess was in her element, ordering all the dust covers removed from the most unused wings of his grace's large, almost palatial residence. Since such an undertaking was beyond the powers of even his own extensive staff, she'd blithely consulted the register of superior housemaids and spent a lively morning interviewing several dozen at the very least. Those fortunate enough to have passed her beady-eyed scrutiny were now set busily to work, dusting, polishing and sweeping just as if his grace's residence were not
always
immaculate in appearance and irreproachable in aspect.
Several times the cook held up his hands in horror and vowed to send in his notice, for the dowager duchess seemed to forever confuse the menus, change them at will and scratch illegible notes all over the carefully inscribed name plates. This was only marginally better than her inspection of the pickled partridges and her wholly unsolicited advice on the best way to dress a plover. Her grace seemed to look with disfavour on the common method of employing bacon to preserve and insisted that all the poultry be laid about in charcoal. This fine state of affairs did little to appease the already stressed cook and kitchen hands. Even the scullery maids fell under the duchess's watchful scrutiny until the jangling of nerves was matched only by the clattering of pots and kettles and pans as nervous fingers dropped where ordinarily they would not.
Finally, it was up to the much tried housekeeper to respectfully implore the duchess to remain within her own domain and not to venture again into the kitchens. After extracting a promise that the footmen be decked in new liveries to complement the green wooded shades she had chosen for all the drawing rooms and reception areas, her grace was finally dislodged from below stairs.
She had a merry time redraping all of the upstairs rooms with fine muslin silks in holly green and cherry red. When that was done, she purloined several of Rhaz's best hothouse flowers in order to make scented potpourri. The head gardener was nearly stuttering in agitation as her attention moved from his blooms to his carefully tended citrus trees.
From his hothouses, she snipped off nigh on a hundred limes, oranges and lemons, the better to produce spicy pomanders laced with jasmine and whole cloves.
Actually, the household breathed a little easier with this particular activity, for there was no denying the aroma it produced was pleasant to the senses and pervaded the house with the fresh, delicate scent of Christmas to come. Not a small consideration, either, was that the tedious activity of punching the cloves through the fruit kept the duchess more than occupied for some several days.
The ducal residence resounded with the chopping of wood, the sweeping of chimneys, the polishing of door knockers and the painting of stuccoed terraces inside and out. Throughout the commotion, Rhaz, Lord Doncaster, cast a wary eye to the residence, pleased with the outcome but anticipating a revolt from within.
Every year his staff threatened to leave and every year they stayed on, mindful of the goodwill that pervaded his estates and the loyalty that they owed him. Once the duchess had been relegated to the decoration of receiving rooms and other public areas, equilibrium was restored and the imminent revolt turned to the usual anticipation of the festivities that lay ahead.
Already, church bells were beginning to peal as novice bellringers practiced the all-important commission assigned to them. The first flakes of winter were falling and, with them, the pinecones that were so integral to the season. Many a housemaid could be seen escaping the drudgery of polishing for the novelty of collecting them up in great baskets, the better to decorate fireplaces and add a woody scent to all the ready fires that were to burn in their grates.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, the Christmas party arrived. The duchess nodded in blithe satisfaction, for it appeared her schemes were working. The snows were falling in abundance, and as she had hoped—no,
planned
—it looked as though all the Christmas guests would be snowed in. Ample time for Rhaz to make Seraphina's acquaintance!
And what a
charming
sister she had, she thought, looking from one young woman to the other as they alighted from the chaise. Strange that she had not taken much account of Cordelia on her visit to Ancilla. Ah well, handsome was as handsome did. Miss Seraphina was undoubtedly a beauty, and if Rhaz's roving interests could at last be forced to settle, the younger Miss Camfrey would do very nicely indeed.
It was all his grace could do not to rush to Cordelia's side, take her in his arms and kiss away her cares. As it was, he noted her troubled brow with vexation and wished with all his heart that matters could come to a head. To this end, he had earlier delighted Miss Helena Moresby with more finery than she had ever before beheld. Consequently, her plump little figure, though never likely to cut a dash, looked a comely sight to the good Lord Winthrop.
Over the next few hours, if Rhaz had not been so nearly involved himself, he would have laughed aloud to see the stolid Lord Winthrop alight upon her like a bee to honey and murmur terms of endearment that were more than liberally laced with words like “saddles” and “bridles” and “piebalds” and “bays.” Lord Henry alone was permitted to enter into a discourse on the relative merits of splints and liniment bindings on forelegs and hocks. To him, Helena excitedly divulged the ingredients of her particular potion for curing restiveness in flighty greys. This Lord Henry noted down with interest and in turn offered grave advice on the correct consumption of hay and other dried grasses.
Frequently, Cordelia cast a speculative glance on the pair and rather wished that they could arrive at some kind of understanding. The betrothal was becoming more and more painful to her, for whilst she could have countenanced the match when her heart was whole, she realised in perfect faith that this was no longer so. Whatever happened and whoever the debonair Lord Rhaz finally took to wife, she knew of a certainty that her heart was his. If Seraphina made a match of it, she would reconcile herself to being his sister. She could ask no more.
But she could not share her life with another or produce an heir when it was Rhaz and Rhaz alone who could unlock the secrets of her soul and the desires of her body and soul.
She spent hours pondering the conundrum until finally, on Christmas morning, her patience snapped.
The day dawned bright and sunny, though snow lined the paths and glistened like so many twinkling stars. There was an air of anticipation all about as servants bustled here and there, excitedly preparing for the midday feast that was to be as sumptuous a meal as Doncaster Place had ever known. All of the steps were draped in holly and ivy and fir, and red berries sprouted merrily from many of the succulent, verdant green leaves. Rhaz proclaimed himself satisfied when he viewed the spectacle, and just as he always did on Christmas morning, he took the opportunity of thanking his staff, who had lined up in formal rank from lowest scullery maid to the most senior gardeners, cooks, abigails, housekeeper, butler and personal valet. All turned towards him with light shining in their eyes, for in truth Rhaz was a very well-loved master and the residence of the fifth duke could not have been happier or better run.
In a mellifluous voice he thanked them for the year's work, for the topiary gardens and the vineries, the cleaning, the calculating, the cooking, the boot shining, the pressing and the incalculable little things that served to make his household so exemplary a home. He, then, in the true Carlisle tradition of Christmas, drew forth a ceremonial bag of green velvet and withdrew from it shiny shillings, penny pieces and golden sovereigns that made the younger household staff gasp in wonder. He handed the coins and the bag to his housekeeper, who bobbed a smiling curtsy and promised to distribute the largesse. Looking on from the faintly green-tinged crown glass windows Cordelia could not suppress a smile. The sight had so much charm and Christmas spirit it was bound to delight, no matter how heavy the heart of the beholder.
She turned to be faintly admonished by Lord Henry, who eyed her with a disapproving stare and announced that she might “catch her death” in nothing but one of Ancilla's castaway day dresses of scarlet merino. Cordelia had spent a careful evening gaily decking it with shining military style buttons and delicious holly green trim.
“Indeed, no, Lord Henry. I am perfectly comfortable I assure you.” But the light dimmed from her eyes nonetheless, and the round-headed windows that looked beckoning before now looked dull and lustreless.
Rather than leaving the point, Lord Winthrop manfully pressed it, pointing out that “dear Miss Moresby” advised a posset against the cold and was herself wearing sensible kid half boots and a riding habit of thick, dark wool. By this time, Cordelia, though patient by nature, had had more than enough of Lord Winthrop's homilies. To have those of Miss Moresby added to the list seemed the outside of enough. She nodded politely, however, and murmured something singularly inane but appropriate to the occasion like “Is she really?” or “How delightful!” or some such thing. Encouraged, Lord Henry expanded further until it seemed to Cordelia that the whole of this magical Christmas morning would be spent listening to the secondhand, hackneyed and rather unoriginal sentiments of her betrothed.
It cannot be commended in her, of course, but the fact that her patience suddenly faltered was understandable under the circumstances. Just as Lord Henry was muttering that “dear Miss Moresby” might be prevailed upon to give her a pointer or two about the correct alignment of a sidesaddle when alighting a frisky beast, Cordelia found her eyes flashing and her tolerance sadly astray.
In rather ringing tones for the disciplined young lady she generally proved to be, she asked Lord Henry rather testily why he did not simply ask Miss Moresby to become his betrothed, since the whole process of re-educating her to Miss Helena's ideas would be tedious indeed.
To her astonishment he seemed rather struck by the idea. Her sarcasm eluded him, for he was simpleminded and filled with too inflated a sense of self-importance to suspect she might be bamming him. Accordingly, he cocked his head to one side and gave the matter his due consideration much to Cordelia's mingled astonishment and relief. Eventually, however, he shook his head rather regretfully and came to the ponderous conclusion that he could not.
“Why ever not?” Cordelia was ready to push him into it if she had to.
“Confound it, woman! You know perfectly
well
why I cannot. A man cannot throw his cap after two young ladies and I have already made an offer to
you!
”
“Well,
un
offer then!”
“Withdraw my word as a gentleman? Never!”
The two glared at each other, both thoroughly irritated and equally miserable. They were at a complete impasse until Cordelia suddenly realised that, if Winthrop
wanted
to be released, then it would not be churlish of her to oblige him.
Accordingly, she heaved a profound sigh that Winthrop interpreted as regret and she as relief, and she declared that, if honour precluded
Henry
from doing the deed, it did not so preclude her.
“Call me a jilt, Lord Winthrop, but I hereby release you from all your former declarations. You are free to betroth yourself where you will, for I find, quite unaccountably, that we do not suit.”
Lord Winthrop
tut-tutted
and begged her not to take matters too much to heart. Though she could never possibly be quite as singular a female as Miss Moresby, she nevertheless could take comfort in the fact that she had several excellent points and needed only the guidance of some superior male to steer her course when she tended to stray. With this pronouncement he very genially offered to be this stabilising influence on her character, albeit in a guise different from husband. Cordelia was just formulating a scathing reply when he good-heartedly continued, saying that he accepted his release simply because he knew the Camfrey family would always be well cared for and thus pecuniary concerns would no longer be an uppermost consideration. At this, Cordelia's mouth dropped, for truly she could not conceive what the addlepated windbag was talking about.
“I refer, of course, to your sister's imminent betrothal to Doncaster. She may consider herself honoured indeed that despite her flightiness she has managed to land such a prize.”
At this, Cordelia found her tolerance stretched to the limit. Rather wryly she concluded that, in releasing Winthrop from his word, she had done them
both
an immeasurable favour, for as sure as anything she would have throttled him in a sennight had she had the misfortune of actually becoming his wife.
There was a moment's uneasy silence between them whilst each stared at the other a trifle uncomfortably. Finally, Lord Winthrop made Cordelia a deep bow, pressed a clammy hand into hers and assured her that he was a very happy man.
Cordelia dimpled and the hapless Henry must have realised his faux pas, for he mopped his brow and began retracting his former comment, explaining that he was actually miserable—quite the saddest man on earth.
Miss Camfrey murmured rather inaudibly—for she was caught between exasperation and a chuckle—that he had better not let Miss Moresby overhear him say such a thing.
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