Authors: Father Christmas
Actually, a house party was not such a bad idea. Leland could invite Miss Ridgemont and see how she got on with the children, the countryside, and him. In the city there were too many social boundaries to keep them from getting to know each other well enough for such an important decision. One dance an evening—two would have shown too much particularity—did not reveal their compatibility, or lack thereof. At Ware Hold they could easily find themselves apart from others to carry on real conversations instead of the polite chitchat. And the mistletoe was a perfect excuse to find if they’d be compatible otherwise. Begetting his sons was his duty; he didn’t intend it to be a chore. If all the dibs were in tune, then a New Year’s announcement of the engagement would be in order.
He could not invite solely Miss Ridgemont and her companion, of course. That would be tantamount to a declaration he wasn’t prepared to make without further deliberation. He needed some other young, marriageable females to throw dust in the eyes of the rumor-mongers, and so as not to raise false hopes. Then he’d need young, marriageable gentlemen to keep the chits happy and occupied so he could pursue Miss Ridgemont. Unattached females always came with mothers, fathers, chaperones, and maids. Then there were the valets and grooms and drivers from their carriages. Suddenly his little house party was taking on the proportions of a Carlton House fete. Milsom could handle it, of course, but was it fair to Graceanne to pitchfork her into a
ton
ish celebration when she was looking forward to a quiet country Christmas like last year’s? He consulted his friend Crow.
“Don’t see why you think you have to make excuses for the widow,” Fanshaw told him over dinner at White’s. “I’ve seen her doing the rounds with your aunt. Good-looking female, pleasant manners. Even m’sister-in-law says so, and you know how starchy she is.”
“Still, it’s such a different way of life.”
“From a vicarage perhaps, but didn’t you say Wellington was your heir’s godfather? If Mrs. Warrington was on such terms with Old Hokey, she can’t be that much of a turnip.”
“Tony did install her at the embassy,” Leland reflected.
“There. Give over and tell me how goes the courtship of the ravishing Miss Ridgemont.”
The duke was still pondering a flock of harpies alighting at Ware, getting their talons into Graceanne’s history, shredding her reputation and her composure. “I don’t know, she comes from a different world.”
“Miss Ridgemont? Born and bred right here in London, old chap. Father was an earl, don’t you know. Silver spoons and all that tripe, same as you.”
“No, Mrs. Warrington.” Ware had barely touched the roast capon in chestnut sauce.
“Seems to me if a pleasant female like the widow can’t fit into your world, maybe it’s your world at fault.” Crow took a mouthful of escalloped veal while the duke digested that bit of wisdom. “Besides, you’ve got the widow on your mind more than’s healthy if you’re pursuing another female altogether, especially the elusive Eleanor. Why don’t you marry Mrs. Warrington and be done with it if all you want out of the match is sons? Lud knows she’s fertile enough.”
Ware couldn’t tell Crow that was part of the problem: He’d never know if he was the father of his sons or not. No, he had to get over this fixation with Tony’s wayward widow. Miss Ridgemont was the best alternative. “But you don’t think a house party is a bad idea? You’ll come? Or are you promised to your family?”
“Not in good odor with m’sister these days, don’t you know, not after telling you about that nanny. Uh, you wouldn’t have your eye on my valet, would you?”
Ware surveyed his friend through his own quizzing glass, the hair
a la
Brutus, the neckcloth
a la
Polyphemus. “Devil a bit, my friend, devil a bit. Your man is safe from my evil designs. So you’ll come help entertain the debs and do the pretty with their mamas?”
“I wouldn’t miss this chance to watch you make a cake of yourself for the world. Not every day a fellow gets to see his best friend stick his own neck into parson’s noose, don’t you know.”
* * *
Aunt Eudora wouldn’t travel with the twins. The boys wouldn’t leave their ponies behind. Shanna wouldn’t travel on the thirteenth of the month, Graceanne didn’t want to be traveling toward her father’s vicarage on a Sunday. The baby and Nanny had to be kept warm; Milsom’s imported delicacies had to be kept cool. And the duke didn’t want to have to rely on Warefield or even Oxford to do his Christmas shopping. This year he was getting to buy dolls and wanted to make sure he had the best selection. While he was at the toy shop, of course, there were a few other incidentals he thought might suit the boys and Nina. No matter the company, he vowed, the children were to have a fine Christmas, better than last year, even if it had to be a private celebration upstairs in the nursery.
The Three Kings might have managed a smaller caravan. And made better time.
And that fire at the last inn had nothing whatsoever to do with the duke’s explaining to the twins the advantages of the modern sulfur matches over an old-fashioned flint box.
Graceanne did make His Grace promise there would be no candlelit Christmas trees in the nursery.
By the time they reached Warefield, unpacked, and got everyone settled, there was no time to decorate the castle before the company was due to appear. Milsom came to Graceanne for advice, to her gratification, and she suggested that they leave the gathering of greenery to the young guests when they got there. Otherwise, she feared, they’d find Warefield dreadfully thin of entertainment. Before the Londoners’ arrival, though, Graceanne had to call at the vicarage.
* * *
“There will be no scandal, Papa, unless you make one. Ware has been more than understanding,” she lied, “and you can do no less. After all, Nina is your granddaughter.”
Mrs. Beckwith was already christening the infant with her tears.
“If you don’t accept Nina into the family and get over this foolishness of saying I am no longer your daughter, then I cannot come to church or bring the boys. Ware will hire a chaplain of his own, I’m sure, rather than see his wards snubbed. How will you explain that to your parishioners when they are looking forward to glimpsing the London nobs? Or to the bishop? Come, Papa, it’s Christmas.”
Beckwith hemmed and hawed a bit, then allowed as how he’d not turn a Christian away from his church doors. “But I won’t have any of that wicked pageantry folderol like last year. You see where that led.”
“Oh, but little Antonia will make a perfect baby Jesus,” Mrs. Beckwith cooed.
“And the boys will be so disappointed if they can’t be the cow. His Grace did mention he’d purchase new pews for the church, since he was inviting so many guests to see his wards perform.”
So Graceanne had the pageant to organize, too. Luckily her angel, shepherd, and three Wise Men were still available, the costumes preserved. The Bindle brothers happily agreed to take over the sheep roles instead of the cow.
Mary and Joseph were harder to find. Heaven alone knew where last year’s players were.
Graceanne enlisted Shanna for Mary. If they could have a red-haired, Irish Joseph one year, they could have a red-haired, Irish Mary this one. Surprisingly, Rawley volunteered to play Mary’s husband, giving rise to much speculation upstairs and down. At least he’d keep the barnyard animals under control while Shanna managed the baby. Satisfied, Graceanne was ready to greet the duke’s guests. She even put on one of her new gowns, having decided to use Christmas as an excuse to come out of mourning, finally.
She donned colors—mostly darker ones rather than pastels—for the children’s sake, she told herself, not to impress anyone or to feel more on a par with the London guests. The boys never noticed and Nina cried until she recognized her mother under the curled hair and russet velvet. Leland noticed and heartily approved, if his smile was any judge. Then he remembered himself and put on his forbidding ducal disapproval, but she’d seen the light in his eyes, and that was enough. She was finding it hard to hate him when he was so kind to the boys and now Nina; she hoped he was finding it as hard to hate her.
The first guests to arrive were Sir Crosby Fanshaw, escorting Miss Eleanor Ridgemont and her companion. Graceanne had been up in the nursery trying to calm some of the twins’ Christmas fever by reading from a storybook, when they heard the carriage approach. She left them with the book to make her way down the staircase to the Great Hall, where Leland and his aunt waited. She wasn’t putting herself forward; the duke had requested her presence to show they were all one family. Furthermore, she’d been helping Milsom and the housekeeper assign bedchambers, almost as if she were the hostess here.
Wraps were taken, hands were kissed, introductions were made. In fact, Miss Pettibone, the companion, was the only person not at least casually acquainted. Graceanne had met both Miss Ridgemont and Sir Crosby over various teas. Poor Miss Pettibone blushed and tried to hide behind one of the suits of armor when she was made the center of attention. She alone was relieved when a noise from the upper story made everyone crane their necks up the stairs.
“My God, no,” prayed Graceanne.
“Heaven help us!” swore Ware.
“Disgraceful!” thumped Aunt Eudora.
“By George, look at them go!” enthused Crow.
“I’m going to faint,” threatened Miss Ridgemont, but she didn’t.
Miss Pettibone did, without saying a word, but taking the armored knight with her in a horrendous clatter.
Milsom was quiet, too, merely positioning himself at the bottom of the stairs and indicating to a footman to follow suit. Milsom plucked one small body out of the air as Willy soared off the waxed banister. The footman was not so deft with Leslie, who flew into the midst of the openmouthed company. Rather, he flew over Miss Pettibone’s supine body and landed, splat, against Miss Ridgemont’s chest.
The lady went down, shrieking.
Graceanne pulled Les off the hysterical woman and half hugged him, half shook him. “If you ever,
ever
do such a thing again, I’ll—” She started to cry.
Leland had the other twin by the back of his collar, dangling. “Do you see what you’ve done to your mother? How you’ve upset everyone? I’ve a good mind to—”
Miss Ridgemont shrieked the louder for being ignored, and swatted away the hand Crow offered to assist her to her feet. She preferred the marble squares, it seemed, for she drummed her feet on them.
“Heaven help us,” repeated Ware.
“Throw a bucket of water on her. It works on squalling cats,” offered Aunt Eudora.
“I think Miss Pettibone needs smelling salts,” said Graceanne from that lady’s side, behind the fallen knight.
“M’sister uses burnt feathers,” offered Crow, staring at Miss Ridgemont through his looking glass.
Milsom was, as ever, quietly efficient, signaling the gathered footmen to fetch wine, the housekeeper, Nanny Sprocket, and a vinaigrette. But the boys were trying to be helpful, to make amends. Willy grabbed up Miss Ridgemont’s fallen shako-style bonnet with its towering plumes, and ran toward the massive fireplace to light the feathers. Les pulled the hothouse roses out of a Sevres vase and was ready with the water, but he couldn’t recall which lady Aunt Eudora said needed the bath, so he just tossed it between both of them. Which luckily put out Willy’s burning hat.
Miss Pettibone was duly revived and guided to a chair by Nanny while the housekeeper made a special tisane, which was more tender attention than the companion was used to receiving. Miss Ridgemont was restored to order, more or less, with a glass of brandy provided by Milsom.
Then she demanded the children be beaten, birched, banished.
“I am dreadfully sorry, Miss Ridgemont,” Graceanne began, “and the boys will certainly apologize. And they will never slide down the banister again, I swear.”
“At least not until they are nine, I think.” The duke appeared to ponder the matter, his eyes twinkling. “Yes, I believe I was nine before I managed a creditable dismount. Tony didn’t manage it till he was nearly eleven, if I recall. Do you remember that scar on his chin?”
Eleanor was still sputtering about boiling the boys in oil, and Graceanne was threatening to give the boys’ ponies away to some deserving children who didn’t scare their mothers out of their wits.
“Well, my buckos.” The Duke of Ware knelt down in the wet and rose-strewn hall. “Which is it to be, boiling in oil, no ponies, or your promise not to slide down the banister until you are nine years of age?”
They solemnly chose to give their word to wait five years, holding out their hands to be shaken. Then they ran like hell, lest their cousin change his mind.
The duke watched them race up the stairs, still smiling. “I think the greenery should go up tomorrow just to be on the safe side,” he told Graceanne and Milsom. “You know, garlands wrapped over the posts and the railing.” Then he nibbed his chin, still looking up at that shiny banister. “But that’s tomorrow, Crow. What say we give it a go tonight?”
“Are you daft?” Graceanne wanted to know, but Leland was grinning at his friend. “A friendly wager?”
Crow was torn. His clothes might be. On the other hand, a gentleman never turned down a bet, and the banister did look inviting, except for the newel post at the end. “I’m willing if you are, but you’re the chap so desperate for an heir.”
Aunt Eudora snorted. Graceanne bit her lip and told them they were acting worse than the little boys. And Miss Ridgemont, furious she was being disregarded, that her hat was ruined and the brats weren’t to be punished, stomped off to her room—right through the wet, slippery roses. This time she slid directly into the other suit of armor, which landed atop her in a most suggestive pose. Miss Pettibone fainted again.
Fanshaw put down his quizzing glass and patted his friend’s shoulder. “And here you were afraid the house party might be dull.”
How could holding the wrong woman feel so right?
After Miss Ridgemont and her companion were carried off to their rooms by the housekeeper, the nanny, two footmen, and the butler, and after the Great Hall was mopped and restored to medieval splendor, Graceanne dissolved into tears. She just couldn’t help herself.
And His Grace just couldn’t help himself from gathering her into his arms to comfort her absurd blubbering about how she’d ruined his lovely house party. All she ever wanted was a little cottage somewhere for her and the children, she wept into his shirtfront while Crow studiously examined the slightly dented knights. She’d never wanted to associate with toplofty lords and lace-bedecked ladies, she cried. And look what happened when she did.
“What happened, Grace, was two imps got up to mischief and two ladies’ tender sensibilities were offended. That’s all,” he responded in his least toplofty voice. “They’ll recover, and so will you, my girl. Now, dry your eyes lest Crow here think I give every woman of my acquaintance the vapors.”
Graceanne accepted the handkerchief he held, although she had a perfectly good one in her own pocket, and made her excuses to Lord Crosby.
“The excitement, I don’t doubt,” he gallantly assured her. “Think nothing of it.”
Graceanne left to make repairs to her appearance before any more guests arrived, and Leland took Crow off to the library for a sorely needed brandy.
* * *
Looking in her mirror upstairs, Graceanne realized she was more shaken by the duke’s embrace and by his tender words than by the other events of the day. She’d felt so comfortable, so comforted in his arms—and he wasn’t the least arrogant at all! She even thought he might—no, she was certain he did—like her! And oh, she was mortally afraid that she liked him back, despite his stiff-rumped pride, his autocratic intolerance, and his distrust of her.
Graceanne knew she’d have to tell him the truth about Prudence and Liam and Nina for the baby’s sake, she told herself, but in all honesty she knew she’d have to tell him for her own sake. She’d have to swallow her own not inconsiderable pride, or regret for the rest of her life that she let him think the worst of her.
She’d tell him as soon as the guests left, she decided, if he hadn’t already offered for Miss Ridgemont. But that was foolish. Once he offered for the lady, Graceanne’s confession would be too late. She’d never know the answer to What if…. She owed it to them
both
to find out.
* * *
Leland was also shaken. Blast, once Grace was in his arms, he’d never wanted to let her go. If Crow hadn’t been standing around, he’d have kissed her, stroked her, petted her, done his damnedest to get her upstairs to his room or to the bearskin rug there in the library. He hadn’t cared. And it was more than lust, too. He’d seen enough women’s tears in his lifetime to be inured, but Grace’s nearly broke his heart. He’d have taken on the Mongolian hordes to keep her from crying anymore. Deuce take it, he must really care for the impossible chit!
How, he asked himself, how in bloody hell could he love a woman born to genteel poverty? True, she was a lady to her fingertips in most respects. But how could he love a female who turned down his carte blanche to bear an illegitimate child with a horse trainer? How could he think of making such a one his duchess? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He didn’t.
He’d just have to give Miss Ridgemont more opportunities to show her better qualities.
* * *
Eleanor was at her finest that evening, sparkling like her diamonds among the other guests. She was stunning in a red satin gown, one long black curl draped over a pure white shoulder. She laughed, she flirted, she was a butterfly.
Graceanne was a moth in her quiet brown velvet and Tony’s pearls. She sat with Miss Pettibone and the mamas of his other guests, Leland noticed. She was polite and friendly to the young bucks and Crow, without encouraging them to stay among the dowagers. Leland was glad she wasn’t casting out lures to his friends, but why the devil did she consider herself one of the chaperones? Dash it, Graceanne couldn’t be much older than Eleanor. She needed some gaiety in her life, too.
So he suggested dancing—informal, of course. Fortunately for his intentions toward Miss Ridgemont, Graceanne volunteered to play the pianoforte for them while the footmen rolled back the carpet. Unfortunately, Leland was aware of a sharp disappointment that he wouldn’t get to hold the widow in his arms again.
Eleanor was a superb dancer, light and lissome. She was witty, too, chatting knowledgeably of the latest books, poems, and theater productions when the figures permitted. Yes, she’d do well as a social hostess.
She wouldn’t do quite as well as a country wife, however. Before they parted for the night, Leland invited the company to go out with him the following morning to collect greens to decorate the Hold. Miss Ridgemont gaily laughed and informed them that she never left her bedchamber before noon, and certainly not to go tramping through the woods, ruining her boots and her complexion. And didn’t holly have prickers, anyway?
No one missed her, least of all Ware, who with the others chased his wards and their dog from one end of the estate to the other, followed by wagons and carts to collect their armfuls of ivy and evergreen and mistletoe. Much giggling from the young ladies told him he couldn’t forget the mistletoe. They marked two large firs as the Christmas trees for the estate woodsmen to chop down, and managed to locate a huge fallen log that the twins were sure would burn for the twelve days of Yuletide.
A laughing, happy, rosy-cheeked group arrived back at the castle. Graceanne’s face was glowing more than anyone else’s, Ware observed as she skipped along, a twin’s hand in each of hers, teaching them the words to a new carol.
But Miss Ridgemont was an enchanting picture, too, posed at the Adams room window with her lap easel and her watercolors. She was attempting the delightful view of the topiary gardens, she informed them all with a self-deprecating tinkle, as a present to their host. Miss Ridgemont was truly gifted, they all agreed, even the boys who crowded in to see the painting before they went up to the nursery for luncheon.
She could do another painting tomorrow, the duke insisted. Eleanor was so talented, he was positive the next would be better. As for his gift, it was the thought that counted. He’d pay for a new gown, of course.
After lunch everyone again gathered in the Great Hall to fashion the mounds of greens into wreaths and garlands and kissing boughs. Graceanne and Milsom returned from the attics with ribbons, bells, candleholders, and glass ornaments, and the footmen brought ladders, scissors, string, and hot punch.
The boys were taking a nap, thank goodness, exhausted from the morning’s exertions. So Graceanne was able to devote her energies to persuading the dowagers that their weaving and sewing skills were crucial if they hoped to have enough garlands. She also had to convince the ladies that three kissing boughs were really enough, and Crow and the other gentlemen that emptying the punch bowl really wasn’t part of their job so much as getting on those ladders and hanging the festoons and mistletoe. Which, of course, necessitated that same giggling among the young ladies.
The Great Hall resounded with Christmas cheer, except for Eleanor’s corner, where she sat in state directing the Duke of Ware precisely how she wanted her kissing ball hung. No, the archway was too high, the mantel too low. Miss Ridgemont’s creation was a massive affair of interwoven grapevines, ribbons, apples, and candles, which she’d shamelessly coerced Miss Pettibone into making. Ware put up with her dictatorial behavior as long as he could, in compensation for her lost painting, although he was itching to join the others as they laughed and sang. He could hear Grace’s pretty voice again as she led off carol after carol. Of course, he thought, she was used to directing the church choir. He wondered if she missed that.
Soon Graceanne had them all singing, even Miss Ashton-Highet’s deaf grandmother. His own voice wasn’t quite that bad, Leland judged. Finally he gestured to Crosby Fanshaw. “Here, old man, you’ll be better able to advise Miss Ridgemont in placing her decoration. I’m afraid I don’t have the exquisite taste the two of you share.”
He left the two most beautifully turned-out people in the room arguing over the location of that monstrosity while he breathed a sigh of relief. He should
not
be feeling relieved to leave his prospective bride’s company, he reflected.
That evening the young ladies performed in the music room, the usual set pieces of German composers to the usual polite applause. Then Miss Ridgemont took her place at the front while two footmen dragged forth the harp. Leland groaned inwardly, but devil take it if the chit couldn’t play divinely. And she’d come prepared to emulate the angels, in a white satin gown with a net overskirt. What a perfect picture she made! How long she played!
His applause was entirely sincere at the completion of her piece.
Then he groaned again. Graceanne was the only female left to perform. She had a pleasant voice, he knew, and was competent at the instrument, but she couldn’t have had any formal training like the others. Coming after Miss Ridgemont’s superb recital, well, she’d look no account, like a poor vicar’s daughter among these peers’ progeny and earls’ offsprings.
Graceanne seemed to know it and smiled self-consciously. “I cannot hope to emulate the superb performances we’ve heard tonight, but perhaps you might like to hear what our brave soldiers in the Peninsula heard at Christmastide.” She picked up a Spanish
quitarra
from behind the pianoforte, tuned it, then began to sing a Spanish carol. Almost no one in the audience could understand the words, but they all heard the love and joy in the message as her voice sang with the glory of the season. Miss Pettibone wiped a tear from her eye. After another song Graceanne put the instrument down and switched to the pianoforte and “Adeste Fidelis,” motioning them all to gather round and join in.
Leland swallowed the lump in his throat.
The next day he decided to give Miss Ridgemont’s mothering aptitude another go. The twins could be a bit, well, boisterous, he admitted, so he went to the nursery after lunch to fetch Nina while the other young ladies went for a walk with Graceanne to the village shops. The gentlemen were content at billiards, and the older ladies were resting. Miss Ridgemont had stayed behind, claiming a headache, but actually disdaining rustic markets. She hoped to get some time alone with His Grace, besides.
He wasn’t quite alone. Nanny warned that Miss Nina was teething and apt to be fretful, but he ignored the advice. “My precious
niña’s
never been anything but a perfect lady for Cousin Leland, have you, sweet pea?” He chucked the infant under the chin and she smiled and blew bubbles.
She was still smiling when he handed her back to Nanny Sprockett, but not even the most devoted of guardians could claim she smelled anything like sweet. Another of Miss Ridgemont’s dresses would have to be burned. Leland’s ears burned with her recriminations.
Well, they weren’t her children, Ware reflected. A woman couldn’t be expected to take just any infants to her bosom, could she? And a lady like Eleanor shouldn’t be supposed to have the familiarity with infants Graceanne did. Lud, he hoped not. Still, he remembered the widow last year, leading all the village children through their paces at the pageant, knitting those endless mittens. And she’d held every one of his tenants’ infants last year at Boxing Day, he recalled, sharing their mothers’ pride. Damn and blast, he hadn’t been this confused since his salad days.
One last try, that’s what he’d give Miss Ridgemont. The mistletoe test, he laughed to himself. She’d grow used to children once she had her own, he was convinced, but if she cringed from his kiss the way his first wife did, or stood passively like his second, he’d rather name Willy his heir and be done with it.
He caught Eleanor under the kissing bough when no one was around the next afternoon, not a difficult feat, as Miss Ridgemont seemed to station herself there whenever he was near.
He laughed about the joys of the season as he placed a chaste kiss on her lips and then, when she did not draw back, deepened the embrace. She put her arms around his neck; he put his around her back. His lips teased and she answered with passion. She was everything he could have wanted: warm and responsive without being as bold as a lightskirt, and with a truly magnificent bosom pressed willingly against his chest.
And he felt—nothing. Nothing but her lips and her breasts. There was no stirring blood, no soaring senses, no raging need to throw her to the floor and make wild love in the daytime. He’d be hard pressed to get up the enthusiasm at candlelit night, he decided, between silken sheets on a feather mattress, after champagne and oysters. He felt nothing, nothing but the wish that she were someone else.