Partridge and the Peartree (7 page)

Could she have been upset with him about something?
He searched his mind. What could he have done?

His first reaction was to admit defeat. How could he
have thought he could win the hand of a woman as special as Amelia?
What would she see in him?

But another voice reminded him of her sunny smiles
whenever they were together. The way she worked hard for people
less fortunate than her. There was no better woman to head Bartlett
Manor than Lady Amelia Partridge. He needed to find her and fight
for her. Was there even a chance for them? He went in search of a
servant to fetch his coat.

The carriage ride seemed endless. Along the way, she
mentally rehearsed what she would say to Phillip. "I'm so sorry to
keep you waiting, Your Grace." No, that wouldn't do. What if he
hadn't been waiting for her? Hopefully he wouldn't have found it
odd that Edward arrived before her. Perhaps she could simply say,
"How lovely to see you again, Your Grace."

The carriage drew up before the Kringle mansion, and
the door opened. A gold-braided cuff decorated the wrist of the
hand extended to her. She took a deep breath and rose to climb the
steps down. "Please be there," she whispered.

She would surely be one of the last to arrive at the
party. Would Phillip still be waiting for her? A servant took her
cloak, and she braced herself. Another servant waited at the
ballroom's entrance, and when he saw her he reached for her card,
but she shook her head. "I — I need a moment." The man nodded and
stepped back.

A bank of potted pear trees festively decorated with
ribbons and ornaments for the holiday graced each side of the wide
arch leading to the ballroom. Amelia decided to look for Phillip
through the branches of the trees, so she could go to him
immediately.

She leaned forward, trying to see the partygoers
through the branches of the tree. But it was nearly impossible to
make out any one figure through the sea of humanity. She should
have known. The Kringles' party was the prime event of the holiday
season. Lord and Lady Kringle held court in one corner of the room,
greeting their guests. She took another step but froze when she
realized her hair had caught in one of the ornaments on the pear
tree. She tried to disengage herself but managed only to get
herself more firmly entangled. Embarrassingly, the skirt of her
dress, in her twisting and turning, had caught on some lower
branches and was pulled up into the tree, exposing a shocking
amount of her legs.

Goodness! How ever would she get out of this?
Absently, she recalled a song she'd heard about a partridge in a
pear tree. She wasn't sure whether to giggle at being part of a
Christmas carol or sob at her dilemma. Should she call out to one
of the servants in the foyer? Would they even hear her?

Suddenly, her skirt fell back in place. A second
later, the ornaments released her hair. A deep voice behind her
murmured, "There you are, Lady Amelia. I trust you and your lovely
gown have not suffered any ill effects from your mishap."

"Phil — Your Grace!" She dampened her excitement and
cleared her throat, dipping into a deep curtsey. "Again, you have
rescued me. Thank you."

He executed a formal bow. "It was my pleasure. Your
brother told me that you were ill, and I feared you would not be
here tonight." He extended his elbow. "Shall we join the ball?"

"I would love to, but first I need to tell you
something. I tried to tell you earlier, in your library, but I'm
afraid you may not have heard me."

"I apologize. I am listening now."

She faced him directly so he could see her lips and
understand what she said. "I — I write books. Love stories. I like
to write them, and my publisher tells me they are becoming quite
popular. I don't want to stop writing them. I have a pen name, so
no one needs to know, but I wanted to tell you. Would that bother
you, knowing what I do?"

"I have already read some of your stories. They're
quite wonderful."

Her jaw dropped. "You — you knew?"

"Yes. A few weeks ago, when you read aloud to the
students, you hardly looked at the page. You didn't have to,
because they were your own words. The next day I went to the
bookstore and purchased every available title by A. P.
Worthington."

"And…the idea doesn't repulse you?"

"I shall be proud to be associated with the author of
such tomes as
The Demure Duchess
and
The Tempestuous
Ton.
He sobered. "Would it repulse you to be associated with a
disfigured, hard-of-hearing duke who must work hard with his hands
to restore his crumbling estate?"

Amelia held her hand to her heart. This must be the
kind of love she'd read about, even written about, but never
experienced.

"I would be honored at such an association, Your
Grace."

He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her.
"Shall we seal this agreement with a kiss?"

During her first career,
Patricia Kiyono
taught elementary music, computer classes, elementary
classrooms, and junior high social studies. She now teaches music
education at the university level.

She lives in southwest Michigan
with her husband, not far from her children and grandchildren.
Current interests, aside from writing, include sewing, crocheting,
scrapbooking, and music. A love of travel and an interest in
faraway people inspires her to create stories about different
cultures.

Prologue

December 27, 1812

Chairs weren't the only things flying at this year's
annual Kringle Ball. Throw in a duke, two appallingly outspoken
ladies, an earl, a young naval officer, and enough fists to make
Gentleman Jackson proud, and you have successfully recounted every
delicious detail of this past season's unmatchable scandal.

One has to wonder how it all started. Some say
Gatewood was merely defending his sister's honor. Others say
Norcross seduced the wits out of not one but two women in the very
same night! And the worst of the gossip, though it pains me to
admit to it as such, comes to us in the form of a first-hand
account. Miss Tess Warren was seen smiling, yes smiling (such a
vulgar act to begin with) at the Duke of Gatewood not minutes
before he was beaten with a chair. Now, what the devil (and please
pardon my language, it really is inexcusable, but given the
circumstances it must be said) does Miss Tess Warren have to smile
about? And what, dear readers, has caused the good duke to lose his
impeccable manners, not to mention his mind?

~Mrs. Peabody's Society Papers

Chapter One

London, England

December 24, 1820

It had come to this. Confining himself behind the
walls of his study to avoid the festivities of the Christmas
holiday.

Donovan Ellis, Seventh Duke of Gatewood, wanted
nothing more than to forget this season and all the foolery that
went along with it. There would be no wreaths hung on the doors and
no candles adorned with greenery would line the mantel. He'd
threatened to dismiss Cook if she served him syllabub or Christmas
pudding.
Even so, I wager one of the servants will at least put
a Yule log on one of the fires.

Donovan lounged in his high-back
chair, sipping brandy and watching the fire.
The snapping
and crackling of the logs soothed him, broke the eerie silence of
the townhouse.

He glanced sideways at the polished walnut table on
his left, and his gaze settled on the silver tray bearing the
decanter of brandy. Firelight flickered off the cut crystal and
splintered, sending amber glints dancing across the floor. When
Lawrence, the butler, had brought the spirits, Donovan had told him
not to bother lighting the oil lamps, just one of
the candles on the mantel and another on the small table by his
chair. The dull glow did no more than place the study in shadow.
That was fine with Donovan; the dark ambiance fit his grim
mood.

A draft swept through the study, dimming the fire.
The flames on the candles swayed, and the darkness swooped closer.
Shadows climbed from the corners and loomed over him. He glanced
toward the bay window, checking that it was securely latched. But
the reflection of the fire in the panes was all he could see.

As he started to turn back toward the fire, a circle
of bright light, high up near the top of the glass and just beyond
the window, caught his attention and he squinted, trying to make
out what the object was. Perhaps starlight? Even as he tried to
convince himself of that, the orb grew bigger, floated closer and
lower to the ground.

Donovan sat transfixed, unable to
look away as an
illuminated figure approached the window,
passed through without pause as if the glass and wall weren't
there, and glided across the room, stopping close enough to the
fire to be cast in its light.

Donovan blinked several times, his mind warring with
what he saw. He glanced down at the glass in his hand. "I could
have sworn this was my first brandy." Lifting his head, his gaze
again met the vision. "But I must be foxed and seeing things. Or my
eyes fool me."

Dark brown eyes —
his
dark brown eyes — stared
back at him. Had it not been for the fact that he was sitting and
the phantom was standing, he could have been looking in a mirror.
The vision before him had the same dark wavy hair, broad shoulders
that seemed to fill the room, and chiseled jaw.

The apparition crossed his arms. "Could there not be
another explanation?"

Hearing the phantom speak with his voice unnerved
Donovan, gave him pause. It took a moment for understanding to sink
in.

"Ah. Dreaming, then. And not a very good dream, since
I'd never wear such an outrageous burgundy tailcoat." Donovan
gestured in the specter's direction with his glass. "Then again, I
suppose I'm not actually wearing such foppish attire but having a
nightmare."

A smile tugged at the corners of the ghost's mouth.
"So you'd prefer to reason that you're dreaming—"

"Having a nightmare… and a bad one at that."

"Very well, having a nightmare, rather than actually
believe I'm real?"

Donovan drained his glass then reached for the
decanter, desperately in need of another. "On the contrary, I'm a
logical man. And as such, I know it's impossible for me to be
lounging in my chair and standing in the middle of the room at the
same time. Not to mention that you cannot be me if I'm me, unless
this is a bad dream."

"Yet you see me… you're speaking with me."

Donovan waved his hand. "That proves nothing." He
brought the refilled glass to his lips and drained the
contents.

"Well then, you won't object if I pour myself a glass
of brandy."

"Not at all. Happy to share," he said. The initial
shock of seeing a ghost glide through the wall had scared him, had
been frightening indeed. But having a drink with himself as if they
were old chums from University? Donovan smiled at the situation's
inherent humor.

The apparition walked over to the ornate walnut
cabinet and retrieved a wineglass. He strode back, hefted the
decanter, and poured a generous amount into his glass. Then the
specter sat in the black leather high-back chair opposite
Donovan's.

"Forgive me, where are my manners. Please, have a
seat."

The phantom met Donovan's stare over the rim of the
glass. He lowered the drink and smiled. "Think nothing of it. I
hardly need an invitation to sit in my own home."

What an arrogant, obnoxious —
His
home?
Donovan opened his mouth to give the ghostly figure the set-down he
deserved then shut it almost as fast.
I think I need another as
well.

He filled his own glass again then watched, a bit
surprised, as the spirit swallowed down the liquor.
But then
again, if this is a dream, he didn't really pour the drink, did
he?

"A very nice brandy, your grace."

Donovan chuckled.

"Is something amusing?"

"I was just wondering what I should call you."

"You may call me your grace."

Donovan snorted. "Your grace indeed."

"I see your point. Very well, you may call me Past
Duke," the specter said.

"Why should I call you Past Duke?"

"I'm the past you, or rather the you you should have
been," he explained.

Donovan furrowed his brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Isn't the past the reason you're sitting alone in
this dungeon of a study on Christmas Eve? Aren't the events that
took place, what happened between you and Delia, what didn't happen
between you and Tess, the reason—"