It Happened Under the Mistletoe: A Holiday Novella (6 page)

“I had hoped you’d allow me to escort you to the drawing room so I might have a word with you,” he added.

Cerian pasted a smile on her face, but her insides fell. After their kiss that afternoon, she hadn’t quite known how to treat him or how he would treat her, but a talk wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. If he wanted to talk, however, so be it.

“I’d like that very much,” she replied, wondering if that were true. It depended upon what he said.

He offered his arm and she slipped her hand around it, marveling at the strong warmth emanating from beneath his claret-colored dinner jacket.

Cerian concentrated on watching her golden slippers move along the parquet as they made their way to the dining room.

“Seems the entire house party is talking about us,” he began.

She pursed her lips. “No doubt they’re agog at our antics.”

He nodded.

“It is what we wanted, after all,” she pointed out.

“Indeed.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Then he repeated both actions. Twice.

“Your grace?” she prompted.

“Forgive me, Miss Blake, but I seem to find myself in a singularly unique position this evening.”

She cleared her throat slightly, and they began walking again. “How so, your grace?”

He cracked a smile. “Because I feel as if I ought to apologize to you and beg your forgiveness for my behavior earlier today in the library.”

Cerian’s face went hot. She pressed her free hand to her cheek. “Oh, there’s no need to—”

“But, the problem is I don’t feel sorry for it. The truth is, I rather enjoyed it.”

Now her face was on fire. Of all the things he might have said to her on the way to the dining room, this had certainly not been one Cerian had imagined. Not at all. “You … you enjoyed it, your grace?” She concentrated twice as intently on not tripping.

“I did indeed.” He had a look on his face that could only be described as devilish. “So, I’ll ask you, Miss Blake. Do you
want
an apology from me? I’ll certainly offer you one if you’d like.”

Cerian took a deep breath. Asking her if she wanted an apology was tantamount to asking her if …

“I find myself wondering, Miss Blake, if you enjoyed our kiss as much as I did.”

*   *   *

Cerian had no earthly idea how she made it into the dining room and back to her seat without breaking into a fit of hysterical laughter or crying or both. She was mad, that’s what she was. She had to be mad or she wouldn’t have stopped the Duke of Markingham in the corridor a moment ago, turned to him, looked him in the eye and said, “Actually, your grace, I quite enjoyed it.”

What manner of saucy hoyden had she become? Why, Mama would wash her mouth with soap. Well, perhaps not given that an eligible duke was involved, but Mama should. And Cerian hadn’t felt a bit repentant of her words either. Instead, she’d given Oliver a sultry look over her shoulder and preceded him into the dining room.

What form of madness had overtaken her? Perhaps it was some sort of Yuletide fever. Such a thing was possible was it not? Perhaps that cat was infected with it, like the fleas carrying the bubonic plague. Oh, Cerian didn’t know. All she knew for certain was … she
would
not,
could
not, fall in love with a duke!

CHAPTER NINE

Oliver sprawled across the divan in Medford’s study.

“How are you holding up, old chap?” Medford asked, crossing over to the sideboard and pouring a drink. His big yellow dog, Themis, leaped up from the rug beside the fireplace and followed him. “Brandy?”

“It’s barely noon.”

“It’s Christmastide.”

“And it’s not like you to drink,” Oliver added, an eyebrow arched.

“Ah, I’ve been doing many things that aren’t like me since I married Kate.”

Oliver had to smile at that. It was true and the entire
ton
knew it. Lord Perfect had let down his infamous guard and strict set of rules since marrying the most scandalous widow of the season last year. Medford crossed back over the thick carpet and handed Oliver a drink, which he took with a nod of his head.

“I suppose there’s no sense allowing perfectly good brandy to go to waste,” Oliver said. “By the by, when did you get a cat?”

Medford gave him a look that clearly indicated he wondered if Oliver had gone temporarily mad. “I don’t own a cat.”

The door to the study opened just then and Kate flew in, a mass of red-gold hair and emerald green skirts. “There you two are.”

Kate dashed over to her husband’s side and kissed the cheek he lowered for her. “Darling, I’ve just approved the final menus and Lady Selina insists upon another game after dinner.” Kate rolled her eyes.

Medford lovingly trailed his fingers down his wife’s arm. “I was just asking Townsende here how he’s holding up.”

Oliver raised both brows. “Here now. What’s Lady Selina’s game got to do with me?”

“Oh, give over, Oliver,” Kate said. “You know Lady Selina is doing all this in an effort to catch your attention.”

Oliver wrinkled his nose. Cerian had taught him that.

“And?” Kate asked, a sideways smile on her lips. “Has she succeeded?”

“Lady Selina?” Oliver snorted. “Hardly.”

Kate plunked her hands on her hips and gave him a matter-of-fact look. “She seems to be quite smitten with you.”

Oliver groaned. “I was forced to take refuge from that chit in the silver closet my first day here.”

Kate’s eyes went wide. “You did not!”

“Upon my honor, I did. Was in there nearly a quarter hour,” Oliver added.
And met the most lovely young lady as a result
.

Medford let out a bark of laughter. “Now
that’
s a first. A duke hiding in the silver closet.”

“Next time, I’ll most likely be hiding under the carpet in the foyer.”

“Oh, come now, Oliver, she’s not that bad is she?” Kate asked.

“Let’s just say, I’m not interested in any more of her games,” Oliver replied.

Kate lowered herself into the rosewood chair that sat at odd angles across from Oliver. “Very well, if Lady Selina hasn’t caught your fancy, tell me, has anyone here done so? There is a score of lovely young ladies here. I was quite hoping you’d meet someone you got on with.”

A vision of dark hair and flashing green eyes danced in Oliver’s mind. “I … I hadn’t exactly … I don’t know,” he finished lamely.

Kate gave him a sideways smile. “What about … my cousin, Cerian?”

Oliver nearly choked on the brandy he’d just swallowed.

“The rumor is that you two are enamored of one another. Any truth to that?” Kate pushed, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

Oliver scrubbed his fingers through his hair with his free hand. “Miss Blake is lovely and accomplished. She’s also quite intent upon marrying for love.”

Kate’s eyebrows shot up. “Is she now? She said that?”

“We—ahem—have a few things in common. It seems Miss Blake is being as ruthlessly hunted as I.”

Medford nodded. “So you decided to team up, did you, and distract the suitors on both sides?”

Oliver nodded. “Precisely.”

This time Kate’s jaw dropped open. “You did not!”

Oliver stared at his glass and winced. “Guilty, I’m afraid.”

“And whose idea was that?” she asked.

“Mine,” he admitted, downing a hefty swallow of brandy this time.

Medford slapped his knee. “By God, I wish I’d have thought of that back when I was eligible.”

Kate shot her husband a disbelieving look. “James, you cannot be serious.”

Medford patted his dog on the head. “Why not? It’s brilliant if you ask me.”

Oliver hid his smile behind his glass when Kate turned back to face him.

“Is that why you and Miss Blake were in the library with the mistletoe? It was all an act?” Kate asked.

Oliver hesitated. No, he wouldn’t call it an act. Especially his body’s instant reaction to Cerian’s kiss. There had been nothing false about that. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Kate. “Sorry to disappoint you, but Miss Blake and I have formed a partnership of sorts.”

Kate shook her head. “And here I thought you’d find someone to marry at this house party. You’re only the new hope of the Markingham name. God knows George and I weren’t going to have children.”

“And don’t I feel every bit of my obligation?” Oliver replied with a sigh. “Starting with restoring the family name.”

Kate winced. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I know how trapped you must feel. Still, I did so hope you’d find someone here at the party. It’s part of the reason I planned it. I’m trying to help.”

Oliver lifted his glass to her. “I appreciate it, Kate, I truly do, but I’m not certain you can help.”

“Very well. But, please have a care for Cerian’s reputation, Oliver. She is my cousin, after all.”

“I know. The incident with the mistletoe earlier was unfortunate, I’m afraid, but Lady Selina’s antics left us little choice.” That was his story and he refused to change it.

“Don’t despair, my darling,” Medford said, crossing over to where she sat and kissing his wife on the forehead. “There are still two more days of the house party remaining. Who knows what these young people will get up to?”

Oliver gave him a skeptical glance. “Young people? I’m merely two years your junior, Medford.”

“Not the point, Townsende. Besides.” Medford turned back to face his wife. “What’s this I hear about Lady Selina coming up with more games?”

Oliver groaned.

CHAPTER TEN

Oliver nearly ran into her. He’d followed that blasted Christmas cat into the conservatory and practically fallen into Cerian’s lap. She sat on a stone bench at the back of the room, alone. The same stone bench he’d been heading toward to seek his own solitude. It was one of his favorite places in Medford’s house, and Oliver had wanted to come here to clear his head, be alone, breathe in the soft scent of orchids that grew nearby, and think about everything for a moment. He’d never expected the bench to be occupied. It was never occupied. And where had that blasted cat got to?

Cerian glanced up a bit frightful, perhaps because a six-foot man had come barreling toward her. Her features relaxed when she recognized Oliver, and she smiled.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, ready to turn on his heel and afford her the privacy she no doubt wanted. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to turn away. Why was he so reluctant?

Cerian moved over and patted the bench. “There’s room enough for both of us.”

Oliver eyed the bench. There was room, wasn’t there? That’s what drinking brandy in the early afternoon did to you. It made you believe very, very bad ideas were very, very good ones. Had Miss Blake been drinking brandy too?

He took two steps forward and slid onto the cold stone next to her, bracing his palms against the bench. “You enjoy the conservatory?”

“Very much. This spot especially. The orchids are my particular favorite.” She reached out and plucked one of the exotic purple flowers from the nearby vine. She twirled it between her thumb and forefinger.

“I like it here too.” Good Lord had his voice just caught? When was the last time that had happened? He must have been a lad of fourteen. He was sitting close enough to her now to smell her light perfume, even more captivating than the orchids.

“Are you hiding again?” she asked, gesturing back toward the main part of the house with her chin. “From the others?”

He cracked a smile. “No. This time I was purely in pursuit of a bit of solitude. I reserve my hiding posts for the silver closet.” He looked at her from the corners of his eyes.

She laughed at that. “Well, I’m hiding,” she admitted. “Though I’m happy to go elsewhere to allow you your privacy if you’d prefer.” She moved to stand and Oliver’s hand shot out to stop her. He clutched her wrist and pulled her back down next to him.

“Don’t go,” he murmured.

She settled back onto the bench and nodded. “Very well, but if we’re to remain here, make no mistake that I
am
hiding.” She grinned at him.

“As long as you’re not hiding from me.” He winked at her. “Because I hate to be indelicate but if so, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”

She pushed a curl away from her forehead. “No, not from you.”

“Excellent. Then your secret is safe with me. Who are you hiding from this time?’

“Sir Gilliam again,” she replied with a sigh, bracing one of her gloved hands on the bench beside her thigh.

“Gilliam?” Oliver whistled. “Quite a determined chap, is he not?”

“Yes. He asked me to go for a ride with him.”

“You dislike riding?”

“On the contrary, I adore riding. I dislike Sir Gilliam.”

“Why’s that?” he asked, arching a brow.

She brought the orchid up to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Oh, he’s a nice enough chap. A bit overly concerned with the health problems of his elderly relatives perhaps. He’s taken to reciting all of his family’s inherited diseases to me. Most recently he treated me to a list of his own ailments.”

Oliver winced. “It doesn’t sound very encouraging.”

“Oh, it’s not. He begged me wait while he hurried to the library so that he might look up the correct pronunciation of his cousin’s toe fungus.”

Oliver pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. “No, he did not.”

“I’m afraid he did.”

“And that’s when you left?”

“Made my way to the nearest door and have been hiding in here ever since.”

Oliver couldn’t control his bark of laughter this time. “Miss Blake, do you know that you never fail to make me laugh?”

She shrugged. “I must admit, Mama always says I have a bit of a jester in me. But I’m not jesting. If Sir Gilliam offers to show you the funny patch of skin on the back of his hand, do not under any circumstances assent to it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Oliver replied, valiantly attempting to keep from snorting. “And I’d hardly say you’re a jester. You simply have a unique way of looking at the world.”

She hung her head at bit, studying the flower that dangled from her fingers. “I suppose it’s quite different from the way a duke looks at the world.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”