Introduction
Ellie Vyne was ten when she drew an
elaborately curled ink moustache on a sleeping James Hartley’s face. Sixteen
years later, she knows he still holds a grudge about the incident, particularly
the humiliation of walking around for a full day with no one mentioning his
strange appearance. Such a crime to a man of his sizeable vanity, is
unforgivable. Even worse for her—she's a Vyne. Since her disreputable
step-uncle once ran off with James’ mother, for an adulterous affair that
caused the scandal of the century, Hartleys do not speak to Vynes, or even
acknowledge their existence if it can be helped. And vice versa. The feud is
fiercely adhered to on either side. Therefore, sixteen years ago, young Ellie with
her mischievous pen and ink, upset her own family just as much as his.
But as Ellie reasons with anyone
who will listen, telling her to avoid James was the very worst thing they could
have said. No child of ten should be warned not to do something, because then
they are most certainly obliged to do that very thing.
Besides, James has proven himself
to be a pompous ass of extraordinary dimensions ever since, and if he can't
forgive a little girl's prank, well, so be it.....
James Hartley has watched Miss
Ellie Vyne grow into a young woman who attacks life with a restless enthusiasm
for mischief and never stands still long enough to be caught. According to his
grandmother, Miss Vyne's exuberant spirits should have been safely exhausted in
the decoration of bonnets and the sewing of petticoats, or embroidered screens.
"A young lady’s fingers,"
his grandmother comments sharply whenever anyone accidentally mentions Mariella
Vyne and her sins, "could not make quite so much mischief, were they
better occupied with a needle."
James knows however, it's a mistake
to give Ellie Vyne anything sharp.
* *
* *
In The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne, James and his naughty
nemesis will do final battle, but just a year before the events in that book
take place, they are stranded together on a snowy night, in a country manor
house. Will old grudges rear their head again, or can they put aside their feud,
just for the sake of a peaceful Yuletide?
James would be content to sleep
through the entire winter and Ellie would rather have a tooth pulled than
tolerate fifteen minutes in his arrogant presence.
But they are trapped by the snow.
Whether they like it or not, there
will be spiced punch, plum pudding and kissing boughs. Whether they want to or
not, their mischievous host is determined they will enjoy themselves.
It's Christmas Eve. There is no
escape.
And—oh, lord— there will be
singing.
SNOWED IN by Jayne Fresina
Christmas
Eve, 1821
"I did advise you of it, sir," his valet, standing at the side of
the bed, dressing gown in hand, solemnly defended himself against accusations
of a conspiracy. "I am quite certain that when you first cast your
blood-shot eyes upon the invitation, I informed you there was a likelihood of
Miss Vyne attending the house party. She is, I understand, a particular friend
of the duke's."
James stared bleakly from his
pillow. His head felt thick, his eyes watery, his throat cracked. Why on earth
he ever thought it might be a good idea to travel into the country in the
depths of winter he now had not the slightest recollection.
"I daresay, sir, the vile
trickery played upon you when someone poured
an excess of brandy down your throat yesterday afternoon at the club, has
caused a certain fogginess to descend upon your usually precise memory. Or else
you would most certainly have recalled my warnings before you returned to the
house, woke me out of a very pleasant nap and insisted we ride into the country
immediately."
Ah yes, brandy. He had drunk quite
a bit of it yesterday and begun to feel an odd sensation he did not care to
inspect too thoroughly. It was very similar to a fear of loneliness. Weeks ago
he'd announced a decision to spend Christmas alone at the house in Town. With
his valet at his side and a hamper from Fortnum's, what else did a man need to survive
the Yuletide season? But then, for some obscure reason, he changed his mind at
the last minute and here they were.
And the first person he encountered
when he arrived very late yesterday, after a hellish journey through a snow
storm, was that Vyne woman. Had he known she was anywhere in the vicinity, of
course, he would never have accepted the duke's invitation.
"Obviously, we must
leave," he grumbled croakily. And then sneezed so loudly and violently
that both head and feet rose up off the bed.
"I fear that is quite impossible,
sir. Torture as it might be to suffer the dreaded lady's company for the
weekend, it seems unavoidable, in light of the snowfall and your own
health."
"Nonsense. I'm fit as a
fiddle, Grieves." A second sneeze quickly followed the first and the valet
swiftly reversed a step.
"While I would never wish to
cast doubt on the spectacular robustness of your health, sir, I must not allow
you to put it in any danger."
"Danger, Grieves? I'm in utter
jeopardy if I remain within striking distance of that woman. I was barely out
of the carriage yesterday when she made an attempt on my life."
A hard snowball had accosted the
side of his head and knocked his hat clean off. Bent double with laughter,
she'd claimed to mistake him for someone else, but there was no doubt in his
mind that Ellie Vyne knew exactly who she'd tried to murder in the dark. No
doubt at all.
"I have prepared a warm bath
for you, sir," said Grieves, still holding out the velvet dressing gown.
"Perhaps you will feel better after that."
He considered. While remaining in
bed and sleeping through the next forty eight hours seemed preferable in many
ways, it would be very rude to his host. There was also the fact that several
attractive, unattached young ladies were expected to join the house party. It
would be remiss of James not to make himself available for their entertainment
during the course of the weekend. Surely that was the reason he was invited, he
reasoned. Every party needed a notorious rake in order to be deemed a success. Wouldn't
want to let anybody down.
"Very well, Grieves." He
hauled himself upright and swung his legs out of bed. "Forward into the
fray."
* * * *
Ellie had given the duke his tonic
and massaged his legs with the liniment provided by his physician, but on
bitter cold days like these he was very stiff. Although the once strong and
vital gentleman suffered great frustration at not being able to move about
without assistance in one form or another, he refused a wheel chair, especially
while guests were present.
"Lend me your arm, Ellie dear,
and I shall manage with a stick," he said as she prepared to bring him
down to breakfast. "'Tis not so very sore today and your sunny smile never
fails to make it better."
The duke was a widower, estranged
from his son, and with no other relatives he could tolerate. To compensate, he
surrounded himself with a merry group of youthful friends, among whom he
counted Ellie as his closest confidant. She had traveled with him as a nurse
companion for over a year now and there were some who viewed their relationship
with raised eyebrows, but Ellie was never the sort to care much about rumor.
She liked to feel useful and the duke had begun to depend upon her. No one
else, he would say with tears in his eyes, could rock him out of the doldrums
as she would —using such ribald jokes and stories. Nor could they amaze and
fascinate him as she did with slight-of-hand card tricks.
Her stepfather, Admiral Vyne, had
recently resumed his intermittent fussing about her spinster status, but Ellie
had no desire to marry just to satisfy her family. She'd been engaged many
times and that was as close as she cared to come to the altar. Traveling at the
duke's side kept her out of the marriage mart. Another reason to be grateful
for the relationship—odd and scandalous as it might appear in some eyes.
"Lean on me," she urged
softly, patting his arm. "Kippers await, your grace."
"Ah, my favorite!"
It was actually necessary for the duke's
butler and a footman to help him negotiate the stairs, but once they reached
the ground floor she took over her post at his side and they walked together
into the breakfast room.
Lady Cooper-Chumley, Major
Martindale and the Barker sisters were already seated. James Hartley—an arrival
that caught her by surprise yesterday—was at the sideboard, helping himself to
scrambled egg from one of the silver chafing dishes. They were still awaiting
Lord and Lady Prescott and the Viscount Stepney, but after last night's snow
storm Ellie doubted they would come. She still wasn't sure why the duke invited
James, unless it was to keep the Barker girls happy. They were the duke's
wards, daughters of a deceased cousin, and neither had taken pains to hide
their extreme boredom at the thought of Christmas in the country with their
aged, crippled guardian. Since Hartley's arrival, however, things were looking
up for Emily and Fanny Barker. This morning the girls had rare smiles on their
faces. And a measure of rouge that was surely inappropriate that early in the
day.
When James turned to find a seat,
both girls waved him over, signaling to an empty chair between them.
"I do hope everyone slept
well," the duke exclaimed merrily, his ruddy, genial expression giving no
sign of the physical pain he must have suffered until Ellie helped him into a
chair at the head of the long table.
Everyone agreed that sleep claimed
them quickly last night and the Barker girls exclaimed at how shocked they were
to wake and find the scenery coated in thick fleecy snow.
"We are quite tucked in,"
the Major grimly assured them, as if they were cut off from civilization
entirely. "It will be days before we can get out of the house."
The duke laughed at his friend's
dour expression. "'Tis fortunate then, that I keep a well-stocked pantry
and a very able cook. Mrs. Timmons will feed us well in our imprisonment."
"And you traveled through the
storm last night, so I hear," Lady Cooper-Chumley addressed James in a
loud, imperious voice. "Must have taken leave of your senses, man."
"Quite possibly," James
replied with a rueful grin and one quick, sly glance at Ellie. He seemed as
annoyed to find her there as she was to see him last night, but had he not
known she would be present? Of course, he was usually too absorbed in his own
life to pay much attention to anyone who wasn't regularly a part of it, so she
supposed there was a possibility he hadn't known she was the duke's companion
these days.
James was, regretfully, the same
spotlessly attired, dour-faced gentleman he'd always been. What other women saw
in him, beyond surface attractions, she couldn't imagine. Apparently she was
immune to his deeper "charms". Oh, she knew he was handsome. That
could not be denied, even if she heartily wished it could. But he wore that
fine shell like a shield, the true man hidden under expensive clothes and a
superior demeanor. Ellie had given up trying to peek under that mask.
"You must have been terribly bored
in Town, Mr. Hartley, to venture all the way out here," she remarked,
adding wryly, "Did you not wish to spend Christmas with your grandmother?"
She knew Lady Ursula Hartley was his only living relative and a mean,
curmudgeonly old woman.
His blue eyes, striking as
bluebells poking through the shadows in a dark forest, fastened upon her for a
moment and then narrowed warily. "Lady Hartley never expects me until the
new year and she likes her routines undisturbed."
"Really? But it's
Christmas."
He shrugged, his slender lips
twitched. "Exactly. She's too busy at this time of year."
"Too busy for you?" She
almost laughed, but curbed it when she saw he was completely serious.
"She does not want me in her
way at Christmas. Why would she?"
Ellie sat back in her chair,
bemused and at the same time suffering an unexpected jolt of sympathy for the
man. She'd always known the Hartleys were an odd, emotionally stunted lot. But
for Lady Hartley to urge her grandson—her only relative— not to visit at
Christmas because she was otherwise socially engaged...? Slowly Ellie shook her
head.
Clearly he took offense to her
pity, however genuinely she felt it, and quickly turned the conversation to
attack her. "And you are here,
Miss Vyne," he pointed out, setting his coffee cup in its saucer with a
clumsy clatter. "Not wanted by your family either it seems?"
"On the contrary. I was
invited to Lark Hollow, but my sisters will both be there and I—" and she
knew they would band together with her stepfather and try pressuring her into
marriage again, squeezing and pushing on her as if she was a lump of clay to be
fitted in a mould. "I was needed here, with the duke," she finished
hastily, avoiding Hartley's icy gaze.
A short silence followed,
throughout which she felt his cool blue eyes still watching her, studying in
their critical way. She must have toast crumbs on her cheek or a pimple on her
chin. Something had evidently drawn his harsh notice that morning.
"I'm sure Hartley came because
he was eager to see my wards." The duke beamed down the table. "And
partake of our festivities here at Ardleigh Hall."
"Certainly, your grace."
"Now he has no choice but to
partake of them," the major muttered into his coffee cup. "None of us
do. We are stranded. No doubt there are trees down in the road and drifts as
tall as a man and his horse out there."
"True," the duke
swallowed another chuckle. "But take comfort, Major. Should food supplies
run low we can always eat one another. I vote we consume Lady Cooper-Chumley
first."
The lady gave him a reprimanding
tap on the arm with her lorgnette, and then laughed good-naturedly. Ellie too
laughed, while the Major looked perturbed that no one took their situation
seriously. The Barker girls paid no attention and James looked horrified. Of
course, Ellie thought as she rolled her eyes, he had no sense of humor.
Fanny Barker watched James take his
first bite from the fork. Her eyes had barely left him and she'd completely
forgotten her own breakfast. Anyone might think she witnessed a holy apparition,
but this was not uncommon behavior around James Hartley. "I am not afraid
of being snowed in. I think it's rather cozy. We shall have charades this
evening and sing Yuletide songs, Mr. Hartley. Do you like to sing?"
Ellie snorted while trying to choke
back a chuckle. James put down his fork. "I can't say I have much of an
ear for a tune, Miss Barker."
"Oh, but that doesn't matter,
Mr. Hartley. Everyone sings at Christmas."
"And it's often an appalling
racket," her sister added with a sniff.
"But you must all
participate," the duke exclaimed. "I shall be most put out if anyone
declines to join in. No mouthing the words! I won't have it." He gave Ellie
a teasing wink. "Anyone caught not singing will be dumped out into the
snow and left to fend for themselves. No portion of Lady Cooper-Chumley shall
be saved for them."
He was a great one for games and
liked his guests to be as rowdy as possible. Another reason why Ellie wondered
at his choice of James Hartley to make up the numbers. Few people were less
likely to enjoy themselves at this sort of party than a Hartley.
Candle-snuffers extinguished light and warmth in a parlor with less alacrity
than James could darken her evening with one disapproving scowl in her
direction. Yet other women—even some she considered relatively sane and witty— flocked
to the arrogant rake, basking in a flame he never lit for her, and seeking out
his company when there were far more pleasant, less quarrelsome gentlemen in
the room.
"In fact," the duke
announced suddenly, "to ensure everybody
sings, I will put you in teams and give each a song. We shall make a
competition of it and see who makes the best show. There, that will make for a
very merry evening, will it not? Gingerbread straight from the oven, a few cups
of Mrs. Timmons dizzy-wizzy punch and a jolly good singsong. We shall soon
forget the cold then, eh? As Miss Fanny says, we shall make it very cozy."
Only Lady Cooper-Chumley, who was
exceedingly fond of the sound of her own voice, and Fanny Barker who leapt at
any opportunity to make an exhibit of herself, looked in the least excited by
this idea. Of course, accomplished, well-raised ladies were supposed to be capable
of performing musically whenever required. Some excelled, most played or sang merely
adequately. For Ellie, who had never applied herself to practice, it was simply
another opportunity for public humiliation.
But the duke would have his way. She'd
often observed, in his most teasing moods, that he was no more than an
overgrown boy looking for wicked pastimes to keep him amused. Such
entertainments generally came at the expense of the timid or naive—or just
plain irritating. He liked to level the field, as he would say to Ellie. He had
no time for hypocrisy or false modesty.
Now, pointing with his knife at each
distraught face around his table, he added, "The Major and Lady
Cooper-Chumley will make one team. Miss Emily Barker and I shall make another. Mr.
James Hartley and my dear Ellie shall be the third team."
Fanny immediately protested that
she was left out and her guardian assured her that as soon as the Viscount
Stepney arrived he would be her partner. "And you must play for us all,
Fanny. I believe you have the quickest fingers at the pianoforte."
Easily appeased by this sliver of
flattery, Fanny Barker looked down her sizeable nose at her sister and smirked.
Somewhere in the last few moments Ellie
had lost the will to eat. Which was most unlike her. "But perhaps Miss
Fanny Barker could take my place in the singing. I do not really care to—"
"No, no. You will partner Mr.
Hartley, Ellie. Now don't be a spoil sport, my dear." He wagged a playful
finger at her. "It is not like you to turn down such fun."
"But I have a sore throat,
your grace," James muttered, dabbing with a napkin at the coffee he'd just
spilled down his waistcoat. "I shan't be able to sing and I'm quite sure
you'll all be grateful for it."
"Tsk, tsk, Mr. Hartley. Surely
you will not let me down!" the duke cried, bringing his fist to the table
with a bang that shook all their cups. "We shall have singing, now then.
Or else."
For a ghastly moment no one spoke
or moved. Then the duke burst into peals of trembling laughter, weaving about in
his chair. "Your faces!" he sputtered. "Oh, dear. You think me
such a tyrant. Worry not. As long as you all do as I say, I shan't have to eat
anybody. This is Christmas Eve, dear friends and as long as you all have lots
of fun, whether you want to or not, all will be well. I command it!" And
he roared with laughter.
* * * *
The song chosen for them was God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.
Ellie pushed the sheet of lyrics
into his reluctant hand. "We may as well rehearse or it'll be a complete
shambles."
He looked at her. "Don't you
think it will be anyway?"
"Undoubtedly." She sighed,
shaking her head, dark curls spilling down the side of her slender neck. Just
like the woman herself, it seemed, her thick, wild hair never stayed put
either. "But I've no intention of being the worst of the bunch." She
tilted her face up to him, her lively eyes shining brightly with determination.
"Don't you feel the same?"
James had never realized she was
the competitive sort. But perhaps he should have known. They'd encountered one
another a handful of times over the past few years and every time they spoke it
was to have an argument. Inevitably she would point out his resemblance to a
stuffed goose and he would call her a thoughtless, unguarded woman, a danger to
herself and anyone with the misfortune to cross her path. If he exclaimed at
the brightness of the sun, she complained of a chill. If he stated a preference
for whist, she would declare herself perfectly bored of it and yearning to play
nothing but piquet.
At its narrowest point her contrary
streak was a mile wide.
But he'd never realized Ellie
Vyne's desire to win extended beyond their quarrels and her brazen need for the
last word. Standing at his side, she now studied the lyrics on the sheet as if
it was to be her last address before she met the headsman's axe. He'd never
seen her take anything this seriously. In fact he didn't think she was capable
of it.
"I can't sing on key," he
advised her calmly. "I am tone deaf."
"I know. I heard you once.
Like a cat that's swallowed a tin whistle and got itself stuck in a chimney."
He frowned and stood straighter,
squaring his shoulders. "May I ask when?"
"I...don't recall.
Exactly."
If he was not mistaken, Miss Vyne's
cheeks had taken on a decidedly crimson hue. "You lie, of course."
"Oh, no. I heard. My ears have
never been the same since."
But he'd never sung in company in
his life. The only time he ever felt the desire to burst into song was when he
was alone and in his—
"I got stuck once," she
muttered and then bit her lip. He thought he heard a low curse exhaled.
Taking a step to the side he glowered
down at her. "Stuck where?"
Ellie swallowed, her gaze pinned to
the song lyrics. "I heard you singing in your bath. It just happened. I
didn't intend to be there. It was an accident. Like I said, I got stuck."
This was getting more incredulous by
the word.
James tugged the paper out of her
hand, set it on the pianoforte and folded his arms. "Stuck where, Miss Vyne?"
She tipped her chin up and faced
him with all the nonchalance of an accomplished lying cheat. "I would
prefer not to say."
"Then I prefer not to sing in
this blasted competition."
Her lips parted. Here came the pink
tip of her tongue. One swipe to the left, another to the right.
"Stuck where, Miss Vyne?"
She took a deep breath and out it
came in a rush. "Your bedchamber. Under the bed. Now," she cleared
her throat, "let's practice."
He stared. "Under my bed?"
Slowly she nodded, squeezing her
dampened lips together.
"When? Where?...How...?"
There were too many questions and they all crowded into his head before
tumbling out on his tongue, falling over one another in haste to be first answered.
"Your house in Town. Five
years ago at least. When you had that valet called Watkins."
It didn't seem a natural response
to believe her, but the faint blush staining her usually shameless cheek was
interesting. And incriminating. Enough to suggest she might, this time, be
telling the truth.
"I was on a scavenger
hunt," she explained. "One of the last items on the list was a pair
of James Hartley's drawers." The woman surprisingly had the grace to look
guilty as she gradually revealed her story, one hand raised to check her curls,
her gaze downcast. "Rumor had it that you had initials sewn into them and,
of course, being an infamous rake....well, they made quite a souvenir. That's
how you came to be on the list, I suppose. Your small clothes
specifically." She tucked a curl behind her ear. "So I posed as a
housemaid applying for a post. Your valet had no idea who I was. I managed to
slip upstairs. I got to your chamber and then I heard you, directly behind me.
The only place to be concealed was under your bed."
His stern composure suddenly
threatened by the urge to laugh, James swiveled on his heel and stared through
the tall, arched drawing room windows, out at the pillowy layers of pristine
snow that covered the duke's estate.
"I heard you calling to your
valet for a bath," she continued behind him. "There was nothing I
could do but lay there and wait."
James saw his face reflected in the
glass. He was looking a little worse for wear after his rough night. Really
ought to get a shave before this evening's party. Make an effort now he was
there.
Running his mind over the routine
for his evening helped keep it from straying into unchartered territory, but it
was a damned struggle. Her softly admitted confession fell over him as the snow
had done over the pine trees outside, transforming them into new shapes, bowing
the branches, silencing all but the most muffled sound.
"That's when I heard you
singing. Or trying to. Growling might be a better word." She chuckled
uneasily and her reflection fidgeted behind his. "Now, can we rehearse,
Hartley?"
Just like that she wanted to forget
her crime and expected him to do the same, because she was accustomed to
getting away with such behavior. One day someone would put a stop to her wild
antics. It wouldn't be him. No, indeed. James meant to keep all his parts
intact until he no longer required them. Taking Miss Vyne in hand would put every
appendage at risk.
Pity though. He sincerely doubted
there was any other man quite so capable of taming Ellie Vyne. Others might
make a brave effort, but she would, probably, be left to wage battle against
the male species with her peculiar brand of havoc for as long as they both
lived. Despite countless engagements she'd avoided marriage this long. She was
twenty six—almost an old maid—but not in any apparent haste to settle down.
"Hartley. The song," she
reminded him crisply, back to the business at hand.
Swinging around to face the room
again, James demanded to know how long she'd been under his bed.
"A very long time." She
blinked, sighing gustily. "I was bored to sobs. It was the dullest evening
I ever spent in the company of a naked man."
He glared at her. "And did you
succeed in your quest?"
Her long lashes lifted, eyes
twinkling up at him, lips forming a smug smile. "Of course. When I play I
always win."
She was a menace. Having known that
for sixteen years he wondered why anything she confessed should now surprise
him. She had a habit of popping up unexpectedly, in his way. One day he might
find her in his soup tureen when he lifted the lid. No doubt she would have
some wildly improbable excuse for her presence there.
They both reached for the sheet of
lyrics at the same time and almost tore the paper in two.
"I suppose you blamed your
valet for the lost item," she said.
"Watson never mentioned
anything missing."
"Poor fellow." She smiled
archly. "I daresay he feared what you might do to him."
Feeling the tug as she tried
pulling it out of his hand, James gripped his side of the paper even tighter.
"Did you fear what I might do to you,
Miss Vyne, if I found you under my bed?"
That wiped some of the mischievous
sauce off her face. When she looked down, it occurred to James that the closer
he got the harder it was for her to look him in the eye. "I doubt you
would have known what to do with me," she muttered, her little pearl
earrings trembling with agitation. Or nervousness—hard to tell with this woman.
Her mouth was looking remarkably
pink and dewy that afternoon. Pouting like a delicate rose bud, half opened
after a shower of summer rain.
"Oh, I would have known what
to do with you, Miss Vyne," he said huskily. "You may depend upon
it."
Briefly her eyes flashed upward and
he rolled his lips together, hiding the smile that wanted out.
"For pity's sake, let's
rehearse," she exclaimed hotly.
As if it was entirely his fault
that they'd become distracted.
* * * *
He found Grieves in the bedchamber
that evening with a towel draped across his head and shoulders, bent over a
bowl of steaming water.
"It would appear, sir, that I
caught your cold," he wheezed, raising his damp, wilted face from the
mist.
"That's odd, Grieves,"
James replied perkily, "I'm feeling quite recovered myself. Positively bouncing
with health."
"I am very glad for you, sir.
In fact, this water you see running down my face, sir, is tears of joy at your
recovery."
"We must put you back to
rights, Grieves. I shall ring for a housemaid to bring you some tea with warm
honey."
"That won't be necessary, sir.
Since I will not be able to attend the festivities in the servants' hall this
evening, his grace's cook—a stout, jolly lady by the name of Timmons—has
offered to send me up a tray with some of her punch. I am told it has wonderful
restorative properties."
James laughed. "Don't drink
too much of it."
"No, sir." The valet
squinted doubtfully up at him. "You certainly appear to be in a good mood,
sir. The day turned out better than you hoped, perhaps?"
He thought about that. "Since
I had so few hopes for it in the beginning, the only way it could go was
up."
"Indeed, sir." Grieves
paused and then added, "The dreadful Miss Vyne is still in the house,
sir?"
"Oh, yes."
"And you are still in one
piece. Still have all your valuables?"
"So far." He ran his
hands over his chest and checked the hidden pocket inside his coat. All seemed
to be in order. On the outside, in any case.
James thought of the way she'd
smiled.
When
I play I always win.
It was dangerous to let his guard
down with that Vyne woman. One never knew what she might do next. He began to
look forward to finding out.
* * * *
The other ladies present had
brought their own maids to help them dress, but Ellie had none. The duke
offered to have a housemaid sent up to assist her, but Ellie preferred to
manage for herself and didn't want to make extra work for anyone. Besides, she
reasoned, it wasn't as if there was anyone there to impress. She was quite
certain whatever she wore would pass muster with the duke. As for the Major, he
would be too busy worrying about their imminent demise while stranded in the
snow, to take notice of her gown or the way she wore her hair.
As she finished pulling on her
evening gloves the duke came to see her. His mood was pensive.
"Christmas has a tendency to
make me remember the past," he told her, sitting in a chair beside the
dresser. "There is a sadness to it—echoes of dear folk now gone."
He must be thinking of his wife,
she realized. "Yes, it is important to remember those we've known and
loved."
"My sweet, lively little
girl." he reached for her hand and lightly kissed it. "You have
brought spirit and vivacity back into my life this past year. What would I have
done without you?"
Although she was hardly a
"little girl" Ellie did not correct him. She smiled, thinking how
very kind he had been to her—more so, in many ways, than her stepfather, the
Admiral.
"But we must think not only of
the past, but of the future," he went on, speaking softly, still holding
her gloved hand. "At Christmas we
should look, not only back to where we were last year, but forward to where we
will be in the next."
Suddenly Ellie felt her heart pinch
fearfully. Oh, no. Surely he wasn't about to propose marriage. Panic stole
through her body, seizing her in its cold grip until she became completely
frozen and rigid.
"I will not be here forever,
my dear," he said with unusual solemnity. "You must prepare yourself
for when I am gone and I don't like to think of you being left alone."
She didn't realize she'd been
holding her breath, until the walls began to fade out. As he squeezed her
fingers it brought her back to reality and she exhaled a rush of air. "You
need not worry about me. I am not afraid to be alone, your grace."
Slowly he smiled. "I know you
are not afraid. You are quite fearless, Ellie Vyne."
She managed a giddy, careless
laugh. "See?"
"But I am afraid. I am not as
fearless as you."
Ellie took his other hand and now
held them both in hers. "What lies ahead is unknown for everyone. Just as
it was for us when we were babes, waiting in the womb. We did not know what would
happen. We cried when forced out of that comfortable, warm place we knew, but there
was nothing to fear. I always imagine it must be the same when we pass out of
life as it is when we enter."
"But it is not Death I fear.
Goodness no, my dear." She was relieved when his broad face cracked again
in one of his familiar chuckles. "I shall be up there," he rolled his
eyes to the ceiling, "causing havoc and enjoying every minute of it. The
only thing I worry about leaving behind is you."
"Me? But I—"
"This time next year, when I
look down from my galloping cloud, I want to see you blissfully happy,
Ellie."
What could she say to that? It was
impossible to promise such a thing and he knew it. He released her grip and
raised his hands to her cheeks, patting them gently.
"Just remember, young lady, I
won't be here forever. And there is someone out there for you. Probably right
under your nose. Mark me Ellie Vyne, he'll scoop you up and make an honest
woman of you."
She scowled. "Goodness, I hope
not."
He threw back his head and laughed.
* * * *
The Viscount Stepney had arrived
just in time for dinner. The arrogant young pup could already be heard
demanding to know where the "delicious" Miss Vyne might be found. He had
a bone to pick with her, he declared, about some debate they'd shared last time
he saw her. James had just come downstairs in his evening clothes and was
wondering much the same thing as young Stepney.
Rather than encounter the noisy,
blustering newcomer, James slipped into the dining room, following a footman
who was lighting the candelabra.
"Good evening, sir." The
boy stopped and bowed when he saw James. "Is there something you require,
sir?"
"No, no. Just...admiring the
table."
The footman resumed his duties and
James strode casually around the room. The duke's dining table was already set
with glistening crystal glasses, and gleaming china. Tall candles lit the
center, which was decorated with pine boughs and holly. Name cards edged in
gilt were placed by each plate.
One glance over his shoulder
assured James that the footman wasn't watching. He quickly took two of the
cards and swapped them.
Then he tugged on his lapels and
smirked.
Good. She would sit beside him this
evening, not that ridiculous brat, Stepney. It was, after all, best if he kept
an eye on her. Personally.
Very pleased with himself, he spun around
on his heel and found the object of his thoughts directly behind him, dressed
in a lavender silk gown with a daringly low décolletage. A pair of long, white
evening gloves accentuated her slender, graceful arms, which she now curved at
her sides, hands on her waist. Up came her small, stubborn chin and her eyes
shone with bemusement.
"What the devil are you doing,
skulking about in here, Hartley?"
Good thing he didn't ask her what
she was doing there too, she thought. Apparently they were both on secret
missions that evening. She'd hoped to get into the dining room and check the
seating arrangement before anyone came down. Whatever Hartley was up to in
there she had no idea and he wasn't about to tell her.
He sniffed scornfully, fine nose
lifted, thin lips snapped open reluctantly. "I came into this room by
mistake. I thought it was the drawing room."
"Fibber."
"Certainly not. How dare you?
Hartleys never fib. We leave that to Vynes."
Hmm. Definitely guilty of
something, she mused. Ellie walked around him and looked at the place cards,
reading the names on the two closest.
Oh.
Well.
That was alright then.
Something tickled the nape of her
neck and she raised a hand quickly. It was only a fallen lock of hair, drifting
against her skin. But James Hartley was very near behind her and she might
almost imagine....
Every pore on her body drank in the
scent of him. No man ever made her nervous like he did. For a breathless moment
she clutched at harmless subjects for conversation.
"I hope you've been practicing
the song," she exclaimed.
"I'm as ready as I'll ever
be."
"Good. Remember, one bad note will
spoil the entire performance."
They both started for the door at
the same time. "And you remember, Miss Vyne, that it's God rest ye merry, gentlemen. Not God rest ye, merry gentlemen."
She halted in the open doorway and
so did he. "You really don't want those gentlemen to be merry do you,
Hartley?"
"It's not me," he replied
firmly. "It's the proper punctuation and it's meant to be observed."
"Well, I've always sung it my
way."
"Naturally, you don't pay
attention to the details unless they help you win an argument."
Since she thought he was waiting to
let her through first, she took a step forward, but James Hartley moved at
exactly the same moment. The space was wide enough for them both, if they
stopped and turned to face one another. But when they did, James suddenly put
his hands on her arms. Ellie looked up.
A large bunch of mistletoe hung
from the frame. She'd warned the duke that there had better not be any, but he
relished misbehaving, of course. Like her.
She placed her hands flat to James
Hartley's chest, simply because there was no where else to put them. Or so it
seemed in that rash moment.
His eyes were very blue, warm and
cloudless as midsummer sky. His lips curved in a slight smile and she felt her
pulse tumble over itself.
"Merry Christmas, Miss
Vyne," he murmured softly.
Ellie tried to catch her breath. He
stared at her mouth, lowered his head just an inch toward her, tightened his
fingers almost imperceptibly around her gloved arms. And her heart, having
raced blindly around a corner, now came to a dead stop. It was so quiet
suddenly that one could hear a mouse scratching in the wainscoting.
She parted her lips and angled her
face upward. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Hartley."
That bend of his lips grew braver,
stronger. She could smell the lemon and bergamot of his shaving cream.
Her eyelashes lowered and she
leaned in.
"Miss Vyne! Miss Vyne! Where
are you hiding, little minx?" The Viscount Stepney's bellowing tones
shattered their moment as his footsteps marched toward them down the passage.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are!"
He would be upon them in seconds.
James and Ellie instantly parted
and he let her pass through the doorway ahead of him.
Her pulse was pounding so hard she
felt it in the soles of her feet and feared it would make an echo along the
tiles. He walked behind her, so she couldn't see his countenance and had no
idea what he must be thinking. Indeed, she didn't even know what she was thinking, or what had overtaken
her under the mistletoe in that weak moment.
In the distant drawing room someone
began to play The Twelve Days of
Christmas. Voices laughed and chattered. The fragrance of oranges and
cloves, pine and wood smoke tickled her nostrils. She ran her gloved fingertips
along the wall as she passed, reassuring herself that she was back on earth,
but her heart was still thumping too hard. Like those drummers drumming in the
song. Ellie tried to calm it by reminding herself that James Hartley was a
notorious rake who was never happy until he knew every woman in a room adored him.
That was very probably the reason why he would have kissed her. It was his way
of putting her in her place, winning an argument.
Ha! He was bold—had to hand that to
him. Really, it was quite ridiculous. Had she not warned Hartley that when she
played she always won?
Oh, lord! He'd almost kissed her
and she'd nearly let him.
A kiss that wasn't.
Somehow that was even worse.
A kiss interrupted was simply the
promise of a kiss to be.
It hadn't happened yet, but now
they both knew it would.
One of these days...
Find
out when in THE WICKED WEDDING OF MISS ELLIE VYNE (to be released in paperback
and e-book on January 1, 2013. Found in most bookstores and available now for
pre-order from Amazon)
God
rest ye merry, gentlemen!
And
ladies!
JF
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