Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection Read online

Frederick’s chest ached. He’d hoped that they might offer some words of encouragement. Both Rupert and Miles had caused the ton to gossip about their marital choices, and even Marcus’s choice had been deemed below him.

  But none of them had married a servant.

  He shouldn’t regret Celia had fled before they’d had a chance to discuss her actual status.

  He should be grateful.

  And yet...

  Didn’t her experience only make her stronger, more suited to life in the Yorkshire Dales? Her experience as a lady’s maid meant she would understand the servants’ perspective better than the young, protected debutantes favored as potential wives.

  She’d seemed so frightened, so vulnerable in the presence of Lady Fitzroy, and he strove to fight the desire to go to her, to comfort her.

  THE CEREMONY WAS ALL wrong.

  Lady Theodosia looked splendid.

  Everyone said so.

  And the vicomte was the first person to declare he looked similarly splendid, so they were well suited.

  Frederick glanced at his mother, sitting beside him. She clapped in all the right places, but he couldn’t declare her content. Surely her eyes would have looked merrier if she had been.

  It should have been him up there.

  This was his ancestral home.

  He should be marrying the woman he adored.

  No matter her position.

  He loved her. He’d attended sufficient ton weddings to know the rarity of that, even if Lady Theodosia and the vicomte did not seem to belong to that disinterested, dissatisfied coupling category.

  “I need to go to London,” he whispered.

  “Is this the time to tell me?” His mother’s lips twitched.

  “The minister is speaking,” Frederick said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Surely you couldn’t expect me to give the ceremony,” Frederick said.

  “Perhaps not,” his mother said. “What draws you to London?”

  Did he imagine that her voice had a hopeful sound to it?

  It didn’t matter.

  He was going to marry Celia to suit himself, and not anyone else, no matter how close they were to him.

  “I think I should speak with Celia herself,” Frederick said.

  His mother nodded.

  “And then...”

  Her smile tightened. “Perhaps there are some things mothers should not know.”

  Oh.

  She probably thought he’d planned to install Celia as his mistress.

  He would not be the first aristocrat to do that.

  He could give her a nice townhouse somewhere, and marry someone else who could give him respectable children.

  Frederick could pay to keep Celia in pleasant accommodations and dress. No one would think it odd to see him visiting the theatre or opera with a mistress.

  The ceremony ended.

  The vicomte was embracing Lady Theodosia in a manner most inappropriate. It seemed he took his queues about propriety from gossip magazines.

  Or Britain’s own royals.

  “I should go,” he repeated, moving from the pew.

  Perhaps she would be a suitable mistress.

  She might be the daughter of an aristocrat, but she was still a maid.

  Even elevating her to mistress level would be wonderful for her.

  He could free her from a life of drudgery.

  It’s a good idea.

  Unfortunately he couldn’t feel enthusiastic.

  Celia had longed to run a household.

  She was smart and capable.

  She wanted to guide others.

  He couldn’t confine her to some townhome in London or York, swathed in jewels that did not interest her. He could not visit her on weekends, neglecting his work and estate, and perhaps later neglecting his wife and children.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Off so soon?” Lady Theodosia called out from the makeshift aisle. The others turned toward him.

  “I must go to London,” Frederick said.

  “For shopping?”

  “For Celia.” He raised his chin. “I mean to marry her.”

  “But she’s a maid,” Lady Theodosia stammered. “You cannot mean to marry a maid.”

  Frederick was silent, and her eyes widened further.

  He’d only seen such a look of shock before in people viewing the razed down villages of the Napoleonic Wars.

  But then she beamed. “How truly marvelous.” She glanced at her new husband. “The force of our love has already inspired this man to take a bride. Even a most inappropriate one.”

  “My darling,” the vicomte said, embracing his wife again.

  Frederick knew he should frown. He’d met the vicomte and now the vicomtess after he’d originally proposed to Celia.

  But the occasion was still joyful, and try as he might, his lips could not swerve down into a frown.

  This was nothing so grievous as what most of Europe, and a great deal of Britain, had gone through a mere few years ago.

  “I am marrying her,” he repeated.

  Even though he forced his voice to sound stern, he couldn’t help but beam.

  Hearing the words aloud brought such joy to him.

  Celia didn’t know yet, but she would. Soon.

  And then they could begin their very own happily ever after.

  His mother darted from the room, away from the greenery and garlands, and his heart sank. He followed her and closed the door behind them.

  “You may not realize the grave impropriety of what you’re suggesting.”

  “You’ve told me for the past four years that I have a dreadful habit of flaunting convention. I’m sure I can’t shock any one more than I already have.”

  “I doubt that,” she said.

  “The ton call me the Mad Duke,” he reminded her.

  “They are woefully lacking in science education.” She was yielding.

  He hoped. He clasped her hands inside his. She blinked, obviously taken aback by the sudden sign of affection.

  “I love her,” he said.

  “Truly?”

  “More than I can say,” he said. “Now. Aren’t you happy for me?”

  “I—” She bit her lip. “People won’t understand.”

  “People never understand.”

  “But your children. What will people call them?”

  “My children will be the highest peers of the land. It will probably do them a bit of good to have some sympathy for people apart from their class.”

  “I just wanted more for you,” she said. “I-I don’t want you to become a laughingstock.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve already allowed myself to become one,” he said.

  He should never have stayed at home for so long.

  “She doesn’t have your background,” his mother continued. “She doesn’t have your good birth.”

  “Few people do,” Frederick said. “Besides, you liked her.”

  “I thought she was Lady Theodosia,” his mother continued. “The daughter of a lord.”

  “And Celia is the daughter of a lord,” Frederick said solemnly. “And soon she’ll be a duchess.”

  His mother blinked.

  “Look. She’s not the first illegitimate child an aristocrat has ever had. Most of them set up their children in nice houses of their own. It’s particularly bad that she was forced to work as a maid. I’m pretty sure her father would have despised it had he lived.”

  “You may be right,” his mother said.

  “But I would marry her anyway,” the duke said. “Because she’s the one.”

  His mother smiled. “I won’t say that I’m not worried for you, but—”

  Frederick grew silent.

  “I will say I am proud of you,” his mother said. “So very proud.”

  Frederick beamed. “Thank you, mother.” He turned around and shouted. “Get the carriage ready. I’m going to London!”

  He rushed up the stairs, and had already put
half his clothes into the suitcase before his valet appeared, looking somewhat bewildered, and completed the task.

  Marriage.

  He was going to marry her.

  Celia. The woman he loved.

  The mere presence of her in the world seemed to show that the world was quite a bit more wonderful than he’d thought it.

  When the horses were finally hitched to the carriage, he bounded down the steps to go inside it.

  Life was perhaps just as bloody brilliant as the poets said it was.

  It was perhaps even quite a bit nicer than he’d thought it.

  Pity the coach was going far too slowly.

  Why on earth had no one perfected balloon travel yet? With his luck he’d probably end up in Ireland if he were to attempt to travel in one, conversing with some snow-covered sheep.

  He called for the driver and hurried outside.

  “Give me one of your horses,” he said. “I refuse to wait a second longer.”

  The driver expressed his surprise, but Frederick simply flung himself onto one of the horses, unleashed it from the others and road off toward the capital.

  The horse galloped on the road, happy to be freed from dragging a carriage behind it. At the next coaching inn he would saddle a new horse, but now he inhaled the crisp air. The snow had spattered the slopes, and pink and purple light from the sun glowed over it.

  He’d been a fool to ensconce himself in his manor home.

  He leaned forward and urged the horse to hasten.

  Was it possible there’d been another reason why she’d fled?

  Perhaps she favored the city. Perhaps she found the bustle of the capital more appealing. Or perhaps...perhaps she simply did not love him.

  They’d kissed, and it had been easy to move from kisses to more intimate actions. He’d yearned for her, craved her...and she’d disappeared.

  The days passed.

  Finally the spaces between the houses slowly diminished, and finally the fields disappeared entirely.

  He was in London.

  Soon he would see Celia.

  He smiled, but a flicker of uncertainty still moved through him.

  This was a new experience.

  Horses and carriages filled the roads, and the horses’ hooves clomping on the street seemed to thunder in his ears.

  Bright sunbeams swathed everything in its light, leaving no detail unclear.

  His horse slogged through the slushy snow, darkened by the wheels of many carriages and wagons. The gray veneer was not pretty, and for a moment he longed for the sweeping, untouched landscapes of Yorkshire.

  Galloping would be far preferable than this slow trot. Men tooting wares seemed to have no reservations of crossing through the middle of the street.

  He directed the horse toward Grosvenor Square. Gradually the houses grew more elegant, with more elaborate facades. Street urchins no longer wandered the streets, and some trees, their leaves long lost for the season, stood outside the homes as if to adorn them.

  He stood before Fitzroy Place. Snow had settled on some of the ledges, and some ice had frozen to the concrete. The fact made the house only glisten further.

  This was where Celia lived.

  This was where she worked, where she slept.

  The facts probably should not have made his heart beat quicken, but they did so all the same.

  He marched toward the house. The air was crisp, and the north wind seemed compelled to use all its force to usher him away from the townhome.

  “Your Grace?” A female voice said.

  He spun around.

  Lady Fitzroy fixed a hard stare at him. “Have you purchased a London home?”

  “No.”

  Any attempt at a smile vanished. “I hope you are not seeking anyone unavailable.”

  “I’m seeking Celia,” he said. “Your maid.”

  “She’s gone,” Lady Fitzroy said. “As is my daughter.”

  “I found her,” he said.

  “Alone?” Lady Fitzroy asked, her voice tentative.

  “She’s married now.”

  He didn’t need to say that he’d organized the marriage himself. Let everyone assume Lady Theodosia had been not nearly as thoughtless.

  “Where’s Celia? Inside?” He headed toward the front steps, prepared to storm the sitting room. He’d sit on this sofa all bloody day if he had to do so, if there was the slightest chance he might be spending the rest of his life with Celia.

  Lady Fitzroy followed him up the steps. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. Celia does not work here anymore.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  Her face instantly paled.

  And he knew.

  Naturally Celia worked there.

  The woman probably found it particularly pleasurable to reassure herself that Celia had not gone away to cavort with various other members of the ton.

  He could go searching the house himself.

  His legs were longer than the countess’s, and he was well versed in the general direction in which to find maids: they were always at the bottom of the house.

  But he didn’t quite want to get into a shouting match with the countess, even if it would bring him pleasure to tell her exactly what he thought of her.

  He rather thought Celia would not approve.

  And he didn’t want Celia to be forced to come with him.

  If she wanted to marry him, it shouldn’t be because he’d destroyed her reputation.

  “I should go,” he said.

  “So soon?” Lady Fitzroy’s eyebrows narrowed. “But we could have tea.”

  “I feel sufficiently invigorated,” he said.

  He strode from the door and turned to offer Lady Fitzroy a bow.

  Her eyes were still wide with shock, but she managed to lower herself into a curtsy. The dark taffeta crumpled noisily, and Frederick left before she had a chance to rise up.

  Now he had to find another way to speak with Celia.

  The servants’ door must be around the corner.

  He turned toward a gravel path. Unlike the front of the house, the stones were not well maintained and they wobbled beneath his steps.

  “Here to apply for the footman’s position?” a female voice asked.

  Frederick stiffened and glanced at a middle-aged woman in a drab apron. She assessed him through tired eyes.

  From the generous amount of speckles on her apron, she worked in the kitchen.

  He wasn’t a servant.

  Though he admitted that probably arriving in London on horseback, his attire dusty from the week long journey, was probably not exactly a typical ducal entrance.

  He supposed he would just have to go inside, explain he was the Duke of Salisbury, tell them he intended to marry Celia, and then whisk her to a chapel—

  He hesitated. He’d already proposed to Celia.

  And she’d fled.

  Would she again?

  He wouldn’t risk it.

  His lips quirked into a smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The kitchen bustled with activity once the servants finally came down from breakfast. Celia had been the first one to work. Lady Fitzroy was hosting some guests for Twelfth Night, and Cook was busy preparing the most advanced pies as Celia washed and scrubbed

  Polly entered the kitchen, her hair up in a new twist, perhaps conscious of her now elevated status. Her eyes glimmered. “There’s a new footman. He’s a handsome one!”

  “Not a good one,” the first footman grumbled. “Had to explain to him about the most basic tasks.”

  “You shouldn’t be speaking like that anymore,” Cook grumbled. “You’re in a position of responsibility. Footman ranking does not belong to your other duties.”

  “That’s a pity. I would be quite good at footman ranking,” Polly said blithely.

  Celia tried to smile. It seemed hard to get reinvolved with the life of the servants. She certainly didn’t want to muse over their level of expertise with utensils.


  “You’ve changed,” Polly said.

  “Have I?” Celia forced herself to sound normal.

  Her mind seemed forever preoccupied with Frederick.

  She’d forever remember the touch of his fingers, the sound of his voice...

  “He’s coming now,” Polly said. “Mr. Durham.”

  “You must be Celia,” a deep voice said.

  The velvety voice made her heart quicken, and her nerve endings seemed to tingle, as if willing her to lean back and collapse in the man’s arms.

  It was ridiculous.

  Naturally the voice could not be...him.

  This must be the new footman, and if his voice seemed to remind her of someone else, it was only because the butler must have hired someone with more education than normal. The only thing significant in his pleasantly formed words was that the economic situation in this country must be dire, and it gave credence to the more politically minded men who paraded about. The man sounded more like a first footman than a third one.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” the man continued, and her heartrate beat more quickly.

  It did sound awfully like...him.

  “He’s speaking to you.” Polly elbowed her.

  Celia sighed and braced herself for having the ridiculousness of her musings confirmed.

  Likely the man was short.

  And oblong shaped.

  And lacking any hair and much of his teeth.

  She swung around.

  The man did not seem particularly short. She gazed up at him, and heat trickled through her body. Perhaps it was a natural reaction from inclining her head to this angle.

  And yet it was a very familiar angle.

  The man’s height did match Frederick’s.

  As did the man’s chiseled features.

  And his muscles seemed formed in a manner that resembled his.

  Obviously it was not really Frederick.

  Frederick was a duke, and not some footman attired in a too tight suit that made the muscles in his chest seem indecent.

  The fact his coloring resembled Frederick’s was sheer coincidence.

  In fact it was more likely the new footman didn’t resemble him at all, and her imagination was simply playing the most beastly tricks on all.

  Likely the man had ginger hair and freckles, and looked no more like Frederick than an octupus resembled a unicorn.