It Happened Under the Mistletoe: A Holiday Novella (8 page)

Lady Kinsey leaned over the table, affording him a more than ample view of her aging breasts. She lowered her voice to a hiss-like whisper. “Please tell me you’re not serious about that Blake chit.”

The paper nearly dropped from his fingers. He clenched his jaw. “Pardon?”

“Why, she’s no more qualified to be a duchess than the parlor maid.”

Oliver savagely twisted the sides of the paper in his fists. “I fail to see how that’s any of
your
concern, my lady.” He nearly spat the words.

Lady Kinsey lowered her voice and glanced around. “She’s Welsh for God’s sake.”

Oliver took a deep breath. “Again, none of your concern.”

She leaned ever closer, her eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t have to tell you how tarnished the Markingham title became after Lady Medford’s little escapade last year. I fear your family name cannot withstand another smear upon it.”

Oliver stared at her with unblinking eyes. “Do you have a point?”

She raised her chin. “Must you force me to spell it out, your grace?”

“Seems so,” he drawled.

She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Very well then,” she said, her voice still low. “I am close, personal friends with Lady Jersey, Lady Castlereagh, and Lady Cowper, the patronesses of Almack’s. As you well know, one cross word from them and your family name would be quite sullied beyond all hope of redemption. Not to mention if they don’t approve of your new wife, she’ll be given the cut direct by everyone in the
ton
.”

Blood pounded through Oliver’s temples. “Might I remind you that my wife shall be a duchess?”

“Indeed, but a Welsh nobody wouldn’t survive as a duchess, Markingham. Not without the backing of those ladies. Do I make myself clear?”

Oliver stood and tossed the crumpled paper to the tabletop. “What exactly is it that you want from me, Lady Kinsey?”

She grinned at that. An evil-looking grin. “Selina is the perfect choice for a duchess, Markingham. You know that. She’s been raised to the title since she was a babe.”

“I’ve no doubt she would fit the role to perfection but what about the fact that we don’t suit? I’m looking for a wife who’s more interested in me than my title.”

Lady Kinsey smirked. “You’re a fool, Markingham. Who cares about interest? This is about money and combining two great houses. And keeping your family name intact.”

Oliver’s knuckles cracked. “And you intend to ensure that my wife and I are given the cut direct by all of Society if I don’t choose Lady Selina?”

“Precisely. Selina and I have invented a final game to play before the house party is over. Let’s just say you’d do well to pick her when the time comes. Do I make myself clear?”

Oliver pushed back his chair with a loud scrape. “You’ve made yourself entirely clear,” he spat. He stood up, turned on his heel, and stalked away.

*   *   *

Cerian turned away from the back entrance to the breakfast room. Whatever Oliver and Lady Kinsey had been discussing, it seemed intense. And intimate. She shuddered. Lady Kinsey had leaned over and touched Oliver’s hand. That was the type of woman who populated Oliver’s world, not Cerian. Not a silly little Welsh mouse who didn’t belong in London Society, let alone on the arm of a duke. Lady Kinsey and her daughter were beautiful and worldly and self-possessed. No doubt they never said awkward, silly things like Cerian seemed to blurt at every turn.

Cerian thought back to her conversation with Kate and cringed. Kate had spoken about Oliver as if she actually had a chance at winning him. And Cerian had been so bold as to actually discuss it with her cousin. What an idiot Cerian was. It didn’t matter that Oliver hadn’t been raised as the heir to a dukedom. He’d still been raised as the grandson of a duke. He still inhabited the world of the
ton
, a world Cerian had no place in. Oh, she could travel to Oxfordshire for a Christmastide house party and put diamonds in her hair and dress up and pretend. She might even meet a real duke and—gulp—kiss him. But that was as long as that fairytale would last, no matter what she or her Mama wished for.

And the most miserable thing was that she’d realized something watching Oliver and Lady Kinsey. Cerian was jealous. Desperately so. And one didn’t get jealous unless one had feelings for someone.

She’d been having schoolgirl fantasies about Oliver and somehow managed to forget that he was the most sought after man in London. And she was seven kinds a fool for forgetting it.

Cerian shook her head. No. No. No. This was all wrong, not how it was supposed to go at all. The playacting must stop. She must end it all now before she truly got hurt.

*   *   *

Oliver slammed his fist into the bag of hay. He’d come to the stables to borrow a mount to ride but instead he found himself in an empty stall, driving his fist into the first inanimate object he found.

Damn Lady Kinsey and her smug innuendo. How dare that woman threaten him and his family name? And damn George and his treatment of Kate and his fight with his valet that got him killed and smeared the Markingham name to begin with. His grandfather’s legacy was something Oliver had been proud of his entire life, and now it was somehow miraculously entrusted to him and he carried the burden of restoring the name to its former glory. By God, the Markingham name had been esteemed for centuries and it would continue to be, with or without the approval of the bloody patronesses of Almack’s.

But even as he thought the words, he knew they weren’t true. The patronesses could and did control the gossip and approval of the majority of Society. If they chose to cut him or his family, there would be little he could do to restore the good name. One miracle had already happened when Kate had been allowed to reenter the
ton
’s good graces. But that had been largely due to the reputation and connections of her husband, Medford. The Markingham name was no longer hers.

But the worst part was that even if Oliver didn’t give a bloody damn about himself, he did care about Cerian. She’d told him how vulnerable she was when it came to fitting into Society. How she dreaded it, wanted no part of it. It made her nervous, made her want to rush back to Wales and marry a nobody who truly loved her and lead a simple life. When he thought about the viciousness of members of Society like Lady Kinsey, he couldn’t blame Cerian for her wish.

Damn her to perdition, but Lady Kinsey had got one thing right, and that was that if those smug, awful women decided to give Cerian the cut direct, she would be an outcast. And she was already trying desperately to fit in. They could completely destroy her. Even if he did give her the protection of his name. And regardless of how he was rapidly coming to care for her, Oliver would not allow his new inconvenient title to ruin a young woman as sweet and loving and funny as Cerian. He slammed his fist into the bag again. No. He would stay away from her. He had to. For her sake. By God, he’d stay out here in the stables hitting hay bags for the rest of the bloody house party if that’s what it took.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The moment Oliver strolled into the drawing room after dinner, Cerian made her way over to him, steeling her resolve. “Your grace, a moment of your time?”

He nodded, an inscrutable look on his face. “Of course.”

He allowed her to precede him to the corner and followed her there. Thank heavens they were partially obscured by a large potted palm. But not before Cerian noted Lady Kinsey’s dark watchful eyes upon them.

The words tumbled out of Cerian’s mouth in a rush. She’d been practicing them all morning and now that the moment was here, the words seemed to have become hopelessly jumbled.
Typical
.

“Your grace, I want to … that is … I wish to … That is to say, I…”

“Perhaps you should take a deep breath,” he offered.

Had that been the duke talking or the voice in her head? Regardless, it was a fine idea and no matter its origin, she would take that bit of advice. She breathed in deeply, sucking air into her lungs and then blowing it out evenly, briefly closing her eyes.

“Feel better?” he asked.

Ah, so it had been his idea.

“Immensely,” she replied.
Courage, Cerian. Say what you’ve resolved to say.
She could only hope that the duke would be able to hear her next words over the insane tapping of her nervous little foot. “Your grace, I wanted to tell you that I think it’s time we agreed to, I mean, that we decided upon ending our agreement.”

He narrowed his eyes on her. “Our agreement?”

She lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder glaring at the potted palm as if that sneaky plant might be listening. “Yes. The one in which we were pretending to have affection for one another.”

She held her breath, waiting for his response. Would he be angry? Would he be sad? Would he be…? No doubt about it. The look on his face was pure … relief. She wrinkled her nose. Deflating, to be sure.

“I do think that’s best, Miss Blake.” He nodded.

She blinked. “You do?”

“Yes. Most prudent.”

Unexpected tears stung the backs of her eyes. Wait a moment. Why was
she
upset? She’d begun this conversation. It had been her idea. “Oh, I’m so…” She searched her mind for the correct word. Devastated? Shocked? Unhappy? “Glad you agree, your grace,” she finished, trying her best not to choke on the words. “Because here I’d been thinking I’d be letting you down easily and you’ve clearly been wanting to do the same.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. How humiliating. Her only comfort was that she’d been able to say the actual words first. Ugh and she’d got the “most prudent” reply.

Doubly humiliating
.

He nodded perhaps a bit too emphatically. “There is only one more day of the house party after all.”

“Exactly my reasoning,” she replied, the smile she posted on her face overly bright.

“I see no reason why we cannot fend off our respective suitors for that short amount of time.”

Cerian refused to allow the smile to falter. “I quite agree. One day is most manageable,” she replied. “Not that I haven’t appreciated your help over the past few days.”

“And I yours,” he said with a bow.

Cerian swallowed the unwelcome and untimely lump in her throat. “So, we are in agreement?”

“Quite.”

“Quite,” she echoed, wishing she could somehow disappear into the potted palm.

She was saved from an awkward good-bye, however, when Lady Selina clapped her hands and announced to the group at large, “Gather round, everyone. It’s time for the next game of the house party.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Hide and seek. Why did it have to be hide and seek?

Cerian knew exactly where she wanted to hide. In the coach on the way home from this dreadful house party. But instead, she decided the more prudent route would be to sneak up the staircase when no one was looking and go to bed.

She couldn’t stand the thought of Lady Selina chasing after Oliver. And finding him. And God only knew what she’d do if she caught him. No, no, no. Not after Cerian had just declared an end to her mutual alliance with him. It was all too much.

“The ladies shall hide and the gentlemen shall seek,” Lady Selina announced with a bit too much premeditated glee in her voice.

Cerian crossed her arms over her chest. “No doubt she’ll hide in Oliver’s bedchamber,” she mumbled to Kate who stood near her.

Kate leaned closer. “What was that, dear?”

“Nothing.” Cerian smiled sweetly.

“The gentlemen shall count one hundred,” Lady Selina said. “Whilst the ladies hide on the ground floor.”

Cerian fought her eye roll. The only place she’d be hiding was under the covers of her own bed.

The gentlemen, led by an overly enthusiastic Sir Gilliam, began the count while the mostly giggling ladies dispersed into the corridor. Cerian dutifully followed them out and then waited just outside the door until all of the ladies were gone before she tentatively made her way toward the staircase in the foyer. She made it up the first ten steps before her mother’s voice stopped her.

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

Cerian froze, closing her eyes. She had been so close to freedom. So close. She slowly turned on her heel to face her mother. “I have a ghastly headache?”

But even she knew she didn’t sound convincing.

Her mother crossed her arms over her chest and slowly tapped her foot on the marble floor, giving Cerian the stern stare for which she was famous.

Cerian slowly plodded back down the stairs. Her mother pointed down the corridor. “Go! Hide. We’ve only one more evening here and you’ve yet to receive any offers.”

“But Mama I don’t think—”

Her mother pointed again. “Go!”

Cerian began walking. There was no arguing with Mama when she was like this, and even worse, the woman would remain camped out in front of the stairs. Cerian had no hope of slipping away. Unless of course she could manage to find the servants’ staircase. With that bit of hope in her heart, Cerian made her way through the corridor, pausing every now and again to look back and see her mother’s disapproving stare fading into the distance.

Sighing, Cerian rounded a bend just as a loud male voice boomed through the house, “One hundred!”

Oh, jolly, the men were finished with the count. She could just picture Sir Gilliam and Lord Esterbrooke barreling through the doors no doubt with mistletoe in hand ready to demand a kiss from the unwitting female foolish enough to be standing in the middle of the corridor during a game of hide and seek.

Cerian glanced around a bit frantic. There had to be somewhere to hide temporarily, just while the gentleman passed through. Then she could resume her quest for the back staircase. She glanced to the left. Nothing. She glanced to the right. Nothing. Wait a tick. Nothing but the door to the silver closet.

The silver closet it was. She scurried across the polished floor, flung open the door, and hurled herself inside the empty closet just in time to hear the raucous laughter as the large group of men passed by. She tried to still her breathing, pressing her ear to the door to listen. They seemed to all be gone, but just to be certain, she would count five and twenty before she ventured out. She moved back from the door, pressing her hand to the chest.