Christmas Delights (4 page)

“Will you tell me more about Princess Everilda? It’s been ever so long since you started the story.”

“Where was I?” Victoria asked, leaving her wrapper at the foot of the bed and climbing in.

“Princess Everilda was angry that the dead queen was playing so lightly with Prince Hugh’s life. Do you think Prince Hugh looks anything like Eddy Jackson?”

“You think he’s handsome?” She reflected on the youth’s reddish brown hair and sharp, freckled nose. “Aren’t you a little young to find youths handsome?”

“I didn’t say he was handsome,” Penelope said in an injured tone. “But he’s lively.”

“Do you think the son of a queen like Avice would be lively?”

“More of a milksop, I suppose,” Penelope said with a yawn.

“That’s what I would think. Though he probably sits a horse well enough.”

“I think I might like horseless carriages better than horses,” Penelope said.

“But girls love horses,” said Victoria, startled. She’d never been one for horses herself, but that was because she lived in the city, not a place where she would have learned to ride and care for the beasts.

“They smell,” said Penelope, yawning again. “How many more difficulties will Princess Everilda face?”

“Twelve, of course. It is a Christmas story.”

“Then what is number eight? You didn’t finish the list.”

“Let’s see. Queen Avice sneered, of course, and said, ‘Not that it will do you any good, Everilda, but I shall tell you the rest, so that you may have additional opportunity to despair.’

“The princess stared down from the dais, appearing unmoved, though of course she was shaking and sweating under her winter wool gown.”

“Is she pretty?” Penelope asked, snuggling back against her feather pillow.

“As pretty as a very plump princess can be,” Victoria said, leaning back against her own pillow with her hand tucked under her head. “ ‘Cease your delay tactics, your highness,’ said the princess, ‘and explain. ’

“ ‘There must be eight tapestries unraveled,’ said the queen with a roll of her undead eyes. ‘Nine ribbons ripping.’

“ ‘Go on,’ said the princess, unmoved.

“ ‘Ten castles uncastled,’ said dead Queen Avice.

“The princess thought the fires in the enormous fireplace roared higher at this, as if they grew strength from the evil shade. ‘You don’t say,’ she said pertly, for she could not show fear.” Victoria yawned herself. When she closed her mouth again, she realized she was about out of ideas. She stopped speaking, hoping her cousin had fallen asleep, but the girl poked her.

“Just coming to the good stuff now,” she promised. “ ‘Eleven tigers will roast,’ the shade snarled. ‘And, finally, twelve masks must unmask.’ ”

“The tigers were a bit unexpected,” Penelope said. “Tigers in old England?”

“They can’t be simple tasks,” Victoria reasoned.

“No. Now you’ll have fun figuring out how to get the princess out of this mess.”

“Do you think I’m making the story up as I go along?”

“Probably.” Penelope rolled over. “Good night, Victoria. Dream up some more of the story, please.”

“I will.” Victoria pushed her pillow down and inched into a full recline. At least Penelope had given her the excuse to think of something more than her failed seduction for a few minutes. She still felt a little weak in the knees, though, a little tremulous in the heated flesh between her thighs. Resolving to banish Lewis Noble from her thoughts for now, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

“I wish I was old enough to attend,” Penelope said wistfully the next evening, as Victoria straightened the green velvet draping over her Marie Antoinette–style panniers. In her dress, she was nearly four feet wide. She never would have dared such a style when plump, but now it felt like a delicious tease. Her low-cut bodice displayed an ample though very reduced bosom framed in delicate lace. Most of the fabric in this costume went into the skirt.

A tall blond wig covered her dark curls, giving her a feeling of invisibility even without the green mask attached to a stick that she could hold to her eyes. She had debated hiding her face more fully, but from whom? No one was trying to avoid her, and few in the crowd would even know her name.

She nodded to the maid when a knock came at the door. When a male voice rumbled, Victoria stood with a cry. “Papa!”

Tall, broad Rupert Courtnay strode toward her, resplendent in brocaded Louis XVI court dress. A curly white wig covered his graying, thinning hair.

“You look a decade younger in that costume!” she teased, tugging a curl before hugging him.

“You are almost as wide as you are tall, daughter,” he said, shaking his head over the elaborate dress.

“I am sure others will be dressed as extravagantly,” she said, hoping she was right. The masquerade ball was hosted by an earl, after all.

“I am sure most of the attendees will be digging into their attics,” her father said. “You will be the belle of the ball.”

“I wouldn’t mind a little male attention. You’ll dance with me, won’t you, Father?”

He frowned. “I understand you are young and frustrated, Victoria, but I thought you would remain in half-mourning for another six months.”

“It’s a masquerade ball. No one will know me.”

He pointed to the mask. “If you wish to be incognito, then that mask is insufficient. Let us trade.”

She sighed and handed over her mask-on-a-stick. She didn’t like the half-domino style with ribbons that he handed her. They tended to compress her nose and make her sneeze.

“Keep it on all night,” he cautioned her. “I don’t want you to be disgraced. This party is your chance to enter another level of fashionable society.”

“I hardly think so, Father. Why, the earl never goes to London. The only other title I’ve heard mentioned is a Scottish baron.”

“The Marquess of Hatbrook will be here.”

She shrugged. “He is wed, and he has already attended your parties in London.”

“I take it you’ve heard of no one who might interest you for a second husband?”

Her thoughts jumped to the curly white-blond head of Lewis Noble. But he was just another inventor, for all his good looks and working muscle. A step up would be a marriage into the peerage. At the very least, she should find herself another baronet so she didn’t lose a title. When, of course, she was ready to wed again, which wouldn’t be any time soon.

“Sussex isn’t the place to find a man who will want to run factories in Liverpool someday,” she pointed out.

“Then I’ll have to live long enough for Penelope to find us a captain of industry.” His smile loosened the beauty mark he’d applied at the corner of his mouth.

Penelope giggled. “Do you think I’ll marry at eighteen?”

“I don’t see why not. You’re as cute as a merry lump of coal dancing in the grate.” Rupert pinched his niece’s cheek. “Now get yourself into bed. You won’t grow if you don’t sleep.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Victoria reached up and pressed her father’s beauty mark back into place. “Is it late enough for us to go downstairs?”

He held out his arm. “Put on your mask, my dear, and let us see.”

She put the mask to her face and threaded the ribbons behind her ears. As her father tied them, she felt a sneeze coming on.

“You do not sneeze prettily,” Penelope said. “Keep your mouth closed and wrinkle your nose if it itches. It is much more attractive.”

“Who told you that?” her father asked with a frown.

“Mother.”

Still frowning, her father pointed at the bed. “Go to sleep. Now, Victoria, I think you need a couple of beauty patches, too. It is amazing how they obscure the identity.” He pulled a small case from his waistcoat.

He added one to her right cheek, then placed a second just above her top lip. “Yes, with that wig I would hardly know you. Lessen the speed of your speech. With your figure so reduced, you should be all but unrecognizable from eighteen months ago.”

Victoria nodded. She put a finger under her nose to try to stop the next sneeze. Why had she wanted her father to join her at this party? He was dragging down the fun more every minute.

With a sigh, she took his arm and blew a kiss in the direction of the bed. The mattress squeaked.

“Will there be cake? Will you bring me some at midnight? Just as it is becoming Christmas Day?” Penelope asked.

“You would be better to pray upon the miracle of Christ’s birth and think less about cake,” her father advised. “We will see you in the morning.”

They exited the room. As soon as the door was shut, Victoria whispered, “Why were you frowning when she mentioned her mother? What is going on with Aunt Clarissa?”

“Not now, Victoria,” her father said in a voice that betrayed exhaustion. “It has been a long day coming here, and now we have this masquerade ball to get through. I cannot deal with family at this moment.”

“We need to discuss the matter soon. You cannot expect to saddle me with a child when I should be courting,” she protested.

“The right man will be too industrious to worry if you are caring for a child, Victoria. In fact, it will be a blessing because he will see how you are with children.”

She rubbed the corner of her eye where the domino was scratching it. If a man saw her with Penelope, he would be more concerned than satisfied by her maternal instincts. “I allowed you to direct my courtship the first time, Father, but surely I have earned your trust this time around?”

“My dear, I found you a husband the first time,” he said, the skin around his eyes creasing.

“I think I can find my own, now, what with the title and everything.” Just hopefully not too soon.

“Your appearance is improved,” he said. “We shall see if you can attract any attention on your own. Now you have not only your dowry but your late husband’s funds as well. Of course, your age is against you.”

“I’m twenty-one, not even on the shelf by nonwidow standards,” she said.

“Marriage is business. You’ve lost a couple of years of childbearing, I don’t deny it. But we shall see what we can manage.” Her father looked away as they reached the staircase.

Victoria stepped down carefully, in front of her father, as they both could not fit. It was for the best, really, because she might have slapped him if he’d been alongside her. How dare the man who loved her best insinuate she was second-class material on the marriage market? She blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears that might stain the velvet. Tears wouldn’t do. He couldn’t possibly be correct.

T
ears were never acceptable in public, and this descent was most assuredly not private. The stairs had a slight curve to them, and as she stepped down, she first saw the tops of heads, decorated boldly in holly sprigs and wigs, feathers and hoods. Not to be missed were the hats, both fashionable and military. Next into view were the faces up-tilted in laughter. Then, as she reached the bottom, the costumes became more obvious. The obligatory Tudors, the fantastic military display of lobsterback coats. The eighteenth-century gentlemen, with their falls of lace, and rotund women in the evening dress of early in this century that so admirably cloaked size. She knew, for she had worn those costumes herself during her engagement, while Sir Humphrey had gone about dressed in his admiral grandfather’s black tricorn atop a regular modern evening suit, since he refused to wear a costume. He had been a stolid, unimaginative man, very proper and most kind. She could not imagine how her father’s businesses would have thrived under him, except that he might have been able to bind excellent employees to him by his sheer goodness, if he had the presence of mind to hire correctly.

While she had been visiting graying memories, her slipper-clad feet had reached the marble floor. All came into sharp relief again: the laughter, the music, the bright colors. Should she be ashamed to be here in her pretty white and green costume? Sir Humphrey had been proper, true, but he had known he was robbing her as he died. He would not grudge her a little masked fun so long after his death. Blast Queen Victoria anyway, for making mourning such a state of desirability.

Her father stepped down behind her. She turned to ask him whether he wanted to go into the ballroom, the dining room, or the game room, when a girl with long, flowing blond hair, clad in a mid-sixteenth-century gown embroidered with seed pearls at the bodice stopped in front of her. With a red wig, she might have been a young Queen Elizabeth. Instead, Victoria recognized Rose Redcake, waving a dance card, her mask tied around her neck instead of covering her eyes.

“I saved one for you,” she said, a little out of breath. “Where have you been? I thought you would be one of the first to arrive, since you are staying here.”

Victoria took the card with a smile and tied it around her wrist. “Father, this is Rose Redcake.”

Her father bowed slightly, causing his wig to slip down over his eyebrows.

Victoria laughed and helped him right it. Rose laughed, too, then put her hand to her mouth and coughed.

“Suffering from the aftereffects of a cold, Miss Redcake?” her father inquired.

“No, sir, I am well.”

Her father nodded, but Rose colored and looked at her slippered feet. A path through the crowd opened, and Victoria saw a trio of broad-shouldered, dark-haired young giants, full of masculine energy. Rose followed her gaze and turned, her own expression darkening.

“Who are they?” Victoria asked.

“The Dickondell brothers. That is Clement, Ernest, and Sam; he’s the youngest, younger than we are.”

“Clement is unwed?” Victoria asked, eyeing the man who was clearly the eldest brother, in his late twenties, with just the faint touch of creases around his eyes.

“He is not adverse to flirtation, but I am not convinced that he does not have his heart set on his cousin Maud. She is nineteen now, so I do not understand why he hasn’t spoken for her.”

“Does she have any money?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but that can’t be it. I have an excellent dowry and he hasn’t shown me any special attention,” Rose said.

“His parents may disagree with his desired match, and his heart has not reconciled him to that,” said Victoria’s father.

“You speak with authority on the matter,” Rose said.

“I saw it work so with my brother,” he said.

“Did he ever marry?” Rose asked.

“Yes, to the woman our parents wanted for him.”

“It ended well?”

“He is speaking of Penelope’s parents,” Victoria said.

“Oh, has she been orphaned?” Rose asked, missing the nuances of the situation.

Mr. Courtnay shook his head. “No, but she is with us for a time.”

Victoria hadn’t known the match had been forced upon her uncle. “Were you forced to marry Mother?” she asked.

Her father smiled. “No, dear, I was lucky to love someone who was acceptable to your grandparents. I only regret we lost her so young.”

“You should remarry,” Victoria said. “You have been alone for eleven years, Father. What better place to fall in love than a holiday party? Your parents are no longer alive to have an opinion on the matter.”

He chuckled. “I was always stronger-willed than my brother. My parents would not have been an obstacle.”

“Even so. Rose, will you not help me choose a suitable bride for my father?” If he were occupied, he would not watch her actions so carefully.

She thought Rose would immediately suggest Lady Florence, who at forty was just a few years younger than her father, but Rose did not respond. “The countess thought Lady Florence.”

Rose tilted her face up to Victoria’s father. “No, she will not do.”

He smiled. “Will you give me a dance, Miss Redcake? We can discuss my options further.”

Rose pulled her mask from her neck and held out her card. While her father signed it, Rose tied the mask over her eyes. Though she had freckles and a pale countenance, she was rather lovely. Victoria felt a shiver of precognition excite her marrow. But her father had never fallen for a pretty face as long as she could remember. Why would Rose find a middle-aged man interesting when she didn’t need his money to be comfortable?

Without her quite realizing it, her father and Rose had relocated a good ten feet away, clearing a path through the crowd hovering in the hall. Victoria looked up, wondering if she should follow, or even try to cadge an introduction to Ernest Dickondell from someone they both knew. Before she could move, she saw a mop of white-gold curls lit by the gasolier.

The man had been standing along the wall, speaking to someone dressed like one of the King Charleses. He wore a pleasingly snug, high-necked blue coat faced with white satin over an open shirt edged with lace. Tight, very tight white breeches showed every morsel of the delectable male body to perfection, and she could see his stockings needed no padding to fill out the calf. Dress slippers looked almost absurd on such large, manly feet, but really, Lewis Noble was perfection in his nearly century-and-a-half-old naval uniform and totally identifiable despite the black domino.

“Oh, my,” she whispered.

He approached her as if no one else was in the room. She saw a woman lift her fan in his direction. No response. A man held out his hand, but Lewis Noble didn’t seem to see him.

Then he was in front of her, bowing in the flowing style of vanished days.

“Mr. Noble,” she murmured.

He lifted his gaze. “Lady Allen-Hill. Such a pleasure to see you out of mourning.”

She gave him a tight nod, not sure if he was truly praising or subtly indicating his disapproval. But he was not supposed to be a man of subtlety. He said what he thought, so she said, “Thank you. I could not have a drab Christmas. Though the mask is intended to protect my identity, of course.”

“I do not blame you for wanting to wear a pretty gown. You are too young to dress like a crow. I’m sure your mask will have the intended effect, for most people.”

But not for him, who had known her somewhat intimately
. She felt her bodice constrict as she tried to draw a deep breath.

“Your costume is exquisite,” he observed, his gaze lingering on her exposed bosom.

“I didn’t see you all day.” His gaze heated her, reminding her of what they might have shared the night before, if only they hadn’t been interrupted.

“I was busy with the earl.” His gaze drifted down her skirts and back up again.

“I was sorry we were disturbed last night.”

His gaze fastened on her face, his eyes widening.

She should not have been so bold, but then again, her words were far less bold than her actions had been. He smiled, giving him a hint of boyish naughtiness.

“I am sorry, too,” he said. “But Eddy sleeps in my dressing room.”

“I don’t suppose there is a lock on that door.”

He chuckled. “I can’t lock the boy in. What if there was a fire?”

“I share my bed with Penelope. I didn’t expect house parties to be so complicated.” She made a face. How did people manage? And had she really just spoken so frankly? She had exposed her naïveté, true, but also her lust.

“I was honored by the attempt.” He glanced down at her wrist. “May I?”

She held it up, the card dangling. He laid it on his own palm and wrote his name down for two dances.

“No one else has spoken for you yet?”

“I have just arrived. I don’t know anyone except the ladies of the house, your cousins, and you.”

“I see.” He offered her his arm and was soon placing her in front of the Marquess of Hatbrook and insisting he take a dance. Then they moved to Sir Bartley Redcake, who was also persuaded into a dance. Lastly, he brought her to the Earl of Bullen, who looked shocked at the notion of dancing at his own ball but agreed to a reel. Victoria followed in a daze as Lewis made the introductions.

“There,” Lewis said with obvious satisfaction. “No need for you to interact with any other gentlemen.”

“It might be said that you introduced me to the most eligible bachelor in the room,” she said, flattered by the way he had taken charge of her evening. When he gave himself a goal, it prompted a whirlwind of activity. She followed him to the foot of the staircase.

“Oh, Nicholas?” Lewis said with careless satisfaction. “He has yet to discover the pleasures of the fairer sex. His brain is too full of maritime vessels.”

“Then you were not displeased by my boldness?” Her voice caught on the last word. She still felt a little shy around this intensely masculine creature, though she was increasingly sure that she would, in the end, become his bedmate. Her body positively quivered with sensual awareness.

They were interrupted by a hand on Lewis’s shoulder. “Noble. I hope you aren’t trying to hide a pretty lady from the rest of us.”

“Trying,” Lewis said to Ernest Dickondell, who had a cheery grin on an unshaven face.

“I have thwarted you. Introduce us. We’re at a private ball. The rules can be relaxed.”

“They have to be relaxed very far to introduce such a reprobate.” Lewis sighed dramatically. “But if I must. Lady Allen-Hill, may I present Ernest Dickondell, feared pirate of the seven seas?”

Victoria stared doubtfully at the child’s cutlass tucked into a sash around the man’s broad waist. He wore clothing not so different from Lewis’s, but in purest black. A tricorn hat of ancient lineage was pushed back on his head. “No eye patch?”

“Couldn’t find one,” Ernest admitted. “Rather spoils the effect, I admit.”

“You could wink a lot,” Victoria suggested.

Ernest smiled, displaying large white teeth that looked entirely too well cared for to belong to a pirate. “May I have a dance?”

“Card’s full.” Lewis’s grin bared his teeth. “Sorry, Captain.”

“What are you then, Lewis? Seaman Noble?”

“Major General Lewis Noble of Her Majesty’s Marine Forces,” Lewis said, deadpan. “I shall pursue you to the ends of the earth, you scurvy dog. And win the girl besides.”

“She has to want to be won. One look at you after a hard day in your machine shop and she’ll run straight into my arms.” Ernest winked at her.

“Lady Allen-Hill?” Lewis countered. “I don’t think so. She grew up among her father’s machines, right, my lady?”

“Something like that, Major General,” she said, then blushed at the lie. “Actually, I never went near the factories.”

“You probably have her confused with your cousins, Lewis,” Ernest said. “It was the Marchioness of Hatbrook who grew up in the factories. It only takes one look at this lady to see she is more gently bred.”

Lewis’s brows narrowed as his expression grew hard. “I will not have you insulting Lady Hatbrook.”

Ernest held up his hand and favored Victoria with another slow wink. “I just thought the lady should know where your loyalties lie. Madam, my heart is pure and untasted, whereas you see before you a most compromised seadog.”

Victoria glanced at her dance card, suddenly wishing she had a dance to spare for this naughty Dickondell. She’d like to hear more about Lewis’s compromised heart, even if all she’d really been looking for were his embraces. Why was it so hard for a respectable widow to get some amorous congress with a decent man?

“The Fates are conspiring,” she muttered, then looked up at the men’s startled expressions as she realized she’d said it aloud.

“Not against you, I hope, my lady,” Ernest said with an exaggerated frown. “Never against you. If I cannot have a dance, may I partner you to dinner?”

Lewis opened his mouth to protest, but Victoria spoke first. “By all means, my gallant pirate. I cannot wait.”

Ernest winked yet again, bowed, then disappeared into the throng.

“Why would you want to dine with him?” Lewis growled. “He’s a known rake, on the prowl for a rich heiress.”

“I am a rich heiress,” Victoria said softly.

“I thought you were interested in me. Was that all a mistake?” His expression stayed closed, remote.

“Will you be dreaming of some other woman when I’m in your bed?” Her retort shocked her. She was acting like a jealous lover, not a flirt.

He stared at her for a long moment. “If I allow a woman into my bed, she is going to be the only thing I think about. The only thought I will have will be her pleasure; my only concern will be her satisfaction.”

She felt her intimate flesh contract in a hard burst of pleasurable shock. “Are you ready to allow it, sir?”