Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet, III, i
Reg stiffened, the color leaching from his face until it was as white as bone. By contrast, Jason was flushed and wide-eyed, glancing incredulously between the horse and his father.
“Mine?” he breathed.
“All yours,” Whitborough confirmed, smiling. “As you see, I could not wait until your birthday, after all. Happy Christmas, son.”
Dazedly, the boy descended the steps and held out his hand to the horse. The hunter snorted and tossed his handsome head before bending down to nose at Jason’s palm.
“Isn’t he splendid?” Jason marveled, running a hand up and down the proud arched neck. “I’ve never seen one so fine...”
Gervase eyed his older brother covertly; Reg’s face was still set, but he had more control over his expression and demeanor now. Fortunately, most of the family was busy congratulating Jason on his new mount.
Their father smiled, clapping his youngest son on the shoulder. “I’ll have you know, my boy, he comes from one of the best horse breeders in Melton Mowbray.”
Was it his imagination, Gervase wondered, or did those last two words ring through the courtyard like a challenge? And was he also imagining the uneasy silence that followed? Jason, intent on the horse, seemed oblivious, as did most of their sisters, but their mother...
Gervase slid a glance towards the duchess, standing straight as a ramrod and studying her husband through narrowed eyes. And just beyond her stood Hugo, looking uncomfortable, even a touch guilty. After all, he and Reg had discussed that coveted hunter’s various excellences in the duke’s hearing that very first evening. Not that that was likely to have made a difference, and Gervase doubted that Reg blamed their brother-in-law for how things had fallen out. How could straightforward, good-natured Hugo have predicted such a development? Dealings within the Lyons family were a law unto themselves.
A hand touched his arm, and he turned to find Margaret watching him, comprehension dawning in her eyes.
“Gervase,” she began, under her breath, “is that—?”
She tilted her head towards the horse, and he gave her the barest nod of confirmation, before glancing around for Reg.
Only to find that his brother had somehow managed to slip away unnoticed.
He ran Reg to ground in the library, standing by the fireplace, a cigar in one hand and a glass of whiskey within reach of the other. His brother glanced at him as he entered, glowering through a haze of smoke.
“Come to gloat?” Reg bit off each word with icy precision, drew on his cigar again.
Gervase refused to take umbrage. “I think you know me better than that.”
Reg exhaled, blowing out an angry cloud. “True. Jason would gloat.” He picked up his glass, tossed off half the contents in one swallow. “So, did Mother send you?”
“No. But only because I left before she could ask.” Gervase paused, then ventured without any real conviction, “Any chance this might have been a coincidence?”
“Coincidence, my arse,” Reg said thinly. “This is the duke our father’s way of keeping me in line. Of telling me that he has the power to take away something—anything—that I want, if I don’t give in to his demands.” He seized the poker, thrusting it into the flames as though they were opponents he longed to skewer.
“He can’t take away the dukedom,” Gervase pointed out.
“He can try. Isn’t that what he’s asking you to do for him?” Reg’s eyes raked him from head to foot, a silent accusation of complicity.
“He may ask,” Gervase retorted. “He may not get the answer he desires. And whether he likes it or not, he’ll still have to pay me for anything I might choose to do for him.” And I haven’t chosen to do anything... yet.
Reg stared at him, then huffed a reluctant laugh. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“About what?”
“About being on no one’s side but your own.”
“Whom else can I trust not to change alliances at the drop of a hat?” Gervase inquired dryly. Who else had ever been consistently on his side but himself—with the possible exception of Sir Anthony? And it might not be admirable, but keeping both of his parents on a string, waiting for his answer, was undeniably satisfying.
Reg snorted, whether in amusement or acknowledgment Gervase could not tell. “I can’t argue with that, brother. Especially where this family is concerned!” He drew on his cigar again, visibly attempting to master his still-smoldering anger. “Well, then. You can reassure Mother that I’m not planning to murder Father or Jason in their beds over a damned horse! But I wish to be left alone, for now.”
“Understood.” Gervase inclined his head and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
It wasn’t often that he sympathized with Reg, but remembering how his brother had looked in the courtyard, he found it easy to do so today.
Because what Gervase suspected—and what he knew Reg would never admit—was that, for a moment, Reg had dared to hope that their father had bought the horse for him.
Cooing solicitously, Tilda bore Touchstone and her basket off to the dressing room, leaving her mistress to contemplate Gervase’s still-unopened gift on the vanity before her.
It’s just a box, Margaret told herself firmly for what felt like the hundredth time since she’d unwrapped it. A black velvet box. A jewel box... just big enough to hold something that could change her life forever.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly as dry as her palms were damp. But she was being nonsensical: if the contents were something of life-changing significance—say, a ring—surely Gervase would have insisted on being present when she opened it. Instead, he seemed to have forgotten about it—as she had, temporarily, over that drama with the horse.
Margaret shook her head at the memory. However long she lived, she would never understand Gervase’s parents—especially his father! While she’d known for years that the duke tended to play his sons off against each other, this morning had provided a particularly obnoxious example of that. She could almost pity Reg, and she thought Gervase did pity him; indeed, she suspected that was why he’d gone discreetly in search of his brother, afterwards. He’d returned—alone—just as the rest of the family was sitting down to breakfast, but made no mention of Reg. Probably the most tactful thing he could do, she mused. Reg would hate for anyone to know he was affected by his father’s blatant act of favoritism towards Jason.
The mantel clock’s chiming roused her from her thoughts. They would be leaving for church within the hour; time to stop procrastinating. Taking a breath, she pried open the box.
Not a ring. A cameo brooch. Margaret sat quite still, unsure what to call the emotion flooding through her. Relief perhaps, tinged with something that might have been regret—though that struck her as nearly as absurd as her earlier anxiety had been.
In any case, Gervase’s gift deserved appreciation. She had inherited a cameo or two from her mother, but this one was especially lovely: a delicate female profile carved in white shell, against a warm coral ground, in a scalloped frame of gold filigree. There was even a tiny loop through which she could thread a chain if she wished to wear it as a pendant.
A beautiful, tasteful, well-chosen present that any woman would delight in. Why, then, did she find herself suddenly wishing he’d just given her a book, as he had everyone else?
Furious at her own ingratitude, Margaret closed her eyes, struggling to master her ambivalence. There were gifts a man could safely give a woman without arousing comment or undue curiosity: books, sheet music, sweets—even flowers were deemed acceptable. But an article of clothing or a piece of jewelry... those were far more personal. Not just in themselves, but in what they represented.
Opening her eyes, she stared at the brooch as though it could unlock ancient mysteries. Gervase must have purchased it before they’d left for Yorkshire. Which meant that, even then, before matters between them had taken the turn they had, he’d been preparing to venture beyond the safe, familiar shoals of friendship into deeper, far riskier waters.
That discovery unnerved her as much as the gift.
“I had a plan,” he’d said, the night they became lovers. A plan to approach her once her mourning period for Hal had elapsed. And she’d been so touched by his confession that she hadn’t really considered how she might have received his suit, if she hadn’t eloped with Alex. What would she have said—and how might her life have been different?
It’s only a brooch, for heaven’s sake. But she knew that to be untrue. At the very least, it was a challenge: to think beyond the moment, to consider the future and what it might hold. Just now she was enjoying a delightful love affair, a carefree holiday romance... but what would happen once the holidays were over, and everyday life beckoned? To her chagrin, she hadn’t thought that far ahead—but she was willing to bet that Gervase had.
Once back in London, would they carry on there, as they did here? Discreet assignations by night or day, intimate meals á deux, perhaps secret jaunts to the country under assumed names. Some couples, she’d heard, believed that intrigue lent a certain spice to an affair. Others were simply content to settle for what they could get, especially if marriage was not an option.
But there was no reason why she and Gervase could not marry, if they wished. And five Christmases ago, Gervase had wanted to marry her, and while he’d so far avoided bringing up the subject, it was not inconceivable that he still did.
Which left the question: what did she want?
The emotions swept over her in a giant wave: grief, shock, and remembered pain, still sharp enough to take her breath away, make her eyes sting and blur...
Alex coming in from a morning about the estate, complaining of chills and a sore throat. Within a fortnight, he’d been gone. And even before that, Hal—falling in that stupid race, succumbing to his injuries three days later. Two men she’d pledged her life to, and she’d seen them both buried. And for a time, she’d felt that Alex’s death would physically crush her.
Shaken, Margaret pushed away the box and braced her forehead against her folded hands as she fought for composure. She’d believed the worst of her grief was behind her, but this—visceral response to the very idea of remarrying seemed to prove otherwise. Not rational, perhaps, but no less real. To give her heart completely to someone, to build a future together, and then to lose him... was that something she even wanted to try again?
“My lady? Are you feeling unwell?”
Margaret raised her head to find Tilda regarding her with concern, and quickly summoned a smile. “No, no, I’m fine, Tilda. Just a little—distracted, that’s all.”
The maid relaxed, smiling back. “Then, shall I get out your clothes for church?”
“Yes, thank you,” Margaret replied, gratefully abandoning the turmoil in her head.
“Is it to be the green tweed or the grey merino?”
“The merino, I think,” Margaret replied, a touch absently. “It will be warmer. With the black half-boots and the black velvet bonnet.”
As Tilda laid out her clothes, Margaret took a last peek at the cameo. But to wear it... might raise too many questions—and expectations at this point, neither of which she was ready to deal with. Resolutely, she closed the lid and placed the box in a drawer of her vanity, ignoring the twinge of guilt as best she could. Besides, as lovely as the brooch was, its colors would look quite wrong against a grey dress. Surely Gervase, with his discerning eye, would understand.
As the weather was fairly mild for Christmas Day, the family chose to walk the short distance to church. Jason, still cock-a-hoop over his new acquisition, suggested riding there, but was quietly discouraged by several family members. Reg had resurfaced, stony-faced and seemingly in control of his temper, but Gervase suspected the sight of Jason astride that coveted horse would seriously strain his older brother’s self-command.
Swathed in wool and furs against the chill, they set off for the village. Gervase’s parents led the way, stately as the heads of a royal procession, his mother’s gloved hand resting lightly on his father’s arm. A Christmas truce appeared to be in effect, although Gervase wondered how long it would endure, in light of his father’s recent horse-dealing. The rest of the family followed in groups of two or three. He saw a wistful Alicia glance at Reg—walking with Hugo, Madeline, and their two eldest children—before dutifully accepting Augustus’s escort.
Gervase fell into step beside Margaret, cheered by the spark of welcome in her eyes. His own eyes went instinctively to the high collar of her day dress... and found it unadorned.
He glanced away, concealing a sharp pang of disappointment that he told himself was unreasonable. Perhaps she hadn’t got the chance to open his gift yet?
Margaret’s hand touched his arm. “Gervase.”
The timid note in her voice was so unexpected that he glanced at her in concern. She looked like a guilty schoolgirl, right down to her flushed cheeks and the lower lip she was worrying. “Thank you, for such a lovely gift. I just—wasn’t sure this was the right occasion to wear it.”
“I see.” And he did, though he wished it were otherwise. But Margaret sporting an unfamiliar piece of jewelry might attract attention, especially from his fashion-conscious sisters. “You would prefer not to arouse speculation, at this point. I understand completely.”
“Thank you.” Eyes warm with gratitude—and a hint of contrition, she reached up to adjust the muffler at his throat. “And I knew these colors would suit you. That shade of blue does wonders for your eyes.”
He was no peacock, but the compliment pleased him, as did the implication that she’d chosen his gift with particular care. He’d taken similar pains with hers, trying to decide between several cameos, including a very pretty Wedgwood-blue one ornamented with a spray of white flowers. But the young girl’s profile, the roses in her hair, had reminded him of Margaret as a debutante. He’d also preferred the richness of the coral background, as he so often associated Margaret herself with warmth and color.
He could share none of this with her now, however, given her present skittishness over their romance. Not that he blamed her, but a part of him wondered uneasily if the “right” occasion to wear his gift would ever arise for her.
As the Whitborough party neared the church, Gervase sternly reminded himself to count his blessings. The woman he’d loved for years had spent Christmas morning in his arms and was even now walking beside him. In all likelihood, they’d be spending the rest of the day—and the night—together. With that prospect before him, it would be sheer greed to hanker after more.
He offered her his arm, and they went in together.
The service, which included a reading from Luke, was brief but heartfelt, and a splendid Christmas lunch awaited them on their return from church. Roast goose with all the trimmings, followed by flaming pudding in which several silver charms had been hidden, as supposed portents for the future. And while Margaret did not consider herself superstitious, she had been secretly relieved that her serving had contained only pudding, rather than a ring presaging marriage or a thimble predicting spinsterhood. But Gervase unearthed a silver sixpence, much to her amusement and, she suspected, his as well. The only awkward moment came when Reg found the horseshoe and pushed it to the side of his plate, without comment. Fortunately, Juliana located the ring seconds later and the table erupted in lively speculation regarding the lucky man.
The rest of the afternoon had passed in a pleasant post-prandial haze, enlivened by some carol singing about the piano and the Brand Company’s performance of A Christmas Carol—one of the less mawkish adaptations, Gervase had murmured in Margaret’s ear during the interval. Richenda, Beatrice, and Harry had attended, sitting spellbound through the play—though the latter fell asleep towards the end, owing to what his mother deemed an excess of pudding.
Now, with the evening sky darkening to black outside her window, Margaret let Tilda help her into Alicia’s gift. Much to her relief, the green gown fit perfectly, even after a Christmas feast. Better still, it was every bit as becoming as Alicia had promised, the rich emerald velvet brightening her hair to auburn and making her skin look almost translucent. And the skirt fell in sweeping folds, so much more graceful without the weight of a bustle in back. She barely resisted the temptation to twirl before the mirror like a little girl trying on her first party frock.
“The gown looks a treat on you, my lady,” Tilda declared, smiling as she did up Margaret’s long evening gloves. “Now, will you be wearing the diamonds or the pearls tonight?”
Either would suit the low neckline, but on consideration, Margaret decided upon a third option. “Neither. The emerald pendant that was my mother’s.” The chased gold setting was perhaps a touch heavy and old-fashioned, but its simplicity would complement that of the gown.
Tilda murmured approval and went to fetch the necklace. Margaret thought with another pang of Gervase’s gift. She’d noticed his disappointment that she hadn’t worn the cameo to church, though he’d quickly concealed it—as he did so many of his deeper emotions—and uttered not a word of reproach. Nor would she be wearing it tonight, as the colors wouldn’t suit her evening gown any better than her day dress. That Gervase would doubtless be as understanding this evening as he’d been this morning made her feel guiltier than ever.
Biting her lip, she stared into the troubled eyes of her own reflection. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to wear the brooch; she just needed to find the right time. When they were back in London, perhaps, away from the prying eyes of their families. If they were still together by then.
Her heart lurched at the thought, even as she chided herself for being ridiculous. Much to her relief, Tilda returned with the necklace, fastening it deftly about her mistress’s throat.
“My goodness!” Margaret exclaimed involuntarily, looking down.
The emerald solitaire on its heavy gold chain had settled just above the shallow cleft between her breasts, ever so slightly exposed by the gown’s décolletage. Not unbecoming, but far more daring than her usual style. For a moment, she almost lost her nerve and asked Tilda to bring her the pearls or even a fichu, to fill up that expanse of bare skin. Pride—or perhaps only vanity—stopped her: the jewel matched the gown’s color perfectly... as a certain pair of woodsmoke eyes would be quick to notice.
So instead, she let Tilda finish dressing her, accepted her reticule and a white lace fan that made her think of snowflakes mounted on ivory sticks, and set off for the ballroom.
Entering, she caught her breath in instinctive pleasure. The walls had been hung with champagne-gold silk, lending them a much-needed warmth against the chill of a winter night. Miniature arrangements of holly, ivy, and mistletoe brightened the window bays, larger ones of red and white camellias were placed strategically throughout the salon, and the lighted chandelier cast a soft glow over everything.
“Margaret!” Elaine rustled up to her in a billow of cream brocade. “What a beautiful gown—and you look simply ravishing in it!’
“Thank you. Alicia wanted me to wear it tonight,” she added, smoothing the skirts a little self-consciously.
“I can see why.” Elaine eyed the gown with appreciation. “Clearly, I shall have to make a trip to Maison Worth myself, once the baby is born and I have my figure back.”
Margaret smiled at her. “You hardly show at all right now, and you look, well, radiant.” Just as an expectant mother should, she thought, masking a pang of wistfulness. Her own pregnancy had been marred by sickliness, perhaps an omen of the loss to come. She changed the subject hurriedly. “The ballroom looks magnificent tonight.”
“Doesn’t it? Mama and Juliana have outdone themselves.”
“They certainly have,” Margaret agreed, wondering how Her Grace could work so harmoniously with her daughters when her husband was such a disaster with his sons. She glanced around the room, surprised to see it so sparsely occupied. “Are we the only ones here?”
“For now.” Elaine’s smile held more than a trace of mischief. “But that’s mainly because of the War of the Wassail being waged in the supper room.”
“The War of the Wassail?” Margaret echoed, but before Elaine could elaborate, Gervase strode into the ballroom.
Again, Margaret caught her breath. While she’d seen Gervase in full dress every evening so far, he looked even more elegant tonight, the black tailcoat emphasizing his lean form, his shirt and waistcoat appearing blindingly white by comparison, and a single white camellia gleaming on his lapel. The light of the chandelier shone upon his hair, picking out threads of gold and bronze among the brown.
Elaine regarded him with sisterly approval. “You do us credit, Ger.”
He raised a brow. “Do I? Well, then, my existence is now complete. Although,” he added, eyeing them, “I would be honored to play the stem to such a pair of roses.”
“What, no quotations from you tonight?” Margaret inquired lightly.
The intensity of his gaze seared her. “I could resort to a chorus of ‘Greensleeves’ if you like, but even Shakespeare seems inadequate to convey how well you look in that gown.”
Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight... Margaret glanced aside, plying her fan to combat the sudden warmth in her cheeks.
“How about Byron?” Elaine suggested. “Do we not walk ‘in beauty, like the night’?”
“Most assuredly—both dark and bright.” He smiled at them without a trace of reserve. “Now, did I hear someone mention wassail?”
“Not only wassail, but a wassail war,” Elaine informed him. “I was just telling Margaret. Madeline has taken charge of preparing tonight’s wassail punch, aided and abetted by Reg.”
“Reg and Madeline?” Gervase’s brows rose. “Now there’s a combination seldom seen!”
“And with reason,” Elaine observed, stifling a giggle. “They practically came to blows over the spices, and when I came away, they were arguing over the right proportions of cider to brandy. Reg, you may be sure, prefers the latter, Madeline the former. Alasdair was foolhardy enough to suggest the addition of whiskey, but they ignored him, fortunately. He and Hugo stayed to keep the peace, but I wouldn’t lay odds on their success!”
“I’m almost sorry to have missed the excitement,” Gervase remarked. “However, I had a rescue mission to undertake.”
“A rescue mission?” Margaret glanced at him inquiringly.
He sighed. “The newest member of my household contrived to escape from his basket and climb up to the canopy of my bed. It took twenty minutes, the combined ingenuity of Farnsworth and myself, and a plate of chopped chicken to coax him down again.”
“By the sound of it, he’s got you wrapped round his forepaw already,” Margaret observed, making no attempt to hide her amusement; Elaine was laughing outright.
“He’s only getting away with it because it’s Christmas,” Gervase insisted. “Once we’re back in London, Master Feste can learn to make himself useful—somehow.”
“I’m sure your household will be the better for ‘a harmless, necessary cat,’” Elaine assured him. “Oh, look—here comes the wassail!”
A footman bearing a tray laden with steaming cups had just entered from the supper room. A rich scent of apples, spices, and spirits followed him like a cloud.
Margaret breathed in the aroma. “Well, it smells wonderful anyway.”
“As it should,” Madeline said crisply, entering with Reg, Hugo, and Alasdair at her heels. “And you may taste the results for yourself. I adhered to our traditional recipe and used plenty of fruit and spices. Even though someone,” she shot a pointed look at Reg, “thought we should leave out the clove-studded oranges.”
Reg, splendid in his scarlet regimentals, shrugged a shoulder. “It’s punch, not a pomander ball. I merely said reduce, not omit altogether. And I let you have your way about the cider too.”
She regarded him through still-narrowed eyes. “I’d be more impressed by your magnanimity if I hadn’t caught you trying to sneak in extra brandy at the last minute!”
“At least you finished before the guests arrived,” Elaine said, ever the peacemaker. “They should be arriving any minute now, and they’ll be glad of something hot to drink. I know I am,” she added, accepting a cup of wassail from the footman.
“Who else is coming tonight?” Margaret asked, taking a cup as well. The punch looked as traditional as it smelled: flecked with spices and bits of fruit, but topped with a tiny square of toasted bread. The wassail toast.
“The Middletons, of course,” Madeline replied. “And the Lovells, who may be bringing additional guests from their house party.”
“Including a few Mama wouldn’t mind Juliana meeting,” Elaine added significantly.
Reg sighed. “Do women never tire of match-making? We’ve enough maudlin sentiment at Christmas, without adding in romantic drivel.”
“And ‘Bah, humbug’ to you too, big brother!” Juliana’s laughing voice remarked from the doorway. Clad in a shimmering gown the color of candlelight, she glided into the room, Alicia trailing behind her. “As an unmarried, unbetrothed lady, should my ears be burning?”
“If they’re not now, they will be once you drink this,” Reg retorted, nodding towards the footman and his tray of cups.
Juliana perked up. “Ooh, wassail! Just the thing for Christmas night!”
Margaret studied her sister covertly as the two young women approached. Alicia wore a soft blue gown that made her look as pale and delicate as a snowdrop; it couldn’t have been more different from the daring scarlet and gold confection she’d worn last night—the gown Reg had tossed so disdainfully after its wearer, along with the rest of her garments. Berthe had powdered and tinted her mistress’s face with an expert hand, but Margaret could see the shadows beneath Alicia’s eyes, the slight puffiness of the lids that hinted at recent tears, and her heart ached to see her sister’s unhappiness. The confident young sophisticate had been replaced by a subdued penitent, mortified by her failed seduction and desperate for her fiancé’s forgiveness. A forgiveness that Reg might be unable to express, even if he felt it, Margaret thought sadly. For as long as she could remember, Reg had shied away from emotional scenes involving women. His continued silence regarding Alicia’s indiscretion might be the best her sister could hope for.
Much to her relief, Alicia’s chin rose and a tinge of color crept into her cheeks as she drew near. “Meg, how lovely you look—I knew that was your color!”
Her bright tone sounded a bit forced, but Margaret was willing to overlook that to help her save face. “Thank you, dearest—your taste has been much admired. Have some wassail,” she added, thinking that her sister might benefit from a bit of Dutch courage.
Alicia obeyed, blinking as the heady fragrance wafted up to her. “Goodness, this is strong! But I’m sure it’s very warming, on a winter’s night,” she added hastily.
The rest of the party was filtering in: Augustus, looking more than ever like a golden Adonis, and Jason, wearing a new set of evening clothes that accommodated his recent growth. He appeared much the better for them, Margaret decided: not as sullen or self-conscious. Indeed, he was carrying himself with the pride of a young man who knew he looked his best tonight.
But that could be said of everyone—including Their Graces, now entering the ballroom together. The duchess in silver, her diamond coronet glittering upon her dark head, looked like the Queen of Winter personified. The duke wore the same black-and-white evening dress as the other men, but a sprig of holly glowed bright as a jewel on his lapel, and his tawny head shone more gold than silver beneath the light of the chandelier. Lord of the Revels, Margaret thought irresistibly, and of all he surveyed.
His sapphire gaze swept the room, and he gave a satisfied nod. “Ah, glad to see you’re all here! The musicians are settling into the gallery even as we speak, and Lydgate informs me that the arrival of our first guests is imminent. Madeline, my dear, is that wassail punch I smell?”
“It is,” she confirmed, smiling more indulgently at her father than was her usual wont. “Prepared exactly according to tradition.”
“Excellent. I knew I could count upon you to see things done properly.” The duke turned to his wife. “Well, madam, shall we have a toast to the occasion?”
“But of course, Duke.” The duchess took the last two cups remaining on the tray and handed one to her husband.
Raising his cup, Whitborough faced his family. “To an evening of merriment, and a happy Christmas to us all. Waes hail!”
“Waes hail!” they echoed, and drank deep.
The addition of guests increased the company to some three dozen people, a small turnout for a ball, but perfectly respectable for a Christmas night party, considering that most of the Whitboroughs’ neighbors had probably stayed at home, sleeping off their goose and pudding.
But the evening was proving gay and convivial so far, conversations humming from all corners of the room, while the wassail punch flowed freely. Music lilted from the gallery, and couples swirled about the dance floor, with enough space to avoid collisions. There were several eligible young men pleased to make Juliana’s acquaintance—and that of the other ladies as well. Margaret was both surprised and amused by the number of admiring male glances she received. Alicia’s present, no doubt, which had her looking her best tonight. Although, if she were being wholly honest with herself, there was only one man whose opinion on that score mattered, and his response had proved most gratifying.
Nonetheless, she smiled at her partner—one of the Middleton sons—as he escorted her back to her corner after their polka. But the next dance was a waltz, which she had promised to Gervase. Anticipation fired her blood like wassail punch, leaving behind a similar warm glow.
Strange to think that, in all their years of knowing each other, they had never waltzed together. But it had always been Hal who’d laid claim to those, little as they’d meant to him and much as he might have preferred a different partner. But in the expectation that they would one day marry, he’d been automatically given first pick of the dances on her card.
Margaret sighed over the memory. So many years and waltzes wasted on her indifferent fiancé, when all the time there’d been a man who would have actually enjoyed dancing with her! Well, tonight she and Gervase could make up for those lost opportunities.
If he ever showed up. Scanning the ballroom, she finally located him in a far alcove, talking to his father. Or rather, the duke appeared to be talking, while Gervase listened with a faint half-smile. Curious and a touch apprehensive, she made her way towards them.
“—hope you’ve given what we discussed earlier some serious consideration,” Whitborough was saying as she approached.
“I assure you, Father, I’ve given it all the consideration it deserves,” Gervase replied.
His tone and expression were as smooth as country cream, and Margaret’s disquiet grew. This was the Gervase she’d never quite understood: the guarded young man who kept his own counsel and weighed all his options before making his next move. The consummate chess player and occasional manipulator whom she respected but with whom she seldom felt at ease. She preferred the Gervase who climbed trees—complaining all the way—to rescue his sister’s kitten, who challenged her on subjects she held dear, who lay relaxed and smiling beside her in bed, his limbs tangled with hers...
Father and son caught sight of her at the same moment, and their postures eased, Gervase unbending enough to give her a genuine smile. “Ah, Margaret! I was just about to claim our waltz. If you’ll excuse us, sir?” he added to his father.
“By all means.” The duke waved them off benignly. “Enjoy your dance.”
“Dare I ask what that was about?” Margaret asked, as Gervase led her on to the floor.
He shrugged. “The usual. Am I in or out regarding his latest scheme, and when can he expect an answer?” A faint edge crept into his tone. “I am in no hurry to give one, and it will do him no harm to wait a little longer.”
Spoken like a true Lyons. Margaret shivered, and he was immediately all solicitude. “Darling, are you cold? Would you care for some wassail, to warm you up?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you—one more cup and I’d be floating. As it is, I’m feeling no pain whatsoever,” she added, striving for a lighter tone.
“The punch does seem unusually strong,” he agreed. “Even my hard head is feeling the effects somewhat. I’m not sure that Reg didn’t manage to slip in extra brandy, after all.”
“Let’s see if waltzing warms us up instead,” she suggested.
He smiled, looking more like her Gervase. “I like the way you think, belle amie.”
She moved into his arms as the music began, conscious as never before of the warmth of his hand at her waist, and the breadth of his shoulder as she rested her left hand upon it. A shoulder every bit as strong and muscular as his older brothers’.
It shouldn’t have surprised her that he waltzed well, moving in perfect time with the music, his clasp light but firm. She might never have partnered him in that particular dance, but she’d seen him waltzing with his sisters numerous times. Still, a dance with a sibling was entirely different from a dance with a suitor—or a lover.
Her lover. As the dance progressed, she found herself leaning into his embrace, the space between their bodies dwindling until it seemed there was hardly any distance separating them. His eyes smiled into hers, more blue than grey at the moment, and holding more than a hint of desire, which her own eyes must surely reflect. Lowering her gaze, she breathed in his scent, a heady mingling of warm male skin, clean linen, and bergamot. Savor the moment, she told herself. Forget the past, don’t think about the future... the present was all that mattered.
As the last strains of music faded away, she murmured, “So, was it worth the wait?”
His lips curved in a full smile. “Darling, you have no idea. And I could not have asked for a more beguiling partner.”
She smiled back, absurdly pleased by the compliment. “Nor I.” Hal had danced well, Alex tolerably, but Gervase moved with a lithe grace that surpassed them both, she thought.
“Are you bespoke for the next dance?”
She shook her head. “I thought a respite might be in order.”
“Good thinking,” he approved, offering his arm to lead her from the floor. “Perhaps we might take a walk in the conservatory? I’ve heard it’s very romantic, by moonlight.”
“Are you speaking from personal experience?” she teased.
“From my sisters’, actually.” His eyes glinted. “I have never before had a particular desire to stroll with a lady among the shrubbery. So this is an evening of firsts.”
Hal had never taken her walking in the conservatory, not once in their entire betrothal. “It sounds delightful. Let us go.”
Arm in arm, they strolled towards the doorway, only to find themselves halted by the duchess, who emerged seemingly out of nowhere, looking as brilliant and brittle as an icicle.
“Mother,” Gervase acknowledged, inclining his head.
“Gervase.” Her tone was crisp, even astringent. “Enjoying the party, I trust?”
“Yes, very much.” To Margaret’s disquiet, his face had become the polite mask he usually donned when dealing with his parents. She wondered if the duchess had ever noticed—or cared to notice—just how guarded Gervase became around her and the duke.
“At Christmas play and make good cheer, / For Christmas comes but once a year,” Her Grace quoted. “Still, play must yield to work eventually, and childish games cease. Do you not agree, mon fils?”
The muscles of Gervase’s arm tightened beneath Margaret’s hand, though neither his face nor his voice betrayed his tension. “That depends, Maman. Some games continue long past childhood—with no clear outcome in sight.”
“They might end sooner, if the players would cease straddling the fence and choose a side,” the duchess pointed out.
“Ah, but without the proper incentive, the fence is the only sensible place to be,” he countered silkily.
Margaret glanced between mother and son, aware that a silent battle of wills was going on. Then, unnervingly, the duchess’s gaze shifted to her. “Ah, Margaret! I meant to tell you before how well you look in that gown! Très belle, my dear.”
“Thank you,” Margaret said, disconcerted by the sudden change in direction.
“On that we certainly agree, Maman,” Gervase observed.
“You and my son look well together too,” the duchess continued, ignoring him.
Margaret hesitated, unsure how to respond, though she knew quite well what Her Grace was attempting to discern. Quickly, before those probing eyes could somehow strip her secret bare, she said with a bright, superficial smile, “Oh, Gervase is an excellent dancer.”
“As is Margaret herself,” Gervase interposed smoothly. “Although, after our exertions, we are both finding the ballroom a trifle warm. Would you excuse us, Mother?”
Annoyance flickered in the duchess’s eyes, but after a moment, she stepped gracefully aside. “But of course—enjoy the rest of the evening. And Gervase,” she laid a hand upon his sleeve, “I hope you realize that, should your personal circumstances change, I am prepared to be... as generous as your father.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you, Mother. Happy Christmas.”
“Gervase,” Margaret began, as they finally made good their escape, “was that—”
“My mother demonstrating that she can be every bit as controlling and manipulative as my father?” he finished with a tight smile, as they made their way along the dimly lit corridor outside the ballroom. “Yes. Very astute of you to notice.”
She suppressed a shiver. “Do you think she suspects—about us?”
“Perhaps.” He glanced at her, his softening expression visible even in the shadows. “Don’t worry, ma mie. I’ll make sure you don’t get caught up in their ridiculous schemes.”
“That’s all very well, but what about you?”
He shrugged. “What about me? I’m a Lyons—I grew up surrounded by such intrigues.”
“You have no idea how much that fails to reassure me,” she retorted.
“Margaret.” He paused to cup her face briefly, his hands warm through his evening gloves. “I assure you, there’s no need to worry. And when you think about it,” he added more lightly, “the whole situation is not without its amusing side.”
“Amusing?” She shot him a disbelieving glance.
“Think about it.” Humor as black as a winter’s night edged his voice. “The all-powerful Duke and Duchess of Whitborough, falling over themselves to court the son they’ve virtually ignored for the last twenty years! I keep wondering what extravagant offer they’ll make next, to sway me to their side. Not that I set much store by that, but I would have to be a saint not to find their antics vastly entertaining. It’s a refreshing change to be the one holding the strings.”
Margaret gritted her teeth. “Very diverting, I’m sure—until someone gets hurt!”
“Thank you for your concern, darling, but I can take care of myself.”
“That’s what Hal thought too.”
The words flashed out, as swift and sharp as a sword stroke, shocking them into silence.
After a seeming eternity, Gervase spoke, his eyes dark in his pale face. “I’m not Hal.”
Margaret bit her lip, half-wishing her words unsaid. “No,” she managed. “No, you’re much stronger than Hal. Which is why it’s so hard to watch your parents twist you up inside.”
He exhaled, his breath forming a cloud in the chilly passage. “I can handle my parents—”
“Can you?” she challenged. “I once compared them to badminton players bashing a shuttlecock back and forth. But now I think they’re more like grindstones, crushing everything and everyone that comes between them into powder!”
His eyes widened at her vehemence. “Margaret—”
“You say that you’re holding the strings, but strings can be pulled both ways!” she reminded him. “How can you be sure that they’re not the ones in control, just as they’ve always been? That you’re not playing right into their hands, by playing this game at all?”
“You don’t understand.” Anger roughened his voice, kindled a blaze in his eyes. “How could you, when you were raised so differently? Your parents—”
“Loved their children equally,” she finished. “For which I am forever grateful. But I understand better than you think, Gervase. I spent years watching you and your brothers compete for your parents’ attention—and watching them feed those rivalries for their own purposes, instead of encouraging you to be friends. Or even allies. That was their folly.” She swallowed again, her eyes stinging. “But letting them continue to manipulate you... that would be yours.”
He stared at her, lost for words for the first time she could remember. Holding his gaze, she strove to reach him, infusing her words with a conviction rooted in her soul. “You made your own life, Gervase, and your own success. I was so proud of you for that. Don’t risk losing everything you’ve gained by involving yourself in your parents’ war. Don’t risk losing us.”
“Losing us?” he echoed, his voice scarcely above a whisper.
Margaret forced herself to go on, past the emotions clogging her throat. “I don’t know if I could be with a man who does not ultimately belong to himself. I know I can’t stand by and watch a man I—care for be consumed by family strife... as Hal was.”