My True Love Gave to Me

… eleven pipers piping …

 Chapter Eleven

Anna Kittrell

Lady Dinah flicked open her fan. Why was it so dreadfully hot in here? She feared perspiration would dampen her green silk dress.

“Glass of water, milady?” Her governess, Marie, creased her freckled brow. “You are pouring like a sieve.”

Dinah fanned faster. “Thank you, Marie, a glass of water would be lovely.” She swallowed, her throat burning.

She had hoped her wooziness would go unnoticed, but hope never granted her favors. Naturally, Marie had noticed her condition. She’d helped care for Dinah since infancy, then quietly stepped into the role of fulltime caregiver nearly a year ago, when Dinah’s mother died of influenza.

 Dinah swept a bleary glance around the enormous ballroom. Marie was the only reason she had accepted the prestigious invitation to the Pemberton Christmas Ball. To afford her governess the opportunity to dress up, socialize, dance. She loved the aging woman like a mother and felt sorry for her. No fair for Marie, confined to the house, catering to a near eighteen-year-old girl perfectly content to read books all day. Marie would never admit it, but she must feel as if life were passing her by.

In truth, Dinah was not content at all. Neither did she read books all day. She used the books as shields, staring at the same blurred page for hours on end while her intoxicated dazes slowly abated behind the covers.

At nightfall, she crept from the back door—the hinges were meticulously oiled, of course. Through trash-strewn alleyways, she wound her way to the secret dens of oblivion scattered throughout the city, her only witness a scurrying rat or a starving, snarling dog.  

Far worse than the journey was the destination. People, corpse-like, in opium-induced stupors stared at the ceiling through sightless eyes. The dens revolted her, yet she returned night after night to share the sinful pipe.

She had taken her last draw from the pipe near twenty-four hours ago. The longest she’d been without opium since the day her father, Dr. Henry Cooper, provided that first, small, nerve-calming dose, following the death of her mother. Shortly after, he’d revoked the drug, fearful she’d become dependent. Pity it was too late.

“Your water, Lady Dinah.” Marie placed a hand gently on Dinah’s forearm.

“Thank you, Marie.” Dinah stiffened her fingers as she took the glass, attempting to hide the trembling. The rippling liquid gave her away.

“For heaven’s sake, milady, are you all right? You are quivering like that ridiculous artificial bird on the dowager Lady Sempill’s bonnet.”

“Yes, fine. I am quite certain.” Dinah managed to bring the quaking glass to her lips without sloshing water down the front of her gown. Hiding her face with her fan, she gulped hungrily, the cold liquid soothing her dry throat and quenching her miserable thirst. She stopped only when her gaze hit the ornate ceiling, then handed the empty glass to Marie.

“Lord have mercy, child,” Marie exclaimed, eyes bulging. Her expression was so comical, Dinah would have laughed had she not been overtaken by an excruciating cramp in the pit of her stomach. She pitched forward at the waist, belly roiling.

“You are ailing, milady, let us take our leave—”

Dinah forced aside the pain and stood abruptly. “Nonsense.” She cut her gaze around the ballroom, over the glistening Christmas decorations, between the vast, garland-wrapped pillars, through the pretentious gossiping geese who thought themselves better than she. Where had he gone? Panic edged up her spine. She’d seen him but moments ago. Or had she imagined it? Breath shot through her nostrils in shallow puffs. Her head spun, colors swirled, the room turned into an enormous spinning top.

Finally, her gaze swam over his detestable face, just across the room. Mister Hugh Egerton, one of the eleven pipers piping at the den that night on Ashire Lane, conspiring to steal her innocence. The opium made the men lethargic and clumsy, and by the grace of God, she’d escaped, body unharmed. She wished she could say the same for her spirit.

All the more reason to dull the pain.

She licked her parched lips, all but tasting the hot, thick smoke on her tongue. A mad craving snaked through her. From where he stood, Mister Egerton met her gaze, nodded knowingly. Her skin crawled, revulsion and anticipation sharing the cause. She pulled her lips into a smile, masking the sensation. Soon everything would be all right.

“Marie, would you please locate a footman? I require another glass of water.”

“Right away, milady.” Marie scurried off, holding up the water glass.

Dinah took a step toward the blemished excuse for a man leering at her from the far wall.

*

“I must have her, Humphrey,” Owen said, glancing at his brother. “For God’s sake, would you look at her? She is perfect.”

“In appearance she fills your requirements. But what if she has never taken the stage?”

“It matters not. She is the one. I feel it in my bones.”

“In that case, I suggest you hurry, before the lady is spoken for.” Humphrey tipped his head toward the sad-eyed girl crossing the room, the beaded train of her green silk dress whispering over the floor behind her.

Surely, the melancholy beauty Owen had been admiring wasn’t advancing toward the suspicious-looking man leaning on the wall. Owen’s jaw tensed, reacting to the uneasiness settling into his middle. The man had a bad complexion, a greasy smile, and a jagged scar that testified he’d almost lost an ear. Not the type of gent that stepped aside while another man made off with his woman.

Humphrey cleared his throat and tapped his top lip. “You will be needing your handkerchief, brother.”

Owen frowned, tugged the handkerchief from inside his sleeve, dabbed the corner of his mouth. “Wine,” he concluded, examining the red smudge. “Better?”

“Indeed.” Humphrey nodded.

“Good.” Owen flashed a smile at his brother. “Wish me luck,” he said, turning away.

He tucked the handkerchief into his right cuff, then, changing his mind, switched to his left. With quick, calculated steps, he veered into the young woman’s path, intercepting her journey to the far wall.

          Owen’s breath caught as he gazed at the girl’s face. The pale, dewy skin, the sad, violet eyes, the soft pink lips. She was Rose, the lead in his latest play, The Rain Garden, the tragic tale of a dying girl.

          “How do you do?” he asked, extending his hand. His eyes widened when his silver pen—a gift from a theatrically pleased dignitary—flew, as if winged, from the sleeve of his tailcoat to the floor, just as the lady took a step. Time slowed while her slipper rolled over the pen and she stumbled. He lunged, catching her at the last possible instant, saving her from a fall.

          Good Lord, but she was hot. She burned in his arms, as if with fever. A heady aroma of tropical flowers, perhaps hibiscus, radiated from her, the scent strengthened by the elevated temperature of her skin. She gasped weakly, struggling to right her feet.

          “I beg your pardon, milady,” Owen said, an excessive amount of heat rising to his own cheeks. “Seems my pen escaped its holster—the loop of string sewn into my cuff. It appears it dislodged when I tucked in my handkerchief…”

          She wasn’t listening. Her lucid, purplish-blue eyes stared past him. He turned slightly, following her gaze to the seedy character against the wall, his rat-like eyes crawling over Owen’s Rose.

          “Milady?” Owen said, still holding her by the arms.

          She blinked a few times, then snapped her gaze to Owen, sliding her elbows from his grip.

          Owen fell to one knee to retrieve his pen. But where was it? He glanced over the polished floor, then turned his gaze to the hem of Rose’s gown. The silver pen peeked from under the flowing skirt.

          “Excuse me, sir, I must take my leave.”

          He gazed up at her. Dark tendrils escaped her hairpins, sticking to her damp skin. She was perfect. Already on his knees, he considered begging her to be his afflicted Rose.

          “My pardon, but I believe you are standing on my pen.”

          Her cheeks reddened more deeply as she took a step back.

          “Thank you.” He stood, tucking the pen into his cuff, slipping it into its holster beside the tiny vial of ink. One never knew when inspiration would strike. A good playwright must be prepared.

*

          Will he ever stop rambling? Dinah wondered. Her brow tensed further with each syllable. She took a step forward, then halted, locked in place. Her gaze shot to the floor to find the man’s boot planted firmly upon the hem of her dress. Already, he’d toppled her with his blasted pen, must he ruin her gown as well?

          “Perhaps I should introduce myself? I am Owen Fletcher,” he continued on, not allowing her time to answer. “I realize we have not been properly presented, but feel we are acquainted already. For you are my Rose Trellis, I have dreamt of you, and written of your life many times.”

          A nerve pinched between her eyes. She fastened her gaze to his lips, so overly filled with words.

          “Sir, you are mistaken. I am the Lady Dinah Cooper. My father is Dr. Henry Cooper. Now, if you will excuse me—”

          He didn’t budge.

          “Mister Fletcher. If you will kindly remove your large boot from my hand-beaded train, I should like to part company now.”

          “Terribly sorry.” He stepped off the delicate fabric. “Of course. Goodnight, Lady Dinah.” He offered a short bow.

          “Goodnight, Mister Fletcher.”

Dinah returned her gaze to Mister Egerton. His rodent-like eyes were filled with glee. Obviously, he enjoyed the notion of her searching him out, begging for his remedy. She strode a mere three paces toward him, finding her steps once again interrupted by the impudent Mister Fletcher.

“One more thing, Lady Dinah,” he said, his unyielding tongue giving his lips a quick lick. “You have yet to answer, about my play. You see, I wish you to have the lead part— starring role of Rose Trellis—the beautiful, dying flower.”

“You wish me to play the part of a dead girl?” She stepped around him.

“Ahem, let me explain. She lives! The girl battles a life-threatening bout of pneumonia and prevails. The Rain Garden is a tribute to Rose Trellis’s courage. The story of how she fights back against the illness that is killing her, and wins.”

 “Hello, poppet,” Hugh Egerton cooed, his eyes roving over Dinah’s body, his fingers twitching, as if urged to do the same. “A bit low on the medicine?”

Dinah dropped her gaze to the floor and nodded. She felt naked.

“So, what do you say to becoming my precious Rose?”

She snapped her gaze up, disbelieving. Had Owen Fletcher no bounds? She frowned at him. The nerve of this…this…prattling playwright.

“Lady Dinah is engaged in conversation at the moment. You will be running along now.” Hugh waved his hand through the air at Owen, as if shooing a fly.

“Ah—but I await an answer from the lady. Soon as my petition is met, I shall be traveling on. But not before.”

My but he was stubborn.

*

Owen’s tongue tired from constant chatter. But how else was he to distract the lady from the unsavory rascal holding up the wall? Besides, all he said was truth—he positively had to have her in his play as the wilting, yet victorious Rose.

He stood facing the scoundrel, pustule-riddled skin and oily smirk even more wretched up close. The way he looked at Lady Dinah got Owen’s hackles up. The man was downright insolent.

“Forgive me, sir, but the lady didn’t appear to be engaged in conversation. Plainly, her gaze was directed at the floor,” Owen said.

The whites of the man’s eyes reddened. He narrowed them at Owen, color climbing his neck.

“You will watch your words around Hugh Egerton, or else find yourself choking on them.”

“That would be quite unfortunate. But I am afraid I do not believe you.” Owen grinned. An arrogant grin he reserved for moments such as this. He found it either silenced the hecklers, or infuriated them. By the clenching of Hugh Egerton’s fists, it was the latter.

“Care to step outside and prove me wrong?” Hugh asked, his voice rough, as if his throat were packed with gravel.

“Why settle outside what can be settled right here?”

“No! Stop, this instant,” Lady Dinah demanded, her words shaking. The older woman he’d seen her with earlier rushed to her side.

“Step back, milady.” Owen placed a protective hand on Dinah’s arm, gently setting her back.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hugh snorted. “I arrived here in company of the Lord Morris Barlow, and refuse to embarrass him by brawling inside Pemberton Hall.”

“Lord Barlow, you say?” Though well-known and wealthy, Morris Barlow had a sordid reputation. Owen easily assumed he had met Hugh Egerton over an opium lamp at the ill-reputed Ashire den.

The opium-eater and the noble…what a glorious premise for a play.

Owen yanked his gleaming silver pen from his sleeve.

“A daggar!” Hugh Egerton yelped, retreating into the wall as if he could sink through it.

“Not a dagger. Far worse.” Owen tugged out and unstopped the vial of ink, dipped his pen. He returned the bottle to his sleeve and retrieved a slip of parchment. “Your pathetic, smoke-filled life, Mister Egerton, will be the inspiration for my new play,” he said, scratching the pen along the paper. “I assure you, my productions are quite renowned. I am certain the Lord Morris Barlow will be thrilled to be written in as one of your fellows.”

Hugh swallowed, Adam’s apple rising above, then falling below his collar. “What do you require of me?”

Owen turned to Lady Dinah, reading the pain on her graceful features.  His heart ached as he comprehended the depth of her obsession. “Only that you leave this precious rose alone.”

“But she sought after me—”

“Only because of her dependence on your poison. You shall give a sufficient amount to me, that I can wean her from it in a healthy manner.”

Hugh nodded. “Meet me at the Ashire den in an hour.”

Owen tore up the slip of paper, the pieces floating down like the Christmas snow beyond the window.

*

“Milady?” Marie touched Dinah’s elbow.

Tears cascaded down Dinah’s face. She hid behind her fan, confused by the foreign emotions stirring her heart.

“My brother is in control of the situation. As you were,” an older gentleman called to the onlookers, his double-chin bobbling. Then, turning to Marie, “Would you care to dance?”

Dinah squeezed Marie’s hand, then nodded as the gentleman led her radiant governess to the dance floor.  

“Thank you for rescuing me, Mister Fletcher,” Dinah said, turning to Owen.

“My pleasure, Lady Dinah.”

Dinah looked into his eyes, for the first time, really. A beautiful blue-green, like the blown glass ornaments on the magnificent Pemberton Hall Christmas tree.

“How did you know about my…condition?”

He cleared his throat, swallowed. “I too have suffered affliction. I am quite acquainted with the dens.”

Her eyes flew open wide.

“Had it not been for my brother, Humphrey, I would have surely died in one. He saved my life.”

“As you plan to save mine?” Dinah asked, studying his lips, so tempting now that they were void of prattle.

“Precisely.” He brought her hand to his mouth, placing on it a tender kiss.

Her breath pulled in sharply, and she imagined herself being resuscitated, as if with her father’s bellows.

“By the way, my answer is yes,” Dinah offered, hiding a smile behind her fan.

Owen’s eyebrows arched high. “Truly? You will be my darling Rose?”

“Yes. I shall be your courageous, victorious Rose. I have decided she and I have much in common.”

My True Love Gave to Me

… ten lords a’leaping…

 

Chapter Ten

Mary Jo Springer

 

Sinclair Fitzholden, Lord of Hawksford, Sin to the people who mattered, was bored, with his life, this ball, and the gruesome task of finding a wife. Sprawled across the burnished leather couch in Pemberton Hall’s library, he reclined with one leg on and one leg off the settee. Thrown across the two upholstered chairs flanking the couch, his blue coat, gloves, and neckcloth laid in a crumpled mess.  His white waistcoat hung open, a snifter of brandy balanced on his stomach. The orange glow of dying embers in the hearth cast dancing shadows across the chamber. Shifting on the settee, he stuffed a pillow behind his head easing his body into a more comfortable position.  Miles and miles of leather bound books filled the floor-to-ceiling bookcases surrounding him.

Tonight, he’d danced the obligatory number of dances, played cards with Hastings, Dixon and Lewis, smoked cigars and drank way too much brandy. Now, he preferred his own company.

Bong . . . bong . . . the steady rhythm of the mantle clock chimed the hour signaling midnight. Rubbing a hand over his face he gave into the irresistible lure of the room’s warmth intermingled with the clean lemon scent of polished wood and pine. Soon the sweet lure of sleep claimed him.

The whisper of the library door’s lock sliding into place caught him off guard. Bloody hell! The soft rustle of silk alerted him the intruder was female. The edges of his lips lifted into a smile as the intriguing possibility of a midnight tryst solidified within his mind. This year he was definitely getting what he wanted for Christmas.

Swinging his leg off the couch, he pushed into a sitting position carefully balancing his warmed snifter of brandy. He blinked several times, unable to clear the delectable mirage before him. Slacked-jawed, he openly gawked at the woman leaning against the closed door, her hands pressed against the solid wood. Of all the women . . .

Of course he knew her . . . well . . . knew of her. What man on the face of the earth hadn’t fantasized about having Lady Victoria Gremswell? Many a night she kept him awake, torturing him, the image of her body searing his thoughts. The epitome of English womanhood, she was pampered, graceful, and saddled with a dowry so obscene even he’d been tempted to throw his hat in the ring. Golden hair pulled up into a stylish coiffure with those damn distracting ringlets dangled beside her ear. Without a care, he’d shove those enticing curls out of his way as he kissed his way up her swan-like neck before he tumbled her to the floor. Good God, man, get a grip!

Amethyst eyes bore into him, glittering like the stones they mimicked. Her melt-your-heart eyes could seduce a man at twenty paces.  He’d tried his damnedest to obtain a dance with her, not just tonight but at every ball this season. Frustrated he’d retired to this room to plan his next strategy. How did one go about convincing a goddess to look upon him as husband material? Ha! He didn’t look upon himself as husband material, why should she? After this morning . . . she’d never grant him a chance.

The moment she stepped into the ballroom a sea of men swallowed her. Surveying her with great intensity, he’d stalked the perimeter of the room like a hawk shadowing his quarry. At any time she had at least ten Lords a leaping to fulfill her slightest whim. He didn’t leap, never had . . . never would. So why was she here, in the dark - with him?  

Rising to his feet, he bowed in her direction, awaiting her pleasure. The monastic silence stretched into several moments.

“Your Grace, I want to thank you for what you did today.”

Ah, so that’s what this is about.

Warmth palpitated along his limbs rivaling the sting of the brandy. Soft, seductive, even her voice projected pedigree. Within him a fire raged hotter than the surface of the sun. After a week of damnable celibacy, Lady Victoria couldn’t possibly understand the sexual danger closing in on her.

He barked out a laugh that bordered on a growl, rubbing his hand behind his neck working the tension out of his muscles. It didn’t help.

“Lady Victoria, my intentions . . . my reputation regarding women.  Being here with me . . . in my obvious state of undress, do you think this is prudent?” 

Breaking all the rules, she closed the distance between them. No, no, no. His brow shot up. Her brass actions would only give rise to gossip.

With a will all their own, his eyes slid over her attire. At first he thought her dress was white, but as she moved closer the silver threads caught the low light of the hearth giving the delectable gown an ethereal appearance. His breath stuck in his suddenly dry throat. She was a vision. Pure temptation. More dangerous than her brother’s loaded pistol he’d faced this morning. Positively lethal.

His eyes locked on hers, her pupils dilating to encompass almost the entire iris. “I wanted to express my gratitude to you for not killing my brother.”  Her voice shook as she clasped her hands together.

Needing to put as much distance between them as the room allowed, he fought the fierce urge to crush her in his arms. Prowling over to the hearth he swung around. “Your brother is an arrogant ass who needs to learn some manners.”

Her lips arched into a dazzling smile showing off white even teeth. He swallowed hard, fighting to keep his scattered wits about him. Her answer surprised the hell out of him.

“I know. That’s why I’m here. To tell you how grateful I am you spared him.”

How grateful?

“Lord Hartley explained what an honorable thing you did when it was within your rights to kill Matthew. I cannot believe he cheated by firing his pistol at eight paces.” She turned away as tears welled in those gorgeous eyes. Oh hell, he could take anything but tears, her brother didn’t deserve them. It took every ounce of restraint to remain where he stood. Her brother may have pointed a loaded pistol at his back but she . . . she was far more dangerous.

Gaining her composure, she swiped a gloved hand across her cheek. “Lord Hartley also stated you turned, leveled your gun at Matthew’s heart before raising it and firing into the air.”

No sound resonated against the thick Persian rug as she moved closer. He raised a hand to halt her. If she came within his reach?

“I cannot thank you enough for sparing him. I don’t know what I would do without him?”

“Half of the people attending the ball tonight think I’m a coward for my actions.”

The intoxicating scent of white jasmine permeated his nostrils. Delicious. Perilous. Inspiring.

“Nonsense,” she broke into his befuddled mind. “From my observations you’re a hero.” Her lips, coral, haunting . . . enticing, captured his intense interest. Every muscle in his body clenched, every muscle, the fall on the front of his pants becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

“You must know why I did it?”

She cocked her head to one side, the simple movement bringing the tantalizing flesh of her breasts bubbling up against the square neckline of her grown.

She didn’t have a clue how he felt about her? Not a clue!

“My intentions weren’t as honorable as you profess.”

 Her brows knitted together. “I don’t understand. What did you hope to gain with your actions?”

His gaze wandered over her, from the tips of her dainty shoes upward, lingering for an extended moment on the lushness of her breasts before capturing her face. “You.”

Surprise shocked her eyes wide. “Me?”

His frustration escaped his lips in a growl before he had a chance to tap it down. Pulling at her gloves, she removed them and set them on the chair. She was staying.

“Lady Victoria, I must insist you leave, your reputation is at great risk. You should not be here.”

“I’m not concerned with such trifles.”

What? Clearly, she wasn’t thinking straight.

“Trifles, this is far more damaging than mere trifles. If you are discovered here with me?” His voice dropped into a husky octave as his mind conjured images of her tangled within his sheets.

Again, that smile, what was behind that captivating smile?

He could watch the exquisite way her mouth formed words all night long. Everything about her enchanted him.

She took a step backward. He followed, expertly maneuvering her under the bough of mistletoe.

He glanced up. Her eyes tracked his. She let out an astonished gasp a millisecond before his lips claimed hers.

                                        ****

Oh my, oh my, my my . . .

Lips that were firm, bold, moved over hers, devouring her with his heat. Is this how a rogue kissed? Like an invasion. He didn’t just kiss, he conquered. Her reserve splintered. He smelled masculine, he tasted masculine, his long-fingered masculine hands framed her face tilting her lips up to his. Her knees went weak. Blood hummed through her veins as desire pooled between her thighs. Was that sexy mewl coming from her? Her eyes slid shut as she lost herself in his masculine expertise. God the way he kissed. She was in trouble now, drowning within the sensations he invoked. God help her . . . she liked this . . . liked it a lot. Her hands plastered against the wall of his chest, flattening out over solid flesh —hot steel beneath her fingers, the rumble of his growl vibrating against the pads of her fingers.   

He stepped back, crossing his arms over his muscular chest. Immediately she missed the fervor of his body. His gaze leveled on her. Breathing hard, he fought to get the next words out. “Lady Victoria, forgive my forwardness. I . . . I lost control. Let me escort you to the door.”

What? No!

“Your Grace . . .”

With a wave of his hand he interrupted her.

“Sin,” he corrected.

“I beg your pardon.” Her hand flew to her chest.

“Sin, my friends call me, Sin. I think we’ve crossed into the ranks of friendship, wouldn’t you agree?” He winked, sending her heart into a free-fall, suspending her ability to breathe.

“Sin . . .” she tested, the sound rolling off her lips like a novena. She stepped back, staring at him. Tall, well over six feet, his mile-wide shoulders all but blocked out the rest of the room. Light-headed, she nearly swooned from his nearness, when he touched her . . .

Raven hair, intense green eyes with explosive depths provided a stirring excursion into his soul.

“You’re staring at me like I’m some white knight riding to the aid of a damsel in distress.” He shoved a hand through his hair, disheveling the layers; they gleamed like black satin in the candlelight. “I’m not.”

“I have a confession to make.”

A smile dented his lips. “A secret told at midnight? I’ll take it to my grave.”

The spell he evoked rivaled the pull of the earth on the moon. Toying with the ruffles on his shirt, she bunched the slick material into her fist. “I coaxed Matthew’s friends into filling my dance card so I didn’t have to dance with you.”

For a moment confusion marred his exquisite features. Then, he threw his head back and laughed, the brawny sound sparking a ripple of sensual pleasure.

“Whatever for?” He persuaded.

She squirmed under his ardent appraisal. “I was afraid.” Heat seared her cheeks. Rumors of his prowess were legendary. She’d wanted to avoid the temptation so many other women succumbed to. And yet, here she stood – mesmerized. The spell he conjured magnified by the throaty sound of his voice. She wanted him. Not for his title, his lands, or his bluer-than-blue blood. No, it was the flesh and blood man she yearned for.

“Of me?” He jerked back, his hand covering his heart, toppling the gold Saint Joseph medal hanging about his neck out of his shirt.  

Self-repugnance washed over her. She’d hurt his feelings. “Your reputation.”

Along the sharp edge of his jaw a muscle ticked. “Pure ladies gossip.” 

“Oh, I think not, Your Grace.”

His fingers gave a sharp tug on one of her ringlets, the curl unfurling then bouncing back into place. “And how have you attained this knowledge?”

“Your kiss, my lord.”

Strains of the orchestra playing a waltz drifted up from the main ballroom below.

Offering his hand, he inquired, “Lady Victoria, may I have the honor of this dance?”

Every nerve vibrated with the possibility of being in his arms, moving across the expanse of the library.

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

Placing her hand in his, she moved in unison with him across the floor, her gown swishing with the practiced movements. He pulled her closer. “Things that begin with a dance often lead to the altar. Are you open to my suit?”

“I would like nothing better, Your Grace,” was all she managed before his lips claimed hers under the mistletoe.

Look for the eleventh installment of Eleven Pipers Piping.

Merry Christmas to all.

My True Love Gave to Me...Seven Swans a'Swimming

My True Love Gave to Me

…seven swans a’swimming…

Chapter Seven

Silver James

  

       Lord David Barrington, Duke of Alford, swigged his port in disgust. On one side, Richard, Viscount Tetterly spoke of his upcoming nuptials as if his bride-to-be was a prized mare ripe for breeding. David could only discern that the miss in question was one of the Swann sisters, though he’d heard nothing of a betrothal. He shuddered at the thought of having to marry off seven women. He had only his sister, Cecile, to be concerned with. Ceecy was friendly with the Swanns. Surely she would have mentioned a wedding if one was in the offing.

       He’d watched the family’s entrance earlier—Lord John Swann, the Earl of Cockswood, and his lady leading their flock of seven swans a’swimming through this social pond.

       As much as he disliked the subject, truth be told, it was the only reason he was here for this forsaken parade of marriageable maids plumped and primed by their predatory mothers. He’d retreated to the card room to get away from the lot of them—only to be caught up in the discussion from the other side of the coin.

       “What say you, your Grace?” Tetterly called for his attention.

       Brow furrowed, David stared at the man. “I say you’d be wiser to mind your cards than gossiping like that gaggle of geese in the ballroom.”

       The men at the card table chuckled earnestly though David suspected his title had more to do with their appreciation than any wit he might possess. He stared at the men around the table and despaired of ever finding a husband for Ceecy. The girl remained convinced she would make a love match—hopeless romantic that she was. He would be satisfied with a man who would simply take care of her in a manner that wouldn’t force him to be involved.

       “Speaking of…” Tetterly tossed his cards to the table. “I should make inquiry after my intended. Lady Georgette needs a firm hand.”

       The man pushed out of the chair he’d occupied with some effort and snatched a cane. “She will need to attend me this evening rather than dancing.”

       Tetterly limped out, leaning heavily on the walking stick, as David exchanged looks with Lord Drake.

       “The man’s a bit presumptuous. He hasn’t pressed suit with Cockswood and from what I know of the Swann sisters, Lady Georgette will stamp that pretty foot of hers and convince her father to say no. Headstrong, the lot of them. Why else would they all remain unmarried?”

       Why else, indeed. Perhaps David should restrict Ceecy’s access to the Swanns. He swallowed a rather grumpy sigh and turned to leave. He needed to find his sister to ensure she was behaving herself. His need had nothing to do with the lurch in his stomach at the mention of Lady Georgette—most definitely not.

****

       Lady Georgette Swann clung to Edwina’s hand—not out of nerves but to keep her twin sister from the dance floor. “You cannot leave me yet, Edie. You promised! Lord Tetterly is over there, and I know he is looking for me. I shall quite faint if Father accepts him.”

       Edie snorted. “You? Faint? That is about as likely to happen as Father finding us all husbands tonight. What scheme have you concocted now?”

       “I know the odious man. He’ll claim me and force me to sit by his side to keep him company. Drat that he can’t just go to the card room and stay there for the evening. He is unable to dance since his injury at Lord Drake’s hunting party. Mister Granby is here, and I so want to dance with him. He’s positively incomparable, Edie.” She sighed for dramatic effect. “I do wish Nicholas was more acceptable to Father.”

       Her sister made a sound of disgust. “Why would you want him, Georgie? He’s a second son and his family seems to balance perpetually on the edge of poverty. At least Lord Tetterly has prospects.”

       “But he’s old, Edie.” She shuddered. “Please? Go pretend to be me and keep the viscount occupied. I promise to relieve you before long.”

       Edie held up her glove-clad wrist. Her dance card, more than half-filled, dangled from it. “How many names do we share?” She sighed as Georgie smiled in triumph.

       “As if any of them can actually tell us apart. You are a good egg, Edie. I promise to see you dance with the most handsome man in attendance before the night is through.”

They both glanced over to find Lord Tetterly weaving awkwardly through the throng toward them. Edie flashed her a long-suffering look before plastering a smile on her face and turning to the man as Georgie made her escape.

       Mister Granby—Nicholas—had claimed her card for a dance upon their arrival. She scanned the room and discovered him headed toward Edie and Lord Tetterly. She moved to intercept him.

       Touching his arm to gain his attention, she smiled up at him. “Mister Granby? I do believe this is our dance?”

       Granby glanced between her and her twin, now perched on the edge of the chair next to the viscount. “I…forgive me, Lady Edwina, but I thought you held me in little regard.”

       Georgie formed a little moue with her mouth. “Shhh. It’s me. Georgie.” His gaze warmed as he took her hand and whisked her onto the dance floor.

****

       David, standing in the shadows near the wall, glared at his sister as she huddled between the Swann twins. The three of them giggled conspiring behind the flutter of their fans. Over the course of several seasons, he’d found himself studying the twin Swanns—for purely academic reasons, he assured himself. He continued his scrutiny as they’d danced with various men during the course of the ball. They looked to be identical in every way, from the rose-colored gowns they wore to their dark hair swept up into knots on their heads. When they turned their heads in the candlelight, he caught flashes of fire in their locks. He’d discovered the color of their eyes—two differing shades of moss though flecks of gold highlighted each pair.

       “You left Lady Georgette quite flustered after your dance, Granby. Plan to claim her for another?”

       Three young bucks gathered on the other side of a pillar, and David couldn’t help but overhear them.

       “I plan to do more than that. Should her father catch us in a compromising position, he’ll be forced to give her hand to me rather than Lord Tetterly. Lord Cockswood has no male heirs and his title is unentailed. He can name an heir. I should, as his son-in-law, stand a good chance of gaining the earldom.”

       “Ha! That’s an unlikely gamble, Granby,” the third man interjected. “In fact, we should wager on your chances.”

       The first chuckled, and the sound grated on David’s nerves. This was why he hated society and longed to see Ceecy successfully married so he could return to the quiet environs of Alford Hall.

       “I’ll take that bet,” Granby piped up. “I have a far better chance of marrying the Lady Georgette than you do of pressing your suit for Lady Cecile’s hand.”

       David straightened, and as the orchestra had begun to play again, stepped closer. He didn’t want to miss a word of this conversation.

****

       Georgie had hurried up the stairs to the ladies’ retiring room in order to avoid spending more time with Lord Tetterly. The man was an absolute bore. Hunting, his wealth, and his ability at cards were the only things he spoke of. She knew he planned to speak to her father soon to arrange the nuptials. For a brief moment, she considered causing a scandal to avoid marriage to the odious man. In truth, she could not condemn her sisters by any such rash action on her part.

       Since Lord Tetterly tottered about on a cane, she hoped to avoid him for the rest of the evening, or at least play cat and mouse with him chasing after both her and Edie. Resigned to her fate, she returned to the house’s first floor.

        Entering the ballroom, she spied Edwina in the arms of a most striking man. She didn’t recognize him for a moment until Lady Cecile appeared at her side.

       “They make a handsome couple, yes?”

       “Who is that?” Georgie was curious and more than a little jealous.

       Ceecy laughed gaily and tapped Georgie’s shoulder with her folded fan. “That’s David, my brother.”

       Georgie gulped. “Your brother? Lord Alford?” How had she missed realizing how handsome he was before tonight?

       “Indeed, the one and only Duke of Alford. He looks to be quite enjoying himself in Edie’s company.”

       “Humpf.”

       The music ended, the dancing couples bowed and curtsied, and Lord Alford escorted Edwina back to them. He bowed slightly before Georgie.

       “Would you perhaps have an empty space on your dance card, Lady Georgette?”

       The music, a lively quadrille, started before she could answer, and she found herself swept out onto the dance floor. She was quite shocked but delighted at the same time. Georgie had always considered Ceecy’s brother to be something of a staid old curmudgeon. She was elated to discover she’d been wrong.

       His eyes flashed like sapphires, and a strand of dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that enticed her to brush it aside. She avoided the temptation as the dance steps required her to move away from the duke.

       “Stay away from him,” her next partner growled.

       Georgie blinked the stars from her eyes to realize she was now, however briefly, partnered with Nicholas Granby and that Lord Alford danced with Edie. The flow of the dance returned her to the duke’s arms, and she inhaled deeply. He smelled of wood smoke and port, of something deeper and more primal that curled through her, filling her lungs and making it hard to breathe.

        She glanced up at him, and he appeared to be as dazed as she felt. Goodness but he was tall. And strong. And so very, very handsome. Her heart fluttered, causing her to miss a step, but he held her securely, smoothing over her mistake while never taking his gaze from her face.

       When the music stopped—much to her chagrin—she didn’t move, reluctant to leave the warm haven presented by the duke’s presence. He’d mesmerized her. A brittle cough drew her attention.

       “Ahem, Lady Georgette. I require your presence, if you would be so good.”

       Startled, she jerked at the displeasure in that voice. Lord Tetterly. Only he was speaking to Edie. Who’d been dancing with Mister Granby. The man couldn’t tell them apart. Before either she or her sister could react, the viscount had taken Edie’s arm and hustled her away from the erstwhile suitor. Confused, Granby stared from her and then at her sister’s retreating back. Good heavens, he couldn’t tell them apart either.

       “Perhaps some air, m’lady.” The duke’s voice urged her away, as did his warm hand on her elbow.

       Somewhere between the ballroom and the terrace, the duke had procured her a cloak. Settling it about her shoulders, he captured her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her outside.

       “That’s quite a game you have going with the Lady Edwina.”

       His voice sounded grave, and she jerked her eyes up to gauge his expression. “How do you know I’m not Edwina?” she challenged. Oh, the smile curling his full lips quite overwhelmed her.

       “Unlike the dolts who have set their eyes on your prize, I pay attention. You are nothing like your sister, Lady Georgette.”

       Her chest ached as she tried to inhale. The look on his face left no doubt in her mind. He knew. He could tell them apart. Something eased around her heart. He lowered his head, and her eyelids fluttered shut as she arched up on her tiptoes to meet him.

****

       Dash it all. What the bloody blazes was he thinking, kissing the girl out here, away from chaperones, leaving them both as fodder for the gossiping geese should anyone spy them. Why should he care? A scent that reminded him of spring in the gardens at Alford Hall wafted in the air. Georgie. He would forever think of springtime when he caught her scent—and the turnabout was true. Springtime would forever remind him of the girl in his arms. She was quite curvy—no lithe slip of a girl that could break in a man’s embrace. Her heart-shaped face appeared ethereal and angelic beneath the moon.

       And her eyes. Dark green like spring moss and flecked with precious gold. He’d been reminded once more of how delightful they looked as they danced. That and the tiny birthmark behind her right ear. He’d checked the spot on Lady Edwina as he danced with her earlier, and she bore none.

       Not that he needed such proof to tell the sisters apart. His heart would know the Lady Georgette anywhere. Quite gobsmacked by his feelings, he pulled her closer, his arms snaking beneath her cloak to touch her warmth. His mouth devoured the sweetness of her, and heat flared as his blood all rushed to his groin. He’d never in all his thirty-two years felt this way.

       Breathless, she broke their kiss but made no move to back away.

       “My lord,” she sighed. She gazed up at him, and he could see the stars shining in her eyes.

       “I don’t quite know what came over me,” he began. Her face fell, and he hastened to return a smile to her mien. “I’m a quiet man, Georgie—m’lady. I’ve purposely avoided society but for the need to find a husband for Cecile.”

       Her lips quivered though she swallowed hard and blinked, fighting her emotions.

       “Oh my darling girl, don’t you see? You’ve quite undone me. I find myself craving your touch. Your kisses. The gift of your smile. I am not a man who believes in romance but I fear my heart has betrayed me for it is quite sure it wants no one but you.”

       Georgie looked puzzled, her forehead furrowed so adorably he discovered he was incapable of resisting. He planted a kiss between her brows.

       “I…what are you saying, your Grace?”

       “David. Will you call me David, my darling Georgie? You’ve quite won my heart over, dearest one, and I want to marry you.”

       Her countenance lightened and a smile curled her bow-shaped mouth—her most kissable mouth. He leaned down and claimed it for his own, and he decided in that moment that no man save him would ever claim this lovely swan. Georgie was his, just as soon as he asked—no, not asked—demanded Cockswood give his daughter’s hand in marriage. If he had his way, they’d waive the bans before the start of the new year.

       “I’ve fallen in love with you, Georgie Swann.”

       “Oh, your Grace…David. I love you, too.”

######

Join us again tomorrow for Chapter Eight of My True Love Gave to Me...