“That is not fair, giving hints. The people who know you the best, your mother and Lady Sophronia, will have an undue advantage.” Mrs. Green—of course it was Mrs. Green—raised her voice in protest, but nobody else seemed to mind the possible disadvantage.
“Nobody knows that word, correct?” Jamie continued. At everyone’s silence, he nodded. “Then you know what to do.”
All the people who were playing (Mr. Green had fallen asleep, and was tacitly being allowed to slumber) gathered their pencils and paper and began writing.
Agamist. Sophronia tapped her pencil against her mouth and caught Jamie looking at her, much as he had looked at her the night before. She lowered her gaze to her paper, but not before she felt her face nearly burst into flame.
She thought of something, thankfully something other than an unclothed Jamie, and began to write, smiling as she recalled how zealously her father had attacked the game of Dictionary. As though it were crucially imperative that he devote all of his remarkable brain power to fictitious definitions.
She missed him.
“Is everyone ready?” Jamie didn’t wait for everyone to respond, he just began to walk around the room, putting each person’s slip of paper into a basket Mrs. Green had thought to provide.
He cleared his throat and began to read. “‘Agamist: A thick fog specific to bodies of fresh water.’” There were a few murmurs around the room as people thought about the word, and its possible definition. Sophronia knew, or at least she thought she knew, that wasn’t the correct one, since it was too obvious, the definer using “mist” as the inspiration for the definition.
He continued, reading a few she definitely knew were incorrect. Something about ribbons and books, so likely written by the viscountess’s daughter and Mr. Chandler, respectively.
He drew out another piece of paper and cleared his throat. “‘Agamist: A compound of iron and salt.’” That was hers, so that wasn’t the right one.
The next one must be it. She tensed, waiting for him to speak. Why it seemed so important she didn’t know, just perhaps that she had been wondering where he had gotten to all day, and what he thought about the night before, and if it were possible for them to engage in the activity again before this whole charade was over.
“‘Agamist: A person opposed to the institution of matrimony.’” And her heart stuttered in her chest, because then he met her gaze and raised an eyebrow as though in a challenge, but his mouth was smiling, so she didn’t know what to think.
Except that he’d found a word that might mean more than its definition, even though that sounded absolutely odd, and her father would be frowning right now.
But Jamie wasn’t frowning. Now he was regarding her with that dashing twinkle in his blue eyes, and now he was grinning at her as though daring her to read into his word.
“Who votes for the first definition?” He didn’t take his eyes off her as he spoke.
The viscountess’s daughter raised her hand.
Nobody voted for the ribbons and horses definition, and then it was time for hers to be up for voting. “The ore compound definition?”
The Green ladies and the viscountess raised their hands. He still kept his eyes locked on her face, and she felt as though she wanted to squirm in her seat.
“The last definition?”
She met his gaze and raised her chin as she raised her hand. Mr. Chandler and Mrs. Archer raised their hands, as well, and his eyes darted over to them before returning to Sophronia.
“Excellently done. The last definition—the person who is no longer afraid of marriage—is the correct one. Mother, you, Mr. Chandler, and Sophronia each win a point. Sophronia gets three extra points for submitting a definition three people voted on. Well done.”
She nodded, wondering if a simple game of Dictionary was meant to be so—so loaded with meaning. That is, it was a game about meaning, but she didn’t think it was meant—ha!—to be interpreted as a real life thing. Only what if she was reading more into it than was there? What if his choosing of that word was coincidental?
“Time for the next word,” he said, thankfully interrupting her ridiculous musings. They were ridiculous, weren’t they? It couldn’t be—it couldn’t be that—her mind couldn’t even go there, it felt so wonderful, and her chest hurt at the thought that it couldn’t be, it wasn’t, true.
“‘Gorgonize.’”
All the players immediately bent to their definitions, the rustling of pencil on paper the only noise in the room. Sophronia tried to think of something, anything, that would be able to fool the room, and eventually settled on something she knew wouldn’t fool anybody—well, maybe it would fool the viscountess’s daughter, but that didn’t count—and waited as the rest of the room finished up, and Jamie collected the papers.
“‘Gorgonize.’” He paused and glanced around the room. “‘To have a paralyzing or mesmerizing effect on someone.’”
Her breath caught.
“‘Gorgonize: To turn into stone.’” He grinned, and shot a quick look at the vicar. Of course that was his definition.
“‘Gorgonize: To organize all the things that begin with the letter G.’” He looked at Sophronia with a skeptical look on his face and she returned it with a shrug.
No, she couldn’t think of anything right now, not with her head in such a whirl.
He read out the rest of the definitions, and they voted; Sophronia’s definition didn’t even get the viscountess’s daughter’s vote, and she had to admit her brain had taken a break since her heart was currently the only organ she seemed to be listening to.
“The definition is to have a paralyzing or mesmerizing effect on someone.” Murmurs as everyone exclaimed, and he looked at her, speaking again. “Sophronia gorgonizes me, each and every day.”
Oh. She couldn’t speak, she could barely breathe. Thankfully, there was no need to since Mrs. Archer made cooing sounds, and even Mrs. Green seemed to smile a tiny bit.
“And now we have another word.” A pause as everyone in the room waited, pencils poised above papers. “‘Appentency.’”
A silence ensued as everyone got to work on their definitions, their heads lowered to their paper. Sophronia didn’t look down immediately, still too caught up in the tumult of what he might be doing to concentrate.
Thank goodness, because then he winked at her, as if to confirm her suspicions, and her heart went from stuttering to fluttering, and she had to take a few deep breaths to keep from bursting out with a question, or several questions, in fact: Are you an agamist now? Does that mean you wish to make this falsehood into a reality? Did you feel the same way I did last night?
Do you love me?
She didn’t even bother trying to write a definition, she knew it would result in that “Thingy that does things” definition she’d thought of a previous time he’d managed to fluster and bewilder her.
“‘Appentency: A longing or desire.’” Again, he met her gaze, and there just was no mistaking the look in his eye now. She had just barely stopped herself from leaping up and rushing into his arms when Mrs. Archer spoke.
“Jamie, I feel as though this game is for more than just sport.” She nodded significantly to Sophronia. “You are so clever, to woo her like this.” She waved her hand in the air. “But don’t you know, son, you already have her?”
Jamie looked at her and her breath caught.
“Do I?” he asked softly.
She almost couldn’t speak, but she managed to eke out a soft “yes” and a nod of her head.
“Excellent,” he replied, his expression looking relieved. And still charming, of course. “And if I may, I would like to break from the game for a moment to osculate my betrothed.” A pause. “That means to salute a person on the lips.” His eyes met hers. “Namely, to kiss her.”
And then he strode toward her as she rose from her chair, guiding her to where the mistletoe hung and kissing her thoroughly on the mouth.
“I love you, Sophronia,” he murmu
red at last.
“I love you, as well, Jamiecakes,” she replied. “I am so glad I got my present,” she added, a sly, wicked smile on her face, which just made him have to kiss her senseless.
Epilogue
“WHEN WILL YOU two be leaving?” Mrs. Archer, as Jamie frequently noted, had her questions reversed; she’d ask them when they were leaving when they’d just arrived, and ask when they’d be returning when they were about to leave.
But now his mother’s tone didn’t have the same plaintive note from before—now that she and Sophronia’s maid Maria had discovered a shared love of small villages and gossip, they’d settled happily into their cottage by the sea, which was close enough to the house he’d found for himself and Sophronia. They still traveled, but the house was an anchor, something he knew he’d be returning to eventually.
He’d found, anyway, that he didn’t have the same need to be constantly on the go, now that he had Sophronia. He still enjoyed it, and he liked showing his wife new things, but they were spending more time in England.
And soon, quite soon, in fact, they would be home permanently, since Sophronia was expecting, and neither one of them wanted to deprive Mrs. Archer of seeing her grandchild grow up.
He glanced over to where Sophy sat, his Sophy, the only one who’d been able to soothe him, the one who challenged him, as well, who made him want both to be and to become a better man.
And knew that his reckless taking on of a fake betrothed had been one of the best decisions of his life.
Author’s Note
CORRECT DEFINITIONS:
Agamist: A person opposed to the institution of matrimony.
Cachinnator: A loud or immoderate laugher.
Otosis: Mishearing; alteration of words caused by an erroneous apprehension of the sound.
Vecordy: Senseless, foolish.
Laetificate: To make joyful, cheer, revive.
Wheeple: To utter a somewhat protracted shrill cry, like the curlew or plover; also, to whistle feebly.
Gyrovague: One of those monks who were in the habit of wandering from monastery to monastery.
Queem: Pleasure, satisfaction. Chiefly in to (a person’s) queem: so as to be satisfactory; to a person’s liking or satisfaction. To take to queem: to accept.
Peragrate: To travel or pass through (a country, stage, etc.).
Tuant: Cutting, biting, keen, trenchant.
Smicker: To look amorously.
Matutinal: Of, relating to, or occurring in the morning.
Uhtceare: Anxiety experienced just before dawn.
Cunctation: Procrastination; delay.
Aubade: A song or poem greeting the dawn.
The Duke’s Christmas Wish
VIVIENNE LORRET
Dedication
For Heather
Chapter One
IVY SUTHERLAND GRIMACED at the sight of another long, winding corridor inside Castle Vale. She might never reach her room. Worse, she might never stop regretting the second cup of tea she’d drunk before leaving the inn this morning. “Do you suppose we’re still in Hertfordshire?”
From beside her, Lilah Appleton lifted a gloved finger to her pursed lips. Silently, she shook her head and gestured to the imperious Lady Cosgrove, who walked ahead of them. It was a well-known fact that Lilah’s aunt Zinnia did not possess a single shred of humor.
Of course, Lilah’s disapproval might have been more believable if not for the subtle lift of her cheeks. Amusement brightened her brown eyes and caused her dark lashes to tangle at the corners. “I’m certain the view from our windows will be of the incomparable grounds of this estate.”
That notion still did not appease Ivy. The Duke of Vale’s estate reached as far as Bedfordshire. Upon their arrival, they’d been given ample time to admire the vast grounds with the queue of carriages extending nearly a mile. At the time, a light dusting of snow had begun to settle upon the rolling hills and stands of evergreens, creating a portrait backdrop for the duke’s party, leading up to a Christmas Eve Ball. Even so, while Christmas was only a sennight away, Ivy wasn’t entirely sure they would reach their rooms by then.
As it was, she and her friend, along with Lady Cosgrove and a pair of footmen, followed a maid down another corridor within this stone fortress. Truly, the place was immense. Ivy wished there were benches lining the arched walls instead of battle scene tapestries and empty suits of armor. Then again, stopping for a rest wasn’t the best idea. The sooner she reached her room, the sooner she could stop regretting that second cup of tea.
“I wonder if His Grace hired extra servants to find guests who might become lost,” Ivy said, only partly in jest. “They might call themselves The Rescue Brigade, equipped with food rations and blankets for the long journey.”
The comment earned Ivy a snicker from one of the footmen and a laugh from Lilah. Her friend covered the amused outburst with a cough, but not quickly enough. Lilah’s aunt Zinnia turned her head, snapped her fingers, and glared—all without missing a step or altering her clipped stride. While Lady Cosgrove was a handsome woman in her middle years, she was also a master of quick, censorious glances.
When that look was turned on her, Ivy imagined that a sense of discomfiture might make most young women blush. She, however, had been told by several people that a blush turned her milky complexion to an unbecoming shade of scarlet and made her pale blue eyes rather dull. Because of that, she refused to be embarrassed whenever possible. Therefore, Ivy answered the look with an innocent lift of her brows. To which Lady Cosgrove responded with a smile . . . of sorts. Not many women could affect such a formidable countenance when dressed in a cheerful cerulean traveling costume. An unexpected shudder coursed through Ivy at the skilled display of such a severe smile. It must have taken years of practice.
When Lady Cosgrove faced forward again, Lilah composed herself, brushing wisps of brown hair away from a sloped brow, then silently mouthed to Ivy, “You are incorrigible.”
Ivy grinned, tucking a limp lock of her own, whitish-blond hair behind her ear. She’d rather be incorrigible than spend any more of her life trying to be perfect. Those years had been fruitless and exhausting. Even when Jasper—Lilah’s brother—had been alive, Ivy still hadn’t been enough for him.
More than two years had passed since then, and now, at five and twenty, Ivy was firmly on the shelf and not interested in marriage in the least. Well, not her own. She was, however, interested in helping her friend find the perfect match. While Lilah might be willing to marry any man who could satisfy the stipulations of her father’s will, Ivy wanted her friend to find a man who loved her, as well. And their bachelor host might be that man. After all, there was rampant speculation about the reason the duke was hosting the party. Many wondered if he might be in search of a bride. That was the sole reason Ivy was here at Castle Vale.
That, and to find the nearest chamber pot. For mercy’s sake, they’d been walking corridors for an age!
Ivy shortened her stride to quick, small steps. She also curled her fingers into her palms and squeezed, hoping to send the signal to the rest of her body. Stay clenched, she begged, and do not think about tea.
“Here we are, my lady,” the mobcapped maid said as she turned the key in the door. Bobbing a curtsy, she gestured them inside the elegant room furnished with rose-colored silk wallpaper, bedding, draperies, and accented in peridot-green pillows and upholstered chairs. “Your ladyship’s suite is the larger chamber. Miss Appleton and Miss Sutherland share the smaller one on the other side of the dressing room.”
The maid led the way past the white stone hearth in the corner, then through a shorter, arched doorway. The dressing chamber was more like a parlor, large and elegant, equipped with velvet-cushioned chairs, a low table for tea, and a vanity table near a slender window. The view overlooked an inviting garden path lined with snow-speckled topiaries. Further inward, the doorway to the smaller bedchamber waited. But in between the vanity and the door, a slender, square stone outcropping stood.
Ivy imagined it must have been a garderobe at one time.
In her youth, Ivy had toured a few older castles and found similar structures built against outer walls. Typically, the inside would hold a stone bench with a hole cut out of the center, nothing more than a festering pit beneath it. Although it seemed primitive to her, years ago, people would hang their clothes in such rooms, believing that the stench would ward off insects and whatnot. The stench on the clothes likely warded off people as well, she thought.
Thankfully, that practice had been abandoned. From what she’d witnessed, the old garderobes were sealed off or transformed into closets, sans festering pits, of course.
When the maid opened the door to the small stone room, Lady Cosgrove let out a gasp. “What is this—this thing in the closet? Where are the chamber pot and the washbasin?”
Blocked by the maid and Lady Cosgrove, Ivy could not see the thing that had earned such censure. She shuffled to the side in order to peer between the pair. First she saw only sprigs of lavender hanging from the ceiling in front of a window slit. Then, following the line of Lady Cosgrove’s shoulder down to the hand she had pointed at the offending object, Ivy saw what resembled a large copper cauldron, fixed to the floor.
“It is a plunger toilet, my lady,” the maid said with obvious pride, standing straighter. “His Grace has installed these in three of the castle’s former garderobes. The dowager duchess wishes for your ladyship to have every luxury and convenience. Her Grace placed you in the finest chamber.”
With the mention of the dowager duchess, a friend of Lady Cosgrove’s, her ladyship’s visible disdain gradually dissipated. She lowered her arm and cleared her throat. “You may inform Her Grace that it is a fine room, indeed—though to my mind, a chamber pot is far simpler and less offensive. Nevertheless, I’m certain we can all adapt to this modern . . . contraption.”