Mistletoe Masquerade Page 5

  “You are most kind, sir. It would be my pleasure.”

  He nodded, savoring his first mouthful of food, then swallowing and nodding. “Excellent indeed. Please relay my profound gratitude to your Cook. If I go on like this I may well have to add gout to my ever growing list of ailments.”

  She chuckled, as she knew he meant her to. “I will take it upon myself to make sure that doesn’t happen, my Lord.” She glanced at the tray. “Perhaps I should remove the dessert dish.”

  “I will use my cane on you if you try,” he answered, a laugh in his eyes. “Tell me, Mrs. Harry. Do you like being a housekeeper? You seem very young to hold such a position, if you’ll forgive my impertinence.”

  Aware that those blue eyes were surveying her from beneath bushy white brows, Harriet chose her words carefully. “It is a challenge, sir, you may be sure. And I have to confess this is my first experience as a housekeeper.” There. Nothing but the truth. “However, circumstances made it necessary for me to assume the position, and I am finding the work exhilarating as well as exhausting.” She smiled.

  “Ah, I see.” He took a forkful of roast potatoes and savored them. “Since I’m being rudely prying, I will also ask how long you and young Paul have been married. A fortuitous association, I can well see, since you work together as a team and the result would appear to be satisfactory…” He took a small sip of the ale she’d poured. “Ahhh. Chillendale ale, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Very good, sir,” applauded Harriet, glad to be off the topic of her ‘marriage’. “It is a local favorite and much in demand.”

  “I’ll wager your husband laid in a supply.”

  “He did indeed.”

  “A man of excellent taste. Which is, of course, why he married you.”

  Harriet blushed. “You’re too kind.”

  “So how long have you two been wed?”

  Damn the man. He’d quite cleverly brought the conversation back around to exactly where she didn’t want it. She took a breath. “Our union is of quite recent date, my Lord.”

  “Should I congratulate you on being a newlywed?” An eyebrow quirked upward.

  She hesitated, seeking the right response. “I would suppose that might not be completely inappropriate.”

  “Hmm.” The Earl continued to eat.

  Harriet stood, seeking a distraction, something to get the old man’s thoughts away from her. “I see you have brought some volumes with you, my Lord. May I look?” She gestured at a small bookshelf where several books lay within reach of a large chair.

  “By all means,” the Earl answered. “I shall indulge in one bit of this pie, and then it’s on to the dreadfully sinful marzipan sweets. My weakness, you know.”

  Harriet smiled as she walked to the shelf. “Ah, Shakespeare.” She ran a finger over the large tome.

  “Can’t travel without the man,” murmured the Earl.

  “Voltaire, as well, I see…”

  “Indeed.”

  She glanced up. “Both men might well be described as historians, as well as philosophers and wits…?”

  His gaze narrowed and he pointed a fork at her. “Aha. I knew it. You are a woman of letters, Mrs. Harry. Your intellect belies your age.”

  “I enjoy a good read, sir. I hardly think that qualifies me as a woman of letters.”

  “You’re quite wrong there, my dear.” He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and took another sip of ale. “Firstly, you read. That puts you miles ahead of most of your contemporaries in town. Secondly you have opinions about what you read. That sends you further up the lists. And lastly, you recognize not only Voltaire’s name, but enough of his writings to draw an excellent comparison with Mr. Shakespeare, no matter how different they may seem on the surface.” He leaned back with a smug smile. “Thus—a woman of letters. I rest my case.”

  She shook her head and smiled, about to respond when a light tap at the door interrupted them. She walked over and opened it a little, widening it as she saw Paul with a small tray of brandy and a lovely crystal glass.

  “For his Lordship,” said Paul.

  “Come in, lad,” called the Earl. “Your timing is almost perfect.”

  Harriet moved backward, shooting a sharp look at Paul, and hoping he would pick up her implied warning. He nodded, a casual gesture that told her nothing.

  “For your after-dinner pleasure, my Lord,” he said, putting the tray down. “I believe you’ll find this a particularly fine vintage.”

  “I’m sure I shall, Mr. Paul. Thank you.” The Earl glanced at the bottle approvingly. “Your wife here was about to tell me the story of your marriage. I understand it is of recent date?” He looked at the two of them. “Congratulations, by the way. You are well suited, it would seem.”

  Harriet fought the blush she could feel creeping up her cheeks. “You are too kind, my Lord.”

  “You are very gracious, my Lord.”

  “Oh stop my-lording me, if you please, it gets quite tiring,” sighed the Earl. “So why are newlyweds working in such an out of the way hunting box in the middle of winter?”

  Harriet opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Paul seemed similarly afflicted.

  The Earl’s lips twitched. “Let me hazard a guess that you did not expect a party of guests and decided that a winter honeymoon in a quiet little corner of the English countryside would be just the thing…”

  “How astute of you, my…er…sir,” said Harriet.

  “You have found us out, sir. Well done.” Paul bowed.

  “And yet…there might be something more…” The Earl gazed at the two of them speculatively.

  “I…”

  Another tap on the door interrupted Paul, and with a sigh of relief he hurried to open it.

  “Is his Lordship ready to retire yet, Mr. Paul?” It was the valet.

  “I believe he will be shortly. Best come in and we’ll clear away the dishes.” Paul ushered the man in with an excess of friendly gratitude.

  Harriet could sympathize. The Earl was a great deal too astute for her liking, and his questions had made her aware that their position in this household was precarious, to say the least. She was happy to revert to her housekeeper personality, aware that she might have erred in her conversation about his choice of reading materials.

  The dishes were soon cleared onto the tray, brandy was poured and a small plate of sweets left, in case the Earl woke and fancied a late snack.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” asked Paul.

  “Not tonight, lad.” He sighed. “If so, I shall be well tended.” He nodded to the next room where the valet was preparing the Earl’s bed for the night. “I suggest you and your wife get your rest. After all, newlyweds need their strength, right?” His grin was wickedness personified, and this time, Harriet had no chance of hiding her blushes.

  “Now run along. All is well here.” The Earl nodded and dismissed them.

  To say they followed his directions and ran from the room would be overstating the case, but their exit could be described as extraordinarily prompt.

  Tempted to lean against the wall and pant at their narrow escape, Harriet simply followed Paul down the corridor, slowing as they reached the top of the stairs. “That was close,” she muttered.

  “He’s damn sharp, for sure,” added Paul. “And beguilingly charming. A lethal combination.”

  “I know,” she nodded. “I was talking about Voltaire with him before I even knew what I was doing.”

  “You’ve read Voltaire?” Paul’s eyebrows rose.

  Harriet gritted her teeth. “Yes. I have. Some women actually like reading, you know.”

  He held up his hand. “No offense, Harry. You’re just full of surprises.” He chuckled. “It would seem my wife has hidden talents.”

  In spite of herself, Harriet blushed again. “You’re absurd. I have to check on the kitchen.”

  He gave a dramatic sigh. “And I have to go and check on the orgy in the parlor.”

  “What?”
>
  “Never mind. Probably best you don’t know.” He walked down the stairs. “I won’t be done for a while. Don’t wait up, dear wife.” This time it was Paul’s grin that radiated wickedness.

  Harriet put both hands to her fiery cheeks and rushed away in the opposite direction.

  Chapter Six

  There was still over an hour of minor details to attend to before Harriet could seek sanctuary upstairs in the room she was now to share with her “husband”.

  By the time she’d checked the kitchen, had a last minute conversation with Cook—who beamed at the compliments—and made sure the stove was well banked down but still glowing, at least a half hour had gone. That was followed by a cursory check of the other rooms on the ground floor, retrieving mislaid or forgotten items to put out for the maids in the morning.

  She discovered two fans, a pair of lace gloves and a pretty pink shoe.

  The latter had her frowning, but given that it had to be a Tisdale shoe, Harriet knew she shouldn’t have been surprised. She could hear loud and raucous laughter from the parlor, and spared a moment of sympathy for Paul.

  He must have attended such affairs in the past; he’d travelled widely, and did not seem to be a man to stay in his room reading a book if there was adventure and excitement to be had.

  But the excessively loud noise, and the edge of unpleasantness she could almost detect…well, it was discomforting, and she doubted that Paul was enjoying himself. Not that he was supposed to, because butlers were above that sort of thing, but he had to be as invisible as possible.

  “Noisy lot, aren’t they, Ma’am?” One of the young footmen came up beside her. “Not what you’d expect to hear in a gennelman’s residence, I’d say…”

  She glanced at him, a clean faced lad of perhaps seventeen or eighteen years. “You might be right, but status has its privileges. They may do as they please.”

  “Aye. True, that.” He nodded. “Anythin’ I can do for you, Mrs. Harry? I’m on me way up but if there’s aught you need…”

  She smiled. “Thank you, but no. Run along to bed. We’re all going to need as much rest as we can get, I believe.”

  “Yes’m.” He touched his forelock respectfully. “G’night.”

  With a last look around the hall, Harriet sighed and started for the back stairs. She needed to take her own advice, she realized, because weariness was beginning to creep over her bones and make her muscles strain to lift her from step to step.

  Finally reaching the door, she pushed it open. And it dawned on her for the first time, the magnitude of the masquerade in which both she and Paul were fully engaged.

  There was one large bed.

  One.

  No couch or upholstered chair in which she could have curled up with a blanket. There was a small desk with a mirror over it on one side of the bed, and a screen on the other, with hooks on the walls either side for clothing. A bowl and ewer topped a low cupboard which stood near the tiny fireplace. And that was it. The one chair was wooden and looked fine for writing, but impractical for sleeping.

  She closed the door and went to her bag, opening it and removing her nightgown. It was crumpled from the haste with which she’d repacked it, but it was warm flannel and covered her fully from head to toe. Scurrying behind the screen, she quickly undressed, her haste necessitated by the thought that Paul might enter at any moment, and also the fact that the room was far from warm.

  She was more than aware that this night would ruin her completely if word ever got out. Pretending to be married was shocking enough, but actually spending the night in the same room, let alone the same bed…well, it would be disastrous and something from which she would never recover.

  Fastening the last button, she stepped out from behind the screen and hung her dress and apron over her undergarments on a hook, making sure that everything was discreetly covered. It would not do to place one’s chemise on full display.

  She sat on the side of the bed and pulled the pins out of her hair, sighing with relief as she started to brush away the dust and tangles of the day. Her mother had done this task for her when she was a little girl, and even now, Harriet could recall the affection they shared during those times; a mother and daughter, laughing sometimes, silent at others, but always enjoying the closeness.

  What would her mother say now? Would she understand the circumstances that had driven Harriet to this room, this moment? How would she have felt if she’d known her only child had become nothing more than a bargaining chip in a greedy quest for money?

  Harriet stretched her shoulders. Her mother would have been utterly horrified, of course.

  However, she’d escaped, and that was the most important thing.

  And she’d met Paul.

  They’d kissed…it had been the first time Harriet had wanted to be kissed. Oh my goodness, she’d enjoyed it, too. Even now a little shiver of delight curled through her innards at the remembered sensation of his lips on hers, his arms around her and his tongue gently teasing its way inward to taste her.

  No, no and no. Rebuking herself, she reached for a small ribbon and began to braid her now-tangle free locks. She must not think about that enchanted stroll in the snow. They had enjoyed a wonderful evening with Letitia and James, and certainly imbibed freely and well of wine and brandy. She knew the liquors had little to do with her desires, though, if she were truly honest with herself, so that argument held no water whatsoever.

  The truth had become impossible to ignore, and yet ignore it she must.

  Paul DeVoreaux appealed to her on many unexpected levels, not the least of which was a purely feminine level. It was surprising, unexpected and in many ways exciting. She could imagine him touching her—and doing a lot more than that.

  No man had ever caught her attention in this way before, so perhaps that was part of the fascination. She didn’t know. As she tied the end of her braid, she once again chided herself and did her best to shove away such improper thoughts.

  She’d almost achieved it too, until the door opened.

  “Now that’s a lovely picture,” he said. “My wife. Getting ready for bed.”

  Oh bloody hell.

  *~~*~~*

  She was indeed worthy of the finest portrait painter. Slender, clad in something that looked warm and buttoned high, ending in a small ruffle around her neck, she was slowly braiding her hair into a long plait, tying the ends with a little piece of ribbon, her actions speaking of familiarity and routine. This was something she must have done for years.

  Her expression, when he spoke, was one of surprise, followed by embarrassment at being caught in such an improper position. “Oh good grief,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Now what do we do?”

  He had more than a few ideas, but decided now wasn’t the time to suggest mutual nudity. “Well, I’m going to go behind that screen and undress. I doubt you’ll feel inclined to peek, so I suggest you pick a side of the bed and get under the covers. It’s going to be cold in here tonight, and I didn’t think to bring wood for a fire.”

  “We don’t need one,” she sighed. “I’m sure we’ve both experienced colder nights than this.”

  Paul took off his jacket and walked to the screen, going behind it as he’d promised. “Indeed. You’d have to go a long way to beat the arctic air of St. Petersburg in January.”

  There was a rustling sound, followed by a few thumps and a squeak from the bed frame. “Russia in the winter? What’s it like?” asked Harriet.

  He removed his clothing, hanging it on another hook, next to her dress. “It was an experience, believe me.” His nightshirt was not thick and warm like hers. He shivered as he slid the cotton over his head. “It’s so cold that the hairs inside your nose can freeze with your first breath out of doors, sometimes. Luckily, they have plenty of furs—and not ones stored in a musty cupboard that smell of dinner.”

  He heard her chuckle, and smiled. Good. She was relaxing a little.

  “The women are very beautiful, I’ve hea
rd.”

  “Some are, yes. Mostly the ones with enough money to buy the finest fabrics, and jewels and with a dozen servants to dress them in their most magnificent styles.”

  “Ah. So not really that different to London, I suppose.”

  He emerged from the screen, already chilled, and ran his hands through his hair. Then stopped dead. “What the hell?”

  Harriet turned her head on the pillow and stared at him. “What?”

  Paul blinked. “There appears to be a small mountain range in the middle of the bed, Harry. Was there a geological upheaval I failed to notice when I was behind the screen?”

  “No,” she laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Then what…” He waved his hand toward the mound that divided the two halves of the bed. It was lumpy and did indeed look like a small line of hills, especially since it was beneath the fur blanket they’d rescued from the closet.

  “Well,” she settled herself. “I remember a book I enjoyed about Dutch painters and their lives several centuries ago.”

  She paused as he slipped beneath the covers on what he assumed was his side of the dividing terrain. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “So apparently families, often unrelated, would share beds for warmth, either while travelling and staying at inns, or at large boarding houses. It makes sense when you come to think of it,” she continued. “Warmth is essential for life, and sharing blankets made the preservation of warmth much easier. Especially for families with children.”

  “I can see that, of course. Not an unusual event. But that doesn’t explain this…” He nudged the mountains with his knee.

  “Well,” said Harriet, “such practices inevitably led to…er…unrelated ladies and gentlemen taking advantage of the situation.” She cleared her throat. “So a barrier was erected, and that was apparently effective in minimizing…um…”

  “Fraternization?”

  “That’s a fair way of describing it, I suppose. Yes.”

  Paul had a hard time repressing a laugh. But he was finally getting warm beneath the quilts and the addition of the fur, which easily covered both the bed and the rise in the middle, held the heat right where they needed it.