Read An Improper Holiday Online
Authors: K.A. Mitchell
An Improper Holiday (9 page)
As his heart and lungs calmed, Ian composed the apology to be uttered as soon as he freed his bottom
lip from the grip of his teeth, but he was distracted by the strangest scent. Engaged in a struggle against the lethargy that sought to pin him back beneath sleep’s hold, he could only manage one question. “Why do I smell lavender?”
~ * ~
Ian awoke that morning to the sounds of Simmons stirring the fire, panic accelerating Ian’s heart rate so suddenly he thought he might cast up the contents of his stomach. Had Nicky forgotten to return to his own bed? Every other morning Ian had awoken when Nicky did. He glanced around the room, but there
was only Simmons, busy with a tea cup and toast rack on a tray.
“As you’ve missed breakfast, sir, I brought you something. His lordship suggested you might wish to
sleep undisturbed.”
Oh, did he? Ian shifted his body on the mattress. There were no lasting effects from their wildness last night, other than a pleasant lassitude preying on his limbs, and the strange scent of lavender lingered which had the unsettling result of making Ian’s prick twitch. He prayed the odd association would not continue or he might have trouble in feminine company.
He intended to seek out Nicky and make clear the necessary boundaries to continuing their dalliance.
Dalliance. That was not a word Ian had ever thought to apply to himself. He had always been so certain of the correct course, but Nicky had ever been able to lead him astray. First when they were boys, and even now with all that Ian knew of the world.
Despite what resuming physical relations cost Ian’s sense of propriety, it grew harder to imagine their coming separation. To lose Nicky after having him again—it would be easier to part with another limb. The phantom pain of absence would be greater than it had with a physical amputation.
47
K.A. Mitchell
The dance on New Year’s Eve was the high point of the Carleigh house party, so it made sense that
Nicky would be so busy with preparations he could not be located, no matter how many of the bustling
servants insisted they had “just this minute seen him, sir.” Despite those assurances, Ian began to wonder if Nicky was avoiding a meeting because he knew last night had been beyond what Ian could in conscience
offer.
That evening, Simmons’ attentions had Ian looking fairly well-turned out in black coat, white stock
and silver-embroidered waistcoat. The adjustments the valet had made to Ian’s sleeves ensured that they hung better from his shoulders, drawing attention away from what was no longer there. Ian felt quite smart as he joined the other untitled bachelors waiting in the hall.
It took a single remark to cut him down as surely as a blast of grapeshot.
“Mr. Stanton, my, you look all the crack.”
Lewes. Of course. Ian turned and offered a stiff bow. “Thank you, sir.”
Julian Lewes wore almost the same clothes, black coat and embroidered waistcoat and formal knee
breeches, but as he returned Ian’s bow the polished elegance of the man’s clothes and form made Ian feel about as well-turned out as if he had stopped to roll in shit on his way downstairs.
“I must say I am looking forward to this evening’s entertainment.”
Ian tried to stare the other fellow down. “Country dances and a child’s game?”
“You do not care for Snapdragon? I find the treat sufficient compensation for the risk.”
“I hardly think a few pieces of fruit are worth the cost of self-immolation.”
“You mistake me. While I enjoy brandied raisins and almonds, I refer to the opportunity of becoming
King of Misrule. I have several…creative ideas I look forward to acting on. The king’s rule is absolute, after all.”
Being able to decree what costumes were to be worn for the Twelfth Night party and making guests
perform various forfeits was hardly as salacious as Lewes made it sound. After all, the Bishop of Warwick was a member of the party. Ian had been retiring early to steal more time with Nicky, leaving Charlotte under the watchful eye of Mrs. Collingswood who had assured him Charlotte’s company was a joy. What if the evenings had grown licentious?
“You still have to select the golden raisin.”
“I consider myself quite skilled at Snapdragon, Mr. Stanton.” Lewes raised his fingers and waggled
them. “Dexterity can be damned useful in tight places.”
Before last night, Ian would have had no idea what prompted the leer that accompanied Lewes’
words. Now they provoked a hot flush on Ian’s cheeks.
Lewes reached out and plucked at something on Ian’s left arm.
“A spec of lint, Stanton. I hate to think of something marring Simmons’ magnificent work.”
“You know him?”
48
An Improper Holiday
“Oh yes. Recommended him to Lord Amherst myself. Of course, I knew Simmons before he took up
valeting. Used to see him quite often in Betham’s apartments. You’ll have heard of Laurence Betham? Has the audiences in Drury Lane absolutely enthralled.”
There could be no doubt of what Lewes was suggesting about Simmons, and the open pronouncement
left Ian speechless.
“Of course they have parted brass rags since. Some dustup over an Italian painter who caught
Betham’s eye.” Lewes buffed a nail against one of his cuffs. “Despite the merry dance His Royal Highness and his brothers carry out in public, they cannot match the lower classes for the absolute theater of
relationships gone awry. I understood you could hear Simmons’ reaction to finding them
in flagrante
all the way to Highgate.” Lewes seemed to run down. “Oh, sorry, dear fellow, didn’t mean to cause such
consternation. Nicky said you were—ah, one of the lads, if you follow me.”
The idea of Nicky sharing their intimate connection with Lewes, who was clearly as inveterate a
gossip as any matron could hope to be, had Ian clenching his phantom fist again.
“No ill will meant, Stanton. It seems Lady Anna has managed to sort out the precedence at last.” He
nodded at the gallery doors. “Ready?”
49
Chapter Seven
Ian took up a post against the dark wood paneling and remained safely unnoticed through the first few
dances, but Charlotte and Mrs. Collingswood found him while the musicians had paused for refreshment.
Charlotte’s cheeks were flushed from exercise, dark eyes alight with merriment. Nicky had not
danced with her once, so if she had formed some sort of attachment or hopes in that direction, she seemed unaffected by the loss of his attention.
At their request, Ian fetched cups of the Negus punch, tucking the extra cups safely between his right arm and his torso, dodging those who had already partaken of too much cheer and would be greeting the
new year with an aching head.
Charlotte was laughing as he returned, a look of such joy on her face Ian could only hope that
whoever had put her in such fine spirits would be more suitable for her than Nicky.
“Oh dear, Mr. Stanton. I should have considered the difficulty before adding my request to your
errand.” Mrs. Collingswood stepped forward to take a cup from him, handing it off to Charlotte.
“Not at all, Em. Ian prefers when people forget.”
“My sister is quite correct. Though she knows better than to employ such familiar address.”
“I don’t mind, Mr. Stanton. Lady Charlotte and I have had such a very long acquaintance.”
“Indeed?” He studied the widow. He supposed she might have been close to Charlotte’s age, though
her more reserved manner had led him to think she was older, even before her marriage. Marriage did seem to have an aging effect on females.
“Yes,” Charlotte added. “After we met here at that Twelfth Night before you went away, Em and I
saw each other quite frequently during my first Season. Nick—Lord Amherst and Lady Anna were kind
enough to take us both under their wings.”
“Though I was already quite on the shelf,” Mrs. Collingswood said with a laugh.
“Never.” Charlotte’s defense was a trifle heated for loyalty to an acquaintance.
“Well, those days are past us now.” Mrs. Collingswood gave Charlotte a beseeching look.
“And good riddance to it all.”
Lord, Ian hoped Charlotte did not mean to bid farewell to her own days of seeking a proper match.
Rayne had charged Ian with her well-being. If she returned to announce her intention to simply molder on the family estate, Ian was certain he would bear the brunt of the blame. He was considering how he might best remind her of her obligations when Mrs. Collingswood spoke.
An Improper Holiday
“Now then, Lady Charlotte. Surely not all of it.”
Charlotte softened. “No. Not all.”
Ian brought his own cup to his lips, the hot spiced wine filling him with a relaxing warmth. Seeking
out Nicky was something Ian had put off until he could be certain his temper would not get the better of him. Perhaps the Negus would soften him as well to the point where he might address Nicky without
bringing Lewes’ gossiping tongue into the conversation.
Ian had not noticed the opening bars from the musicians until Lord Anthony Montrose bowed to
Charlotte. “Lady Charlotte, would you do me the honor?”
Some sort of glance passed between Ian’s sister and Mrs. Collingswood, and then Charlotte nodded
and placed her gloved hand in Lord Anthony’s. Again the gaps in Ian’s social training came glaringly to the fore. Although Mrs. Collingswood was technically out of mourning, she might be offended if he asked her to dance, and a missing arm made some of the steps awkward. Perhaps she would prefer to be escorted to a seat.
Placing his drained cup on a nearby tray, he offered the lady his arm.
“How thoughtful of you, Mr. Stanton. I would be honored.”
Unwittingly, it seemed Ian had acquired a dance partner.
Although their form was burdened with Julian Lewes and a young lady Ian didn’t recognize, and Mrs.
Collingswood did indeed demonstrate a propensity for stepping uncomfortably close to a fellow’s toes, Ian enjoyed the set. Mrs. Collingswood adjusted quickly to having a partner with one arm, both of hers
gripping his one when the steps called for it, or placing her hand in an approximation of where his would be to avoid contortion. Even more satisfying, the young lady partnered with Lewes had a laugh like a bugle blown underwater. Ian hoped Lewes was saddled with it and her company for the rest of the night.
As injurious as this fortnight was to Ian’s
mens sana
, it was a boon to his
corpore sano
. His body had not seen this much activity since his return from the Peninsula. When they had finished the set, he
deposited Mrs. Collingswood on one of the sofas lining the gallery and quenched his thirst with another cup of Negus, draining it just as the musicians struck a dramatic flourish from their bows.
Nicky’s father stood in the center of the room holding a single candle. Two footmen brought a scarred
table and placed it in front of him while two others entered with a wide shallow bowl. As Lord Carleigh spoke, the wall sconces and chandeliers were extinguished until only his face was visible in the light of the candle.
“As the year draws to a close, we will choose our King and Queen of Misrule to guide our merriment
through Twelfth Night. Her Majesty will be she who braves the dragon’s flames to find a fig. His Majesty will be he who manages to select the single golden raisin from the bowl.”
The back of one of the servants was just visible as he finished preparing the bowl. Ian had played
many times as a child, the memory of scalded fingers and burnt tongue rather vivid, but those games were
51
K.A. Mitchell
never for the stakes the Chatham family held as tradition. He had no particular desire to be responsible for entertaining bored members of the party for the final five nights, but possessed a strong will to see that whoever was so charged, it was not a reprobate like Julian Lewes.
“Now.” Lord Carleigh raised his candle and began the chant. “Here he comes with flaming bowl.” He
lowered the flame and ignited the bowl of brandy.
The rest of the guests took up the chant as blue flames spread across the surface. “Don’t he mean to
take his toll. Snip! Snap! Dragon!”
Lord Carleigh took the privilege as host to be the first to try. His face looked demonic wreathed with eerie shadows as he reached in quickly, snatched a piece of dried fruit and popped it into his mouth to smother the flames. He held it up to show it was only an ordinary raisin and everyone clapped. A line
formed on either side of the table, mostly younger guests, unwed ladies and gentlemen.
The chant went on as others risked scorched fingers and mouth to pluck out a sweet prize. “Take care
you don’t take too much. Be not greedy in your clutch. Snip! Snap! Dragon!”
Ian took his place in line. Lewes had already made one pass, netting a candied almond instead of a
raisin for all his boasts of dexterity. Ian saw Charlotte’s hand dart in just as he came to the table.
“The fig,” she cried.
“Our queen.” Lewes and Nicky and Lord Anthony surrounded her with deep bows.
Charlotte blew on her fingers as if to cool them. “Your queen commands you to fetch her more punch,
you knaves.”
Lord Anthony scurried off. She waved her fingers at Ian as if to show she was unharmed.
His turn had come.
“With his blue and lapping tongue, many of you will be stung.”
Across the table now he could see Nicky, a fiery archangel in the blue light from the bowl. Ian
reached out and plunged in his hand. Hot, but not burning, the oddest sensation of passing through fire without paying the price. He tried to examine the raisin as he brought it to his mouth, and it scalded his fingers. Black as pitch. He closed his mouth on the fiery treat, the liquor and the burn making the raisin all the sweeter, even as its juice scorched Ian’s tongue.