Just One Taste (9 page)

T
he box was
on the pillow where Jack’s head should be. Delia’s breath hitched as she fumbled with the clasp.

Two.
Both the maharani’s earrings lay nestled on the velvet, winking in the morning light.

She wouldn’t ask how he retrieved the missing earring.

The sticklers said diamonds weren’t meant for daytime, but with Jack’s help Delia had stopped obeying rules some days ago. She looked forward to breaking more. With shaking fingers, she slid the wires into each ear.

She could hear him whistling in his dressing room. She hoped he wasn’t too far along in getting his clothes on. If he was, she’d have to use all her powers of persuasion to make him take them off.

Delia smiled at her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t think the task ahead was all that difficult.

F
or the past few years
, I’ve been asked to participate along with other historical authors at the blog Ramblings with this Chick’s run-up to Christmas. Each of us is assigned a theme by blogmistress Dani Gorman, and then the fun begins!

The first scene features Evan Raeburn, the only Scottish Raeburn brother who didn’t get his own book in the Ladies Unlaced series. Oldest brother Lord Alec Raeburn is the hero of
In the Heart of the Highlander
, and youngest brother Nicholas woos Eliza in
The Reluctant Governess.
Poor Evan, like most middle children, was unhappy to be ignored, so it was with the greatest pleasure I sent him to Paris one Christmas to meet his heroine Fleur.

A
spiring
couturier Fleur Murray is far from home on Christmas. Good thing there’s a Scottish gentleman to keep her spirits up. Evan Raeburn appears briefly In the Heart of the Highlander, and this just might be the start of his own book!

5
rue Auber
, Paris, December 24, 1904

F
leur’s fingers
were so stiff she had difficulty putting on her gloves. She had been sewing since before dawn, and
someone
would be delighted with the results.
Someone
would have a new gown to wear for Christmas dinner.
Someone
would have a
Joyeux Noel
.

Fleur was not that someone. She was far from her Highland home, about to spend the holiday alone in a tiny garret room with a spirit stove and limited hours of daylight. Not that she was usually there often to watch the sun’s winter dimness move across the bare floors—she was toiling at M. Paul Poiret’s new atelier from dawn to dusk, stitching seams on shockingly odd dresses.

She had come to Paris to learn her craft, and learning she was. Whether any of her new-found knowledge would translate to ordinary Edinburgh women was doubtful. The price of M. Poiret’s Japanese-inspired kimonos were twice the yearly salary of the average scullery maid, and she could think of no one she knew who would ever wear harem pants.

It was Fleur’s dream to make affordable clothing for young working women. Why should the rich be the only ones to have stylish garments? Her self-imposed year in Paris was half-way done, but she was wondering if her dream would ever become reality.

She stepped out into the dark street. Winter had its icy claws on her immediately. For a woman who sewed for a living, her own coat was sadly inadequate. She shivered all the way to the Metro station, only to find a chain across the steps and a sleet-soaked sign hanging from it. Her French was improving, and with a sinking heart she read that the underground was closed.

“Bloody hell!” Fleur turned at the rude words. A tall gentleman stood beside her, slapping the wet from his top hat. The street lamp shone on his disordered auburn hair. “And not a hackney in sight. Bloody French.” He seemed to notice her for the first time. “
Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle. Je suis
—oh, damn. How in the bloody hell do you say ‘sorry?’”

“
Je suis desole
. Or
excusez-moi
works just as well.”

His mouth dropped open. When he recovered himself, his red cheeks warred with his red hair. “You’re Scottish!”

“Aye.” She’d noticed his accent immediately. “What brings you to Paris?”

“My brothers. Both newly married. Both insufferably happy. I had to get away. And you?”

“I’m working for M. Poiret.”

“Who?”

“He designs dresses.” This man looked like he was an expert in removing them. “Well, I have to be going. Happy Christmas.”

His hand shot out. “Wait! How are you getting home?”

“My own two feet.”

“Let me escort you. Paris is a dangerous place for young ladies.”

In Fleur’s opinion, he might be dangerous too. He was well-dressed and obviously well-to-do, and probably took advantage of every young woman he encountered.

“I’m fine, really.”

“Nonsense. How can I let a countrywoman fend for herself in this sewer? I could be saving your life.” Somehow her arm got tucked into the crook of his and she was stumbling in the direction of the next
arrondissement
.

“You don’t like Paris?” It was inconceivable to her that anyone wouldn’t, especially if they had the money to amuse themselves.

“I shouldn’t have left the Highlands. I don’t like cities.”

He proceeded to tell her all about Raeburn Court and his manor house nearby, the family distillery which he managed, his brother the baron and his other brother the famous artist, the frozen lochs and the snow-covered the mountains. Fleur swallowed back her longing for home.

“There will be no bannock cakes and bonfires here, I’m afraid.”

He stopped dead in the street. “I say, miss—what is your name, anyway?”

“Fleur Murray.”

“I’m Evan Raeburn. Would you like to get something to eat?”

Fleur was starving, but all the restaurants they’d passed were shuttered. “Don’t you have plans?”

“Do you want me to go back to the Ritz and pace the floor? I feel penned in there.”

Fleur took a breath. “I’d invite you my place, but if you feel confined in a sumptuous hotel room, you won’t like my attic.”

“Try me. Do you have kippers?”

Fleur nodded. “I have a tin of fruitcake from my nan, too.” It was a taste of home she’d been desperate to dig into as soon as it arrived in the post, but she was saving it for Christmas Eve.

“And I,” said Mr. Raeburn reaching into the pocket of his coat, “have chocolates.” The box was from a fancy shop Fleur could never afford, wrapped with a ribbon, intended for someone. Fleur decided she’d eat some and worry about who they were meant for later.

“
And
a flask of Raeburn’s Special Reserve,” Mr. Raeburn continued. “You’ve never lived until you’ve had a wee dram. Take pity on an old Scotsman.” He looked down at her and grinned.

He didn’t look old at all, or quite so dangerous now. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to talk to someone without having to translate words in her head? Meeting Mr. Raeburn on the street was a kind of surprise Christmas present from Scotland, wasn’t it? She wondered if he’d rattle if she shook him.

Fleur nodded. “All right. But you must promise to be a gentleman.”

Evan Raeburn lifted her chin with a gloved fingertip. “I’ll try. But I’ll nae make any guarantees. You are a verra lovely lass.”

Fleur’s stomach did a little flip. Well, the kippers would soon settle that. And as a “lovely lass,” she’d had plenty of practice protecting her heart and her virtue.

But it
was
Christmas, and anything could happen.

W
e met
Ned Christie in one of my favorite books,
Mistress by Marriage
. He is the very unhappy (and drunken) son of Baron Edward Christie, who is the most proper man in England. The proper thing for Ned to do is sober up, grow up and marry his cousin, to whom he’s been betrothed since infancy. Needless to say, young Ned is in a state of rebellion, until he gets his Christmas Eve kiss.

“
N
eddie Christie
!”

He knew that voice. It belonged to his dreaded cousin Amelia, the one person he wanted to avoid at his family’s infernal Christmas party.

She was his betrothed. His unwanted betrothed. He hadn’t seen her since he got sent down from Cambridge two years ago for putting frogs in the turtle soup at the convocation banquet. They were all amphibians, what? Of course the frogs had not liked the temperature much and there had been a great deal of hopping and mess, just as he’d hoped. His stuffy papa Lord Edward Christie had sent him away on his Grand Tour immediately thereafter in the hopes he’d learn to “behave like a proper Christie.”

The poor old blighter was doomed to disappointment, expecting a miracle. Let him try anew with his brother Jack and their new baby half-brothers. His father was still churning infants out with Ned’s stepmother Caroline—she was as big as a barn and due to give birth again any minute—and Christie Park was a cacophony of squalling children and cats. His younger sister Allie was in her element, ordering everyone around like a drill sergeant.

“It’s Ned, now,” Ned muttered. Trust Amelia to infantilize him. She always had to have the upper hand. The last word. Which was rich, coming from such an uninspiring, insipid female. He turned to offer her a withering stare and some haughty words, and his jaw dropped.

Amelia used to be a flat-chested lackwit. He wasn’t sure about her wits, but something had happened to her chest. In the two years he’d been wandering the mountainous Continent, her own topography had changed.

“I need you, Neddie. Caroline wants some mistletoe for the drawing room and I’ve found the perfect bunch, but I can’t reach it. You’re much taller than I. It’s up in that fir tree over there, see? Go get a ladder.”

Not even a ‘please.’

He gave her a frigid glare. “I’m busy, Amelia.”

She snorted. “You haven’t done a useful thing since you’ve come home except avoid me. Don’t worry, I don’t want to marry an idiot like you either. My father and Uncle Edward must be mad to think we’d ever suit.”

Ned felt himself flush at the insult. An idiot! Who on earth did Amelia think she was? She was just a mousy-haired know-nothing girl he’d grown up and completely bored with.

“Don’t stare at me as if I’ve grown two heads! It’s for your stepmother, Neddie. She wants this Christmas to be perfect and she isn’t feeling well.”

It was not two heads Amelia had grown but two breasts, which heaved with indignation. Ned supposed he’d better fetch a ladder from the gardener’s shed. Since his father and Caroline had reunited several years ago, she had tried to be the ideal wife and stepmother. Caroline was a good egg—if she could put up with his dull father and wanted mistletoe, Ned thought he could manage a few minutes with the dreaded Amelia and get it.

He loped across the lawn and returned with the ladder. Amelia had folded her arms over her chest against the cold which was a bit of a shame, but Ned needed to concentrate on his climb. He reached the clump of leaves and waxy berries and dug into his pocket for the Swiss penknife he’d picked up on his travels.

Suddenly the ladder shook and pitched to the side. Ned’s foot slipped and he found himself holding on to the top of the pine tree as the ladder crashed to the ground.

He couldn’t believe it! She’d knocked the ladder out from under him. “Amelia! Do you want to kill me?”

“I wouldn’t much mind! That’s for staring at my bosom like a slavering dog!”

“I didn’t—I wouldn’t,” Ned sputtered, a little ashamed he’d been found out.

“I’ve changed, Neddie. The man who is fortunate enough to marry me will have to do more than blindly go along with an ancient betrothal contract.”

“I’ve changed too! And I’m not going along blindly with anything,” Ned said, shutting his eyes and gripping the tree harder as the sharp needles pierced through his jacket.

“Good, then we understand each other. I wish to be wooed, Neddie. You may be the man to do it, although I very much doubt it.”

“I can woo with the best of them,” Ned said hotly. That had been an integral part of his Grand Tour, although he kept such information from his puritanical father in his letters home.

“We shall see.”

Ned heard branches rustle and felt the ladder knock into his thigh. Stepping on it gratefully, he sliced the mistletoe from its host and watched it drop to the ground, berries flying. He clambered down as fast as a monkey and took a startled Amelia in his arms.

“We shall see. Right now,” he said.

And then he kissed her. She didn’t know a thing about kissing, but he could teach her. He didn’t need mistletoe, but time. She lived right next door, after all.

Ned stopped estimating the number of minutes and footsteps from Christie Park to Uncle Roger’s estate and concentrated on the warm, soft girl in his arms. Good Lord, he was kissing the dreaded Amelia and enjoying it right to the roots of his disordered dark hair. His scalp and other places tingled not from the chill December air but something much more elemental. She fit against him like she’d been formed from clouds and spun sugar to nestle into his every nook and cranny. She tasted like sugar, too—Ned had no idea what clouds would taste like but they were probably delicious also.

“Neddie,” she whispered, once he was reluctantly forced to stop before he disgraced himself. Her golden lashes fluttered in adorable confusion on her pink cheeks. He couldn’t remember exactly why he’d thought she was an antidote, but he’d been a young fool then. He was a man now, with a man’s needs.

And Amelia was his betrothed.

“We will marry in the spring. I will woo you until then.” He bent to pick up the mistletoe and hoped she wouldn’t recognize his straining manhood.

She touched her swollen lips with a finger. “I-I’m not sure. This is so sudden.”

“I’m sure. And it’s hardly sudden. We’ve been engaged since you were in nappies.”

“So were you,” Amelia reminded him. Always the last word.

“Yes, well. We’re both grown up now. It’s time we thought about setting up our own nursery.”

Good grief. He was sounding just like his father. Ned might have fled from being a Christie, but he had not gotten very far.

“Let’s go inside and hang this. I have a mind to kiss you again, Amelia.” And again, as often as possible, until the dreaded Amelia became his wedded wife and he could do what he really wanted.

“Neddie Christie!”

This time he didn’t want to run away at the sound of her voice. His father would be pleased. It was true—Christmas was a time for miracles.