Page 16 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

“Maria.” She heard the soft rumble of her name. “Are you foxed?”

She blinked her eyes open to see Balwyn, a bemused look on his handsome features, nose nearly touching hers. “Not entirely,” she breathed. “Not yet. Have you tried the punch?”

“I had several glasses.” He smiled at her. “I tossed the syllabub into one of your potted plants. That one.” Balwyn nodded at a drooping fern.

“I never cared for that fern anyway.” Sitting up, she noted the empty drawing room. “Oh, dear. I nodded off, didn’t I?”

How absolutely mortifying.

“Owen ushered the others into the dining room while pretending to take direction from you. I added to the ruse, explaining I needed a word before we dined. I don’t believe anyone but Harriet noticed your eyes were closed.”

“Splendid. I look forward to her disapproval. In my defense, the rum punch was necessary to deaden my palate to what will most certainly be the worst Christmas dinner in recent history.”

“The punch is delicious, at least. Owen is to be commended.” Balwyn took her hand, helping Maria to her feet. “Smooth your skirts.” He tucked a piece of stray hair behind her ear.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Owen interrupted. “Lady Piedmont grows impatient.”

“A moment, Owen.” Balwyn waved away the butler. Then he cupped Maria’s face, eyes full of love and kissed her until she entertained thoughts of them both pleading a headache for the rest of the evening.

“I love you,” he said forcefully. “I’ve a gift for you later.”

Maria imagined them twisted in the sheets while his mouth moved over hers possessively, until they were both panting and clutching at each other’s clothing.

“I cannot wait. Now, let us be brave.” She led him towards the dining room.

Maria smiled brightly as she took her seat, still feeling Balwyn’s mouth on hers. Alicia appeared to be much improved, thanks to the ministrations of Dr. Forester. The incessant scratching had stopped, although she still itched at a spot on her arm, but her cheeks were no longer an angry red.

“Happy Christmas,” she said to the table.

Owen, at her cue, wheeled the enormous Christmas goose into the dining room. The bird looked…suitable. No burn marks. Skin a lovely gold color. Surrounded by pears, apples, and currant stuffing, the meal presented a pretty picture.

Maria took a deep breath. “Lord Balwyn. Would you do the honors?”

A small breach of etiquette since he wasn’t the actual host. But Maria didn’t care. The sour look on Lady Piedmont’s features was far too enjoyable.

“I’d be delighted.” He took the carving knife from Owen and approached the goose. “This looks wonderful. My compliments to Mrs. Killigrew.”

“I’m starved.” Uncle Leonard slurred. “Hurry things along Balwyn.”

Balwyn took up the carving knife and fork, drawing it across the golden-browned skin, and frowned. He looked up at Maria, eyes flashing with panic. A trickle of blood ran over the goose and onto the platter as the large bird let out an enormous…moan.

Oh, no.

Wilma, who sat closest to the goose, paled. Gagged. “It is quite horrible.” She covered her mouth and nose with a napkin.

Of course it is. I should have stuffed the goose myself.

Lovely on the outside, the goose was nothing but an empty cavern of raw, uncooked fowl on the inside. One of the wings flopped out and fell to the floor. Juices, an unnatural watery crimson, came from the interior in rivulets, streaming onto the platter.

One of the pugs whimpered.

“Owen,” Maria said, waving him over. “Wine. Immediately. Or punch. I don’t care which.”

Stuffed with currants and bits of bread, the goose expelled the contents of its cavity with a disgusting sloppy sound.

Balwyn took a step back from the platter, carving knife still raised as if the ghastly mound of uncooked goose and stuffing might attack him. “I—think this bit over here is well done. Harriet, would you like this slice?”

“I cannot express—” Lady Piedmont started.

“Then do not,” Balwyn instructed his sister. He sliced into a small patch of the goose and placed a sliver on a plate. “Enjoy.”

The remainder of the meal was brought out by Owen. Mounds of damned potatoes. Parsnips. Something that vaguely smelled like venison but was so…crisp and well done, one could not be reasonably sure. The carrots appeared to be…acceptable.

Wilma gave a brave smile and took a tiny bite of a potato, chewed, and swallowed. “Delicious.”

“I enjoy my goose moist,” Balwyn said, trying his best to salvage the situation. “I’m sure the venison,” he shot a worried look at the overcooked meat on another platter. “Is delicious.”

“You’d be incorrect,” Lady Piedmont stated. “Not even Archimedes is interested.” The pug was batting a piece of meat across the floor.

“Well, I don’t mind rare meat.” Uncle Leonard gave a raspy cough. “I’ll have the goose.”

“Johns…” Maria motioned the footman over.

Balwyn’s sot of an uncle might be her favorite person at the moment, if for no other reason than he was attempting to enjoy the meal.

“Make sure to give Uncle Leonard as much wine or punch as he wishes.” Truthfully, the man was so intoxicated, he likely had no idea what he was eating.

“Thank you, my dear.” Uncle Leonard winked at her before whispering, “I don’t mind that you’re a harlot.”

“Oh good.” Maria raised her glass to Balwyn’s obnoxious uncle.

The wine was excellent, but the rum punch was better.

Deadened the senses and palate more. “Make sure every glass stays filled, Johns,” she added to the footman.

“I can be relatively assured Mrs. Killigrew hasn’t ruined my sideboard.

And Owen made the punch. Speaking of which, could you ask him to make another batch?

I fear we’ll have need of it, if the goose is any indication.

Oh, and bring out what is left of the cheese and fruit.

No point in saving it for after the,” she hesitated. “Meal.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Don’t eat the raw bits, Uncle.” Lady Piedmont instructed while tossing a bit of goose to Archimedes, who, much like his brother, took one sniff of Mrs. Killigrew’s cooking and hopped away.

I quite agree with them.

“Horrid,” Lady Piedmont’s voice boomed across the table. “I cannot believe I traveled all this distance to be—”

“Harriet.” Balwyn snapped as he picked at the food on his plate. “Enough.”

Nudging the jellied aspic with a spoon, Lady Piedmont frowned. “I do not know what is floating in this quagmire. Do you, Piedmont?”

Lord Piedmont belched, the only sign of life Maria had seen from him the entire day. He observed the aspic and shrugged before nibbling at a carrot.

Balwyn speared a pickle with his fork from the platter of cheese and fruit Owen had brought forth.

Thank goodness Mrs. Peasley put up a dozen jars of pickles every year.

Those, at least, were safe to eat. The same could not be said for the custard, which had a filmy sheen to the top.

The potatoes, for the most part, were edible, and there were mountains of them.

Owen, at the conclusion of this evening, would be instructed to pay Mrs. Killigrew the amount due to her and have her pack her things. Maria would rather take her chances with the two young kitchen maids she’d brought from London than endure another moment of this horror.

When Uncle Leonard leaned back in his chair and started to pick at his teeth, a disgusting habit that she didn’t mind nearly as much after yet another glass of punch, Maria decided the meal had come to an end.

If there were further hellish courses to be brought forth, neither she nor her guests needed to bear witness.