Page 6 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

“A favorite recipe of my cook,” Maria answered smoothly, taking a bite of her own cake, struggling not to make a face as the flavor hit her tongue.

“A spice cake.” At least, that’s what she assumed it to be given there was an enormous amount of cinnamon, raisins, and jellied fruit inside. “I’m pleased you like it.”

Lord Piedmont jerked, head flopping about as he came out of his slumber. Casting a bleary look at his wife, then at the cake set before him, he snapped his fingers. “More wine.”

“This cake,” Lady Piedmont declared, sending her husband a beleaguered look, “is a perfect accompaniment to the lamb.” She shook her head as if trying to free herself from the taste. “Goodness, but there is an enormous amount of salt in the air.”

“We are by the ocean, Harriet,” Balwyn intoned. “You seem to be the only one bothered by the fact.”

“Salt air is good for many things, my lady.” Maria licked a bit of icing from her fork, enjoying the way Balwyn’s eyes followed her movements. “Ailments of the lungs. The skin. There are many—”

“Ruins everything.” Lady Piedmont cut her off. “I’ll be fortunate if my gowns don’t rot from all the moisture. And just look at poor Piedmont.” She clucked her tongue. “The salt air makes one excessively drowsy. He was barely able to stay awake through the meal.”

More likely the fault of the brandy and wine he’d consumed, but Maria chose not to point that out.

“I find the sea air delightful. And this cake.” Balwyn swallowed, eyes widening just a fraction as the combination of spices hit his tongue. “Delightful.” He quickly took a swallow of wine to wash down the horror.

“Can you believe”—Lady Piedmont set down her fork with a look of utter disgust—“that Rupert is nearly ten? Wilma’s son,” she said, offhand, to Maria.

“Ten? Already.” Balwyn smiled. “I haven’t seen him in some time, but I do recall I owe him a day of fishing.”

“You most definitely do,” Lady Piedmont said. “When he returns from visiting his grandparents. Take him to your hunting lodge. You haven’t been there in some time, and the stream nearby is full of trout.”

“Fresh trout is delicious,” Mrs. Lawrence murmured, pushing away her cake.

“Far better than the lamb,” Lady Piedmont added. “Now that Mr. Lawrence is gone,” she said, looking downright mournful, “poor Rupert is without a strong male influence. And he looks up to you, Balwyn. As if you were his uncle… a true father-figure.”

Maria managed to maintain her polite look of interest. It grew more difficult by the moment.

“After all,” Lady Piedmont continued needlessly, “I think he hopes one day—”

“I’ll take Rupert to the park when he returns to London,” Balwyn interjected. “I’m sure he’d enjoy sailing a boat across the pond.”

“How kind of you, my lord.” Mrs. Lawrence looked up at him with those wide eyes, which Maria was positive were not so innocent as they seemed.

“I’ll invite you both to dine when Rupert returns.

We’ll make a party of it with Balwyn and Alicia.

” Lady Piedmont clapped her hands, startling Achilles, who was once more in her lap and licking at the cake on her plate.

“Or maybe a picnic in the park. How droll that would be. Do you recall, Balwyn, when you tried to teach Wilma to fly a kite? Goodness, you two became entangled in the string.” She chuckled.

“Quite a scene you made.” She gave a sideways glance to Maria.

“Oh, this was years ago. Though at the time, I must say our cousin was convinced he’d never inherit the title.

But then Mr. Lawrence swept dear Wilma off her feet. ”

“Unfortunate that he cannot do so now,” Maria said under her breath.

“Rupert arrived a short time after your marriage, did he not, Wilma?” Lady Piedmont regarded Maria. “How long were you wed to Lord Talbot, my lady?”

Balwyn’s sister certainly knew how to throw a well-aimed punch. The implication was difficult to miss. Mrs. Lawrence was fertile. Maria was not. Balwyn needed an heir.

“Harriet. Enough,” Balwyn said in a dangerous tone.

Lifting her glass, Maria took a large swallow of the wine, letting it wash away the taste of the cake.

Children were something Maria had always wished for but had never admitted to wanting.

She and Talbot had…hoped, but later, Talbot had blamed his age on his inability to father a child. Maria had always thought it her fault.

“I don’t understand your anger, brother. I’m merely pointing out that Wilma had Rupert a short time after her marriage, and our cousin will likely inherit since you haven’t a male heir.

What I can’t fathom is that you mean to give everything over to that dolt. It worries me that you aren’t interested in doing your duty.” Her eyes slid to Maria. “At present.”

A direct hit. Point to Lady Piedmont.

Balwyn slapped his palm on the table. “Not another word, Harriet. Or I’ll toss those pugs into the ocean.”

“You wouldn’t,” Lady Piedmont said in a horrified tone.

“Try me.”

Maria came to her feet, a bit unsteadily given the amount of wine she’d imbibed.

She had been so…immersed in her bubble of happiness with Balwyn, so sure that hosting his family for the holidays would bring their approval—not to mention a proposal of marriage—that she hadn’t thought beyond that. How foolish.

Balwyn did need an heir. What if Maria couldn’t provide one?

“My apologies, but Owen”—she nodded to her butler—“just made me aware of a problem in the kitchens.” If Maria didn’t leave the dining room this instant, she might attack Lady Piedmont and kick those stupid dogs out the door.

The day had been lengthy and filled with…

unpleasant challenges. She didn’t care to spend what remained of the evening listening to Lady Piedmont’s thinly veiled insults.

Lady Piedmont nodded. “Given this meal, I don’t doubt trouble abounds.”

Balwyn stood immediately, but Maria placed a hand on his arm.

“Please enjoy a nightcap in the drawing room. I fear I must consult with Mrs. Killigrew on tomorrow’s menu, given it is Christmas Eve.

Owen will see to your every request. I realize your journey was lengthy, so feel free to retire before I return. ”

Years of hosting house parties, musicales, and charity events had given Maria a great deal of poise in difficult circumstances. But it was rude, if not terribly impolite, for a hostess to abandon her guests.

I don’t care.

She smiled, walked across the room and calmly out the door.

One of the pugs sank his teeth into her skirts, tearing the fabric as she jerked it from his jaws, ruining her grand exit.