Page 1 of The Christmas Ball (Noble Holidays #9)

Planning a grand party at Dovington Hall was the easy part, Lady Viola Harrington thought as she finished penning the last of over a dozen invitations.

Seeing her brother, Theodore, come out of it with an excellent match, well…

She straightened from her writing desk and shook out her hand, which was cramped from an afternoon spent making out the invites.

The small fire burned merrily in the hearth and she caught a whiff of sweet ginger in the air.

Mena must be overseeing another batch of gingerbread—or rather, parkin cake, as the traditional Yorkshire version was called.

Her sister-in-law was famous for her recipe, and justly so.

Indeed, it was that parkin cake that had made Viola’s brother, the Duke of Beckford, fall in love with his new wife.

Viola laughed softly to herself.

Of course, there was far more to it than that—including a clever bit of matchmaking on her part, if she did say so herself—and now Mena and Drew had been married the better part of a year.

He’d proposed last Christmas, which only firmed Viola’s resolve that her younger brother ought to be wed, too.

And she was just the person to see to it.

Heavens knew, their mother was inattentive at best, paying little heed to her offspring’s futures.

The dowager duchess had only ever meddled once, pushing Viola to make a fool of herself over a gentleman whom, it transpired, had not returned her youthful affections.

On the contrary, he’d thought her an idiotically smitten child, and had said as much to her face.

Shoving the still-bitter memory aside, she rose and went to the window.

She’d hoped the dark afternoon clouds might bring a bit of snow, but alas.

Cold rain drizzled over the sleeping gardens and curved terrace, slicked the many windows of Dovington Hall, and generally made Christmas seem very far away, indeed.

The time would fly, however.

She must see the invitations dispatched, and then begin planning in earnest for the festivities.

Her brother Theodore Harrington, Viscount Thornton, was a catch, and she’d no doubt the guests would respond in the affirmative.

A knock came at her bedroom door, followed by Mena’s voice.

“Vi, are you in there?”

“Yes. Come in.”

Mena stepped into the bedroom, and Viola smiled at her sister-in-law, who had been her friend long before that.

“I brought tea.”

Mena set down the tray she was carrying.

“You probably need a bit of refreshment, and I was in the kitchens, anyway.”

“No parkin cake?”

Viola sent a longing glance at the tea tray. Drew wasn’t the only one at Dovington with a sweet tooth, after all.

Mena laughed.

“You know it’s not ready yet.”

“Still, one can hope. I suppose the scones will do, for now.”

Viola poured them both cups of tea, then went to the wingback chairs drawn up beside the fire.

“How goes the invitations?”

Mena asked, settling in with her cup.

“Have you scoured the countryside for any and all suitable young ladies?”

“Of course, though we’ll have far-flung guests, too. The Dunhams will come up from Sussex, and I’m also expecting Lord and Lady Hartley and their daughters.”

“And nearer to home?”

Mena asked with deceptive mildness.

“Lord Winslow and his sister are in residence at Westbrook, I believe.”

Viola took a sip of tea, delaying her answer. In truth, she hadn’t penned an invitation to the marquess, despite the fact that over the summer he’d purchased the neighboring estate.

The reason for her hesitation was both foolish and mortifying.

“I’m not certain Lady Charlotte would suit my brother,”

she said at last, a bit stiffly.

Mena gave her a sidelong look.

“Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with Lady Charlotte. It’s because of what happened at the pond, isn’t it?”

Viola took a deep breath and closed her eyes. It was impossible to forget the events of that afternoon. Mortification twisted in her chest every time her thoughts brushed up against the memory.

It had been a very warm day, especially for July, and after wilting about all afternoon, she’d convinced Mena to go down to the estate’s pond.

“It will be cooler there,”

she said.

“We can bring a quilt and our books, and sit at the water’s edge.”

Mena agreed, and, accompanied by her maid, Dorothy, they took their parasols and books and made the walk to the pond.

“Perhaps we should’ve ridden,”

Mena said, her face flushed from the heat as they finally gained the small grove of alders that edged one side of the water.

“It would’ve still been too hot.”

Viola wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple.

“But at least we’re here, now. Come—there’s a good spot further along to spread our quilt.”

They settled on the bank, though the dappled shade provided only a scrim of relief from the sun. Viola bent and unlaced her boots. She removed them, then peeled off her stockings and wiggled her bare toes in the air.

“That’s better,”

she said.

“My feet can be cool, even if the rest of me is sweltering.”

“We could wade,”

Mena suggested, taking off her own footwear.

“Promise not to push me in?”

Viola grinned.

“I reserve such actions for haughty dukes,”

Mena replied archly.

“Luckily, you don’t qualify.”

Viola looked at the rippled surface of the pond and lifted her face to the breeze coming off the water. The pond wasn’t terribly deep, at least not around the edges.

“A little splash would feel good.”

She rose and gathered up her skirts.

“A pity we didn’t bring our bathing costumes,”

Mena said with a longing glance at the water.

Viola tilted her head, considering. They were on the Dovington grounds, and there was no one around for miles. Too early for hunting season, and she knew they weren’t expecting visitors. It was too hot for anyone to come calling, at any rate.

The cool water beckoned. The air smelled of moist, green things. It was time to be daring.

“Dorothy,”

she called to the maid, who was resting under a tree.

“Kindly come over and unbutton me.”

“Vi, whatever are you doing?”

Mena asked, as Dorothy began loosening the back of Viola’s dress.

“We can go in our chemises. Oh, don’t look so shocked. Nobody will see.”

“But what if someone comes upon us?”

“Who possibly would? The pond’s off the road, and we’re hidden by the trees. Come,”

she wheedled.

“You know the water will feel so good.”

“Well…”

Mena pressed her lips together.

“I know you’re a duchess now, but you don’t always have to be sensible. And we needn’t take long. Just a quick dip, in, then out again, let our chemises dry, get dressed, and none the wiser.”

Her sister-in-law blew out a breath, and Viola knew she’d won.

With the maid’s help, they were soon out of their heavy skirts and binding corsets. Once the heavy layers were gone, the breeze ruffled Viola’s calf-length linen shift and caressed the bare skin of her arms. She let out a sigh of relief.

“You must admit, that’s lovely,”

she said, stepping to the edge of the water.

“I feel like I’ve been too hot for simply ages.”

Mena nodded and followed her into the shallows.

“Not all your ideas are bad ones,”

she said, and Viola laughed.

The water began to cool as they waded up to their knees, though the upper inches of the pond remained noticeably warmer than the quiet currents eddying about their ankles. Viola’s toes dug into the muck, and a few waterweeds brushed against her calves.

“There,”

she said, halting and putting her hands on her hips, uncaring that the hem of her chemise dragged in the water.

“That’s so much better.”

“Hm.”

Mena bent and dabbled her hands.

“Do you know what would be even better?”

“What?”

Viola turned to her, just in time to receive a spray of water to the face from Mena’s sweeping splash.

Her sister-in-law giggled, then ducked.

“Wretch!”

Viola cried. She sent a huge splash forward, drenching Mena’s side.

“Scoundrel!”

Mena responded, beating at the water with both hands.

A pair of ducks took off, startled by the commotion, their wings whirring overhead. Viola and Mena continued their splashing battle, both shrieking with laughter. The water churned about them, and soon their chemises were wet through, their hair hanging soddenly about their shoulders.

“Truce,”

Mena finally gasped, grinning.

“Very well. But that means I’ve won.”

Viola lifted her nose in the air and spread her arms wide.

“I declare myself the victor—the waterwitch of Dovington pond!”

“You’ve duckweed in your hair,”

Mena said, then waded back to where their piles of clothing awaited on the bank.

“Oh, Your Grace, you’re soaked through,”

Dorothy said, clearly unamused by their antics.

“We’ll have to dry you off with the quilt.”

She wrapped Mena in the enveloping length of cotton, but Viola wasn’t ready to leave the water. Since her chemise was already soaked, she waded a bit further and ducked down into the silky coolness of the pond. The linen floated up around her waist. With a sigh, she kicked off the bottom and let herself float on her back, gently sculling her hands and feet to stay afloat.

Above her rose a dome of cloud-flecked blue. The trees encircled the sky, and nothing marred the stillness except a sudden flight of sparrows from the nearby bushes. She smiled and closed her eyes.

Only to have the peace broken by the thud of hoofbeats, a man’s curse, a sudden splashing. Viola opened her eyes in time to see a gentleman wading, fully dressed, into the pond. Toward her.

“Hold on!”

he called.

“I’m coming.”

Startled, she went under for a moment, and when she emerged, he was there. The water came up to his broad shoulders, and before she could say a word, he scooped her into his arms.

“Sir!”

she spluttered, trying to push away from him.

“Whatever are you doing?”

“Don’t panic,”

he said urgently, pulling her close.

“I’ll get you to shore.”

“I don’t need to get to shore,”

she said, but he ignored her, striding through the water until they reached the pond’s edge.

His well-trained mount stood nearby, reins dangling while it munched the grass and placidly regarded the proceedings.

“This is ridiculous,”

she cried.

“Put me down at once! I’m perfectly fine.”

“You were drowning,”

he said, a bit roughly.

She looked up into his strong-jawed face, eyes the color of twilight, hair like tarnished gold, and suddenly felt as though she couldn’t breathe.

“My lady?”

He dipped his face to hers, expression concerned. He was so close she could feel his exhalation feathering across her cheek.

“I…”

She blinked and attempted to collect herself.

“I assure you, there’s no cause for concern. I’m a strong swimmer and was merely enjoying a dip in the water.”

“But I heard screaming.”

Oh. She felt a blush warm her face.

“I was, um. Engaged in a splash-battle.”

His brows rose.

“With whom?”

As he spoke, he gently lowered her until her bare feet met the long grasses.

She clutched at his arm for balance, then gestured to the far side of the pond.

Mena stood there, wrapped in the quilt, staring at them.

Even at that distance, Viola could make out the look of horrified amusement on her face. Behind her, Dorothy had her hands clasped to her bosom in dismay.

“My friend, over there,”

Viola said, letting go of him.

“I see.”

Now it was his turn to look discomfited.

“I seem to have acted in error. My sincere apologies. I shall return you to your companions.”

“I’ll just swim over,”

she said, but he shook his head.

“I cannot in good conscience allow you to plunge back into the pool I fished you out of, milady—whether I was in error, or no. Please. Allow me to make what amends I can, and escort you back.”

He attempted to shrug out of his coat—a difficult task, for not only was it well-fitted, but the sodden cloth clung to his body.

At last he managed, then held it up for her, keeping his gaze firmly fixed upon her face.

She could see a hint of dusty pink rising along his cheekbones.

With a flash of mortification, Viola realized that her wet shift was quite transparent.

She stood practically naked before this stranger who had so rudely intruded upon her afternoon.

If she went back into the water, she realized, it would only make matters worse.

Granted, he seemed to be trying very hard not to look at her body, but still…

She snatched at the coat, letting him drape it about her shoulders while she slid her arms through the sleeves and folded it over her chest.

Covered, if inadequately, she mustered her composure and turned.

“Tell me, sir,”

she said, looking the gentleman right in the eye.

“who are you and what are you doing skulking about the Duke of Beckford’s estate?”

He frowned, clearly taken aback.

“I was not skulking. I was riding to pay a call upon the duke.”

“An unannounced call,”

she said sharply.

“I found myself in the neighborhood.”

His mouth firmed, and he strode over to take the reins of his horse.

His boots squelched with every step, and Viola couldn’t help a flash of satisfaction at the sound. Let the man endure even the smallest measure of her own discomposure. This entire thing was his fault, after all.

“Shall we?”

He inclined his head and clucked for his horse to begin walking.

“It appears your companions are coming to meet us.”

Mena and the maid were partway around the pond, though they were making slow progress, what with the duchess still wrapped in the quilt and Dorothy burdened with their gowns, corsets, and petticoats.

“You did not tell me who you are,”

Viola said, trying to be careful about where she set her feet. Bramble thickets extended to the water ahead, and she was not particularly fond of thorns.

The man at her side paused and made her a bow, very elegant despite the wet linen shirt plastered to his chest.

“Grayson Tate, Marquess of Winslow and your new neighbor, at your service.”

“Ah. Lord Winslow.”

Her thoughts scrambled furiously.

This was not some country gentleman out for a ride, but one of the upper members of the nobility.

There’d been rumors that a member of the ton was considering buying the adjoining estate of Westbrook.

It was a neglected place, with overgrown fields and a manor house in need of repair, so Viola hadn’t given the gossip much credence.

Though clearly she ought to have.

In her confusion, she took an unwary step and trod on a trailing length of bramble.

“Blast,”

she said sharply, jerking her foot up and nearly overbalancing.

Lord Winslow immediately took her by the shoulders, steadying her while she bent to pluck the thin thorns from her sole. To his credit, he did not remark upon her unladylike use of language.

“Perhaps we should ride, instead,”

he said, when she’d finished.

“My apologies for forgetting you were unshod.”

“Since you were carefully not looking below my neck, I suppose I can forgive the oversight,”

she said, the aftermath of pain making her forthright.

He choked back a sound that might have been a laugh, or a protest.

“Nevertheless. Ride? Or I can carry you.”

“You’ve done quite enough of that.”

Again, she felt her cheeks heat, recalling the feel of his strong arms around her.

“Besides, my companions are nearly here.”

She waved at Mena and Dorothy, who’d swung wide to avoid the thicket and were within hailing distance.

Mena had donned her boots, which stuck out incongruously beneath the hem of her shift, and she clutched the quilt about her like an oversized cloak.

Viola envied her that concealment, no matter how hot and cumbersome it might be.

Lord Winslow’s coat was barely adequate to the task, gaping at the neck and only reaching to her mid-thigh. She felt quite undressed—which, in all honesty, she was.

“Are you all right?”

Mena called, hurrying forward.

“Perfectly well,”

Viola replied tartly, letting her temper cover her embarrassment.

“Except for being so rudely hauled from the pond in an unnecessary and misguided rescue attempt.”

“I did hear screaming,”

Lord Winslow said under his breath.

“And stepping barefoot on a bramble,”

she added, ignoring his comment.

The worst of it, of course, was the utter shame of appearing all-but-naked in front of the Marquess of Winslow. Half of her wanted to squirm down into the earth and disappear, like a lowly worm, but she clung to her righteous anger, letting it shield her from the worst of the indignity.

There would be time, later, to cringe and wallow. And, just perhaps, muse upon the well-muscled form of Lord Winslow…

“We must get you home,”

Mena said, then glanced at Viola’s would-be rescuer.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir.”

“Lord Grayson Tate, Marquess of Winslow.”

He made her a flawless bow, and Viola couldn’t help watching the flex of his back muscles.

Drat it.

“Welcome to Dovington, Lord Winslow,”

Mena said regally, calm despite the incredible awkwardness of their situation.

“I am the Duchess of Beckford. Thank you for your aid today, but I assure you that we are no longer in need of your assistance.”

“We never were,”

Viola said softly, and Lord Winslow shot her a look.

“I never did catch your name,”

he said to her.

She lifted her chin. Truly, there was no hope of remaining anonymous. Now that he knew who Mena was, he’d surely work out her own identity.

“Lady Viola Harrington," she said.

“Ah.”

One eyebrow went up.

“I might have guessed.”

She frowned at him.

“Whatever are you implying, sir?”

He opened his mouth, thought better of whatever he was about to say, and merely shook his head.

Viola knew she’d a reputation for being too outspoken, and headed for spinsterhood as a consequence, but she didn’t realize utter strangers were cognizant of the fact.

“A pleasure, Your Grace. Lady Viola.”

He inclined his head.

“You may keep the coat until you’ve no more need of it.”

“Most kind,”

Viola said, not meaning it in the least.

She wouldn’t have needed the dratted thing at all, if he’d just minded his own business.

“Then I shall take my leave,”

Lord Winslow said.

“Good day.”

He turned and led his horse back under the trees. As Viola watched, he mounted in one smooth motion and, without a backward glance, rode off in the direction of the road.

“We shan’t speak of this,”

Viola said firmly, as soon as his tall form had disappeared.

“But, Vi. Surely your brother—”

“Oh, I’ll tell Drew, don’t fret.”

Though she planned to omit some of the particulars, like her deplorable state of undress.

“But after that, I intend to put this most awkward encounter out of my mind.”

She stared at Dorothy, who bobbed a curtsey, then turned her gaze to her sister-in-law.

Mena pressed her lips together and regarded Viola intently for a long moment.

“Are you quite sure?”

she finally asked.

“I am,”

Viola said.

“There’s no merit in any further discussion. Now, I believe my chemise has dried sufficiently that I might get dressed.”

She pulled off Lord Winslow’s coat, trying not to inhale too deeply of the scent of leather and cloves that clung to it.

She’d see to it that the garment was laundered and returned to him at the soonest possible moment, and that would be an end to it.

True to her word, Mena hadn’t brought the subject up once in the months that followed.

Drew had accepted her terse explanation that she’d stumbled into the pond and Lord Winslow had kindly fished her out again, though by the look on his face it was clear he had his doubts about the actual chain of events.

Still, he hadn’t pressed, and Viola had resolutely attempted to put the entire thing out of her mind.

She’d had some success.

Oh, very well.

If she were honest with herself, she’d had none at all.

The memories were still as excruciatingly clear as day.

“You promised we wouldn’t speak of it,”

she said accusingly to her sister-in-law, setting her teacup down with a sharp clack.

Mena’s hazel-eyed gaze held hers.

“Vi. If you’re resolved to pretend nothing happened, then you can’t snub the marquess, and most particularly, his sister. The entire neighborhood will comment upon it. And you know what they will say.”

She paused and took a sip of her tea.

Viola scowled, then sighed, letting her expression smooth.

“That we are once again too puffed-up with our own social standing. And you’re right about Lady Charlotte’s suitability, too. It would not reflect well upon us if I failed to extend them an invitation.”

Much as she hated to admit it.

Still, after what had happened, she was certain Lord Winslow wouldn’t accept. He’d taken clear pains to stay out of her way ever since that day, and there was no reason for him to change his behavior now.