Page 24 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter eighteen

Preparations

T he Boxing Day ball was an all-day affair for Bel. After all, someone must help Mrs. Brownlee with the decorations and the table settings, and as the most competent spinster in the village, that role fell to Bel.

The day after Christmas was a holiday for the servants, so Bel lit her own fire, dressed herself in a plain grey gown, and put on a sturdy pinafore.

She also laid out her silk gown that she had worn to the dinner party at the Brownlees and a pair of gloves and a set of dancing slippers.

If there was no time to go home in between, she would need to change into her ballgown at the inn.

She felt a strange frisson of anticipation as she tied her close-fitting straw bonnet into place, and for a moment, she held her ungloved fingers to her lips, remembering what had transpired the evening before.

A kiss on the mouth from the lips of a London libertine.

A tender kiss. A warm kiss. An urgent kiss .

The Duke of Warrenton was a shockingly bad bargain.

Her head knew it. Her heart knew it. But his cheeky good humour, not to mention his devilish dark eyes, had slipped under her defences somehow.

He wanted to while away his self-imposed exile with a flirtation, and—God help her!

—she was quite ready to let him. At least he would be leaving soon.

That would save her from getting in too deep.

The arrival of Mrs. Brownlee’s carriage helped dispel such thoughts from her mind.

Bel climbed inside. After a few moments of happy chatter—mostly on the part of Mrs. Brownlee—the two women arrived at the Jester’s Arms. The eager Mrs. Brownlee began ordering Mr. Coleman about as he cleared the tables and chairs from the public room to turn it into a makeshift ballroom.

“Oh, Bel, how good of you to come early with me. Mr. Ferris has promised to bring the boughs and holly, and I’ve convinced Harold to let me use the beeswax candles.

” She turned her attention back to the inn’s proprietor.

“No, no, you must not leave those chairs in the corner, for we can barely fit twenty couples even with the room completely empty. If people want to sit down, they must go into the private parlour where we shall have the tables for the food and punch.” She took Bel’s hand and pressed it.

“What news is there? Will the duke attend?”

“Surely you asked him that yourself,” said Bel dryly, “since you shared a pew with him on Sunday.”

“Yes, but Harold only asked him about dining with us on Christmas. He declined. I fear he might have left the neighbourhood, which, I will admit, would be a blow. To have a duke at one’s ball is a cachet I could never have dreamed of. But perhaps his travel plans have taken him else—”

“He is still here,” said Bel, sacrificing some of her own pride for the sake of silencing Mrs. Brownlee’s nerves.

“And I’ve brought him with me!” said Jack Ferris, entering the public room bearing a large bundle of evergreen and trailed by the much taller Duke of Warrenton. Mr. Ferris was in his old-fashioned frockcoat, but the duke wore his coachman’s worn coat and carried his own bundle of boughs.

Bel’s head turned sharply. This was unexpected. The duke had never said anything about helping with the ball preparations.

“Oh, how kind of you, your grace,” said Mrs. Brownlee.

The plump woman’s eyes shone like stars as she realised the guest of honour would still be honouring her with his presence on the most important day of her year.

She motioned for the men to place the greenery on the floor so that she and Bel could sort through them and choose the best ones to festoon the doorways and fireplace.

Within the next half hour, the public room of the inn had warmed up considerably.

By tacit agreement, the decorators separated into two teams. Mrs. Brownlee and Mr. Ferris began hanging small swags of greenery about the fireplace and windows while Bel and the duke were given the task of making longer garlands to hang from the ceiling.

Since Mrs. Brownlee had already ordered the chairs and tables removed, they carried their supplies into the private parlour and found a place to sit.

“Are we out of twine?” asked the duke.

“No, here it is.” Bel tossed him the ball of sturdy string. She studied his handiwork. “You must wrap it more times than that, or the garland will come apart under its own weight.”

“I know what I’m about, Miss Morrison,” said the duke with mock hauteur. Apparently, he preferred a method of interweaving the branches rather than securing them with a more visible wrapping of twine.

“Are you such an expert at greenery then?” demanded Bel.

He looked up at her, and for a fleeting second, she caught a glimpse of the boy who had once inhabited those handsome features.

“I have some experience. At my parents’ house in Lincolnshire, they barely celebrated the season.

But once a year, before I went to Eton, my parents and my older brother would take a trip to London and leave me behind for the holiday.

You would have thought I would have been sad, but on the contrary, it was delightful.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Grenville, let me keep Christmas with the servants belowstairs.

The butler, Mr. Randall, read poetry and organised charades.

We wove garlands and heated chestnuts and ate pudding and pulled flaming raisins out of the brandy.

” He gave her a rueful look, as if in apology for his rapid tone of excitement.

“Those were quite the happiest Christmases I’ve ever had.

They were quite the happiest anything. ”

“Were you so unhappy then the rest of the time?”

“Not unhappy, exactly. But there was a decided lack of joy in our house. My parents were not affectionate, and they objected strenuously if their own time or business or pleasure was interrupted. My brother was superior to me in every way that mattered—in horseback riding, in fencing, in conversation. He never let me forget that. And, of course, I was of less use to my parents than he was, seeing as how I was not the heir. I never would have inherited the title if he’d had a son as he ought. ”

Bel felt a twinge of pity. She had always had the madcap company of Charlie growing up, and a pair of parents who loved them both the same.

“Your brother had a daughter? ”

“Yes, my niece, Louisa. I think her childhood was much the same as my own. Being forgotten in the country while her fashionable parents gadded about the metropolis. I felt sorry for her when she was a girl. But that did not last. Louisa is a Lymington through and through—in time, she grew up as cold and hard and mercenary as the rest of us.” He gave her an apologetic smile and brushed the stray sprigs of greenery off his lap. “Come, let’s hang this above the door.”

The duke climbed on a step ladder while Bel fed the end of the garland to him.

Thankfully, the innkeeper kept hooks installed directly below the moulding, and the duke was able to secure the greenery without difficulty.

They disputed good-naturedly about how low it ought to drape, and their mock argument grew so loud that Jack Ferris warned them they were disturbing the jester’s midafternoon nap.

“He’ll be grumpy as Beelzebub, come evening, and then we’ll all be in for it during the assembly. ”

“Oh, what fustian!” said Mrs. Brownlee. “We’ve never had any trouble from the jester at any of my Boxing Day balls.”

It was beginning to get dark when the decorations were finally finished and the food table arrayed with all the nuts, bread, cheese, and meats for the cold supper. Mrs. Brownlee gave a squeak when she saw how late it had become and hurried out the door with scarcely a good-bye to Bel.

“Shall I take you home to change your gown?” asked the gallant Mr. Ferris.

“No, no, Mrs. Coleman will let me use a room to get ready here at the inn,” said Bel. She gave him a knowing look. “But I told Aunt Lucy I would send someone for her later since we have no carriage. ”

“Say no more,” said Mr. Ferris, touching his nose with a wink.

He nodded to the duke, who was looking deliciously rumpled in his buckskins, worn coat, and tousled hair.

“Come on then, your grace, we’d best get home and do our own costuming and primping.

I daresay we’ll take longer than Miss Morrison. ”

The duke smirked. “I think you might be right, Ferris. Miss Morrison has an ironclad efficiency about her that is singularly…appealing.”

Bel swallowed. Why must he continue complimenting her in such a charming tone? If she was not careful, she would lose her head completely tonight.

“Don’t forget to save one for me tonight,” said the duke as Mr. Ferris disappeared around the corner door.

“A dance?” asked Bel innocently

“That, among other things,” murmured the duke. He gave her a wink. “There are no bonnets at a ball, so I suggest you avoid dark corners if you don’t want to be kissed more thoroughly this time.”

Bel meant to think of a witty reply, but all she could do was stare at him with her own lips burning.

What was wrong with her that she was so overcome with desire?

This flirtation with the Duke of Warrenton was destined to lead to something dire if she did not exercise her good sense and end it soon.

As Nigel settled back into Jack Ferris’ carriage, he reflected that this was the first time in a long while that he had spoken about his early life.

Lady Maltrousse had coaxed some of those stories out of him, but never had he told her about Christmas belowstairs.

And never had he felt such an urgent need to get the good opinion of a woman.

He cared not only how her body responded to him, but also about her mind.

Did she like him? He hoped so. Enough to let him continue to court her? He prayed that this were true.