Chapter 10

"What sort of monster doesn't finish a floating island?"

Stacia looked up from her needlework at the sound of Lord Shelton's voice. Out of habit, she glanced around the drawing room before remembering that her employer was still in the grip of her migraine.

"What sort of gentleman teases a woman about her eating habits?" Stacia retorted, secretly pleased that he had noticed her at all. And then disgusted with herself for the thought.

Lord Shelton ignored her question and sat down on the settee next to her. Her heart thudded faster as he swept her seated body with a lingering look that made the room several degrees hotter. "You cannot be slimming as you are already far too slender."

"Is that your way of telling me I am scrawny, my lord?"

He laughed, the rich, low sound bringing to mind honey and hot summer days. "You are like a hedgehog, Miss Martin."

"So, scrawny and prickly. I can see why you are famed for your charm."

Again he laughed, appearing delighted.

Stacia snipped the end of her thread and rooted through her basket to find the cornflower blue she needed for the next flower, more grateful than ever to have her needlework to cling to. "Thank you for the oranges, my lord." She risked a look up at him.

"Oranges?" he repeated, wearing an expression of wide-eyed innocence that nobody except a very young child would find convincing.

"They are my favorite treat," she said, ignoring his evasion.

"What sort of person likes fruit more than floating islands?"

"A monstrous one—I thought we had already established that?"

He smiled and held her gaze for a long moment during which Stacia found it impossible to breathe or look away. She knew she should offer to return his handkerchief, but the words would not come.

He gestured to her tambor, angling his head to better see it. "That is very pretty." He leaned closer and squinted, bringing the faint, mingled scent of soap, cologne, and port with him. "Is that a ‘J'?"

"Yes," she said, threading her needle. Or at least attempting to. Could a man's scent actually intoxicate a woman?

"It looks like one of those, er—whosy whatsits."

Stacia laughed. "You really were not jesting about your scholastic aptitude, were you?"

Rather than be offended, he grinned. " Inaptitude would be more appropriate. What are those fancy letters called?"

"Illuminated."

"Ah, that's right. Monkish things, weren't they?"

"Many were." Stacia finally got the thread in the eye and began on the flower. She had smelled men's cologne in the past—often—but nothing had ever smelled like Lord Shelton. Not just clean and crisp, but…like desire. That was it. He smelled like desire in human form.

I am such a besotted idiot.

Stacia wished he would go away. At the same time, she reveled in his attention. Urges she could not identify bubbled up inside her—the desire to grab him and do…what?

Was this how gamblers felt when they saw a pack of cards?

He leaned closer, the heat from his body blazing along her side. "Where did you sneak off to this afternoon, Miss Martin?"

"I didn't sneak , my lord."

"One minute you were there; the next you were gone."

"I had some matters to attend to."

"It was cruel of you to abandon me with the infantry."

Stacia couldn't help smiling. " Infantry ? I believe the Misses Lowery are nineteen, my lord."

"That is an infant from where I am standing. Besides, all that giggling makes them seem far younger."

Stacia thought so, too. The twins were beautiful but appeared to be interested in nothing other than clothing, balls, and boys.

"I would not have expected excessive giggling to be much of an impediment if the woman in question was beautiful enough."

He raised his eyebrows, his gaze suddenly uncomfortably piercing, as if he could see the jealous monster that lived inside her. "It depends on what , Miss Martin."

"I b-beg your pardon?"

"You said an impediment. An impediment to what ? Marriage? A game of Whist?" His lips pulled up on one side. "Fleshly pleasures?"

Fleshly pleasures.

Stacia opened her mouth, but all that came out was, "Uh."

Mercifully, Lord Needham entered the noisy drawing room and rescued her from uttering anything else.

He came to a halt in the center of the room and the chatter instantly died away. "Tonight, we are choosing names for the secret gift giving. This is a tradition from my own family." He smiled faintly. "As many of you know, my father John Needham was an iron monger long before he was a lord. He was a man of the people who adored Christmastime and felt strongly that his employees and servants should be included in the revelry. To that end, he instituted a modern version of Saturnalia."

"Saturnalia?" Lord Bellamy repeated. Based on the curious expressions on most of the other guests he was not alone in never having heard of the celebration. Stacia, the daughter of an antiquarian, at least knew the essentials of the Roman bacchanal which turned the social order on its head.

"From the Roman celebration of Saturn," Lord Needham explained. "I have chosen a few of my favorite traditions to continue here at Wych House. In any event, the secret gift giving is open to any who wish to participate—you simply need to add your name to this bowl."

"What other sorts of events take place during Saturnalia?" Baroness Mixon asked, looking more animated than Stacia had yet seen her.

"We will have a treasure hunt—this is an event where the lord of the manor is supposed to share some of his wealth." Several people laughed. "On Christmas Eve we will have what many houses call a servant ball, but ours will have a slight…twist. Not only will it be a night for my employees and servants to enjoy themselves, but it is an event at which the masters wait on the servants."

The room erupted with excited chatter and Stacia saw Lord and Lady Needham exchange amused glances before he continued. "Naturally none of you are obliged to participate in that ball—or any of the other events, for that matter. There will be a second, more traditional, ball on Christmas Day. If you are interested in the gift giving, you need to put your name in now as Lady Kathryn has volunteered to assign the, er—what did you call it, my dear?" he asked his wife.

"Secret St. Nicholas," Lady Needham said.

Several people chuckled.

Lord Needham went to sit by his wife and people resumed their activities—all the newcomers and even some of the neighbor guests approaching the table where Lady Kathryn sat.

Lord Shelton was watching the young people jostle to add their names, an amused look on his face.

"Is your name already in the bowl, my lord?" Stacia said, relieved to find her voice and brain had resumed functioning.

He laughed. "No, it is not."

She lifted an eyebrow. "You are too grand a personage to participate in festivities including servants?"

He pursed his lips and fixed her with a look of dry amusement. "Hedgehog," he whispered.

And then he pushed to his feet and headed for the table with the bowl.

***

Andrew waited until the last of the youngsters had cleared off before taking one of the small pieces of paper and scribbling his own name. Before he could drop it into the bowl Kathryn's hand shot out and snatched it from his fingers.

She unfolded it, read his name, and snorted.

"What is so amusing?" he asked, although he could guess.

"You have the worst handwriting I have ever seen."

"So…that makes me the best at the worst handwriting. I enjoy being the best." He gave her his smug smile—the one Sylvester always said made a person want to punch him.

She rolled her eyes and then crumpled up the chit and tossed it aside.

"What? I'm not allowed to play?"

"I already added your name earlier," she said, smirking up at him.

Andrew couldn't help laughing. "You really are a fiend, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry I interrupted your tête-à-tête with Miss Martin at the pond today."

Andrew scowled and glanced around. "Perhaps you could shout that a bit louder? People in the back of the drawing room might not have heard."

She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Nobody is paying attention to us."

Andrew crossed his arms and leaned his hip against the table, his body, not coincidentally, between Kathryn and the settee where the subject of their conversation was sitting. Alone. "You will do her no favors if my name is coupled with hers, Kathryn."

Kathryn only smiled. "She is not your usual sort of flirtation, is she?"

Andrew felt the not unfamiliar urge to throttle her. "You know nothing about my flirtations, usual or otherwise."

"I will get to see them firsthand when we go to London."

Andrew ignored her, watching with growing displeasure as an especially handsome young man approached Miss Martin. He said something and she smiled up at him—blindingly—and then set aside her needlework and took his hand when he extended it.

"Who the devil is that?" he demanded before he could stop himself.

Kathryn followed his gaze. "That's Dixon. He's one of Needham's secretaries. Surely you remember? You were introduced the day we arrived."

"Of course I remember him," Andrew snapped. But he didn't. "I just didn't see his face," he lied.

"He is Viscount Cowper's youngest son," Kathryn said, staring at him strangely.

"I know that," he said testily. "I went to school with one of his brothers."

"Yes, you said that when you met him."

Dixon led Miss Martin to a large pair of doors disguised by murals of some battle or other and pushed one of the doors aside, exposing a pianoforte. Miss Martin said something that made Dixon laugh. She then opened the bench and sorted through some sheets of music.

Dixon shoved the other door open and turned to the assembled guests. "Lady Needham has suggested an impromptu dance and Miss Martin has agreed to provide some music."

Andrew winced at the cheer that went up.

"I'll just need some help moving furniture and rolling up this carpet."

A dozen volunteers rushed to help.

Andrew didn't think it was quite fair that Dixon had tapped Miss Martin to play and not take part in the dancing. Every young woman Andrew had ever met could bang out at least a few tunes on the piano. Surely somebody else could—

"Has anyone else noticed?"

He turned to Kathryn. "Pardon?"

"That you forget things—and people."

Andrew was accustomed to Kathryn's constant needling—he even enjoyed her sharp wit and found it amusing to bicker with her like an adolescent boy on occasion—but this subject was not one he was willing to banter about.

He leashed his fury before leaning closer to her, lowering his voice so that only she would be able to hear him. "You know, Kathryn, this propensity of yours to pry and meddle and share your unwanted opinion freely might be amusing in a child, but it is offensive and obnoxious in an adult. And it will quickly gain you a reputation as an interfering busybody." He'd started off speaking coolly and ended up almost snarling the last words.

Annoyed with himself he pushed away from the table, boiling with anger, and some other emotion he did not want to look at too closely.

Suddenly, the room was chokingly claustrophobic, and Andrew could not get away fast enough.