An Affair Before Christmas

“He doesn’t feel that way anymore,” Poppy said, feeling a prickle of sadness.



Jemma snorted. “We’ll see if he comes to the house party after the note I sent with his invitation.”



“What did you say?”



“I mentioned that I was inviting naturalists and philosophers, so he would find the party remarkably tedious. By the way, a footman brought me a note this morning that Villiers has arrived before us.”



“How is he?”



“I don’t know. Beaumont told me that he’d trade our marriage to have Villiers live. I was furious.”



“So would I be!” Poppy put in.



“But part of me agrees with him. Villiers is—”



“I’ve never met him. What is he like?”



“He’s charming, wry, fierce, arrogant and incredibly clever. And he’s a chess master,” she added, as if that explained everything.



On their third day of traveling it was already dark before the carriage rocked to a halt at the Ring O’Roses inn. The innkeeper ran out gibbering with excitement over the visit of not one duchess, but two. “Your servants have everything ready for you, Your Graces,” he kept saying, rubbing his hands together.



“Wonderful,” Jemma said.



“His Grace has already arrived as well,” the innkeeper told Jemma.



“Really? I thought Beaumont had a last session of Parliament. I was beginning to be afraid those men would never close down this year. He must have ridden like the wind to catch up with us.”



But when they walked into the inn it was clear that the dukes had been confused, for Poppy glanced into the common room as they passed the open door—and stopped. There was a tall man sitting at the back of the room, leaning against the rough wooden wall. His silky hair was tied back. He was wearing all black. He looked every inch a duke.



As Poppy stood there, fixed to the ground, Fletch looked up and saw her. He lifted a tankard in greeting.



Suddenly her entire body melted with racing excitement. She lifted her hand and waved to him, as if she were a five-year-old again. He was sitting with his legs stretched out before him. And he wasn’t quite as elegant as formerly. His coat hung open, and he wore a plain neck cloth.



It made her feel queer, so she almost ran down the narrow corridor after Jemma.



Jemma took one look at her, and said, “Well, I gather Beaumont is still debating the end of the civilized world.”



“He came,” Poppy whispered. “He’s here.”



“Sharing your room?” Jemma asked with a mischievous look.



“I don’t know!”



“How many rooms have we for the party?” Jemma asked, turning to the innkeeper.



“There’s the three of you with the best rooms in the house,” he said anxiously. “And then six more for your entourage. I hope that you’ll find everything to your satisfaction, Your Grace.”



Poppy’s heart fell a bit. She dreaded making love to Fletch. So why would she want him to share a room with her?



“I told you he was tired of me,” she said to Jemma under her breath.



“Why don’t you go to his room naked and see what happens? I’ll bet you my best chess set that you spend the night in his room.”



“It would be so embarrassing,” Poppy muttered, appalled that she was even considering it.



Jemma and Fletch teased and flirted all the way through supper, while Poppy sat there tongue-tied, feeling like a stupid younger sister.



He’d brought a copy of The Tatler. “I didn’t have time to read it,” he said, “but I understand that your house party is viewed with disapprobation, Jemma.”



Jemma snatched the paper from his hand. “Let me see that!” She bent over it. “This isn’t about my party, but about you, Fletch. My goodness. I gather your recent speech in the House was a remarkable success.”



He blinked. “When did The Tatler begin reporting on political matters?”



“Why don’t I just read it?” Jemma said. “It appears that the young Duke of Fletcher gave a short disquisition—what on earth is a disquisition?”



“A speech,” he said, looking rather embarrassed. “I gave a speech about the French trade bill.”



“According to this, your speech caused the entire House of Lords to leap to their feet shouting in support. The paper maintains that any peer who dares disagree with you proves himself to be as false as he is covetous. Good work, Fletch!”



Poppy leaned forward and touched his hand. “Indeed.”



Their eyes locked for a moment.



“Apparently there were calls on the floor that Fletch should be made the Secretary of State on the spot,” Jemma continued. “And it says that the opposition party is shaking in their boots at the idea of the duke’s rhetorical power being wielded against them.”



“Foolishness,” Fletch said.



Poppy just smiled at him.



Jemma turned the newspaper over. “Oh dear! Here’s the bit about my party. It’s really about my brother. They think that all duelers should be sent to France, given the Duke of Villiers’s imminent demise. I’m sure that includes sisters as well. For, and I quote, ‘the crime of base vulgarity.’ Vulgarity!” she repeated. “I’m sure I’m never vulgar.”



“The word only describes the actions of other people?” Fletch enquired.



“Naturally. I put a whole host of words in that category.”



“Such as?”



“Virgin.”



Fletch burst out laughing. He hardly even glanced at Poppy; he was so busy flirting with Jemma. And yet she couldn’t take her eyes from him. He’d shed that overly precious air he used to have, though his coat still fit across his broad shoulders without a wrinkle.



“Surely you too have a group of words that you would never apply to yourself,” Jemma said. “Doesn’t he, Poppy? Help me. Let’s see…limp?”



“Only applies to other men,” Fletch said promptly.



Poppy hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about, but she smiled.



“Phoenix is a good word,” Fletch said. “No matter how the flames burn, it always rises again.”



“What are you talking about?” Poppy asked.



Jemma was giggling, but Fletch said, “Vulgarities,” and then shut his mouth.



Her mother said that a lady should never acknowledge a vulgarity but pretend the solecism didn’t exist. “Could you explain it to me?” she asked.



The serving maid let out a giggle too, which made Poppy even more curious.



“You do the honors,” Jemma told Fletch.



Fletch blinked. “The phoenix in question is a man’s privates.”



“Of course,” Poppy said. “And the fire is syphilis?”



“No!” he said hastily. “I’ll explain the other part of the reference later.”



“I think I understand it. Shakespeare talks of castles melting away, like the baseless vision of a dream. Your phoenix, I gather, doesn’t melt away.”



In answer to Jemma’s laughter and Fletch’s look of shock she said, “I have been married for four years. And I spend a great deal of time working alongside beneficiaries of the Charitable Society for the Reception of Repenting Prostitutes.”