“EVERY GIRL MUST take a turn and stir the pudding,” Miss Pendergast said. The spinster chaperone clapped her petite hands with maniacal enthusiasm, rousing Ivy from a trance. The kitchens of Castle Vale were bursting with debutantes this afternoon. Yesterday, Miss Pendergast had spoken of a tradition that any unwed maid who stirred the Christmas pudding would find her true love in the new year. As an alternative, Ivy suggested that they could all take part in the tradition and then deliver the puddings to the duke’s tenants. Miss Leeds had been quick to offer her agreement.
The only problem was, Ivy had had no idea that making a pudding would be so difficult. The eggs, milk, and treacle were not mixing well with the suet. Adding the flour turned into a disaster of lumps. She must not have stirred fast enough. Looking over her shoulder at Lilah, her pudding partner, she sheepishly shrugged. “Perhaps whoever receives our pudding will believe that the lumps are currants.”
“I just hope the person owns a pig to feed it to,” Lilah said with a laugh. Tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, they would set off for the village in order to deliver them to the duke’s tenants, along with a fat pheasant or goose, whichever the gentlemen were able to kill today while on another hunt.
Staring down at the soupy mess in the bowl, Ivy was glad that Lilah hadn’t pinned all of her marital hopes on the magic of the pudding. Obviously it hadn’t worked to gain Miss Pendergast a husband. Then again, perhaps Miss Pendergast had been in love once, only to have been spurned most cruelly. Such a trial was difficult to overcome, Ivy knew. Likely it was terrifying even to think of falling in love again. And Ivy feared it was happening to her.
She couldn’t stop thinking about North . . . or Northcliff. Worse, she’d taken to wearing the frog pin each day, but tucked in the folds of her chemise, close to her skin. Close to her heart.
“Ivy, you are going to spill the pudding,” Lilah warned in her ear. “We do not want ours to come up short.”
“I’m sure Miss Sutherland doesn’t think such traditions matter, since she favors a mathematical equation over a chance of marrying for love,” Miss Leeds sneered from across the oak plank table. Those around her wore similar expressions.
Ivy had not earned much favor with the debutantes in the past two days since the duke had explained his formula. Her support of his idea had not been well received. As for the duke, however, the gentlemen had inundated him with questions. In fact, the constant flow of interested parties had left no room for her to stand within his circle, as she had the previous night. Knowing how much his formula meant to him, Ivy was pleased for his sake. Anyone could see it in the passionate way he expressed himself.
“I do not see why His Grace’s formula cannot coexist with tradition. Nothing within it states that parties are forbidden. And wouldn’t it be nice to know that your dance partner was a potential perfect match? It would allow you to see him in a wholly new light.” At her words, some of the debutantes showed interest, offering tentative nods and curious murmurs to their pudding partners. However, a number—bearing frowns and crossed arms—still firmly demanded their Seasons, their parties, and, most importantly, their new trousseaux.
“One has to wonder how lineage is even a factor when nobility runs so thin in . . . certain people.” Miss Leeds sounded very much like her father, Baron Cantham.
Ivy’s hand curled around her spoon. She desperately wanted to hurl a clump of suet and flour at Miss Leeds’s head. “None of us know the specifics of the equation, but the result is for the benefit of us all.”
“All? What does it matter to you, Miss Sutherland? From what I understand, you have no interest in marrying.”
“Not that it is any concern of yours, Miss Leeds,” Lilah said, her shoulders as stiff as a stair tread, “but she is here to support my endeavors.”
“Don’t you see?” Miss Pendergast said gently. “Miss Sutherland’s circumstances might very well have been changed if the formula had been in existence before she was past the marrying age.”
While the chaperone’s intentions were kindly meant, Ivy suddenly felt a weight settle over her breast. It was as if someone had stacked all the pudding crocks on her at once. She could hardly breathe. And, to her horror, the sting of tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Deep down she knew that even if the formula had existed when Jasper had been alive, he still wouldn’t have married her. More than that, she feared that the formula wouldn’t have found anyone for her to marry.
Hastily, she turned around under the pretense of gathering a bowl of dried plums and currants for the pudding, then dabbed the moisture from the corners of her eyes. Unfortunately, her actions did not go unobserved. For in that same moment, she saw the duke standing in the doorway, his gaze missing nothing.
NORTH WATCHED IVY quickly lower her hand and brush her damp fingertip over her apron. She offered something of a smile before she dipped into a curtsy.
“Your Grace, what an unexpected pleasure,” Miss Pendergast said, following suit. As did the rest of the room.
He felt unaccountably annoyed at the lot of them—all except Ivy, of course—and for what he’d overheard. Unfortunately, it wasn’t true. His formula would not have found Ivy a match of any sort. Part of him was glad of it—glad she was here and not making Christmas pudding in another man’s home—glad even though it made him a selfish monster.
Selfish or not, he still wanted to comfort her. Wanted to pull her into his embrace. Wanted to kiss those damp lashes and then her mouth. Ever since leaving the ascending room the other night, he’d regretted not kissing Ivy. He’d squandered an opportunity that he might never have again.
Not able to do that, however, he stepped past Ivy. Surreptitiously, he held his folded handkerchief behind his back where only she could see. Her fingers brushed his as she slipped it out of his grasp and whispered a soft thank you for his ears alone.
He cleared his throat. “Ladies. I heard tale that dozens of puddings were being made and will soon find their ways into the homes of my tenants. For that, I wanted to offer my appreciation to each of you.”
A collection of smiles and tittering commenced, most of the debutantes expressing their desires to only be of service, Your Grace. At least he assumed that was what Miss Basilton had murmured, gaze fixed to the table while she blushed.
Seeing her reminded him of his conversation with Lord Basilton earlier this morning. Because of the formula, Lord Basilton and his daughter—the only female born into a family with seven sons—were now gravitating toward Baron Nettle, a widower with four daughters and desperate need of a well-dowried bride who was young enough to produce a son and heir.
In addition, Lord Pomeroy’s eldest son was turning his attention toward Miss Bloomfield, who recently inherited a goodly sum from a late grandmother.
North knew that gossip and the natural progression of information might have eventually led Basilton and Pomeroy on this same path. However, once North had worked out the formula with the few guests who’d filled out cards, he was able to make the process much simpler. Now, his Fellowship was closer than ever.
Everything was going according to plan. So then why wasn’t he thrilled?
Perhaps it was because his formula was working too well. He had proof of its validity, which meant that he had been right all along. It also meant that he’d earned this on his own merit. Most men would find comfort in that. A week ago, he would have been one of those men. Now everything that was supposed to be good and right suddenly felt wrong.
“We are all looking forward to this evening’s play, Your Grace,” Miss Leeds said, squinting at him in an attempt to bat her lashes. “You’ve provided us with such a wealth of entertainment during this party that it saddens me to know it must end.”
North found himself nodding in agreement, but his thoughts were of Ivy leaving in a matter of days. “Castle Vale will be empty without each of you. I daresay Mrs. Thorogood will be saddened to have fewer visitors to her kitchens as well.”
Standing with her hands on her hips and shaking her head at the disastrous mess upon her worktable, the cook in question raised an eyebrow at him and huffed.
“Oh dear me,” Miss Pendergast exclaimed, “I imagine it’s well past time for these young ladies to rest before dinner. Not to mention, time to allow the cook to boil our puddings. We are ever so grateful, Mrs. Thorogood.”
Grumbling, the cook picked up the first pudding and walked through a narrow hall that led to the main kitchen with the ovens and stoves.
Gradually, the girls filed out, one by one, each pausing to curtsy, blush, giggle, or bat her eyes—with the exception of Miss Leeds, who did all four. He also overheard Ivy telling her friend that she would follow as soon as she added the currants and dried plums. Her friend hesitated, yet at the same time Miss Leeds intervened.
“Miss Appleton, since we have both been invited to tea with the dowager duchess, we should walk together.” She sidled up to Ivy’s friend and linked arms with her before maneuvering to stand before North. “Will you be coming to Her Grace’s sitting room as well, sir? We would be eager for your escort.”
North recalled his aunt inviting him to this tea. Now, however, he believed he would rather linger in the kitchens. “Alas, I must forgo the pleasure of your company, as I have business with Mrs. Thorogood.”
Miss Leeds offered another curtsy-blush-giggle-bat, then pulled Miss Appleton away before she could finish her curtsy. Mrs. Thorogood trudged in for another pudding before disappearing again.
As he moved toward Ivy, she frowned in puzzlement. “I thought you wanted to speak with your cook.”
Likely, he could think of something to tell Mrs. Thorogood, but the truth was, the only reason he’d come down to the kitchens was to see Ivy. “It can wait.”
“Oh, then you must be waiting for this,” Ivy said and reached under her sash to hold out his handkerchief. “Thank you. I don’t know what came over me a moment ago. It must have been all the flour dust.”
As guilt trampled through him, he said nothing but merely closed his fingers over hers. He held her hand in his for a moment, feeling the combination of her soft skin and a smudge of wet pudding. It took everything within him to resist lifting her hand to his lips and tasting her. Briefly, he wondered if their entire acquaintance would only be the sum of a few errant touches. He wanted so much more.
They stood in silence—all except for the constant clunking of pots and pans, the chatter and shuffling of a dozen kitchen maids and sculleries in the adjacent room.
When he heard the clack of Mrs. Thorogood’s sturdy shoes, he reluctantly released Ivy’s hand but put his thumb to his lips to taste the remains of the pudding. It was sweet and creamy, rather like her flesh. “Mmm . . . I’m certain this particular pudding is the most delicious of all.”
While the cook came and went, Ivy’s gaze dipped to his mouth and lingered. She wet her lips as if she, too, wanted a taste, but not of the pudding. North shifted nearer until he could feel the brush of her skirts against the fine buckskin of his riding breeches.
“You are too kind,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. Then she shook her head and turned back to her bowl. “This pudding is the worst of the lot. I don’t know what I did wrong. Lilah and I added all the same ingredients that the others did.”
For the first time, North looked down at the runny brown liquid sluicing down the sides of the bowl as she vigorously stirred. The strange part was that the end of the spoon had a clumpy white mass stuck to it, which left the mixture interspersed with lumps. “Well, perhaps after it is boiled . . .”
She gave a wry laugh. “It will need to be boiled until Twelfth Night.”
“Then I will have something to look forward to,” he said honestly before a solemn truth struck him. He would not have until Twelfth Night with her. The day she would depart was fast approaching.
There was a commotion in the other kitchen, the crash of crockery and Mrs. Thorogood’s grousing at the maids. All of which meant that he had a fraction of time alone with Ivy.
“I suddenly feel that now is not the most opportune time to ask the cook about my lumpy pudding.” Ivy glanced at the doorway. “Besides, I really should be off . . .”
Without wasting a moment, North pulled her out of the room, stopping in the vestibule between the door and the hall. There were too many servants milling around.
Making no attempt to separate from him, Ivy lifted her face. “May I ask you a question?”
“You may ask me anything you wish.” He turned her hand over and rubbed the pad of his thumb into the center of her palm, where it was warm and dewy.
“Do you prefer Northcliff or North?”
He grinned. The question was more revealing than his answer could be.
Then, as if she realized it as well, she went on in a rush. “It was only because I was thinking of you earlier—well, not thinking of you but more so wondering—if you had a preference. Not every name can be shortened, after all. Certainly not mine. And besides, you might have been scolded with your full name. Your mother might have said, ‘Northcliff Melchior, what have you done with my curling tongs this time?’”
That wondrous, inopportune elation returned to North. He wanted to take her away with him to the nearest dark corner to kiss those rapidly moving lips and slow them down. “Curling tongs serve multiple purposes. They work wonders for holding a book open.”
Curiosity brightened her expression, lifting the corners of her mouth. “I hadn’t thought of that. But what of the binding?”
“That was when I would hear my full name, along with my father’s reminder of how those books had once belonged to my fourth great-grandfather—Melchior had been his Christian name.”
“It’s quite fitting that you were given the name of one of the three wise men, though I imagine you heard the word incorrigible a time or two in your youth,” she said fondly. “But you still haven’t told me if you prefer North to Northcliff.”
Because he wanted to delay their parting for as long as possible. “First you must tell me your full name, Miss Ivy Sutherland of Norwood Hill.”
“You will laugh,” she warned. “I arrived in this world early, you see. My mother told me that she’d once had great hope that my impatience would be fleeting. Therefore she named me Ivy Patience Sutherland.”
Something shifted inside him, and that too-full sensation in his chest began to burn and ache with a ferocity that demanded a cure. Unfortunately, he feared this particular ailment had no cure whatsoever. “What is it, Ivy Patience Sutherland, that makes you so impatient?”
She swayed closer to him, as if something had shifted inside her, too. “It’s difficult to explain, but I am sometimes overcome with an urgent need to find out what will happen next.”
“I understand. I have been overwhelmed with eagerness in the past, rushing headlong into a new invention. Over time, however, I realized how much more I enjoy the process than the result.” His gaze drifted to her lips. “Therefore, taking my time, savoring what I enjoy, is the greatest reward.”
Drawn in by that alluring citrus scent combined with the spices from the pudding, he wanted to lean forward. When Ivy’s free hand fanned out over his lapel, he realized he had. And that he’d tilted his head in preparation to capture her lips.
“Your advice is sound, I am sure. But right this moment, all I want to know is what will happen next.”
North did, too.
At the sound of footsteps nearby, North straightened immediately and released her. For a moment, he’d forgotten about the servants and the possibility of tainting her reputation. He could only think about how much he wanted to taste her, explore her. “I would hate to make you tardy for my aunt’s tea,” he lied. If he could do so without damaging her reputation, he would haul her away this instant. “As for me, I am assuredly late for a meeting with Baron Cantham.”
Ivy’s nose wrinkled. “Miss Leeds’s father?”
“I was surprised by the request to complete an equation for her as well. Cantham comes from a lengthy descendancy who all possess the Leeds surname. He is a staunch advocate in bloodline purity.”
“His own,” she said with a shudder. “Though how insulting for you to endure his public scorn even when, it appears, his prejudice can be pushed aside if his daughter were to become a duchess.”
Her defense of him warmed North. “Such comments are not the barbs they once were.”
She tilted her head, gazing at him with tender scrutiny. Whether she believed his lie or not, she said nothing. Instead, she drew in a breath. “I wish you were attending your aunt’s tea. F-for Lilah’s sake, of course. You’ve not had much of an opportunity to become acquainted with her.”
He grinned, loving the way she ran out of breath while saying things she likely didn’t mean. “Unfortunately, this evening I have private appointments with others who share Cantham’s way of thinking. I will likely not attend the play.”
“Oh,” she said, her gaze mirroring his own longing and disappointment. “It is wonderful, though, that your Marriage Formula has gained such a following. How proud you must be.” He offered a nod, but before he could make a comment, she continued. “Then I will simply see you tomorrow evening at the Christmas Eve Ball?”
Time was slipping away too quickly. He was at odds with his desire to spend more time with her, and his desire to take the steps to earn his Fellowship. “Perhaps I should request your first dance now before anyone else has the chance.”
“And perhaps, before you come to your senses, I should say yes.”