Chapter 5
The close friendship of Harry’s husband, the Duke of Blackstone, to the Duke of Drake had begun in a hospital tent, on the edge of a battlefield, just before Christmas. It had not been on England’s green shores that their powerful alliance had begun but at war on a far-flung field.
She could only imagine that the air had not smelled of evergreen, cinnamon, oranges, and a good fire. Surely, the air had smelled of gunpowder and dying men.
But as Harriet understood, it had been in that tent that the Duke of Blackstone and the Duke of Drake assessed each other warily then committed to what would soon be an undeniable tradition.
She’d always been rather fond of the distant, wickedly sharp Duke of Drake. He’d held himself with such power, such cleverness, and stayed above the antics of everyone else about him. And yet, he’d often spared kind smiles for her. Most recently, she’d begun to believe that he was not nearly as jaded as he liked others to believe. In fact, she was almost certain that his cutting stare and blade of a tongue stemmed from a kind heart that had been sorely misused.
It had been known to all and sundry when he and her husband had first begun their friendship that Damian, then future Duke of Drake, was not welcome at his own estate. He had been hated by his own parents who had decried him to all of society.
So it had been decided that Damian would go home with Rob from war since he had nowhere else to go. And every Christmas since, the dangerous young man, cast out from his family but still destined to inherit, had spent every Yuletide with the Blackstone family.
Much to Harry’s delight, the Duke of Drake now sat at the pianoforte in the long hall, pounding out God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen in dramatic and passionate tones.
He played it with a vigor that seemed to encourage cheer and all about chattered with happiness as they played cards.
A smile tilted her lips as she gazed upon him and his strong fingers dancing over the keys. No one could play like Drake.
He paused mid-chord and took a long drink from the snifter of brandy perched on the table beside him before he transitioned into a rousing reel.
Harry almost laughed, for he did so with such ease. Not a note was missed.
The Duke of Drake was a man she knew she’d never understand. He hid his truths under a mask of wicked quips and sardonic smiles. His gaze spoke untold knowledge of wonders most would never know. But he seldom said a serious word, preferring to drawl his way through most conversations.
How she hoped he would find the sort of happiness that she and Rob had found. According to her dear husband, Drake had known very little joy in his life.
She looked about the room which fairly glowed with good humor and surveyed her guests. A feeling of great contentment settled over her. A year ago, she’d known she would wed, but it had never occurred to her that she would wed her childhood friend, or that she would find both passion and happiness.
Were there any two as lucky as she and Rob? She casually walked along the length of the red, silk brocaded room, taking in the happiness of those who had been invited to Blackdown.
A hearty fire crackled in the massive Carrara marble fireplace which was decked with holly and ivy. Massive mirrors in gilded frames hung from every bit of the wall, increasing the light within the room. They, too, had been decked with Yuletide finery.
In fact, bows of greenery swung from every place she could see and the scent of mulled wine filled the room with citrus, cloves, and cinnamon as it simmered in a pot by the fire.
It was almost shocking to see an item cooking in such a room.
But she loathed cold wine that was supposed to be hot. And there was simply no way to keep mulled wine as warm as it should be on the journey from the kitchens to the salons.
So, she had decreed it would be good fun to mull it themselves.
Richard Heath had all but rolled his eyes as he’d witnessed the attempts of the ladies to cook.
And since the dukes had always had servants, even at war, they were no better. None of them had ever had to boil water let alone mull wine.
So, much to everyone’s deep gratitude, they had stood aside as Heath had poured in the wine, cut the oranges, grated the cinnamon, and stirred the whole lot into a punch. And then he’d poured in a good deal of brandy from a decanter on the grog tray and set it to simmer over the blazing fire.
Harry had all but gulped at the vast amounts of brandy that had been used.
“If you want someone from the East End to make your punch, you’d best be prepared for it to have a bite,” Richard had proclaimed.
And as if the good man who ruled the dark night of London could hardly bear to be at ease, he stood beside the fire, his dark eyes flicking over the company.
His gaze landed upon Mary and, much to Harriet’s astonishment, his gaze. . . softened.
Harry nearly gasped as she swung her own attention from Mary to Heath.
Surely, she was mistaken.
They hardly knew each other.
But she observed the way in which Heath looked with utter admiration upon Rob’s sister. His dark gaze became pools of emotion as he took in her coiled, black hair and ivory face.
It was discernible, the depth of his feeling, in the subtle flexing of his hands into fists and the tightening of his jaw. It was not anger that caused such actions, but. . . longing.
Clearly, his admiration did not give him pleasure.
Harriet stared at the man who had come to her husband’s aid when she had been kidnapped and suddenly wished that he, too, could be as happy as she. For surely, those who had suffered so terribly and known so little happiness, deserved joy most of all.
But would he be a good match for Mary?
Did she reciprocate his feelings?
Suddenly, Harry felt rather flummoxed. She gazed upon her enigmatic sister-in-law.
As if in answer to her question, Mary’s face tilted upward, and her sapphire gaze met Heath’s. Her cheeks blossomed apple red, her pink lips parted, and the connection between the two fairly sang.
“My love, will you not dance with me?”
She whipped around, laughing. “You startled me.”
Rob gave her a warm smile. “Woolgathering were you?”
“Something like that.”
Rob arched a dark brow. “I know that look, Wife. You’re scheming.”
“I do not scheme,” she corrected playfully. Harriet gave his accusation further consideration and added. “I plan. In detail.”
He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Indeed, you do. Now, come and dance. We must set the tone, after all. And it is imperative that Blackdown be merry and bright.”
“I heartily agree,” she replied, tucking her ivory-gloved hand into his.
He leaned towards her and whispered, “Do you think we should change the name?”
“The name?” she queried.
“Of the house,” he explained lightly. “Blackdown is so very dreary.”
She considered his question. “It is tradition, I suppose.”
He harrumphed. “Tradition is dreadful.”
Harry heard the wish in his voice, the wish for something better than the past and so she smiled up at him. “Rob, now listen and listen well. You are a duke. You make tradition. If you so like we can call this house Sun Hall or Jolly Manor or—”
“Have done! Have done, my love.” He laughed again and whisked her towards the open space before the pianoforte. “I take your point. What’s in a name and all that.”
“Good,” she replied, happy he had so easily agreed. “Now, we can’t possibly dance alone. Not if we are to set the precedence for merriment.”
Rob nodded then cast his gaze about. “Heath,” he called. “Come and dance. I’m certain Mary longs to do more than sit.”
Harriet nibbled her lower lip and waited for Heath’s reply. Perhaps, such a man as he shunned dancing. After all, there likely was not a great deal of cause for such a thing where he spent the vast majority of his time. At least not formal reels.
But to her delight, Heath took up the challenge and crossed silently to Mary.
Rob’s sister’s lips curved in a strange smile before she slipped her fingers into Heath’s.
Damian looked at the four of them now awaiting him to continue in his dancing tunes. He lifted his hands and brought them down dramatically. The notes of a dirge began.
“Drake,” roared Rob.
Drake’s brows rose ever so innocently. But then he laughed and launched into a sprightly air.
Harry and Rob lined up opposite Mary and Heath. A strange sense of anticipation danced through Harriet as they began the intricate and cheerful turns of the dance. Weaving from partner to partner, touching hand to hand, she was certain that she noticed sheer delight color Mary’s cheeks.
Yes, Mary liked Richard Heath.
Harriet nearly laughed. She was far too young to be a matchmaker, was she not?
But as she considered her own happiness, she thought, perhaps not. What better role than to make others merry?