Marry Christmas. Jane Goodger

she’d read Henry’s note, she’d completely dreaded this ball, for she would have to suffer the company of the duke. Oh, she knew she was being unfair and catty, but she did not care. She could think of him only as “the duke” for that is how she’d thought of him for weeks now. If he did not exist, if her mother had not attended that particular art gallery on that particular day, she would most likely be walking arm in arm with Henry right now.

      The orchestra was set up in the Wedgewood room off the ballroom to give more room for dancing, though this early no one was dancing yet. From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth spotted her dearest friend hurrying over to her. Margaret Pierce, fondly called Maggie by her friends, stopped in front of her, beaming her excitement.

      “You may make your escape now, Father,” Elizabeth said, leaning up to kiss her father’s cheek.

      “Your mother is somewhere about,” he said, pretending to look around for her. Elizabeth knew he wanted more than anything to join the men in the billiard room where whiskey and cigars were not only approved, they were mandatory.

      “Where is he?” Maggie gushed when her father had left.

      “Who?” Elizabeth truly did not know whether her friend was talking about Henry or the duke.

      “The duke, silly. And I hear he brought an earl with him and they were both at the Casino this morning. Mother wouldn’t let me go because I was sneezing even though I insisted I wasn’t sick and that it was very likely the roses she’s placed in every corner of our home was causing me to sneeze. Really, I would have felt much better had she let me attend the Casino instead of being confined with all those roses breathing on me. And then I could have met your duke and his friend the earl.” All this said with hardly a breath. It was so good to see Maggie after her absolutely dismal summer. “Well, is he here yet?”

      Elizabeth laughed. “I don’t know.”

      Maggie made a quick pout. “Oh.” Then her face sprang into a smile. “But they are coming, are they not? My mother insisted they were and that’s why I’ve squeezed into this dress. How do I look, by the way?” Maggie twirled about, causing her beautiful butter-yellow dress to twirl with her. Very few people could successfully wear yellow, and Maggie, with her dark curls and striking brown eyes, was showing off the dress in spades.

      “It’s beautiful. And you know it,” Elizabeth said, feeling rather like an old dog watching a puppy play around it.

      “And you look…” Maggie paused, her eyes filling with tears. She was like that, laughing one minute, capable of tears the next. “You look like a duchess.”

      Elizabeth made a face.

      “You do,” Maggie insisted. “Oh. Don’t you want to?”

      “Not particularly,” she said, looking down at the deep blue satin gown, which showed a disconcerting amount of cleavage. It was not a dress for an unmarried nine teen-year-old girl, but her mother had insisted that a duke would want a duchess, not a girl. She felt incredibly conspicuous standing next to Maggie.

      Maggie’s eyes swept up to her hair. “How long did that take?” she said in wonder.

      Elizabeth laughed. Her mother had found a French woman who could accomplish the most intricate hair-styles imaginable. And her hair, which was wavy and thick and nearly impossible to control, had always been the most difficult aspect of her toilet. A tiara, sparkling with diamonds, perched atop it all. “Two hours,” Elizabeth said, groaning.

      Maggie brought a hand up to her own simple style and grimaced. “Ten minutes.”

      “I think you look lovely,” Elizabeth said fiercely.

      Suddenly, the din in the ballroom quieted as a footman wearing the Astors’ blue livery stepped forward and announced the latest arrivals. “His Grace, the Duke of Bellingham and the Earl of Wellesley, Lord Hollings.”

      “Gracious,” Maggie said. Like most Americans, Maggie was completely unused to such lofty titles. “To think, you’ll be ‘Her Grace, Duchess of Bellingwood,’” she said, comically lowering her voice to footman level.

      Elizabeth laughed, glad that her friend was there to make light of everything. “It’s Belling ham,” Elizabeth said. “As in pig.”

      It was such a ridiculous statement that Maggie laughed aloud, causing everyone around them to shush in unison, which only caused the two girls to laugh more.

      “You are terrible,” Maggie said, when she’d finally sobered enough to speak. “You don’t really think him a pig, do you?”

      “No,” Elizabeth said rather begrudgingly. “He’s not so bad.”

      Maggie touched her friend’s arm. “But he’s not Henry, is he?”

      Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. “I know I shouldn’t pine over him. But I saw him today and I cannot stop my heart from beating madly. I wish I could.”

      “You saw him today? Will he be here tonight? Oh, this is too delicious,” Maggie said, then quickly added when she saw Elizabeth’s expression, “and awful for you. Of course having the man you love meet the man you’re going to marry would be awful.”

      “It is. But I have not agreed to anything yet,” she said, staring blindly at the swirl of men and women before her.

      “Oh. I thought it was all but announced. I’d heard you agreed to the match. It’s been pure torture not being able to talk to you these past weeks. Everyone thought you were being a complete snob, cutting us out just because you’re to be a duchess. Of course, I knew better because I know your mother better than anyone else and I told them that if you were not attending balls and such it was because your mother wouldn’t allow it.”

      “Thank you for your loyalty,” Elizabeth said.

      “Well, to be honest, I was a bit upset when your butler turned me away. And you didn’t return any of my letters.” Maggie stopped, looking at Elizabeth’s stricken face. “You didn’t get them, did you?”

      “No,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head in disbelief. She’d assumed it was only Henry’s notes she’d been deprived of. But apparently her mother wanted her cut out of life entirely until she agreed to the match.

      Suddenly, Maggie clutched Elizabeth’s bare arm and looked over her shoulder. “He’s coming,” she whispered harshly.

      Elizabeth didn’t dare turn to look. “How close are they? Can we escape?”

      “Escape to where?” came his voice, clipped and English and so deep something in her chest rumbled.

      “I don’t think she meant escape to,” said another male British voice. “I think she meant escape from.”

      Elizabeth nearly rolled her eyes but restrained from doing anything so ill-mannered. “Lord Hollings, Your Grace, please meet my dearest friend, Margaret Pierce.”

      “Mademoiselle,” Lord Hollings murmured, lifting Maggie’s gloved hand for a kiss.

      “Pleased to meet you,” Maggie said, dipping a quick curtsy and darting a look to Elizabeth to see if she’d done the proper thing.

      “I think when meeting peers you are supposed to dip to the floor and remain there until they crook their finger at you,” Elizabeth said. And then she demonstrated but rose before anyone crooked their finger.

      Apparently, Lord Hollings found her delightful, while the duke did not. He frowned, his eyes so intense on her she wondered what he could possibly be thinking. Certainly that little bit of fun with her deep curtsy could not have made him angry.

      Then he leaned toward her and said discreetly, “If I were you, my dear, I wouldn’t lean quite so far when wearing that dress.”

      Elizabeth gasped and immediately felt her face heat almost painfully. She quickly recovered, “If you were me, Your Grace, you wouldn’t need to marry.”