Chapter Fifteen
“The Christmas tree is especially lovely this year,” Anne MacFane commented. They basked in the golden glow of candles, the shimmer of tinsel, and the earthy scent of the evergreen boughs.
Aurelia sat on the nearby sofa, her back resting upon countless stuffed, embroidered pillows. She fondly recalled decorating the tree with the Charltons, and watching with awe as the Duke and Lord Peregrine had lifted Lady Fanetta on their shoulders to place the angel atop its peak.
She remembered her heartfelt exchange with His Grace behind the branches, out of sight and out of earshot of his siblings. ‘My self-worth is neither dependent upon the man who sired me,’ she had told him, ‘nor the man I marry.’
She’d believed that the Duke had meant to release her from his care. Now she understood that because he cared for her, he wished to release her from any misplaced obligation she may have felt toward him.
Half of his family was unwed and thriving.
She suspected that his suave, handsome Uncle Bertrand Beausire had a long list of lovers and refused to change his wicked ways for anybody.
His Grace’s was a family into which she would be welcomed regardless of her parentage or her eligibility as a duchess.
Aurelia breathed a sigh of relief, for despite all his nobility and dignity, the Duke of Brantingham came from a clan of rule-breakers. He wanted to make her dreams come true.
“We had an extra pair of hands,” Lady Margery Charlton explained, “for the tree trimming. Aurelia was so clever with her beadwork, and I was grateful for her competence when Selly left everything till the very last minute—as usual.”
His Grace snagged a candy cane from a branch and seated himself on the sofa beside her.
He slipped the minty, striped stick of sugar between his upturned lips.
“I had to leave it to the last minute, as I’m a busy man with a mountain of correspondence and estate business monopolizing my attention.
” He turned his gaze to Aurelia as he toyed with the candy cane in his mouth.
“If I didn’t work straight through the week, I could never take the time away to indulge myself. ”
She nodded sagely. “All life is a compromise, Your Grace. A delicate balance of give and take, duty and fun.”
At Cheltenham, her days had been filled with lessons in etiquette and deportment, studies of maths, arts, and sport. Her nights had been reserved for thoughts of him and plans for their future together.
“My sentiments exactly,” said he, softly. His portentous words sent a shiver of anticipation up her spine. “I shall gladly handle the duty if you’re willing to share in the fun.”
Yesterday, she had seen his small, chilly office and admired his work ethic as he sat behind the serviceable desk from which he conducted his ducal business. She wondered how he spent his nights, and whether he’d spared a private thought for her since she’d entered into his world.
Only Fannie was oblivious to the scene taking place around her.
The younger Charlton sister lived for the delights of life—fashion, feasting, frivolity, and festivity.
She was forever pulling her siblings into shopfronts, encouraging them to attend the switching on of electric lamps, and goading them into never taking themselves too seriously.
“We ought to play a parlour game like we used to do,” she said to the gathered group. “I challenge you lot to a game of Snap-dragon!”
A cheer arose from the family, especially the younger cousins, the Lords Kexby and Rudston, who seemed like fun-loving fellows, and from Perry, who she suspected suffered from a case of hero worship, as he relished having two gregarious Oxford students take him under their wings.
The Duke of Brantingham signaled to his butler, who stood stoically at attention beside the bowl of smoking bishop. “Dowell, will you be so good as to fetch the Snap-dragon bowl and all the various accoutrements?”
The man bowed. “Very well, Your Grace,” he said, and set about his task.
In time, a section of the refreshments table was cleared and a wide, shallow vessel—a repurposed fruit bowl, she supposed—was placed upon its gleaming wooden surface.
The family rose from their seats as the Duke’s butler emptied a decanter of very old, very good brandy into it.
They congregated at the table, commenting on the bounty of brandy-soaked raisins lining the bottom of the bowl.
There would be plenty of chances for everyone to test their mettle against the flames.
Colonel MacFane declared that he would not play, admitting good-naturedly as he lifted a snifter to his lips, “I prefer not to waste my brandy!”
The twin aunts, Ladies Thea and Thyra Charlton, would watch from a safe distance, lest they singe their fingertips, and Uncle Bertrand would act as a referee in case the game grew dangerous or out of hand.
He positioned himself across the table from Aurelia so that he might continue his curious study of her face, for he seemed enthralled by her presence at Brantingham House.
Doubtless, the older gentleman was worldly enough and shrewd enough to suspect that something simmered beneath the surface of her friendly relationship with His Grace.
Was their attraction to one another so palpable that he questioned her virtue, though she and the Duke had shared nothing more than kisses?
The Duke of Brantingham took his place at the table, standing beside her. His hand touched the small of her back, lightly and gently, and—undoubtedly—possessively. “Light the brandy, if you will, Dowell.”
With a strike of a match, the bowl of brandy and raisins burst to life. Blue flames danced as the younger members of the family clamored to take their turns reaching into the fire.
“Look at you,” laughed Uncle Bertrand, “pagans gathered ‘round the pyre.”
Margie’s face was awash in light and color. “Witches at our cauldrons!”
The Charlton sisters tittered across the table, for they were not strangers to this rather dangerous game. Surely, they had never looked prettier or more alive than in this thrilling moment.
“Alright, you heathens,” said the Duke, vigorously rubbing the palms of his hands together. She had never seen him so competitive, though he must’ve been a skilled athlete in his school days. “Shall we play? What about you, Aurelia? Are you up to the challenge?”
She looked into his handsome, smiling face, which appeared boyish and filled with a spirit of fun. “Oh, yes, I played Snap-dragon at school. Girls—may I remind Your Grace—are ruthless.”
Again, Fannie and Margie cackled.
Since it was Lady Fanetta’s idea, the youngest Chartlon was nominated to go first. They chanted in unison a poem from days of old, and then she shouted, “Snip! Snap! Dragon!” as she snatched a raisin from the flames.
Fannie raised her trophy high, basking in the warmth of applause, and then ate the brandied raisin. She cooled her tongue with a swallow of champagne, still relishing in her victory.
Margie and Lord Kexby retrieved their raisins, but when Perry’s turn came, the youngest member of their gathered group singed his fingers and lost his raisin to the fire. He huffed and puffed and blew on his reddened flesh, yet he wasn’t seriously injured.
Lord Ruston pressed a brandy glass into his hand. “Drink your forfeit,” said the fellow, merrily. “It’ll take the sting out!”
The Duke of Brantingham laughed by her side, adding, “In more ways than one, lad.” He flexed his hand at Aurelia’s back, just above the soft bustle padding of her skirt. “It’s your turn,” he told her, teasingly.
She was swept up in the jollity of the moment, and emboldened by His Grace’s teasing, and encouraged by his siblings’ ebullience, cheering her on. Yes, they were a competitive bunch, but they wanted everyone to have their turn and take their prize.
Grinning, Aurelia stripped her long, kidskin gloves from elbow to wrist. She peeled them from her fingers and then tossed them gamely to the Duke.
“Ohhhh!” shouted the family—these Charltons, Beausires, and MacFanes who were not so elevated that they couldn’t have a good time. They were noblemen, debutantes, spinsters, military leaders, and ladies of society, but they were also human. They welcomed Aurelia with open arms.
Again, those gathered around the flaming vessel chanted their incantation, calling forth the lapping, blue-tongued dragon and the giddy spirit of Old Christmas.
She had played Snap-dragon with her classmates as a child, and later, with her friends at dinner parties and grown-up festivities.
She knew that speed was her ally against the heat.
She set her sights on her prize, and unwavering in her determination to have it, took a long, steady breath and called out, “Snip! Snap! Dragon!”
Aurelia plunged her bare knuckles into the fire. She felt the brandy coat her skin. The fire stung her arm, but she clasped the red-hot raisin in her fingers and drew it from the bowl.
She ate her prize with satisfaction, though her flesh smarted and her cheeks burned. She had risen to the challenge and claimed victory for herself. The silly game—and the welcoming nature of these people around her—reminded Aurelia that she could do anything she set her mind to.
“Well done!” said the Duke. His large, warm hand encircled her waist and drew her against him in a fond embrace. He, too, felt swept up in the fun. “I knew you were fearless, Aurelia!”
She gazed up at him with pride and wonder. Had she ever known a better Christmas than this one, spent in the arms of this man, and in the bosom of his family? “Now it’s your turn, Your Grace, though I pity you for having to follow me.”
He laughed at that. “Don’t worry, I shall put in a good showing.”
The Duke of Brantingham returned her gloves, though Aurelia didn’t bother pulling them back onto her arms. It was a clever opportunity to enjoy a lapse in propriety and to touch with her bare hands the man who’d claimed her heart.
She linked her fingers with his, yet no one seemed appalled by their thrilling little intimacies. Only Uncle Bertrand noticed their joined hands, though he did not seem to disapprove. Strangely, his eyes grew misty and wistful, and she imagined that he felt gladdened to see his nephew so happy.
His Grace made a great show of licking his fingers and flourishing his free hand mere inches above the flames. His siblings and cousins recited the poem. Even his aunts and Colonel and Mrs. MacFane joined in, lending their voices to the call.
The Duke played up to his audience, conjuring the mythical creature that had captured his ancestors’ imaginations since the sixteenth century. Even Shakespeare himself had written of the ‘flap-dragon’ and of the Christmas game to which it had lent its name.
“Snip…” he touched his fingertips to the fire, and then drew back to heighten the drama. “Snap…” The hand that he kept clasped to Aurelia’s squeezed her knuckles playfully.
“Dragon!” they all shouted in unison.
His Grace thrust his fingers into the vessel, and then retrieved a raisin. He devoured it, looking smug and handsome and a bit more dashing than usual. His eyes gleamed in the blue light of the burning bowl.
He washed his raisin down with a long draw from a nearby snifter, and when he smiled down at her, Aurelia saw that his lips were brandy-glazed. It took all her ladylike fortitude—and his as a gentleman, she suspected—not to press their mouths together.
“Congratulations, Your Grace,” she said, blushing. Surely, the heat of the fire and the strength of the brandy had gone to her head. She felt flushed and giddy all over. The point where their hands touched suddenly scalded her. “Congratulations, Selwyn.”
“Thank you, Aurelia,” he said, softly but surely, as there could be no doubt about his feelings for her. He did not release her hand even though the parlour game had reached its end.
The group tucked into the remaining refreshments and drank heartily from their various glasses. Laughter and conversation swelled around the drawing room as the fire from the snap-dragon bowl began to wane.
Lady Fanetta wobbled her way to the sofa, having imbibed two gulps of champagne too many. She was pink-cheeked and dizzy, and sank down onto the cushions in a flutter of velvet skirts, petticoats, and pretty flounced hems.
“No more,” laughed Fannie, draping her hand over her eyes, “or I shall be too tipsy to open presents!”
Together with Aurelia, the Duke of Brantingham led his family toward the Christmas tree.
“She’s right. We had better exchange our gifts whilst we’re still on our feet.
” He surveyed the packages wrapped in colorful paper, tied with ribbons, and adorned with bows, which had been placed beneath the boughs. “Now, who’d like to do the honors?”