Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was almost midnight when Ariadne realized Cedric was not returning to his room to join her in bed. Slipping from the bed, she donned her robe and left for his study.
When she entered the room, the lights were low, but the fire was flickering high enough that she saw where Cedric was softly snoring from the couch; he was lying on his side with his head tucked into the corner at an unnatural angle.
For a moment, Ariadne observed her sleeping husband with wry levity. She could only imagine that he had worked himself to exhaustion and then told himself, a quick ten-minute nap, then back to business.
Then she sighed. If he were to work himself into exhaustion, he might as well do so comfortably. She bent over and lifted her husband’s legs one by one onto the seat cushions.
Her breath puffed out with the effort it required to move his muscular limbs, and as she undid his boots, Mr. Hunt came inside to drop off another cup of coffee. She gave him a single look and found the butler’s eyes on the table, his concentration worthy of a scholar perfecting his equation.
Snorting, she asked, “Is he normally like this?”
“Too many times, actually,” Hunt replied as he placed the used cups on a tray. “Before you came along and reintroduced him to the concept of breakfast, we all feared he would subsist on coffee alone.”
Laughing softly, Ariadne maneuvered a couch cushion under his head as he continued to sleep, undisturbed, and even placed a soft blanket from the back of another couch over him.
Her fingers brushed softly over his bristly jaw and in his sleep, she admired how sleep smoothed out the ever-present lines between his brows. Without that notch, he looked so young; sometimes she forgot that he was in his thirties.
“Don’t wake him too early tomorrow.” She told Hunt while getting to her feet. “Let him rest.”
“So should you, Your Grace,” Hunt said. “You do have an important day tomorrow. And if you don’t take offense to this, you must be prepared, as the harpies will be out from their roost.”
Ariadne sobered, “I expected as much and no, Mr. Hunt, no offense taken.” As she headed to the door, she added, “Take care of him.”
The stabbing rays of midmorning sun force Cedric to open his eyes. For a blessed moment, he thought he was in his bedchamber…until the crook in his neck told him otherwise.
He was in his study, damn well contorted in half on the small, lumpy couch that he should have replaced ten years ago.
He fell back on the pillow with a groan and belatedly realized he was covered with a blanket—something he decisively remembered being over the back of a chair across the room.
It was the day of this dratted ball that he was not the slightest eager for; in actuality, he wished to cancel this thing altogether—but he didn’t want to disappoint Ariadne.
“I should have made his damned ball a masquerade,” he rubbed his face. “At least I’d have cause to wear that silver half mask.”
As he sat up, a knock came and Cedric didn’t have to think twice; he knew Hunt’s terse knock like the back of his hand. “Come,” he ordered.
Hunt stepped in with a cup of coffee on a tray. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he set the tray down and bowed. “I hope you’re feeling well.”
“As well as I can after sleeping on a bed of nails,” Cedric grunted, then gestured to the blanket. “Where did this come from?”
“Her Grace,” Hunt said. “She came in at midnight and decided to pull your boots off and make sure you didn’t wake with a chill.”
His heart felt as if it shifted from the left part of his chest to the right. No one— not since his mother, when he was a child— had done something as sweet and caring as this for him. He stared at the blanket as if he didn’t know what it was.
“Did she now?” his voice was raw.
“And she told me not to wake you,” Hunt replied. “She also asked me to make sure you had a good breakfast upon waking.”
“And what did she recommend?”
“Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog, adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, lizard's leg and—”
“Remind me to send your recommendation to the Covent Garden Theatre, court jester,” Cedric huffed as he stood. “I’ll have oats, thank you, with honey, not henbane.”
Hunt’s lips twitched. “Understood, Your Grace.”
Cedric left the study to find Ariadne, only to run across one of her sisters, the one with the spectacles. What was her name again? Mary? Marianne? M— something?
“Your Grace,” she curtsied and hurried away before he could utter a word.
Shaking his head, he went off to find Ariadne, but didn’t find her in her room. He did find her in her drawing room, sorting out cards with great energy. She was dressed in a high-necked day gown that looked more serviceable than anything he had ever seen her in before.
He stepped inside, and noting the stack of cards to her left, asked, “Good morning, how long have you been here?”
“Since dawn,” she smiled up at him. “How did you sleep?”
“Well enough,” he said. “I’m told you visited me at midnight.”
She set another card to the left, “I learn that you burn the candles at both ends,” she said. “I want to add something to your schedule, too.”
His brows lifted. “And what is that?”
“That you get at least eight hours of sleep a night, starting at ten in the night to six in the morning,” she said, “I have it on good standing that a solid night’s sleep elongates your life exponentially.”
“Every night?”
“Five nights.”
“Three,” he said.
Ariadne replied, “Six.”
“Four is my last offer,” Cedric said.
Her lips pursed. “I suppose I’ll take that. You drive a hard bargain, Your Grace.”
“That is my job,” he snorted. “I will see you tonight. Don’t work too hard, Ariadne.”
Her head darted up, surprise painting her face, which made him a tad confused. “What?”
“You rarely call me by my name,” she replied in wonder. “I’d like it if you do that more.”
Nodding acquiescently, he turned to the door. “Hunt will have breakfast up soon. You are joining me, yes?”
She placed the pen down. “Of course.”
“Ariadne, may we come in?”
Turning before her mirror, clad only in her underthings and chemise, Ariadne called out. “Come in.”
Her sisters, all clad in white but with different styles of fit, Celestine had a square neck and a jutting bell skirt frothing to the floor, Marigold wore a sensible column dress that gathered under her bosom with puff sleeves, while Isolde had a gown that held old Scottish notes with its bell sleeves, a bodice and shoulders that look styled à la militaire.
“You’re not dressed yet?” Celestine gaped. “You know the ball has started?”
“I do,” she replied. “But I have heard it is best to have a fashionably late entrance.”
“We need to get you dressed,” Celestine tutted, lifting the pressed gown from the bed.
With an efficiency borne of practice—growing up without the benefit of many maids, they’d always dressed one another—the girls set to work to get the gown over her head.
While Celestine straightened the bodice, Marigold worked on the discreet ties on the back, and Isolde crouched to adjust the skirts of her petticoats.
Twirling, the gown, edged with frothy, sea-green lace, lifted like air and gave the illusion of a tide rolling to shore.
“You look like a princess.” Marigold swooned. “Like a faerie queen sitting in a glen of clovers.”
Isolde rolled her eyes, “You’re such a romantic.”
Narrowing her eyes, Marigold glared at her sister, “God forbid I have some whimsy.”
A knock on the door had Ariadne looking up. “Come in, Cedric.”
“Good evening, ladies,” Cedric nodded as he strode into the room.
Ariadne smiled at how breathtakingly masculine he was in his formal clothes.
The cut of the dark blue wool emphasized the width of his shoulders, his frothy cravat and pale grayish-green satin waistcoat made his green eyes seem all the more vivid.
His trousers skimmed down his narrow hips, and muscular legs ticked into gleaming Hessians.
He was not smiling, of course, for it was not his habit to do so, yet his green eyes were warm, his lips relaxed as he looked over her.
“I forgot to give you something earlier,” he said, and only then did she realize the flax box in his hands.
Opening it, he revealed a box of jewels. Nestled within the white velvet, the necklace glowed like a secret treasure— five square emeralds glowed with the deep green of forest glades, all of them framed by a constellation of diamonds.
“Cedric….” Her voice trailed off. “You shouldn’t have.”
“They were my mother’s,” he said, “I only had them cleaned and restored to their bright sheen. I want you to wear them tonight.”
From the corner of her eyes, she saw Marigold clamp a gloved hand over her mouth. Ariadne said nothing, merely smiled, and turned her back at him. She lifted her hair, the silken mass of it dripping through her fingers. “Will you please?”
“I—”
“It will take two minutes,” she said. “Please.”
With the weight of three sets of eyes on him, all thoughts of making an excuse and escaping from the room fled from his mind. Cedric took the necklace and slung it around her neck.
The pale skin of her nape gleamed, so translucent and flawless that it reminded him of oriental silk just woven off the loom.
His gaze roamed lower, down the supple slope of her ack back and narrowed as to how the dress clung to her plush backside, emphasizing generous hips and a full, rounded backside.
From his vantage point, he could see the dangling emeralds resting just over the shadowed crevice between her breasts, and the only comfort he had was that the necklace was going to cover that dip. As far as he was concerned, that place was for his eyes only.
His hands grasped the delicate gold clasp and closed it while her hair teased him with a fresh, blossomy scent. He ached to spear his fingers into her luxuriant mane and kiss her, but he was not going to scar her sisters with such a thing.
Control man, you have a reputation as a beast to uphold.
Celestine’s eyes widened. “The necklace looks beautiful on you.”
“Thank you, Cedric.” Ariadne smiled while touching the principal emerald. “It is beautiful.”
Bowing, he said, “You’ll do it justice. Now, please, excuse me.” To her sisters, he added, “Ladies.”
He ducked out of the room as quickly as he could and headed down to the ballroom, already filled with lords and ladies.
With a practiced disregard, he ignored the way women turned away from looking at him and men who looked over his shoulder in a way to disguise not looking at him fully, but to keep their manhood.
“I’ve got to say, for an unsociable curmudgeon,” Silas’ voice in his ear almost made Cedric jump. “You do throw a good bash.”
“Do that again, and there will be another sort of bash,” Cedric grunted.
“And that is why you’re a curmudgeon,” Silas swiped a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and drank. Dressed in a fitted suit with a blue brocade waistcoat, Cedric saw at least two ladies eye the earl.
The grand ball was truly a sight to behold—as it should be after an army of housemaids had scrubbed and polished and scrubbed every surface into a spotless condition.
The polished walnut balustrade of the entrance gleamed under the beeswax candles, while marble pillars towered over the ballroom, and mantels filled with what must be priceless statues lined the walls.
Light casting halos over the fifty guests, a number Cedric had been firm on, the champagne fountain was effervescent in the crystal flutes while the shimmer from ladies’ jewels flickered and glimmered.
In the distance, he heard the muted clicks of champagne glasses, the strings of the orchestra as they played muted music, and the merry laughter and chatting. A ball should be good fun, but he could not wait until it ended.
The butler announced Ariadne’s sisters, who barely made a ripple in the room, but then, there was movement at the top of the stairs.
Both Cedric and Silas looked up, and Cedric’s jaw dropped.
He was vaguely aware of the fact, but he made no effort to correct himself.
Not that he could have if he had wanted to.
From somewhere far away, he heard Silas mutter beautiful, but he could not bring himself to acknowledge that, either. All he could do was stare in amazement.
There, on the top step, stood Amelia, wearing a shimmering, cerulean-blue satin ball gown, stark white gloves, and his mother’s gems.
“Introducing, Her Grace, The Duchess of Holloway, Ariadne Greymont.” The butler said.
Cedric could not help staring dumbly as his wife descended the stairs. He had seen the gown before, but now, in this light, it looked so much more.
The blue of the gown looked as though it had been created as the perfect foil to her porcelain skin, and it turned her eyes into a vivid pool of liquid blue where green flecks shimmered in the depths.
Her cheeks were a soft pink, as were her lips, and the gloves fit so perfectly that his rings were perfectly visible. His heart raced, and, for a moment, all he could do was stand and watch helplessly as she descended the stairs.
A gentle nudge from Silas jolted him into motion. “Go get her, you dolt.”