The Viscount’s Absolutely Tempting Twelve Days (The Notorious Briarwoods #18)

Chapter 1

England

Christmas Day

Many Years Ago

No one should cry on Christmas Day.

And yet Lady Seraphine Lansford, only daughter of the Duke of Crestfield, was.

All her very short life, she had been of the opinion and had been led to believe by her mother and father, the great Duke and Duchess of Crestfield, that no child should be sad on such a day, that all children should feel joy in their hearts and be given a little present and made to feel special.

Their important family, descendants of an ancient line, never abandoned any of the people on the Duke of Crestfield’s estates, especially not at Christmas.

Yet here in their beautiful house with every possible thing that anyone could ever want, tears slipped down Seraphine’s face, not for herself, but for her older brother, who was just nine years old and had lost his heart.

Yes, he was heartbroken. Her wonderful Oliver. And it was crushing her spirit. Just hours ago, she had stood with him in the village, his hand holding her smaller one as they had watched the dancers dance and the performers sing and make merry and bring joy to all the people on her father’s land.

Little though she was, she had been so proud of her family, so proud of her papa, so proud of her mama, so proud of her brother. So proud of what she and her family insisted upon.

Yes, she was quite small, but she was clever. And now she knew the truth.

She knew beyond all doubt that her family was not at all what her parents had made her believe. They were not at all what they claimed. They couldn’t be.

Not if her papa could break her wonderful, marvelous brother’s heart so. She hid in the shadows of the doorway between her mother’s salon and her mother’s bedroom.

Oliver stood, once beautiful and proud, shrinking by the moment, as their father derided him for dancing about the room, dressed in his mother’s things, full of happiness, full of light.

Well, that light slipped out of Oliver in degrees as their father’s face grew sterner and sterner.

She could not even hear what their father was saying anymore.

The words had turned to murky condemnations and expectations that a boy, the son of a duke, could never be a dancer, should never wish to perform, and certainly should put such things away.

The look on her father’s face made her blood boil with injustice. And the way her brother was being disdained only made her fury at it all grow.

What did this mean for her? In her child’s heart, she did not know. But she did know one thing for sure. Her family did abandon people if they did not do what was expected of them.

A hand slipped over her shoulder and pulled her back, away from the room. Her own little heart began to pound in terror at the sudden touch.

Despite her sudden fear, the tears would not stop coming. She turned to see the beautiful woman who had always been a source of solace for her.

“Mama,” she said as she buried her face in her mother’s silken skirts. Her mother had never minded hot tears before, nor tear stains upon her immaculate, expensive clothes.

But now, her mother pushed her away, took her hand, and led her further into the salon that was decorated with holly and ivy and beautiful red ribbons. Bowls of oranges and nuts sat on every table.

The fire crackled.

And the scent of juniper was in the air.

“Now, my girl,” her mother said simply, smoothing her silk skirts over the damask of the settee. “You sit beside me and we shall sort this out.”

Seraphine sniffed back her tears, eager to hear that all would be well, that she had misheard and love would warm her world again.

Her mother would assure her that this was but a silly misunderstanding, that their father could not be so cruel on Christmas Day, that Christmas Day was a day where anything should be allowed, as long as it hurt no one.

But her mother pulled her onto her lap, tilted her chin up, and wiped her tears away, then said, “You must not cry for Oliver. He is learning to be a good man.”

She blinked, and those words closed her open heart, the doors beginning to swing shut as hope that her mother would make it all well slipped away. “But he was happy. He was dancing.”

Her mother tilted her beautiful head to the side, her jewels sparkling in the light.

“The sort of people that we are, my dear? We do not put happiness first. No, no. We do not put dancing first or art or joy. We put our duty first. We put the power of our ancient name first. And you will be no different.”

With each cold word, Seraphine felt as if she was crossing through a threshold from one place to another, and that there would be no returning. She did not like it. Her heart, which had felt so warm this morning, began to chill as if ice was enveloping it.

“But, Mama,” she protested, “we make certain the children of the village are happy, that they dance about. They wave ribbons and sing and wear costumes and—”

“You are not a child of the village, my dear,” her mother cut in.

“You are the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Crestfield. And you will be perfect. You will be the next generation of aristocrats. Your children will sustain this line. And so you will do exactly as I say, exactly as your father says. And you will maintain a cheerful disposition about it because we are the luckiest of all. We are perfection. And you will be perfection. And nothing, not your tears for your brother, not his wish to dance about the room in beautiful things, will get in the way of that. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mama,” she whispered, realizing that her voice was shaking. Even so, she had to try one last thing. “But it is Christmas.”

“Christmas is not for us, my dear,” her mother said with a sigh. “Christmas is for the people who need it the most. And it is our job to make sure they get what they need. We already have everything. To want more would be, well, greedy, my dear. Are you greedy?”

Seraphine’s heart stung at that. And she sucked in a shuddering breath and squared her shoulders as shame washed over her. Her mother was right. She had everything. How could she complain? How could she disobey?

“No, Mama. I am not greedy.”

“Good. Then you will live up to your position. You will do all the things expected of you and never do anything less. When you walk into a room, you will be proud to be one of us. And you will show everyone what they should aspire to be but can never attain.” Her mother paused, then added, “You will do better than I.”

“But, Mama, you are a duchess.”

At that, her mother smiled and pulled Seraphine into a hug, clearly pleased.

“Yes, my angel, I am. But I knew you would be born to be beautiful, an angel, and so I gave you your name. One of the highest angels. So, you will marry a prince or an archduke. And you, my dear, will be the pinnacle of our family, just as your brother will be. Nothing will stop that. Do you understand? It is the greatest gift that I can give you, this understanding.”

It did not feel like a gift. It felt like a curse, but it was her mother’s will and her father’s too.

And on this Christmas Day, even with her mother’s arms about her, shame slipped through Seraphine at having been foolish enough to think that she would be enough, that her brother would be enough as they were.

What a silly little girl she was. But she wouldn’t be silly anymore.

“I know it is hard, my dearest,” her mother said, pain filling her eyes, as if a wave of regret was welling up inside her. But then she closed those eyes and seemed to steel herself. “But we must please your father, mustn’t we? We must always please him and fulfill his expectations.”

She nodded her head, but somehow she knew, deep in her heart, that her mother longed for love and that her father did not give it to her. But perhaps, if they were very good, and pleased him, at last they could win that love.

She would strive every day to be what her mother wanted, and what her father wanted too, and she knew Oliver would as well because they were good children. They always had been, and they always would be. And they would never fail their parents.

Laertes Ripton, Viscount Hawthorn, future Earl of Hythe, much like his sister Phoebe, loved to linger in the shadows of Christmas Eve and watch his aunts and uncles celebrate their love.

He knew that Phoebe liked to go down and watch their mother and father in each other’s arms dancing near the Christmas tree in the magical light of the transition from Christmas Eve to Christmas Day.

But Laertes, well, his favorite time of night was when his mother played the piano and his father sang.

In all his life, he’d never heard a more beautiful voice than his father’s.

And when his mother and his father were one in music, it made him feel as if the world was perfectly wonderful, perfectly good.

And that love was bigger than any sorrow.

Even so, he did not go to bed like all the other children did. Like his sister, Laertes took to the halls Christmas Eve night. And like the mice that his mother always took care of, he sneaked through the dark halls and drank in the love that filled the house.

He liked to wander the house and watch his aunts and uncles gaze into their husbands’ and wives’ eyes, recite poetry, dance, and sing.

It gave him strength, feeling that deep, abiding love that seemed to only grow more on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

He knew he was destined to have that. All Briarwoods were, and he was a Briarwood through his mother, Perdita. And how he adored her! How he adored the way she made animals follow her about. She was the safest person he knew.

Everyone felt safe with her. Everyone trusted her. She was like a magical being.

And his grandmama was too.

There was no one like her.

He knew that his grandmama saw into his heart and could see things that no one else did.

And so this Christmas, as he slipped into the long hall, now empty, and stood before the crackling fire, he felt small.

He was barely half the height of the massive hearth.

Even so, he gazed into the flames, knowing that at any moment, because it was getting quite late, Nanny would realize that he was not in the nursery and would come looking for him.

He did not wish to worry her. And so he would not prove a difficult target, but he could not hide the ache in his heart.

He knew his grandmother knew he had it. Every now and then, their eyes would meet, and she would give him the gentlest of smiles, as if she understood that he was not like the other children. As if she knew there was something in him, a darkness in his heart.

Oh, it wasn’t a scary or frightening sort of darkness, but it was an ache, like a bruise or a wound, or that moment just before dawn when everything seemed impossible and the dark night might open up and swallow one whole.

Even he knew this was a wild thought for a boy, but it was how he felt. He was not thirteen years of age yet, but he understood that his soul longed for something that might never arrive.

It was a pain that laced through him. And as he stood there, staring into the dancing light of the fire, he knew that he would find love one day, just like all the Briarwoods, but he feared for whoever loved him.

Because of that ache, that impossible pain that made his music beautiful. He feared that the ache might make them sad.

Even now, he loved to play at the piano.

Even now, notes danced through his head. Laertes gazed over at the pianoforte in the corner of the beautifully furnished room that danced with shadows. Slowly, as if called, he walked over to it and sat at the bench.

He held his fingers poised over the ivory keys of the pianoforte. And then he began to softly play an ancient Christmas song. The tune and reverberating notes wafted up around him and swallowed him in the hum of music.

Music was where he was truly himself. Not just a Briarwood or a future earl. No, he was something different. Something very alive. Something more. Playing was the only thing that truly gave him peace, because in the music, he could feel the beautiful sort of pain that existed inside him.

As his fingers settled into a final chord, he heard a rustle, knowing for sure it had to be Nanny, but then he looked back over his shoulder and smiled.

It was his grandmama, the dowager duchess. And she was watching him with wise eyes and a kind smile.

She said softly, “Never stop playing, Laertes. Music will always be there for you, when you fear that the world has come to take everything away from you. That thing deep inside your heart? It is a gift. I promise you.”

His fingers lowered to his legs, and he frowned. “It doesn’t always feel like a gift, Grandmama.”

She nodded, strode towards him, and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. And despite the fact that he was a boy and would soon be on his way to becoming a man, she placed a kiss atop his head, making him feel loved, seen, safe.

“No, of course it doesn’t, but gifts are mysterious things because they sometimes open doorways to places one has never been. To love. And you must be ready for it, because one day, that doorway will open and steal you away, and you will never be the same.”

Her words should have been terrifying, but they weren’t. They were a promise. And he knew that one day, he would be ready, just as she said. For himself? He could not wait.