Aunt Gertrude's Red Hot Christmas Beau: Christmas Belles, Book 6 Read online

  Aunt Gertrude's Red Hot Christmas Beau

  Christmas Belles, Book 6

  Cerise DeLand

  Copyright © 2019 by Wilma Jo-Ann Power writing as Cerise DeLand

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7330794-4-0

  W. J. Power Publisher

  Designer: Wicked Smart Designs

  Stock art: Period Images

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Your Invitation to the Marsden Christmas House Party!

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  THE MARQUESS’S FINAL FLING

  Travels with Cerise!

  Who is Cerise DeLand?

  Also by Cerise DeLand

  Your Invitation to the Marsden Christmas House Party!

  The Countess of Marsden invites you to her house party! Seven nights and days of frolic, gossip, dancing…and match-making for everyone!

  That includes her three nieces and many of her guests.

  But does that also include…dear me…her butler and…oh, my…Gertrude herself?

  Aunt Gertrude’s Red Hot Christmas Beau

  At the Countess of Marsden’s house party, she plans to marry off her family and friends. But when the Duke of Harlow strides into her bedroom on Christmas Eve, she’s ready to continue the charming affair they began last summer. Even though she’s a lady of a certain age. Even though she’s never loved any man other then her dear departed husband!

  Harlow’s enchanted by Gertrude. He’s done with mourning—and he’s ready to laugh again! But he wants more than a few nights with her. When he tells her, what will she say?

  Can she love him? At his age? Imperfect as he is? Loving her as he does?

  Prelude

  The Right Honorable. The Countess of Marsden

  Marsden Hall

  North Steyne

  Brighton, England

  His Grace the Duke of Harlow, K. G.

  Harlow Manor

  Riddington

  Yorkshire

  December 1, 1815

  Your Grace~

  Now that we’ve sent that rascal Bony to the far reaches of St. Helena, I’m ready for festivities for the Season! I hope you are also.

  To marry off my darling nieces, I’ve invited my fondest friends to my Christmas house party on the North Steyne in Brighton from December 21 through December 28. Twenty-six or more will lodge in the house. More than one hundred also have responded they’ll attend my ball Christmas night. Should you accept my invitation—which, of course, this is—you will be most welcome among them.

  I do hope you will attend us here for the duration! I’ve planned the usual diversions. Greenery gathering, though we do not wish to prick our fingers! Cards and dice, though I will ensure my darling Marjorie does not pick your pocket too deeply! A musicale to allow the young ladies with talent to regale us. Charades, too. Do plan to partner me in that game as—perhaps—Romeo to my Juliet? Darcy to my Elizabeth?

  I know it has been five long months since we “played” at anything together. However, I do presume to invite you to join me during this gathering. I need a partner. You.

  Yes. You see I am quite frank!

  Why?

  First and foremost, my step-son the earl, Colonel Lord Marsden, remains with Wellington in Paris as part of the Occupation. While I wish for his return—especially to do what his heart commands and woo my niece Marjorie—I have no final word from him that the Duke will permit him leave of absence.

  Secondly, but not less important, I must declare once and for all, Your Grace, I need you here with me. For Christmas, I wish you close.

  I can imagine your marvelous turquoise eyes wide and your dark brows arched high with surprise at my declaration of desire. But I am compelled. Driven. Indeed, needy, Your Grace. Needy!

  No, I have not written you since I left you in that quaint little hotel room that afternoon in Margate in August. I wished to contemplate what we did there. I’ve concluded that what I felt then for you, Your Grace, was a fondness as radiant as the summer sun. I feel it still each time I recall us as we lounged like libertines on the terrace while the sea crashed upon the shore and took our breaths in such raptures.

  I do confess that since I left you later that afternoon I’ve been atwitter, hoping against hope you might favor me by calling upon me. Alas, you have not. But I excuse you readily. Of course I do. I put your reluctance down to your desire to conclude the year of mourning for your wife. That formal period ended last week.

  After much thought on the matter, I can understand other reasons why you’ve not approached me. You were shocked by your quick affections. I was surprised by my own. After all, it had been five years since last we met and enjoyed our conversation and the recognition of like minds. Our accidental meeting in Margate kindled flames of passion which I daresay are usually assigned only to youth. Yet for me, I will declare our interlude was a unique rapture. If my heart palpitated with exquisite delights that afternoon we dallied in the throes of madness, my mind since then has relived a thousand times the ecstasy we shared.

  Might you not come to my party? Might we not rekindle the fires of a glorious interlude rolling as God made us upon those downy linen sheets?

  Yes, you may call me bold. Yes, you may refuse me a response.

  But I ask you, Your Grace, is not life for the living?

  My husband has long since departed this world.

  Your wife, gone less time, but nonetheless, cannot share her wit with us in coming days.

  My step-son is grown. A man about to take a wife. My other responsibilities for my dearly departed sister’s three daughters will soon cease as they go to their own marriage beds. My days spread before me and I wish for another marvelous taste of true love before I grow too mature to revel in its physical pleasures…and its ethereal rewards.

  Won’t you join me and my guests for Christmas?

  Let us hail Christmas with reverence. Hail my nieces’ engagements with joy. And ring in the New Year, the two of us in a cocoon of our mutual desires for each other.

  Darling Harlow, let us not to the marriage of true minds find impediments. We are too old to worry that society would ridicule us. We two are free, unburdened by family responsibilities. Your three children are settled and prospering. My charges soon will be, too. You are a duke alone, and I am a widowed countess who has slept alone—and laughed alone—for more years than I care to recall.

  May we not, my dear, revel in the Season and in each other?

  I long to kiss you and I invite you to cavort with me!

  Let this be a happy Christmas! Come to my party! We’ve much to enjoy!

  Yours affectionately,

  Gertrude

  Countess of Marsden, Gertrude Marsden

  Chapter 1

  December 22, 1815

  Harlow Manor

  Riddington, Yorkshire

  “Your Grace?” His butler cleared his throat for the second time. “Your Grace, how may I be of assistance?”

  Harlow swung round, his view of the snow falling upon his frozen parterre too serene to match his irritation.
Oh, hell, to be honest, it cannot match my anger!

  He’d rung for his servant long ago. Indeed, Tipton had stood on the carpet patiently awaiting his pleasure and Harlow was being an arse not to relieve the old gent of his concern. “Yes, Tipton. Right you are to wonder about my state of mind.”

  “Shall I—?” The butler indicated the scraps of parchment scattered across the floor.

  “Leave them.” He’d ripped his son’s letter to shreds and he intended to jolly well leave them there, a symbol of his displeasure with Tain. As if he knows what I think of his intentions.

  Harlow snorted.

  Of course, Tain knew. His son had always been well aware of Harlow’s expectations and demands. As a result, rarely had father and son ever quarreled over anything. They were, always had been, of like mind. Rarely had they ever parted on bad terms. Tain, his only son and heir, marquess of the line, had been, indeed was, a fine son, the best a man could wish for. Twice only had they quarreled over major issues. Once when Tain had insisted on accompanying the English consul to St. Petersburg and on to the Congress of Vienna. His language abilities were vital, argued Tain, and Harlow had agreed finally. For the good of the country.

  Their other falling out did not end as well. That had been their first. Tain had come up to him from London, he was still at Oxford, tall as a tree, blonde as a Swede and bright-eyed. Tain declared he was in love. He wished to marry a girl who had no money and no stature, either. Harlow had refused his blessing. Threatened to cut Tain from his income. After all, the boy was then only nineteen and the amour he pledged was a young boy’s madness, soon to disappear. Or so Harlow had thought.

  “Now I wonder.”

  “Your Grace?” The man narrowed his rheumy eyes on his master.

  Harlow’s gaze landed on the other letter he’d kept and treasured. That one lay open upon his broad walnut desk. A spirit of joy. An invitation to revel in the holiday and in a woman whom he could adore.

  If I allow myself.

  The invitation from Gertrude, the Countess of Marsden, to her Christmas house party had brought laughter into his life the day he’d opened and read it. Every day he’d re-read it, too. Even though he’d refused, he’d taken his time to respond. For days, he’d debated with himself between the guilt he’d endure to accept it and desert his family–and the delight he’d have with a woman who knew how to laugh.

  His wife, God rest her soul, had once known how to laugh at herself and at the follies of a world too concerned with rules. When Prudence had taken to her bed in pain six years ago, she’d given up all her gaiety to the agony that consumed her and ate at her until she passed away last November. Pru would not wish him to mourn forever—and he was eager to cast off his sadness.

  But he didn’t wish to insult his daughter who planned a family gathering at her home. This morning when snowflakes fell, he’d been thrilled at the change in the weather. He didn’t want to go to his daughter’s where he was certain his family would discuss Prudence’s passing. But he did not want to do that. He’d done it very well and his period of official mourning was over. He was done.

  Now Tain was not going, either. But somewhere else. “To discover a joy I fear I’ve forgotten with a woman I have always admired,” he’d written.

  He yearned to accept Trudy’s invitation. She was right. He did wish to enjoy the season. He did wish to forget his cares. Even Tain’s rebellion. Especially Tain’s rebellion. He wished to be free because he feared he’d forgotten—utterly forgotten—how to frolic.

  He frowned. Duty pulled at him. So did propriety. How could he suddenly accept such an invitation after declining? That was not done.

  And instead of thinking about running down to Brighton to Gertrude’s, he should deal with Tain.

  Tain. Thirty-one years old. A proud man, he would not appreciate his father scouring the countryside to find him. That was not done, either.

  He could, of course, hire a man to search for Tain. But Harlow knew his only son well. Tain would leave no word of where he’d gone to seek out his lady love. Not with his butler. Or with his grooms. Tain, the clever fellow, might even have hired an independent coach to take him to…wherever his lady love lived. Heaven knew, Harlow didn’t. The woman had resided in London and Bath, even Brighton at one time or another. She’d been wed more often than an Oriental pasha. Though a year or two after each wedding, each of her husbands had passed away and left his wife widowed. And childless.

  Harlow’s shoulders sagged. He hated to admit it, but Tain had bested him. Why should he hie all over the countryside, looking for a son who did not wish to be found? And at Christmastime, too? If indeed Tain found his lady and persuaded her to marry him, Tain would pay for his choice. Dearly. And not by Harlow’s doing at all. But by circumstances beyond anyone’s control.

  Harlow winced.

  Determined not to dwell on what he could not change, he flashed a grin at his butler. “What do the staff say in the quarters, Tipton? Will this storm freeze us over until spring?”

  Tipton hesitated, wary of such obliqueness when he understood his master well enough to know his question was a diversion. “We’ve projections from Cook who says her bones ache.”

  “Tell her to sit and enjoy herself by the roasting pit, Tip.” He often called his butler by the shortened name, though he tried to catch himself from the informality. Oh, well. Couldn’t do everything up to snuff, now could we? “And you? What do your feet tell you?”

  “They bark at me every day, Your Grace. No snow need fall to make ‘em speak up.”

  Harlow strode to his desk, pushed aside his reading glasses and drummed his fingers on the pile of estate ledgers. They were all in order for the year end. Before Tip had presented him with his son’s letter, Harlow had just finished the accounts and smiled over them. This year, his coffers were full. As they had been for more than twenty-eight years under his command. His gifts to his son and his two daughters would be twice what he’d given last year. Not that any of them needed more money. Tain was an excellent steward of his lands and his investments in iron and grain. Harlow’s two daughters, both countesses well married to prosperous and loving husbands, had no need of his grants, either. All of his grandchildren—one son each by his daughters and two daughters by Tain—were well provided for and well-loved. “Hmmm. And Ned Grimshaw? What is his thinking?”

  “He’s down in the kitchens now, Your Grace. He says you are wise not to attempt the roads to Norfolk.”

  “I see.” His coachman Ned was a married man and Harlow was certain he did not care for the possibility that the duke would have accepted his youngest daughter’s invitation to join her family this Christmas. When he saw how persistent the snow fell this morning, Harlow had sent word down to Ned that he’d not attempt the journey south in such unruly weather. But now…

  “What of William Dobbs?”

  “Your Grace?” Tip cocked his head.

  The butler’s hearing was getting worse and he often asked for clarity on Harlow’s instructions. He pitied his faithful servant. After all, he himself suffered with clumsy new spectacles. But that seemed to be his only malady. In good health most of his life, he’d often told himself he wouldn’t mind getting on in years. If or when he started to drool in his soup, then he’d stay home alone and pine for good company.

  “What does Dobbs say?” That young groom was Grimshaw’s right hand. Thirty years of age or so, Dobbs was unmarried and had no wife to make him mourn a journey at Christmas. Dobbs was also a sturdy fellow, hale and hearty. He also could predict the weather like a warlock. In the servants quarters, Harlow knew they thought him of gypsy blood.

  Tip grinned. “Ah, Dobbs says, this snow will not last. But more will come to do us in within the week.”

  “Is that so? Well, then, Tip. Send Dobbs to me.”

  “Your Grace?” The poor butler was befuddled.

  “Dobbs. Get him, Tip. And do return with him.”

  Chapter 2

  December 24, 1815
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  Marsden Hall, North Steyne

  Brighton, England

  The Countess of Marsden rose from her chair at the front of the crowded music room and beamed at her guests. “I thank all of you for your attention to the talented musicians among us.”

  The evening was a success. She deemed it so—and so it would be in her mind. It was the fourth night of her Christmas house party and her match-making plans were going exceedingly well. Her three nieces—her dear departed sister’s girls—seemed well on their way to engaging their respective beaux. If problems persisted with each love affair, Gertrude bet the young people would soon untangle the issues. Meanwhile, tonight, her youngest niece Delphine had honored them with her talents at the pianoforte. Skilled as she was, Del was joined by another of Gertrude’s guests, the daughter of an earl. Gertrude’s back teeth ached at the memory of how that poor thing had sung in all the wrong octaves. Another gentleman had volunteered to show his skills at his violin. However, he attacked the poor instrument with such force that her guests had set their jaws and squeezed shut their eyes. She could bet her next month’s income all her guests had prayed a string would break. Ah, if Gertrude could only have known his lack, she’d never have asked him to play.

  “Now let us all retire for the evening,” she told her thirty-six guests. Many were neighbors, but most were from afar and housed here for the remaining four days and nights of her party. “Our coaches will line up in the drive tomorrow morning promptly at twenty minutes past nine for those of you who wish to join us for church services. We will leave at half nine. Until tomorrow morning then….”