His gaze softened. He sighed and shook his head. “Je,I am convinced.” He touched her hand with his fingers.
Hollis was thrilled by his admission. She was thrilled to be of use to anyone, but especially to him. Frankly, she was thrilled in so many ways she still couldn’t properly catch her breath.
“We’re still under the mistletoe,” Marek said.
“So we are.”
A loud roar of approval—or disapproval—went up from the crowd as someone took the round of Chairs. Marek took Hollis’s head between his hands and kissed her softly on the mouth. He lifted his head, laced her fingers in his, and brought her hand to his lips. “Tomorrow?” He kissed her knuckles.
Hollis’s fingers curled around his. “Tomorrow.”Tomorrow and today, and all the days beyond.
He let go of her hand, gave her a meaningful look, then disappeared down the corridor.
Hollis was so enthralled by Marek and his kiss that she completely missed the contretemps between Lord Douglas and Princess Justine, about which guests would speak of for weeks to come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The peace summit between Wesloria and Alucia is set to conclude this week. By all accounts, the agreement is a good one for Alucia and has set the Duke of Tannymeade as a popular figure who will one day sit on the Alucian throne. Wesloria has fared less well, and after a brief walk in the park, King Maksim was not seen for a few days. It is reported he is suffering again from an ague from which his recovery is slow.
Rumors of who kissed whom under the Iddesleigh mistletoe are quite shocking, indeed. A venerated solicitor was spotted kissing a peacock beneath the mistletoe. The peacock did not mind, but the gentleman’s wife surely did, as the peacock, while sitting precariously on the shelf, is far younger than the unfortunate wife.
Ladies, Mr. Tom Smith’s Christmas Novelties include the newCosaque, a paper-wrapped treat that when pulled apart reveals sweets or trinkets. This is a delightful game for the Christmas supper table. Mr. Tom Smith’s shop may be found at Finsbury Square in the Moorfields.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
ELIZAANDSEBASTIANwere forced to depart with the royal princesses, lest there be any more shouting between Princess Justine and Lord Douglas. The contretemps occurred when Douglas slipped into the final seat just as the princess was attempting to take it. Beck had to ask Lord Douglas to take his leave, too, and Douglas did so with élan, bowing before everyone and offering his humble apologies for arguing with a mere girl. He signaled the musicians to play as he marched from the room, pausing only to grab the nearest woman and kiss her beneath the mistletoe before disappearing into the night to do God knew what.
Hollis could not help but smile. She appreciated that Douglas didn’t conform to what society wanted him to be. Neither did she.
Beck was less appreciative of Lord Douglas’s actions. He glared at Hollis. “It’s all your fault,” he said. “If the Weslorian king challenges me to a duel, I will demand you be my second. You deserve no less for this tree party,” he said, casting his arm wide and knocking one of the candles off the tree.
His house did look as if a riot had broken out. Candles had toppled from the tree, garland portieres had been pulled from the eaves, and crystal cups were scattered across windowsills and mantels. There were even some resting on their sides on the carpet.
“I’ll have Garrett arrange a ride home for her,” Caroline said sweetly, and put a protective arm around Hollis’s shoulders and pulled her away from Beck. “Don’t fret,” she whispered. “He’ll be right as rain when he sleeps off the punch.”
Hollis was sent home in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Dawson, whom she only knew as nearby neighbors of hers. But the moment she stepped into their coach, she felt the icy air. The couple was clearly in the middle of a row. “Oh,” she said, flustered by it. “I...I’ll just step down,” she said, but Mr. Dawson grabbed her hand and pulled her all the way in.
“Nonsense. You live not a block from us, Mrs. Honeycutt. We should be delighted to see you home.” He looked at his wife, presumably so she could offer her confirmation, but she turned her head and refused to look at either of them.
“Umm...thank you?” Hollis said uncertainly. She eased onto the bench next to Mrs. Dawson. No sooner had the coach pulled away from the curb than the row began in earnest. From what Hollis could gather, it all had to do with whom Mr. Dawson had kissed beneath the mistletoe.
“It was harmless fun,” he insisted. “Ask Mrs. Honeycutt. She was kissing one of the foreigners.”
“Oh!” Hollis said, startled that anyone had noticed.
“Lady Katherine Maugham is notharmless,” Mrs. Dawson retorted.
The peacock!She’d kissed this old man? Hollis very nearly squealed with laughter. Granted, Mr. Dawson was a venerated gentleman who handled the private affairs of many well-to-do men, including Beck, and was old enough to be the peacock’s father. Or perhaps even grandfather.
“That young woman has not gained an offer and now you’ve made it impossible,” Mrs. Dawson continued.
Hollis bit her lip. She very much wanted to remark that the peacock had made it impossible when she’d tried to gain Prince Sebastian’s attention, and then Prince Leopold’s, but thought the better of inserting herself into this argument.
“It wasn’tmewho has made it impossible,” Mr. Dawson complained. “She’s a pretty thing. If there is anyone to blame for her failure to gain an offer, it’s her harpy mother. You should pay particular note, madam.”
Mrs. Dawson gasped with outrage. And then the shoutingreallystarted.
Neither of the Dawsons noticed when Hollis slipped out of the coach—well, tumbled out—and ran up the steps to her home. Marek was right—that Christmas punch was the devil.
