Madrigals And Mistletoe

by Hayley Ann Solomon

Genres: Regency Romance

Synopsis

A Song Of Love. . . Seraphina Camfrey, newest darling of the ton, is angelic in both name and face. Alas, the same can scarcely be said for her singing. And now she fears her off-key notes have sentenced her to yet another fussy old tutor. But Captain Argyll, though arrogant, proves irresistible! So the scampish Seraphina cares nothing for plans to match her with a duke at a country Christmas. Starry-eyed amid the snow and sugar plums, she hears only her heartstrings--strummed by her handsome music master. . . .In A Season Of Joy Frederick Argyll is all set to fund his musical composition by teaching. No doubt his pupil will be some dreary wallflower. But Seraphina's hair flames as bright as the yule log and her spirit crackles as cheerily. Can Frederick mold her into the star of the Christmas pageant, and--despite a medley of misunderstandings--accompany her in holiday harmonies of love?

Release date: June 6, 2012

Publisher: Regency

Print pages: 256

Sample

Miss Seraphina Camfrey yelped as two stray pins wedged their way into her person. She knew it was useless to complain. Cordelia could be so unfeeling when she had her mind fixed on a task.

“Stand still!”

Seraphina squirmed and did her best to oblige. The cream satin felt delectably soft, but she was mindful of the sharp points that held her in their thrall.

“I can’t see why we can’t simply send for Miss Davenport! ”

Her sister looked scornful. “And pay an excessive amount for something I can throw together in an afternoon? If you ceased fidgeting, we would have this done in no time.”

Miss Camfrey sighed and allowed her thoughts to wonder to the pleasures of her first truly grown-up soiree. She wondered if it would be any more entertaining than her court presentation had been. Deadly dull, she had thought it, despite having been in a passion of anticipation for months.

“Do you think the Prince of Wales will attend?”

Cordelia, her mouth full of pins, shook her head and reached for some of the pastel riband she’d procured from a delightful little shop just south of Conduit Street.

“I think not.” She jabbed the pins into their cushion and looked up for the first time. “He is taking the waters in Bath, though what good that can do the man I am sure I am at a loss to fathom!”

Seraphina giggled. “I hear it is really terribly nasty.”

“Oh, excessively! One gulp has me choking.”

“I am glad we are safely in London then!”

“So am I. You may step out now. I think I have the measurements.”

With relief Seraphina exchanged the satin for her morning dress of pale muslin. She waved away her maid, who was hovering in the background, and wrestled with the ties herself. When she’d done, she turned inquiring eyes on her sister.

“Who will attend this evening?”

Cordelia, abstracted and a little teasing, fluttered her hands vaguely.

“Miss Caroline Daventry, Miss Jane Sneddon, Lady Charlotte Sinclair . . .”

Seraphina threw the button box at her sister. “Don’t be so provoking! You know what I mean!”

Cordelia’s mouth curved. She thought she did. “With the war at an end there will be any number of beaux to take your fancy! Lord Rochester, Captain Cardross—”

The younger Miss Camfrey did not wait for her sister to continue. “They say the Duke of Doncaster has returned.”

Cordelia’s brows shot up. “Roving Rhaz? I should think you are setting your sights too high.”

Seraphina shrugged her shoulders dismissively. “I do not seek to marry the man, only to meet him! Lady Guss-ington says—”

“Far too much!” The words were prim, but Cordelia’s shoulders shook in silent amusement. How her sister, just out of the schoolroom, came by her snippets of gossip she never could tell.

“Did you call him Roving Rhaz?”

Cordelia’s fine grey eyes lit with ready laughter. “Awake to every suit, are you not? Yes, I did and I take leave to tell you it was quite shocking of me!”

Seraphina waved this aside airily. “I hope you do not intend to turn missish, Delia dear! Roving Rhaz sounds so delectably—”

“Wicked?”

“Yes . . .” Seraphina was not sure. She imagined someone tall with compelling eyes and a magnetic charm. Not wicked perhaps, but sinfully attractive nonetheless. She shivered in anticipation, her eyes glazing over in a pleasant daydream.

“Seraphina!” Cordelia’s eyes were laughing as she scolded her errant sister. “Have done with mooning, I beg you! You would do well to practice on your harpsichord if you have so little else to employ your time.”

Seraphina made a terrible face and grimaced quite comically. “I’d rather be dragged backward across St. James’s Square! You know the cacophony I can make!”

“If you practiced, it would not be a cacophony! Besides, all young ladies need to play. This very evening is a case in point. Think what the soiree would be like without entertainments from the guests. Hideous, I assure you.”

“Yes, well, thank heavens I am not being called upon to play! If ever I am, I shall simply claim a genteel headache and make good my escape.”

“Hmm?” Cordelia deftly turned the hem and affixed a pearl rosette to the border. Truth to tell, her own thoughts were wandering, though not in as errant a direction as those of the irrepressible Seraphina. It was Lord Winthrop with his bluff country air that occupied most of her thoughts.

Whilst she wished that his bushy red whiskers were not quite so thick, it mattered not a whit to her that his tailor was not quite of the first elegance. Henry Winthrop did not need close fitting greatcoats of the first stare, for he spent more time in the stables than he did in the drawing rooms. This, Cordelia conceded, was just as well, for the gentleman had neither the wit nor the address to prosper among the bon ton. Still, he was good-hearted and had the noted distinction of offering for her hand. Since she was one and twenty, this was no small consideration. Cordelia fingered the ring that encircled her finger and sighed.

The time for romantic nonsense was over and done with. She must have done with her foolishness and marry the good Lord Henry. He might take an unflattering interest in her horses and her housekeeping, but he would undoubtedly be kind. Besides, it had been arranged for an age. Henry must not have been out of leading strings when her mama and his planned the match. It would be churlish to cry off now when she had the advantage of three seasons behind her. Unaccountable, then, that a little voice at the back of her head protested.

Cordelia pricked her finger and winced. Better she concentrate on the job at hand. She held her handiwork up to the sunny window and nodded. If Seraphina did not turn heads, she would eat a mongoose. The cream satin was just perfect. Demure enough for a debutante, but also an engaging foil to her rich auburn hair.

“Cordelia!”

She was startled to find her mama had entered the room.

“I wish you would not waste time cobbling gowns together! Miss Davenport should be sent for. I am sure she could do with the work.”

Cordelia nodded, but continued her stitching nonetheless. No point bothering Lady Ancilla with financial concerns. She’d simply shrug her fine-boned shoulders and disdainfully recommend the bills to be consigned to some bureau drawer or other. Though marvellous in her own way, Ancilla had no notion at times. Cordelia fleetingly wondered how her poor father had coped. No doubt he’d simply indulged Ancilla shamefully, meekly making good the outrageous debts as they were incurred. This satisfactory state of affairs might well have continued had his life not been cut short by a hunting accident. Since the land and title had been entailed to the next heir, the Camfreys had been obliged to take up the dower house and curtail much of their expenditure.

It had been this consideration, of course, that had led Cordelia to accept Lord Winthrop’s most obliging offer. As Lady Winthrop, she would be able to sponsor Seraphina into society and maintain her mother’s own standard of living. If she sighed for something more, she was simply succumbing to an unusual fit of the dismals.

“I hope you are wearing something utterly divine tonight, my darling!” Ancilla smiled fondly. “You should be the belle of the ball with your high cheekbones and natural ringlets. If I were not so positively in my dotage I would envy you, Cordelia, my love, for no one could have a trimmer figure or neater pair of ankles than you.”

Miss Camfrey flashed her mother a brilliant smile. “Don’t say that or Seraphina might take a pet! Besides, you, my dear mama, are hardly in your dotage.”

Whilst Ancilla was evidently pleased, she was not to be turned from her subject. “What are you wearing, Cordelia?”

“I thought the pink crepe. I could sprig it with lemon—”

Mrs. Camfrey threw up her elegantly gloved hands in horror. “Not the spencer again! I told you to get rid of it!”

“So you did, Mama, but I thought, with a little refurbishing—”

“No!” Ancilla’s tone brooked no argument. “You will come with me, if you please! If you are absolutely hell bent on refurbishing—and I see you are—I daresay I have any number of gowns I’d be glad to see the back of.”

“Yes, Delia! Do say you will!” Seraphina, naturally good-natured, allied herself to her mother’s cause. Faced with such pressing encouragement, the elder Miss Camfrey had little alternative but to submit gracefully. Truth to tell, the thought of draping herself in a shimmering satin with an overlay of dove grey lace did much for the restoration of her humour. By the time Lord Winthrop’s ponderous barouche was announced, she found herself to be in perfectly good spirits, her strange fit of the dismals all but gone.

The elder and younger Miss Camfrey did not have long to wait before being announced and making their curtsies. Lord Winthrop, with obvious relief, scratched his name on both their dance cards, performed his obligation manfully and disappeared into the card room for the remainder of the evening. Ancilla, seeing that her chicks were in high fettle and excellent looks, adjured them to have a merry time and dismissed them summarily, the role of chaperone wearisome to one who still felt young and deliciously carefree herself.

That being so, it was up to Cordelia to ensure Seraphina was well seated in the anteroom, where the entertainment was to begin. This she did, whispering brightly under her fan to nod to Lady Bricknell, acknowledge Lord Eddington and outstare, if she could, the odious Countess of Glaston. This Seraphina applied herself to with much relish, for there was nothing she liked better than a good spat. Forced to be sorry she had spoken, Cordelia nudged Seraphina to behave.

Downcast but not entirely subdued, the irrepressible Miss Camfrey turned her attention to some of the soiree’s notable oddities, commenting with ceaseless appreciation on the fall of Sir Charlton’s cravat, the luminescence of the candles, the remarkable resonance of the room, the ice carvings laid out at table, the elegant footwear of the Marchioness of Slade and the intriguing features of Lord Byron, who seemed to possess a brooding presence that was entirely at one with his strikingly handsome features.

She caught his eye once, and he slightly inclined his head, causing a shiver of delighted anticipation to course through her veins. Cordelia smiled indulgently at her sister, loath to dampen the high spirits. She remembered exactly how she’d felt three years ago at her first social gathering. There was a hush as their hostess, Lady Dearforth, clapped her hands and called the gathering to attention.

Out of the corner of her eye, Seraphina caught sight of Miss Lila Mersham and visibly recoiled. Lila had been a venerable bully at Miss Caxton’s Seminary for Young Ladies. She wondered fleetingly if age had improved her and thought not. She was gowned in an unflattering shade of violet, and her scowl seemed quite prodigious. Seraphina inclined her head regally and turned her eyes to the hostess. She was aching to laugh, for Lila looked most put out by her presence, especially since the Camfreys took precedence in the seating arrangements. Lord Winthrop, it appeared, was not entirely without uses!

Lady Dearforth outlined the programme in a ringing voice and politely called upon Lord Stanley’s distinguished tenor to edify the audience with a rendition from Purcell’s secular motets. This he did, much to the company’s polite enjoyment. Lord Byron was next, reading an extract from Childe Harold with such potent vigour that both Miss Camfreys were moved to tears.

It was fortunate that the Misses Wexford were up next, for their technically perfect rendition of Bach’s Toccato and Fugue in F Major proved most satisfactory in calming—not to say boring—the younger Miss Camfrey in particular.

Perhaps it was the heat of the room or the lateness of the hour, but whatever the reason, it seemed to Seraphina that the organ was a singularly pompous instrument. As her eyes drooped, even the lilting tones of the harp and spinet, coupled with the exacting melodies of the harpsichord, seemed dull to her untried ears. All around, she was aware of a ceaseless, excited hum, but she was struggling too hard not to yawn to pay much attention.

Cordelia looked anxious. Lord Winthrop had disappeared into the bowels of the card room. If she knew him, he’d not give either of them a passing thought for several hours or more. This in itself did not bother her, but the sight of Seraphina, slightly swaying, did little to alleviate her concerns. Just as she was casting her eyes about for a footman, she felt the most unnerving sensation shoot through her being and rock her to the very core.

In the centre of the room, looking for all the world as though he owned it, stood quite the most magnificent man Cordelia had ever had the felicity of noticing. His stark black evening coat yielded faint glimmers of light where a thread of silver laced its way through superfine fabric. His knee breeches—a skintight confection of doe’s leather—were almost indecent. Cordelia tried not to notice how every muscle of his impeccable body was outlined for those interested enough to look. It appeared that most were, for every eye in the room seemed to fall upon his person.

For an instant, their eyes locked—silver grey on deep, dark black. She felt a strange light-headedness creep through her being and wondered, for an instant, if the heady sensation was shared. She thought it was, for the man raised his gloved fingers to his lips and saluted her silently. She blushed furiously and chided herself for being such a shatter-brained widgeon. Still, when the programme recommenced, her back felt warm as if by a glance he could strip her naked. She was perfectly certain he was entertaining himself with the sight of her derriere, for the burning sensation remained with her throughout Lady Kemble’s recital and the Air on G that followed.

Three seasons—three seasons—and she had never met this paragon—or was he a rogue? She was indignantly inclined to think the latter, but then, thinking was rather difficult as she was currently circumstanced. She mentally crossed off all the possibilities. Not Captain Peters or the Earl of Pemberton, not Lord Fallow—he was away with the prince regent. Sir Epsom Curruthers was said to be rotund; the Barnaby twins were far too young. He could be a captain of the dragoons or an envoy of some sort—he had that air of authority.

Her thoughts teased at her, not the least because next to this absolute nonpareil, poor Lord Henry Winthrop came up far the worse for scrutiny. Still, she fingered her ring. Artifice, charm and unholy good looks did not always make for exemplary husbands. Her lips twitched ironically. On the contrary . . .

Several simple madrigals followed, sung unaccompanied by a series of select young ladies both solo and in unison. At last, the end of the programme was reached. Both sisters clapped automatically as Lady Dearforth thanked the last formal participant, Lady Amelia Trent. Her singing had been passable, but what her voice lacked was made up for abundantly in her skill at accompaniment. Her fingers had flown across the keyboard, her eyes oblivious to the pages of music obligingly being turned by Lord Kilpatrick. As the audience applauded, she gathered up her score in a flutter of self-consciousness and made to resume her seat.

Cordelia turned to Seraphina, anxious to get her moving before she was caught in the crush.

“Wait!” The loud, familiar and unmelodious voice of Lila Mersham rang out through the throng. Lady Dearforth, understanding that she was being addressed, indicated to her guests to resume their seats.

“Miss Mersham?”

The eyes of the crowd were upon her. Not even her mother, the Countess of Glaston, could bid her be silent. Lila’s eyes sparkled with the sudden attention. She curtsied and adopted an admirably coy expression that both Camfrey sisters found quite sickening.

“Beg pardon, ma’am! I thought I might introduce to your attention our newest debutante, Miss Seraphina Camfrey!” Lila’s eyes narrowed slyly, but she maintained her simpering stance. She smiled effusively across the room, her eyes meeting those of her victim with a strange, menacing gleam. “Seraphina was wont to sing to us at Miss Caxton’s Seminary for Young Ladies. Perhaps she might favour us with a madrigal? Byrd or Gibbons was ever a favourite!”

Miss Seraphina sat stock-still, her fan quivering appallingly in her hand. It seemed hours before she stirred, or Cordelia made faint protesting noises, but of course, it could have been no more than a matter of seconds. By that time, every jewelled head in the audience was unremittingly turned in her direction. There could be no crying headache—it would be churlish when her hostess was smiling at her with such gracious encouragement and half the room were clapping politely, murmuring, “Hear, Hear,” in spirited tones.

Cordelia thought she ought to take out the smelling salts, for Seraphina looked deathly pale and unusually anguished given her devil-may-care nature. As she was opening her reticule, Seraphina stood up and made an acknowledging curtsy. She was nothing, if not brave, the youngest Miss Camfrey! Cordelia bit her lip and prayed for the best. Not Byrd! Seraphina only ever practiced Handel, for she adored his counterpoint and had a strange aptitude for that which she admired.

In the event, it turned out to be a Purcell that was suggested to her. “Lost Is My Quiet Forever” was forwarded as a suggestion from Captain Sanderson, who also offered to play the opening bars. As Seraphina made her way to the front, Cordelia felt her fan snap between her fingers. Whilst she could still overwhelmingly feel the scorching scrutiny of the gentleman behind her, she no longer cared. All her thoughts were concentrated on her sibling. Cordelia prayed that the younger Miss Camfrey’s first season was not to be her last, for an outright humiliation would be something she would surely not bear. She prayed, too, that against all odds Seraphina could live up to her name and sing like an angel.

Seraphina thanked Lady Dearforth and took the score from her hands. It was a complicated piece, hand inscribed, but she was, at least, familiar with the rudiments. She glanced at it frantically again, trying to recall the words, key and register. All eyes were upon her and it made not a whit of difference that, apart from Cordelia, she could easily be regarded as the most becoming young woman in the room. It was probably this very fact that had set off Lila’s malicious lark, so even if she had been aware of her appearance, it would have been cold comfort.

She was surprised how steady her hands were in the circumstances. She would dearly like to have caught Cordelia’s eye, but Captain Sanderson had taken up his position and was waiting for her nod. Her heart thumped quite dreadfully and she hoped that the lump in her throat would make little difference to her performance. She looked at the notes again and they seemed to be swimming in front of her. She tried to remember the advice of her string of singing masters, but could recall none, save that she should keep her hands at her side and take a deep breath before she began. Impossible! She could take the breath, but she needed her hands to read the score. Time seemed to be racing by and the whole chamber had become significantly silent:

Feeling as if she was rushing headlong over a precipice, she turned to the elegant Captain Sanderson and inclined her head.

The music began, and suddenly shaking from head to foot, the younger Miss Camfrey opened her mouth to sing. Too late she realised how unsuitable the melancholy piece was for her own, untried soprano. It required suspensions between melody and bass that even the most gifted singer would have found challenging. After striking the wrong key, far too high for the accompaniment, she faltered, of a mind to begin again. Her face was whiter than the cream satin she’d chosen to effect and several of her auburn tendrils had. . .