A Christmas Waltz Read online

  A Christmas Waltz

  By Josi S. Kilpack

  Copyright © 2020 Josi S. Kilpack

  E-book edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior Design by Cora Johnson

  Edited by Kelsey Down, Lisa Shepherd, Lorie Humpherys

  Cover design by Rachael Anderson

  Cover Image Credit: Stitch Stock Photo

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  First | Marta

  Second | David

  Third | Marta

  Fourth | David

  Fifth | Marta

  Sixth | David

  Seventh | Marta

  Eighth | David

  Ninth | Marta

  Tenth | David

  Eleventh | Marta

  Epilogue | Twenty-Five Years Later | David

  Click on the cover to visit Josi’s website:

  First

  Marta

  The dark-haired man with the red satin waistcoat began walking toward her from the other side of the ballroom. Marta tried to swallow her nervousness. What was his name again?

  Darrin?

  David?

  She was quite sure it started with a D.

  But no, young ladies were supposed to address men by their titles or last name, which meant she should call him . . . she had no idea. He hadn’t given a title when he signed her card—surely she’d remember that. She’d never met him before, and she’d been introduced to ever so many people tonight—her first Yuletide Ball at her uncle’s Winchester estate. The names and faces of the other guests had blended together until she’d begun to suspect she was being reintroduced to the same few people over and over again, simply dressed in different clothing. She considered looking at her dance card for his name, but that would reveal that she did not remember it, and she would feel foolish.

  Damion?

  Donovan?

  If only his name were D’Artagnan—that would be a name she’d have remembered, because it sounded like a dashing hero in a romance novel who would appear right at the critical moment and save the woman from her dubious foes!

  He was getting closer, and she tried to give the polite-but-not-coquettish smile she’d practiced for tonight—it would be the first time in her life that she would dance with men that were not her cousins or brothers-in-law. Were it her decision, she’d have gladly put off this meeting-full-grown-men stage of life another five years—two at least—but she was sixteen now, and that was old enough to marry.

  Marry.

  The very idea made her want to spit like her Greek nanny used to do in order to ward off evil spirits. Another serving of sticky pudding would certainly calm her nerves, and she looked longingly at the buffet table set with a red cloth and an array of delectable items that were only prepared this one time of the year. In her mind that meant she should get to eat as much of them as possible, and that expectation to do so had been the one part of this night she’d been looking forward to. When they’d arrived in the ballroom, however, Mother had told her she was only to eat three of the treats, because too much indulgence would make the dancing uncomfortable and gluttony did not look good on anyone. She’d pouted until Mother was distracted by some distant relative or another, then gone in for her first round. She’d only managed four—a chocolate biscuit, a tiny cup of peppermint mousse and two orange-glazed shortbreads—before her cousin had found her and led her to the table with dance cards.

  This man with a name that started with D—she would call him D’Artagnan in her head—smiled when she looked up to find him closing the distance between them. He likely meant the smile to be disarming: Disarming D’Artagnan. As much as she wanted to keep herself in the role of heroine of a romance novel, however, she recognized the subtle difference between a disarming smile and a patronizing one. She had three older sisters, after all, and they all had husbands, and the whole lot of them smiled at her that way often enough for her to be a bit of an expert. Patronizing D’Artagnan did not have quite the same ring to it. He was also very old. Twenty-two years of age, at least.

  After he’d signed her card earlier in the evening—reserving the Christmas waltz—other men had approached and put their names on some of the other lines, as though they’d needed his permission before they dared. She’d danced four sets since then and had two servings of sticky pudding and a full glass of Christmas cider during the set she’d sat out and hidden from Mother. Her feet were now killing her, and her head felt swishy, and she was very, very tired. The sticky pudding had set very well, however, so Mother’s admonishment that she would give herself a stomachache if she had more than three Christmas treats had been proven entirely false.

  The orchestra conductor turned to face the festive crowd and announced that it was time for the Christmas waltz—the last dance of the annual Christmas Ball.

  Praise the heavens! She could not wait for this night to be over. Then she would sneak one more serving of sticky pudding up to her room and—

  “Shall we?”

  Marta started and looked up at Patronizing D’Artagnan, now standing directly in front of her. How had he crossed the remaining bit of floor so quickly? She must have gotten lost in her thoughts. Or maybe she shouldn’t have had so much cider—she’d only ever had a sip or two of dinner wine before tonight and realized too late that her tolerance for the stuff was rather low. At least the dancing was almost over.

  After this dance, her aunt and uncle—Lord and Lady Arrington, who were hosts of this annual Yuletide Ball—would light what was left of last year’s Yule log and place the new Yule log into the fireplace amid the applause of the glittering crowd. Marta had been in attendance for the Yule log portion of the event all of her life, as far as she could remember—brought down from the nursery with the other cousins too young to dance and then sent back up with a basket of shortbreads and taffy, which she’d given up for cherry tarts and rum cake this year. She hadn’t sampled those items yet, however. She would need to try at least one of each before it was all put away. Who ate what was left? She’d never seen the items served up at a different meal. The servants must get the leftovers! Lucky!

  Marta considered skipping the lighting of the Yule log this year, especially if that helped her lay claim to the treats. She had her own room this year, so at least there was that benefit to being sixteen. They never sent things like sticky pudding and cherry tarts up to the nursery, because it would be too messy. Would Mother notice if she tried to slip out before the actual end of the evening with a plate in hand?

  D’Artagnan put out his arm—oh, yes, the Christmas waltz. She took his arm the way she had practiced with her sisters’ husbands these last months as they had tried to make a young lady out of her. She had learned the dance steps and the etiquette and the right answers to the proper questions, but she did not feel anywhere near ready for a season in London this coming spring. Nor this Christmas waltz, which required the parties to be so very . . . close. She instantly agreed with all the tittering old women who said the waltz was too scandalous for proper society. Her aunt and uncle had only allowed it at this annual ball the last three years, after Almack’s allowed waltzing.

  D’Artagnan turned to face her once they reached an open space on the floor. When his hand settled at her waist, she jumped, and heat rushed into her cheeks. She’d never felt that
when she danced with her sisters’ husbands. A few seconds passed before she remembered that she was meant to take his other hand and put her free hand on his shoulder, elbow out. She snapped into position as the orchestra began its opening strains. D’Artagnan nodded at her, she nodded in response, and then he stepped forward and she stepped back, grateful that they fell into the rhythm so easily—her sister Mary had said the first step was the most important in order to set the partnership on good ground. Surely Marta deserved two more orange shortbreads for the successful beginning. She hoped Mother had seen how easily they found their rhythm.

  Back.

  Left.

  Forward.

  Right.

  Back again.

  For the first time since all the annoying debutante lessons had begun almost a year ago, Marta was grateful to know the right way of things. Her head was muddled by that wonderfully delicious cider, which meant that she had nothing but instinct born of instruction to rely on now. Even though D’Artagnan was a stranger, and very old, she did not want to make a mess of her first public waltz in front of her mother and sisters. She had always been the youngest child, always behind on her accomplishments, always petted or sent to bed early. The one benefit of being sixteen was that she was more like her older sisters than she had ever been before. She hoped that they noticed that too. She wanted them to be proud of her. She wanted to do well.

  “So, Miss Connell, have you enjoyed the Yuletide Ball thus far?”

  “I suppose,” she said, but she looked past his shoulder in hopes that would make her less aware of his hand right there on her waist. Only a few layers of fabric separated his skin from hers, and she swore she could feel her heartbeat beneath where he touched her. Perhaps he was Disarming D’Artagnan after all.

  Or Dashing.

  Or perhaps Dangerous . . .

  “You suppose?” The laugh in his voice brought her attention to his face and caused her back to tighten and her tongue to forget its manners.

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  He sobered immediately, the sparkle leaving his dark eyes. “No, only . . . uh . . . I did not expect your answer.”

  She lifted her chin and stared at him. “Because I am expected to say that I have adored every moment of the evening, and isn’t it wonderful, and am I not a lucky girl to have such fine partners like you to dance with?”

  Instead of taking offense, he smiled, and the sparkle came back, and she was aware of his hand at her waist again and her heartbeat beneath it. “Yes, that is exactly what I expected you to say. I believe it is one of the rules.”

  She liked his smile and his teasing tone and liked even more that she’d surprised him. Feeling as though she had his full attention melted away the spiky hostility she’d just expressed. Could she surprise him again? Dancing with him did not feel the same as when she danced with her sisters’ husbands. Those same sisters’ husbands, however, had always found her witty, and she would not mind for him to think the same. “Well, here is the trouble,” she said, cocking her head to the side as her feet moved of their own accord. “I have been taught all my life to be honest and forthright in all I do and say—my grandfather is a vicar, you know. Then, I turn sixteen, and suddenly I am given a list of the only acceptable phrases that I am allowed to say, never mind if they are true—which, so far, they usually are not. Things like, ‘Oh, everything is just lovely’ and ‘It is absolutely delightful to see you again’ and ‘I am enjoying myself immensely, thank you so very much for asking.’” She spoke these last answers in a higher tone, mimicking her sister, who had made her commit them to memory.

  D’Artagnan smiled and looked as though he might even laugh, but he thought better of it. “That is a bit of a paradox.”

  His sympathetic reaction endeared him to her further. “Are boys beleaguered with the same sort of training?” she asked with sincere curiosity. She had no brothers, and all her male cousins were either older than she or quite a few years younger, which left boys a mystery she had best figure out quickly, since she was meant to marry one of them before the year was out.

  He cleared his throat before he answered. “You are asking me if boys are taught one thing all their life and then turned upside down to be taught something different?”

  She nodded while he screwed up one side of his mouth as if deep in thought. After a moment, he shook his head and smiled again. A nice smile, she decided. Not necessarily handsome—he was too old to be handsome—but nice-looking. And best of all, honest. “Boys are taught to lie from the time we are very small.”

  She laughed out loud in a great “ha,” then pinched her lips together because she couldn’t cover her mouth with her hand, as her hands were currently in place for the dance. He smiled a bit wider, looked past her shoulder, and led a few more steps through the thickest portion of other dancers in silence. He was a wonderful dancer, this Disarming D’Artagnan. So much so that she didn’t have to think about the dancing at all, which gave her more time to study his face. Aquiline nose, dark eyes, heavy brow, rough of a beard she was sorely tempted to run her hand over to see if it felt as gritty as it looked. The only man’s face she’d ever touched before was Papa’s—would this man’s face feel like that?

  “Are you enjoying the ball?” she asked when the temptation to touch his face had passed. Mostly.

  He shrugged, causing her hand placed on his shoulder to move up and down with the action. “I suppose.”

  Marta felt her smile all the way to her toes. If there were men in London like D’Artagnan, but younger, then perhaps it would not be so bad. She might even like dancing if all her partners could be like him. “Did your mother make you come too, then?”

  His expression did not change, but something in his eyes did. “Not exactly, though perhaps she is a contributing factor. She died several years ago, and my family does not do much by way of holiday, so I am left at the mercy of other people’s celebrations.”

  Marta missed a step, and D’Artagnan tightened his hand at her waist and pulled slightly closer. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she said, feeling rotten.

  He met her eyes with his kind ones as their steps fell back into the familiar pattern. “Thank you, but it certainly was not your fault.”

  “But I reminded you of the sorrow by saying such a thing! And at Christmas too.”

  “You did not remind me of sorrow on purpose, and I have come to a point in my life when my remembering her is with fondness, not sorrow. Your comment did not make me sad.”

  They danced in silence a bit longer, until Marta couldn’t stand it. “And so, because your family does not celebrate, you are spending the holiday here at the house party? Are you a friend of Pauly?”

  “Pauly?”

  “Oh, I am supposed to call him Lord Norman in company, aren’t I? And Pauly is a nickname for Paul—he probably does not want me to tell you that.” She shook her head in hopes that doing so would keep her thoughts in better order. “Paul, or rather Lord Norman, is my cousin on my mother’s side—Lady Arrington is my mother’s sister, my aunt Debra. Our family is invited to the Christmas house party every year, but this is my first time attending the Yuletide Ball, because I am sixteen now.” She left out that she had wanted to spend the evening in the nursery with her younger cousins, as she had always done before. Except that dancing with D’Artagnan was turning out to be more interesting than playacting the scripture stories regarding Christ’s birth. She always asked if she could be the donkey because that was the funniest role. It felt a bit silly to think of that now, however. Surely D’Artagnan would not find her playacting a donkey very dignified.

  “I am only staying the night,” D’Artagnan said, meeting her eye again as he led them in an expert turn that propelled them around another couple. “I am back to my grandfather’s in the morning. He isn’t much for celebrating the holiday either, but he is rather stringent about Boxing Day. My father and I are expected to be there to help take the food boxes and salaries to his tenants.”

 
“What a terrible trade for a Christmas house party in the country,” Marta said, pulling her brows together. “I think your grandfather perfectly mean to require that you give up a house party for such work.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Is not Christmas a time of giving? Should not a landholder be on hand to extend charity and earned compensation to their tenants at this time of year?”

  Marta felt her cheeks heat up. “Of course,” she said, embarrassed to have sounded so petulant and childish. “I should not have said that about your grandfather.” She sighed, wishing again that she were in the nursery. “I promise that I am not usually this ill-mannered. It has been a very long evening, and I drank a whole glass of cider a few sets ago that seems to have brought out my worst qualities.”

  D’Artagnan continued to smile as he led them about the floor. “Miss Connell, might you and I make an arrangement with one another?”

  Marta read many more novels than her mother knew and was therefore aware of a great many types of arrangements men might try to make with naïve young women. Especially the sort of man named D’Artagnan. She narrowed her eyes slightly. “What sort of arrangement?”

  “An arrangement of honesty,” he said, then looked past her to nod at another couple as they whirled around them—rather too fast, in Marta’s opinion. Her head spun a bit, and her stomach struggled to stay centered. She was not quite restored to her proper balance before he continued, which at least caused her to focus on his words and not her spinning head. “I propose that you and I agree here and now that we will only ever tell one another the truth.”

  What an odd thing to ask. “Why?”

  He led her through a few more steps before he answered. “Why not?”

  She couldn’t think of a single response to that. “I will probably never see you again, D’Ar—uh, sir.”

  “All the more reason for us to seize this chance we may never get with anyone else ever again, even if only for the last minutes of this dance. The fact is that my grandfather is perfectly mean, his generosity on Boxing Day notwithstanding. He loves to issue direct orders I am far too often forced to shuffle and step to, or he threatens to cut off my allowance. My father barely speaks to the man, which leaves the connection up to me.” He lowered his voice a bit. “I haven’t told that to anyone, you know, and along with honesty we must build in a promise not to share our truth-telling.” He lifted his chin and one eyebrow as he looked down at her. “What do you say? It can be our Christmas gift to one another.”