A Midwinter Fantasy - Leanna Renee Hieber [7]
Percy bit back a giggle, ever entertained by Lord Withersby’s outlandish titles for her imperious, black-clad husband. Michael was glad she was so good-humoured about the teasing, The Guard’s eldest tradition of all.
“Alexi, my dear man,” Elijah exclaimed, “I know you simply cannot be away for long without missing me terribly, so I thought I’d oblige you. Rebecca said you were here on business. Hullo, Vicar! Wine, please!”
“Rebecca spoke with you?” Michael asked, on edge. “Did you see her?”
Elijah shrugged. “She barked at me from the other side of her door.”
Alexi nodded. “Have we all called upon her then, and she has admitted no one?”
“So it would seem.” Michael wasn’t sure if his clenched fists were noticed, but he couldn’t be bothered if they were. He sighed, rose and went for more wine. The instinct of hospitality ran deep.
A beautiful and impeccably dressed woman appeared through the front door. Rolling her eyes, she closed it behind her with the same consideration as Percy and moved to Lord Withersby’s side. “Neither of you knock,” she complained, offering fond, French-accented derision to both Elijah and Alexi. She looked at Percy with empathy, a twinkle in her eye. “We trail behind well-dressed animals, my dear.”
Josephine Belledoux, the Artist of London’s onetime Guard, and Lord Withersby, its Memory, had been lovers for longer than they’d cared to reveal. Not wanting to conflict with the delicate, pathetic love triangles already scoring the group, they’d thought it best to keep their happy pairing away from their cohorts. The truth of their relationship had been only recently admitted.
Michael returned with more mulled wine and pulled spare, rickety chairs from what could hardly be called a sitting room into the dining area.
“Yes, I am here on business, Withersby.” Alexi eyed the turquoise fabric of Elijah’s sleeve splayed upon the table. Reaching out to finger the starched, gilt lace upon the cuff, he withdrew in distaste. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know what to do!” Elijah cried, collapsing dramatically upon the table. “How on earth can I traipse about London as I wish, commandeer Auntie’s house as I please, if I cannot bend anyone’s mind to my bidding? If I cannot make them forget, if I cannot become invisible in their presence . . . Oh, the horror of living the real life of a gentleman!”
“Oh, Withersby, you’re hardly a gentleman. You’ll make do just fine,” Alexi replied.
“He’s maddening,” Josephine muttered. “I’m painting more beautiful canvases than I’ve ever painted in my life, finally, subjects besides angels and death, and he won’t leave me alone for a minute. Mon Dieu. I told him he should take up a sport, use all this excess energy of his—”
“You know, Withersby, I’ve shuddered to think what would have happened to you without our Grand Work to set your life’s early course,” Alexi remarked. “That said, you might enjoy what leisure your class offers you, now that you’re free to fully take part.”
Elijah stared as if his friend were daft. “You’ll never understand the finer points of high society. Why, if I’ve taught you nothing, I’d thought you’d realized it’s a requirement of my class never to be content!”
Everyone turned, eyeing Josephine with pity. “I know, I know, I’m a fool,” she said, her French accent making her words drip with drama. “I tell him he needs a hobby, a new club, something. But no, he goes careening about the estate or pacing madly about our flat—”
“You’ve a flat?” Michael asked.
“We’ve always had a flat,” Elijah replied. “But with the upcoming nuptials—”
Josephine interrupted. “That’s truly the reason why we’re here, Vicar, we need to set a date for the wedding.”
Alexi turned to her. “You know, you don’t have to do this.”
Josephine chuckled. “Our fates were sealed long ago,” she said with mock weariness, touching her fiancé’s face with such obvious adoration that no sarcasm in the world could