A Very Surrey SFS Christmas Read online

  A Very Surrey SFS Christmas

  Nicola Davidson

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Epilogue

  Also by Nicola Davidson

  About the Author

  A VERY SURREY SFS CHRISTMAS is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  A VERY SURREY SFS CHRISTMAS © Nicola Davidson

  First Edition: November 2019

  Cover: Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs

  Whether with your true love(s), relatives, found family, or some combination of the three, wishing you a magical holiday season filled with love and laughter.

  Prologue

  Denham Park, Surrey, four days before Christmas 1815

  “Do come out and have some mulled wine. I won’t bite, I swear. A show of fangs at most…Faffy! If I have to speak to a bedchamber door for one more moment...”

  Quite content for Lady Portia Denham to remain on the other side of the sturdy oak, Augustus Luxton, Duke of Fairfield scowled and took a defiant swig of brandy from his silver flask. Only his hellion daughter-in-law had the temerity to call him by the supremely undignified and frankly appalling moniker of Faffy, and he’d been unable to break her of the habit. In truth, she seemed to relish being a five-foot four-inch thorn in his boot. A bug in his wine. A lightning bolt at his picnic.

  He shook his fist at the door. And cursed under his breath.

  The Duke of Fairfield reduced to such a pitiful state. A longtime advisor to kings and prime ministers alike, society emperor with the power and consequence to make or break a man…drinking alone in a bedchamber and measuring the window and slope of the roof as a possible means of escape. December could don a suit of armor and go bathe in the Wey. Far too many bittersweet memories, and vivid dreams that left him reaching for something not there. Adding insult to injury, there wasn’t even any snow about. Not so much as a flake. Everyone knew that Christmas wasn’t truly Christmas until it snowed.

  He didn’t much like house parties either, although at least this one boasted worthy companions in the thoroughly entertaining members of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society: Miss Beatrice Irving, Miss Amelia Tilton, Lord Ethan and Lady Madeline Dare, Mr. Clayton Irving, Lord Joseph and Lady Susanna Fenton, along with his son Captain Randall Denham and Portia.

  “Can’t come out!” he barked. “I’m unwell.”

  “Oh dear,” Portia called back, amusement dripping from her tone. “Then I shall have no choice but to cut off your brandy supply and replace it with barley water. Or perhaps a nice herbal tisane. Do not fret, Faffy, tis quite normal for a gentleman of eighty-one years to suffer a little…irregularity.”

  Augustus yanked open the chamber door and glared at her. “My innards are in perfect working order, gel. You are—”

  “The sunshine of your life. I know,” she replied, with a beaming smile and a terrible glint in her eyes. “Now, be a good duke and join us downstairs for some pre-supper music and carol singing. Randall is currently regaling everyone with tales from the barracks. The babies are napping in the makeshift nursery, and your favorite feline is happily destroying a ball of yarn.”

  His frown darkened. A Christmas house party in the wilds of Surrey was bad enough, but Portia had also invited half the damned county—noble and commoner—to a masked ball. Now she not only threatened him with bowel-loosening tisanes, but also Mittens, the ginger-striped, shoe-despoiling tyrant belonging to Beatrice and Amelia?

  Insubordination, that’s what this was. Or a particularly diabolical attempt at patricide.

  “Surely that feline has run out of lives.”

  “I did think her time was up at last month’s meeting when Mrs. Berkley discovered the mauling of her best flogger,” Portia admitted. “But Mittens struts on. Come on now, if you join us downstairs, there is a large platter of marzipan squares. And a bowl of lemon drops.”

  Damnation. His favorite sweets. The infernal woman never forgot a single detail, which made her a dangerous and cunning foe.

  “Oh, very well,” Augustus grumbled. “I shall change my cravat. Perhaps you’ll comb your hair, unless of course you and that large spider have come to terms regarding free lodging.”

  Portia’s hands flew up and began slapping her neat and spider-free chignon. “Argh! Where?”

  “I may have been mistaken,” he replied, suppressing a cackle. One had to snatch victories where possible against society’s infamous Pistol Portia. “I shall see you downstairs presently.”

  She smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. “Your tisane will be waiting, Faffy.”

  Augustus scowled again as she winked, then marched away. After closing the door, he set down his brandy flask then walked over to his rosewood trunk to select a fresh cravat. Next to the four-poster bed piled high with his own pillows sat his most precious possession, the intricate portrait of the only woman he’d ever loved: Joanna Denham. The painting of his late mistress holding Randall as an infant accompanied him wherever he travelled, and he permitted no one else to touch it, not even to dust the gilt frame.

  “Not sure what you find so amusing, madam,” he said, raising one eyebrow as he began arranging an elaborate knot. “Portia is a hoyden. Most unseemly for a woman of thirty-nine. Surely she should be embroidering handkerchiefs or wearing a turban. And yes, I know damned well you’d have shunned both embroidery and turbans to join her in all manner of hoydenish activities.”

  Joanna stared back at him, her green eyes sparkling with mischief, her wild curls dark as midnight. The same color as Randall’s, although thanks to Portia’s antics, silver dusted his hair nowadays.

  Christ, he missed her. The Fates had been terribly cruel, introducing them six months after his duty marriage, allowing them no more than stolen moments of happiness, before tearing them apart forever in the bad birth of a rosebud-pretty daughter who also passed. He would give everything he owned to have Joanna sitting next to him now, hair as silver as his own, face lined, creamy skin delicate and spotted with age, wearing the coronet of a duchess, rather than frozen in time as a young mistress. How she would have laughed at the nickname Faffy. Joanna had called him Gus, after all. Gus! Thoroughly beneath the dignity of a duke.

  “I have to go downstairs now,” he continued, smoothing his black jacket and gray satin waistcoat to ensure no wrinkles. “Hear more news about the returned soldier barracks. Randall is doing a sterling job there with the men. Sterling. You’ll be pleased to know the fortune I settled upon him is being well spent. He’s a fine lad…”

  Augustus’s voice trailed off, as it always did when past regrets overwhelmed him, misting his eyes and lodging a boulder in his throat. He’d lost his way badly after Joanna and their daughter died, failed as a father to their son, and they’d been estranged for over thirty years. But after retiring from a distinguished career in the British Army and marrying Portia, Randall had deigned to give him a second chance. For such a boon, he would do anything. Even celebrate Christmas without snow and tolerate devil-spawned cats.

  Besides. Randall wedding a woman so alike Joanna in character filled him with pride, amusement and profound sympathy. It took nerves of s
teel to love a hellion.

  Augustus swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders, before bowing to the portrait. “Wish me luck, my angel.”

  Warmth enveloped him, and he could almost hear her husky laugh.

  You’ll need it, Gus.

  Chapter 1

  Beatrice and Amelia

  Three days before Christmas

  “Bother!”

  At the exasperated curse, Miss Beatrice Irving glanced curiously across the lavish parlor at her lover and life companion Miss Amelia Tilton. She dared not move another muscle, not with their ginger-striped cat napping contentedly in her lap. While asleep, Mittens was a soft and rather adorable bundle of purrs and paws. When awake, an unabashed menace who casually shoved items from shelves or desks, clawed fabric to ribbons, and yowled to wake the dead. Six months ago Mittens had sauntered into their cottage and made herself comfortable, and that it seemed, was that. They dared not leave the furry empress of destruction alone, so she now accompanied them on all journeys, including here to Lady Portia and Denham’s sprawling estate.

  “Whatever is the matter, dearest?”

  Amelia bit her lip, looking utterly woebegone. “We’ve not enough red and white ribbon for the Christmas wreathes and ball decorations. I’ve used all Lady Portia had…well, less the yard of red that Mittens assisted along to the great haberdashery in the sky.”

  “We should start sending bills to this feline,” said Beatrice, rolling her eyes.

  “The paper wouldn’t last a minute…bother. I had hoped to finish the decorations today, so they were one less thing for Lady Portia to worry about. Tis quite an undertaking, hosting a masked ball for several hundred people.”

  Beatrice nodded. “For anyone else, an impossible task. For our chairwoman, I have every faith she will somehow achieve it. That is, if Fairfield doesn’t tip her over the edge into madness.”

  “Indeed,” said Amelia with a laugh, tucking a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “I swear he quite revels in causing trouble. Much like Mittens.”

  Even as she smiled in response, Beatrice marveled yet again at her good fortune in winning the heart of a woman like Amelia. Her best friend and confidante, her inspiration, and a beautiful, wickedly sensual minx. Thankfully they had come a long way from the endless bittersweet days of lady’s maid and countess, and now enjoyed a blissful life of love and lust in their cottage assisted by a few loyal and discreet servants. They certainly weren’t wealthy, but a small inheritance from Amelia’s late mother, and the bouquets and fresh herbs they sold at various town markets from their splendid garden, ensured their comfort. It did hurt that they’d both been disowned by their families for choosing love over societal expectations, but a new family embraced and supported them in every way: the other Society members.

  Clearing her throat against a rush of emotion, she scratched Mittens behind her ears. “Well, if there is no ribbon left in the manor, we shall have to take the carriage and go to town. It’s only five miles or so; if we leave now we’ll be back before nightfall, and all the decorations will be done. The only issue is finding someone to mind this menace.”

  “I shall mind Mittens.”

  They both turned to see Lady Portia standing in the doorway of the parlor, her usual neat chignon a little worse for wear and a few spots of dirt on her gold-striped gown.

  “Really?” asked Amelia hopefully.

  “Of course. Mittens and I have an understanding; she only piddles on Faffy’s shoes and her claws remain sheathed. Also, I am in desperate need of tea and a rest. It was perhaps a little too adventurous to invite so many people to this ball. You have all been wonderful, and the servants are doing an excellent job, but there is still so much to do.”

  “Come over here, then,” said Beatrice with a grin, “and we’ll carefully trade places so not to disturb her highness. I’ll advise the kitchens to send tea and cakes.”

  “Much obliged.”

  A quarter hour later, Beatrice and Amelia had donned heavy cloaks, muffs, and bonnets to ward off the winter chill, and were standing in the entrance hall waiting for their carriage to be brought around to the front steps. Outside the sky was bleak, and everything in the shadow of the buildings still held traces of morning frost, but no snow had fallen and the paths were reasonably clear.

  The sound of footsteps on the marble floor interspersed with the thump of a cane alerted them to Fairfield’s approach. Much like Mittens, the duke could be occasionally endearing, but mostly exasperating.

  “Off to town, ladies?” he asked, immaculately presented as usual in a black jacket, starched cravat, diamond stickpin, and gray breeches, not so much as a single silver hair out of place. Fairfield did not approve of modern fashions; he refused to replace his knee breeches with trousers, and still wore a wig to formal occasions. The very portrait of an exceedingly wealthy and elderly aristocrat.

  Each curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace,” said Amelia, surreptitiously smoothing her dark blue calico gown.

  “Hope you’ve got hot bricks for your feet,” the duke replied with a frown. “Cold out there. And don’t get lost and end up in the Surrey Hills. By the time you were discovered, you’d be a Christmas feast for the wildlife. Not something you want on your gravestone, is it, here lies Miss Tilton and Miss Irving, the badgers ate well.”

  Beatrice barely managed to stifle a giggle. “Fortunately we have a driver who knows the area, Your Grace.”

  “Good. By the by, Miss Tilton, I saw Garrick outside the theater recently…”

  At the mention of Amelia’s former husband the Earl of Garrick, Beatrice tensed, ready to flay the duke alive. It was a very painful subject for her beloved; Garrick was a dreadful man, a lying Scottish scoundrel who married Amelia for her large dowry all while concealing a common-law wife back in Scotland. When he’d been exposed, the resulting scandal had been terrible. Fortunately, when presented with the evidence, a senior English magistrate had ruled Amelia’s marriage unlawful and void. Unfortunately, due to his title and connections, Garrick had served just one month in an Edinburgh prison before returning to London. Worse, he’d been feted as some sort of rogue hero by his friends.

  It still made her blood boil to think of it.

  “Oh?” whispered Amelia, her face drained of color.

  “Yes. Somehow he tripped over my cane and landed in a fresh pile of horse manure. Never knew an earl could be so clumsy. But he is a Scot, I suppose.”

  Amelia made a choking sound, then hurled herself at Fairfield and wrapped him in a tight hug.

  The duke spluttered. “Miss Tilton. Miss Tilton. Remember yourself. Not at all seemly…you’ll wrinkle my cravat…here, now, no sniffles for him. Not when you have Miss Irving…ah, I hear horses. Your carriage is here.”

  “Not quite,” said Beatrice with a wicked grin.

  Fairfield scowled at her as he awkwardly patted Amelia’s shoulder. “Off you go, gel. Before the roads ice over, the carriage gets trapped, and badgers appear with cutlery and jugs of cream sauce.”

  Amelia let him go and stepped back, her eyes overbright, her smile like sunshine. “We’ll see you for supper then, Your Grace. Sans badgers.”

  “Quite. Good day, Miss Tilton. Miss Irving,” he replied, before retreating from the entrance hall at great pace and disappearing into the ground floor library.

  Beatrice did giggle then. “Poor Fairfield. First the nickname Faffy, then Mittens despoils his shoes, now a cravat-wrinkling hug. He’ll need more than a few bottles of brandy to soothe his ducal sensibilities…oh look, our carriage has actually pulled up. Let’s be on our way to Guildford, and that lovely haberdashery in High Street.”

  And with that, they linked arms and descended down the front steps to the carriage.

  Their driver was being admirably cautious as he navigated the frost and icy mud on the road to Guildford, which allowed Amelia ample opportunity for her very favorite indulgence: gazing upon Beatrice.

  After an unhappy childhood, and an even worse marriage
compounded by the inability to conceive, she’d not thought happiness would be possible. Yet now…happiness positively bubbled up and overflowed from her every day. She had learned so much about herself thanks to Beatrice’s loving care. A woman with whom she could talk and laugh herself hoarse, share all her hopes, dreams, and sorrows, pleasure for hours in bed…

  Despite the winter chill, a hot blush raced across her cheekbones. Occasionally in the past she had held back, fearing her intense need for physical touch, the embraces and hand-holding, the kissing and stroking, would be too much. But Beatrice had coaxed her forward, welcoming both her affection and passion, celebrating the differences in their shape and size, and encouraging her to voice desires and dislikes.

  It was heady indeed to feel both safe and free. And gracious, how she looked forward to bedtime.

  “I know what you are thinking about, you naughty little minx,” said Beatrice, her lips twitching as she lounged her tall, willowy frame against the opposite leather squab and played with the sash of her deep rose gown.

  “Ribbons,” Amelia lied demurely. “I’m thinking of ribbons.”

  “And I’m the Queen of England.”

  “Oh, good day, Majesty. How may I serve you?”

  Beatrice’s eyes grew heavy lidded. “I can think of several ways, but Guildford rapidly approaches. Once we have all we need for the wreathes, however…”

  “Why, Miss Irving,” said Amelia, feigning shock, even as she squirmed in delight at the thought of afternoon pleasure. “Are you suggesting we fuck in this carriage? How scandalous.”

  “Not a suggestion, dearest. On the way home I am going to spread your thighs and feast on that sweet little pussy. I find I simply cannot wait until bedtime.”