A Christmas Bride / A Christmas Beau (45 page)

Mr. Cornwell, Amy, Mr. Rockford, and the Tushinghams would help supervise the decorating of the drawing room, it was decided. The rest of the adults would move on to the ballroom.

She longed to escape, Judith thought, and yet there was that old seductive excitement about the sights and smells of Christmas in the house. The smell of the pine boughs was already teasing her nostrils. At Ammanlea the servants had always done the decorating. At her home they had always done it themselves. It was good to be back to those days, and good to see so many children happy and excited and working with a will.

She shook off the mental image of Daniel standing on a delicate chair in the drawing room with Kate on his shoulders reaching up to a picture. One of the adults would doubtless see to it that no unnecessary risks were taken.

Several large boxes had been set in the middle of the ballroom and soon the children were into them, unpacking bells and ribbons and bows and stars—several large, shining stars.

“To hang from the chandeliers,” the marquess explained. “No, Toby, it would be far too dangerous. I would hate to see you with a broken head for Christmas. I shall do it myself.”

And Judith, gingerly separating piles of holly into individual sprigs so that the children could rush about the room placing them in suitable and unsuitable spots, also watched the marquess remove his coat and roll up his shirt sleeves to the elbows. She watched him climb a tall ladder held by Lord Clancy and two of the biggest boys in order to attach the stars to the chandeliers.

She held her breath.

And then looked away sharply to resume her task and suck briefly on one pricked finger. She did not want this to be happening, she thought fiercely. She did not want this feeling of Christmas, this growing feeling of warmth and elation, to be associated in any way with him.

But how could she help herself? Ever since her arrival the afternoon before, and especially this morning, she had been fighting the realization that perhaps he was not at all as she had always thought him to be. She remembered her impressions of him eight years before, impressions gathered over a two-month period. He had seemed cold, morose, harsh, silent. She had been afraid of him. And there had been nothing in London this time to change that impression.

Oh, there had been, of course. There had been his civility to Amy, his kindness to her children and even to her. But her fear of him had not lessened. She had suspected his motives, had assumed that somehow it was all being done to punish her, since he knew that the worst he could do to her was inflict his company on her and ingratiate himself with her family.

But here? Could she really cling to her old impressions here? He was mingling with twenty children from the lowest classes, teasing them, playing with them, making them as happy as any children anywhere at Christmastime. And it could not even be said that it was just a financial commitment to him, that he provided the money while Mr. Cornwell and Mrs. Harrison did all the work and all the caring. That would not be true. He so clearly loved all the children and enjoyed spending time with them.

She recalled the contempt she had felt for him in London when he had remarked on one occasion that he had a fondness for children. He had not lied—that was becoming increasingly obvious. Rupert had tripped along
at his side all the way back to the house, his hand in the marquess’s, talking without ceasing.

“There,” she said to Violet, smiling, “that is the last of it.”

Mrs. Harrison and two of the girls were just coming in with armloads of ivy, she saw.

She did not want this to be happening. Lord Denbigh, still in his shirt sleeves, was standing in the middle of the ballroom, his hand on Benjamin’s shoulder, pointing across the room at something. Ben went racing away.

He was not at all thin, Judith thought. His waist and hips were slender, but his shoulders and upper arms were well muscled beneath the shirt and his thighs, too. She caught the direction of her thoughts and swallowed.

He had waited almost eight years for a second chance with her, he had told her in London. And this morning he had asked her if it had all been worth it, if she had been happy. And he had held her against him—she turned weak again at the knees with the memory—and had almost kissed her.

And the shameful thing was that she had wanted it in a horrified, fascinated sort of way. She would have done nothing to stop it. She had a curiosity to know what his mouth would feel like on hers.

She shuddered.

“I must confess,” Lady Clancy said, coming to stand beside her and gazing about at the ballroom, which had suddenly become a room full of Christmas, “that Clement and I were not at all sure that we were doing the right thing in accepting our invitation. But I am already beginning to enjoy myself more than I have done for years. Max and Mr. Cornwell and Mrs. Harrison have done wonders with those children, have they not?”

The decorating having largely being completed, the children were having noisy good fun, mostly with a few sprigs of mobile mistletoe. There was a loud burst of
merriment from the far side of the room, accompanied by catcalls and loudly hurled insults, when Val soundly slapped Joe’s face after he had stolen a kiss.

“Keep yer ’ands to yerself,” she said before letting loose with rather more colorful language.

“But I got mistletoe,” Joe protested. “It’s allowed.”

“I don’t care if you got a certificate all decorated up wiv gold lettering from the Archbishop of Canterbury,” Val said. “Keep yer ’ands to yerself or I’ll chop ’em off at the wrists.”

The other boys all gave an exaggerated gasp of horror.

“It is Christmas,” the marquess said, “and mistletoe does excuse a great deal of familiarity, but a gentleman is a gentleman for all that, Joe. A simple ‘May I’ would solve the problem. No lady would be so rag-mannered as to refuse.”

“Yeh, Val,” someone yelled, and there was another loud outburst of laughter.

“Max is taking them all skating this afternoon,” Lady Clancy said to Judith. “I do believe I may go out myself. I used to fancy myself a skater.”

“I never could stay upright,” Judith said. “I gave up even trying years ago.”

“Well, you know,” Lady Clancy said, “the secret is to keep your weight over your skates. So many people pull back out of fear and then, of course, lose their balance.”

There was still a great deal of laughter from the children, especially from one group of them behind Judith and Lady Clancy, but they continued to converse with each other and did not look to see what was happening.

“ ’Ere, guv,” someone yelled. There were smothered giggles from some girls.

“I can still feel some of my bruises,” Judith said. The marquess was striding toward them. She could feel the familiar breathlessness and tried to continue the conversation, her face expressionless, her voice cool.

But she turned her head with sudden suspicion as he drew closer. One tall boy, grinning wickedly, was standing directly behind her, a sprig of mistletoe waving above her head. But it was too late to duck out of the way. Lord Denbigh, she saw, was standing directly in front of her.

“May I?” he asked.

What could she do? Give in to a fit of the vapors and swoon at his feet? Say no? With all the children and the adults, too, either smiling at her or convulsed with merriment? She nodded almost imperceptibly.

And then his hands came to rest lightly on either side of her waist and as she drew breath his lips touched her own.

Briefly. Only for the merest moment. But she felt as if she had been struck by a lightning bolt. Sensation sizzled through her. And she felt as if it would be quite impossible to expel the air she had just drawn into her lungs.

“Aw, guv,” the boy who was standing behind her said, and she became aware at the same moment of jeering voices about the ballroom, “carn’t yer do better than that?”

“Certainly,” the marquess said, and Judith stared into his heavy-lidded eyes and felt that she would surely die. “I merely raised my head because I remembered that I had forgotten to wish Mrs. Easton a happy Christmas.”

Somewhere, youthful voices were cheering. Lady Clancy was chuckling close by. Someone behind her whooped and whistled. Judith’s fingertips came to rest against a muscled chest, warm beneath the silk of his shirt, and she fought desperately to detach her mind from what was happening.

It was not an indecorous kiss under the circumstances. She told herself that. He touched her only at the waist, holding her body a few inches from his own. And his mouth was light on hers. His mouth. Not his lips. He
had parted them slightly over hers so that she was aware of warmth and softness and moistness.

Andrew had never kissed her so, she told herself, deliberately keeping up the flow of an interior monologue. There had been only an increased pressure to show his heightened passion. After the first year he had rarely kissed her at all.

She had never been kissed just so.

It lasted only a few seconds. Ten at the longest, she guessed. An eternity. The world had turned right about. The stars had turned, the universe. She was being indescribably foolish.

“Happy Christmas, my lord,” she said coolly.

“You see, Joe?” Lord Denbigh said, turning his head and raising his voice. “No slaps, and the lady even wished me the compliments of the season. That is the way to do it, my lad.”

He released her waist finally and turned away to organize a tidy-up.

“Little rascals,” Lady Clancy said with a laugh. “Max is a better sport than I would have expected. And you, too, my dear. I must say that both Clement and I were disappointed when you married Mr. Easton instead of Max. He was always a favorite with us, shy though he was—and still is to a certain degree. He disappeared for a whole year after your marriage. No one seemed to know where he was. He went walking in the Lake District and Scotland, apparently—all alone. But that is old history and I do not wish to embarrass you. I am glad that you have been able to bury your differences. I wonder if luncheon is ready. It must be very late already.”

“Yes,” Judith said. “I imagine all these children must be ravenous. They have done a good day’s work already.”

A
FTER LUNCHEON
, M
RS.
Harrison and Mr. Cornwell took the children into the drawing room for a rehearsal of their pageant. Amy had been invited to go with them. She took Rupert with her while Judith took Kate upstairs to the nursery for a sleep.

All the children had parts, Mrs. Harrison explained to Amy. There were no scripts.

“Most of our children cannot read well yet,” she explained. “We have merely told them the story and allowed them to improvise their lines—sometimes with hair-raising results, though I have great faith that they will all perform beautifully on Christmas evening and be perfect angels.”

“Would you like to be a shepherd, lad?” Mr. Cornwell asked Rupert, laying a hand on his shoulder. “We can always use more shepherds.”

Amy smiled gratefully at Mr. Cornwell as Rupert raced off to join a small group of boys.

“You do not by any chance have some skill at playing the pianoforte, ma’am, do you?” he asked her. “Mrs. Harrison declares that she is all thumbs, but I am afraid that even my thumbs would be useless. Our angel choir cannot possibly sing without accompaniment. They would go so flat that we would have to go belowstairs to find them.”

Amy laughed and flushed. “I do,” she said, “and would gladly relieve Mrs. Harrison if she wishes it.”

“If she wishes it?” He took her by the arm. “Eve, come here. Christmas has come early for you.”

Amy was soon seated on the pianoforte bench surrounded by the angel choir.

“Cor,” one of them said, “you got a luverly voice, missus.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Maureen, is it? And so do all of you if you will just not be afraid to sing out. Sing from down here.” She patted her stomach.

Mr. Cornwell came and stood behind the bench when the full rehearsal started. He chuckled.

“Can we keep you, ma’am?” he asked. “What would you ask as a salary? That sounded almost like music.”

“This is such fun,” Amy declared a moment before clapping a hand over her mouth as the innkeeper’s wife beat the innkeeper over the head for suggesting that they turn Mary and Joseph away.

“Not the head, if you please, Peg,” Mr. Cornwell said firmly. “The shoulder maybe? And not too hard. Remember that you are just acting.” He added in a lower voice, for Amy’s ears only, “The angel did not wait for the glory of the Lord to shine around about the shepherds during our first rehearsal. She kicked them awake.”

Amy stifled her mirth.

And she remembered suddenly a dark tent on the River Thames and the prediction about children. Lots of children. And about a comfortable gentleman of middle years whom she would soon meet.

But how foolish, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. How very foolish. Mr. Cornwell would surely run a million miles if he could just read her mind. Poor Mr. Cornwell.

And her father would have forty fits if she ever decided to fix her choice on a gentleman who worked for his living caring for and educating a houseful of ragamuffins from the London slums.