A Christmas Bride / A Christmas Beau (47 page)

“I don’t know,” she said, and she looked back up into his eyes again. “I don’t know. There is something about you I do not trust.”

“Is there?” he asked. “Or is it something about yourself? Do you not trust yourself to keep on believing that you did the right thing eight years ago?”

She drew in a sharp breath. “I must believe that,” she said fiercely. “There are Rupert and Kate.”

“Yes,” he said. “You are right there, Judith. There are your children. But that was then. This is now. It is not the same thing at all. We are both older.”

“Yes,” she said.

And she wondered if he was right. Was it herself she did not trust? But it was not that. There was something about him. There was still that something.

But perhaps she was wrong. Surely she must be wrong. He had come very close to declaring an affection for her, to demonstrating to her that he was indeed trying to fix his interest with her.

Was it possible? Was it possible that after all this time and all the humiliation she had dealt him he was considering renewing his offer for her?

The idea was absurd when put into words in her mind. And yet there were his looks and his words.

But then there was that something else, too.

“Can we go to see the dogs, guv?” someone yelled across the ice.

“Oh, yes, can we?” There was a chorus of voices.

“I fear the house is about to be invaded by the canine kingdom,” the marquess said. “I had all the dogs confined to the stables out of respect to my guests. But these children know very well that several of the animals normally live in the house. I hope no one has a fit of the vapors when they take up residence again. Will you?”

“We have dogs at home,” she said.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “You mentioned that once before.” He raised his voice. “Off to the stables, then. But no biting the dogs, mind.”

There was a burst of raucous laughter as the children scrambled off the ice and tore impatiently at skate straps.

“I get Rambler,” Daniel announced loudly. “Come on, nipper. Up you come.”

Judith watched her daughter being borne away toward the stables.

“Your grooms will have forty fits apiece, Max,” Mr. Cornwell said. “I had better go after them. Would you like to come, Miss Easton?”

“I shall be along, too,” the marquess said. He looked down at Judith. “But I cannot leave you stranded in the middle of the ice, can I? Do you wish to see the dogs, too?”

She was being given a chance to shorten this encounter with him? A chance to return to the house alone or with Mr. Rockford and Lady Clancy?

She put up her chin. “Yes,” she said, “I do.”

C
HRISTMAS
E
VE
. I
T
was snowing again, the flakes drifting lazily down without the aid of wind. There was enough to freshen up what had already fallen, Lord Clancy announced after a morning walk, but not enough to bury the house to the eaves.

Miss Edith Hannibal was afraid that the carriages would not be able to take them to church that evening.

“And it never quite seems to be Christmas without church,” she said. “Indeed, I cannot remember a year when we did not go to church. Was there ever such a time, Frieda? But of course there was the year Mama was so sick. Indeed, she died the day after Christmas. We did not go to church that year, but then it did not seem at all like Christmas that year anyway.”

The marquess assured his aunts that most of them would enjoy the walk since the church was only a mile away. There were two sleighs to convey those who would prefer to ride.

No one was quite as busy as on the day before. Except the servants, that was. By midmorning, tantalizing smells were already escaping from belowstairs and those people who were still in the house were invited down to the kitchen to stir the Christmas pudding in its large bowl.

Judith clasped her hands over Kate’s and they stirred together, both laughing. Rupert took a turn alone.

Amy had left the house soon after breakfast, declining the marquess’s offer to call out one of the sleighs, choosing to walk to the village instead.

“I have offered to play the pianoforte for the angel choir,” she had told Judith the night before. “Mrs. Harrison plays only indifferently and was most grateful for my offer. And Mr. Cornwell says that the children will cheer when they know I am willing to join their caroling party. They are always delighted to have someone among them who can hold a tune, he says.” She laughed merrily. “We will be going all about the village
as soon as darkness falls, coming to the house here last. It all sounds quite perfectly splendid.”

Mr. Cornwell had also been talking with Amy about his future plans for the homes. And Amy had apparently suggested to him that in future it might be a good idea to have a home in which there were both boys and girls.

“It will be more like a real family, I told him,” Amy said. “There would be problems, of course, which Mr. Cornwell was quick to point out to me, but it would be a lovely idea, would it not, Judith? What it would need, of course, is a married couple to oversee it. A couple whose own children are grown up, perhaps, or who have been unfortunate enough never to have had children of their own. Then it would be a splendid experience for them, too.”

Amy was very obviously enjoying herself. The lure of a great house on the eve of Christmas could not hold her from a day spent in the village with her new friends.

Lord Clancy and Sir William retired to the billiard room after luncheon. The ladies sat in a salon with their needlepoint and embroidery while Mr. Rockford entertained them with stories of a recent visit to Paris and a not so recent one to Wales. The marquess’s aunts, seated one each side of the fire, soon nodded off to sleep, lulled by the heat and the particular drowsiness that afternoon brings—and perhaps by the droning voice of the lone gentleman in the room, too.

Judith was upstairs in the nursery, reading a story to Rupert and hoping that Kate would have a sleep since she was likely to have a late night. Rupert sat still at her feet and listened, playing with the ears of the collie stretched out before him as he did so, though all morning he had been restless and had demanded a dozen times at the very least to know when the children would be arriving to stay.

The Marquess of Denbigh had some errands to run,
he had announced at luncheon. He always delivered a basket of food to all the cottagers on his estate each Christmas Eve and always put a personal gift of a few gold coins inside each. This year the task of delivering the baskets was complicated by the snow, but it could be done nevertheless. He would not delegate the task to his servants, knowing that his people set great store by his visits. Besides, he would deprive himself of some pleasure if he neglected to go.

He set out in one of the sleighs, delivering baskets to the closest of the cottages first. It was not a fast job. He did not refuse a single invitation to step inside the cottage to take refreshments. He grinned to himself as he turned the horses’ heads for home again and another load of Christmas offerings. There was always the danger on the afternoon of Christmas Eve that he would become too drunk to attend church in the evening. Everywhere he went he was offered either ale or cider, and always a generous mugful because he was the marquess and must be suitably impressed.

Two footmen carefully loaded the sleigh for his second run. But he hesitated before taking his place again, and glanced with indecision at the house. It would not really do, he thought. He was enjoying his afternoon, enjoying the smiles on the faces of his cottagers and their somewhat flustered conversation. He was enjoying the widening eyes of all the children as he handed each a coin.

He should not spoil the atmosphere of Christmas. He should not bring darkness to his mood.

He frowned, something fluttering at the edge of his memory. And then he remembered the fortune-teller out on the ice of the River Thames. He remembered her telling him that there was darkness in him as well as a great deal of light and that Christmas might save him from being swamped by the darkness. He shrugged. He had
never given heed to such nonsense. But he remembered that afternoon with some pleasure.

And he found himself running up the steps to the house, peering into the salon, and then taking the stairs two at a time to the nursery floor. He knocked at the door and let himself in.

She was sitting in a rocking chair by the window, wearing the simple blue wool dress that she had been wearing that morning. Her daughter was asleep in her arms, one small hand spread on her bosom. Her son was on his stomach on the floor at her feet, his legs bent at the knees, his feet waving back and forth. He was tickling the collie’s stomach.

The marquess felt a stab of some indefinable longing. It was such a very quiet, contented domestic scene.

Rupert jumped to his feet and ran toward the marquess. The collie tore after him, barking at this promise of a new game. “Are they here?” the boy asked.

Lord Denbigh rumpled his hair. “I heard your mama tell you earlier that they would be coming for the caroling this evening and then walking to church with us,” he said. “Does the day seem quite interminable? How would you like a sleigh ride?”

“Ye-es!” Rupert jumped up and down. “Super! May I, Mama?”

“The invitation is for your mama, too,” the marquess said. “Would you like some fresh air, ma’am? I am delivering baskets to my cottagers.”

Her face brightened. “Are you?” she said. “Oh, I always used to enjoy doing that at home with Mama and Papa. It was always the beginning of Christmas, the start of that wonderful feeling that only Christmas can bring.”

“The little one has just fallen asleep?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, getting carefully to her feet. “I shall put her to bed.”

And there. He had done it. He had ruined his afternoon, brought darkness into it. Except that he would not think of the ultimate revenge, he decided as he offered his arm to lead her down the stairs and out to the waiting sleigh. He would not think about how such encounters as this would all be used to contribute gradually to the final denouement.

He would pretend that he had no other purpose than to enjoy her company. He had very little time left in which to do so. He had been without her for almost eight years. He would be without her for the rest of his life. Surely he could allow himself a few days in which to feast his eyes on her beauty. Besides, all time spent with her would contribute to his ultimate purpose.

She was wearing a fur hat rather than a bonnet, one that completely covered her hair and her ears. She tucked her hands inside a matching muff. Her face, he noticed, did not owe its beauty to her hair. It was a classically beautiful face in its own right.

They sat side by side in the sleigh, Rupert squashed between them, surrounded by cloth-covered baskets. The collie had been left curled at the foot of Kate’s bed.

“Mm,” Rupert said. “They smell good.”

“At least we will not starve if we get stuck in a snowbank,” the marquess said, and the boy giggled.

They did not talk a great deal. But the air felt fresher with her sitting beside him, and the crunching of the horses’ hooves on the snow and the jingling of the harness bells and the squeaking of the sleigh runners were more intimate and more festive sounds.

“This is the most beautiful weather there could possibly be,” she said, lifting her face to the high broken clouds above and drawing in a deep breath. “It makes of the world a fairytale place.”

And Lord Denbigh knew that she shared his mood.

They paid eight visits in all and were invited inside
each of the eight cottages. Lord Denbigh found himself living out an unplanned fantasy. What if she had not broken off their engagement? They would have been married now for eight years. They would be paying these calls together as man and wife, the ease of years of acquaintance and intimacy between them. And they would be going home together afterward to their guests and their children and a shared Christmas. And when it was all over they would stand together on the steps of Denbigh and wave good-bye to their departing guests. And they would be alone together again, with their family. Perhaps she would be with child again.

Mrs. Richards had delivered her fourth child less than two weeks before. The child was awake and fussing, though Mrs. Richards insisted that they come inside for refreshments. The baby had been fed already, she assured them.

“Oh, may I?” Judith asked, smiling at Mrs. Richards and leaning over the baby’s crude cradle.

Mrs. Richards was flustered, but she assured Mrs. Easton that the baby had had a clean nappy only a few minutes before.

And Judith lifted the child from the cradle and held it gently to her shoulder. The fussing stopped and the baby wriggled its head into a comfortable position and sucked loudly on a fist. Judith closed her eyes, smiling, and rubbed a cheek against the soft down on the baby’s head.

“Oh,” she said, “one forgets so quickly how tiny newborn babies are. How I envy you.”

Lord Denbigh turned his head away sharply and addressed a remark to Mr. Richards. He felt as if he had a leaden weight in his stomach. For some reason he felt almost as if he were about to cry. Steady, he told himself. Steady. He should not have let down his guard for even a moment. Had he not learned his lesson long ago?