A Christmas Charade (31 page)

“Oh, famous!” Fanny beamed. “I get to meet the smugglers after all.”

“This year,” said Clive, “we shall have two long tables set up. One will be presided over by Fanny and me. The other by Decimus and Margaret.”

The two ladies eyed each other uncertainly.

Taking advantage of their silence, Clive removed the wassail cup from Elizabeth’s hand and set it and his own down before the hearth.

“Fanny. Margaret. I hope this answers all your questions, for Elizabeth and I will have to excuse ourselves. There is a small matter of business we must take care of at midnight.”

Proffering his arm, he ushered Elizabeth across the hall. “There’s a fire in one of the small salons,” he said. “We can hide there until the clock strikes twelve.”

She saw Juliette hurrying in the opposite direction, toward the east wing passage. Stewart was about to follow her, but Decimus tugged at his sleeve and drew him into conversation with Sylvester Throckmorton.

Sir John and Lady Astley had retired some time ago. Gabrielle and Nicholas had disappeared. Flora and Amelia, who had left the party several times that night, called good night and wandered off once again.

“I doubt there’s a need to hide,” said Elizabeth, wanting to be alone with him, yet fearing it. Besides, the kissing bough was in the Great Hall. “Just about everyone is leaving.”

Clive stopped in the archway of the west wing passage. The salon he wanted opened off the corridor on their left. He had ordered a fire lit and a sprig of mistletoe hung from the ceiling in a strategic spot near the fireplace.

But he’d rather kiss Elizabeth in the Great Hall. Beneath the kissing bough. With the Christmas tree looking on. It could be, if Elizabeth was agreeable, the beginning of a tradition.

“Well?” said Elizabeth. “What shall it be?”

He looked back into the Great Hall. Only Decimus, Sylvester, and Stewart were there. Stewart made the attempt several times to break away from the two elderly gentlemen. Each time, Decimus detained him.

Exasperated, Stewart finally exclaimed, “It’s no use asking me over and over! I tell you, I never saw a girl in a striped gown. So how the deuce am I supposed to know what’s become of her?”

Elizabeth whispered, “I believe Annie wears a striped gown. Could your uncle be looking for her?”

“With Decimus anything is possible.”

Faintly, a clock could be heard striking the hour. Decimus tilted his head, listening intently.

“Ah,” he said. “Midnight. Well, Stewart, my boy, you’ll have to forgive an old man for bowing out of a most interesting conversation. Come along, Sylvester. Time to seek our couches.”

The two stout gentlemen ambled toward Clive and Elizabeth. Stewart, shaking his head, strode off and disappeared in the east wing.

“Clive, my boy.” Decimus raised his quizzing glass. “And Elizabeth. Be sure to douse all the candles on the tree. We don’t want another fire.”

“A footman already did that,” Sylvester reminded him. “More than two hours ago.”

“That’s all right then.”

Arm in arm, the gentlemen went off. A short while later, Sylvester’s wheezing marked their progress up the stairs.

Clive looked at Elizabeth. There was a light in his eyes that took her breath away.

“And now, Miss Gore-Langton, to our unfinished business.”

It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he took her hand and led her back into the Great Hall. She need not have agonized over the means to catch him beneath the kissing bough. It was where he took her of his own accord.

Their gazes locked, they stood beneath the bough of greens and holly berries and mistletoe.

“You did not win the wager,” Elizabeth said softly.

“But I’ll get my prize. Didn’t I tell you I was looking forward to claiming it?”

He swept her into a crushing embrace, which Elizabeth returned with fervor by clasping her arms around his neck. She raised her face and knew this was the moment she had been waiting for since she saw him stride toward her on that rainy day of her arrival.

His mouth claimed hers in a kiss every bit as breathtaking and magical as she had dreamed, igniting a fire that heated her blood and melted her bones. Rational thought receded, but as she was about to surrender to feelings and sensations she had never before experienced, one last clear thought whirled through her mind.

One kiss was not enough to make a miracle.

Juliette brushed her hair until it shone. But tonight she would neither braid it nor tuck it under a cap. During the four days of marriage, before he had to return to his regiment, Stewart had told her he liked her hair loose and flowing.

Shivering, she turned away from the dressing mirror. She wasn’t cold. She was shivering in a fever of excitement and apprehension, for tonight she would launch a frontal attack.

“Annie,” she said softly, “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Do you have the keys?”

“Yes, Miss Juliette.” Two brass keys dangled about a foot above the bedspread. “Now don’t you fret about me not doing my part.”

“Thank you, Annie. And if I succeed, if Stewart takes me back to London with him, I swear I will take you in the carriage.”

“I know you’ll keep your word. Now run along, Miss Juliette. You still have the major’s man to deal with.”

Juliette drew a deep breath. Pulling her wrap close, she marched determinedly toward the door connecting her chamber with Stewart’s.

John Piggott, the major’s former batman, sat on a low stool drawn up to the fire. He was polishing the buttons on Stewart’s tunic. At Juliette’s entrance, he rose and thrust the tunic behind his back.

She waited until she heard the soft grating of the key in the lock behind her before she spoke.

“There’s no need to hide the tunic, John. I’m glad you’re taking care of the major’s uniform. I’m hoping that tomorrow he’ll wear it.”

John’s expression was frankly doubting, but he produced the tunic, shook it out, and hung it in the wardrobe.

“Is there aught I can do for ye, ma’am?”

“Yes, John. You may leave.”

He gave her a long, considering look. “Yes, ma’am. But I doubt the major will like it if I’m not here. Like as not, he’ll ring for me afore he’s taken two steps inside the chamber.”

Botheration! Her eyes flew to the bellpull dangling between the connecting door and the tall dresser. Neither she nor Annie had remembered the bell that would recall John Piggott.

“Thought I’d just mention it,” he muttered, “seeing as you went to the trouble of removing
both
keys.”

“Oh.” Her face flamed. It was one thing to have Annie know her plan. But that John had guessed!

Blushing like a schoolroom miss and dressed in a nightgown and wrap, Juliette found it difficult to look dignified, but she did her best. She looked the old soldier straight in the eye.

“Can you remove the bellpull, John?”

In answer, he set a chair next to the dresser, climbed on it and, when he found he still could not reach the hook attaching the bellpull to the wire, climbed atop the dresser.

When he handed her the bellpull, he was smiling, a sight that struck her dumb. She hadn’t known he
could
smile, for she had seen him only grim and dour looking.

“Good night, ma’am.” He went off as fast as his limp allowed.

For a moment, she stared at the door he had firmly shut behind him. But she had no time to muse about this strange, gruff man, who seemed to dote on her husband but had never before shown her more than the bare minimum of civility.

She tossed the bellpull into a drawer, pushing it well to the back. She blew out the candles in the wall sconces and dimmed the lamp on the bedside table.

The covers had been turned back and a hot, flannel-wrapped brick placed in the middle of the bed. Sliding between the sheets, she pushed the brick toward the foot end.

Now to the most difficult part, the part of her campaign that would require all her courage. With trembling fingers she untied the fastenings of her wrap. Quickly, she slipped it off her shoulders. Next, the nightgown. She bundled the two garments together and tossed them as far from the bed as she could.

And not a moment too soon. She was still tugging and pulling on the covers when the bedroom door opened.

“What the deuce?” Surprised by the near dark in the chamber he expected to find well lit, Stewart stopped in midstride.

“John? Where the devil are you?”

The covers drawn tightly against her chin, Juliette lay quite still.

Stewart slammed the door and strode toward the bed. As he reached for the lamp, Juliette heard the second key turn in the lock. Annie, bless her, had done her part.

“Juliette!”

Stewart had not turned up the lamp after all. The dim glow was sufficient to show him the blond head on his pillow.

The dim light was also sufficient to show Juliette that he was not at all pleased by what he saw. But she had known this wouldn’t be easy. A tight mouth and a forbidding frown could not shake her determination.

“Come to bed, Stewart. It is late.”

“Juliette, either you leave right now, or I’ll leave.”

“Impossible.”

He turned on his heel and strode to the door. He pushed down the handle, he rattled it, but the door would not budge.

“We’re locked in, Stewart.”

“If this is a jest, it is not funny.”

“I am in dead earnest.”

He swung around, staring at the connecting door. “Locked, I presume?”

“I’m afraid so.”

In a few, quick steps he reached the dresser.

“There’s no bellpull,” she said, sounding apologetic against her will.

He returned to the bed.

“What do you want, Juliette?”

“My husband.”

She scooted up against the pillow and at the same time allowed the covers to slip until her shoulders were exposed.

He gave a groan. “Julie, don’t do this to me! I’m trying hard to be noble, but it gets more difficult every day.”

“I don’t want you noble. I want you loving.”

“I’m a cripple. You deserve a
man
to love you.”

The sheets slid to her waist as she sat up in indignation. “Stewart Astley, how dare you! Horatio Nelson lost an arm
and
an eye, but he never called himself a cripple.”

He could not take his eyes off her. Did she know what she was doing to him? He could not doubt that she did. She looked so proud, so sure of herself in her beautiful nakedness.

“But you, Julie! You cannot bear to look on the stump of my arm without shuddering.”

“What did you expect? The papers were writing in detail about amputations. How awful they are. How painful.” Her voice grew husky with emotion. “When I saw your poor arm, the still-raw skin—Oh, God! How much it must have hurt!”

He frowned at her, but it was a puzzled frown not the grim, tight look he’d had earlier.

“Julie, I believed the stump, the scars repulsed you.”

“
What?
”

“Your body was racked with shudders that first night after my return. I thought it was revulsion. You couldn’t bear to look at the ugly stump.”

Anger flared, hot and sharp. That he believed her capable of such shallow emotions! Worse, he had refused to talk to her, had denied her the opportunity for an explanation!

Accusations, reproaches welled on the tip of her tongue. But the sight of his haggard face made her bite them back. He had suffered no less than she. And even though he deserved to be punished for his lack of faith, it was reconciliation she wanted not a renewal of hostilities.

“I cannot promise that I won’t shudder the next time I see the stump. Until I get hardened to the sight, I will always picture the surgeon with his saw. I will feel the pain you suffered.”

“Julie, you mustn’t torture yourself. It was bad, but I survived.”

The hard-won calm deserted her. “Stewart!” she cried. “They said in the papers that … that the stump is dipped in hot tar!”

Suddenly—and he did not quite understand how it happened so quickly—he sat on the edge of the bed and Juliette, gloriously naked, was drawing him toward her.

“Make love to me, Stewart.”

Her hands tugged at his coat, his shirt, his cravat.

“Hurry, Stewart!”

Her touch, her voice, so urgent and loving, broke down the last wall of reserve. He no longer tried to resist but helped as best he could to shed his clothing. He felt alive, as he hadn’t felt in weeks.

And he wanted her. Wanted her now. Wanted her forever.

“I don’t know how you got rid of John,” he said breathlessly while struggling with the buttons on his pantaloons. “But, maybe, next time you’ll think twice about sending him away before I’m undressed. I may have to make love to you with my blasted boots on.”

Reluctantly, Clive loosened his tight hold and stepped back from Elizabeth. He had seen Symes peek into the Great Hall and discreetly shut the door to the north wing again. Symes could be trusted not to spread it about that the master was kissing Miss Gore-Langton, but any moment a footman might enter the hall from one of the passages.

He had meant to claim one kiss, but no sooner had her arms wrapped around his neck and her mouth offered itself so provocatively than resolve was vanquished by desire. He had kissed her again and again until her mouth was soft and yielding and as hungry for his touch as he was for hers.

“Elizabeth.”

He gazed into her eyes, darkened and hazed with the desire he had aroused. His power thrilled and humbled him; it stirred a protective instinct he had long believed dead.

“Elizabeth, we must be sensible.”

Her eyes cleared. She unclasped her hands from his neck and took a step back.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I was sensible for a very long time. But something happened to me when I arrived here. Ever since, I have had very few sensible thoughts in my head. And do you know, the strange thing is that I will find it a dead bore to return to my old ways.”

“Is that an invitation to kiss you again?”

The smile deepened. “Yes.”

Once more he crushed her to his breast, tasted again the sweetness of her lips.

He straightened. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs caressing the corners of her mouth. “This is madness, Elizabeth. If you won’t use common sense, I must.”