Gift-Wrapped Governess (23 page)

‘Your clothes are soaking. You must let me escort you back to the Hall,' Regan said.

Lady Lucinda shook her head. ‘No, no, I will be perfectly all right on my own.'

‘Are you injured?' Gabriel asked. ‘Where does it hurt?'

‘Nowhere!' Lady Lucinda said vehemently, unable, for the life of her, to think how to politely make reference to her bottom, which was throbbing painfully.

‘Let me come with you, Lady Lucy,' Portia said. ‘Then we can work on—on that thing,' she said with a conspiratorial look.

To this offer, Lady Lucinda smiled her grateful assent. Regan, telling herself she was being very silly, tried valiantly not to show the little spurt of jealousy caused by the worshipful gaze her sister cast her ladyship as the pair, with their heads together, walked slowly back up the path towards the Hall.

‘The fickleness of youth,' Gabriel said. ‘You must not blame the child.'

Regan smiled wanly. ‘Oh, dear, was it that obvious? Of course I don't blame her, Lady Lucinda is so pretty and so gentle with her.'

‘And you, of course, are neither of those things, are you?' Gabriel said mockingly, as he led her back out onto the ice. ‘You know, if you would take my arm properly, we would make better progress.'

She knew as she allowed herself to be pulled closer that it was a mistake, but she could not resist. Gabriel's arm rested on her waist. His other hand held hers. In this fashion they made two circuits, their skates making a clacking sound on the ice. Land's laughter echoed over the lake. Lady Olivia and the two boys had retired to the pavilion and were drinking hot chocolate. Tiny flakes of snow began to fall, like a sparkling gauze curtain. Gabriel pulled her closer. She could feel his breath on her cheek. His hip pressing against hers.
His thigh, too. Wherever they touched, she tingled. She had to work hard not to allow her head to drift onto his shoulder. In the hush caused by the falling snow, they felt quite alone, cocooned in their own silent, snowy world.

‘It's like being in a fairy tale,' Regan whispered.

‘I wish we were,' Gabriel said enigmatically. There was snow on Regan's lashes, for it was falling more heavily now. Her cheeks were flushed with the cold and the skating. They could hardly see the other side. At the farthest part of the lake from the pavilion he brought them both to a halt in the shelter of a cluster of trees. ‘Look at it, Regan. The world looks magical, doesn't it, with everything blanketed in snow? A fairy tale, you say. Well, I wish someone could wave a magic wand and make some sort of happy ever after out of this situation, for I cannot.'

‘Gabriel!'

‘I cannot pretend that I do not find your company, and that of the children, captivating.' His mouth quirked into a little half smile that melted Regan's heart. ‘In your case, much more than merely captivating. But I cannot change who I am, Regan. This thing, this attraction between us, it will pass. It will fade in time, become a memory, a very pleasant memory, but nothing more. It must. It has to, there is no other choice.'

‘Gabriel, there is no need…'

‘There is every need, dammit! I know what I must do and yet I find it almost impossible to act on it. Why cannot I take the first step and choose a wife? Regan, there are times—when I look at you—it's like a madness. I want you, I burn for you, I desire you passionately. I cannot stop thinking about you. It makes no sense.'

‘Oh, Gabriel…'

‘I know, I know I should not say such things. When I am not with you, I can persuade myself that I will follow the course I have set, but when we are alone together like this, that self-same course seems unutterably wrong. I am tormented.
Why is that, Regan? What the devil is it that's happening between us? Do you feel it, too?'

Shock, not only at his words, but at the way he looked, the tortured tone of his voice, was making her icy cold. For a fraction of a second, the time it took for a snowflake to melt on his cheek, she allowed herself to hope. But she knew him too well to allow it to take root. ‘Gabriel,' she said gently, taking his hand, ‘it makes no difference how I feel. You've said it yourself, it changes nothing.'

‘I know. And I know I have not the right to ask you, but it matters all the same.'

He clutched her hands in his. His look was so full of the yearning that she herself had been feeling, he was so bewildered, and so desperate, that Regan could not deny him this little comfort. ‘Oh, God, Gabriel, of course I feel the same, but…'

‘Do you? Do you dream? And want and need, as I do?'

‘Yes.'

He kissed her cheeks. Her hair. He kissed her eyes. The tip of her nose. ‘Do you burn from it? Is it like a fever in your blood?'

‘Yes. No. Yes. Gabriel—'

But his kiss put a halt to her flow of words. A fevered kiss, all cold skin and warm lips, gloved hands frustrated by layers of clothes. It was too much and not nearly enough.

A voice made them spring apart. Land's voice. The sound of his skates as he approached must have been muffled by the heavy snow. He was beside them before they were quite disentangled.

‘Lady Olivia sent me to look for you,' he said, looking anxiously from one to the other. ‘She was worried some mishap had befallen you.'

And she was right to be worried
, Regan thought abjectly,
for a grievous mishap was indeed just about to befall us.
Racked with guilt, shaken by desire, utterly and completely
confused beyond thinking, she took her brother's hand. ‘My s-skate,' she stammered. ‘It had become caught in my gown. Gabriel was helping me untangle it.'

‘Come and have some hot chocolate,' Land said. ‘It warms your tummy up and it's quite delicious.'

‘Then we must go and have some directly.' Keeping up a stream of inane chatter, Regan skated back across the ice with Land, leaving Gabriel to find his own way, wondering morosely if he ever would, ever again.

A
lone, Gabriel skated in ever faster circles as the snow fell in a heavy cloak of thick white flakes. The blades of his skates sparked on the ice, his coat tails flew out behind him, but his brain grew ever more tangled as he sought to clear a path through the morass of feelings that were swamping him. Only two weeks ago, everything had seemed so clear. An estate finally free of debts. Time to secure his future. Stability. A wife. A child. A family.

He dug his blade into the ice, gouging out a deep rut, and came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the lake. He wanted a family, not just an heir, a family to drive out all the bitter memories of his own childhood and replace them with happy ones. He'd assumed that would be enough. He'd thought that it would make him happy. Until Regan came along and asked him if that really would be sufficient.

And what of your happiness?
Dammit, her questions had sown some very unwelcome seeds of doubt.
You will be a husband before you are a father
, she had pointed out. He could not imagine being a husband. Not to any of the Three Graces. He did not want to make love to any one of them. He wanted to make love to Regan. That would make him happy.

‘Temporarily, perhaps,' he said to himself as he stripped off his skates, ‘but it would inevitably pass. And there is the single salient fact that I cannot love her and she would settle for nothing less.'

Logic. It had always seemed so incontrovertible before. But as he made his way back to the Hall to assist with the preparations for Christmas, Gabriel could not stop a nagging voice in his head asking the same question over and over again:
What if you are wrong?

 

The Yule log arrived that afternoon. The trunk of a huge oak tree was brought to the Hall along the now snow-covered drive on a specially made sled with metal runners. It was drawn by two cart horses and escorted by a small army of estate workers. Portia, Land and Jack danced excitedly behind the sled in the company of a swarm of other children, all waving branches of mistletoe. Watching from the shelter of the portcullis, a lump lodged in Regan's throat as she remembered herself and Gabriel doing the same thing, with Papa at the head of the team of horses.

As the log was lifted from the sled by a group of the burliest estate workers and carried carefully into the long gallery before being placed on the huge hearth, a silence descended and all eyes fell on Gabriel. Though he wore only a plain frockcoat and his customary buckskins with top boots, he had an air of authority about him that made him stand out from the crowd. He gave a brief, witty vote of thanks. Admiration and respect emanated from the throng, Regan noted with something akin to pride, as well as affection. Even the Duchess looked as if a smile might just crack her glacial demeanour, until Gabriel produced not one but three spills, and beckoned forwards Portia, Land and Jack, and the Duchess's face froze into an even deeper-than-usual expression of disapproval. Oblivious, thrilled to the point of stupefaction, the three children carefully lit their spills from the candle
Gabriel proffered and, in turn, used the spills to light the kindling made from the remnants of last year's log.

As Portia threw her arms around Gabriel and unselfconsciously planted a kiss on his cheek, a cheer arose and Regan dabbed frantically at her eyes, noticing that Mrs McGlone, presiding over the long trestle table of plum cake and Derby cheese, also seemed to have something in her eye. Gabriel took position behind the huge bowl of wassail punch and Regan went to assist the housekeeper with serving the food.

‘Lighting the Yule log,' Mrs McGlone said. ‘It must have done your heart good to see the little ones given such an honour. His Grace has a way with them, doesn't he? Who'd have thought it, when you remember what he was like when you first arrived not two weeks past?'

Regan smiled wistfully, but the many mouths demanding cake and cheese prevented her from replying. She was surprised to see Lady Sarah making her way over, even more surprised by her offer to help, for her ladyship, while perfectly polite, had never made any effort to cultivate her company. Her motives, Regan realised quickly, were not to aid, but to impress.

‘The Duchess has told me how important it is to understand every domestic detail when it comes to running an estate like Blairmore,' Lady Sarah informed her in her most condescending tone.

Regan grimaced. Gabriel might not yet have made up his mind, but it seemed the Duchess had a firm favourite. She could not like Lady Sarah. She did not like to think of Gabriel spending his life with such a cold fish. She stopped in the middle of cutting a slice of cheese. She did not want to think of Gabriel married to anyone. Realisation struck her with almost sickening clarity. She didn't want to think of Gabriel married to anyone else because…

‘Oh, dear,' Mrs McGlone said. ‘Best get that attended to, Miss Stuart.'

Regan looked down in surprise at the blood dripping down her finger, which she had managed to slice with the cheese wire.

‘Go on, now,' Mrs McGlone said, giving her a little push.

In something close to a trance, Regan wrapped a kerchief round her finger before making her way through the gathering crowding the length of the long gallery, walking quickly along the dark, narrow corridor that led to the children's wing, her heart beating like a trapped bird. Once safely inside her own bedchamber, she leaned back against the heavy door and closed her eyes. There was simply no escaping it or denying it.

She dragged herself over to the window seat and stared out through the ancient flawed glass. The snow was a thick carpet of white now, the trees frosted. She was in love with Gabriel! How had that happened? How could she have been so incredibly foolish as to allow that to happen?

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It didn't matter. She loved him. He was her heart's desire. He always had been. She loved him. She loved him. She had always loved him. For a few precious moments, she hugged the knowledge close, letting it heat her. No wonder she craved his kisses. No wonder she yearned and longed and dreamed. No wonder she felt this urgent need to be with him, just to be with him, always. She loved him. Deeply. Completely. Passionately. With a desire which could too easily burn out of control.

She clutched her hands to her breast, feeling the erratic beat of her heart. She loved him so much. The tiny curl of a smile faded, and tears burned in her eyes as reality crept stealthily back, because no matter how much she loved him, it was pointless. He wanted her. He desired her, he had said so, but he did not love her. Would not love her. Could not love her. Duty, and a deep-rooted resistance to love, led him down a path he was set upon keeping to, regardless of his doubts.
No matter what he felt for her, he would never marry her. A steward's daughter, with no dowry, no accomplishments and three very real encumbrances. Never.

A soft knock on the door interrupted these miserable thoughts. Regan hastily wiped her eyes.

It was Portia. ‘Gabriel was worried,' she said, ‘he asked me to come and check on you.'

Regan sniffed. ‘I'm fine, darling, honestly.'

‘You're crying. Are you sad like Gabriel?'

‘Gabriel?'

‘Land was just saying that he wished we didn't have to go home so soon after Christmas and Gabriel got a bit angry and said he didn't want to talk about that, which wasn't like him because even though we all thought he was scary when we first came here we like him now, lots, and anyway, then he sort of got sad and looked a bit like you do now and then Jack gave him a hug and asked him if he was better now and Gabriel said yes, thank you very much, and then he noticed you'd gone and that's when he asked me to come and find you.'

‘I'm not sad, I promise,' Regan said, torn between laughter and tears. ‘I just cut my finger, that's all.'

‘Let me look.' Portia carefully unwrapped the sticky kerchief and tutted. Her little mouth was pursed, her eyes concerned as she examined the wound, which had already stopped bleeding. ‘It should be cleaned,' she said firmly.

Watching her bustle over to the washstand, the concentration on her pretty features as she washed away the dried blood, Regan felt the tears rising in her eyes again. ‘It's nothing, Portia dear,' she said with a watery smile. ‘It doesn't hurt, it's just you look so serious and grown-up when you concentrate like that.'

‘I am grown-up, nearly,' Portia said. ‘Lady Lucy says I set the neatest stitch she's ever seen. There, that is nice and clean now. Shall I bandage it?'

‘No, thank you, Portia.' Regan kissed her sister's cheek and pulled her down onto the window seat beside her. ‘I thought Lady Lucinda was teaching you to paint. Have you been sewing samplers, too?'

‘Sort of,' Portia said, tugging at the sash of her dress. ‘I can't tell you. It's a secret. You'll find out on Christmas Eve.'

‘I shall look forward to that. Mrs McGlone tells me she's boiling the king of puddings tomorrow for the Christmas Eve party.'

‘Yes. We're to help stir in the token for the King of Fools. It's a gold sovereign. There should really be a Queen of Fools too, I suppose.'

Following her sister back to the long gallery, Regan thought, with a sad smile, that perhaps there already was.

 

Regan had claimed a headache in order to avoid dinner, afraid to face Gabriel while her love was so new and so raw, anxious to protect its fragile nature from harsh reality. The first part of the night she had spent foolishly dreaming herself a duchess, the second she spent chastising herself for being so foolish. Dark shadows, heavy eyes and a very real headache made her eschew the pudding-stirring ceremony next day, but she knew that hiding away would eventually elicit comment. She knew, too, that, painful as it was to see Gabriel, it would be infinitely more painful not to. Consequently, she donned a bright smile and joined the others for the traditional mistletoe hanging.

A huge pile of the vibrant green branches with their tiny white berries sat in the banqueting hall, delivered that morning. All week garlands made of holly, bay, laurel and rosemary had been hung over mantels, woven around staircases and even draped over the suits of armour and Roman busts that lined the long gallery. The mistletoe was already tied into bunches, ready to be hung in doorways and alcoves. Children and ladies together selected places for it to hang, estate car
penters trailing in their wake with hammers and ladders. The Hall rang with the clatter of nails and running feet and stifled giggles as footmen snatched kisses from unwary maids.

Disappointed to note that Gabriel was not present, Regan wandered off by herself to one of the turrets, which sat above the kitchens. It was used for storage, for the heat from the ovens, which were burning full blast in preparation for the Yule party, filtered up through the old boards and the open fireplaces. This was the room that she had described to Portia, but it seemed that, in all the excitement, they had both quite forgotten about its existence. Until now. Regan smiled. This had always been a magical place, a veritable paradise for a little girl who adored dressing up.

She closed the door behind her and lifted the dusty lid of a chest. Dresses, just exactly as she remembered them: rich brocades, heavy damask, the skirts full, stiff with whalebone, the bodices ornately embroidered, strewn with seed pearls and semi-precious stones. Dresses that were fifty, a hundred, years old. In another chest farthingales and hoops, panniers and corsets, which made her own stays look decidedly flimsy. In yet another, capes and gloves and tippets, ruffs and feathers.

Quickly unlacing her own robe, Regan slipped in and out of one beautiful gown after another, until she could resist no longer, and, with shaking fingers, opened the
special
chest. It was still there, still wrapped in silk, looking every bit as richly alluring as it had all those years ago, the red-velvet cloak with its fur trimming. Clad only in her chemise, Regan wrapped it around her, shivering with delight at the caress of the fur on her bare skin. The cloak, obviously made for some grand affair of state, no longer swamped her, but still trailed out behind her onto the floor as she stood on a small table the better to admire herself in the mottled mirror above the mantel. So engrossed was she in admiring its regal glory that when the door opened, she jumped.

‘Gabriel!'

He paused on the threshold, taken by surprise at the vision of her, clad in velvet and fur. Clad in very little else. She had taken the pins out of her hair, for some reason. It tumbled over the cloak, its fiery lights putting the crimson velvet to shame. His mouth went dry. She looked delectable.

‘I'm sorry, I was just—I didn't expect…' Gabriel closed the door. ‘You've been avoiding me.'

She was still standing on the table, like some beautiful statue come to life. ‘I thought it best, given the circumstances,' she said.

He put his arms around her waist and lifted her down. The cloak fell open. Regan tried to pull it back, horribly aware of her state of undress, but Gabriel caught her hands and pulled her to him. Her breasts brushed against his chest. She shivered.

‘It's a coronation cloak, I think. The Blairmores like their pomp and ceremony. No doubt whichever Duchess it belonged to wore it over a gown of cloth of gold. I think I prefer your less formal style.'

‘It suits my less formal status,' Regan said with a sad smile. ‘The steward's daughter playing dress up.'

Gabriel flinched. ‘Regan, you know—'

‘Don't, Gabriel. I don't want pity, I'm just stating facts. Besides, we commoners have one big advantage over you aristocrats, you know. We can marry to suit ourselves.'

‘For love.'

‘Or not. Marry, I mean. I doubt I will. I know you must. There is no need for us to go over it all again, Gabriel, if that's what you came here for.'

‘I came here because I can't seem to keep away,' Gabriel said. ‘No matter how many times I resolve to do so. I came here because I thought…' His smile was twisted as he pulled the sprig of mistletoe out of his pocket. ‘One last kiss, I thought. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. It has long been my
intention to announce my betrothal at the Yule party.' He dropped the mistletoe to the ground. ‘One last kiss. A damned stupid notion. It would never be enough. I would rather starve than taste what I cannot have. I would rather cut my tongue out than make you promises I cannot keep.' He stroked the long silken fall of her hair. ‘Please don't avoid me, Regan. You will be gone soon enough and then there will be a lifetime of forced avoidance to look forward to.'