Mischief & Mistletoe (A Christmas Novella) (10 page)

Now I remain in a world apart

But my heart remains in captivity…

The words of her song struck a chord. He had heard them oft enough, and though she sang without melancholy, he heard his mother in her voice.

He was confused, at a crossroads.

Should he stay, or should he go?

What did he truly have to offer Emma, except for his name and a title that she probably didn’t care two whits for? It was clear to him that what she wanted was exactly what she had here… a family and a home. And it was no less than she deserved.

Glancing at the hearth, he found the crèche filled to brimming with straw—no doubt one blade each for each and every misguided deed the kids had committed against him—all for her sake. Loyal they might be, but a more nonsensical practice he’d never witnessed... cradles, and straw, and unfulfilled dreams—bah, humbug!

Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,

To God I pray to prosper thee…

He heaved a sigh, for he’d grown accustomed to finding them this way—so cozy and familiar... the way it should have been... the way it had never been for him...

The acute sense of loss plucked at him like a discordant note. Still, he watched...

She had no notion he stood there.

None of them did.

So he continued to do so in silence, in the shadows of the corridor, taking private pleasure in the melodious sound of Emma’s sweet voice... in the way she turned to smile softly at her brother’s children, who were all gathered about the pianoforte... in the way she gracefully performed the music.

He should leave now, he knew...

He should turn and walk away before anyone happened to notice he was standing there... intruding once again.

For I am still thy lover true,

Come once again and love me…

He stood entranced.

And then it was too late.

Emma turned and saw him and ended the ballad with a most unharmonious chord. Those disarming brown eyes of hers gazed at him with apprehension, and guilt overwhelmed him. Ill at ease with the silence that followed, Lucien turned his gaze to the crèche.

There he stared.

And then he did the only thing he knew to do.

He did what he should have done long before now.

He turned, at last, and walked away.

“Those two clearly love each other. In all my days I have never seen a more heartfelt glance shared between two people.”

“Cecile, my dear, there is nothing I can do to prevent him from leaving now,” Andrew told his wife, as he crawled into the bed beside her. “We’ve conspired in every possible manner, and that is that!”

His wife’s pale brows drew together. “You don’t suppose he’ll change his mind?” she asked hopefully.

Dressed to the chin in his night rail and cap, Andrew cozied up to his wife in the most scandalous fashion, playfully nibbling at her lobe.

“Andrew, my love,” she protested. “This is quite serious. If you won’t listen then I shall... I shall—” She giggled and gave a little shriek when he lapped at her neck like a dog. “I shall send you back to your own bed!” she warned, laughing. “Listen to me. Don’t do that!”

Andrew gave her a long-suffering look, and she tried not to giggle.

“We
must
do something,” she said firmly, slapping his hand when he twisted one of her little curls around his finger.

He sighed. “I am listening,” he said, resigned. Then very seriously, he looked at her and said, “Cecile, I have gone so far as to allow my only sister into a known rake’s room—upon your request, I might add. Gad! When the children came to you with their cockamamie plan, I stood by and allowed it. And then when Emma came away from there so shaken, I stilled my hand—and my tongue—when I felt like murdering the blind fool. Now I don’t know what happened in there, and I’m certain I don’t wish to know, but as far as I am concerned, we have tried our best and have managed only to fill a blasted cradle with straw.”

“But—”

He placed a finger to her lips, shushing her once and for all. “We have gone beyond the call of duty—far, far beyond! It is over.” He cupped her chin and raised her face to his, gazing at her adoringly. “I am quite moved that you care so deeply for my sister… but I do believe it is past time for the duke to go.”

Cecile sighed and shook her head. “I suppose you are right... though I did so hope. It would have been such a merry Christmas, indeed, if it had worked out the way we had planned.” She sighed. “Emma was so lovely this morn, and I thought... I thought perhaps they might talk it over.” She sighed again. “It’s all so very, very tragic!”

“But it is over,” he repeated firmly.

Cecile pouted. “Did you not see the way he looked at her tonight? If only they had more time…”

It was Andrew’s turn to sigh. “It was an uncomfortable moment at best. Nevertheless, Willyngham has informed me that he shall be departing Newgale at first light, and to that end we have returned his carriage to order. This time,” he told her inflexibly, “none of us will interfere. We must let him go. Cecile.”

Cecile gave one last sigh. “Very well,” she relented, and then she turned to nuzzle her husband’s neck. “You are quite scandalous,” she purred, “coming in to me dressed like this. Look at you! Can you imagine poor Emma having to see the duke dressed this way?”

“Gad,” he said, “but don’t remind me! Or I may have to go and kill the blackguard, after all.”

In the morning, the carriage was set to leave as Peters promised. His wheels had been returned. The driver had given a belly full of holiday victuals. Even the snow had let up, leaving clear skies for the day’s journey. But once again Lucien sat inside his carriage, contemplating the unthinkable.

Why couldn’t he go?

He sat there just a moment longer, and then alit from the carriage, straightened his coat, and marched up the front steps and rapped firmly upon the door, intending to talk to Emma.

He simply had to know.

“Miss Emma!” her maid Jane exclaimed, patting Emma’s arm none too gently. Her voice was much too bright for Emma’s liking. “Wake up!” she demanded. “’Tis Christmas Eve!”

“Noooo,” Emma wailed. “Go away.” The past few days had taken an emotional toll and she felt a bit dispirited as well. They could do without her at breakfast this morning, Christmas Eve or not.

“Oh, but Miss Emma.” Jane persisted. “You
must
get up!”

Emma groaned, and lifting the coverlet up over her ears. “I don’t want to, Jane.”

“But Miss Emma! The duke is calling for you!” Jane said, tugging the covers down once more.

Emma bolted upright in the bed.

He stood at the bottom of the stairwell, shifting uncomfortably under the watchful gazes of Andrew Peters and his inquisitive wife. All three children peeked out from the stair rails above, flattened upon their bellies in their holiday bests, as though he could not see them. Their little faces, framed by red ribbons and bowties, peered down at him. All three, no doubt, waiting to see their efforts come to fruition. God’s truth, he thought he would go mad with the wait.

“You are welcome to join us for breakfast,” Cecile offered.

Lucien fidgeted, peering up uncomfortably at the children’s curious faces.

“Thank you, but no. I simply need to speak with Emma.”

He felt like a curiosity at best, and an interloper at worst, for he realized now how very inappropriate it was to have dropped in upon their family during such a reverent occasion. Simply because they had no cause to celebrate in his own home did not mean others did not find the occasion to do so.

Hell, he ought to turn and go. Ought to walk right out the door, which stood taunting him a mere ten feet to his rear. Why he didn’t just use it, he couldn’t fathom, but he stood like an imbecile, waiting, while three pair of eyes peeped from above.

What by God was taking her so long?

His eyes were drawn upward suddenly, to the top of the stairwell, where Emma stood looking down upon him. And as he stood there gazing up at her, he knew at once why he’d remained.

God help him... much as he loathed it, he was drawn to her in a way he could never have conceived possible.

She stole his breath away.

Dressed in a bottle-green, high-necked, challis gown, she wafted down the steps like a glorious angel, while her abigail watched behind her, hands clasped with ill-suppressed glee. He’d asked that she dress warmly, and she held in her hand a matching mantle, richly trimmed with white ermine. She looked stunning, with her strawberry-blond hair parted to fall in gentle ringlets on either side of her face—a vision to be certain.

He swore beneath his breath, for in all his days he’d never been so profoundly affected by the sight of a woman and with the memory of yesterday’s kiss, he burned.

He hadn’t been able to erase the taste of her from his lips, or the sound of her soft moans from his head.

He cleared his throat, shifting uneasily under everyone’s scrutiny. “Miss Peters,” he said a little hoarsely, and then cast an awkward glance at his unwelcome audience. “I thought... perhaps… you might join me for a bit of air this morning?”

Emma’s brows furrowed at his request. “A bit of air?”

She felt a bit like a ninny dressed as she was. Likely, he simply wished to say good-bye, she berated herself, and yet… there was something about his demeanor this morning that seemed wholly different. Against her better judgment, she dared to hope.

“Yes… I wish to speak with you,” he entreated.

As gracefully as she was able with unsteady limbs, Emma made her way down the steps, grasping the guardrail for support. She was fully prepared to wish him adieu with as much grace as she could summon, but Lord a-mercy, he’d never appeared more handsome than he did at the moment. It was all she could do to remind herself to breathe.

Dressed in buff-colored breeches that fit much too snugly, and a navy blue morning coat that was elegantly trimmed with gilt buttons, the sight of him made her heart skip beats. She wanted to tell him that this was entirely unnecessary, that she wished him Godspeed and a good life, and then flee to her bedroom before she could disgrace herself and burst into tears. But before she could speak and lose her nerve entirely, he started up the stairs, relieving her at once of her mantle and placing it about her shoulders. And then, almost impatiently, he drew her the rest of the way down the stairs and out the front door.

Turning to question her brother, Emma managed to catch Andrew’s shrug before the duke pulled her out the door and shut it fast.

Once again Emma opened her mouth to assure him that she would be fine—that they could dispense with the formalities—but he preempted her by asking, “Have I told you how lovely you are?”

Evidence of the startling question hung like frost in the air between them.

Emma blinked and then belatedly shook her head. Realizing he’d yet to release her hand. His smoky blue eyes followed the direction of her gaze, and her heart tumbled as he threaded his fingers through hers and then cradled her hand in his. “May I?” he entreated.

“Your Grace,” Emma protested, chagrined. If he meant only to comfort her, she really couldn’t bear it. “This isn’t necessary.”

His eyes danced with devilment. “Ah but it is,” he countered and then he began walking toward the cliffs, leading her away from the house.

The sun shone brightly upon a fresh blanket of snow. The wind, for once, like the breaths she held, seemed to still. Snowflakes fell upon her lashes and she blinked them away. They were walking toward the very spot where her heart had once been crushed and all her hopes had been dashed. Why would he take her there?

“Really,” Emma said, trying to keep up with his long strides, confused and horrified by the prospect of having her hopes dashed yet again—on Christmas Eve of all days! “This is quite unnecessary—” She gasped as he squeezed her hand possessively and drew her firmly forward to walk alongside him.

“Your brother returned my carriage wheels to me this morning,” he said offhandedly, without a trace of anger. In fact, he actually grinned, flashing her a dazzling white smile. “It seems your nieces and nephew were the culprits, after all.”