Mischief & Mistletoe (A Christmas Novella) (6 page)

He had the audacity to chuckle at her back.

Emma halted and turned to face him, insulted by his mirth, only when she did, she had the sense that his laughter had been at his own expense, not hers, and she found herself once again confused.

He shook his head, as though in self-disgust. “Do I frighten you so much you must rush to leave every time you find yourself in my presence?”

Emma lifted her chin. “Frightened,
Your Grace
? I think not.” She shook her head. “I simply have nothing left to say to you.”

He advanced upon her suddenly, and she took a step backward. “No?”

“N-no,” she affirmed, though she wasn’t precisely certain whether it was in answer to his question or a desperate plea that he keep his distance.

“You’ve changed,” he acknowledged, taking another step toward her.

“And you haven’t,” she returned, withdrawing another foot.

He shook his head as though in puzzlement and said as though bemused, “I don’t remember you being so impertinent.”

“What did you expect? That I should lie down and weep for the rest of my days simply because you chose not to honor our betrothal? Well, sirrah, I am heartily sorry to disappoint, but I will not!”

He shook his head again. “To the contrary... although you may find this difficult to believe, I’m quite pleased. I never intended to wound you, Emma.”

Emma flinched at his intimate use of her name. His voice was soft—too soft—reminding her of the danger of venturing too close to the man; he radiated warmth, but like the sun, if you happened too near, he consumed. “Well, then,
Your Grace,”
she said, far more comfortable with formality, “you may rest assured that you did not. As you can see, I am quite well, thank you very much. So now you may leave Newgale in good conscience. You are free to go,” she said again.

His face screwed suddenly, his blue eyes shadowing. “Am I?”

Emma didn’t fool herself into believing he actually regretted what had come to pass between them. If his life was in disorder it was certainly no concern of hers. Nor was it any less then he deserved. “Of course,” she assured.

He took another step closer, his smoky eyes boring into hers. “I take it that you are ultimately pleased with the outcome?”

Pleased?

Emma nearly choked on the word. “Delighted,” she replied. And unable to bear the sight of him a second longer, she swallowed and once again turned to leave him. “Now if you will excuse me,
Your Grace.”

To her shock, Lucien caught her by the sleeve, and Emma flinched at his touch, yet turned once more to face him, though the instant she peered into his tortured eyes she wished she hadn’t. They were so filled with concern for her that she thought she might truly weep.

She couldn’t bear his pity.

“Please tell me why you seem so aggrieved,” he entreated. “Tell me why you cannot bear even to look at me.”

Her hands began to tremble and her eyes misted. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. But I am
not
aggrieved,” she denied fervently. “If anything, I am quite angry, you see.”

“Because of the broken betrothal?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I have already said quite enough.”

His blue eyes challenged her. “Tell me once more, Emma,” he demanded softly.

The sound of her name upon his lips again sent a quiver racing down her spine. Freeing herself from his grasp, Emma said a little hysterically, “Because you don’t belong here, and you shouldn’t have come!”

His brows lifted a little at her declaration. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he remarked, nodding. “Very well, Emma.” He sighed and some unnamed emotion flickered in the depth of his eyes. For the briefest instant, Emma thought she saw again that same wounded look that had once made her so willing to love him. But she didn’t fool herself into believing it this time. The duke was no more wounded than he was compassionate. If anything, he was feeling guilty for what he was about to do to her life—and not without cause. She swallowed convulsively, loathing that she was trying so desperately to release him from his guilt, when he well deserved to feel remorse—and more. The ton would have a time with the news of her broken betrothal. She couldn’t imagine the speculation—the cruel jokes at her expense. Still, she proposed, “You owe me nothing, Your Grace. Now if you will only pardon me at long last, I wish you Godspeed and a good life.”

Lucien nodded, releasing her finally.

“Godspeed,” she offered once again, more firmly this time, nearly choking on the word, and then she turned from him and left.

“Farewell, Emma,” he said.

Emma didn’t turn again, nor did she stop until she reached her room. The finality of that single word pursued her all the way through the house.

Once within her bedroom, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it, straining to catch her breath. God help her, she had done it. She had well and truly done it. She’d said good-bye and had meant it with all her heart and soul. She’d freed him, and had still managed to retain her dignity. Later, perhaps, dignity alone might seem a cold bedfellow, but this minute it seemed like all the world. It was something to build upon, she knew... and perchance all was not lost.

It was not unheard of to find a husband at twenty two, she told herself. And she had her dowry still. Quite a neat little sum it was, and if the scandal to come did not ruin her entirely, then perhaps one day she would still find that dream she so craved—a husband who loved her and children she adored.

Someday, but for now she was content to simply hold her dignity intact.

Without it, she might as well lie down and weep. And weeping was something she refused to do.

Nevertheless, she was feeling quite bereft at the instant, and her heart felt tattered besides. Her eyes stinging with tears she would not shed, Emma undressed for bed and then lay down to count her blessings. She fell asleep with visions of Lucien dancing in her head.

“What the devil do you mean nothing to be done!”

Hearing the angry bellow coming from the library, Emma froze where she stood. Her first impulse was to turn and flee, but curiosity got the better of her.

She’d come downstairs this morning, intending to ask Andrew precisely what had possessed him to allow Lucien Morgen to remain at Newgale, especially after she’d made her own wishes perfectly clear. Nor had she thought the duke any less eager to leave, and yet here he remained, and she heartily suspected Andrew to be at the root of it all. It seemed as though the duke may have suspected the same, for at the moment, they sounded at daggers drawn.

The duke’s voice boomed even through closed doors. Emma flinched at the fury of it. “You can find those bloody carriage wheels is what you can do!”

In contrast, Andrew’s reply was quite calm, muffled a bit, but Emma could make it out well enough to discern that it was an apology of some sort. Something about the strangest theft he had ever encountered... didn’t know how they’d managed to steal them all.

There were no thieves here in Newgale. Barely anyone but modest locals in town, this was not a place where brigands lay in wait.

Fairly dying with curiosity, Emma placed her ear to the door and overheard, “Blast it, Peters. This reeks of a hum! Who the devil would snatch four carriage wheels and leave pure blood Arabians in their stead?”

“Demme, if I know,” she heard Andrew mumble. And then, “Don’t look at me, Willyngham. Confounded heathens took mine, as well.”

“I want those bloody wheels!” she heard the duke roar, and then someone slammed something—the desk, she imagined—with such rage that the doorframe vibrated.

“How do you propose I do that? I’ve no notion where to be—”

“I don’t give a damn how!” There was a moment of taut silence, and then the duke demanded, “Just do it!”

His shouting was so near the door suddenly that Emma panicked at the sound of it. Suppressing a mortified shriek at the thought of being discovered eavesdropping, she flung herself away from the door and dashed down the corridor, hurrying toward the drawing room. To her immense relief, she slipped inside and out of view within an ace of being discovered, only to startle three eavesdropping children.

As she entered, all three scattered, squawking in surprise. She let out a cry of her own and opened her mouth to speak, but in that instant the library door opened and slammed shut, and her face heated profusely.

“Well,” she said low, eyeing all three suspiciously, but she could say nothing more. How could she reprimand them for eavesdropping when she was as guilty of the same?

“We din’t do it, Aunt Em,” Jonathon said, his eyes wide with fright. Lettie elbowed him at once and he looked at her guiltily. “Oh,” he said softly.

“What sort thing did you not do?” Emma asked, straightening the folds of her skirts as she entered the drawing room. She cast a nervous backward glance at the door.

“Oh... just nothing,” Jon answered in a small little voice, looking guiltier every instant. He peered down at his feet suddenly. His socks were muddy.

Emma inspected his sisters as well. Their shoes were muddy too, and with a fresh dusting of snow on the ground, there was only one place they would have acquired such a bit of muck: in the stables.

“We were merely admiring the new crèche, Aunt Em,” Samantha offered sweetly, giving her little brother a nudge.

Emma’s brow lifted. “From the door?” she asked dubiously.

Samantha considered that an instant and then admitted with a shrug, “Well, we did hear the duke shouting,” she said matter-of-factly.

Emma’s face burned a little hotter. “Yes, well... so did I,” she confessed. “It seems someone has robbed him of his means of escap—er departure,” she explained, watching them and noting all three fidgeted at the news.

“Did you see the crèche, Aunt Em?” Lettie asked suddenly, conveniently changing the topic.

Samantha perked up. “Oh, yes—isn’t it grand?” she added quickly, giving her sister a well-done nod.

“And it’s already half full!” Jonathon blurted excitedly.

Both his sisters elbowed him this time, one from each direction.

Emma ventured closer to examine the small wooden crib that now sat before the hearth. It was crudely constructed, but still a charming sight. Given the scarcity of time before Christmas, she imagined Andrew had troubled to build it himself, for it very much looked as though he had. “I see that it is,” she said a little warily and couldn’t help but wonder how they’d managed such a great start so early this morning.

Jonathon shifted excitedly from foot to foot. “Just like you said, Aunt Em! There’s one straw for each of us for every whee—”

With a horrified gasp, Samantha slapped a hand over her brother’s impetuous mouth. “Weeeed,” she squealed in his stead. “One for each weed.”

Emma’s brows drew together. “One for each... weed?”

Samantha nodded. “Oh, yes, Aunt Em! One blade of straw for each and every weed we pulled from mother’s herb garden. Wasn’t that a good deed?”

“Really?” Emma asked. She didn’t have the heart to remind them that they were in the midst of winter. There was no garden to speak of. And she was beginning to understand with sudden clarity the strange conversation she’d overheard outside the library door. Taking in Jonathon’s guilty expression, and the girls’ much too innocent smiles, she had a sudden insight as to what dreadful mishap had befallen the duke’s carriage wheels. Nevertheless, she also knew the children could never have accomplished such a monumental feat alone, nor were they devious enough to carry it through without help. And she knew precisely who to hold accountable. Their father, the trickster. “One for each weed, is it?” she muttered, cursing her dear brother to Jericho and back.

“Oh, yes, Aunt Em!” Samantha and Lettie replied at once, both grinning with what could be nothing more than relief. Jonathon, with Samantha’s hand still muzzling his mouth, merely glanced up at his sisters, his brows drawing together in confusion.

“Is it alright if we each put straws in if we all three helped?”

Emma tilted them a knowing look. “It took all three of you to pull a single weed?”

All three children nodded soberly.

“Well, now, don’t you think that’s a mite excessive? Besides, pulling weeds in the middle of winter may not precisely qualify as a good deed, at all,” she informed them lamentably.

“Oh, but they were very special weeds,” Lettie returned hopefully.

“And we pulled them all for a very good cause, Aunt Em,” Samantha declared.

“Is that so?” Emma relented. She couldn’t quite bring herself to believe they had actually vandalized the duke’s carriage on her behalf. The thought of it was too humiliating by half. Nevertheless, the image of them stealing carriage wheels—along with the duke’s reaction this morn—struck a humorous chord. She stifled a smile. For shame that her brother would stoop to such ends to prevent the duke from leaving Newgale. Not to mention that he should involve his precious children in such terrible misconduct. For certain, she was going to blister his ears at the first opportunity. In the meantime, it was all she could do to keep from bursting into hilarities at their guilty expressions.