Regency Christmas Gifts (25 page)

“
Miles,” Lucy said, “must I thrash
you?”

“
Like to see you try,” he teased,
all exhaustion gone from his voice. She could tell he was hugely
enjoying this bit of Danforth drama. “Here I go. I will finish it.
‘… for weeks. Jemmy just asked me why on earth I was marrying
that old toady and not him. I didn’t have a good answer.” He held
the page closer, “ ‘He is a graded tosser!’ That can’t be. Oh!
Oh! ‘He is a great kisser!’ We’ll be home soon. Happy Christmas and
love from both of us. Clotilde.’ ” He folded the note and laid
it in Papa’s lap. “He simply asked Clotilde. My hat’s off to Jemmy
Next Door. Better tell me, Lucinda: is he a suitable
match?”

“
Oh, my yes,” she said. “He’s steady
and hardworking, and worth a bit of money himself. And he’s right
next door.”

Miles was laughing again, except he had his
overcoat off now and his neckcloth loosened. He held out his arm to
her, and she resumed that comfortable spot where she fit so
well.

She closed her eyes, so grateful to Jemmy Petry
for working up his nerve. He was the perfect husband for her
flibbertigibbet sister who had no more than two or three brain
cells, but an ocean of kindness and love to make up for it. Even
better, Clotilde would be living right next door to
Papa.

Drowsy now, she listened as Miles told her
father about the less-than-wealthy Lord Masterton, who was more of
a fortune hunter than anyone knew, except his banker. Papa set
aside his dark brew.

“
This is good news, indeed, Miles.
We’ve probably been saved from ruin by an ugly customer. Heaven
knows my dear wife had all the intelligence in the family. She’d
have seen him for what he was right away.” He shook his head, and
his voice broke. “By the eternal, I miss her.”

So it turned out that Miles had another arm
available for his cousin Roscoe Danforth. Papa sniffed a bit, blew
his nose, and managed a watery chuckle. “By George but this will
make a good story to tell around the district,” he said.

Papa sat up, as reality surfaced. “Lucy, we
have to write a lot of letters tomorrow. Clotilde’s nonexistent
wedding is in two days—Christmas Eve!—and we need to warn everyone
away.”

“
Or we could just have a really fine
party,” she said. “There’s so much food, and a cake, too. I do love
cake.”

“
We could do that,” Papa said. “Why
not?”

“
I have a better idea,” Miles said.
He tightened his grip on Lucy’s shoulder, then moved his arm down
her back until his hand rested on her waistband, comforting her and
teasing her at the same time. “Lucinda, I can do one of two things.
You know I’m headed back to Oxford as soon as the wedding is
over.”

“
Don’t remind me,” she whispered,
her voice small. She took a ragged breath, then decided to try out
her future brother-in-law’s remedy for cardiac distress. What could
it hurt to take a page from Jemmy Petry’s book? It would be aye or
nay. She could just ask.

“
I’m not certain when it happened,
Miles, but I love you.”

“
I know you do,” he said, but he
sounded unsure of himself.

“
Even more than as a cousin,” she
continued doggedly. Might as well play this out to the end and
leave herself no doubt. “So much more. I … I wish you would
marry me. I know I’m not supposed to ask, but ….”

She turned to face him, her hand on his chest
now, her eyes on his. “I am so happy that Papa invited you to come
to Tidwell and help us out.”

He smiled then, a smile so huge that she could
see it, even in the darkness of the library, lit only by a
struggling fire in the hearth. “He didn’t invite me, Lucinda.” He
tapped her nose in that silly way again. “I invited
myself
.
I wanted to see you. I
had
to see you.” He took her hands
then. “Not sure when all this started. I mean, all I was doing the
last few weeks of the Michaelmas Term was sitting in my carrel and
doodling your name in the margins of expensive books.”

She gasped and kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed her. However it happened,
she knew she wanted to kiss him lots more, maybe for years. And
then she was clasped in his arms, and he was saying silly things
that no one at Christ Church College would ever imagine could pass
the lips of a double first scholar.

Only a mighty clearing of her father’s throat
brought them up for air. “Should I sit between you two lovebirds?”
he asked, sounding like Papa again.

“
Only if you want me to call you
out, Cousin, or Father-in-Law, or both, I suppose. What will our
marriage—oh, that sounds good—do to future genealogists, I
wonder?”

“
Nothing, my lad. It’s quite legal,
as you well know. You could be first cousins, and it would still be
legal.” Papa sighed. “I just wish Mama were here to savor the
moment.”

“
She probably knows, Papa,” Lucy
said, from the depths of Miles’s generous embrace. “My goodness.
She would be way ahead of us and wondering about crying
banns …. Oh, bother! We have to wait three weeks! I can’t. I
love this man.” She giggled. “I’m sounding like
Clotilde.”

“
No, you’re not. You sound like a
woman in love. We only have to wait until tomorrow,” Miles said. He
sat up enough to reach inside his coat pocket. “Why did you think I
was late this morning? A quick visit to chancery court bought me a
special license.” He took a deep breath, and suddenly looked so
young, even a bit unsure of himself. “I had to take the chance,
same as you just did.” He grinned at her. “You were just a bit
braver than I was.”

“
Sort of like Jemmy Petry next
door?” she asked, teasing him, because he was still going to be
Miles, the cousin she had loved and teased for years.

“
Jemmy’s kind of love must be
contagious, Lucinda.” Another deep breath. “I intend to take my
wife—my, that also sounds good—my
wife
back to Oxford, where
I have quite a nice home all ready for her.”

“
Don’t you live on the quad at
Christ Church?” she asked.

He kissed the top of her head and must have
liked it, because he did it again. “I did until about a month ago,
when for some inexplicable reason, I bought a house.”

“
Miles, you amaze me,” she
said.

“
Me, too.” He patted her hip and
must have liked that, too, because he did it again.

“
In three weeks we’ll be starting
the Hilary Term, and I can’t be late.”

Lucy sat up. He tugged her back down. “How long
have you been planning this, my love?” she asked, trying out the
words and finding them entirely compatible with the way she
felt.

“
I’ve known you eighteen years,” he
said. “This last year, I’ve noted how greatly improved you have
become, over the previous seventeen, up to and including my doodles
in the Bodleian. More likely,
I
have improved. I suspect you
were always wonderful. What about you?”

She thought the matter through. “Blame your
mother. Vivian told me that being in love was almost an
uncomfortable feeling, when the man you love was farther away than
the next room.” She kissed his cheek. “She was right. The idea of
you in Oxford and me in Tidwell ….” She hesitated, barely able
to continue. “I couldn’t bear it, so I had to … propose to
you.” She laughed, then felt her face go warm. “You have my
permission to tell our children someday that you proposed
first.”

“
I’ll do it.” Miles kissed her, then
he cupped her face in his hands, his expression more serious. “My
love, I still want to become a diplomatist. That means strange
places and bigger cities than little Tidwell. I know you prefer the
quiet life.”

She kissed his cheek and then his lips, because
there they were, and she was never one to waste anything. “If you
are by my side, I have no fear.”

“
I’m not certain I deserve such
praise,” he said, his voice subdued. “I intend to spend my life,
our lives, earning it.”

He laughed softly, smoothing over the solemnity
because he was Miles. “And a Happy Christmas this has become. With
Lord Masterton gone, we are at leave to sing all the loud carols we
want, and drink wassail until we’re tiddly. What did you tell
Honoré you wanted?”

“
Toasted cheese, wassail, and you
alone,” she said promptly. “Will anyone mind?”

Miles looked around elaborately. “Any
dissenters? I hear no objections. If there are any, the cheese and
wassail will keep until Oxford. I may not have much in the way of
cooking utensils yet, but I have a long-handled fork.”

They laughed together. Lucy leaned her head
against Miles’s shoulder. “I have another thought.” She sat up, and
Miles gently pushed her back. “Miles, do you have a housekeeper
yet?”

“
I barely have a house, and I
already told you about the long-handled fork. That roughly
constitutes my domestic property.”

“
It’s this: why not ask Mrs.
Lonnigan to do the honors? And Mary Rose could work with the
cook.”

“
When we get a cook,” Miles told
her. He picked up her hand and kissed it. “You are brilliant, my
love. We’ll ask them tomorrow.” He glanced over at Lucy’s father.
“Cousin Roscoe, maybe we’ll kidnap Honoré.”

Papa glared at Miles. “Do it and I will call
you out.” He giggled, then hiccupped. “Twenty paces with those
long-handled forks.”

“
Oh, Papa,” Lucy said. “Miles only
has one fork.”

“
We’ll have to take turns killing
each other,” Miles teased. “Honoré is safe. For a while, anyway.
Dear Cousin Roscoe, go to bed.”

Papa staggered to his feet. “I’ll contact our
vicar tomorrow morning early,” he told them. “What do you say to a
wedding tomorrow at ten of the clock, and the party the day after
that on the twenty-fourth, as planned? I doubt you want to wait all
the way to Christmas Eve to be married. That’s a whole two
days!”

“
No, Papa, I don’t,” she agreed,
seeking for some dignity, even though Miles thought it funny.
“People will be here for the party, and we will already be
married.”

She looked at Miles, who smiled back. “You’ll
get your toasted cheese and quiet time with me alone,
Lucinda.”

Her face fell. “Miles, your parents won’t be
here if we marry tomorrow morning. We can’t do that to them. We’ll
wait.”

In answer, he pulled out his timepiece and
studied it elaborately. “They’re on their way. I expect them
sometime tomorrow morning, quite early.” He kissed her cheek.
“Believe it or not, my love, I was going to propose to you this
evening, and so I told my parents. You were faster, as it
happened.”

Suddenly shy, she turned her face into his
chest, where she felt the steady beat of his generous
heart.

Papa was just warming to the subject. “Thank
goodness you are Clotilde’s size, Lucy. Her dress will look fine on
you, and think of the economy for me. Anyone? Yoo hoo. Anyone? Did
you hear a word I said?”

“
Oh, Papa,” Lucy said, her hair a
mess because Miles seemed to enjoy running his fingers through it
while they kissed. “We are sane and sensible still.”

“
Hardly,” Miles said, after Papa
said goodnight and closed the door. “I don’t even have a ring for
you, let alone a gift.”

“
Neither do I,” she said. She
touched his dear face, a face she knew so well. “I’ll be your gift
and you will be mine. Mama would like that.”

He held her close. Together they watched the
last of the embers pop and fizzle in the fireplace. In that
curious, hallowed way, the benediction of the season spread over
them both, because Miles Bledsoe and Lucinda Danforth knew how to
keep Christmas.

* * *

A
well-known veteran of the
romance writing field,
Carla Kelly
is the author of
thirty-four novels and three non-fiction works, as well as numerous
short stories and articles for various publications. She is the
recipient of two RITA Awards from Romance Writers of America for
Best Regency of the Year; two Spur Awards from Western Writers of
America; three Whitney Awards, 2011, 2012, and 2013; and a Lifetime
Achievement Award from Romantic Times.