The Kissing Bough (3 page)

Lucinda clapped a hand to her burning cheeks and tried to speak. “What? Why? I don’t…”

James chuckled and pointed upwards… There, above the door was the decorated branch he had hung earlier.

“I don’t understand,” she gasped, her voice sounding strange, rough and breathless.

“It’s a kissing bough. When a man and a woman meet under it, they kiss.”

“And you think that’s acceptable?” she squeaked.

“Not just acceptable, compulsory. It’s a Christmas tradition. Not to obey it would be to invite bad luck.”

“I have never heard of it,” Lucinda stated.

“Then it’s a good thing you have me to contribute to your education,” he replied.

“I don’t think my mother would think it was a good thing at all.”

“She would disapprove of this, but she approves of her daughter running around in other people’s houses in her night clothes? How extraordinary her standards of behavior must be.”

Lucinda pulled the edges of her dressing gown tighter together. She clutched her reticule in one hand, noting with some surprise that James’ assault hadn’t caused her to drop it. Not that
assault
was quite the right word. An assault implied something unpleasant, and James’ kiss had been…had been… She didn’t know what it had been but
unpleasant
was not at all the word she was looking for.

He had, however, reminded her of one salient fact. Her mother would very much disapprove of her coming downstairs alone to retrieve her reticule. If she knew she had met James she would be outraged. Lucinda wasn’t sure she had the power to describe her parents’ reaction if she knew James had kissed her.

“Don’t look so terrified,” James said. “It was only a little kiss, not the sort to destroy a well-brought up young lady’s reputation.”

“A well-brought up lady’s reputation could hardly withstand a midnight encounter with a gentleman,” she retorted.

“Perhaps I’m not a gentleman,” James said, folding his arms and leaning against the doorjamb.

She felt the blood leave her face as she became aware of how perilous her position might be.

Suddenly James pulled himself upright and stepped aside. “Then again, perhaps I am a gentleman after all. Go to bed, Lucinda.”

She hesitated, gathering the courage to move through the door with its dangerous adornment above it.

“Go quickly, Lucinda, before I change my mind.”

She picked up the trailing hem of her dressing gown, tightened her grip on her reticule and fled.

Chapter Two

Christmas morning began with a service in the family’s private chapel. Breakfast followed, where in a concession to the season, small gifts were exchanged.

Edward presented Mr. Demerham with an English translation of a Roman history and gave Mrs. Demerham a filigree workbasket.

James, whose unexpected arrival meant there were no gifts prepared for him, leaned back in the chair he had once again managed to secure next to Lucinda and watched the proceedings, chatting to her politely, as if their midnight encounter had not occurred.

Lucinda decided the wisest course was to follow suit.

“Unobjectionable,” he commented to Lucinda, as her parents unwrapped their gifts. “And also quite uninteresting. What do you suppose he will have found for you? Tatting materials perhaps?”

“Stop it.” Lucinda laughed. “You are not at all well-behaved.”

“I should hope not,” James said with a look of horror on his face. “How inexcusably dull. I leave that to my brother.”

Lucinda didn’t know how to respond. To agree would be insulting to poor, earnest Edward. To disagree would be…a lie.

She was saved from making any comment by Edward himself, who presented her with an oblong shaped parcel.

“A book,” Lucinda exclaimed. “How nice. I do so love to read.”

She tore the wrapping paper off and held it up to read the title.
Sermons for the Education and Improvement of Young Women.

Lucinda blinked. Beside her, James broke into open laughter.

“It is not a novel,” Edward hastened to assure them all. “I find them offensive, as any sensible person must.”

“Thank Lord Beaufield for his thoughtful gift,” her mother said out loud, then leaned in to say in a much quieter though far more intimidating tone. “I never thought to have your manners put me to the blush.”

Thus rebuked, Lucinda thanked Edward, keeping her back turned to James so he could not catch her eye. If he’d heard her mother’s comment, she didn’t want to see his cynicism, and if he were still amused by the situation, she didn’t want to be lured into a response that would justify her mother’s accusation of impropriety.

Instead she took the opportunity to present Edward and his mother with their gifts.

For Lady Beaufield she had a Norwich silk shawl with a hand-knotted fringe. Trying to choose a gift for Edward had been much harder. Her mother had insisted she consider all the implications. The gift had to be impersonal enough not to break the conventions that directed what was permissible for an unmarried woman to give a male not related to her, yet, her mother insisted, she ought to show some awareness that this occasion symbolized the possibility of, as her mother had coyly put it, “a lasting connection with the House of Beaufield.”

This brief sojourn into Edward’s home had made one thing clear. If a
lasting connection
meant marriage to Edward, Lucinda didn’t want it.

In the end, Mrs. Demerham had suggested Lucinda give Edward one of her watercolors.

Edward unwrapped it, his eyebrows drawing together and his eyes narrowing as he took in the riot of colors, so different to the gray, cold English countryside in this Year Without a Summer.

“Quite, um, unusual,” he said flatly. “I have never seen water this precise shade of blue, nor have I seen palm trees outside the confines of exhibitions. What is it meant to be?”

Lucinda’s face heated. She had no desire to impress Edward, but she prided herself on her skill with the brush and she had worked hard on this painting.

“It’s my impression of the Hawaiian Islands. I read Captain Cook’s journal and I thought the islands sounded beautiful. Such a change from…” she trailed off, aware of the glazed look that had fallen over Edward’s face.

Behind her came the scrape of a chair. James stood, reached forward and took the painting from Edward’s lax hand.

“Captain James Cook explored Quebec, you know. He was very much admired for his navigation and the accuracy of detail in his journals and maps.” James held the small artwork up and inspected it closely. “This is exactly as I had imagined these islands to be. You have great skill, Miss Demerham, to be able to interpret Cook’s writings so.”

His praise took away some of the sting of Edward’s indifference. His smile made her forget it altogether. With a start, Lucinda realized his eyes were the exact shade of blue she had used to render the sparkling warmth of the tropical sea.

“I wish I could go there,” she sighed. “I long for warmth and sunshine.”

”Then find a way to go,” James said. “No one need be stuck in England forever.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Edward snapped. “Travel beyond the distance between home and London is unnecessary. It is grossly irresponsible, James, to suggest that a lady might journey to such wild and dangerous places. Might I remind you, not all of Lieutenant Cook’s experience was sufficient to prevent his being murdered by the inhabitants of the very islands Miss Demerham has so ill-advisedly tried to represent.”

“Too nasty by half, Edward,” James said with menace in his voice. “Apologize to the lady.”

“I do not need the interference of my younger brother to remind me of correct conduct. Miss Demerham must be aware I meant no offense to her, or to her skills as an artist,” Edward said stiffly. “Merely that she cannot have understood the implication of choosing this location to depict, when it has such an unfortunate history.”

“I’m sure your sentiments, Lord Beaufield, are quite justified,” Lucinda’s mother said. “I fear Lucinda has made an error.” She frowned at her daughter. “I was certain we had decided you would give Edward that pretty scene of the swans on the Serpentine. Edward would have found
that
much more to his taste.”

Lady Beaufield got to her feet. “Edward and I like to attend the Christmas service in the village at midday. It is good for the locals to see their Lord and Lady at worship with them. Perhaps you would join us?”

“We’d be delighted,” Mrs. Demerham replied.

“You’ll forgive me if I decline the invitation,” James said. “I am going to take my carriage out. The horses need to be exercised regularly. Would you care to accompany me, Miss Demerham?”

Lucinda knew what she should say, knew what was expected of her, but the thought of an invigorating ride along country roads in James’ company appealed far more than an hour or two seated on a hard wooden pew listening to more sermons.

“Yes, I’d love to.”

“Lucinda!” Her mother’s gasp was shocked. “Surely you’ll attend church with us? It’s Christmas.”

“But, Mother, I’ve already attended one service.”

“Let the girl have a little fun,” her father interrupted. “After all, it is Christmas, and she will be safe with Mr. Lymon. You will, of course, take your maid with you and I expect Mr. Lymon will have his groom.”

“I have a groom,” James agreed. “And I have no objection to Miss Demerham’s maid.”

He hadn’t said he’d take either of them with them, Lucinda noted, but she didn’t mention this omission.

Her mother stood with pursed lips, but without contradicting her husband, she was forced to remain silent.

“I regret that you prefer gallivanting about the countryside, James,” Edward said, his mouth flattened into a tight, thin line. “May I suggest you spend some time on your outing contemplating good works and righteous behavior?”

“You surely don’t expect me to do that? Especially at Christmas?” James asked incredulously.

“I expect very little of you at any time,” Edward replied repressively, and left the room.

“Service starts in half an hour,” Lady Beaufield remarked as she followed him out. “I suggest we depart in twenty minutes.”

“Come, my dear. It will take you almost that long to get ready.” Mr. Demerham held out his arm to escort his wife from the room. Whether he’d meant to do it or not, he’d saved Lucinda from the scolding she was sure her mother had planned to deliver.

James and Lucinda were left alone.

“If it is not inconvenient, I’d like to leave on our drive at the same time the others leave for church. Can you be ready in half an hour, too?” James asked, his voice revealing none of the tension of the confrontation with his brother.

“I can.” Lucinda jumped to her feet. “I may have to hurry Betsy along, but we’ll manage.”

With enough badgering and threatening, only thirty-five minutes later Lucinda and her maid bustled out of the door to see James’ groom walking the horses up and down while James stood waiting to escort them to the carriage.

An open carriage far too small for four people.

James assisted her into the curricle’s seat then helped Betsy squeeze in beside her. The groom clambered precariously up behind them, standing on a step-like structure and clinging to the framework. James swung into the driver’s position and twitched the reins to set the matched pair of bays into motion.

They drove a mere hundred yards down the graveled driveway. James pulled the horses to a halt.

“Simmons?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss Demerham’s maid is cold.”

“Is she, sir?” Simmons stepped down onto the gravel and came to stand beside the coach. His lips curved into the smallest of smiles. “May I be of assistance, Miss…?”

“Betsy.” Her eyelids fluttered. “I’m just called Betsy.”

“Well, Betsy—are you cold?” The tone of James’ voice was all solicitousness. Lucinda would have thought his only care was for Betsy’s welfare—if not for the roguish twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh, yes, sir. I’m very cold.” Betsy pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. She sent a quick sideways glance at the athletically built groom waiting for her. “It would be nice to go up into the warm.”

“Simmons, escort…ah…Betsy back into the servants’ hall, if you please.”

“Very good, sir.” Simmons held out his hand.

Betsy reached as if to take it, then pulled back. “Oh no. I couldn’t. I’m supposed to stay with Miss Lucinda. To look after her, like.”

“The servants’ hall is very warm,” James said. “And I happen to know that all manner of delicious Christmas treats have magically appeared there. Do you like plum pudding and March pane, Betsy?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Indeed I do.” Her cheeks creased with a smile. Then she shook her head and sighed. “But what about Miss Lucinda?”

“I promise you, on my honor, no harm will come to her. Simmons, am I a man of my word?”

“You are, sir.”

Betsy frowned, the thought of March pane and warmth clearly tempting. “I don’t rightly know. It all depends on what Miss Lucinda wants.”

“You deserve a little treat, Betsy.” The same could be said of Lucinda. Just this once. To do something a little bit daring. Something to remember in the years ahead.

“If it was to come to your mother’s ears that I’d deserted my post…” Betsy’s gaze swung back and forth from Lucinda, to the house with its promise of warmth and sweetmeats, to the groom smiling up at her.

“I promise not to tell her, Betsy. You may go with a clear conscience. I’ll be perfectly safe with Mr. Lymon.”

That part wasn’t quite true. She didn’t think James would do anything to harm her, but the feeling she had when she was around him was too powerful to be called safe.

“There you are then, Betsy. If Miss Lucinda has no objection, I think you may feel free to seek some comfort.” James smiled and whispered conspiratorially, “I’ll sneak Miss Demerham back into the house so her mother never suspects you were not with us all along.”

Simmons held out his arm. “Come, Betsy.”

Betsy’s looked again at the handsome groom. Her face turned pink and she scrambled out of the curricle, placed her hand on his forearm, and with her head held as high as if she were the lady of the manor, allowed him to lead her away.