Under The Mistletoe (25 page)

His daughter was looking at him suddenly. “Is she dead?” she asked.

A denial was on his lips. And then Jane's words came back to him. She needed to know. Ultimately it would be worse for her not to know, for her to grow up believing that her mother had just tired of her and abandoned her. He stood up for a moment, drew back the bedclothes, scooped up his daughter in his arms, and sat down again, cradling her against him.

“Yes,” he said. “She died, Veronica. But she sent you to Papa. And Papa loves you more than anyone or anything else in this world.”

She was sobbing then with all of a child's abandoned woe. And he, rocking her in his arms, was crying too. Crying over his daughter's loss and grief. Crying over the truth of the words he had just spoken, and over the treasure he had so very nearly given carelessly away.

She stopped crying eventually and lay quietly in his arms. “You are not going to send me away, Papa?” she whispered.

“Send you away?” he said. “How could I do that? What would I do without my little girl? Who would there be to make me happy?”

She looked up at him with a wet and swollen face so that he was reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief even as she spoke. “Do you really love me, Papa?”

“You are my little Christmas treasure,” he said, drying her eyes and her cheeks. “The best gift I ever had. I love you, dear.”

She reached up to set one soft little hand against his lips. He held it there and kissed it and smiled at her. She yawned hugely and noisily. “Is Miss Jane going to stay, too?” she asked.

He felt Jane shift position behind him.

“Yes,” he said, “if I can persuade her to. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Papa,” she said.

And in the way of children she was asleep. Asleep and safe and loved in her father's arms. He held her there for a few minutes until he was quite sure she would not wake and then stood to set her down carefully in her bed. Jane held the bedclothes back for him and then stepped aside again.

By the time he had tucked the blankets snugly about his daughter and bent to kiss her little mouth, Jane had disappeared.

 

It had been agreed that the young people could stay at Cosway until midnight. It was no surprise to anyone, then, when they did not actually leave until thirty minutes after the hour. After all, there had to be just one more dance to follow the last and then one more to follow that.

It was the best, the very best Christmas she had ever known, Deborah declared, dancing before her uncle and Jane in the hall after everyone had finally gone.

“But do not tell Mama and Papa,” she said to the viscount, giggling, “or they will be hurt.”

“It will be our secret,” he said dryly. “Upstairs with you, now. It is long past your bedtime.”

She pulled a face at him before kissing his cheek and dancing in the direction of the stairs. But she came back again and kissed Jane's cheek, too, a little self-consciously. “I am glad you came here with me, Miss Craggs,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Good night.” Jane smiled at her. And then, when the girl was only halfway up the stairs, Jane turned, fixed her eyes on the diamond pin Viscount Buckley wore in his neckcloth, and wished him a hasty good-night too.

She was already on her way to the stairs when she felt her hand caught in his.

“Coward!” he said. “You really are a coward, Jane.”

“I am tired,” she said.

“And a liar,” he said.

She looked at him indignantly. He was smiling.

“Into the library,” he said, giving her no chance to protest. He was leading her there by the hand. “I have a job to offer you.”

As Veronica's nurse? She was too afraid to hope for it, though he had assured his daughter that he would try to persuade her to stay. Oh, would he offer her the job? Could life have such wonder in store for her? After the child no longer needed a nurse, perhaps he would keep her on as a governess. But it was too soon to dream of the future when she was not even sure of the present.

“Jane.” He closed the library door behind him and leaned against it. He was still holding her hand. Someone had lit the branch of candles in there.

“You really do not have to persuade me to stay,” she said breathlessly. “Veronica will not even remember in the morning that you promised to do so. If you think me unsuitable for the job of nurse, I will understand. I have had no experience with young children. But I do love her, and I would do my very best if you would consider hiring me. But you must not feel obliged to do so.” She stopped talking abruptly and looked down in some confusion.

“A nurse,” he said. “I do indeed consider you unsuitable for the job, Jane. It was not what I had in mind at all.”

She bit her upper lip, chagrined and shamed. Why, oh, why had she not kept her mouth shut?

“I was hoping you would take on the job of mother,” he said. “Mother of Veronica and mother of my other children. My future children, that is.”

She looked up at him sharply.

“And wife,” he added. “My wife, Jane.”

Oh.
She gaped at him. “Me?” she said foolishly. “You want
me
to be your wife? But you cannot marry me. You know who and what I am.”

“You and my daughter both,” he said, smiling. “Two treasures. I love you, Jane. I have Veronica, thanks to your words of admonition and advice, and she is a priceless possession. But you can make my happiness complete by marrying me. Will you? I cannot blame you if you do not trust me. I am new to love. I have not trusted it for a long time. But I—”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes wide, her heart beating wildly. “You
love
me? You love
me
? How can that be?”

“Because,” he said, still smiling, “I have been playing hide-and-seek, Jane. I have not yet discovered all of you there is to discover. You have done an admirable job over the years of hiding yourself. But what
I have seen dazzles me. You are beautiful, inside and out, and I want you for myself. Yes, I love you. Could you ever feel anything for me?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes, my lord. I love you with all my heart.”

Somehow his arms were clasped behind her waist and hers behind his neck. Only a part of her mind had grasped what he was saying to her and what he was asking of her. She knew that it would take a long time before the rest of her brain caught up to the knowledge.

“It is going to have to be Warren,” he said. “Say it before I kiss you.”

“Warren,” she said.

It was a kiss that lasted a scandalous length of time. Before it was over she had allowed him to bend the whole of her body against his and she had responded to the coaxing of his lips and softened her own and even parted them. Before it was over she had allowed his tongue into her mouth and his hands on parts of her body she would have thought horrifyingly embarrassing to have touched. Before it was over she was weak with unfamiliar aches of desire.

“My love,” he was saying against her mouth, “forgive me. I would not have you for the first time on the library floor. It will be on my bed upstairs on our wedding night. If . . .” He drew his head back and gazed at her with eyes that were heavy with passion and love—for her. “If there is to be a wedding night. Is there? Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she said, stunned. Had she not already said it? “Warren—”

But whatever she was about to say was soon forgotten as his mouth covered hers again and they moved perilously close after all to anticipating their wedding night.

After all, it was Christmas and they had both just discovered love and joy and romance. And the treasure of a child to love and nurture together.

It was Christmas. Christmas after a long, long time for him. The first Christmas ever for her.

It was Christmas.

 

T
he logs in the fireplace were crackling and shooting sparks up into the chimney. The fire's warmth felt good to the young lady who had just come in from the cold and the wind and rain. She held her hands out to the blaze.

But she could not draw a great deal of comfort from the fire. She caught sight of the hem of her wool dress. It was heavy with wetness and streaked with mud. Her half-boots looked no better. And she wished she had not removed her bonnet and handed it to the footman with her cloak. Her hair was hopelessly damp and flattened to her head. And she knew that her nose as well as her cheeks must be glowing red.

It was cold outside, and the mile-and-a-half walk across the park to Bedford Hall had been taken into the teeth of the wind and into the driving force of the rain and had seemed more like five miles.

Lilias lowered her hands from the blaze and brushed nervously at her dress. The darned patch near the hem was more noticeable now that the fabric was wet. She looked down at her right wrist and twisted her sleeve so that the darn there would be out of sight.

She should not have come. She had known that as soon as the footman had opened the front doors and asked her, after she stepped inside, if he could take her to Mrs. Morgan. But no, she had replied with a firmness that had been fast deserting her, she was not calling on the housekeeper today. She wished to speak with his lordship, if it was convenient.

She should not have come, a single lady, alone, to speak with a single gentleman. She knew she would never have dared to do so if she were in London or some other fashionable center. Even here in the country it was not at all the thing. She should have brought someone
with her, though there was no one to bring except the children. And she did not want them to know she was paying this call.

And who was she, even if she had had a respectable companion, to be paying a call on the Marquess of Bedford? She was wearing her best day dress, yet it was patched in three places. She had had to walk from the village because she owned no conveyance or even a horse or pony. In two weeks' time she was to be a servant.

She should have come to the kitchen entrance, not to the main doors.

Lilias took one step back from the fireplace, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm. If she hurried, she could grab her cloak and bonnet from the hallway and be outside and on her way home before any more harm was done. The rain and wind would be at her back on the return journey.

But she was too late. The door to the salon in which she had been asked to wait opened even before she could take one more step toward it, and he stepped inside. Someone closed the door quietly behind him.

The Marquess of Bedford.

Lilias swallowed and unconsciously raised her chin. She clasped her hands before her and dropped into a curtsy. She would scarcely have known him. He looked taller, and he was certainly broader. He bore himself very straight, like a soldier, though he had never been one. He was immaculately and fashionably dressed. His hair was as thick as it had ever been, but its darkness was highlighted now by the suggestion of silver at the temples. But he was not thirty yet.

His face was what had changed most. It looked as if carved out of marble, his jaw firm and hard, his lips thin and straight, his blue eyes above the aquiline nose heavy-lidded and cold. One eyebrow was arched somewhat higher than the other.

He made her a stiff half-bow. “Well, Miss Angove,” he said in a voice that was softer, colder than the voice she remembered, “what an unexpected pleasure. You are the first of my neighbors to call upon me. All alone?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, clasping her hands more firmly before her and consciously resisting the impulse to allow them to fidget. “This is not a social call. I have a favor to ask.”

His one eyebrow rose even higher and his lips curved into the suggestion of a sneer. “Indeed?” he said, advancing farther into the room. “Well, at least you are honest about it. Have a seat, ma'am, and tell me how I may be of service to you.”

She sat on the very edge of the chair closest to her and clasped her hands in her lap. Someone had tamed his hair, she thought irrelevantly. It had always waved in a quite unruly manner and had forever fallen across his forehead. It had been a habit of his to toss it back with a jerk of the head.

“It is not precisely a favor,” she said, “but more in the way of the calling in of a debt.”

He seated himself opposite her and looked at her inquiringly. His eyes had never used to be like this. They had been wide and sparkling eyes, mesmerizing even. But then, they were compelling now too. They regarded her with cynical contempt. Lilias glanced down nervously at her sleeve to find that the darned patch was staring accusingly up at her. But she did not twist the sleeve again. Perhaps he would not notice if she kept her hands still. Except that she felt that those eyes saw everything, even the larger darned patch beneath her left arm.

“When you were at school,” she said, “and found your Latin lessons difficult, Papa helped you during your holidays. You used to come to the rectory every morning for two successive summers. Do you remember?” She did not wait for a reply. “You would not tell your own papa for fear that he would be disappointed in you. And Papa would accept no payment for your tuition. You told him—I was there when you said it—that you would always consider yourself in his debt, that you would repay him one day.”

“And so I did say,” he said in that quiet, cold voice. His expression did not change at all. “Your father has been dead for well over a year, has he not, Miss Angove? But I take it that the day of reckoning has come. What may I do for you?”

“I think less than the tuition for two summers would have cost you,” she said hastily, wishing that she could keep her voice as cool as his. “I would not put myself in your debt.”

His eyelids appeared to droop even lower over his eyes. “What may I do for you, ma'am?” he asked again.

“I want a Christmas for my brother and sister,” she said raising her chin and looking very directly into his face. She could feel herself flushing.

Both his eyebrows rose. “An admirable wish,” he said. “But it would seem that if you wait patiently for one more week, Christmas will come without my having to do anything about the matter.”

“They are still children,” she said. “My parents' second family, people have always called them. Philip and I were two years apart,
and then there were eleven years before Andrew was born. And Megan came two years after that. They are only eleven and nine years old now. Just children. This is our last Christmas together. In two weeks' time we will all be separated. Perhaps we will never be together again. I want it to be a memorable Christmas.” She was leaning forward in her chair. Her fingers were twining about one another.

“And how am I to help create this memorable Christmas?” he asked. His mouth was definitely formed into a sneer now. “Host a grand party? Grand parties are not in my style.”

“No,” she said, speaking quickly and distinctly. “I want a goose for Christmas dinner.”

There was a short silence.

“Papa was not a careful manager,” she continued. “There was very little money left when he died and now there is none left, or at least only enough to pay for our journeys in two weeks' time. The people of the village would help, of course, but they were so used to finding that Papa would not accept charity in any form that they now do not even offer. And perhaps they are right.” Her chin rose again. “I have some of his pride.”

“So,” he said, “instead of asking charity, you have found someone who is in your debt.”

“Yes,” she said, and swallowed awkwardly again.

“And you want a goose for Christmas,” he said. “Your needs are modest, ma'am. That is all?”

“And a doll for Megan,” she said recklessly. “There is the most glorious one in Miss Pierce's window—all porcelain and satin and lace. I want that for Megan. She has never had a doll, except the rag one Mama made for her when she was a baby. I want her to have something really lovely and valuable to take with her.”

“And for your brother?” he asked softly.

“Oh.” She gazed at him wistfully. “A watch. A silver watch. But there are none in the village, and I would not know how to go about purchasing one for him. But it does not matter. Andrew is eleven and almost not a child any longer. He will understand, and he will be happy with the scarf and gloves I am knitting for him. The cost of a goose and the doll will not exceed the cost of tuition for two summers, I don't believe. Will it?”

“And for yourself?” he asked even more softly.

Lilias gazed down at her hands and reached out to twist the offending sleeve. “I don't want anything that will cost money,” she said. “I want only the memory of one Christmas to take with me.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She looked up at him. “Into Yorkshire,” she said. “I have a post as a governess with a family there.”

“Ah,” he said. “And your brother and sister?”

“I have persuaded my grandfather to take Andrew,” she said. “It took several letters, but finally he agreed to take him and send him to school. Sir Percy Angove, that is, Papa's father. The two of them never communicated after Papa's marriage.”

The marquess nodded curtly.

“And Megan is going to Great-aunt Hetty in Bath,” Lilias said. “I am afraid I pestered her with letters too. But it will be only until I can earn enough money to bring us all together again.”

Bedford got to his feet and looked down at her from cold and cynical eyes. “Ah, yes,” he said. “A suitably affecting story, Miss Angove. I must congratulate you on the manner in which you have presented it.”

Lilias looked up at him in some bewilderment.

His bearing was military again, his manner curt, his eyes like chips of ice. “You will have your goose, ma'am,” he said, “and your sister her doll. Your brother will have his watch too—I shall see to it. You will have your Christmas and the memory of it to take into Yorkshire with you. I shall wish you good-day now.”

Victory? Was it to be so easy? Was she to have more than a Christmas dinner to give the children? Was Megan to have her doll? And Andrew his watch? Andrew was going to have a watch! All without any struggle, any persuasion, any groveling?

Was this victory?

Lilias scrambled to her feet and looked up at the tall, austere figure of the Marquess of Bedford. She curtsied. “What can I say?” she said breathlessly. “Thank-you sounds so tame.”

“You need not say even that,” he said. “I am merely repaying a debt, after all. You will wait here, ma'am, if you please. I shall have tea sent to you while you await the arrival of my carriage to take you home. I take it you walked here?”

He would not take no for an answer, although there was no apparent kindness at all in his manner. Lilias found herself gazing once more into the fire a few minutes later, having been left to take her refreshments alone. And after drinking her tea, she was to have a warm and comfortable—and dry—ride home.

She should be feeling elated. She
was
feeling elated. But uncomfortable and humiliated too. As if, after all, she were taking charity. She blinked back tears and stared defiantly into the flames. She was not taking charity. She was merely accepting what was hers by right.

He seemed to be made of stone to the very heart. Not once had he
smiled. Not once had he given any indication that theirs was no new acquaintance. And he had called her explanation an affecting story. He had said so with a sneer, as if he thought it contrived and untrue.

It did not matter. She had got what she had set out to get. More. She had not even been sure she was going to ask for the doll. But as well as that, Andrew was to have a watch. It did not matter that he had not smiled at her or wished her a happy Christmas.

It was at Christmastime he had first kissed her. It had been one of those magical and rare Christmases when it had snowed and there was ice on the lake. They had been sledding down a hill, he and she the last of a long line of young people, all of whom had been trekking back up again by the time they had had their turn. And she had overturned into the snow, shrieking and laughing, and giggling even harder when he had come over to help her up and brush the snow from her face and hair.

He had kissed her swiftly and warmly and openmouthed, stilling both her laughter and his own until he had made some light remark and broken the tension of the moment. It had been Christmastime. Christmas Eve, to be exact. She had been fifteen, he one-and-twenty.

It did not matter. That had been a long time ago, almost exactly seven years, in fact. He was not the same man, not by any means. But then, she was not the same, either. She had been a girl then, a foolish girl who had believed that Christmas and life were synonymous.

She turned and smiled at Mrs. Morgan, who was carrying a tray into the salon.

He had a daughter somewhere in the house, Lilias thought for the first time since her arrival.

 

The child tugged at her father's hand, trying to free her own.