A Christmas to Remember

by Lisa Kleypas

  Until finally, he thrust in and stayed there, his whole body shaking, his hair falling on her face, their bodies touching completely everywhere.

  She never wanted to move.

  And it seemed, after a few moments, that neither did he.

  That would be uncomfortable after an hour or so.

  She wriggled a bit under him and he withdrew, rolling onto his side and gasping. “Oh, my lord, Sophycakes.” He had his eyes closed, but his face bore a smile.

  She had done that to him. Or more accurately, they had done that together and this was the result. “Sophronia,” she corrected, hearing the laughter in her voice.

  She wasn’t expecting his next words.

  “If there is a—a result from this, you will let me know, won’t you?” He placed his palm on her stomach, and she gaped at him, not quite sure what he meant, until she did.

  Well, that was hardly romantic. Although it was her fault for engaging in it without thinking of the consequences—the result, as he’d put it.

  “Yes, of course,” she said in a stiff tone of voice.

  “Did I upset you?” And now, damn it, he sounded concerned. And she felt like she’d been irresponsible and pettish, where only a few minutes ago she’d had the most blissful experience of her life.

  Well, and that was life after all, wasn’t it? Blissful experience followed by mundane idiocy. Namely, hers.

  “I’m fine, I should go back to my room.”

  “You can stay for a bit, can’t you?” It sounded as though he really did wish she would stay, and she wanted to exclaim at how remarkable it was, that this handsome, strong, smart man was wanting her to stay for a bit longer when all she wanted to do was run off.

  “I shouldn’t, because if we fall asleep and someone finds us, then we will actually have to get married.”

  A part of her wanted him to say that it would be fine if that happened, that now that they’d done all this, they should get married. Of course the other part was in vehement disagreement with that, because she’d come to his room without any kind of expectation, and she would never want him to regret this moment.

  A long silence during which the two parts warred inside Sophronia’s head about what she wanted. No accord had been reached when he finally spoke.

  “And I know you don’t want that,” he said at last. What did he mean? Did he want her to argue with him about it? Tell him she did want it?

  She wasn’t the one who should be arguing about anything right now. It wasn’t as though she went around doing this kind of thing all the time, and knew what to say and do afterward.

  Even if she were absolutely and totally in love with the person in question.

  Oh no. Oh no.

  “I have to go,” she said hurriedly, pushing herself up off the bed and shaking her night rail back down to her feet. Because if she stayed she might tell him how she felt, and then he would feel obligated to marry her, and then he would eventually resent her, and that was not at all the bargain they’d made.

  He stood also, a dazed expression on his face. “Fine, yes. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, his words getting more clipped as he spoke.

  “Good night, James,” she said, turning to give him one last look.

  “Good night, Sophronia,” he replied.

  WHAT THE HELL just happened? He’d had the best sex of his life, he’d been in a post-coital bliss when responsibility made him speak, and apparently he’d done the wrong thing.

  He thought the men in this situation were the ones who didn’t want to discuss such things as contraception and prevention. And what if there was a child? He would want to know, and he would want to do the right thing.

  Which he would want to do anyway.

  That was the reality of it, wasn’t it?

  He flopped back on the bed, letting his arms drop to the side, a wash of what might have been heartbreak flooding his senses.

  Because he’d never felt like this before—this devastation at the thought of not seeing her after this, of knowing she was out there on her own, in her little cottage that he’d bought for her.

  Was it possible he’d gone and fallen in love with her? His pretend betrothed? The one person from whom he didn’t wish to escape? The one person who knew that his reckless spirit made it impossible for him to commit to anything—or anyone?

  Damn it, he had. He was in love with her, his Sophy, his Sophronia. Who wasn’t his at all.

  Well, if it were possible to have a more ludicrously appalling situation, he didn’t know what it would be.

  But what he did know was that now that all this had happened, he did not want to let this go. He couldn’t let her go.

  He would just have to find a way to convince her he meant it.

  THE NEXT MORNING he woke up surprisingly alert—probably because he had a woman to persuade he loved her. He’d thought about it for at least an hour, and finally settled on something, something that would hopefully be enough.

  Or he’d have to head off into the wilds alone, and he did not want to do that. Not now, not ever again. Not now that he knew what it might be like to be with her.

  Thank goodness he’d paid attention when she was speaking—not that he wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t thought it important, but he hadn’t recalled ever paying so much attention to a woman before. When he wasn’t in bed with her, at least.

  That’s how he knew she was different, that she was the one who would intrigue him until they were old and doddering. And until they were old and doddering, he wanted to be with her, to hear her soft moan as he kissed her, feel her curves and skin and watch her descend staircases dressed in fabulous gowns.

  “Good morning, everyone.” He addressed the room, his gaze alighting—of course—on her. The house was bustling with activity; the villagers were to come gaze on the Greens’ magnanimous splendor and perhaps drink a cup of wine before returning home.

  She looked startled as he spoke, perhaps because of what they’d done the night before, but also perhaps because he wasn’t usually so . . . sprightly, if he could call it that, this early in the morning.

  He grinned at her, loving how her cheeks pinked up. She had to be thinking about what they had done. If she weren’t, then he had seriously misjudged his skill in the bedroom.

  “I am planning to go to the vicar’s today to view his collection of rare books.” He paused. “Sophronia, you needn’t accompany me, I think it would be lovely if you stayed here with my mother. I’ll return when the party is to occur. Four o’clock, is it?”

  Mrs. Green nodded, not looking pleased, but likely too busy to argue or to try to send her daughter along to accompany him.

  Sophronia just blinked, and her face froze. He knew she was likely thinking he didn’t want to be with her, not after what had happened the night before. He wished he could reassure her, but there was no way to say that without letting his plans for later slip. That is, perhaps there was, but he wasn’t confident he could do it.

  “Fine, that sounds pleasant.” She spoke in a tight tone of voice, and he wanted to laugh at how prickly and goddesslike she was being, only he really didn’t think that would do anything for what he wanted from her.

  Namely, forever. He wanted forever from her, and he hoped he had thought of the best way to do it.

  “WHERE ARE YOU and Jamie planning on settling down?” Mrs. Archer looked hopefully at Sophronia, who wished Jamie—James—Mr. Archer—had not put her in this position. Actually, she was starting to regret she’d been in any kind of position with him, especially the one last night where he was—well, suffice to say she was feeling irked.

  Had he planned on that? So it would be easier to say goodbye when this was all over?

  It wasn’t as though she expected anything, but she had hoped he would seek her out and let her know how he was feeling. Unless he didn’t want to let her know what he was feeling, which was why he had gone to Mr. Chandler’s house to look at books she knew he had no interest in, for goodness’ sake.
>
  And he’d made it impossible for her to go with him, encouraging her instead to stay here with his mother. The mother he was even now duping with her presence, and Sophronia didn’t even want to think how the woman would react when she heard Sophronia had died.

  And so, though she was angry and hurt and disappointed, she had to admit it wasn’t his fault. And she was absolutely and totally in love with him. Still.

  Oh, and here she was leaving Mrs. Archer just blinking at her, holding her teacup and regarding Sophronia with a patient look.

  “That is something we have to discuss,” she replied at last.

  Mrs. Archer nodded as though that actually came close to answering her question. Which it did not.

  “I was speaking with your lady’s maid, Maria she said her name was?” Mrs. Archer didn’t wait for a reply. “She is a lovely girl, I was asking her for ideas for—well, never mind that,” she said with a knowing look, “but she did say she always hoped to live in a small cottage somewhere, away from the bustle of London.” Mrs. Archer sighed. “And I told her that’s what we had talked about, and how much I would love to do that. Only if Jamie could find his way to visit, of course, but I would dearly love to have some peace and quiet.”

  “Yes, that would be lovely.” Although the more she thought about it, the more Sophronia wished for some adventure—she’d spent most of her life indoors with her father going through books and reading and visiting. She wanted to go somewhere, just be active and engaged, and not observing.

  Perhaps she would find that in her cottage? She didn’t hold out much hope for it, but it was definitely better than the poultry she’d anticipated just a few weeks ago. So there was that, at least.

  SHE DIDN’T HAVE any thoughts that hadn’t revolved around her fake betrothed and the long endless stretch of loneliness that was to be her future for the next few hours. The house party had dispersed, and Sophronia had seized on the excuse to go up to her room to write some letters.

  That she had no one to write to was depressing in and of itself.

  She found she was looking forward to the villagers’ arrival—she did love seeing people enjoying the holidays, even if the people weren’t her.

  And wasn’t she the most maudlin person ever? She did have a future, thanks to him, that ensured her independence. She wouldn’t have to be a poor relation, and next year at this time she would perhaps have found a few friends with whom she could share the spirit of the season.

  So when she heard the first arrivals, she descended the staircase from her room, feeling a warmth that was very different from the warmth she’d had in Jamie’s arms, in his bed, the night before.

  “Welcome, everyone!” Mr. Green seemed to have roused himself, as well, and was greeting the townsfolk at the entrance, a huge smile on his face. Even Mrs. Green looked festive, albeit still disapproving when someone was a bit too cheery.

  Sophronia took a cup of wine from a sideboard in the hallway and walked to the large room where the trees were decorated.

  She smiled as she heard the audible gasps from the visitors as they caught first sight of them.

  And they truly were impressive—all of them were lit, the afternoon sun competing with the glow of the candles for which could be the brightest. There were tables laden with food ringing the edges of the room, and in one corner stood a pianoforte with someone playing a variety of holiday carols.

  It gave her a lump in her throat. This, this was truly the spirit of the season, the emotion that she wished she could keep in her heart all year long, even after this magical time was over, because this was what made people joyous. The company of others, simple, quiet beauty, and delightful music. Perhaps accompanied by some food and some wine, always accompanied with the satisfaction of being at peace with oneself.

  No matter what would happen from now on, she would be at peace, she promised herself as she gazed around the room. “Merry Christmas, Sophronia,” she whispered softly under her breath.

  “MRS. GREEN, IF you don’t mind, I would like to propose a game for the evening.” She hadn’t gotten a chance to speak with him, not privately, and despite her earlier feelings she was currently vacillating between utter despair that it seemed he didn’t care about what they had done the night before and triumph at herself that she had initiated it in the first place. She was not proud of that, but she knew she would return to that earlier, peaceful place eventually.

  He, of course, looked the same. Not as though he’d done anything but be solidly mobile Jamie, although she’d been surprised he’d spent so long at Mr. Chandler’s house. He’d arrived halfway through the holiday party and then had left before it was entirely over, returning only when it was time for dinner. She’d caught him glancing at her a few times, a knowing look on his face.

  Knowing because he knew what she was like during intimacy? Knowing because he knew the charade they were engaged in? Knowing because that’s just who he was?

  “Of course, Mr. Archer,” Mrs. Green replied. “What do you have in mind?”

  They were all in Mrs. Green’s capacious sitting room, now comfortable enough with one another after the past weeks that there was none—well, hardly any—of the overstated politeness of new acquaintances. The holiday party had been a success, with the children running around and shooting Christmas crackers at one another, all the food having been consumed, and more than a few bottles of wine, as well.

  They’d sung a few carols toward the end, and Sophronia had felt her heart swell even more at hearing the various voices raised together in song.

  And there were only a few more nights left. She felt her throat grow tight as she looked around at the company that had been her constant companions for the last few weeks. Soon it would only be her and Maria.

  Sophronia and Mrs. Archer were seated together on one sofa, while Miss Green and the viscountess’s daughter were to the side in chairs, their heads close together as they whispered. Mr. Green was in the corner, a book on his lap, but his eyes suspiciously closed, while the vicar was standing looking at a bookshelf, his back to the group.

  Mrs. Green was also standing, overseeing the disposition of tea.

  And Jamie. He was the focus of the room, even for those people who hadn’t seen what he looked like without his nightshirt.

  “Excellent, Mrs. Green.” It was so fast if she had blinked she would have missed it, but he did dart a glance at her. And then returned to looking at the group in general.

  “Someone has remarked to me that I win almost all the games.” Another quick look in her direction. “And since we are nearly at the end of this delightful visit, I thought I would give others a chance to triumph.” He looked at each of them in turn; all of the group, with the exception of Mr. Green, were paying attention to him. “So tonight I would like us to play Dictionary, only I will be the only one supplying the definitions. I cannot vote on the correct one, since I will know it already, and that will give all of you”—and this time he definitely looked her way, and what’s more, she thought he winked—“a chance to excel.”

  “That’s hardly fair to you, Mr. Archer,” Miss Green said in a hesitant voice.

  He smiled at her, and Sophronia felt a stab of something—fine, it was jealousy—enter into her ricocheting gallery of emotions.

  “On the contrary, it is unfair for me to keep winning all the games.” He shrugged. “This way, I get to give all of you a chance.”

  “That’s settled, then,” Mrs. Green declared. She spoke to one of the servants who was still in the room, arranging the tea things. “Bring paper and pencils here, and please send Mr. Hotchkiss to the library to retrieve the dictionary.”

  The servant made some sort of incomprehensible sound of agreement, then scurried out of the room.

  Jamie’s expression was—sly, mischievous, and nearly delighted. She wondered just what they were in for, since she didn’t think this would be a simple game of Dictionary.

  “YOU ALL KNOW how to play, don’t you?” Mrs. Archer
shook her head, and Jamie rolled his eyes. “Of course you do, Mother, you and I used to play many years ago.”

  “Many years ago, Jamie,” she said. “Keep in mind I am old, I forget things.”

  “You’re not that old,” he said. A brief look of concern crossed his features, and she felt his conflict—to stay a bit longer to please his mother, or to follow his instinct to roam, leaving his mother behind?

  She was glad she didn’t have to worry about anything like that.

  “Since my mother asked, I will remind you all of the rules.” He was a born speaker, commanding the room with his handsome presence, his deep, compelling voice, and his—well, she had already mentioned his handsomeness, but he was so handsome perhaps it was deserving of a second mention.

  “I will choose a word none of you know—if you know, you have to confess it—and then you will all write a definition for the word. We’ll vote on which definition is the right one, and whoever gets the most votes for either submitting the best definition or who votes the most often on the correct definition will win.”

  Miss Green smiled in delight, and Sophronia was struck again by what a pretty girl she was when she wasn’t glancing anxiously at her mother. The viscountess’s daughter looked bored, but that was probably because it wasn’t likely her beauty was going to be the focus of a word. Unless she wrote her own definition.

  Sophronia had to stifle a snort at that thought, a brief moment of lightness that showed her that no matter what had happened, no matter what would happen, she was better off than she had been a few weeks ago, when her prospects were poultrylike in nature.

  He had done all that for her. And he had done other things for her, too, but she shouldn’t be thinking of those things in public, or she knew her expressive face would give her away, and then she and Jamie would be even deeper into the deception.

  “The first word is ‘agamist.’” Jamie’s mouth twisted up in a smirk as he followed with, “Something I no longer am.”