The Girl is Not For Christmas: A Christmas Regency Romance Novel

by Emma V. Leech

  “It’s not there,” he muttered. “It’s not real. Get a grip, King, for the love of God.”

  Livvy sighed. “Um, actually, that is real, though it ought not be in the house. Really, Jane, what were you thinking? You know not to bring the piglets inside. They are not pets!”

  “Yes, but Barnaby was cold, and—”

  “Piglets do not feel the cold like we do, Jane, and I’ve told you a dozen times, we don’t name our dinner. You must not get so attached to them. It only ends in heartbreak.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “No buts. Take him back to the sty at once.”

  “Yes, Livvy, but Harry said to tell you he’s collected a whole basket of rosehips.”

  Livvy let out a breath of relief. “Excellent. I was worried it would be too late in the year. I completely forgot to check how much syrup was left, and I must replenish the stocks.”

  “I can help,” Jane said eagerly.

  “Certainly you can, but take Barna— I mean, take the pig back to where it came from.”

  Jane scowled but bent to lift the piglet, who had been running about the room, snuffling as it went. She closed the door behind her.

  Livvy turned back to the bed.

  “You can open your eyes now,” she said gently.

  Kingston did, though he still looked appalled.

  “A pig,” he said. “A black pig?”

  Livvy nodded. He did not look convinced.

  “It was… a real pig?”

  “You were expecting a hippopotamus?” she demanded and then sighed. “I beg your pardon. No doubt this does seem like a madhouse to you. I can hardly deny it. Yes, my lord. It was a real pig, and a real crow, but anything else unnatural to a bedchamber has certainly resulted from your wicked lifestyle and a feverish imagination. I beg you to forget it. I shall return later with some soup for you. Do try to rest.”

  Deciding she’d tormented him enough for one afternoon, no matter how thoroughly he deserved it, Livvy covered him with the blanket, closed the window, drew the curtains, and left the earl alone to suffer in silence.

  Chapter Three

  1st December 1818.

  For services to womankind…

  “Well, you’re still alive then.”

  King glowered at Miss Penrose as she strode in, bearing a tray of soup and bread and butter. The urge to fling it across the room was tantalising. Lord, what he wouldn’t give for a good sirloin and a decent Burgundy. On reflection, he’d just take the Burgundy. He was so desperate for a drink he’d have delivered his soul to the devil for a mere sip. If he’d had the energy, he’d ransack the bloody house, but he was as weak as a kitten and no one but a huge Cornishman by the name of Spargo, or the frosty Miss Penrose, ever came anywhere near him. King was aware he was in a very bad skin and in a foul temper, but Spargo seemed to be some manner of a deaf-mute who communicated via a system of unintelligible grunts, and Miss Penrose had a heart of granite.

  “And a good day to you too, my lord. I am quite well, thank you for asking,” the wretch continued, as if King had been foolish enough to say such a thing.

  He did not wish her a good day at all. He wished her to the bottom of the blasted ocean and well she knew it.

  She placed the tray across his lap and King glowered at the bowl of green sludge.

  “What the devil is that?”

  “Vegetable soup. It’s good for you. I suggest you eat it.”

  “I want meat.”

  The she-devil folded her arms and stared at him. “You may think you do, but I promise you, your stomach will not tolerate it. Eat the soup, my lord.”

  “Stop my lording me, for the love of God. It’s not like you mean it. Call me King. Everyone does.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  King narrowed his eyes at her, well aware she was baiting him. “You don’t like me.”

  “My, we are perspicacious this morning,” the outrageous chit said cheerfully as she bent to stoke the fire.

  King admired the view of a very fine backside even as he seethed. Well, he really wasn’t dead yet.

  “Why? What did I ever do to offend you?” he demanded, discomfited to realise there was any number of ways he might have done so whilst out of his senses. In normal circumstances he’d apologise for the imposition of foisting himself upon them, as it was, he was struggling to keep hold of his sanity let alone his temper. A little voice told him he was being a bad tempered brute and deserved her contempt, but it was drowned out by the angry shouting in his head that demanded he find a drink at once.

  Miss Penrose straightened and turned a pair of piercing blue eyes in his direction.

  “Let me see,” she said thoughtfully. “Firstly, you are another mouth to feed, and you add significantly to the laundry. Secondly, you vomited on one of my only pairs of slippers. And, thirdly, I consider it a service to women everywhere to hold you in contempt.”

  King snorted. “As I recall, I have given a great service to a good proportion of the female race. Never had any complaints, anyway.”

  If he’d expected her to blush and stammer and run from the room, he was doomed to disappointment. Miss Penrose was like no gently bred young woman he’d ever encountered, for she simply held his gaze, a considering expression in her eyes. “I’m sure all the women you’ve ruined would concur, my lord.”

  “I don’t go about ruining innocents,” he retorted, stung by the implication. He had become something he hardly recognised of late and there were many things he’d done wrong in his life but never that.

  Though there were stories that implied he’d done just that, he knew the truth. More than one foolish girl had set out to trap him into marriage and come a cropper. He wasn’t some flat to be tricked into harness with some manipulative creature. If he’d done wrong, he’d own it, but he’d not suffer for some silly woman’s attempt to catch an earl for a husband. That was their own lookout.

  “I’m certain you are a paragon of virtue,” Miss Penrose replied with a smile so false it made him want to gnash his teeth in frustration.

  “Hardly that, but I don’t see how I can add to the laundry when I have no clothes. Or do you prefer to keep me naked?”

  Ah, that brought a pleasing surge of pink rushing to her cheeks. She turned away and busied herself opening the blasted window again to let in an arctic blast of cold air.

  “Since you have been incapable of dressing yourself, and you gave poor Spargo a black eye when he attempted to help you, you find yourself as you do. It’s no preference of mine, I assure you, and you add the laundry as we had to scrub heaven alone knows what from the clothes you arrived in, and there’s the bedlinen now, too, not to mention my slippers!”

  “Then I must send my regrets to Spargo and I apologise for the blasted slippers, I’ll buy you a new pair, but why must you take it as a personal affront? It’s not like you wash the clothes yourself.”

  King watched, curious to note another wave of heat flush her cheeks, and his gaze drifted to her hands. They were red and chapped. She moved, busying herself once more, and keeping her hands out of sight. He frowned.

  “Charlie brought me here?” he asked, still a little hazy about where here was and how he’d got come to be here.

  He had a vague recollection of Charlie Penrose, Viscount Boscawen, telling him he’d be right as ninepence in no time. Charlie lived somewhere in the wilds of Cornwall, if memory served.

  “Yes.” She turned to look out of the window she’d just opened, and tugged her shawl closer about her shoulders. “Boscawen feared you were dying. He tells me he owes you for keeping him in one piece at Eton, so, in a fit of compassion, he brought you home to be cared for. Except his charity ended at bringing you home. I have no fond feelings for you, but I must do the Christian thing on his behalf, it seems.”

  “Why?” King demanded, not understanding that in the least and discomfited to remember it had been her who had stayed with him when he was out of his senses. “You don’t owe me anything. Get y
our servants to tend to me.”

  The aggravating creature just snorted and shook her head, glaring at him.

  “You really do not understand,” she muttered, and stalked from the room before he could ask what the devil she meant by that.

  With little else to do, King regarded the bowl of green whatever it was with distaste but picked up the spoon. His stomach thought his throat had been cut and was clamouring for sustenance. It wasn’t a steak, but it would have to do.

  To his relief it tasted a deal better than it looked, and the bread was good and thickly spread with butter. So, one hunger was appeased for the time being, though the desire to find a drink was as fierce as ever. King set the tray aside and threw back the covers. He moved slowly, easing his legs over the side of the bed until his feet touched the floor. The effort left his head spinning. Determined, he tried to get to his feet and almost fell on his face as his legs gave out. Somehow, he clung to the bedhead, forced himself back onto the mattress, and lay there, shaking and sweating. God. Was this what he’d been reduced to? No wonder Miss Penrose held him in such contempt. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deep. Clean, cold air from the open window filled his lungs, and he could smell the sea, a salty tang that cut through the stench of sweat and sickness… of him. He opened his eyes again, and noted a small looking-glass on the bedside table. He reached for it, and even that trifling task left him breathless, his hand trembling. How pathetic. He’d been a damned Corinthian once upon a time, until drink and despair had pulled him down into the mire. Though he didn’t want to, he knew he must, must face what he’d become, and he raised the looking-glass.

  An old man looked back at him. Christ, he was only five and thirty, yet the man in the glass appeared to be half dead. Grey skin, bloodshot eyes. He looked utterly haggard, and to think once upon a time he’d fancied himself a handsome fellow. None finer. Blasted peacock. He’d likely ruined himself, and all for what? To spite his father, a man who had never given a snap of his fingers for him anyway. Well, he’d never do the old man’s bidding, but he’d been a damn fool to let things go this far. He’d nearly given in, too. If Charlie hadn’t found him when he had….

  Anyway, killing himself might infuriate the old man and avoid his grand plan, but it would hardly do King any favours, not when his soul was as black as pitch.

  This had to stop. Charlie…Charlie, had done him a service, a great one. He’d pulled him out of the dark hole he’d fallen into, and now he had to stay out. He must sober up and get strong again, and…. Well, he’d think about that when he was feeling less like a shipwreck. For now, he would sleep.

  6th December 1818. St Nicholas Day.

  The giving of gifts and thanks and slippers…

  “King!”

  King did his utmost not to grimace as Charlie’s voice shot through his head. He assumed the headache would leave him eventually, but it was bloody persistent. Though he’d almost balked at the indignity of leaning on the silent, morose Spargo to get down the stairs, King thought he really might run mad if he had to spend another day alone in his room. After their words the other morning, Livvy—Miss Penrose—had avoided him. For some reason, this irritated him even more than her presence. If nothing else, being lashed by the sharp side of her tongue had given him something else to think about other than the fact he was crawling out of his skin with the desire for a drink.

  Now, however, he was being welcomed into the bosom of the family by Charlie, who came over and shook his hand.

  “Good to see you up and about, old man. Thought you’d breathed your last when I found you that night. Gave me quite a turn, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “I owe you a debt of thanks,” King replied, meaning it. He knew it was quite likely Charlie had saved his sorry arse. Not Charlie alone, though.

  “Well, I owed you first, so we’ll call it quits, eh?” Charlie said, with a lazy grin. “Now I’d best introduce you to the horde.”

  King noted that no mention was made of Livvy’s aid to his recovery. Charlie might have bundled him into a carriage and got him here, but Livvy had fed him soup, wiped his fevered brow, and endured who knew what mad ramblings. No matter how much she despised him, she’d cared for him. He knew it had been her who had tended to him more than anyone. He’d gleaned that much from the taciturn Spargo. The only maid was a God-fearing soul and afraid to come near him, and no one else had the time or desire to help. He looked across the room to find that quite startling pair of blue eyes watching him, a look of wry amusement lingering there. King saw from her expression that she’d not expected to receive any credit, but then she’d said as much, hadn’t she? Her brother made the show of largesse and received the thanks, and she paid for it.

  King nodded and made appropriate comments as he was introduced to Charlie’s wife, a faded little blonde woman with a sweet smile and a languid way about her, as if the act of staying awake required great effort. There were so many children King did not even attempt to learn their names, though the baby—Birdie—was one that stuck in his mind. He was uncertain if it was a pet name or her real name. Going on what he’d seen of the household to date, he would not be the least surprised if she’d been christened Big Blue Parrot.

  Throughout the introductions, his gaze kept returning to Livvy. She was quite tall for a woman, and well made, with generous curves and slender limbs, and an unruly mass of curly hair that was the colour of dark honey, with lighter blonde threads that caught the sun. She was not beautiful by any means, but there was something arresting about her. It wasn’t just her eyes, which were a very dark blue and certainly worth a second glance. Perhaps it was the formidable will of iron lurking beneath her soft exterior that shone through and made a man take notice? It had taken King little time to realise that the few staff in this ramshackle house turned to her for instruction, not the viscount. Once the introductions had been made, Charlie told Spargo to bring some sweetmeats for the children, and the man looked to Livvy before obeying. She gave a discreet nod, and Spargo did as Charlie had asked. King wondered if the viscount knew or cared.

  His father had never gone in for the traditions associated with the Christmas season, or any season come to that. It was ironic, given he was so bloody passionate about the traditions that went with the damned title, and the need to marry an appropriate bride, no matter if the girl was…unsuitable, to put it mildly. The Penrose family were different. For a start, they seemed to like each other, which was a novelty in King’s experience of family life. They were undoubtedly the noisiest collection of individuals he’d ever come across. Even Lady Boscawen could hold her own with an uproarious bellow of laughter, which seemed far too large for her frame or character.

  As the tradition of the day was for the giving of gifts, the children were already overexcited, not that anyone but Livvy did anything to temper their high spirits. Indeed, Charlie seemed to add fuel to the fire by playing the fool and chasing them around, until one of the girls fell over, bumped her head, and began to wail, and the smallest boy disrobed in the middle of the room, pronouncing he was “’Ot. Too ’ot.”

  King sympathised. The noise was making his ears ring, and he was sweating. The unpleasant sensation of his shirt sticking to his back provided an extra irritation. Thankfully, Livvy quieted the girl with a hug and kiss and stern admonishment not to make a fuss as it was only a little bump. She ignored the boy, who was down to his small clothes and socks. King wondered if she would ignore him if he tore his own clothes off too. Probably.

  Finally, the children settled down when Livvy told them no presents would be exchanged until everyone was behaving themselves. Peace reigned. King could almost have kissed her for that.

  As everyone went to fetch their gifts, King shifted on the settee, feeling uneasy for having no gifts to give, and for the knowledge that his hands were shaking. He scanned the room, hoping to see a decanter of brandy and finding nothing. He swallowed, trying to steady his breathing, which was coming faster now as anxiety kicked in. Perh
aps Charlie kept a bottle in his study. He’d never been a drinker, King knew that much, but damn it, the man must have a brandy now and again. Hell, he’d drink sherry if he must.

  The children ran back in and exchanged their gifts with each other. They were all homemade, with varying degrees of skill: a conker on a piece of string, an embroidered handkerchief, little watercolours, samplers, and poems.

  “This is for you, my lord.”

  King looked up, a little startled to be addressed by the eldest child, a boy on the cusp of manhood. He was thin and gangly, all arms and legs, and had a serious, anxious expression as he held out his gift to King. The boy’s eyes were blue, a lighter shade than Livvy’s but the same shape, and with the same golden brown lashes.

  “Thank you,” King said, a little taken aback.

  “It’s nothing much, but… well, everyone should have a gift at Christmas time.”

  King unwrapped the brown paper to find a small painting of a horse. It was well done, the creature’s head finely wrought, though there was something not quite right about the angle of the legs.

  “Oh, it’s lovely, Harry, well done,” said a decisive voice.

  King looked up to discover Livvy had sat beside him and was looking over his shoulder.

  “Isn’t it lovely, my Lord Kingston?” she asked, a note in her voice that suggested he agree with enthusiasm or face the consequences, likely dying a slow and painful death.

  King bristled, a little aggrieved she should think him cruel enough to say anything less, but then she didn’t know him at all, and he’d hardly given her any reason to think otherwise. So far, he’d been rude and surly and caused her a great deal of trouble. What a paragon she ought to think him for that. It was a wonder she hadn’t thrown him out.

  “It is very well done. You have a good eye,” he said, trying to arrange his features into something approximating a smile. It was remarkably hard to do, as if he’d forgotten how.