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

by Emma V. Leech

  Livvy fiddled with the big iron key, her fingers numb from the cold. Finally it turned and she locked the door in the thick stone garden wall that led to the abandoned farm buildings. It wouldn’t do for the family to learn about her little experiment. Certainly, she didn’t want her brother to know. If he got wind of it, he’d likely think their troubles were over and spend even more money on the strength of a glimmer of hope. It was nothing more than a glimmer, after all. If the winter was a hard one, that spark of hope would snuff out like a candle in a breeze.

  “Ah, Livvy, there you are.”

  Livvy jolted in surprise. No one came out to this part of the property, certainly not on a day when there were thick black clouds overhead threatening a downpour at any moment. That the voice belonged to Lord Kingston only compounded her shock. What the devil did he mean lurking about in the grounds, and calling her Livvy, damn him!

  “I did not give you leave to use my Christian name, my lord,” she said, clutching the cold iron key in her hand. “You may address me as Miss Penrose, or not at all. I prefer the latter, I assure you. Good day to you.”

  To her annoyance, he only laughed. It was a good sound too, a rumble of amusement that came from deep within him.

  “I deserve that. Indeed I only said it to rile you, which was foolish of me when I have come to beg your pardon. You will be unsurprised to hear I have little skill or experience for such an undertaking.”

  Livvy regarded him with suspicion. The path was narrow so she couldn’t walk past him and get away. What in blazes was he playing at?

  He snorted and shook his head. “By the look on your face I see I am doing worse than I imagined, so I will try to make this as painless as I can for both of us. I am sorry that you were forced to endure my presence when I was… well, in whatever disgusting state you were forced to deal with. I am profoundly grateful to your brother, and especially to you, Miss Penrose, for all you have done for me. I realise I am a burden to your household you could well do without, but I will do my best to keep that burden to a minimum. I would leave, but—”

  “No.”

  Livvy clamped her mouth shut, furious with herself for having spoken. What he did was none of her affair, but if he left and returned to the same way of living, he’d be dead in six months at best, likely a lot less than that. Looking at him now, big and tall and so imposing, that seemed impossible, even if his skin was still a ghastly shade, his eyes sunken and shadowed, and his coat hanging loose where he’d lost so much weight.

  To her surprise the earl did not make some lewd remark about her not wanting him to leave, instead he just returned a rueful smile.

  “Indeed. My chances of staying sober seem far greater if I remain here for a while under your hawklike and disapproving gaze. I fear my charming presence will not make up for the lack of drink in the house for your festivities, however.”

  Livvy shook her head.

  “My grandfather disliked drink in any form, for his father was a drunkard, and his brother too. We were given a healthy fear for the perils of overindulgence. Charlie drinks to be sociable in town, but he won’t mind missing it to keep you in one piece. He thinks the world of you,” she added for the sake of fairness.

  He had apologised after all, and quite prettily in his own fashion. It must have stung for a man like him. He was proud, she could see that, though his pride must have taken an almighty dent of late.

  “I have no idea why.”

  There was bitterness in the words that surprised her. For all he was smarting for her having seen him at his worst, she assumed he would take pride in who he was, in the fact he had saved her brother at a time when he’d been unable to save himself.

  “Because you protected him,” she said, seeing no reason to deny it. Charlie had been weak, weaker than Kingston, and the earl had shielded him. “You didn’t have to. He was a younger boy, beneath your notice. You didn’t need to step in.”

  He shook his head, a sharp movement that spoke of impatience with the subject. “Nonsense. Pray do not colour me in saintly shades. I don’t doubt I enjoyed smashing his tormentors’ heads together as much as they’d enjoyed beating him. I’m little better, only that I prefer not to pick on those who cannot fight back. I just happened to be there. I’m sure anyone else would have done the same.”

  “No, they wouldn’t, and they didn’t,” Livvy said, folding her arms and wondering why she was labouring the point. “He was being beaten and terrorised almost daily until you stopped it. Plenty of other boys could have stepped in. None did. Only you, and it wasn’t only the once, so don’t make out like it was.”

  He huffed out a breath and raked a hand through hair which was thick and dark. “I cannot abide bullies. Sadly, the place was riddled with them. Still is, I don’t doubt.”

  Livvy nodded. “Well, you may stay until after Christmas, providing you behave yourself and don’t set a bad example to the children.”

  She walked towards him, expecting him to step aside and let her pass. He did not.

  “What about you?”

  Livvy frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  A wicked glint entered his eyes, something dark and amused lurking there. Livvy’s heart picked up. He looked exactly like what he was: a bad man, a man so sunk in depravity he’d almost killed himself. The Earl of Kingston still carried the scent of liquor and sickness, still looked like a man who’d ruined himself with drink and dissipation, and yet there was something magnetic in his gaze, something that made her skin prickle with awareness.

  “May I set you a bad example?” he asked, his tone mild.

  “Certainly not,” Livvy replied briskly, glaring at him. “Now step aside. I do not have time to waste with this foolish chattering.”

  He did so, the faintest quirk of his lips mirroring the amusement in his eyes as she hurried past him, but she felt the weight of his gaze follow her all along the path until she was out of sight.

  Chapter Five

  8th December 1818.

  The bitter truth, a betrayal, and a straw to cling to.

  With hindsight, Livvy should have seen it coming. She should have known better than to hope they might yet survive her brother’s foolishness. Well, now she saw it with such clarity she felt dazed by the glare. Her brother was still talking, still explaining all the reasons marrying Mr Skewes was the best thing for everyone, and her especially.

  “He’s a good man, anyone can see that, and it’s a fine house too. It’s hardly a death sentence, Livvy, to be told you’d live in such a splendid place, with money at your disposal for frocks and pretty things, and he doesn’t care about the dowry. He’ll pay off all our debts and only take the land off our hands in return. It’s not like we’re making anything from it….”

  Her brother rambled on and on, and her fists clenched tight around the iron key. The metal was warm now, and she could not remember having picked it up that morning. She’d been on her way out when her brother had asked to speak to her. The iron had been cold then, the touch of it against her hand making her shiver. Her mother had told her stories of the fae folk when she was a child. They were allergic to iron. Was it iron and lemon juice, or salt? Had that been it? She couldn’t remember now. Livvy had made herself forget a lot of things over the years, silly things that were of no use to her now. Like how she’d dreamed of going to town and having a season, of beautiful dresses and meeting a good man, a clever, handsome man who would make her laugh and think her pretty and… and what nonsense. Such things were best forgotten. She stared at the hand clutching the key, saw how chapped and dry the skin was from too much hard work and not enough care.

  “No.”

  Charlie stopped talking and looked at with an air of mild surprise. “Sorry, what?”

  “No, Charlie. I will not marry him. Not even to save the family. I’ll work my fingers to the bone for you, I’ll scrimp and save and skivvy if I must, but I will not give that man the right to me, to own me. No. I shan’t.”

  “What nonsense is
this?” Charlie said impatiently. “You act as though I would sell you into slavery!”

  “You are selling me into slavery,” Livvy retorted. “Just because I would live in a fine house and wear dresses that aren’t five years out of date would not change the fact that I would belong to a man I despise.”

  “You don’t despise him.”

  Livvy shot to her feet.

  “Don’t you tell me what I feel!” she shouted in fury, tears pricking at her eyes.

  She had been a fool to trust her brother. He was weak, and his weakness would be her condemnation if she wavered now. Livvy took a deep breath and forced her voice into something resembling a reasonable, calm tone.

  “Hear me, and hear me well, Charlie, for I’ll not say it again. I will not marry that man to save you from a situation of your own making. I tried to warn you against your friend’s ridiculous investment scheme, and you refused to listen, but you’ll listen now. I’ll leave and not come back before I allow you to betroth me to that man, and if you think to persuade me or cajole me into it, stop now. One more word on the matter and I’ll never speak to you again.”

  Her brother stared at her, his colour high as his own temper flared, but she didn’t care. If she didn’t beat him over the head with her meaning he’d think she would come around, that she just needed time to think it over. Well, she’d thought it over. She’d sacrificed a great deal for this family—her own future and happiness, for one—she’d not sacrifice what little freedom remained for them.

  “You’re being hysterical,” he said, stalking to the window and glowering at the rain sheeting down beyond the glass.

  She stamped down with difficulty on the desire to show him what hysterical looked like, but her reply was quiet and serene, even if she was throwing things at him in her mind. “Do I sound hysterical, Charlie? Good heavens. I’d no idea how sensitive you were. Perhaps you should have a lie down, you’ll give yourself a migraine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

  Somehow, she left the room without giving into the desire to beat her brother about the head with the nearest object, though her hands trembled so much she could hardly turn the door handle. Outside, she almost barged into Mr Walsh and murmured an apology before she fled, heading for the gardens, for escape, for the path that led down to the sea, though the rain was pelting down still. It soaked her to the bone in no time at all, but Livvy did not stop.

  “Well?” King demanded as Walsh returned, looking grim faced.

  He had often believed the man wasted his talents as a valet. He’d have made an exceptional spy. Walsh could read people with ease, always seemed to be aware of any upset or scandal in a household, and could smell an intrigue from a mile away. It had saved King from a great deal of unpleasantness over the years. When Walsh had brought him his breakfast and told him there was something amiss in the house, King had listened. Not that he gave a hoot for whatever problems Boscawen had brought down upon himself. That was his own affair. He might not want to burden the man further, but he wasn’t a blasted priest or a shoulder to cry on, and he had no financial help to give beyond a few extra coins for his keep. Yet, if the place was about to fall apart, they’d want King out and he couldn’t have that, not until he was stronger. He’d woken feeling utterly wretched, so tired the very idea getting out of bed was akin to climbing a bloody mountain, and miserable besides. He wasn’t a surly fellow by nature, not until recently, but everything seemed so damned black he felt like curling up under the blankets and never coming out again. The only bright spot in the past few days had been the knowledge that he’d unsettled the unflappable Miss Penrose.

  “He’s trying to marry Miss Penrose to some bloke what lives nearby. A Mr Skewes.”

  “And she won’t have him?” King guessed with a smile. Well, good for her. He could not help but feel a burst of fellow feeling for someone standing strong against being forced into a marriage they did not want.

  “Not only won’t have him, despises him. Told her brother she’d leave rather than marry Mr Skewes, and would no longer speak to him if he mentioned it ever again.”

  A bark of laughter left King as he imagined her icy response to Boscawen’s interference in her life. He could see her now, looking down her nose at Charlie, regarding him as though he’d crawled out of cheese.

  “What’s her objection? Is he fat? Old?”

  Walsh shook his head. “According to Gelly—that’s the cook here—he’s a good-looking fellow, few years your junior. Got money, too, and a fine house.”

  For no earthly reason he could think of, King felt a burst of irritation at that description. Perhaps it had been the ‘few years your junior’ comment, or that the fellow had money. “Then why won’t she have him?”

  Walsh rolled his eyes. “Supposing you ask her?”

  King returned the expression. “Ah yes, I can imagine the reception I’d receive if I posed such a question to Miss Prissy Penrose. Christ, she’d bite my head off for my impertinence.”

  “Shouldn’t blame her none, either,” Walsh said, chuckling.

  King sighed and settled back against the pillows.

  “Well, anyway, it’s only a family squabble, nothing to worry about.” He sat forward again, as Walsh’s expression was not a restful one. “What?”

  “Gelly reckons it’s only Miss Penrose what holds this family together, not that Boscawen and his lady recognise it, but your old mate is close to bankruptcy. I reckon young missy has to marry that fellow, or at least one with a few quid, or they’ll all be in the basket.”

  King gave a despairing groan. “And what do you propose I do about it? All I need is a quiet place with no booze and no temptation for a few weeks, while I get myself together. I have no desire to land myself in the middle of a family dispute.”

  Walsh leaned back against the chest of drawers and folded his arms. “Well, you’re ’ere, in the house, so you are in the middle, like it or no. May as well meddle a bit if it’ll get you the peace and quiet you need. Boscawen is bound to be grateful. I mean, you could have a little chat with her, and maybe you could meet the fellow what wants to marry her too, see what he’s like. If he’s a nice fellow, p’rhaps you could talk the lady round. Lord knows you can talk ’em out of their petticoats when the mood takes you.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” King grumbled. “I’m hardly in a state to persuade Miss Penrose of anything. Besides which, she quite clearly despises me.”

  “A challenge for you, then. You always used to like the tricky ones the most.”

  He narrowed his eyes at Walsh with suspicion, wondering if he was up to something, but the man just returned a blank, innocent expression. King sighed. “God, you’re annoying. I can’t think why I keep you around.”

  “Can’t think why I stay, neither,” Walsh remarked with a grin. “I’ll fetch some hot water.”

  The devil sauntered off with a smug expression.

  King closed his eyes and let out a heartfelt curse. “Bloody, buggering hell.”

  Once he was suitably shaved and attired, King forced his aching limbs down the stairs only to discover Miss Penrose was not in the house. It seemed best to approach her first and get the lie of the land, as he wasn’t gallivanting about the countryside looking for Mr Skewes in this weather. He regarded the sombre grey clouds outside with misgiving. It had poured all morning and looked as if it was set to come down again any time now. Well, he’d have a quick stroll around the garden and, if she wasn’t there, he’d try again later.

  Livvy dragged her sodden skirts back along the path that led to the gardens. She was still holding the key, her fingers curled about it and blue with cold. Not that she was going to visit her little project now. She didn’t have the heart for it. Every time she remembered her row with Charlie, her heart ached anew. She had trusted him. He was a silly fellow at times, and drove her nearly distracted, but she’d believed he loved her, believed he would put her happiness before any financial gain. He’d betrayed her. Though he
did not understand her motives and thought Mr Skewes a nice fellow, Charlie knew she despised him. He knew she feared marrying a man she could not trust, and yet he’d tried to force her hand, to use her love for her nieces and nephews to coerce her to the altar.

  Don’t you want the girls to have dowries? Don’t you want poor Harry to go to university?

  As if it were her doing they couldn’t! Then he’d dropped the final bombshell. He had debts, debts that he could not pay. All their savings had gone. He’d sold everything that wasn’t nailed down or entailed, and it still wasn’t enough, yet he’d still spent more buying stupid presents for Christmas… she wanted to weep. She had wept. For once she’d cried for herself, for a life wasted on trying to keep this family together when her brother was determined to undo all her good work.

  Still she’d told him—spelled it out in words even he could understand—that she would not marry Mr Skewes under any circumstances, and that she had lost faith in him. It was impossible to trust Charlie now. She needed a plan, a way out. Livvy gave a despairing sob. Her only way out of her brother’s house was to marry, and if he could no longer afford to keep her….