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

by Emma V. Leech

  Walsh gave an affronted little sniff. “Would you like me to pack my bags, sir? I could have my letter of resignation to you in within the hour.”

  “Ho! Oh no, my fine fellow, don’t you try that, and don’t pretend you don’t keep that same letter to shove under my nose every time we’re at outs. I’m not so green as I’m cabbage-looking. There’s never a date on it, Walsh! Ha! So there. You thought I hadn’t noticed, I bet.”

  “I like to be prepared, is all. I know where I’m not wanted, I’m sure.” Walsh carefully hung up the coat he’d been brushing and made for the door, stony faced.

  “Oh, pack it in, you old ham. We both know you’re not going anywhere and I’m not angry at you, I’m angry with me. I’ve sunk beyond reproach this time, Walsh, and it’s all her fault.”

  Walsh heaved a long-suffering sigh and turned around. “What happened?”

  King explained the goings on he’d experienced on the beach with as much brevity as possible, though it would have been quicker had he left out several choice expletives which did not aid the story a whit, but which made him feel better.

  “I see,” Walsh replied.

  “Do you?” King demanded bitterly. “For all I see is my sorry behind another few miles down the road to perdition.”

  Walsh snorted, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  King narrowed his eyes at his valet, who gave a nonchalant shrug. “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”

  “I never said I didn’t enjoy it,” King retorted. “But you know as well as I do that a gentleman—even one as far removed from deserving the title as I am—does not dally with innocent, well-bred ladies. She is not a light skirt, nor a merry widow. Miss Penrose was brought up with the intention of marrying a man of her station and providing the necessary heir and spare, not having liaisons with her brother’s blackguard of a friend and, what’s more, under the poor fool’s nose!”

  “Horsewhipping is too good for you, sir,” Walsh observed dispassionately.

  “There, you see!” King threw up his hands before burying his head in them and groaning.

  “If the idea offends you so deeply, why not just tell her no?”

  King gave a bark of laughter that sounded just a tad too close to hysterical. “Have you tried saying no to Miss Penrose? I wish you would, Walsh, for I tell you now, she does not play fair.”

  “She cried?”

  “Oh, she didn’t just cry,” King muttered, folding his arms. “She… she looked all… defeated and hurt and… and like a kitten I’d just tried to drown in a bucket, damn her.”

  Walsh gave a sympathetic nod. “I do see, sir, and I forgive you for your harsh words as you were clearly under duress. It is little wonder you took such a pet. It’s enough to put any man on his high ropes, I’m sure. I shall go at once and make you a tisane and bring you some of Gelly’s shortbread. You’ll be right as ninepence in no time.”

  “Oh, no, I won’t,” King said darkly, staring into the fire in the hearth with the expression of one approaching the gallows. “She’s coming here tonight, after supper. I’m doomed, Walsh. Doomed, I tell you.”

  “Do stop behaving like such a ninny,” Livvy scolded herself as she tiptoed along to King’s room. No amount of scolding could stop her heart from thundering in her chest, though.

  Livvy assured herself it was sneaking about after dark like a thief, and the possibility of getting caught, that made her pulse skitter about like a mad rabbit. It was assuredly not the idea of being in King’s arms again, the thought of his lips against hers. Oh, n-no, it’s not that at all. She swallowed a nervous giggle. Truly, it was ridiculous that a woman of her age should act in such a manner, giggling—good heavens. Yet for the first time in her life, she felt alive. That kiss had been better than anything she had ever dreamed of and she wanted to do it again. It didn’t seem too much to ask before she gave up on such pleasures for good. It had been a pleasure too, the most sinful, thrilling moment of her entire life, and she wanted to experience it again. She knew full well she was doing something wicked and the knowledge was rather… invigorating.

  Arriving at King’s door, she raised her hand to knock, and then had to smother a squeak of alarm as it opened in front of her. She almost dropped the candlestick.

  “Shhhh!” King hissed.

  “I was shushed until you frightened the life out of me,” she retorted in a furious whisper. “Why did you do that?”

  “Change of plan,” King said, closing the door behind him.

  “Oh, no. You’re not reneging on our agreement,” Livvy said, shaking her head.

  King tsked and took the candle from her. “No. Just changing location. We’ll go to your room.”

  Livvy felt a flush of heat at the idea, though she did not understand why. His room, her room, it hardly mattered. “That won’t help you if we’re discovered. I thought I was supposed to have hit you over the head, drugged you, and taken advantage of your person.”

  He just shrugged and glanced over his shoulder at her. “Then you’ll just have to lure me to your room first. To… rid you of a spider.”

  Livvy snorted. “No one would believe that. I get rid of the spiders in this house.”

  “A mouse, then.”

  “Do I look like the kind of creature to have a fit of hysterics over a mouse?”

  King rolled his eyes at her. “You had a bad dream and screamed, and I came running.”

  “I’m not in my nightgown,” she pointed out.

  “Easily remedied.”

  Livvy opened her mouth in shock but saw the glint in his eyes. He was teasing her.

  She huffed and pointed down the corridor. “Far end on the left.”

  She followed him back to her room and opened the door for him when he waited on the threshold.

  “Why are we here, then?” she asked, turning to see him inspecting the room with interest.

  Not that there was a great deal to see. A bed with a faded patchwork quilt, a few bits of furniture, good quality and well-tended. Inexpert sketches of the children and watercolours of the countryside tacked to the walls beside a sampler she’d done when she was far younger and less cynical, and not much else.

  “If I am to help you with this… this….”

  “Endeavour,” she supplied for him.

  “Madness,” he corrected. “We may as well do it properly. As you have not been in society, I assume that your wardrobe for this party is somewhat challenging.”

  Livvy nodded. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “So, what you are planning to do? It isn’t a costume ball, by any chance? You’d make a marvellous Cinderella.”

  Livvy opened her mouth, intending to tell him off for his rudeness when she glimpsed herself in the looking-glass on her dressing table. The reflection was hardly that of a well-dressed young lady. Her gown was faded and though like her furniture, once good quality and well cared for, it… well, she would make a marvellous Cinderella.

  “No. It is not a masquerade and I shall need clothes for several days,” she said, aware of a weary note lingering behind the words. Irritated with herself, she cleared her throat. “I have a couple of gowns I believe I may be able to make over and the others. The others…. Well, I may as well be frank….”

  “Good Lord, do you mean you have been holding back until now?” King said with obvious alarm.

  Livvy tutted and ignored him. “I shall borrow some of Ceci’s clothes. Heaven knows she won’t notice, and there’s plenty to choose from.”

  “Ah, thievery. You never cease to impress me, Miss Penrose.”

  She continued and ignored that comment too. “I’m taller and a bit fuller in the bust, so I must lower the hems and let them out a little, but that’s all. Since the last couple of pregnancies, we fill them out to a similar degree, so her more recent purchases might not even need that.”

  King’s eyes were naturally drawn to her bosom after a comment like that, and h
e pursed his lips.

  “Don’t bother. I’m immune to lewd comments, I assure you.”

  “Really?” he asked with interest. “How do you know? Who has been making lewd comments about your person?”

  Livvy returned an impatient glance. “No one, clearly, or I’d likely not be in this predicament. I just mean that I do not shock easily, so you may as well refrain from the effort. I suspect being wicked and lascivious at every moment of the day takes a deal of energy, so I am giving you leave to take a rest.”

  He looked so perplexed by the idea she felt compelled to elaborate.

  “Well, isn’t it tedious, always having to flirt and make women want to go to bed with you?”

  His frown deepened.

  “Because you need not try with me. I know you don’t wish to bed me, and I most certainly have no wish for you to. This is merely a… a learning experience on my part. So you may relax and be at your ease with me. Treat me as you would one of your cronies.”

  There was a pause that felt significant, but Livvy could not put her finger on exactly why that was. After the significant pause had stretched almost to breaking point, and just before a fine prickle of sweat broke out on her forehead, he spoke.

  “But you wish me to teach you how to seduce a man. That is not the kind of thing I would do with a pal, considering it must be a practical learning experience.”

  Livvy swallowed and willed her cheeks not to heat, glad for the dim candlelight. “Like on the beach?”

  That had definitely sounded an octave higher and squeakier than she had intended or was in any way normal.

  “Like on the beach,” he replied, something simmering in his eyes that no amount of willing could stop bringing a flush of heat to her skin.

  “W-Well, in those instances we shall be business-like, and… do what we must. There need be no lovemaking. As you say, it’s merely practical experience.”

  Apart from a slight stutter, Livvy felt relieved her words had sounded cool and quite sensible, which was a relief and evidence of a new ability to dissemble she hadn’t realised she possessed, for her insides trembled with longing at the idea that he might give her such an experience now. The look in his eyes suggested he was considering it.

  “And outside of those practical experiences, I am to treat you as one of my cronies? A pal?” he repeated, frowning.

  “Quite so,” Livvy agreed, pleased that he had accepted the point.

  “Very well,” he said, perking up a little.

  Livvy watched with consternation as he stripped off his coat, tugged his cravat undone, and threw both onto a chair. Then he strode to her bed and flopped down on it, lounging against the pillows with his hands behind his head, looking for all the world like some exotic pasha awaiting his harem.

  “W-What…?” Livvy began.

  “You said to treat you as one of my cronies. Pals are terribly informal, you see, we make ourselves at home with one another. You’re right, you know, I do feel far more relaxed. Now then, show me these frocks you think can be made over. I confess I have grave doubts about their suitability.”

  Livvy stared at him for a long moment. Seeing him sprawled over her bed was giving her some very odd sensations in the pit of her belly. There was a peculiar coiling heat, a bit like writhing snakes only less unpleasant, and… and the strangest sense of possessiveness. As if by laying himself down upon her bed, in her room, he had somehow made himself… hers. What utter twaddle. One could no more own a man like that than keep a pet crocodile. Still, the sensation lingered.

  He quirked one dark eyebrow. “See something you like?”

  Livvy bristled instinctively. “Certainly not.”

  “Excellent. Show me the gowns.”

  Reminding herself that was what she was supposed to be doing, Livvy went to the chest at the end of her bed where the few decent items of clothing she owned were kept. Carefully, she drew out her best gown. It was a good five years out of date, with a deep, square neckline and in her favourite shade of blue. She remembered feeling quite pretty on the few occasions she’d worn it. Holding it up now for King’s perusal felt a little like holding up an offering for a pagan god, and judging from the look in his eyes, being found wanting.

  “The colour is well enough, I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “Though it looks like something for some chit just out of the schoolroom, which won’t do at all.”

  Livvy gave the dress a critical once over.

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” she said with a regretful sigh. “I’m too old for it.”

  There was a tsk of annoyance. “I never said that, grandmother dear. The dress is too childish for you. It does not suit the purpose. You will never snare a fellow who’s looking for some silly simpering girl he can impress with gifts and bend to his will. No, you need to appeal to a man with a brain in his head looking for an intelligent companion. Preferably a companion who also gives the impression they’d be fun to bed.”

  Livvy stared at him, heart thudding with the prospect that she might have just heard another compliment. She desperately wanted to say something witty and amusing to underline her appeal to said man with a brain in his head. Sadly, after a few seconds of frantic thinking, the most she could come up with was, “Oh.”

  King nodded, as if she had said something halfway sensible. “Yes. If you combine those two ingredients successfully, you’ll have a good chance of victory.”

  “Do you really think so?” Livvy asked, more than a little surprised. She had assumed he would do what he must—begrudgingly—all the time telling her she was being an idiot and doomed to failure.

  He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  It was not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it was much more positive than she’d expected, so she could not help but smile at him.

  “Thank you, King.”

  “Whatever for? I’ve just told you the dress is no good. Bodices are much narrower this season, though frankly I don’t see how you’ll get everything in. A bit like fitting a quart into a pint pot.”

  Once again, he gave her bosom a thorough perusal. As he was trying to be helpful—and she was giving him the benefit of the doubt on this—Livvy took her own advice and treated him as she would a friend, not a man. She ignored the weight of his gaze without comment.

  “Er… King?”

  He started at the sound of his name, and the slightly glazed look in his eyes was gone in a blink. “Ah. Yes. Next.”

  “Oh, well... this was my favourite one, once upon a time,” she said, holding up a lemon yellow confection with a delicate frill of lace and a lot of ribbons.

  “Good grief. In which century? Does it come with a stomacher and panniers?”

  “How old do you think I am?” she demanded, wounded by his sarcasm.

  “I think you’re barely the right side of twenty. That ridiculous item, however, has enough fabric for a marquee. You’re going to a ball, not hosting a garden party. I can’t see anyone wearing it with no panniers to hoist all that fabric aloft, certainly not a little slip of a thing like you. You’d disappear.”

  Livvy opened and closed her mouth, torn between defending her favourite frock and… little slip of a thing. Dignity won out. “There are no circumstances under which you could describe me as a ‘little slip of a thing.’”

  “I beg to differ. There’s nothing of you.”

  “There’s plenty of me,” she retorted.

  King got to his feet, and strangely enough, she did feel rather smaller and slip-like as he did so. The room seemed to shrink a vast amount too, notably the space between her and the bed. Her idiotic heart thudded hopefully.

  “May I illustrate?” he asked.

  Illustrate? Her likeness to a slip, she supposed. What was a slip, anyway? Any further thoughts on the subject were suspended as he put his hands to her waist. She must have nodded her agreement. Yes, she had a vague recollection of moving her head in a jerky up and down motion. Now his large hands were at her waist, the heat of them burning t
hrough the worn material of her gown, and there was that odd quivering sensation again.

  “There,” he said, a definite tinge of smug satisfaction to the pronouncement.

  “Where?” she asked, and only stared up at him, all in a dither and wondering what they’d been talking about.

  “Here.” He squeezed her waist, making her suck in a breath. “Do you eat at all?”

  She nodded.

  “You barely touched your dinner.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the memory. “I don’t like calves’ feet, or cabbage.”

  “Then why was it for dinner?”

  “It’s cheap.”

  “What about this morning?”

  “Bread and jam.”

  He shook his head, his expression fierce. “You gave most of it to George.”

  “I did?” she replied, wondering why on earth he’d noticed.

  “You did, and if you keep on, you’ll not be a slip but a wisp. Men do not wish to marry wisps, Miss Penrose. They’re dashed difficult to get hold of.”

  “You seem to have… have a hold… of… of me.”

  He nodded, a gleam in his eyes that made her silly, giddy, hopeful heart crash about like an unfortunate fishing boat around Vinegar Cove.

  “I do,” he murmured, his voice all low, velvety, and wicked, and… and he let go and resumed his imitation of an exotic pasha, his expression so utterly benign she knew he’d done it on purpose. The rat. “Well, so far we have a gown fit for Susan and a tent awning. Is that it?”

  Livvy swallowed down a distasteful mixture of disappointment and ire and returned to the chest.

  “The moths got into my pink, it’s beyond saving. There’s this….”

  She held up her final offering and King stilled, an anxious glint in his eyes.

  “Does that… it does have a tail, doesn’t it?”

  Livvy nodded. “Yes. We did some playacting one Christmas. I think perhaps I was supposed to be a cat?”

  “Oh, good. I thought I was having a relapse.”

  She snorted as he put a dramatic hand to his forehead and affected a swoon.

  “A pity you weren’t in the play,” she observed. “I was dreadful, but I suspect you’d be a fine actor.”