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

by Emma V. Leech

  “Don’t speak,” she said, barely a whisper now. “Don’t tell me no. Just hold me. Please.”

  She felt rather than heard him nod, and he did as she asked, holding her silently until Spargo knocked to announce the arrival of the tea tray.

  Chapter Fifteen

  15th December 1818.

  Wrapped about a small boy’s finger.

  After the stresses of the day, Livvy was too weary to implement her plan to seduce King. Her heart was heavy and her mind too troubled. That Charlie had been such a fool by repeating the same mistake was more than she could accept. She wanted to scream and cry with frustration, but it was too much to face yet, and depression brought a strange sense of lethargy. The future seemed an unfriendly and frightening expanse that stretched before her, and the thought of dealing with it had exhaustion settling heavily in her bones. She just wanted to curl up in her bed and pull the covers over her head and stay there, possibly forever. Except once she was there, she wished King were with her. Oh, but he gave the most marvellous hugs. It was like being wrapped up in a deliciously warm blanket and knowing you were quite perfectly safe, that nothing bad could ever happen to you again. Nonsense, of course, but it was how he made her feel and that was all that mattered. Still, she knew he would balk if she pursued him now. He would believe she was upset and not thinking straight and that she would regret her actions in the morning. Livvy knew better but judged it best to leave things a couple of days, so he could see she wasn’t acting out of impulse. So, life went on as before.

  King did not exactly avoid her, but he kept his distance, surprisingly spending more time with the children that she would have expected. He seemed to have taken a shine to George, and the feeling was obviously mutual as the little boy trailed after him and constantly asked for “Ing” whenever he was out of sight. Harry too was in awe of him, and if his clothes had allowed for it, would have become quite the peacock as he tried to emulate his hero. Even Susan was smitten and would go all pink and silly, and giggle whenever King spoke to her, for which Jane teased her mercilessly.

  Preparations for the coming festivities continued, though to Livvy there was a Last Supper feel to the affair now. She was determined that the children would have a wonderful Christmas, a celebration that they could remember as a happy time and something to cheer them when they were forced to face leaving their home and… and what, Livvy did not know. She did not know yet how bad the debts were, if they could be managed by renting out the house and selling off anything with any value. She wondered how Ceci would take it when she realised her gowns and jewellery must be sold off. The cold, panicky sensation that would sometimes clutch at her heart and send her stomach roiling when Mr Skewes’ offer repeated in her ears she tried hard to ignore. Would she accept him, if things were truly desperate? For once, she could not face the truth but shied away from it, clinging to the impossible hope that lingered with her attending her aunt’s party. She did not allow herself to think about the likelihood her aunt might send her packing the moment she got there, or that she would simply look like a rustic old maid in a dress three seasons out of date and be a figure of ridicule, or that no man would give her a second glance. Instead she clung to her impossible dream of finding a kind man who would be generous enough to give the children the life they deserved. In her quiet, private moments she dreamed of other things too. She dreamed of what she really wanted for herself, a dream so extraordinary she might as well have King riding up on a unicorn and carrying her off to fairyland where they could live happily ever after in a castle in the clouds. Inevitably these dreams made her cry and she ended up feeling cross and out of sorts, scolding herself for being such an utter ninny. It didn’t stop her from indulging in her ridiculous imaginings, though, and longing for a man who might be in the same house, but was so far out of her reach he might as well live on the moon.

  “Fancy a game of cards?” Walsh asked, waving the pack at King.

  King turned from his position at the bedroom window and scowled. “No.”

  “Chess?”

  “No.”

  “Gelly made some shortbread this morning—”

  “I’m not bloody well hungry,” King snapped and then scrubbed his hand over his face. “I beg your pardon, Walsh.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Walsh said with a shrug.

  King groaned and went and sat on the bed. He put his head in his hands. He’d tried to occupy himself, to keep his mind quiet by entertaining the children. He was of little enough use to Livvy, but at least he might give her a bit of peace by keeping them busy. Strangely, it had been no hardship either. He wondered whether he’d always eschewed children before now because he’d met none like these before, or if he’d just not given them a chance, for they were rather entertaining. He seemed to have a quite undeserved heroic status in their eyes, too, which was both flattering and daunting.

  Harry’s worship, he well understood. He was a boy on the cusp of manhood and King was obviously a man of the world, the kind of man an impressionable boy like that might choose to emulate. Even Susan’s newly acquired infatuation was something he could comprehend. He was, after all, male, had all his limbs, hair and teeth, and that seemed all that was required for a susceptible girl to form an attachment. So he treated her with kid gloves and made very certain they were never alone together.

  The younger children, though…. The girls had him playing piano for them to dance to, and demanded endless games of ludo and chess and cards, and had gifted him with dozens of pictures. Many of them were drawings of him, wildly out of proportion with a head like a sun and legs almost to his neck, and a beaming smile. In his favourite one, which Jane had done that morning, they were all in a line, hand in stick-like hand, with him and Livvy side-by-side in the middle of the picture. He had kept them all, placing them carefully under his folded shirts.

  George though, George adored him and seemed to view him as a combination of moveable climbing frame and personal court jester. Even little Birdie had deigned to be held, and cooed and giggled at him, tweaking his nose with her tiny hand and messing up his cravat. King had never experienced the like of it. He told himself it was all a crushing bore, and he would be glad to get away, to get back to London, to his life and his friends and… and it was the most damnable lie.

  There was something here, in this place, with the children and Livvy and Spargo and Gelly. It was a home, filled with people who loved and cared about each other, no matter that they bickered and argued and drove each other to distraction now and then. Ceci and Charlie were a part of it too, albeit on the periphery and on their own terms, dancing in and out of the scene like bit players in a theatrical. That Charlie had all this and had cocked it up… that he expected Livvy to marry that… that vile man to make his mistakes come right…. Fury was a living thing in his chest. It burned and ached and made him wild with frustration to the point where he had to be on his own and pace and fret or stare endlessly out of the window in impotent rage. It made him want to find a bottle and drink himself back into oblivion, for he was such a bloody sorry excuse for a man that he might as well. Any man worth his salt could rescue Livvy, surely? A real man could extricate her from this god awful tangle and make her and the children safe.

  King leaned his forehead against the window. The glass was cold, though a feeble warmth emanated from the sun, which was high in the sky now. It was mid-afternoon and George was taking a nap, much against his will. Livvy had peeled the boy from him as George wept piteously and clung to his lapels and was only placated by the promise of seeing King again if he was a good boy and had a little sleep. It had left King with a lump in his throat which was so utterly bloody ridiculous that he’d had to escape to do a bit more pacing and muttering and be bad-tempered and unreasonable with his faithful valet.

  “Hell and the devil, Walsh. What am I to do?”

  “You could marry her.”

  “Yes,” King said with a sigh, despairing that Walsh had come up with the only possible
answer. “If I married that silly chit, I’d have access to my funds again and I could pay that idiot Charlie’s debts and make it so Livvy and the children were safe. I’d set her up in a place of her own if I could, but… well, you know how that would look.”

  “No, you bleedin’ twit!” Walsh exclaimed.

  King’s mouth fell open. He allowed Walsh a good deal of freedom of speech, but he’d never been spoken to with such a lack of respect and quite so much irritation.

  Walsh coloured and cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, sir, but I meant… you could marry Miss Penrose.”

  King stilled, turning to stare at Walsh in outrage. “And then what? Invite her to escape this crumbling pile, to come to my own crumbling pile and live on sunshine and fresh air. How does that help? How does that keep the children safe?”

  Walsh shrugged. “You’d think of something. Always have afore now.”

  “Walsh,” King said with a derisive tone. “Your belief in me is admirable but entirely misplaced. I have barely muddled though, and become a raging alcoholic in the process. Somehow, I made a few quid here on there on cards and horses. As I will end up killing myself if I go back to that way of life, it is no longer an option. As history has proven time and again, anything legitimate will get my father’s attention, and he will destroy it with a smile on his face.”

  His first enterprise had been a sporting gentleman’s club, a place where a fellow could box or fence, or improve his skills in any number of sporting activities. He’d set it up with a friend and the response in the early months had been very encouraging, they’d even been talking of finding better premises, and then his father had discovered his involvement. He still didn’t know how. Within days the new members stopped enquiring and the old ones were suddenly too busy to attend. Amazing the influence a marquess and a duke combined could bring to bear when they put their minds to it. It had ruined both him and his friend, a fact he could not forgive himself for. He’d been foolish to involve anyone else and a man he had liked and respected had suffered for it.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Walsh said.

  “You are not, surely, suggesting my father might have had a change of heart?” King demanded, so stunned by the absurdity of this idea he didn’t know where to begin with it.

  “No,” Walsh said, the word spoken slow and drawn out. “But he’s doing it to force your hand, to get you to marry the girl of his choosing. Once you’re married, there nothing anyone can do about it, even Lord high and mighty bleedin’ Eynsham.”

  King snorted, amused. “I feel certain I ought to reprimand you for speaking of the marquess so, but I’m damned if I will. However, you are talking rubbish. He’ll be apoplectic with fury and only more determined to destroy me.”

  Walsh shook his head. “I’ve tried to tell you this afore, my lord, but as you was generally half seas over I’ll forgive you for not paying me no mind, but your father has been taken to task before now for his treatment of you.”

  “The devil he has,” King retorted, though felt a little less certain of this as Walsh rolled his eyes to the ceiling. The man appeared to be praying for patience.

  “He has,” Walsh said again, his tone firm now. “You might remember my old pal, Jack Taylor, him what’s valet to the Duke of Sandon? Well, he told me how the duke told your pa his treatment of you was a disgrace and an embarrassment. He said even Prinny has remarked that forcing you to scrabble about for money when your father was as rich as Croesus made your pa look like a miserly curmudgeon at best, and at worst like the only way he could control his only son was by beggaring him. Well, you know Prinny’s had experience of that kind of managing himself. And as everyone knows you’re stubborn enough to live in the gutter before you give in….” Walsh shrugged. “Well, you got the Prince Regent in your corner, and the Duke of Sandon. You reckon they’re the only ones who’ve remarked it, or that there isn’t gossip about your father, that he isn’t being ridiculed for his behaviour? Sure, there’s some what might agree with him after the way you’ve kept company with the devil these past few years, but not all. Not by a long chalk.”

  King digested this information in silence, frowning. “My father hates being backed into a corner, Walsh. He’ll come out fighting.”

  Walsh shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not, but we both know Livvy ain’t gonna find a bloke to take them little ’uns on. At best, if she finds a decent bloke he might pay for Harry’s schooling, but I wouldn’t have no faith in more than that. Would you?”

  King didn’t answer. His instinct was in accord with everything Walsh had just said, and the knowledge made him prickly with anxiety. What would happen to little George and Birdie if Charlie landed himself in debtor’s prison? Ceci would need looking after herself, never mind having the strength to keep the babies safe, and the girls. He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. Poor Harry would have to find work, but he’d been raised a gentleman. He had no practical skills and had not even finished his schooling. King let out an uneven breath. As soon as Charlie got home, he was going to have a frank talk with him and discover how bad things were. Perhaps he had no financial aid to give, but he wasn’t a fool. Hell, compared to Charlie, he was a blasted genius. Perhaps he could find a way to keep the family here and pay Charlie’s debts, something the man had missed. He doubted it, and there was every chance Charlie would tell him to go to the devil, but he’d have to risk it, for Livvy’s sake.

  As Charlie was still away and Ceci opted to dine in her room, Livvy brought the children down for dinner rather than them eating in the nursery. King was glad of it, glad of the distraction. Eating dinner alone with Livvy was far too appealing, too intimate, but there was no chance of intimacy among the chaos the children brought.

  The first hurdle was explaining to Jane that the piglet would not be dining with them. She had named the creature Barnaby, despite Livvy having strictly forbidden naming it at all. Tonight it was wearing a colourful paper crown and King was certain he could see rouge on its whiskery black cheeks. After some persuasion, Jane reluctantly bade Barnaby a good evening and allowed Spargo to take him back outside, but only on condition he got his pick of the left over vegetable peelings. Next was the task of encouraging George to put his clothes back on. As ever, he was running about bare arsed, though he had at least kept his top half covered tonight, which proved he was an intelligent lad as it was chilly in the dining room.

  “George!” Livvy exclaimed, hands on hips, as George ran away from her, giggling.

  “Allow me,” King said, smothering a grin as he took the child’s abandoned clothes in one hand and snatched George up with his free arm as he careened past.

  George squealed and kicked, laughing and wriggling like an eel to get free as King carried him out of the room and back into the parlour.

  “Pack that in, you little devil,” King said, lifting the boy to eye level.

  “Ing!” George said, grinning at him unrepentantly.

  “What have I told you about covering yourself up, young man?” King said gravely.

  George snickered. “Naughty boy, George. Girls scream loud, Ing.”

  King felt his lips twitch and fought not to laugh.

  “Yes, I quite understand the urge to shock them, believe me, but it’s really not very gentlemanly.” He sat down and released George, who took the opportunity to make a break for it. “Oh, no you don’t.”

  King was too quick and caught him again, tickling the child until he was screaming,

  “No, no, no, lemme go, lemme go!” George protested breathlessly, cackling with laughter at the same time.

  “There, see? That’s what you get, my lad. Now, then, I’m starving, and I want my dinner. Are you hungry?”

  George nodded.

  “Well, you’re not having dinner until you put these on, but if you’re a good boy and get dressed, you may sit next to me.”

  Somewhat to King’s surprise, the boy subsided at once and submitted to being wrestled inexpertly into small clothes and trousers. Once all hi
s buttons were buttoned, King looked him over, taking a moment to straighten the collar on the boy’s skeleton suit.

  “Very smart, George. Now then, shall we dine with the ladies?”

  “Es,” George replied, nodding. “George hungry. Ing wants dinner.”

  “Yes, I do,” King confirmed, taking the boy’s hand.

  “Barn’by hungry,” George said hopefully.

  “He may well be, but pigs don’t eat at the dining table.”

  “Barn’by gog. Oof, oof.”

  King shook his head. “You know very well Barnaby is a pig, not a dog.”

  George slanted him a mischievous look, but only murmured: “Oof, oof.”

  When Livvy saw them walk back into the dining room, hand in hand, with George dressed and smiling, the look she gave King made something shift in his chest. He looked quickly away from her and lifted George into his seat, sitting down beside him.

  The meal was simple but excellent, Gelly having a knack for making plain fare exceptionally well. A thick vegetable soup and good bread was followed with a mutton pie with a divine golden pastry that melted in the mouth, boiled potatoes with butter, carrots and—naturally—cabbage. Strangely enough, King was getting a taste for it.

  For some reason, his mind returned to meals when he was Harry’s age. When he was old enough to be allowed to dine with his parents, on the rare occasions he was home from school, mealtimes had been anxious, stilted affairs. His mother often dined in her room rather than face the ordeal, for which he perhaps ought not to have blamed her, but he did, for it left him alone with his father. King would either scoff his food as fast as he could manage hoping to escape quicker and then getting reprimanded for his appalling manners, or barely be able to choke down a morsel as terror of his father’s moods made his throat tight. The table would be covered with dozens of dishes and a ridiculous number of courses, many of which would go untouched as his father prided himself on his restraint. Indulgence in any form was an abominable offence to the Marquess of Eynsham.