A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell

by Joanna Johnson

  ‘Come along. It’s been a long day. I’d like to retire now.’

  The look Honora shot him contained such venom Isaac was briefly grateful he was still alive, but she turned for the stairs and accepted the landlord’s hand to climb the uneven wooden steps. Isaac followed behind her, the hem of her black coat disappearing into the shadows of a night neither one of them had expected.

  * * *

  Unseen by either of them the fair-haired man watched them go, a look of unpleasant contemplation creeping across his face as he took Honora’s place beside the fire.

  Chapter Four

  Curled on her side Honora screwed her eyes closed, determined to ignore the flickering light that peeped through a gap in the tightly drawn bed hangings. How long she’d lain there waiting for sleep to claim her she wasn’t quite sure, the minutes marked by the ticking of an unfamiliar clock somewhere nearby.

  Is he asleep? Surely he must be by now.

  She couldn’t hear any sound other than the clock and the soft shifting of burning logs in the fireplace on the other side of the room. Orange light slanted across her covers in a thin skewer, the only interruption of the midnight darkness, and if she hadn’t known Lord Lovell sat in an armchair pulled up to the hearth she might have thought herself alone in the December night.

  She listened intently. It was the second night in a row she’d kept perfectly still, trying to catch a hint of what Lord Lovell was doing out of her sight, and the notion made her frown. Was it really only twenty-four hours since he had appeared in her parlour, a stranger in the darkness with news she hadn’t expected? In the space of a single day she had found herself widowed and hurtling north with a man she barely knew—but who still affected her in a way so unnerving it put her on her guard. She’d fallen for the charms of a handsome man once before and it had been her downfall—she’d never stumble into the same trap twice.

  Not that he’s been especially charming. It seems he dislikes me as much as I dislike him.

  There was still no sound from the other side of the bed curtains and, despite her efforts to the contrary, Honora couldn’t help a glimmer of curiosity. It had been an unspoken agreement that she would have the bed, consigning him to sleep in the squashy armchair by the fire. When was the last time she’d been on such intimate terms with a man? she wondered reluctantly as a treacherous tingle crept over her skin. Certainly not since Frank had simply walked out the door and closed it behind him with such finality she should have known he wasn’t coming back. Now only a blanket and a thin nightgown guarded her from Lord Lovell’s dark gaze, eyes so direct and uninhibited it made her shudder with delicious unease...

  It was no use.

  Honora sat up. She would never be able to sleep while Lord Lovell sat mere feet away doing who knew what, a silent presence that somehow made itself known to her without as much as a word.

  I’ll just take one little look and then I’ll go to sleep. One peep through the curtains is nothing. He’ll be asleep, like as not, and will never know I did it.

  Moving slowly, Honora peeled back her covers, wincing slightly as the night’s chill attacked her bared skin. Moving like a fox stalking a rabbit, she crawled to the end of the bed and tried to look through the gap in the hangings, pursing her lips when it gave her nothing but an eyeful of fireplace. After a moment’s hesitation she twitched the curtains a little further apart, gingerly craning her neck to catch a glimpse of her perturbing companion and satisfy the insistent beat of her curiosity.

  He wasn’t sleeping. Instead Honora felt her throat suddenly clench as she took in the sculpted line of his profile, a straight nose and well-shaped chin showcased against a backdrop of flame as if to deliberately highlight their handsome contours. Lord Lovell sat motionless in the chair with his eyes fixed on the fire and both hands clasped before him as though in prayer—although what a man like Lord Lovell might pray for Honora couldn’t begin to guess. His brow was creased with deep thought and a tightness about his lips suggested whatever played on his mind was no trivial matter, staring into the flames and in his seriousness looking every one of his almost forty years.

  Honora knew she shouldn’t continue to watch him although she couldn’t quite tear her eyes away. Lord Lovell was still cloaked in mystery, but in one respect she knew she was right. Seated by the fire he was wretched, lost in thought about something that brought him no joy. Honora could tell from his face and felt her dry throat give another convulsive swallow as a strange trickle of pity welled up inside her at the thought. She shouldn’t care if he was unhappy. He’d done nothing to deserve her sympathy. But it gleamed within her all the same, a quick flit of softness she had long since thought buried beneath suffering of her own.

  ‘You can’t sleep either, then.’

  His voice made her jump and when he turned his head in her direction Honora saw the complex expression replaced by one of wry understanding. ‘Or is it you just wanted to check I’d kept my distance?’

  Caught in the act, Honora felt her face flush hot. Had he known she was watching the whole time? It seemed suddenly silly to be lurking behind the curtains and pulling a blanket up to cover her modesty Honora opened the gap a little wider, still safe within the shadowy sanctuary of the four-poster bed.

  ‘Of course not. I’d hope you would keep to your word without needing to be reminded.’

  Lord Lovell laughed shortly, another of those deep notes that reverberated through Honora’s chest. ‘You needn’t worry. I’m a reformed character these days.’

  When she didn’t reply he unclasped his hands and waved towards a table set out to one side of the fire. ‘I was contemplating a glass of wine to help me drift off. Would you like one? You never know, it might put you more at ease.’

  Making fun at my expense yet again.

  Honora gave Lord Lovell a narrow look, but he didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps he just didn’t care. She watched as he got to his feet and crossed the room, tall and proud in the firelight and moving—as ever—with the confidence of a man born into wealth and title. Any trace of the emotion Honora thought she’d seen in his face was long gone when he turned to her, bottle in hand, and raised a questioning brow.

  ‘Very well. A small one.’

  With all the caution Pa had taught her when hunting in the Virginian forests, Honora gathered the blanket more tightly around her and stepped off the bed, her awareness of every move Lord Lovell made heightened by suspicious interest. He had his back to her as he poured and for a moment she admired the clean shape of his dark hair at the nape of his neck, his shoulders pleasantly wide beneath a costly waistcoat, before snatching her eyes away. Another chair stood close to the one Lord Lovell had vacated and, with a breath of hesitation, she folded into it, tucking the blanket around her so not even a sliver of nightgown showed.

  She took the glass held out to her with a word of thanks, one hand sneaking from beneath her wrappings. A small sip did indeed help her to relax, although she would have bitten her own tongue than admit it to the man who took his seat next to her.

  For a while neither of them broke the silence that descended. Honora drank her wine slowly and Lord Lovell seemed to relish his likewise, a stark difference from the way Frank had used to gulp down a glass and then pour out another. Drink and gambling had always been his vices—as well as pretty women, a lesson Honora hadn’t learned until it was far too late.

  ‘It’s a shame we have no spices or we could have mulled the wine. It’s getting close to Christmas, after all—less than a fortnight.’

  Honora nodded, welcoming the distraction from her unhappy thoughts of the past. ‘It is. In the chaos of the past day I’d almost forgotten.’

  Lord Lovell huffed. ‘No hope of that for me. It’s my ward’s favourite time of the year and she begins talking about it about halfway through July.’

  Honora couldn’t help the upward flicker of her eyebrows. ‘You have a
ward?’

  The idea of Lord Lovell in charge of a young girl seemed so unlikely it took her entirely by surprise. That was something she never would have imagined. Wasn’t he too dismissive and self-satisfied to concern himself with anyone else, let alone assume the role of a guardian? To be entrusted with a ward implied somebody had a good deal of faith in him, a prospect Honora couldn’t quite believe.

  Lord Lovell’s face tightened at once and for a moment he was silent. Perhaps he’d spoken before he’d thought the better of it, Honora wondered at the sudden tension in his face, although why he might wish he hadn’t she couldn’t say.

  ‘Yes. Her name is Charlotte.’

  His lips barely moved and his eyes were trained now on the fireplace, deliberately avoiding Honora’s curious gaze.

  ‘Somehow I wouldn’t have guessed you were a guardian. Has she been with you long?’

  She watched his curt nod, his chestnut hair gleaming in the warm glow, but that warmth not quite reaching his eyes.

  ‘Ever since her parents died seven years ago, when she was just turned nine. Her mother was my only cousin so Charlotte came to me. She’s the only family I have left and I love her now as if she was my own child.’

  Honora swallowed. A piercing shard of yearning lodged between her ribs and the only reply she could find was nod of her own.

  How lucky he is to have that love, even if he isn’t her real father. I think I would give anything to experience that for myself.

  To find Lord Lovell capable of such feelings was disturbing, she had to admit. Before he had seemed so proud, so arrogant in his confidence and so like Frank it had roused her distrust at once. Another handsome, false man come barrelling into her life to stamp all over it with expensive boots.

  And yet...

  With his sorrowful gaze into the fire Lord Lovell shook that belief, making her question that first impression. Now, with real affection for his ward coming from his own tongue, Honora had to wonder—

  Could there be more to Lord Lovell than I first imagined?

  * * *

  He felt Honora’s eyes on him, but Isaac affected not to notice, instead keeping his focus firmly on the glowing hearth.

  You idiot. Why did you mention Charlotte?

  He had been thinking about her—or perhaps brooding was more the word—when he’d become aware Honora watched him from the bed, her secretive observation sending a ripple through him and startling him into unnecessary candour. There was no reason for Honora to even know Charlotte existed and now surely her curiosity would be roused, leaving him to field questions that might stray too close to uncovering the truth.

  What possessed you? Have you lost all control, so bewitched by a pretty face?

  Still avoiding Honora’s study, he took a sip of his wine, feeling its warmth run down his throat, but doing nothing to chase away the chill in his stomach. Somehow, sitting before the tumbling flames in a comfortable chair with Honora at his side, he had allowed himself to stray too far, her presence an aggravation and a pleasure that had loosened his disloyal tongue. A few more words and he might have betrayed Charlotte’s secret, and for what? To make conversation with Honora Blake, the admittedly striking wife of the very man who had thrown Charlotte into the deepest pit of shame?

  Look where Father’s weakness for a comely woman got him. A miserable second marriage and years of unhappiness—all for nothing. The feelings he allowed to develop for my stepmother led to nothing good and I’ll be damned if I let myself fall as he did. It would hurt far more than myself, after all.

  Once they arrived in Northamptonshire he would be free of her, Isaac reminded himself as he rolled the stem of his wineglass between two fingers. They would go directly to Carey without stopping at Marlow Manor and from there Honora would be on her own. No doubt Frank’s solicitors would advance her some little money from the jointure she’d spoken of, enabling her to engage a manservant and get herself home again, and then Isaac’s obligation towards her would be at an end. She would never set foot in Marlow Manor, never lay eyes on Charlotte and never know her husband had left a part of himself behind in the baby almost ready to enter the world.

  And she need never know. It’s Charlotte’s life and reputation on the line and I doubt Honora would be filled with delight either.

  Nobody could have missed the twist of her lips on seeing the young wife on the coach. Even Isaac could tell there had been more to Honora’s sudden stiffening than she’d wanted to let on—but that wasn’t something he should consider. The most pressing concern was to change the subject before she could focus any more time on Charlotte and he grasped at the first idea that came into his mind.

  ‘We could still warm this wine even if we have no spices to mull it. A poker would do the job if you don’t mind a little soot in your glass.’

  ‘If you like.’

  Isaac needed no more encouragement than that to escape from Honora’s scrutiny. He got up immediately to kneel before the fire, taking the poker from the stand beside the hearth and plunging it into the flames. Sparks leapt all around it and the metal handle grew warm, but still Isaac stayed where he was, dragging out the task for some minutes until Honora might have forgotten what they’d been talking of before.

  Only when he heard her shift restlessly behind him did he turn back. She was still watching him, but curiosity had faded to simple fatigue and Isaac had to stop himself from allowing a small smile.

  She looks as tired as I feel. Hopefully soon both of us will be able to get some sleep, even if only to escape the other.

  ‘Hold out your glass.’

  Honora did as he asked without a murmur—surely proof she’s exhausted indeed—and carefully, taking great pains not to knock the sides of the tumbler, Isaac touched the poker to the wine inside. It sizzled at once, a lovely sound that at any other time he would have enjoyed, had his attention not been abruptly wrested away by something entirely different.

  In leaning forward to offer the glass, Honora brought her face closer to his than it had ever been before, even when the soft weight of her had settled on his shoulder in the swaying coach. Then she had been somewhat shielded from him by the brim of her bonnet, but now there was nothing between them but a few scant inches of empty space, the black curls that framed her face falling in gentle corkscrews to almost tickle his nose. Her eyes were on her glass and the downward sweep of her lashes was suddenly the most intriguing thing Isaac had ever seen, hiding the pretty hazel of each iris, but that secrecy only enhancing their allure. At this distance he could see every hair of her dark brows in perfect detail and appreciate the smooth amber of her skin, following the line of her cheekbones down towards full, well-shaped lips...

  He was aware his heart had begun to beat more quickly and tried at once to halt its mindless charge, but it was too late. His pulse leapt now like a startled cat, fast and erratic and with a life of its own, and he was powerless to stop the chaos unfolding inside him. Honora was just so close, so warm. If he just reached out a hand he could touch her with no effort at all, his fingers brushing soft skin and perhaps even dragging a sigh from that fascinating mouth—

  Honora jerked back with a yelp, clutching her hand to her chest, and the spell shattered alongside the sound of breaking glass.

  ‘My hand!’

  Still a few beats behind reality, it took Isaac a moment to understand—the remnants of the tumbler lying in shards on the floor, a pool of claret surrounding it, the poker still in his fist—but then his mind caught up with the present and he tossed the poker back into its stand.

  ‘Damn it, Honora, I’m sorry. I must have slipped and touched the glass—did the wine scald you?’

  ‘It certainly feels like it!’ She sucked a breath in between her teeth, cupping her fist against the pit of her stomach, and Isaac felt a wave of guilt and alarm rise up inside.

  See what happens when you get carried a
way?

  His throat had dried with Honora’s cry and now regret for his lapse of control made it even tighter.

  If you’d been concentrating instead of mooning about you’d be drinking now, not throwing it all over the carpet. Take a hold of yourself!

  ‘Stay there. I’ll get a compress.’

  A handkerchief steeped in cold water would have to do and as Isaac poured some into the wash bowl he attempted to steady his whirling thoughts. That flash of yearning for Honora was the absolute last thing he wanted to entertain. It was dangerous, worrying and not to be repeated. She was Frank Blake’s wife, albeit now widow, and Isaac felt a glimmer of loathing for the man who had died in his arms. Not content with ruining Honora’s life Frank had tainted Charlotte’s, too, a fact he couldn’t escape—Honora was a reminder of how he had failed to keep poor Charlotte safe from harm and any entanglement was far too complicated to even entertain. Honora might be intriguing in her lightning flit between fire and ice, but there could be no more to it than that. Even if his father’s example hadn’t taught him the folly of seriously pursuing a woman, his own good sense must tell him this absurd interest would lead to nothing good.

  One more day.

  Isaac wrung the handkerchief out, feeling a little as though he had been wrung out himself.

  One more day and then I’ll never have to see her again. If I want to look at a pretty face I’ll go to a card party or a ball—plenty to see there and none of them a risk to Charlotte or myself.

  He returned to the fire. Honora’s lips were set tightly and she gripped her hand with the other, casting Isaac a suspicious look when he knelt at her side.

  ‘Let me see.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s wise.’

  ‘I need to put this compress on it. Let me see.’

  With a low mutter she extended her arm, watching his every move as he reached out to take her hand. His fingers found hers and Isaac saw something flicker over her face—a nameless glimmer that he knew, without knowing quite how, was twin to the expression that streaked over his own.