A Regency Christmas VI

by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews

  There was only one female here who stood in danger of being cast into the darkness he knew in the new year. And when he’d glanced up in spite of himself—as he had all night—he’d seen tears and realized she was the only one here who was as out of place as he was.

  But he didn’t know her. She might be just another greedy young chit who would only profit from Shelton’s patronage. Hadn’t Shelton himself claimed that?

  Eve saw the viscount’s face turn grim again as he stared at her, and she felt as though he’d struck her. She turned away, furious with herself. The sympathy she’d seen had probably been a trick of the light. Why should he have any fellow feeling for her? They’d never exchanged a word. She’d been fantasizing again.

  He was probably nothing more than a rake. Maybe some rakes did draw women with vinegar, not honey. How should she know?

  And so as the company climbed the stair, singing snatches of carols and laughing about Christmas to come, Eve dreamed of Christmas long gone, and prayed for it to go faster. She counted the days again, like her own personal rosary. Fourteen. Now it was only fourteen. She cheered herself by that thought—and one more—hadn’t Lord Shelton said he was coming?

  The morning came cold and bright.

  The men prepared to go out with Squire on his wild ride, searching for the biggest log they could find.

  “Mind, like my gel said, can’t cut it—got to find the biggest log you ever saw for our Yule log. And it must already be on the forest floor, you know,” Squire cautioned his crew, his words turning to smoke in the wintry air in the courtyard as they prepared to ride out.

  “We must gather baskets and baskets of mistletoe,” Caro instructed her group of young girls. “You know why,” she said as they giggled. “And mind, don’t let any of it touch the ground—that’s very bad luck!”

  They looked like a legion of nuns from some very odd order, all caped and hooded as they were. For few nuns wore fur, or cloaks of scarlet and peacock hues. They called jests to the men, and then each group set off in a different direction, the girls crowding together as they walked down the path to the forest, the men riding out in a group after Squire.

  Eve found the gathering of mistletoe a pleasure. Although there was giggling and teasing, finding and snagging the mistletoe was essentially solitary work. The crisp air and brightness of the day made her spirits soar. She was almost sorry to get back to the manor and surrender her basket to a servant. But it was time to hurry down to the pond with the other girls for the proposed skating.

  Squire had everything there in readiness for the party. Fires were lit at the side of the pond, and chairs ringed round them so that the chaperones could keep their toes and fingers toasty while they kept their eyes peeled. A few comfortable seats had been mounted on barrel staves so that some of the more enterprising oldsters could be pushed round the pond as well. And everywhere, servants waited with steaming urns of hot tea and cider.

  Eve saw Caro step onto the ice and skate round and round in lazy rings as she looked up toward the manor, waiting for the menfolk to return from the great Yule log hunt. Eve sat down to put on her own skates, but stopped when she heard the first hearty “Hallo!” from one of the returning men. They were coming down the slope from the manor to the pond. She slowly put down her skates when she saw them. Soon, they’d pair off together with the girls, just as though it were a dance. Some would skate in a line, but most would not, and she suddenly knew she couldn’t bear to see the bright lads and lovely ladies single each other out and skate away, leaving her to watch and pretend to be having fun again.

  Eve waited on the sidelines, far from the fires and the skaters, heedless of the growing cold, wishing she were with them, glad she was not, and so she was startled to hear a voice addressing her.

  “You don’t skate?” he asked.

  She knew who it was before she turned her head to see him looming up beside her. Who else would be so abrupt? Who else would cast such a long shadow on the snowy ground, and strike such fear and excitement in her heart just by being there?

  “I do skate,” she said, calmly as she could, “only I don’t feel like it just now.” Not an inspired answer; what a doltish reply; no wonder no one talks to you, she berated herself. Couldn’t you have said something clever? Only she didn’t know what else she could have said, given the question. She told herself it didn’t matter anyway.

  It didn’t. He dropped the subject, and gazed out to the skating pond. “Our host has turned the outdoors into the indoors,” he said.

  Well, she thought, that wasn’t a question or a comment she could add anything to because it was so obvious. So she only nodded.

  Her face was turned from him. If he didn’t see her breath occasionally puffing out a cloud before her he’d think he was talking to an empty hood, Ian thought, and frowned. He was not aware of how terrible that looked.

  “Did you get enough mistletoe?” he asked abruptly.

  The hood went up and down. “Yes, lots,” a small voice finally said, and then she fell still. What else could she say? But there was so much more she wanted to tell him. She stole a glance at his face and lost her breath. She could bear being ignored. But she was not used to being sneered at.

  Well, then, good luck to Shelton, and good riddance, Ian thought disgustedly, with a mixture of relief and disappointment. It might as well be an empty hood; the girl had no brain. And while high, full breasts and a sweet little bottom had their allure, the rake was welcome to them if they came with an empty head. No fortune and no brains. She was likely far better off under Shelton's protection after all.

  “Only I don’t know why we gather mistletoe,” Eve said in a rush, the words escaping from her lips like steam from a boiling teapot. “The vicar won’t even let it into the church because it’s part of the old religion and belongs to the High Church of Druid, not England. I don’t know why you hunted the Yule log, either. You know the reason you couldn’t cut one is because people used to believe you’d be punished by the fairy folk for taking one from the living forest. It had nothing to do with Christmas. They just kept the tradition in order to convert the people of Britain, who didn’t want to give up everything when they took on a new religion. Well, they gave up the human sacrifices and such, but they had to let them keep some things to keep them happy. Because even the mistletoe used to be used for far more than kissing...”

  Her cheeks flamed. But although she diverted from the dangerous topic of Druid fertility rites, she went on doggedly, not knowing how to stop. “But Christmas happened in the Holy Land, where they have neither mistletoe, holly, nor Yule logs, for that matter ... or so I read,” she finally murmured, her voice dwindling, aware that he had blinked. She lifted her chin. Better to be thought a bluestocking than an idiot.

  He stood still. “I was aware of that,” he finally said. “At least, that Christmas took place in the Holy Land. I didn’t know the bits about the Druids. I knew they had human sacrifices—but, ah, what exactly did they do with the mistletoe?”

  She dared look up because of the odd note in his voice. He was smiling. Now she lost her breath altogether. It was a real smile. Rather than twisting his awful scar, it lightened it and gave luster and light to his whole face. She’d found him magnetically attractive in his bleak mode. She was dazzled now. White teeth gleamed in that dark face, and his gray eyes shone like sunlight on the ice under the snow on the pond. He looked not only younger but transformed. He was twice as attractive, which was so much so she found she couldn’t look away from him.

  And he thought her eyes were indeed like molten honey; they glowed. Her lips were full and soft and parted, and red from the cold—but so was her nose, he thought with tender amusement. There was a light dusting of golden freckles on the bridge of it. He idly wondered if he’d ever desired a woman with freckles before ... before he realized he was just standing and gaping at her like a besotted boy. His brows drew together.

  “No, don’t!” she cried, before she heard herself and he
r gloved hand flew to her mouth as her cheeks grew pink—but not from the cold. “I mean,” she said, “don’t scowl again, please. It frightens me.”

  “Does it?” he asked, charmed by the notion as well as by her candor. Dozens of women had told him they were going to be the one to erase his dark scowls. None had ever said it frightened them.

  “Well, I suppose not really,” she admitted. “At least, I’m not going to run screaming. But I like it much better when you don’t frown. Unless, of course, brooding is what you prefer. I know some women must find it most attractive, and so if it is your mode, so to speak, then forgive me and go right ahead.”

  He threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. It was so unexpected Eve stared. As did several ladies who had been watching him from afar.

  “Miss Thompkins, I have never given thought to my mode, and God forbid that I should,” he said, sobering. “But I do know my aim. It is to please you. So if you prefer a smiling fellow, I’ll try. I can’t promise anything, though, being unaccustomed to levity.”

  But now she sobered, too, and looked regretful. So, of course, would a rake say, since all they ever wanted was to please the ladies. But why should he need to please her? There were prettier girls here, and far richer ones ... But of course. She knew how rakes’ minds worked. Didn’t she know Lord Shelton? The fascinating viscount was interested in her, because—of all the girls at Moon Manor this Christmastide—she was the only one he could possibly trifle with without fear of retribution. She had no parent present, no lordly family, and no money at all.

  She contemplated him, cocking her head to the side and looking full at him, carefully noting the darkly handsome face, the intelligence in those gray eyes, even looking her fill at the terrible scar, which gave him a dimension few men possessed.

  He waited patiently. He’d been stared at before, if never so openly. His lips quirked at her candid inspection, and he wished he knew what she was thinking. Whatever it was, it was soon decided.

  “All right, then,” she said, nodding her head. “I mean yes, I would like to see you smile more often.”

  “Fine. Then you should change your mind about skating. It’s difficult to laugh when your mouth is frozen shut. Shall we skate? It warms the blood. I promise to try to laugh—if you’ll be so kind as to remind me every so often?”

  Now she laughed, and taking his proffered arm, walked down to the pondside with him. Because she had decided. If it was true that she was only a poor lass to be trifled with, then she’d make the most of it. She’d laugh and flirt and be outrageous. Why not? This was her last Christmas as a girl. She’d throw her bonnet over the windmill once before she put on a spinster’s cap for life. She’d have a memory or two to take with her to light all her dark Christmases to come.

  And if a little voice warned that it might be more than her cap that she’d lose, she turned a deaf ear to it. One last fling was all she wanted, and if she wasn’t sure what that entailed, so be it. She knew one rake very well, and knew what he wanted of her. But this rake was an entirely different story—if only because it was one she hadn’t heard yet.

  They skated together, and she found it an oddly peaceful, companionable thing to do. If she didn’t look at him, that was. Because when she did, she stumbled. Then she’d feel his strong hands holding her steady, and feel the tensile strength of his whole long body beside hers. Then all sense of companionship vanished and she was left more than a little shaken. So she didn’t look at him as they went round and round the pond. They skated well together. Or so she thought, because it didn’t feel as though her skates actually touched the ice.

  They spoke about the skating, the weather, and how the other skaters were doing. Or so she guessed they did. She was too busy feeling wonderful to pay too much attention. Because for the first time she could remember, other girls were looking at her, and envying her. Because for once she was actually doing what the others were doing, and not only because she thought she ought to. And because she was feeling all this—and something else that was much more. She was with him, and he was neither curt nor abrupt nor cold. He seemed instead exactly the man she’d always wanted to be with. She didn’t know what he was really thinking. She didn’t want to, either.

  Well, if this was what a rake was, she thought, it was a great pity the world wasn’t filled with them.

  “Enough?” he finally asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said dreamily as she sailed along on his arm, the world and everything in it but him forgotten.

  “I only ask because it is growing dark,” he said, his voice low and amused, “and the others are leaving.”

  “Oh!” she said, stumbling as she looked up and around and saw it was true. He held her firmly, for just long enough to steady her, and quite long enough to get her heartbeat cantering, before he let her go again. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t think—you must be frozen to the bone! I—I just love skating,” she concluded weakly.

  “As do I,” he answered. “I only ask because I think if we go round one more time, we’ll go through our tracks in the ice, and end up in the water.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said, hardly knowing what she said as they skated to the pondside.

  He got to one knee and helped her off with her skates, and though her legs were frozen as the ice she’d skated on, and she wore woolen stockings besides, she swore she could feel the warmth of his touch. It wasn’t so warm as the look in his eyes.

  But then, she told herself as he led her back to the house with the others, it was getting dark after all, and anyone could imagine they saw anything in someone’s eyes. And yet ... When they arrived at the manor, he insisted on helping her off with her cape. And when she dared look up at him, she swore she saw the same look in his eyes again. Until Caro interrupted.

  “Lud! You two are late! You’d best scurry and dress for dinner, my lord,” Caro teased him. “If you don’t shake a leg I’m afraid it will be crackers and milk in the kitchen for you.”

  He looked down at her, his face cool and unreadable.

  “Then I’ll be brief,” he said. He bowed to them both and went up the stairs, leaving Caro unsmiling, and Eve to wonder if she’d only imagined the warm, smiling man she thought she’d seen.

  She didn’t see that man again at dinner. But then, she couldn’t have seen the old one, either. Because her hostess had seated her so far down the table from him that it was almost as if they were in different rooms. And she supposed that was only fair—after all, they were in different worlds. Being ineligible had been uncomfortable before, but it was nothing to what she felt now. Then at least she could dream. Now she knew what it was to long for something she could never have. Something she never, ever should have imagined she could have, she told herself fiercely.

  She made poor work of her dinner. When the ladies went to the drawing room to wait for the men to join them, she sat on a small settee at the side of the room by herself. She’d go to her room as soon as the men arrived, she promised herself. That way no one would notice her leaving. The only thing worse than being ignored by a man who had seemed to take such pleasure in her company before would be everyone else seeing her being slighted.

  “You really are the privileged sex,” the viscount complained.

  Eve startled. She stared up to see him standing beside her.

  “I don’t know why we men are supposed to keep sitting after dinner and you’re allowed to get up and stretch your legs,” he went on. “You’re supposed to be the weaker sex. If social graces made any sense, you’d be the ones forced to languish over brandy and port.”

  Her delight at seeing him was so profound she was speechless for a moment. But only for a moment. She recovered quickly. “Yes, I suppose,” she said, with a glowing smile, “but you’d never get us to smoke those nasty cigars the way you gentlemen do. And I doubt you’d get us to sit and swill down even more alcohol after such a feast.”

  “Swill, is it?” he asked with a quirked smile that m
ade her heart turn over. No female had ever used such a word to describe his behavior—to his face, that was—he thought with amusement. “May I sit down and defend myself?” he asked. She nodded, afraid to speak lest she say what she was thinking: which was that he could sit down, and say anything.

  But that was exactly what he did. He started by teasing her about her choice of words, and then got to talking about the different way men and women used words.

  “But you are so short-spoken,” she said, greatly daring because he seemed to invite and appreciate her candor. “Why, you hardly use words at all, my lord.”

  “I?” he asked, one eyebrow rising.

  Which reduced her to giggles. Which seemed to please him even more. He watched her with a bemused expression, so near to sorrow that it finally topped her laughter. Then he said simply, “No. Don’t. I mean to say, don’t let my grim face upset you. Keep laughing; it’s a good sound. I’m a plainspoken fellow, more used to the company of other men than to a lady. Remember that, and forgive me my blunt ways, will you?”

  She nodded. His “blunt ways” held more charm than other men’s easy smiles. If this was how this rake made his name and reputation, then she was helpless against him. But she chose to believe that this was the real man she spoke with, and not the man who had made such a name for himself.

  They sat and talked, and laughed, and the rest of the company sang carols, played charades and cards, and gossiped—mostly about them, it turned out. Because after the company parted for the night, after he’d bowed over her hand and left her at the door to her room, and Eve was about to float inside it, her cousin called her.