Marcus stopped outside the gallery doors. “Lady Margaret hands out recipes for punch, for gingerbread, for Christmas pudding. She fashioned the little sprigs of holly you see on the footmen’s livery. She rehearses the choir, she makes the kissing boughs. She personally selects the spices that make up those luscious sachets, and she employs the least among us—orphans, climbing boys, foundlings—to carry out her work. In my opinion, Webberly, Lady Margaret Entwhistle has a far more sincere grasp of what the holidays should be about than your sniffy, condescending lordship can even fathom.”
Webberly drew himself up like a strutting pigeon. “I would see satisfaction for those insults, Bannerfield, but you are apparently not yet acquainted with the details of Lady Margaret’s introduction to motherhood. She has brought shame upon her family, and all her little mercantile ventures, however prettily they dazzle you and the rest of Society, cannot atone for the fact that my niece can never claim legitimacy.”
The children had launched into a hushed version of Jubilate Deo, so Marcus hardly had to raise his voice to be heard over them.
“You pathetic, posturing, pompous, prosing hypocrite. Your own parents anticipated their vows, but I am willing to bet my Town coach you never once castigated them for that lapse. You never looked down on your dear mama, never considered her behavior a blight on the family escutcheon. You reserve your contempt for your own sister—who tells me you yourself introduced her to Entwhistle—and yet you have the effrontery to call yourself a Christian.”
In the silence that followed, Webberly’s hauteur faltered, then dissolved into panic. The two footmen positioned on either side of the gallery doors exchanged an equally fraught gaze and then, for reasons Marcus would never understand, swung open the double doors and stood at attention.
Gracious everlasting angels, the entire room was facing the doorway, not a single person making a sound. Expressions ranged from shocked, to blank, to gleeful, to worried.
“I beg you,” Webberly muttered, “not another word.”
Aunt Penny had passed along her recollections regarding Webberly’s parents. Marcus now knew her speculations in other regards were accurate as well.
“You either lavishly admire your sister’s work,” Marcus replied quietly, “and sing her praises until we’re tired of hearing them, or I will mention that you and your countess also anticipated your vows.” A fact Aunt Penny had confirmed with reassuring certainty. “Explain to your lady wife that her days of making Margaret’s life difficult are over as well, and find the courage to apologize to your sister for having abandoned all honor where she is concerned.”
Webberly nodded once, took a slow breath, then sauntered into the gallery. He stopped two yards inside the doors, his gaze tipped up.
“Margaret did this?” The amazement was genuine, as Marcus’s had been. “Margaret and those… those urchins?”
“Every bit of it,” Marcus said, taking in again the heady scent of greenery crisscrossing overhead and the myriad candles in their brass-backed holders. A red runner ran down the center of the room, and red and gold ribbons laced the pine boughs looping from the ceiling. Margaret had also draped greenery at the windows, suspended bunches of mistletoe among the swagging, and hung delicate golden bells on ribbons from the pine roping as well.
The effect was magical, turning a staid, chilly gallery into a medieval banquet hall full of merriment, beauty, light, and warmth.
Aunt Penny caught Marcus’s eye. Papa stood beside her, his expression alert and watchful.
Do something, they seemed to be saying. Do something right, whether duty demands it or not. Marcus took a glass from the nearest footman’s tray and held the drink aloft.
“To good friends, to family, and to Lady Margaret Entwhistle’s phenomenal talent!”
Aunt Penny beamed at him, Papa clapped heartily, and Eliza and Ralph took up the applause. Webberly was forced to join in, and he did so, gaze turned upward, as if nobody had ever shown the poor man how to properly decorate for the holiday season.
And yet, for Marcus, the holidays would not truly begin until he’d offered a token to the woman who’d filled his home with warmth, laughter, and kindness. He worked his way through the smiling throng of neighbors and friends until he found Eliza under a kissing bough with her husband.
“Hennepin, is this done?” Marcus asked. “To kiss your spouse under the mistletoe?”
“It’s done,” Eliza replied, “and done quite well. Your open house will be the talk of the holidays, Marcus. Lady Margaret will have more custom than she knows what to do with.”
Hennepin looked like he was about to say something, but Eliza kissed her husband again.
“You mentioned that we hadn’t received many regrets,” Marcus said. “Where are they?”
“In your office, left-hand drawer of your desk. I’d knock—loudly—before you go in there.”
“It’s my own damned office, Eliza. Why should I knock?”
“Because,” Eliza said, leaning close enough to pat Marcus’s lapel, “I saw Miss Davina Andrews-Clapshot ducking in there, and five minutes later, she was joined by a certain young gentleman whose papa is a duke.”
“And you will take credit for bringing them together.”
“As I should.”
“You should also make my excuses to the guests if I have to step out,” Marcus said. “Be particularly kind to Webberly. He’s had a shock.”
Hennepin laced an arm around Eliza’s waist. “About damned time somebody hauled him and his holier-than-the-archbishop countess up short. Well done, my lord.”
Eliza cuddled closer to her husband, proving that Lady Margaret’s punch must truly have magical qualities. “Where are you off to, Marcus?”
“I must step out to offer a holiday gift to a deserving party.” He bowed before Eliza could ask yet another question, but the only thing he heard as he stepped away was his sister giggling, for the first time in years.
A tap on Meg’s door of late brought a sense of sinking hope, but it was too late in the day for George to be delivering yet another disappointing missive.
“I’ll get it,” Charlotte bellowed, and Meg’s spirits sank yet another foot. At Webberly Hall, Charlotte would have to learn to never raise her voice. She would learn that servants opened doors, and little girls walked through those doors in ladylike silence. She would learn never to dash about, never to hum to herself as she sketched.
And because of that, because of all of that and so much more, Meg could not allow Charlotte to face a return to the family seat alone.
“Emily!” Charlotte squealed. “Manda! You came! I wished and wished and wished. I drew you a picture of the foyer, and I added angels and everything. Greetings, your lordship.” She bobbed a curtsey more enthusiastic than refined, and Meg’s heart did a somersault.
“Lord Marcus, welcome. This is quite an honor.”
“Quite a shock, you mean. Might we come in?” He led the girls into Meg’s modest parlor before Meg could make up some tale about needing to go out on urgent business.
“Daisy finally took pity on me,” he said. “She allowed as how you lived above the bookbinder’s in Kringle Lane. You will give the girl a raise, please.”
Meg’s parlor, small by any standards, was dwarfed by Lord Marcus’s height, particularly when he wore a top hat. His fine three-caped coat made her all the more aware of her worn carpet, shabby pillows, and threadbare curtains.
“May I take your hat, your lordship?”
He passed it to her and ran his hand through his hair. “I have come here for a purpose.”
That sounded like the Lord Marcus who’d wanted an estimate the same day Meg had toured his home, the Lord Marcus who believed wholly in duty and did not suffer fools.
The little girls ducked into Charlotte’s room, and Meg wished she hadn’t been free with the biscuits where young George was concerned.
“I can put the kettle on,” she said, setting his lordship’s hat on the deal table by the
door, “but isn’t your open house today?” The children had been rehearsing their carols all week long, even as they’d fashioned their boughs and wreaths for the green grocer.
“My open house is today, but Eliza and her husband have all in hand. I’m afraid I was rather rude to your brother.”
“You weren’t.” Meg had spent most of the day drafting an epistle to Lucien, accepting his offer to provide a home for Charlotte, but if and only if Meg was welcome to dwell with her daughter. Charlotte had a mother who loved her, and separating the girl from that mother—her only surviving parent—would be an unnecessary cruelty.
“I rather was,” Lord Marcus said, unbuttoning his coat one-handed. “The blighter had it coming. Your sister-in-law was spared my wrath because I was more interested in finding my way to your side.”
Meg took his coat and hung it on a peg beside the door. “You’ve found me.” And oh, the joy and pain of seeing him again, of hearing his voice, of realizing that her desire for this man eclipsed a mere holiday frolic, a stolen moment.
She was in love with Marcus Bannerfield, more fool her. Not infatuated, not impressed with his physique, but in love with the whole person. Impatience, honor, humor, family loyalty… kisses.
“If the decorations are too much,” Meg said, “I can have the children take them down before Christmas. They need the work, in fact, and I—”
“Take them down?” Lord Marcus advanced on her. “Take down those beautiful decorations before Christmas has arrived? Have you been sampling the punch, Margaret?”
He smelled like Christmas, all piney and spicy. Meg backed up a step lest she sniff him. “I have not taken leave of my senses, but I will soon leave London. I am prepared to throw myself on my brother’s mercy, for all of my customers, or almost all of them, are apparently no longer interested in my services.”
She sidled away, putting the desk between her and her guest. From Charlotte’s room came the sound of laughter, then an attempt on Charlotte’s part to sing a French carol, though her version of the lyrics was hopeless.
“You will soon be flooded with requests for your services,” Marcus said, closing the distance Meg had tried to establish. “Inundated. Deluged, which is why I must put my question before you now, before you are too busy to bother with a grouchy fellow who hasn’t much holiday spirit.”
What was he going on about? “You have abundant holiday spirit, my lord. You decorated your home for your nieces, you would not allow me or the children to brave the storm, you hired Daisy and her choir for your open house, you went shopping for gifts all on your own, and you indulged your sister’s need to entertain while sparing her the expense of hosting the event. You are generous, kind, honorable, loyal to your family, and in every way a fine fellow to have about as the holidays approach.”
He’d maneuvered around the desk without Meg catching him at it. “And what about under the kissing bough, Margaret? Do I acquit myself adequately there? I hope so. I have brought you a holiday token, but you must not feel compelled to accept it.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“My lord, your duty requires no displays of honor where I am concerned,” Meg said. “I am an adult, I make my own decisions, and what happened in your—”
A knock sounded on the door, and Charlotte thundered from her room. “I’ll get it!”
“What a fine set of lungs our Charlotte has,” Marcus murmured.
Our Charlotte, who now sported an afghan about her shoulders like a long cape, swung the door open. “Grandpapa? Mama, it’s Grandpapa Entwhistle.”
What on earth? “Mr. Entwhistle,” Meg said, shaking her hand free of Marcus’s grasp. “Good day. This is a lovely surprise. What brings you to London?”
Mr. Entwhistle stomped into the parlor, but then, he stomped everywhere. He was more weathered than the last time Meg had seen him, and the resemblance to Peter was still marked, but Mr. Entwhistle also had a ready smile and kind eyes.
“You bring me to London, as does this young lady here. She cannot possibly be my Charlotte, because Charlotte is a wee tot.”
“I am Charlotte. What’s in the sack?”
“Charlotte Marie Entwhistle, for shame.”
Mr. Entwhistle set his sack on the desk. “A lively curiosity in a child should always be encouraged. I assume you’re Innisborough’s son?”
Marcus bowed. “I have that honor. Marcus Bannerfield, at your service.”
“Got your letter,” Mr. Entwhistle said, tugging off his gloves and jamming them into a coat pocket. “Decided to deliver this year’s Christmas pudding in person. I’ve been remiss, Lady Meg. The land is a jealous mistress, but that’s no excuse. His lordships says you and Charlotte could use some family about at Yuletide. I might be old, but I’m still capable of climbing into a coach from time to time.”
“You brought Christmas pudding?” Charlotte asked. “Emily and Amanda, Grandpapa brought Christmas pudding!”
“I’m sure her ladyship is very happy to receive you,” Marcus said, “but I was trying to put a question of some import to her.”
Charlotte twirled to a halt. “What sort of question?”
“A personal question,” Marcus replied as Emily and Amanda scampered out of Charlotte’s bedroom. “An important personal question.”
Mr. Entwhistle tossed his coat over the back of the sofa. “Like that, is it? Well, Lady Meg can use some Yuletide joy, heaven knows. Charlotte, who are your friends?”
Meg dearly, dearly wanted to know what question could have brought Marcus out into the winter weather, away from his guests, with both of his nieces in tow.
“I’m listening,” she said, leaning closer to him. “If you still want to put that question to me.”
“I most assuredly do, but perhaps another time, when we have more privacy and—”
A tap on the door interrupted him, and all three girls yelled, “I’ll get it!”
“Aunt Penny!” Charlotte caroled, while Amanda and Emily called, “Grandpapa!”
Marcus seized Meg’s hand again. “Do not abandon me amid this horde, Margaret. Aunt has been at the rum punch, unless I’m very much mistaken, and she doubtless inveigled Papa into having a nip as well.”
Aunt Penny jabbed her walking stick in Marcus’s direction. “My hearing is excellent, young man, and I’d be a fool to pass up Lady Margaret’s punch. Have you asked her to marry you yet?”
Meg barely kept from covering her ears—or Aunt Penny’s mouth.
Marcus muttered something that sounded like, “Papa, how could you?”
Papa—none other than Lord Innisborough—took Aunt Penny’s coat and hung it on the last available peg.
“Eliza said you were off to find Lady Margaret and Miss Charlotte,” the marquess said, “and nothing would do but Penelope must follow you. Miss Hennepin is a determined woman, and as a gentleman, I was compelled to abet—to provide her my escort.”
Aunt peered around at Meg’s parlor. “Why isn’t there a kissing bough in here, young lady? The Christmas elf herself has no wreaths, no sachets, no holly… not a single sprig of mistletoe? Marcus, you had best be about your business. The situation grows dire.”
Marcus withdrew a sprig of pale greenery from his coat pocket. “I am prepared as always to do my duty. Lady Margaret Entwhistle, before Father Christmas himself interrupts me, would you please, in the generosity of spirit which has characterized you at every—”
“I’ll get it!” Aunt Penny bellowed, opening the door.
“She truly does have the hearing of a cat,” Marcus muttered.
Lucien, Earl of Webberly, stood in the doorway. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“You most assuredly are,” Aunt Penny replied, opening the door wider. “So are we. Marcus has turned quite slow in his dotage, or perhaps he had a nip too many of the punch.”
“I did not over-imbibe,” Marcus said, very firmly.
“Are you proposing to my mama?” Charlotte asked. “You should go down on one knee,
like a knight.”
“You should, Uncle,” Amanda said.
“And then we can have some Christmas pudding that the nice man brought,” Emily added. “Once you are done proposing, that is.”
“I would cheerfully take a knee,” Marcus said, “but you lot leave a fellow no room to properly propose.”
“Propose,” Meg whispered. “You are truly here to propose? Marcus?”
He went down on bended knee, and all the whispering, giggling, shuffling, and talking stopped. “Margaret, my dearest lady, would you do me the very great honor, the inexpressibly precious honor, of accepting as your Christmas token, my heart, to guard and cherish for all the rest of our time on earth? Would you share with me the hard days and the holidays? Will you decorate our home with love and laughter and save all your finest kisses for a man who longs to—”
“Lad,” the marquess said, “I think she takes your point.”
“Let him say his piece,” Mr. Entwhistle chided. “I haven’t heard such flummery since I was standing for a seat in the Commons.”
“Can we have the pudding now?” Charlotte asked.
“No,” Aunt Penny replied. “Lady Margaret has to put us all out of our misery. Say yes, Lady Meg, so we can get back to the open house before all the gingerbread is gone.”
Meg’s parlor had never been so full, and neither had her heart. Across the room, Lucien was watching with a sort of wistful longing in his eyes.
“Say yes, Margaret. You deserve to be happy, you and Charlotte. Lord Marcus is mad for you, or possibly simply mad, but if you can be happy with him, say yes. If you and his lordship, and Charlotte too, would honor the countess and me with your company at dinner before we leave for the country, I would be obliged.”
The humble note in Lucien’s voice, the contrite look in his gaze, should have been proof to Meg that miracles could occur, but she was too busy relishing the miracle of Marcus Bannerfield proposing marriage to her and sounding utterly serious about it.
Yuletide Wishes: A Regency Novella Duet Page 12
