by Mary Balogh
But how could she help herself? Ever since her arrival the afternoon before, and especially this morning, she had been fighting the realization that perhaps he was not at all as she had always thought him to be. She remembered her impressions of him eight years before, impressions gathered over a two-month period. He had seemed cold, morose, harsh, silent. She had been afraid of him. And there had been nothing in London this time to change that impression.
Oh, there had been, of course. There had been his civility to Amy, his kindness to her children and even to her. But her fear of him had not lessened. She had suspected his motives, had assumed that somehow it was all being done to punish her, since he knew that the worst he could do to her was inflict his company on her and ingratiate himself with her family.
But here? Could she really cling to her old impressions here? He was mingling with twenty children from the lowest classes, teasing them, playing with them, making them as happy as any children anywhere at Christmastime. And it could not even be said that it was just a financial commitment to him, that he provided the money while Mr. Cornwell and Mrs. Harrison did all the work and all the caring. That would not be true. He so clearly loved all the children and enjoyed spending time with them.
She recalled the contempt she had felt for him in London when he had remarked on one occasion that he had a fondness for children. He had not lied—that was becoming increasingly obvious. Rupert had tripped along at his side all the way back to the house, his hand in the marquess’s, talking without ceasing.
“There,” she said to Violet, smiling, “that is the last of it.”
Mrs. Harrison and two of the girls were just coming in with armloads of ivy, she saw.
She did not want this to be happening. Lord Denbigh, still in his shirt sleeves, was standing in the middle of the ballroom, his hand on Benjamin’s shoulder, pointing across the room at something. Ben went racing away.
He was not at all thin, Judith thought. His waist and hips were slender, but his shoulders and upper arms were well muscled beneath the shirt and his thighs, too. She caught the direction of her thoughts and swallowed.
He had waited almost eight years for a second chance with her, he had told her in London. And this morning he had asked her if it had all been worth it, if she had been happy. And he had held her against him—she turned weak again at the knees with the memory—and had almost kissed her.
And the shameful thing was that she had wanted it in a horrified, fascinated sort of way. She would have done nothing to stop it. She had a curiosity to know what his mouth would feel like on hers.
She shuddered.
“I must confess,” Lady Clancy said, coming to stand beside her and gazing about at the ballroom, which had suddenly become a room full of Christmas, “that Clement and I were not at all sure that we were doing the right thing in accepting our invitation. But I am already beginning to enjoy myself more than I have done for years. Max and Mr. Cornwell and Mrs. Harrison have done wonders with those children, have they not?”
The decorating having largely being completed, the children were having noisy good fun, mostly with a few sprigs of mobile mistletoe. There was a loud burst of merriment from the far side of the room, accompanied by catcalls and loudly hurled insults, when Val soundly slapped Joe’s face after he had stolen a kiss.
“Keep yer ’ands to yerself,” she said before letting loose with rather more colorful language.
“But I got mistletoe,” Joe protested. “It’s allowed.”
“I don’t care if you got a certificate all decorated up wiv gold lettering from the Archbishop of Canterbury,” Val said. “Keep yer ’ands to yerself or I’ll chop ’em off at the wrists.”
The other boys all gave an exaggerated gasp of horror.
“It is Christmas,” the marquess said, “and mistletoe does excuse a great deal of familiarity, but a gentleman is a gentleman for all that, Joe. A simple ‘May I’ would solve the problem. No lady would be so rag-mannered as to refuse.”
“Yeh, Val,” someone yelled, and there was another loud outburst of laughter.
“Max is taking them all skating this afternoon,” Lady Clancy said to Judith. “I do believe I may go out myself. I used to fancy myself a skater.”
“I never could stay upright,” Judith said. “I gave up even trying years ago.”
“Well, you know,” Lady Clancy said, “the secret is to keep your weight over your skates. So many people pull back out of fear and then, of course, lose their balance.”
There was still a great deal of laughter from the children, especially from one group of them behind Judith and Lady Clancy, but they continued to converse with each other and did not look to see what was happening.
“ ’Ere, guv,” someone yelled. There were smothered giggles from some girls.
“I can still feel some of my bruises,” Judith said. The marquess was striding toward them. She could feel the familiar breathlessness and tried to continue the conversation, her face expressionless, her voice cool.
But she turned her head with sudden suspicion as he drew closer. One tall boy, grinning wickedly, was standing directly behind her, a sprig of mistletoe waving above her head. But it was too late to duck out of the way. Lord Denbigh, she saw, was standing directly in front of her.
“May I?” he asked.
What could she do? Give in to a fit of the vapors and swoon at his feet? Say no? With all the children and the adults, too, either smiling at her or convulsed with merriment? She nodded almost imperceptibly.
And then his hands came to rest lightly on either side of her waist and as she drew breath his lips touched her own.
Briefly. Only for the merest moment. But she felt as if she had been struck by a lightning bolt. Sensation sizzled through her. And she felt as if it would be quite impossible to expel the air she had just drawn into her lungs.
“Aw, guv,” the boy who was standing behind her said, and she became aware at the same moment of jeering voices about the ballroom, “carn’t yer do better than that?”
“Certainly,” the marquess said, and Judith stared into his heavy-lidded eyes and felt that she would surely die. “I merely raised my head because I remembered that I had forgotten to wish Mrs. Easton a happy Christmas.”
Somewhere, youthful voices were cheering. Lady Clancy was chuckling close by. Someone behind her whooped and whistled. Judith’s fingertips came to rest against a muscled chest, warm beneath the silk of his shirt, and she fought desperately to detach her mind from what was happening.
It was not an indecorous kiss under the circumstances. She told herself that. He touched her only at the waist, holding her body a few inches from his own. And his mouth was light on hers. His mouth. Not his lips. He had parted them slightly over hers so that she was aware of warmth and softness and moistness.
Andrew had never kissed her so, she told herself, deliberately keeping up the flow of an interior monologue. There had been only an increased pressure to show his heightened passion. After the first year he had rarely kissed her at all.
She had never been kissed just so.
It lasted only a few seconds. Ten at the longest, she guessed. An eternity. The world had turned right about. The stars had turned, the universe. She was being indescribably foolish.
“Happy Christmas, my lord,” she said coolly.
“You see, Joe?” Lord Denbigh said, turning his head and raising his voice. “No slaps, and the lady even wished me the compliments of the season. That is the way to do it, my lad.”
He released her waist finally and turned away to organize a tidy-up.
“Little rascals,” Lady Clancy said with a laugh. “Max is a better sport than I would have expected. And you, too, my dear. I must say that both Clement and I were disappointed when you married Mr. Easton instead of Max. He was always a favorite with us, shy though he was—and still is to a certain degree. He disappeared for a whole year after your marriage. No one seemed to know where he was. He went walking in the Lake Dis
trict and Scotland, apparently—all alone. But that is old history and I do not wish to embarrass you. I am glad that you have been able to bury your differences. I wonder if luncheon is ready. It must be very late already.”
“Yes,” Judith said. “I imagine all these children must be ravenous. They have done a good day’s work already.”
AFTER LUNCHEON, MRS. Harrison and Mr. Cornwell took the children into the drawing room for a rehearsal of their pageant. Amy had been invited to go with them. She took Rupert with her while Judith took Kate upstairs to the nursery for a sleep.
All the children had parts, Mrs. Harrison explained to Amy. There were no scripts.
“Most of our children cannot read well yet,” she explained. “We have merely told them the story and allowed them to improvise their lines—sometimes with hair-raising results, though I have great faith that they will all perform beautifully on Christmas evening and be perfect angels.”
“Would you like to be a shepherd, lad?” Mr. Cornwell asked Rupert, laying a hand on his shoulder. “We can always use more shepherds.”
Amy smiled gratefully at Mr. Cornwell as Rupert raced off to join a small group of boys.
“You do not by any chance have some skill at playing the pianoforte, ma’am, do you?” he asked her. “Mrs. Harrison declares that she is all thumbs, but I am afraid that even my thumbs would be useless. Our angel choir cannot possibly sing without accompaniment. They would go so flat that we would have to go belowstairs to find them.”
Amy laughed and flushed. “I do,” she said, “and would gladly relieve Mrs. Harrison if she wishes it.”
“If she wishes it?” He took her by the arm. “Eve, come here. Christmas has come early for you.”
Amy was soon seated on the pianoforte bench surrounded by the angel choir.
“Cor,” one of them said, “you got a luverly voice, missus.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Maureen, is it? And so do all of you if you will just not be afraid to sing out. Sing from down here.” She patted her stomach.
Mr. Cornwell came and stood behind the bench when the full rehearsal started. He chuckled.
“Can we keep you, ma’am?” he asked. “What would you ask as a salary? That sounded almost like music.”
“This is such fun,” Amy declared a moment before clapping a hand over her mouth as the innkeeper’s wife beat the innkeeper over the head for suggesting that they turn Mary and Joseph away.
“Not the head, if you please, Peg,” Mr. Cornwell said firmly. “The shoulder maybe? And not too hard. Remember that you are just acting.” He added in a lower voice, for Amy’s ears only, “The angel did not wait for the glory of the Lord to shine around about the shepherds during our first rehearsal. She kicked them awake.”
Amy stifled her mirth.
And she remembered suddenly a dark tent on the River Thames and the prediction about children. Lots of children. And about a comfortable gentleman of middle years whom she would soon meet.
But how foolish, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. How very foolish. Mr. Cornwell would surely run a million miles if he could just read her mind. Poor Mr. Cornwell.
And her father would have forty fits if she ever decided to fix her choice on a gentleman who worked for his living caring for and educating a houseful of ragamuffins from the London slums.
It sounded like rather a blissful life to Amy.
Silly! she told herself.
THE MARQUESS JOINED his aunts and Sir William in a game of cards in one of the smaller salons.
Soon enough it would be time to skate. The children, Lord Denbigh thought, would not allow him to forget that promise despite the fact that they had had a busy day and faced the walk home at the end of it.
There was a large box of skates he would have taken out to the lake. No one who needed a pair would find himself without, though he remembered from the previous year that many of the children preferred to slide around on the ice with their boots. He had already had a portion of the lake cleared of snow.
“What a delightful child little Kate Easton is,” Aunt Edith said.
“And very prettily behaved,” Aunt Frieda added.
The marquess and Sir William concentrated on their cards.
“Maxwell, dear,” Aunt Edith said, “Frieda and I were wondering—it was so long ago that neither of us can be sure—but it seems to us, if we are remembering correctly, that is … Of course, dear, we never went up to town and our brother did not keep us informed as much as perhaps he might. Though of course, he was a busy man. But we were wondering, dear …”
“Yes,” the marquess said. He had grown accustomed to his aunts during several visits in the past few years. “You are quite right, Aunt Edith. And you, too, Aunt Frieda. Mrs. Easton and I were betrothed for almost two months eight years ago.”
“We thought so, Maxwell,” Aunt Frieda said. “How sad for you, dear, that she married Mr. Easton instead. And how sad for her to have lost him at so young an age. He must have had auburn hair, I believe. The children both have auburn hair, but Mrs. Easton’s is fair.”
“Yes,” Lord Denbigh said, “he had auburn hair.”
“How very kind of you, Maxwell, dear, to invite her and her children to Denbigh Park for Christmas,” Aunt Edith said. “Some men might have borne a grudge, since she is the one who ended the betrothal if we heard the right of the story. And I daresay we did as it would not have been at all the thing for you to have done so, would it?”
The marquess pointedly returned his attention to the game of cards. He had been in danger of forgetting during the morning. But he had a vivid image now of Easton as he had been—handsome, laughing, charming, a great favorite with the ladies, and with another class of females, too.
Lord Denbigh had never suspected that a romance was growing between Easton and Judith, though he had seen them together more than once and Easton had almost always danced with her at balls. He had not seen the writing on the wall, the marquess thought, poor innocent fool that he had been.
And he remembered again as he and Aunt Edith lost the hand quite ignominiously, entirely through his fault, how he had tortured himself after she had run away with Easton with images of the two of them together, of the two of them intimate together. He had walked and walked during that year, constantly trying to outstrip his thoughts and imaginings.
And then the news almost as soon as he finally returned to town that she was with child.
He had been in danger of forgetting during the morning. He had forgotten when he kissed her in the ballroom. He had forgotten everything except his fierce hunger for her and his awareness that he was kissing her for the first time and that she was warm and soft and fragrant and utterly feminine.
Well, he remembered now. He would not forget again. And he was not sorry that young Simon had maneuvered him into kissing her, for there had been a look in her eyes and a slight trembling in her lips. She was not indifferent to him. It was not by any means an impossible task he had set for himself.
“Ah,” Aunt Edith said with satisfaction as they won the hand, “that is better, Maxwell dear. I thought a while ago that you had quite lost your touch.”
“And I hoped the same thing,” Sir William said with a hearty laugh. “One more hand to decide the winner, Denbigh?”
“JUDITH,” AMY SAID, letting herself into her sister-in-law’s dressing room after knocking, “do you think this bonnet becoming? Would my green one look better?”
Judith looked up in surprise. Amy had worn her brown fur-trimmed bonnet through most of the winter without once asking anyone’s opinion.
“It will be a great deal warmer than your green one,” she said. “How was the rehearsal?”
Amy came right into the room and laughed. “Quite hilarious,” she said. “Those children flare up at the slightest provocation, Judith. Val, who plays the part of Mary, is the fiercest of all. She thumped poor Joseph in the stomach when he was not paying attention to some of Mrs. Harrison’s instructions.
And yet there is a warmth about their presentation that will be quite affecting, I believe. Mr. Cornwell says they have come a long way since they started three weeks ago.”
Judith smiled at her sister-in-law’s enthusiasm.
“Rupert is a shepherd,” Amy said. “Mr. Cornwell suggested it and Mrs. Harrison said it would be all right.”
“Oh dear,” Judith said, “I hope he was not making a nuisance of himself.”
Amy laughed. “Mr. Cornwell said that there are so many shepherds anyway that one more will be neither here nor there.”
Mr. Cornwell. Judith looked at the bright spots of color in her sister-in-law’s cheeks.
“Are you ready?” Amy asked eagerly. “I would hate to find that everyone has left without us.”
But everyone had not, of course. They were all gathered in a noisy group in the great hall.
“Where’s that nipper?” someone demanded loudly, and Kate chuckled and left Judith’s side to be borne away on Daniel’s shoulder.
The lake was only a few hundred yards to the west of the house, not a long walk. Judith walked there with Mr. Rockford and watched with interest as Amy took Mr. Cornwell’s arm and chattered brightly to him. She did not even look unduly short in his company. Her head reached to his chin.
Amy had never had a beau. Judith’s heart ached suddenly. She hoped that her sister-in-law was not about to conceive a hopeless and quite ineligible passion.
“Mama.” Rupert rushed at her as soon as she reached the lake, a pair of skates clutched in his hands. “Help me put them on. I want to show you how I can skate. I can skate like the wind. Papa said, remember?”
Andrew had done so little with his children. But it was good, Judith thought, that her son remembered at least one thing and one occasion when his father had been kind to him and shown him some affection. He must have loved Rupert, she thought. He had been ecstatic with pride at his birth. He had been far less so at Kate’s. He had wanted another son.
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “And Papa knew what he was talking about. He was a splendid skater himself. But it has been a long time, Rupert. You must not be surprised if you need to find your skating legs before you can compete with the wind again.”
