“Yes, and it is precisely your attachment to it that has brought me to this decision.” Lucien came forward and laid a hand on Fox’s shoulder. “I know that you look at the painting and wonder what she was like. I know that in your imagination, you have made her into the perfect woman when really, you have no way of knowing if she was or wasn’t. I know you’re infatuated with her. But honestly, Roger, don’t you think it’s high time you found a real woman? One who can warm your bed and bring you love, companionship and happiness? Even you have to admit that your fascination for the painting is unhealthy.”
“I . . . I would have bought her from you!”
“I know that, but I have made up my mind and truly, she should go to someone to whom she rightfully belongs.” The female voices had returned, and Lucien suddenly smiled and looked up toward the door. “Ah, Eva. I was just preparing our dear Roger for the possibility that Margaret might be . . . leaving us. Do come in, dearest. And you, too, Angela. I would say that introductions are in order, but I think the two of you have already met.”
Fox, rising, turned to follow Lucien’s gaze.
There was the beautiful duchess. And there standing beside her and staring at him with equal shock, was the woman in the painting.
Not Margaret.
But Lady Twyford.
Chapter 5
“Is this someone’s idea of a joke?” Angela asked, looking from her cousin to the man who stood near the fire. A man dressed in the same ridiculously fancy waistcoat he’d been wearing last night. A man with the same aristocratic nose, planed cheeks, and fascinating dark gold eyes rimmed with brown. He wasn’t wearing the bagwig this morning but she easily recognized him all the same, and was surprised to discover that his short, thick hair was a rich golden-red, like the pelt of a fox.
But unlike last night, he did not look composed or irritated or in complete control of the situation.
He looked shaken.
She watched as he stood up, his face flushing with sudden anger. “Yes, Lucien,” he said, turning to glare at the duke. “I am sure that both of us would like an explanation!”
“By all means.” The duke, managing to look both innocent and smug at the same time, glanced from one to the other. “Angela Seaford Holmes is my distant cousin and the granddaughter, with numerous greats preceding that title, of your beloved Margaret. The resemblance is uncanny, would you not agree?”
“That is neither here nor there!” Fox sputtered.
“Perhaps not, but one cannot help but notice it.”
Eva looked from one to the other, and then to her husband. “Lucien, a word with you, please.”
The duke inclined his head and with a little bow to Angela, followed his wife out the door, shutting it carefully behind him and leaving the two of them alone.
For a moment, Angela did not know what to say.
And neither did the tall, imposing man who stood staring at her, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly with anger.
She managed a wan smile. “It seems that you and I are destined to clash no matter the time or circumstances. And here it’s Christmas, and I’m trying so hard to be cheerful!” She gave a nervous little laugh. “You’re not helping any.”
“And I’m trying so hard to be miserable. You’re helping a lot.”
“Why would anyone try to be miserable at Christmas?”
“That is none of your affair. What is the meaning of this, anyhow?”
“Meaning of what?”
“You.” He gestured at her with his chin. “Your being here.”
“Lucien invited me here. He is giving me the painting of my great-great — my goodness, I don’t know how many greats there are, but she was my grandmother.”
“He has no right to give you that painting.”
“It belongs to him, does it not?”
“Of course it does, but—”
“Then I should think it is his to give.”
“You do not understand!”
“You are correct, Sir Roger. I do not understand.”
He sat down heavily in a chair. He had unbuttoned his waistcoat against the warmth of the fire, and his clean lawn shirt gapped slightly at his throat, revealing skin that was golden in the light from the hearth. His lashes, a soft, russet-brown, were thick and long, lending beauty to eyes that were already compelling, fascinating, and even a little mysterious. But there was nothing of mystery in them at the moment. The man looked like he was coming apart at the seams.
“I am sorry,” she said, confused. “You and I got off to rather a bad start.”
“And things, thanks to Lucien, are not improving.”
“The painting . . . I would sell it to you, if it means so much to you.”
The magistrate’s head snapped up and his eyes shone golden. “Sell her?”
“Sell it, yes.”
“She is not an ‘it.’”
“She is a woman long dead, Sir Roger, and the object of our discussion is a painting,” Angela said, gently. “Therefore, it is an ‘it.’”
He wiped a hand down his face and got to his feet. “You will excuse me,” he said tersely, and with a little bow, left the room, leaving Angela standing there with no company but a crackling fire, the smell of leather and books, and a magnificent painting of her ancestress who smiled, an English Mona Lisa, a beautiful woman of secretive mystery, down at her from her place on the wall.
Angela held her gaze for a long moment.
She could swear the woman winked.
Then she went in search of Lucien.
Why put off til tomorrow what she could do today? The day was still young and she did, after all, have a horse to retrieve.
* * *
“This is all your doing, isn’t it?” Fox snarled, cornering Lucien in the Gold drawing room. “You did this up on purpose!”
“Did what up on purpose?”
“Arrange for my painting to go to that . . . that . . . woman!”
“Your painting?”
“You know how I feel about Margaret!”
“My dear Roger. You are overwrought.”
“Damned right I’m overwrought. You have just managed to make Christmas even darker for me than it already is.”
Lucien laid a hand on Fox’s shoulder. “Really, Roger. If the painting means that much to you, offer to buy it.”
“Buy it? From you or from her?”
“Oh, it is promised to her. You will have to approach her about it. She has fallen on hard times since her husband died. Perhaps the money will mean more to her than the painting itself.”
“Why didn’t you offer it to me, first? I would have bought it.”
“It?”
“Her, damn you!”
“Really, Roger. It is not like you to be so . . . upset.”
“I am not upset!”
“You are indeed, and we cannot have that. And yet, it is unthinkable that I rescind my offer to give her the painting just because my best friend is—”
“I am not upset!”
Lucien ignored Fox’s outburst and idly began to stroke his chin between thumb and forefinger, “It does create a bit of an impasse. However, an idea has just occurred to me. A most marvelous idea, if I do say so myself.”
Fox did not like the wicked gleam in his friend’s eye. “And that is?”
“Well, it would mean that there would be no arguing about the painting . . . that both of you would get to enjoy it. . . .”
“Out with it, Lucien.”
“You could marry her.”
“Marry her?!”
“Yes, I do believe that is what I said. Why do you look so shocked, my dear Roger? She is not only your beloved Margaret’s great-great-however many times over granddaughter, but the very incarnation of her ancestress. She could use a husband and God knows you could use a wife. I worry about you, you know. You are all alone and that is not good. But never mind. You two seem to have got off to a disagreeable start. Probably a terrible idea on my part. Forgive me, I don�
��t know what I was thinking. . . .”
Fox was well acquainted with Lucien’s machinations and devious ways of manipulating situations for the “good” of those who found themselves on the receiving end of the duke’s ways. His eyes narrowed.
“You knew damn well what you were thinking. You planned this, didn’t you?”
Lucien touched two fingers to his chest and adopted a look of feigned surprise. “Me?”
“Yes, you, damn you. You invited me here for Christmas since I cannot bear to be at home, you invited her here as well, and you’re dangling a painting in front of our noses that both of us want. You set this up. You engineered it, just like you did the unions of your siblings and your cousin Pippa.”
“And if I did?”
Fox stared at him. “Did you?”
Lucien’s mouth was twitching beneath the two fingers with which he was still rubbing his chin. “I do believe I might have done, yes.”
Fox clenched his fists and turned away. He felt furious inside. Manipulated. He could choose his own bride if he ever decided to marry. He didn’t need—or want—Lucien “arranging” his marriage as he had those of his siblings.
“At least give her a chance,” Lucien said. “What do you have to lose?”
“I'm leaving,” Fox snapped. “I can’t stay here in this house as long as she’s here, especially knowing you’d like nothing better than to see us together.”
“And what would be so bad about that?”
“She’s a shrew.”
“Perhaps she felt caught in a circumstance beyond her control last night and didn’t care to have her life, and her finances, managed by another.”
“She’s related to you.”
“Yes, but quite distantly at that.”
“She’s—”
“Quite lovely, intelligent, spirited, kind-hearted, and, now that you’ve upset her with your boorishness, about to head back to that inn to collect the horse she now finds herself in hapless possession of. You should do the gallant thing, my dear Roger, and offer to accompany her. You really should.” Lucien moved to the window and looked down at the courtyard below. “In fact, you should make haste. ‘Twould be a pity if she is forced to go alone, and negotiate not only the beast’s release—and a fair price for its boarding these past few hours—all by herself, but a way to get it back here. I do not get the impression that our dear Angela knows as much about horses as she does about recognizing the signs of abuse to them.”
Thinning his lips, Fox stalked to the window and stared out. Sure enough, the duke’s coach had been drawn up outside, twin tracks in the snow marking its route from the stables.
And there, too, was Lady Twyford, a slight, willowy figure cloaked in heavy dark green wool, the hood already drawn up over her dark auburn hair, standing beside the coach.
Lucien looked at Fox and raised a brow.
“Damn you to hell and beyond,” Fox snapped, but he was already turning from the window and heading downstairs.
Chapter 6
Angela had just settled herself into the coach when the door opened and a large male form was suddenly blocking the meager grey light of the day outside.
She tensed. It was Sir Roger Foxcote, and he looked positively furious.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, frowning.
“Accompanying you.”
“If I’d wanted your company, I would have sought it.”
“And if I’d wanted yours, perhaps I’d be in a better temper.”
“Then kindly leave, sir. The duke’s groom is riding above with the driver, and I’m sure that between the three of us, we’ll be able to retrieve my horse.”
“I’ve seen your attempts to negotiate.” He stepped up into the coach and took the seat opposite her. “If I don’t go, you’ll find yourself with not only a horse, but even more trouble.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s true. We both know it.”
“Your arrogance is breathtaking.”
“So is your mouth.”
“What?!”
“And your eyes, and the color of your hair, and the way your lips curve up just the slightest bit at the corners as though you’re smiling even when you’re vexed, just like hers do. Hers. The devil take it, you had to look just like her, didn’t you?”
He pushed his feet out toward her, taking up a huge amount of space, seeming so much taller and larger here inside the coach than he did outside, or in Lucien’s house, or even in that humble, seedy little inn last night. No longer a fop, but a dangerous, compelling, and at the moment, very angry male.
“Didn’t you?” her persisted, his penetrating gaze locking with hers in accusation, as though it was her fault she looked the way she did, as though she had elected to be born the near spitting-image of the woman in the painting that so fascinated him, just to annoy and torment him.
Does he really find my mouth . . . breathtaking?
Angela suddenly felt warm all over, despite the fact that she could see her breath in the close confines of the coach.
“You have got to be the most foul-tempered man I have ever met,” she said, meeting his accusatory, unwavering stare. “I think I would prefer my own company, unless you can at least pretend to be anything but angry, irritable, or unreasonable.”
“I am not unreasonable.”
“No? You are angry because I look like someone else. As though I can help that. That, dear sir, is the very definition of unreasonable.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and then rapped on the roof to signal the driver to move. The coach lurched and beneath them, its wheels began to move.
He blew out his breath. “Perhaps I am being unreasonable,” he finally allowed.
She said nothing.
“And in any case, you are not her,” he said, turning to stare out the window.
“No, I am not.” She studied the sharp profile of his nose, the firm, sensual sculpt of his lips, and noted the anger in his eyes. But was it anger, or was it something else?
And then it dawned on her. It wasn’t anger at all.
It was pain.
Gently, she said, “You are very kind to accompany me, Sir Roger, but I do not need your help. I can manage the retrieval of this poor old horse by myself.”
“Well, I’m here. You might as well take advantage of that fact, so nobody takes advantage of you.”
“That is very kind of you, but you should go back and visit Lucien. It is, after all, Christmas.”
“So it is.”
“A joyous time. A peaceful, holy, deeply meaningful time that is best spent with family and friends. To you, Sir Roger, I am neither.”
He said nothing, and only remained staring out the window as the scenery passed outside, gazing at sheep that dotted the downs, a thicket of brambles from which a rabbit watched them as they passed. She sensed that he was about to speak, felt something huge and unspoken welling up within him, begging to be let out, but he remained quiet.
“Sir Roger?”
“Christmas,” he finally said. “A miserable holiday. How I wish it could be wiped right off the calendar.”
She said nothing, watching a muscle tic in his jaw and a bleakness come over his face that was as cold and hopeless as a January wind.
“Does that shock you?” he asked, turning to look at her. “Or are you of the mind that the whole foolish world should be of good cheer, singing carols, making merry, and joyously proclaiming the Savior’s birth?”
“Such expressions are not where I find the miracle of Christmas,” she said, wishing she could reach out and find a way to help him through his pain.
“Miracle. Hmmph.” She saw his throat move as he swallowed. “For some of us, Christmas is a cruel reminder of people we no longer have with us, a smack in the face, a betrayal of a promise made by a Christ who loves some of us more than others, and the admonition and expectation that we should be ‘merry’ is not only an impossibility, but a mockery. I’ll be happy when this miserable
holiday is done and over with.”
Angela felt her heart constrict. For her, Christmas was about the coming of hope, light, and peace through the perfect innocence, the holy gift, of the Christ child. It was a time of quiet, of reflection, of thanksgiving, even. But something had happened to steal the joy of the season from this man. Something that had wounded him deeply, and robbed from him the true meaning of Christmas.
“I am sorry, Sir Roger.” Impulsively, she reached out and briefly touched his hand. “You lost someone, didn’t you?”
He said nothing for a long time, only watching the downs passing by in their frosty splendor outside the window. At last, he turned and looked at her, the anger gone, the look in his eyes one of bleak, raw suffering.
“She was only eight years old,” he said. “My little sister, my favorite little Lucy, the youngest in our family of six. Bright in spirit, loving and sweet, the kind of child who brought light and laughter into every room she entered. A fever took her, three years ago. We prayed for this ‘Christ child” to heal her, but He did not. He let us hope, He let her suffer, He let us pray and pray and pray for her until our throats were raw and then He let her die.”
Her heart went out to him, and she wished she dared to reach out and take his hand. “I am sorry, Sir Roger.”
“She expired on Christmas day.” His jaw had gone hard once more. “It is not a happy time for me, and never will be again. I don’t want people telling me I should be joyous, I don’t want to celebrate or make merry, I don’t want anyone saying that I should be festive and happy because ‘tis the season’. ‘Tis the season, all right. For loss and pain and death.”
His words hung between them, raw and indefensible, a challenge that nothing but time could ever answer.
For loss and pain and death.
“I understand that,” she finally murmured. “My husband, John, fell off his horse while taking a fence during a hunt, broke his neck, and died. He loved Christmas. I loved him. And every year at this time, I miss him and am reminded how lonely I am. It can be a painful time for many.”
“I’m sorry, Lady Twyford. And how do you cope? How do you get through this season, and not think of it as a cruel mockery? Especially when you see others making merry and being happy?”
The Fox And The Angel Page 3
