Regency Christmas Gifts

by Carla Kelly

  Emma resumed the conversation. “That would be very kind of you, Sophia. I shall miss him dreadfully, but I am told it is beyond time for him to go. If only his father were still here to—”

  “Now, Emma, we should not dwell on the past,” Jonathan soothed. “You know it only makes you sad.”

  “Well,” Marjory proclaimed with her usual authority. “I cannot see what difference it would make. Sad for this or sad for that. This is a somber occasion, after all. Dear Uncle Oliver—”

  “Whom you never met,” Jonathan interrupted with an arched voice. “Bloody hell! As soon as we bury Uncle Oliver, I am leaving. Pray I can be back in London by Christmas.”

  “Nor did you meet him,” Marjory snapped.

  Embarrassment nearly caused Sophia to choke on her first bite of roast beef. She glanced at Selwick over the rim of her wineglass to see if he had noticed. He had. The hint of distaste hovered in the frown lines between his eyes and the thin line of his lips.

  Thomas cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, we are Oliver Pettibone’s heirs and it would behoove us to observe a modicum of propriety.”

  “We?” Jonathan asked. “Hmm. Seems to me you are likely the only one here not mentioned in Uncle Oliver’s will, Thomas.”

  Thomas turned deep red and Sophia said a silent prayer that he would not remind everyone at the table that, as her husband, he would have full use and control of any funds or property that Marjory came into.

  Georgie began to fidget as he glanced between his mother and her cousins. “Am I mentioned in Uncle Oliver’s will?” he asked, obviously trying to sort things out in his mind.

  “You,” Thomas snapped, “ought to have been given supper in the kitchen and sent to bed. Dining with the adults! Really, Emma, what were you thinking?”

  Emma’s lips moved, but no sound issued forth. Sophia might have mistaken that for hurt or embarrassment, but she knew Emma well enough to know that she was merely trying to control her temper. She was not assertive for herself, but when someone attacked her cub she was fierce, and if something was not done quickly, there would be worse to come.

  “I rather like having Georgie with us,” she said. “It balances the table nicely, don’t you think? Three ladies and three gentlemen?”

  Georgie grinned, but Thomas glared at her, then turned his attention to his plate.

  Potter, standing quietly in the corner, cleared his throat as the servants brought the next course, and Sophia thought it sad that a butler would have to remind them of their manners in front of the servants. She slid another look in Lord Selwick’s direction. Heavens! He must be thinking them the most ill-bred lot on earth.

  The table fell silent while everyone applied themselves to their dinner. She picked at her roasted potato and wished she could excuse herself and flee to the quiet sanity of her room. After a reasonable length of time, she offered her apology and pled fatigue.

  Selwick hurried to her side. He wordlessly lifted her in his arms and nearly ran for the door. “Really, Lord Selwick, you needn’t interrupt your dinner on my account.”

  “Not at all,” he murmured, his brow lowering over his eyes, gone deep green in the gloom of the great hall.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Sophia noted that there was no sign of Christmas. No decoration. No frivolity. No acknowledgment that the season was well underway—a concession to the sobriety of the occasion.

  Selwick had her at her room before she could blink. The door was ajar and he pushed it open with his shoulder. Janie had evidently gone to join the staff for dinner in the kitchen.

  “Thank you,” she breathed as he sat her on her bed.

  “You’ve been quite the gentleman. I vow I shall be much better tomorrow.”

  He turned back at the door and bowed. “A pleasure to be of service, Miss Pettibone.”

  Bloody hell! Sebastian had thought he’d be safely tucked away for the holidays in Cumberland, free from dramatics, histrionics and petty disasters. Instead he was saddled with a quarrelsome family, an eccentric spinster and a tardy coffin. Even the most innocent comments were an occasion for dissent. Were it not for his duty, he would hie back to London in a trice. Alas, he had been well schooled in duty and honor.

  Well, he had enough to do to keep him reasonably distant from the family. He hadn’t even begun the inventory of the trunks and crates that had arrived from America. The thought had occurred to him that he really ought to have the assistance of a family member in the inventory, but that dreadful dinner had not yielded a single candidate. Except…

  A smile came to his lips. Miss Pettibone was certainly the most pleasant of the lot. She may be eccentric, but she knew her manners and seemed competent enough. And she smelled good. Lilacs, if he wasn’t mistaken. He could still feel her contours in his arms and against his chest—nicely rounded, though not overly so. And she had a wit about her that amused him somewhat. If he had to spend time with someone, it might as well be Miss Pettibone. She would make the time less tedious.

  Very well, then. He’d stay, but he bloody well wasn’t going to like it!

  Chapter Four

  Between her nap and her early bedtime, Sophia woke before the others and was unable to go back to sleep. Her knee was considerably better when she tested her weight, so she would not have to summon Lord Selwick to assist her. She rang for Janie, dressed and limped downstairs. Turning toward the back of the house, she followed a narrow corridor that led to another door and down a half flight of stairs to the large open kitchen. A tall, slender middle-aged woman was directing two scullery maids while the silver-haired Potter applied himself to the task of tending the fire. Wonderful smells filled the air and she sighed happily. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until that very moment.

  The slender woman noticed her first and straightened her apron. “Have you lost your way, miss?”

  “I think I have found it,” she said. “I am Sophia Pettibone, and I woke early this morning. I wondered if I might trouble you for a bit of breakfast. Toast and jam, perhaps, or a bowl of porridge?”

  The man gave her a slight bow and a smile. “I shall have the staff prepare you a tray. Where would you like it served?”

  She gestured at the wide plank table in the center of the room. “Here, if you please. I am quite at home in a kitchen.”

  “Of course, miss,” the slender woman said. “I am Mrs. Cavendish, the cook.”

  Potter brought a stool to the table while Mrs. Cavendish ladled a creamy porridge into a bowl and placed it on a dish with a slice of buttered toast. She placed a sugar bowl and a pot of jam within reach and went back to preparing trays for the family. Sophia applied herself to the meal with gusto. She’d left the table still hungry last night, but she made up for it now.

  “Delicious!” she pronounced after her last bite.

  “Ah, another early riser!”

  Startled, Sophia glanced to the stairway. Lord Selwick! A rush of pleasure swept through her.

  “Your maid told me she did not know where you’d gone.”

  “I was hungry.”

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment. Still, he did not look pleased. “I was waiting to assist you downstairs. I gather you are much improved?”

  She nodded. “Much.” She hesitated, studying him. The cleft in his chin deepened. She assumed that did not bode well and suspected she was about to discover the truth of that.

  “I wonder if we might have a word, Miss Pettibone. In the library.”

  “Of course.”

  Noting her limp, Sebastian offered his arm, relieved that the young lady was not going to be a problem. In fact, he gathered that she was more self-sufficient than most young women and seemed quite at ease in a kitchen. And she was certainly more accommodating than the rest of her family.

  “You are looking fit this morning, Miss Pettibone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I trust you slept well?”

  “I did, thank you. The accommodations are excellent. Are you responsible
for that, Lord Selwick, or someone else?”

  “I believe you can thank Potter.”

  “I shall. I did not realize Uncle Oliver had sent…that is, had our uncle arrived in England before his demise?”

  “No, Miss Pettibone. Potter was charged with returning his remains to his homeland and making the necessary arrangements. Since this was your uncle’s property, he had expressed a wish to be laid to rest here.”

  “I see. Well, he has come home at last, and we shall have to be content with that.”

  She did not look at him again as they made their way to the library, and that gave him an opportunity to study her. Her gown was subtly seductive—prim but for the cut of her neckline. There, a definite shadow suggested a division between the soft, lush swells of her breasts beneath the embroidered edge. Heat seeped through his vitals. Lord! This deuced attraction to her was going to be a nuisance. Thank heavens she seemed oblivious to it, especially in view of the offer he was about to make.

  When he had her safely seated by the fire, he took a chair opposite her. She looked at him with a quizzical smile and folded her hands in her lap. “This is most mysterious, Lord Selwick. Are you about to deliver more bad news?”

  “No. At least, I think not. You have said you did not see your uncle after his departure for America, but how well did you know him?”

  “Very little, and that only through annual letters. In fact, I think none of us did. As I mentioned last evening, we were all babes in arms or still in the nursery when he sailed to the Americas. We had his annual letter at Christmastime, but that is all. I wrote him frequently, but I never knew if my letters were received or read.”

  That, at least, was refreshing. The other members of the family behaved as if Pettibone had been their dearest relative. “Then you will not dissolve into tears should you see something of his?”

  She tilted her head to one side, that enigmatic smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I believe I can withstand it.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “We cannot have the reading of the will until after Mr. Pettibone’s burial services, and we cannot have that until his remains arrive. Alas, the weather has delayed the wagon from London. The chore I have in mind, at least, will be one task we can acquit in a timely manner. You see, in addition to the reading of the will, I have been charged with the sorting and disposition of Mr. Pettibone’s material belongings. I thought the task might be easier if I were guided by a member of the family.”

  She blinked, and he wondered how lashes could possibly be so long and thick. “And you thought of me? Well, I thank you, my lord, but would you not be better served by Jonathan’s assistance? Or Thomas?”

  “Mr. Evans is not your uncle’s flesh and blood and Mr. Arbuthnot seems to have little patience for this whole affair.”

  She nodded. “Jonathan has always disliked anything that hints of duty or work, but he is quite a charming companion.”

  If so, his charm was completely lost on Sebastian. “If you would prefer not—”

  “Of course I will assist you, Lord Selwick. A diversion will be lovely. And I shall welcome the opportunity to learn more about Uncle Oliver.”

  He hadn’t realized how very much he’d been hoping she would accept until relief washed through him. The task he had least looked forward to was now the most interesting.

  She stood and smoothed her lavender skirts. “Shall we begin at once?”

  “His trunk and other effects have been put in the largest bedroom in the south wing. I shall inform Potter where we will be, and then, if you will follow me?”

  She actually dimpled! He furrowed his brow in consternation as he grew warm in response. Had he not decided to give Sophia Pettibone a wide berth? And had he not just put himself in her way rather neatly?

  Sophia could only stare at the complete opulence of her late uncle’s bedchamber. She’d never seen a bed the size of a barge before. Why, an entire family could sleep there! A stool with three steps stood beside it to aid access. The gilt headboard with carvings of angels and flowers was so ornate that she could scarcely think of a man choosing such a piece. The golden satin coverlet and bed hangings only heightened the impression of a king’s quarters.

  Tall mirrors set into the paneling of the walls reflected both the light and the sight of her on the threshold, almost too timid to step over and enter such a world. As she stood there, Lord Selwick crossed the room to a bank of windows and pulled the golden draperies open. The last brave flakes of snow falling through the heavy overcast dulled the natural light of day. If not for the roaring fire in a marble-framed fireplace, the room would have been dim.

  With a deep breath and a feeling that she was embarking on a fateful adventure, she stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind her. Plush red-and-gold carpets cushioned her footsteps as she went forward, curious what other surprises the room might hold.

  His lordship turned from the window and watched her, almost as if he expected her to bolt. Her heart dropped and she glanced toward the extravagant bed. Oh! What was she thinking? They were only going to perform a small service for her uncle. It was the least she could do for the last of her father’s siblings. “Where shall we start, Lord Selwick?”

  Was it her imagination, or had his gaze slipped to the bed, too? He came toward her, another of those secret smiles hovering behind the stoic facade. “At the beginning, I should imagine. I shall bring his personal trunk in here, so we may have the benefit of the fire.”

  He gave her a polite bow and disappeared through a side door. She used her moment alone to complete her study of the room. Two chairs and a round table stood before the fire, almost as if awaiting them. A tall bureau to one side of the bed would never hold Uncle Oliver’s things and a small escritoire had been placed in the opposite corner. She imagined the door through which Lord Selwick had disappeared would lead to the dressing room with a washstand and shaving mirror.

  There was a thump and a moment later he was dragging a large wooden trunk into the room. He glanced at her as he unbuckled the straps. “There are two other trunks, Miss Pettibone. I doubt we’ll be done today.”

  He lifted the lid, removed the top tray, which was filled with odds and ends, to reveal stacks of clothing beneath, with miscellaneous items packed between to cushion them from breaking. And there were two more? Heavens! Even with the whole day ahead, she doubted they would be done.

  Sophia went to look at the items in the tray and noted shaving soap and a straight razor, items so personal and so intimate that a twinge of nostalgia pricked her heart. She wished she had known Uncle Oliver. Wished she could have been a part of his life. Perhaps they could have been friends. The yearning to be a part of something more than herself, that same yearning for connection and belonging that had plagued her most of her life, rose to cause a prickling behind her eyelids. Oh, she would not cry!

  A black leather-bound volume rested atop a mahogany lap desk. She lifted the volume and opened it to the middle, expecting to find poetry or a rousing adventure. What she found instead was handwriting. Dated entries were followed by passages of narration. What a treasure! Here was an opportunity to learn about Uncle Oliver from his own words. She put the journal aside to take with her to her room.

  “How shall we begin?” she asked.

  Selwick retrieved the lap desk from the trunk and handed it to her. “We should make a list of items first, then determine to whom they should go. I think it would be best if you sat, Miss Pettibone, while I call them off to you.”

  Very efficient. But she gathered Lord Selwick was always efficient. She took the lap desk and sank into the chair by the fire. She found paper, a small bottle of ink and several pens beneath the lid and arranged them on the writing surface.

  “Straight razor and strop,” he began.

  When they finished the contents of the upper tray, Sophia put the lap desk aside and stood to stretch her legs. Her knee had stiffened and she stumbled slightly. Lord Selwick was beside her, steadying h
er until she regained her balance. A frisson of heat warmed her and she looked up at him to confirm that he felt it, too.

  He smiled down at her, but said nothing. She mumbled an apology and turned her attention to pouring the tea Potter had brought as they worked. Lord Selwick took his cup and sat in the chair opposite hers.

  “This is rather more tedious than I thought it would be,” he admitted.

  Sophia took a sip of her tea and watched him over the rim of her cup. How, she wondered—not for the first time—could such a handsome man be so stern? She had seen a playful, almost puckish, expression in his eyes, and the tiny smile that would occasionally lift the corners of his mouth from its usual straight line, but he controlled it so closely that she wondered at his reasons.

  “You are looking at me with a query in your eyes. What is it, Miss Pettibone?”

  “I am wondering why you are so determined to be unhappy.”

  He looked surprised. “I am not unhappy, Miss Pettibone. What you see is my usual demeanor. I apologize if it displeases you.”

  “It does not displease, my lord. I only wish you would smile more.”

  And, to her surprise, he did. His eyes creased at the corners and a spark of something lively glittered in the depths. She returned his smile. “You have a very nice one, my lord.”

  “As we are now fairly well acquainted, I think you might call me Selwick. After all, I have seen your dashing blue stockings.”

  She laughed. Here was the man she wanted to know—part naughty and part proper. A nice combination in a man. “Very well, Selwick. And you may call me…Miss Sophia. After all, I have been in your arms.”

  He laughed, and she liked the sound of it. “You are not like your cousins, Miss Sophia. They are quite somber and contentious. I had thought they were in mourning but, if they did not know your uncle, I am left to think they are affecting it because they think it is proper.”