by Edith Layton
“You are wondering, my dear,” Squire said. “I don’t think he’s a trifler.”
“Mayhap he’s not,” his wife admitted. “But Mirabelle, I’m just wishful of reminding you that your cousins Philip and Harry and our good neighbor Edward all came for your birthday party and have stayed on because of you.”
“Fiddle!” Mirabelle laughed. “That they did not! They came with their families, and stayed because of them, for they know they haven’t a prayer of getting more than a ‘Happy Christmas’ from me. Haven’t I told them so for years?”
“But you haven’t known Lord Cameron very long,” her mama said, watching her closely.
Mirabelle nodded. “Aye, but time doesn’t matter. The strangest thing, but it’s as though I knew him from the moment I opened my eyes and saw him—and so whether I knew him for a thousand years or a thousand seconds makes no matter.”
Squire frankly grinned. But his wife still worried. “You’ve not had much experience with the wide world,” she persisted, “or the men in it.”
“You think I should cast him aside and look to see if I find others I prefer more?” Mirabelle asked, incredulous. “When the plain truth is I never had eyes for any man until I met Skylar…or is it that I’d only met lads and no men at all until him? So it seems to me now. But don’t fret! My head’s squarely on my shoulders,” she said, hiding her own doubts, hoping what she said was true. “If he’s merely amusing himself—then so be it. I’m enjoying myself in his company, and am content to wait to see what happens.”
Her parents exchanged a look, and small smiles.
“So be it,” her mama said.
“So it will be,” Squire agreed.
But for all her brave talk, Mirabelle was worried. Because though she lived for his every visit, she too wondered which might be his last one. He never spoke of the future. But then, they were always so busily living in the present. They laughed, they chatted, he flirted, she teased. Sometimes she thought he was on the verge of something warmer… But he was always the perfect gentleman. She’d see the warmth kindle in his eyes and feel the pull of attraction between them tighten—and he’d change the subject or move away. The only kiss they’d even shared had been their first one, and that had been given only on a whim of his, she realized now. Sometimes, she wondered if she had dreamed it. He never gave her cause to worry that he was trifling. And that began to make her anxious.
But not so anxious that she didn’t look forward to every moment with him. It was as though she’d been asleep in every way until he’d come into her life—and went right back to dozing whenever he left her.
“So late?” she cried in frustration one evening as they sat alone in the parlor before the fire and she heard the clock striking his usual time for departure. “And you must leave, I suppose? Zounds! I wish you didn’t have to go! Not ever.”
Startled, Skye looked up from contemplating her lips. Candor was one thing. This was astonishing. Delightful, yes. Charming too. But he was the one who’d been thinking of asking for her hand. Much as he wanted it—much as he’d decided he desperately needed it, and her, for the rest of his life—he was shocked at her asking him.
“It would be so nice if you could stay right here with us,” she went on wistfully, “the way all my relatives have done.”
His spirits fell. He’d misinterpreted her. Perhaps entirely?
She scowled, obviously pursuing her line of thought with displeasure, “Relatives! Sooth! In truth, was ever there such a family as ours? And all under one roof. Ours. True, they say they’ll be on their way soon. Uncle Francis left last week and Aunt Elizabeth’s making noises about returning to Sussex next week. Cousin Wilbur and his noisy brood just moved out today. The others will be back in their own homes by the new year, or so they promise. But we’ve still got uncles and cousins galore about the place. I only have privacy when you’re here, for they’re a bit wary of strangers, it seems.”
Her eyes brightened. She suddenly wondered if his reticence with her was due to his worrying about her kindred! Of course. What sane man would want to align himself with a clan that stuck together like burrs?
She hurried to reassure him. “We didn’t always have them with us. We’re a close family, but not like this! But they all came to visit and just stayed on. At first it was amusing. After a bit, it seemed a little cramped, no matter how big the manor is. Now it’s absurd. I don’t think they enjoy such forced intimacy any more than I do. It must have had something to do with Father’s enemy. He won’t open his teeth on the subject. They say they all came for the Ball. But the truth is they came weeks before it, settled in, and haven’t left.”
Skye nodded. Every bedchamber in the huge house seemed occupied by some relative of hers. But they were a shy, provincial lot made uncomfortable by the gentleman from London, or else just clannish. Because they seldom did more than give him a good morning or evening before they found a reason to be away from him.
“But if you stayed here too,” she went on eagerly, “how much fun it would be! And I’ll wager it would be so much more comfortable than where you bide now.”
“Not for me,” he said, suddenly serious. “Because I think it would be torture to be so close—and yet have to remain so far—from you.”
“But why… Oh!” she said. She blinked. And blushed, exquisitely. Then looked up at him, cocking her head to the side. “’Tis so? But—but then, if ’tis truth…why don’t you ever…well, why haven’t you given me some hint, some sign?”
“I thought I had,” he said, his voice grown deep.
She quickly looked away. Her heart picked up its beat, and she wished fashion still called for a lady to constantly clutch a fan. All she could do was to clench her trembling hands. Here was the thing she’d been yearning to say. The thing she’d been rehearsing with her pillow, the thing she never thought she’d dare ask, for fear of knowing the answer.
“A hint? In words, mayhap,” she said, averting her eyes, “but never in deed, sir. Oh, you’ve pretty words a’plenty. But never an action to back them up!”
“Mirabelle!” he said, and laughed in spite of himself at her candor—and his delight. “How could I? I am a gentleman.”
“What? I don’t know how they go on in London, sirrah,” she said angrily, because she was blushing so much her cheeks felt hot, “but I take leave to tell you that we don’t think less of a fellow for giving a girl a sound buss now and again. Why, ’tis only tribute, everyone knows that. I don’t mean I’d ever nip off to the haystacks with a lad, no, nor ever wanted to or have done. I’m no simple farm lass, or trollop neither. I’m a lady born, and know it well. But an honest buss, now and again? From a likely lad for a laughing lass? ’Tis only human nature, and so all know. And so…when you never so much as…oh!”
But then she couldn’t say more, because his arms were around her and his lips were on hers. She had never tasted anything finer, and there wasn’t a thing she needed to breathe except sighs of pleasure. His mouth was so warm and gentle, his body so vividly vital against hers. Her newly fashioned flimsy gown was wonderful, she managed to think in wonder. It let her get closer than she’d ever been to a man, and allowed her to feel the exact shape and strength of him against her own body. It was as thrilling as the feel of his heart beating so quickly against her own. She burrowed into his arms, surrendering her lips to his, wriggling against him to discover what else he would want of her.
He wanted everything. And she in her candid but obviously innocent passion seemed unaware of how close he was to taking it. So he was the one to pull away. He touched her hair, then snatched his hand away before it could slide down her silken cheek to her slender neck, to the rise of those wondrous breasts that had teased his chest.…
“Mirabelle,” he said in a shaken voice, “I do believe it’s time to have a talk with your father.”
She blinked, and licked her swollen lips. She looked at him with stark tragedy in her luminous eyes. And then, disbelief. “After only one kis
s?”
His delighted laughter ended on her lips.
*
Skye was humming as he stepped out of the house the next morning to get Albion from the stable. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that it was only Albion’s dancing and nickering that alerted him to a visitor arriving. Bemused, Skye halted to watch an ornate carriage rumble up the crooked lane and pull to a stop in front of the house. A liveried servant, looking as out of place as a rose in this December setting, leapt out, lowered the steps, and the owner of the cottage stepped out and looked around.
“Skye!” Robert called when he saw his friend. “The Holiday’s coming, but behold—your savior is already here! Forgive the blasphemy,” he chuckled, “but you must think of me as that by now, poor fellow. Never fear! I’ve come to carry you away, just as I promised. Must have been counting the hours ’til I got here but it’s just like you to be too stubborn to admit a mistake and write for me to come sooner, eh? Never mind. I’ll pop in and have a cup of tea or something warmer—cold as the devil here, ain’t it?—while you bundle up your things. Then we can get a start and be halfway to the Hall before darkness falls. Come, your exile’s ended. A real Holiday awaits!”
“Robert, my friend,” Skye laughed, “go in but prepare to stay the night or go on without me. Because I’m off on an important errand and can’t stop to explain it right now.”
“Oh no, you don’t!” Robert cried. “Nothing will induce me to stay if I don’t have to. Have you run mad? I offer you an instant escape and you delay it? It must be something earth-shattering. Have you got yourself involved with a debt? A duel? Or have you plain run mad? Spit out now. You owe me that at least.”
“So I do,” Skye sighed, sliding down from Albion’s broad back. “Come in, sit by the fire, and hear my story. It’s earth-shattering, all right, but not in the way you think.”
Robert came into the house, and accepted the curtsies and bows from his servants absently as he shucked off his top coat and gloves and followed Skye into the parlor. He sat in awestruck silence and heard his friend out, interrupting only to thank his housekeeper when she brought him tea.
But when Skye was done, his friend sprang to his feet. “Madness!” he cried in agitation. “See what happens when I leave you in this damned place? Eldritch? I said. Magical? Mystical? I remember the words too well, just as I remember the lure of the damned place now. I must have been enchanted myself to have sent you here in your state of mind. Look, my friend, you were weary and cynical, disgusted with the war, and the ways of city life as well. You wanted rustication? Fine. You met a fair maiden here in the wilderness. Natural enough that you’d be bemused. But bewitched? A few days among civilized folk will cure this. It’s like—like faery magic or somesuch, brought on by the isolation of this devilish place. Come away, write her letters if you must, but bide some time until you come to your senses, man!”
“I’ve never been more in possession of them,” Skye said, smiling. “She’s no rustic, Robert. Squire Roundeville’s daughter, no less.”
“Roundeville? Sounds familiar—but I don’t know the man or his family.”
“Because they’ve been reclusive. The father had a problem with a vengeful relative or an embittered neighbor, I think, and kept close to home. But now it’s settled, and they’re out in Society again. It’s the very manor you paused at as a boy, the one you told me about. The one with the gate and the padlock? You ought to have tried harder to find out what was behind that gate. They’re a delightful family. But I’m glad you didn’t stay to meet them after all. You’d have met Mirabelle, and I doubt you’d ever have been able to leave her, which would have complicated things for me. Only complicated, mind. Because it’s clear she was fated for me.
“I’ve found my lady, Robert!” Skye said, his face alight with animation. “She’s everything I ever wanted in a lover—a wife—mother of my children. Lovely and clever, saucy but gentle, brash as a boy but tender as a woman should be. Honest to a fault, with not one sly bone in her lovely body. A sense of humor and of honor. She’s scented like roses and beautiful as one too. And not a care in her head about Fashion or rank or honors. The only one who resents our meeting is Albion, since I hardly talk to him anymore. Not when I have a lady whose mind is every bit as entrancing as her face. I’m in your debt forever for sending me here.”
“Thought you wanted an old-fashioned girl,” Robert said, grasping at straws.
“Her manners are every bit as much that as either of my grandmamas’, although she’s modern in her outlook. But you know? Now I think about it, there is something in her that reminds me of them. Her frankness. Her absolute candor. They weren’t mealymouthed and neither is she. She says what she thinks, and if she hears a warm jest, she laughs aloud—if it’s a truly funny one. But she’ll blush at a compliment. She’s no hoyden but there aren’t any missish airs about my Merrybelle! I mean to make her mine, this very day. That’s where I was going. To ask her papa his permission. If I’m lucky enough to secure it, I’ll ask you to pass Christmas with me. Because it will be the most joyous one yet. No—ever!”
“Stay here?” Robert said, appalled, glancing around the humble room.
“Rest easy. If I’m in luck, they’ll want you as guest at the manor. If not—then my friend, I’ll leave here too—though I vow my heart will always remain. Enough solemnity! I know my Mirabelle’s answer. I hope I can predict her papa’s.”
But he couldn’t. Which was why Skye was strangely ill-at-ease when he went for his interview with the squire. Robert was introduced and welcomed with pleasure because he was Skye’s friend, as well as a new link to the outside world. He stayed with Mirabelle and her mama when Skye went into Squire’s study for a private chat with him.
Skye took a glass of wine, but didn’t beat about the bush. He set down his glass and stated his case. And waited.… And waited.
Squire didn’t answer. He looked thoughtful. He tapped his jaw, he glanced out the window, he stared at the fireplace. Skye had time to review his proposal from several angles as Squire thought about it. Every long moment that passed seemed an hour.
“I didn’t expect you to leap at my offer and fall over me with glad cries of joy,” Skye finally said in a strangled voice, attempting a jest, “but I confess, I thought we were friends. I don’t understand your hesitation.”
“It’s not you, lad,” Squire said, frowning, “not really. It’s just—there’s much she don’t know about your world.”
“I’ll teach her,” Skye said.
“Oh aye, and you might find it novel. But you could tire of it too, in time. You’re used to worldly females, foreign types and such, women who know a thing or three. My lass is clear as running water, without an ounce of deceit in her. Add to that the fact that I’ve kept her apart from the world so long, and you might find her innocence boring, in time, at least when you’re back among your smart London ladies.”
“I came here to escape those London ladies, since few of them were that smart, and none half so wise as your Mirabelle.”
Squire nodded, but still looked troubled.
Skye spoke in frustration. “I come from a good family, sir. I have a good income. I have good intentions. I love her and will devote my life to making her happy. I don’t care about London fashions, I care about Mirabelle. I’ll be faithful, if that’s what’s worrying you. It is how I was raised too. I…”
“It ain’t so much you, lad.” Squire said. He eyed Skye from under his brows. He fidgeted with his fob, and then took a deep breath. “There’s things about our situation you might find…odd. Things that don’t make sense. Things I couldn’t blame you for wondering on. Not about Mirabelle, of course,” he added hastily. “I mean about why we lived as we did so long. The danger’s past, I promise you. But mind, I might never be able to tell you the reason I kept her close here all these years, if only because the subject still affrights her mother so. And because you might not think me wise for doing it. And because”—he hesitated—“when�
��if—you come to know—you mightn’t believe it, neither. Well, I scarcely do. Will you be content to live with a mystery?”
“If I may live with Mirabelle, I can live with a mystery, a comedy, a tragedy, and a farce, if I must,” Skye said. “Isn’t that what wedlock is anyway? Or so my father told me. You’d have liked him, I think. I’d hoped to call you ‘father’ too. ‘Squire’ seems too formal, doesn’t it?”
Squire finally smiled. “Clever lad. Well, then, so be it. You’ve my blessing, and my daughter, if she wishes it. And if you truly do.”
“I wish nothing else,” Skye breathed in relief as he put out his hand for Squire to shake.
“Good,” Squire said with equal relief, taking his hand in a firm grip, “for wishes are treacherous things. They can be the very devil if you don’t mind how they’re made. Or the very making of a man, if you do.”
“You’ve made my life for me, sir,” Skye said sincerely. “I’ll never give you cause to regret it.”
“Humph! Well, go to it, lad, she’s in the parlor, doubtless pacing a path through my finest rug. We’ll talk about settlements and families and dates and such later.”
But Skye met her in the great hall as she ran to him, and he lifted her up off her feet and swung her round, as all the servants cheered.
“Well, ’tis done, Mother,” Squire said to his wife as they watched the happy couple embracing.
“And well done,” she said, and took his arm in hers.
That night they made merry. The reclusive relatives loosened their collars and their tongues, and told gay stories at the table, becoming merrier with every toast to the couple’s health.
“I only wish you had a sister,” Robert told Mirabelle honestly, after he had made his seventh toast.
“I have cousins, dozens, all in better looks than me,” she said mischievously, “and if you stay for Christmas, you’ll meet them.”
“Do stay, my lord,” her mother urged him. “Christmas at the manor was always so lovely,” she said wistfully. She brightened. “And will be even more so this year, of course. We’ll have the Yule log. And the caroling.”
