A huge kissing bough hung beneath the chandelier in the foyer that led to the ballroom. While it was not the most discreet spot to share a kiss, Mother insisted it be placed prominently so that friends and acquaintances could embrace publicly in the spirit of the season. There were, of course, bunches of mistletoe hung here and there throughout the house for more private moments of affection, even if Father heartily disapproved, pointing out that he had two daughters and, worse, a son, and mistletoe was not especially conducive to proper behavior. Mother disagreed, and Mother, being Mother, as well as furthermore voicing complete confidence in the character of her offspring, always had her way in such things. And Father, even after long years of marriage, still being thoroughly besotted with his wife, grudgingly allowed her whatever she wished.
Even the ancient family portraits of long dead and perpetually scowling Effington ancestors lining the walls of the open gallery overlooking the first floor were bedecked with fir branches and ivy and ribbons. If one was particularly fanciful, one might imagine their countenances a bit less forbidding, the suggestion of a smile on their lips, even the hint of a twinkle in their eyes in celebration of the season.
Lizzie smiled at the thought and started down the broad double stairway that swept in a gracious curve to the ground floor. It had always struck her as exceedingly odd that those long-ago Effingtons had chosen to be preserved for eternity in such serious expressions. Not at all accurate, given everything she had heard through her life about those who had preceded her; stories of swashbuckling privateers, proud, stubborn women, spies and patriots, lords and ladies and those substantially less than noble, and all sorts of other fascinating characters.
The great doors to the ballroom were flung open wide, and even the landing at the foot of the stairs was crowded with guests. Laughter and calls of “Merry Christmas” rang out over the sounds of the orchestra from the ballroom. The Effington Christmas Ball was, as always, a huge crush and unqualified success.
Lizzie had slipped away to her room to fetch the book she wished to present to Nicholas, even if doing so had been rather more difficult than she had imagined. Thus far she had danced every dance with one gentleman or another and two with Charles, who was as charming and thoughtful as ever, although he gave the distinct impression of being a bit nervous. In her experience, Charles had never been anything but thoroughly lighthearted and completely confident. She feared that his odd manner tonight was indeed an indication of his intention to ask for her hand, and, at the moment, she had no idea how she would respond.
Lizzie hid the book in the folds of her gown and headed toward the library. She navigated her way through the crowd milling in and out of the ballroom and acknowledged various greetings politely but without overt encouragement. She had no desire to waste time with anything akin to a conversation at the moment. She was altogether too anxious to engage in mindless pleasantries. Still, she could not help but overhear any number of comments in passing, most about the two small fir trees on linen-covered tables that flanked the entry to the ballroom. They were bedecked with sweets and flowers, garlands of ribbons and tiny candles, unlit as a precaution against setting careless guests aflame.
“The Queen has had trees like these in celebration of Christmas since, oh, 1841, I believe,” one lady said to her companion. “It’s the Prince’s German background, no doubt.”
“I quite like it,” the second lady said firmly. “It’s exceedingly festive. I shall have to have a tree in my own home next year.”
“As will I.” Her friend studied the closest tree. “The duchess says, regardless of what the Queen chooses, she may well have a larger tree with decorations in the future. One that does not sit on a table but rather stands on the floor and reaches toward the ceiling.”
“A full-size tree? In the house?” The other woman snorted. “Absurd idea.”
Lizzie bit back a grin. If her mother, Marianne, the Duchess of Roxborough, wished to have a full-size tree, or an entire forest, in her house at Christmas or any other time of the year for that matter, she most certainly would do just that, regardless of what anyone else might think.
Lizzie reached the library, and all thoughts of Christmas and fir trees vanished. She drew a deep breath, pushed open the door, and stepped into the room.
The huge library was shadowed, the endless shelves of books little more than a hint of scent in the air, the gas lights dimmed. For a moment she was afraid that he hadn’t come. That he wouldn’t come. Or perhaps this emotion that pooled in her midsection was relief that she had arrived before him. Or relief that he might not come at all. It would certainly make her life easier. She could push these disquieting feelings she had for him aside, lock them in a place in her mind reserved for other discarded and fanciful notions, and go on with her life exactly as she, and everyone else, had planned. Marry Charles, the man who had always loved her. The man she had always loved. Until Nicholas.
“Good evening, Elizabeth.” Nicholas emerged from the shadows on the opposite side of the room near the desk.
She started, as much from her own nerves as his sudden appearance. “Good evening, Nicholas.” She forced a casual note to her voice. “It’s a wonderful party, don’t you think?”
“It always is. Indeed, I have long thought of your family’s ball as the highlight of the holiday season.”
“Yet you did not hurry back from your travels last year or the year before or the year before that to attend.” She kept her tone light and teasing. “Indeed, by my count, you have missed the last three Effington Christmas Balls.”
He raised a brow. “And you were counting?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “You and your uncle are as much a part of the family as if you were blood relations. You have both been sorely missed these past years.”
He chuckled. “It is always nice to be missed.”
“I understand we shall soon be missing you again,” she said as if it were of no importance whatsoever. As if it didn’t matter. As if she didn’t care.
“I leave tomorrow.” He studied her for a moment. “I must confess I am rather surprised by your appearance. I am waiting for Jonathon. A servant said he had asked to meet me here to discuss my trip.”
“No doubt he will be here any minute.” Lizzie shrugged and resisted the impulse to confess that Jonathon had no idea whatsoever about this meeting in the library. “Until then, why don’t you tell me of your plans?”
He laughed softly, and the sound echoed through her veins. “There is nothing to tell, really. I propose to seek out those investments of my father’s that may still be feasible and see if there is anything of worth to be salvaged. Beyond that, I intend to make my own fortune in shipping or the import of goods or something of that nature.”
“Is it that easy then?” She tilted her head and considered him. “Does one simply say, ‘I shall make my fortune’ and then go out and do just that?”
“Exactly.” He nodded somberly, but there was a distinct twinkle in his eye.
“Exceedingly odd then that there are not more fortunes being made, don’t you think? I mean to say, if it is indeed that easy, surely there would be no more poor? One and all would be successful and wealthy.”
“I am mistaken then, it is obviously not at all easy.” He sobered. “In truth, Elizabeth, I do not know if I can succeed. However, as I do not intend to fail, there is no other option.” A half smile quirked his lips. “Nor do I intend to return until I have accomplished all I have set out to do.”
“Must you really go?” she blurted and stepped toward him. “Couldn’t you make this fortune of yours right here in England? Besides, you will be the next Earl of Thornecroft with all the wealth and prestige that accompanies the title. Surely, that is enough for any man?”
“It’s not a question of wealth, although it may well seem so. It’s more a matter of, I don’t know, of…” He searched for the right words.
“Honor?” she said, hoping he would deny it. Honor was one thing she knew she
could not fight.
“Exactly.” He smiled and her heart sank. “Or rather that’s part of it. Pride plays a part as well, I suppose.” He thought for a moment. “I wish to atone for my father’s mistakes, and that is obviously a point of honor for me. I wish to achieve success because of what I am rather than who I am.”
“Pride?”
He nodded. “I don’t want my life to be simply handed to me through a whim of blood and fate. Through no effort of my own. I know it is the way of the world we live in; still, I find it somewhat distasteful. Odd, I know, but there you have it. Oh, certainly when the time comes I will be happy to accept the title because it is my duty to my family and it is what my uncle wishes and I care for him very much.”
“Yet you are willing to leave him and everyone you care about. Everyone who cares for you.”
“I admit it’s difficult, but this is what I was meant to do. I know it now as I have always known it. I cannot refuse to follow the dictates of my heart. Wherever they may lead.” His intense gaze caught hers. “Can you understand that?”
“No,” she said quickly, then sighed. “Yes, I suppose I can, although it would make no sense coming from anyone but you.”
He laughed. “Is that a compliment?”
“You may take it as such.” She forced a lighthearted smile. “However, as you insist on leaving us, I have a small token for you. A farewell gift, as it were.” She held out the book. “It’s Mr. Dickens’s new Christmas story.”
He accepted the book and turned it over in his hands, the gilt lettering winking in the dim light. “I have heard talk of it. It’s supposed to be quite good.”
“Oh, it is indeed wonderful. It may well be the most wonderful story about Christmas that has ever been written. I liked it enormously.”
He stared at the volume in his hand. “I shall treasure it always.”
“I hope it will be a comfort when you are far away from…us.” She gazed up at him. “I thought it would serve to remind you of Christmas here in London and your uncle and —”
“And all I hold dear?” His gaze met hers, and her breath caught.
She nodded slowly. “What do you hold dear, Nicholas?”
“I…” He drew a deep breath. “Jonathon isn’t coming, is he?”
“No,” she whispered and stared into his dark eyes. “I didn’t think you would meet me if I simply requested it.”
“You were right. It’s most improper to be here alone with you.”
“Nonsense. We have been alone any number of times. Besides, we have known one another since childhood.”
“But you are no longer a child.” His gaze darkened with what was surely desire or need or longing. Or love?
“Neither of us are children.” She stared up at him for a long moment. “I could not let you leave without a moment alone. Without the opportunity to convince you to stay or, failing that, to say good-bye.”
“Why?” His tone was hard and demanding.
“Because I…” She swallowed hard against the ache in the back of her throat. “Must you go? Must you leave?”
He drew a deep, shuddering breath, as if it were as difficult for him to say as it was for her to hear. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told you. I cannot explain it better than I already have. This is something I must do. My destiny perhaps.”
“Then let it be my destiny too. Take me with you,” she said without thinking. “There is something between us, Nicholas. Something that has hovered unspoken since the very moment you returned to London. You cannot deny it.”
“Perhaps —”
“No!” Her voice was sharp with pent-up longing, and she moved closer. So close she could see the rise and fall of his chest and feel the heat of his body a hair’s breadth from her own. Desperation vanquished any modicum of caution.
“Why are you so stubborn? There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. You kissed me as I have never been kissed before, and that I cannot forget. I do not believe you can forget it either. You have feelings for me, Nicholas, I know you do, and once you leave there will be no opportunity for you, for us, to determine if those feelings are of importance or nothing of significance at all.” Her gaze searched his with a yearning born of an awful, aching wonder deep inside her. “I have to know what you think, how you feel, what you want —”
“What I want?” He stared at her in disbelief. “What I want, what I have always wanted,” he yanked her into his arms, “is you.”
He pulled her hard against him and crushed his lips to hers. He tasted her, devoured her, and she responded in kind. His chest was hard against her breasts, and she could feel his heart beat against her in measure with her own. Passion she had never suspected could exist surged through her, and she clung to him with a need so great that it overwhelmed reason and conquered rational thought and swept away resistance. She thought she would surely die from the sheer intensity of his lips meeting hers, her body molding against his as if they were halves of the same whole. As if this was where she belonged. It lasted a moment or a lifetime or forever, and she vowed never to let him go.
Without warning, she felt his body stiffen. He released her and stepped back.
“Forgive me, Elizabeth.” He nodded in a curt and formal manner, as if they were mere acquaintances. As if he had not just claimed her soul. “I should not have taken such liberties. Please accept my apologies.”
She struggled to catch her breath. “What?”
“I have no excuse, of course, suffice it to say I was simply carried away by your loveliness and,” he waved absently at the room, “the festive nature of the evening.”
“You…you…you’re apologizing?” She widened her eyes in shock. “For kissing me?”
“Yes, of course.” He shook his head. “It was decidedly improper, especially here, alone, your reputation —”
“You don’t have feelings for me?” Disbelief coursed through her. Surely, no man kissed like that without emotion, without love, involved. “You don’t care for me? You don’t want me?”
“I most certainly do. A man would have to be long dead and moldering in his grave not to want you. It is sheer desire that has simmered between the two of us. Only a fool would deny it. And given the way you kiss…” He chuckled wickedly. “Good God, Elizabeth, you’re lovely and charming and have a passion within you I confess I never so much as suspected. You would be most amusing.”
“Amusing?” Her voice rose. “I would be amusing?”
“Most amusing.” His gaze raked over her, as if thoroughly assessing her charms. “We could have a very good time together, you and I. I learned a great deal on my travels about men and women and the very, very good times they could have together. My uncle is extraordinarily knowledgeable about such things. He has been an excellent guide.”
“Has he?” Was that the answer then? Did his kiss curl her toes and sap her will only because he did it so very well? Was it the result of experience and practice rather than any affection on his part? And was her response that of any inexperienced woman to a man of his skills?
“Most certainly. My uncle is a man of the world, and he has introduced me to…well, I suppose that’s neither here nor there.”
“No, it isn’t.” Her words were stiff, her tone overly proper, and even to her own ear did not sound like her at all.
“However, I must admit,” he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, “your proposal to accompany me is most intriguing.”
Fury welled within her, and she raised her chin. “I don’t —”
“You’re the daughter of a most prestigious and wealthy family. Your dowry and your family’s influence, together with my uncle’s money, are most appealing.” He nodded in a considering manner. “Indeed, I am more than a bit tempted to say honor be damned. To abandon this making my fortune nonsense and stay right here.”
“Nicholas!” She stared in horror. As much as she wanted him to do just that, the tone of his words, as well as the calculating look in his eye, wer
e not those of the man she knew. Or thought she knew. Or thought she might love.
“Still,” he shrugged. “It would never work. I am committed to this quest of mine, and were I to marry at this point, it would be to a wife who was willing to work by my side to achieve my goals. As charming as you are, I need a wife far more serious and far less frivolous than you.”
“Frivolous?” She tried not to choke on the word. She had thought he knew her better than that.
“Come now, Elizabeth, surely that estimation of your character does not surprise you? In point of fact, I suspect you have actively cultivated just such a manner.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Regardless of what they’d shared, what she thought she’d felt for him and what she’d been confident he’d felt in return, she obviously didn’t know him at all. He was a stranger. And she would not now, not ever, allow him to see how devastating his callous words were.
She cast him a blinding smile that belied a rising tide of anger and an equally powerful sense of hurt and betrayal. “You have found me out, Nicholas. It has long been my experience that men are far more interested in women who have little more on their minds than the latest fashion or the current social season than they are in those who are serious and dreary.
“And dear, dear, Nicholas, I fear you have misunderstood me as well.” She lowered her voice in a confidential manner. “I was not actually suggesting marriage.”
“Oh? You would be content to come with me without benefit of marriage?”
“Don’t be absurd.” She forced a lighthearted laugh. “I really wasn’t suggesting anything at all beyond the kind of companionship you and I have shared. I was simply carried away by the prospect of your adventures.”
“Were you?” He raised a skeptical brow.
“I was indeed. Why, you are off on adventures that I, as a woman, shall never be privy to. For a moment, and no more than a moment, mind you, the idea of leaving behind London and the life I have always known to set off on the unknown challenge of making your fortune was quite irresistible.”
A Visit From Sir Nicholas (Effington Family Book 9) Page 4
