“Well, then,” Scarlett said with a smile as Baxter had brought her back to her senses, an antidote to Hunter’s spell. Thank goodness. She wasn’t particularly fond of Baxter — certainly not as she was of Lavinia — but she hadn’t spent much time with him save the odd dinner. He droned on and on about people and circumstances for which she had no care, nor did anyone else it seemed. She glanced over at Hunter, determining that Baxter was not in his own particular good graces. Although that could have been more to do with Baxter’s timing than the man himself. “I suppose we best get on with it. Ah, Mrs. Shepherd!” she called, seeing the housekeeper pass by. Was that a grin the rotund woman was suppressing? Scarlett looked at her with some suspicion, but Mrs. Shepherd was the picture of innocence as she stopped and folded her hands together in front of her.
“Yes, my lady?”
“As Lord Keppel is joining us to light the Yule log, perhaps Lavinia would like to be present as well,” she said, and Hunter’s slight groan from beside her made her smile. “Would you mind informing her?”
The housekeeper’s smile fell. Why, Scarlett had no idea.
“Actually, Mrs. Shepherd,” she said, warming to the idea. “Why do we not have all the servants present?”
“What?” Baxter asked incredulously, waving around an unlit cheroot. “What do you mean to invite the servants? Oxford, tell your wife not to be ridiculous.”
“Actually, Keppel, I think it is a fine idea,” Hunter said with some relish, and when Scarlett looked over at him, he gave her a warm smile. He was simply getting a rise out of Baxter, she knew, but she appreciated his support all the same.
Hunter picked up the Yule log from where he had discarded it before their sudden embrace, hefting it into his arms. It really was the perfect log, and Scarlett appreciated Hunter’s patience with her. She followed him as he set it upon the embers burning low in the grate.
It was the perfect setting. The stone of the fireplace, likely picked from these very lands, bordered the grate itself. The mantel was now lined with greenery, and the room began to fill as curious maids and enthusiastic footmen entered it. The staff here wasn’t particularly large, but when they were all in one room, they were quite the little community.
Hunter welcomed them all but then stood awkwardly beside her, finally leaning over and whispering in her ear, his breath tickling the skin underneath, moving little whips of hair against her neck. “Is there anything I … do?” he asked her, and she tried not to giggle. The man truly knew nothing about Christmas.
“Just light it and wish everyone a happy Christmas!” she said, softly enough so as not to embarrass him in front of the staff. He nodded, took hold of a match, and struck it, the flame beginning to rise in front of him. Tiny flames had already begun to lick the edges of the bark from the embers in the grate, but Hunter lit the top of it all the same. The wet bark began to smoke, but the thick log was dry inside and soon enough began to merrily burn.
“Thank you all for being here to witness the first Yule Log in Wintervale’s recent history,” he said with a smile for his staff. “I know it has been some time since I have been in residence, but I believe I have left you in good hands with my wife.” Scarlett’s cheeks warmed as the staff nodded enthusiastically, and Hunter sent a smile of appreciation her way through a sideways glance. “I appreciate each and every one of you, and wish you all a happy Christmas.”
A smattering of applause began amongst the servants, who shortly thereafter began to filter out of the room to see to their duties. Lavinia and Baxter remained, looking slightly bemused.
“Hunter Tannon celebrating Christmas,” said Lavinia as she strode toward them. “I never thought I would see the day.”
“It’s just a log, Nia,” he muttered in response, surprising Scarlett as his face became shuttered. “It doesn’t much matter.”
“I would beg to disagree,” his sister argued. “You are quite an influence, Scarlett. I’m impressed.”
Scarlett shrugged, not understanding why it was so significant. Neither of them seemed to want to discuss it, however, and before long, they were making their way to one of the drawing rooms. Scarlett was going to change for the evening, but Lavinia insisted they would be leaving shortly after dinner, so not to go to any trouble. Looking down at the deep blue of her outdoor walking garment, Scarlett began to disagree, but when she strode past the blue drawing room toward her chambers, she caught sight of Marion with Spicer. Hunter’s valet had his head bent low next to hers. They were cleaning the room of the remaining greenery and ribbon from earlier in the day, but it seemed they were much more interested in one another than the task at hand. Scarlett grinned. While she wasn’t sure what the future might hold for the two of them, Spicer seemed to be a sweet young man, and if this was what Marion wanted, then Scarlett hoped she found in him what she was looking for. If nothing else, it would make for a lovely Christmas.
As for her own romance this season…. She slowed her steps as she returned to the main drawing room, where Hunter and his family awaited her. She hadn’t wanted this. She had expressly kept herself as far from Hunter as possible, turning him away at every turn. Yet, somehow he had managed to find his way through the thick shell she had built around herself, becoming far too intimate with not only her body but her thoughts.
While he would be returning to London soon, it wasn’t the last she would see of him. This man would be with her, at one point or another, for the rest of their lives. She was longing to allow him into her heart, but she knew when he left it would only break it clean in two. A few more days, she thought with new resolve. Just find your way through the next few days and all will be as it was.
Only she knew that things would never be the same again.
Hunter paced in front of Scarlett’s room. His sister and her husband had finally left, thank goodness. What they thought was a quick dinner had turned into an evening of reluctant entertainment. Damn Baxter Shaw. Hunter never enjoyed the man’s company, but today had been something else entirely. Had he not entered the room when he did, Hunter could now be in bed with his wife, enjoying the consummation of his marriage that had been so long in coming.
Did he go to Scarlett now? His body screamed at him to knock down the door and take her, as her body responded to him with more willingness than any other woman he had ever been in company with.
But tonight, when he had said goodnight to her, looking deep into her eyes with a promise of more, her hazel eyes had been dark and shuttered.
“Goodnight, Hunter,” she had said, turning from him at the divide between their rooms without any further invitation. Did he attempt to go to her, or would he only be rejected? He could only take so much of it from her. Perhaps he was pushing too hard, too fast. For he didn’t simply want her to open to him physically, but he yearned for her to share more of herself with him.
He didn’t have much time, however, until he would make his return to London. He wished he knew how he could convince her to come with him, to truly be his wife, but she seemed quite settled here. He would ask her in the morning. Everything would be well — tomorrow. It was Christmas, and, he had been told, Christmas was a day for miracles.
12
“Good morning, my lord,” Spicer entered Hunter’s rooms the next day humming that cheerful tune again.
“Good morning, Spicer,” he replied groggily. Hunter had never woken easily, taking some time to ease out of slumber.
“Your coffee,” Spicer said, bringing a tray around the bed, and Hunter took it gratefully.
“You’re a saint, Spicer,” he said, as he did every morning, though Spicer’s laugh seemed slightly more jovial today than it did most days. “You’re in good spirits this morning.”
“Of course — it’s Christmas, my lord! Happy Christmas!”
Hunter shrugged. It was Christmas, true, but it was simply another day, though one in which he went to church and had yet another dinner with his sister. And — of yes — this year, it was the day in which he
must convince his wife that she should be happy to be married to him.
Spicer continued to whistle as he went to the wardrobe and began to choose Hunter’s clothing. Hunter looked over at him with narrowed eyes.
“Has anything … occurred, Spicer?” He had given Scarlett a hard time about her preoccupation with the servants’ affairs, but now here he was, questioning his valet like a young girl tittering about the latest love affair. What the hell was wrong with him? “Never mind,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “Has any post been able to come through?”
“It’s, ah, Christmas Day, my lord,” Spicer said apologetically, and Hunter sighed. Right. He felt like a bit of a beast as he looked at his young, eager valet. The lad had tried to wet down his own unruly hair, but pieces of it were standing straight at attention. Hunter gulped down a couple of sips of coffee.
“It’s the lady’s maid, isn’t it?”
“Pardon me, my lord?”
“Your good spirits — they would be due to my wife’s maid?”
“Marion,” Spicer said, a smile stretching his face and a faraway look coming to his eyes. Hunter let out a low chuckle.
“Women will do that to you,” he said, hearing the ruefulness in his tone.
“Ah, how long do you suppose we will stay in the country?” Spicer asked, looking up at him hopefully as he laid out Hunter’s breeches and waistcoat.
“Until the roads are clear enough,” Hunter said, pushing back the bedcovers and walking to the window. He set his coffee down on the windowsill as he drew on a robe. “It didn’t snow overnight,” he observed, “So as long as a fair amount of traffic comes through, in a day or so we should be back in London.”
“Parliament will not resume until March, my lord, is that correct?” Spicer asked, and Hunter simply narrowed his eyes at him in response.
“Pardon me, my lord,” his valet said, brushing an invisible piece of lint off of Hunter’s jacket. “I simply like to be prepared, that is all.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Very well,” he said. “A couple of days it will be, however, for I have business to attend to, lords I must meet, and …” he couldn’t think of anything else. He had been so desperate to return to London, but really, many of his peers would remain in the country. He had to meet with Lord Falconer, true, but that could easily be arranged or rearranged. Why was he defending his decision to his valet, anyway? Because he was leaving his wife and he was suffering from guilt as a result.
It was her own fault. She was more than free to come with him. And with that thought on his mind, he dressed and went down for breakfast.
Scarlett greeted Hunter as he strode into the breakfast room. She was actually slightly surprised he hadn’t come to her last night, though relieved he didn’t, for she had no idea how she would have responded to him. Her body desperately called to him, but even thinking of it made her heart pound. For she was afraid. Afraid that if she truly gave herself to him, he wouldn’t just break through her walls but would shatter them completely and she would be a ghost of her mother, spending the rest of her days trailing around Wintervale, waiting for her husband to come home and bestow upon her the slightest bit of attention.
She shook off the melancholy thoughts, determined to enjoy this one day, a day that her mother, despite her own hardships, had always been adamant Scarlett celebrate to its fullest.
“Happy Christmas,” she said, and his eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Ah, yes,” he responded. “Happy Christmas.”
“What would you like to do this Christmas Day?”
“Do?” he asked, his eyebrows rising near to his hairline.
“Yes!” she said with a laugh. “I know the church service is later, but I thought perhaps we could go for a ride this morning, then maybe read for a while this afternoon. I know it’s not much of a tradition, but it’s what my mother and I always used to do.”
“And your father?” Hunter asked. “Where was he within the merriment?”
Scarlett’s grin faded. “He wasn’t around,” she said, not wanting to speak of it on this day that was to be of joy, and she idly fingered her locket. “Well,” she said, placing her napkin on the table. “I’ll be in the stables if you—”
“Won’t you let me eat my bacon first?” The pleading look he constructed was so earnest that she had to laugh, and so she sat and kept him company while he ate. She had to admit that he was more than amiable when he didn’t have anything distracting him. With correspondence undeliverable and his work suspended for a moment, she had his full attention, and it was lovely to be appreciated.
“There is one other thing,” she said as he drank the last of his coffee. He looked at her with question. “You had mentioned that you may be interested in supporting some of my charitable work.”
“Ah, yes!” he said, his eyes brightening, and she knew that while he maintained the same enthusiasm, he had completely forgotten. “Of course. What do you require?”
“I’d like my own account, completely for charity where I see fit,” she began, listing one of her ideas. “There are villagers and tenants who sometimes need an extra hand. I know of Stone’s concern regarding favoritism, but that is not the case, Hunter. They know when someone needs help and would, in fact, help one another if they could. The tenants will wish no ill will upon one another, I’m sure of it.”
“Very well,” he said, nodding, and then beckoned her to follow him into his study. She sat across from him on the other side of his large mahogany desk as he began to make a list on the tabletop in front of him. “Account,” he said, taking the quill pen from his desk, dipping it in ink and beginning to scratch on the parchment. “Next!” he said, sitting up tall, his curls flopping over his forehead. Scarlett hid a laugh behind her hand at his animation.
She cleared her throat. “There is a charity in London, run by a friend of mine and her husband. It benefits women and children who have nowhere else to go. I’d like to direct funds to them as well.”
“Very good,” he said, writing it down with the particulars.
“And the hospital,” she added eagerly. “They certainly need whatever can be given.”
“I’ve heard many enjoy volunteering there as well,” he said, and she looked at him suspiciously but said nothing. Was he trying to encourage her to come to London as a volunteer?
“Many do,” she said cryptically, but after a pause, she added warmly, “Thank you, Hunter. This truly is a wonderful Christmas gift.”
“A gift?” he looked up at her with confusion knotting his eyebrows together.
“Of course. And I have something for you in return.”
“You needn’t have done that.”
“Oh, it’s nothing much at all,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “Here.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten anything for me.”
“I wanted to,” she said, her cheeks warming. Hopefully he didn’t read anything into this or assume it was more than what she had meant. It was a Christmas gift, that was all. She had prepared gifts for the tenants and the staff — she figured she should have something for her husband.
“I, ah, I don’t have anything for you,” he said with a grimace. “I’ve never celebrated Christmas before, and so I didn’t … I just didn’t know.”
“It’s fine,” she assured him. “You’ve done enough.”
He looked as though he was going to argue with her, but she pushed the small package toward him. He glanced at her with hesitation in his gaze, but at her encouraging nod, he began to pull apart the twine. The paper fell away to reveal a small box. Upon opening it, a gold pocket watch peered up at him.
He paused for a moment before gently picking it up, turning it over in his hands as he stared at it.
Scarlett shifted awkwardly in her chair. Why wasn’t he saying anything?
“I’m not sure if you still want it, after what you said about never receiving one as a gift, nor choosing to carry one,” she began, trying to explain herself. “But I
noticed that at our wedding breakfast, you were worried about the time, and you didn’t seem to have anything on you. I figured if you were a man of importance within the House of Lords, you should know what time it is so that you never miss anything. Although I suppose you have your servants to tell you, so maybe…”
“It’s perfect.”
His voice was so low she had to lean closer to hear him.
“Truly?”
“Truly.” His smile was hesitant, trembling, and yet warm. He seemed disarmed, and the slight blush that covered his face made him look nearly boyish, years younger than he was.
“I don’t know why I never carried one,” he mused, his eyes faraway now, looking over her shoulder at nothing and yet everything at the same time. “It was stubbornness, I suppose. I always thought a pocket watch was typically something you do receive as a gift, or as an heirloom passed down from one generation to the next. After asking for one and never receiving it, my father never deigning to give me such a thing, not when he could keep it for himself, and my mother not even thinking of us when it came to such things, well, I never did bring myself to buy one for myself. Silly, really.…”
His voice trailed off, as he was clearly lost in his thoughts, speaking to himself as much as he was to her.
“Anyway,” he said with more emphasis, coming back to himself and their conversation. “Thank you, Scarlett, truly. Ah, the time is even accurate!”
“I wound it for you,” she said, averting her gaze from his when it became too pointed, too intense. She cleared her throat. “Well, if you are nearly finished, let’s go out of doors now, shall we? The sun is shining merrily and while it will be cold, we can then have chocolate prepared for us when we returned. Very well?”
“Very well,” he said, and Scarlett couldn’t quite read his expression as he sat back and looked at her. Finally, he simply cleared his throat. “Fancy a race?”
He had hardly finished his sentence when she was up, out of her chair, and already flying toward the stables. He chuckled and started after her.
Christmastide With His Countess Page 9
