Under the Mistletoe

by Mary Balogh

  But Dora was jumping up and down at his side and then pushing her way through the door. “We have brought you presents,” she said in a voice that seemed designed to be heard by someone at the other end of the street. “And I have a new doll, Megan. Oh, and you do too. Ooh, she is pretty. What is her name? And see my new muff, Miss Angove? Papa bought it in London for me, though I did not know until this morning. I wanted to see the star again. Oh, it does look lovely. What smells so good?

  Does it not smell delicious, Papa? And here are your gifts. Open them.

  Oh, open them.”

  “Quieten down, poppet,” the marquess said, bending down to remove her muff and undo her coat. He kissed her on the cheek, and Lilias felt that churning in her stomach she had felt before.

  Megan and Andrew were soon exclaiming over their gifts while Dora shouted them both down, explaining that the ribbon had been meant for her but she had wanted to give it to Megan. And the shell she and Papa had found their very own selves on the beach at Brighton. And couldn’t Andrew just hear the tide at Brighton when he held it to his ear?

  Lilias sat down before removing the ribbon from the paper and unrolling her painting.

  “Ah,” she said. “How lovely. And you painted it yourself.”

  “Yes, I did,” Dora said, climbing up onto Lilias’s lap so that she could see the picture too. “That is Papa, but he does not look very much like him, does he? Papa is more handsome, isn’t he? That is Papa’s horse. His one leg is white, you see? Really he is not quite black, but I had to paint him black because my brown paint was not dark enough. I painted a sun, see?”

  “It is beautiful,” Lilias said, burying her face in the child’s ringlets for a moment. “Quite the loveliest painting I have ever owned. I shall treasure it.”

  “Will you?” Dora looked up at her. “This is pretty.” She laid one small forefinger against the lace collar. “Do you like my muff?”

  But she did not wait for an answer. She wriggled down to the floor again in order to exchange exclamations of delight with Megan over their dolls.

  The marquess was bent over Andrew, meticulously examining his watch, for all the world as if he had never seen it before, Lilias thought.

  Dora accepted a mince pie, another of the offerings from the hall; the marquess did not. Dora sat very straight on a chair close to the Nativity scene, her usual pinafore protecting her dress from crumbs, her feet dangling above the floor.

  “I like Christmas in your house,” she told Lilias and Megan after telling them all about the distributing of gifts to the servants that morning. “I wish we could stay here all day.”

  The marquess, Lilias could hear with some delight, was telling Andrew about Tattersall’s. He would make a friend for life. Andrew had a passion for horses.

  “You can stay all day,” Megan said. “Can’t they, Lilias? Our goose is ever so big and there are enough vegetables to feed the five thousand.

  Lilias said so just a short while ago. We could play house all day. I could be mother and you could be elder sister. And the two dolls can be the babies. Andrew could be the father, but I don’t suppose he will want to be. But that does not matter, does it?”

  “I am sure his lordship must have other plans for the day,” Lilias said quietly to Megan, but Dora had already slipped from her chair and crossed the room to stand beside her father’s. She stood there, pulling at his sleeve.

  “Papa,” she said, “Miss Angove and Megan want us to stay for the rest of the day. There is lots of food, Miss Angove says, and Megan and I are going to play house all day. May we, Papa? Please, may we?”

  “Yes,” Andrew said with some enthusiasm.

  Wide-open blue eyes were turned on her, Lilias saw. Accusing? Assessing?

  Hostile?Incredulous? It was impossible to tell. She felt herself flushing.

  “Impossible, Dora,” the marquess said, getting to his feet. “We could not so impose. You agreed to half an hour, and that must be just about up.”

  There was a chorus of disappointed protests from the three children.

  “You would be very welcome,” Lilias found herself saying. “There really is plenty of food, and it would be such a treat for the children to have company.”

  His eyes burned into hers from across the room. And for me too, she told him silently. For suddenly there was no longer that elusive sense of something missing. There was excitement in the house and happiness.

  And Christmas was somehow complete.

  And he was there. And there was a chance-she clasped her hands in front of her very tightly-that he would be there for the whole day. Her memorable Christmas would be memorable indeed, for she would remember him as Stephen. No matter how much he was this withdrawn and austere and even hostile marquess, in memory she knew she would erase all facts except the essential one: He was Stephen. And she had never stopped loving him. Maybe she never would.

  If he stayed, she would be able to carry him with her in memory with all the other memories of this last Christmas with her family. It would all be complete.

  “This is preposterous,” he said, sitting back down again and looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Whatever will Miss Angove think of us, Dora?”

  “Hurrah,” Andrew shouted out. “He is going to say yes.”

  The girls squealed and jumped up and down on the spot. And when Dora climbed onto her father’s lap to hug him and kiss him, Megan climbed onto his other knee and smiled adoringly into his face.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Oh, thank you, sir.”

  “Your sister is going to throttle me, little imp,” he said, and to Lilias’s amazement, he hugged the child close with one arm and kissed her cheek. “I had better go outside and dismiss my coachman. He might die of boredom and cold if we leave him out there for the rest of the day.”

  The children were enjoying themselves quite noisily. Even Andrew had been prevailed upon to join in the game of house and was currently sitting on a stool having his hair combed and parted down the wrong side by Dora.

  They were having a good time, and that was what really mattered, Bedford thought. But what on earth must Lilias think of him for agreeing so weakly to stay for dinner and even for the rest of the day? He had instructed his coachman to return for him and Dora at eight o’clock.

  Or perhaps he should not be feeling guilty, but angry. A few days before he would have been angry and suspicious. It would have been very easy for her to set the children to trapping him into this domestic situation and leading him on to making her an offer.

  But he found it hard to believe still that her every action since his homecoming had been conniving. And if it were, was it so despicable? She and the children really were in a desperate situation, and they really were facing a bleak future. Would it be so wrong of her to scheme to win for herself a husband who could lift the burden from her shoulders?

  “I have never done this before, you know,” he said now, looking rather dubiously at the goose she had asked him to carve. “The meat seems to want to come away in clumps rather than in neat slices.”

  Lilias laughed. “I have never done it either,” she said. “That is why I asked you.” She was stirring the gravy. But she paused and looked at him in some concern. “If any of that grease gets on your shirt, it will be ruined.”

  He looked down at his white shirt. He had already removed his coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow.

  “What you need is an apron,” she said, and crossed to the hook on the kitchen door to fetch one.

  “But my hands are greasy,” he protested when she held it out to him.

  “Lower your head, then,” she said with a giggle he had not heard for years, and she slipped the neck strap over his head. She moved behind him, and there was a moment when her arms came around his waist to grasp the ties of the apron so that she could secure it behind him.

  “There,” she said, coming around to the front of him again to survey her handiwork. His hands were greasy, and he held the
m suspended in the air.

  “The Marquess of Bedford in heavy disguise.” She laughed. “Oh, you do look funny, Stephen.”

  But the smile froze on her face and faded, and color rose up her neck and into her cheeks, and he watched her swallow. The children’s voices seemed very distant, even though they were just beyond the open door between the kitchen and the parlor. His eyes strayed to her lips.

  “The goose awaits,” he said lightly.

  “The gravy will be lumpy,” she said simultaneously.

  They worked together in the small kitchen in an awkward silence.

  The tension eased when they all sat down to dinner. But there was a heightened awareness that Bedford did not find altogether unpleasant.

  They sat at either end of the table, Andrew on one side of them and Megan and Dora on the other. Just like a family, all of them playing house in the warm and cozy little cottage. He met Lilias’s eyes across the table and smiled. She looked down hastily and then back at him.

  “Will you say grace, my lord?” she asked.

  He had never in his life washed dishes. But when the plum pudding was finally eaten and they were all groaning with the good foods they had stuffed into themselves, he rolled up his sleeves and put on the apron again. The children giggled.

  “Oh, you must not,” Lilias said, flustered. “Please sit down in the parlor, my lord. The children and I will see to the dishes.”

  “No, this is famous,” Andrew exclaimed. “You wash, sir, and Megan and I will dry.”

  “My thoughts entirely,” the marquess said. “Your sister thinks I am incapable, you see, Andrew. We will show her, won’t we? You may clear away the food, ma’am, and then we will all have something to do.”

  “I want to dry too.” Dora had climbed onto a chair to make herself noticed.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Lilias said, “you may help me put away. I really need assistance with that. Will you?”

  Doing dishes had never been so much fun, Andrew declared half an hour later when the wet towels were being hung up to dry. Megan and Dora were still giggling over the cup that had slipped from the marquess’s wet hand and smashed on the floor.

  “Let’s play house again,” Megan said.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Andrew said.

  “Yes.” Dora jumped up and down on the spot. “Go for a walk.”

  “I am sure we all need a brisk walk of at least five miles,” the marquess said, patting his stomach. He turned to Lilias. “You have been busy all morning, ma’am. Would you care to have a rest while I take the children walking?” He looked down at her hopefully. “Or would you care to join us?”

  “I shall join you,” she said. “Fresh air sounds wonderful.”

  Steady, Bedford told himself as he buttoned Dora’s coat a few minutes later and pulled on his own greatcoat. He must not become too mesmerized by the feeling of family he had had for the past few hours. Only Dora was his family. The other children belonged to Lilias, and she was not his family at all.

  Perhaps she should have refused, Lilias thought as she drew her cloak about her and tied the strings of her bonnet. Perhaps she needed an hour alone in which to clear her head of this seductive feeling of warmth and belonging she had had in the past few hours. Perhaps she should not go walking with him, just as if they were one close and happy family.

  But there was so little time left. Less than a week, and then a long and lonely life as someone’s governess.And the long illusion that one day she would earn enough money to gather her family back around her again.

  Less than a week left with Megan and Andrew. Less than a week with Stephen and Dora.

  No, she thought, pulling her gloves on resolutely, she was not doing the wrong thing. He had ordered the carriage for eight. That left them with six hours. Six hours. It was not long. She was going to enjoy every minute of it, even if to do so was only to invite future pain. She did not care about the future. Only the present mattered.

  Dora attached herself to one of her hands, Megan to the other. Dora skipped rather than walked, and entertained her companions with stories of all that her papa had shown her in London and Brighton. Andrew and the marquess were striding along ahead, deep in conversation-doubtless about horses, Lilias thought with a smile. She was glad for Andrew. He needed more male company than he had had in the past two years. But then, of course, soon he would have nothing but male company, their grandfather during holidays, other boys of his own age during term time.

  She shut the thought from her mind.

  They walked to the lake on the grounds of Bedford Hall. It was looking very bleak and even had a thin layer of ice covering it.

  “Yes,” Andrew was saying excitedly as Lilias and the girls came up to him and the marquess. “If it stays cold like this, we will be able to slide on the ice in a few days’ time.”

  The children were soon running around the bank, gazing eagerly at the film of ice.

  Lilias had not realized how cold it was until she stopped walking. The wind cut at her like a knife. She glanced up at the heavy clouds.

  “Snow clouds,” the marquess said. “Are they just teasing, do you suppose? But I think not. I believe we are going to have our snow yet.”

  “Yes,” Lilias said, “I think you are right.” Her teeth were chattering.

  She shivered. She could feel him looking at her. She sought in her mind for something to say. There was an awkwardness when they were alone.

  They needed the presence of the children to create an atmosphere of ease between them.

  “Lilias,” he said. His voice was tight and withdrawn, the voice of the Marquess of Bedford again, despite his use of her given name, “your cloak is too thin. It must be quite threadbare. When did you last have a new one?”

  She looked jerkily up at him. “It is quite adequate, I thank you,” she said. “It is just this standing still that is making me cold.”

  “When did you last buy yourself anything?” he asked. His voice sounded angry. “Has everything been for the children in the last few years? Your lips are quite blue.”

  “Don’t,” she said. His face had that shuttered look it had had the first few times she had seen him. “It is none of your concern.”

  “Your dress,” he said. “It was quite fashionable six years ago when it was new. You wore it for Christmas then. Had you forgotten?”

  She stared at him, though she did not see him at all. She was blinded by hurt and humiliation. She had forgotten. She had felt pretty that morning. Pretty for him. She turned quickly away.

  “It is none of your business,” she said. “What I wear and what I spend on myself and the children is none of your concern at all. I am not answerable to you.”

  “No, you are not,” he said, moving closer to her so that he stood between her and the wind. He lifted his head and his voice suddenly.

  “Andrew,” he called, “your sister and I are going to begin the walk home. You may bring the girls along behind us. Don’t let anyone set even a single toe on that ice.”

  “No, I won’t, sir,” Andrew called back.

  He took her arm through his and hugged it close to his side. He walked at a brisk pace. And he plied her the whole way home with questions about her governess post: where it was and who the family were and how many charges she would have and how arduous the duties were likely to be. And he asked about Andrew, about what school he was to attend, how well he was likely to be treated by his grandfather, how much he looked forward to being away from home. He wanted to know about Great-aunt Hetty in Bath and how suitable a home she would be able to offer a nine-year-old child.

  Lilias answered as briefly as she could.

  “Why would your grandfather not take all of you?” he asked as they entered the village again.

  “Papa defied him when he married Mama,” she said. “He has never recognized us. I was fortunate to be able to persuade him to take Andrew.”

  “You are his grandchildren,” he said. “He ought to have taken you. Di
d you ask him to?”

  She shook her head. “I will not answer any more questions,” she said. “I have arranged everything to my own satisfaction, my lord.”

  “In other words, it is none of my business, again,” he said, his voice still angry. “You are right. But those children need you, Lilias. They are still very much children.”

  She stared stonily ahead to the cottage. The temptation to tip her head sideways to rest against his shoulder, to sag against the strength of his arm, to close her eyes and pour out all her pain to him was almost overwhelming. She was only thankful that for the return walk he had chosen to be the Marquess of Bedford rather than Stephen. She might not have been able to resist letting down her guard with Stephen.

  He put fresh logs on the fire when they went indoors while she filled the kettle. By the time they were ready to settle into an uncomfortable silence, the children were home, and they brought with them again all the joy and laughter of Christmas-and, yes, the warmth too, despite rosy cheeks and reddened fingers and noses.

  “Tell the Nativity story again, Papa,” Dora begged when all outdoor garments had been removed and put away, climbing onto his knee.

  “Again?” he said. “You have heard it three times already, poppet.”

  “Tell it again,” she said, fingering the diamond pin in his neckcloth.

  Megan was standing beside them. The marquess smiled at her-Lilias’s heart did a complete somersault-and reached out his free arm to draw her onto his other knee. He told both girls the story, and Andrew too, who was sitting at his feet whittling away at the sheep again, trying to improve its appearance. Lilias busied herself getting tea.

  The time went too fast. He willed it to hold still; he willed eight o’clock never to come. But of course it did come. Stories and singing and charades and forfeits had passed the time merrily. Megan and Dora were bright-cheeked and bright-eyed and very giggly long before eight o’clock came, a sure sign that they were very tired.

  “But I don’t want to go, Papa,” Dora said, yawning very loudly. “One more hour?”

  “One more?” Megan pleaded.