"And we can't have that." He grinned. "If you will excuse me." He stood and left the room.
I turned my attention back to my soup and my thoughts. But he had made me smile. Fletcher really was a very nice man. Not many men of my acquaintance would go to the effort of trying to make me feel better about being away from my family, especially after I had been so sharp with him. Guilt washed through me at the thought. Perhaps I had not been entirely reasonable.
Fletcher returned in a few minutes with two sheets of stationery and a pencil. He took his seat and addressed his soup with renewed enthusiasm.
I waited for a long moment, then surrendered. "Dare I venture a guess as to the purpose of the paper?"
"Come now, Lady Smithson." He cast me a pitying look. "Surely you know that for Father Christmas to grant a Christmas wish, you must write it down, then burn it in the fire." He leaned toward me and lowered his voice in a confidential manner. "The smoke, you know, carries the message to him."
"Does it?" I asked as if I had never heard that before.
"It does indeed." He settled back in his chair. "I thought after dinner we would write our wishes and send them off."
I frowned. "Isn’t it too late? For Father Christmas to be able to grant our wishes?"
Fletcher paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "Surely I'm not hearing what I think I'm hearing. Do you doubt the abilities of Father Christmas?"
"No." I choked back a laugh. "Of course not. Never."
He fixed me with a stern look. "I should hope not. We would hate to awaken tomorrow with nothing in our stockings."
"We would indeed." I laughed, then shook my head. "I must thank you, Mr. Jamison. This is a far more delightful Christmas Eve than I had anticipated when I awoke this morning. I had expected, well, I'm not sure what I expected. But I did not expect to enjoy myself."
"Do you know what the best thing is about not worrying about expectations?"
I narrowed my eyes and studied him across the table. "Are we still speaking of Christmas, or have we returned to last night's discussion?"
"I don't know. Will you leave in a snit?" He finished his soup and put his spoon down.
"Possibly." I bit back a grin. "But I shall try to restrain myself. So tell me. What is the best thing about not worrying about expectations?"
He raised his wine glass to me. "You don't have to try to live up to them."
"But you do, don't you?" I said without thinking.
"Me?"
Apparently, I'd caught him by surprise. I looked up from trying to scoop the last bit of soup onto my spoon.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it seems clear to me, Mr. Jamison." I finished the final spoonful just in time for Silvestro to appear and replace my bowl with a plate overflowing with fish, most fried, each and every one displayed in an all too lifelike pose. I smiled my appreciation, and Silvestro beamed back at me. I might not understand the language, but I could still communicate. Well, somewhat.
"You were saying," Fletcher said the moment the servant withdrew, "before the fish arrived. About my living up to expectations. What did you mean?"
"It's obvious." I cut a piece of some sort of cod. "You're a civil servant in Calcutta, when you would prefer to be an artist. It appears to me you are living up to someone's expectations, or possibly society's, but certainly not your own. Someone else's box, if you will." I tasted the fish. Light, tender and perfectly seasoned. I couldn't help a tiny, highly improper moan of satisfaction. Which only made me realize Fletcher hadn’t said a word. I glanced at him. "Am I wrong?"
"I . . ." He stared for a long moment, then blew a long breath. "You continue to surprise me, Lady Smithson."
"Do I?" I smirked. "How delightful."
He laughed. "Now then, shall we continue last night's discussion of British-Russian relations?"
It was obvious from the resolute set of his jaw that he was not going to answer my question. Which was far more telling than if he had tried to deny my charge.
"Oh, let's," I said brightly, although I would have preferred to discuss practically anything else. I had nearly exhausted my limited knowledge of the current tenuous relationship between the two empires last night.
Fortunately, the conversation soon shifted to other topics. We spoke about things we liked and things we didn’t, finding we were in agreement about far more than either of us would have expected. And we shared more of our own Christmas memories. He told me a little about life in Calcutta, and I spoke a bit about my family and my friends. Oh, I didn’t use any names, of course. As easy as our conversation was, it seemed wise not to be too free with the details of my life, and I sensed he was a bit guarded as well. Before I knew it, Silvestro had served fruit and cheese, and he and his wife had taken their leave, telling Fletcher they would return later in the evening. Aside from Margaret, who had informed me before dinner she planned to retire early to write letters home in an effort to ease her distress at being away for Christmas, we were alone.
I suppose I should have been leery of being alone in the villa with a man I barely knew, but somehow I wasn't at all concerned. I had no doubt Fletcher was indeed a gentleman who could be trusted. Even so, it was rather exciting.
"As it is Christmas Eve, would you care to join me for a glass of Strega?" he said as we strolled into the parlor.
I'd had a great deal of wine with dinner but was remarkably unaffected. I credited the fish. "That would be lovely, I think. What exactly is it?"
"A regional liqueur." He moved to a table where Silvestro had conveniently left a crystal decanter partially filled with a yellow-colored liquid and two glasses. "It's a digestif, intended for drinking after dinner." He poured a glass and handed it to me.
"And extremely potent, I imagine." I held my glass up to a lamp and studied it dubiously.
"That's why one glass is usually enough."
"Enough for what?" I said under my breath.
"For whatever you wish." He filled his own glass, then raised it to me. "To spending an unexpected Christmas Eve with . . . a new friend?"
I raised my glass to his. "To new friends and the unexpected."
He took a long sip of his drink, and I followed suit. The taste was . . .unusual. Sweet and herbal with hints of mint and juniper. It was as strong as I suspected and warmed me down to my toes. I had no doubt it was excellent for digestion.
"How very . . .unique." I choked out the words, blinking to keep my eyes from watering.
"It's made in Benevento, not far from here." He took another sip. "According to one legend, it was first made by beautiful female fairies, who used the potion to cast love spells on unsuspecting humans."
"I imagine this would do it." I smiled weakly.
"The word strega means witch in Italian."
"This is a love potion, then?" I considered my half-empty glass. "It does look enchanted."
"Yet another legend has it that any couple who drinks it together is united forever."
My gaze jumped to his. I wasn't sure I was willing to make a magical commitment to a man I hardly knew. Still . . . Perhaps not a commitment, but . . . There was something about him that was undeniably appealing, something I liked. He was amusing and terribly nice and really quite handsome. My gaze slipped to his lips, and I couldn’t help but wonder how his lips would feel against mine. With very little effort, I could lean forward—
"Of course—"
My gaze snapped back to his.
"It’s my understanding that the liqueur has been made for only about twenty years or so. I suspect the legends are more potions to increase sales rather than anything to do with love."
"I would certainly buy it," I murmured and took another sip.
He laughed.
"But it really doesn't seem fair, does it?" I asked. Using a potion to make someone love you. How would you know if that person truly loved you or not?"
"Oh, I imagine you would know." His gaze remained locked with mine. His dark eyes endless and compellin
g and . . . dangerous. Terribly, wonderfully dangerous. "If someone truly loved you."
I sipped thoughtfully and considered him. "So says the man who doesn't know if he believes in love." I knew I was in hazardous waters, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. "But then, you also said you have never been in love."
"No. Not yet."
"Perhaps that's what you should wish for. For Christmas, that is," I added quickly.
"Perhaps." He sipped his drink, looking just the tiniest bit puzzled and completely wonderful.
A voice in the back of my head—I believed it was the real Lady Smithson's—urged me to abandon prudence, take a chance, throw caution to the winds and fling myself into his arms. I had never had that urge before.
Another voice—the mother I never really knew—insisted I summon my resolve and remain true to my principles. A proper lady, a perfect lady, would never give in to the kind of sordid temptation offered by a handsome stranger. And I was, or at least I had always been, a proper, perfect lady.
I drew a deep breath. "It's late. I should probably retire."
"And I had the distinct feeling it was only the beginning." He stared at me for an endless moment, and something inside of me shivered. He cleared his throat. "Of the evening, that is."
I moved toward the door. "I shall see you tomorrow, then."
"Wait." He stepped toward me, and again, my heart fluttered.
"Yes?" I held my breath. Was this it? Would he kiss me?
"Now that we have laid to rest the ghosts of Christmas Past, we must look ahead."
I shook my head in confusion, ignoring a distinct stab of disappointment. "Forgive me, but I don’t know—"
"Our Christmas wishes. We haven't made them yet." He set his glass down. "I'll get the paper." He left the parlor, and I sank into a chair.
I had the oddest sense of loss, the strangest feeling that I had just missed something of importance. Had he intended to kiss me? Surely not. Aside from gazing into my eyes as if he could see into my very soul, he had made no particular overtures, nothing, really, to make me think he was so inclined.
Or had I been about to kiss him? It was an absurd thought, but there had been a moment . . . I drew a calming breath and took another sip of the liqueur. This could surely be blamed on the Strega and the stories of the legends surrounding it. I raised the glass and stared at the golden liquid.
I was not the sort of woman who freely kissed men. Indeed, aside from David, I could count on one hand the number of times I'd been kissed. And, excluding David, I could not recall a single instance when a kiss had been my idea. Yet, had Fletcher not spoken when he had, I might well have leaned closer and pressed my lips to his. It was a shocking realization. Even more surprising was my immediate regret that I had missed the opportunity.
Fletcher returned in less than a minute. "I know this is not the Christmas Eve you are used to, but perhaps whatever you wish for will make up for it."
"No, it is not my usual Christmas Eve." I smiled up at him. "But it is one I shall remember always."
"We can't ask for more than that." He presented the stationery and pencil to me with a flourish.
"Good, because I have no idea what to wish for."
"Come now, Lady Smithson." He settled in the chair closest to mine. "Surely there is something you want."
"One would think." I stared at the blank page in my hand.
"Some desire of your heart perhaps?"
"My heart's desire? Goodness, that's a great deal of importance to place on one mere wish," I said under my breath, still staring at the empty paper.
"Well, it's not a mere wish, is it?"
I looked up at him.
"It's a Christmas wish." He shook his head. "I have it on very good authority that a Christmas wish is given additional weight."
"Oh?" I arched a skeptical brow. "And whose authority would that be?"
"My grandmother's." He smiled a vaguely sad sort of smile. "She always insisted on a Christmas wish."
"She's no longer with you, is she?" I asked, although I was fairly certain of the answer.
"On the contrary." He picked up his glass and swirled the Strega in an offhand manner. "She is always with me, especially at Christmas."
"You're lucky to have that," I said. "I was so young when my parents died, I barely remember them at all. And while my aunt and uncle and cousins never made me feel that I was anything other than a cherished member of the family, there always seems to be something lacking at Christmas."
"Indeed, there is." He nodded. "But enough of looking backwards." He adopted a stern tone. "You have a wish to think of."
"I'm still thinking." I narrowed my eyes. "Aren't you going to write one?"
"I already did." He pulled a folded sheet out from his waistcoat pocket. "Unlike you, I have no problem deciding what to wish for."
"And did you wish for your heart's desire?" I teased.
"Yes." His gaze met mine, and a slow smile spread across his face. "I believe I did."
"At least you know your heart's desire." I sighed.
"And you don't?"
"No, I'm afraid not. I would think—" Abruptly, I knew exactly what to wish for. I cast him a triumphant grin. "Never mind. I know what I want." I scribbled my wish on the paper, then folded it in half and again.
"Excellent. I was confident even the terribly proper and newly adventurous Lady Smithson would come up with the perfect Christmas wish."
"I'm not sure how perfect it is. I suppose we shall see."
He laughed and held out his arm. "Allow me to escort you to the fire."
I glanced at the fireplace, no more than five or so feet away.
"It’s not the distance, you know," he said in a solemn tone, "but the importance of the occasion."
"I cannot argue with that." I rose to my feet, took his arm and ignored the tiny tingle of awareness that shot through me at the solid feel of his muscles beneath my touch.
He chuckled. "And I thought you could argue with anything."
"Come now, it's Christmas Eve," I said primly. "Even I would hesitate to argue on Christmas Eve." I grinned. "Unless I was right, and you were very, very wrong."
He laughed and escorted me the few steps to the fireplace. I released his arm and waved my folded wish at him. "Shall we do this one at a time or together?"
He nodded thoughtfully. "Together, I think."
"Very well."
We stepped closer to the fire and tossed our wishes into the flames. The fire caressed the edges of the papers as if deciding whether they were worthy of consuming. Then at once both notes caught and burst into flames. In a few seconds, there was nothing left but ash still holding the shape of the wishes. A moment later, they crumbled into nothingness.
For long minutes, we stared into the flames. I couldn't help but wonder what he had wished for and if it had anything to do with me. It was absurd of course. He barely knew me. Still, it seemed we had shared something truly special on this Christmas Eve.
"Thank you," I said softly, then glanced at him. He was studying me as if trying to decide something important.
"No," he said at last. "I should be the one thanking you. You have made this Christmas Eve one I too shall remember always."
Again, his gaze, dark and intense, caught mine, and longing rushed through me. I really knew nothing about this man, and yet it seemed that I knew everything. Still . . .
"Well . . ." I said awkwardly, and the moment vanished.
"Well, indeed." He chuckled in a self-conscious manner.
"I think I shall retire for the night. I know it's still early," I added quickly, "but I did not sleep well last night, and I find I am rather weary."
"Then you should certainly retire." His blue eyes twinkled with amusement, as if he knew I wasn't seeking sleep as much as escape.
He took my hand and raised it to his lips in a slow and measured fashion. Without warning, my heart hammered in my chest, and my mouth was abruptly dry. His gaze locked on mine. "I hop
e we can continue to be friends."
I swallowed hard and tried to say something clever. "Of course." Not clever, then. I cleared my throat. "I would like that."
"Excellent." His lips lingered over my hand. I held my breath. "I am looking forward to spending Christmas Day together."
"Perhaps the rain will stop." Good Lord, did I have nothing better to say than to comment on the weather? Apparently not. "I should have wished for that."
"I'm glad you didn’t. There is nothing better than being trapped indoors on Christmas Day. But I do hope all your Christmas wishes come true, Lady Smithson."
I should have pulled my hand from his, but I had no desire to do so. At that moment, I would have gladly let him hold my hand forever. I cast him a weak smile. "Portia."
He smiled, straightened and released my hand. "I shall bid you a good evening, then, Portia."
"Good evening, Fletcher." My gaze lingered on his for a moment longer, then I turned and started for my rooms.
I fairly floated up the stairs, which was probably due to the wine with dinner and, of course, the Strega. Although I certainly didn’t notice the effects of either. A feeling of anticipation and even wonder engulfed me, which, upon reflection, were not unusual on Christmas Eve. But I suspected it had more to do with the man I'd shared the evening with than anything else.
And I too couldn’t wait for Christmas Day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
For the second morning in a row, I slept far later than I had planned, because for the second night in a row, I scarcely slept at all.
I had toyed with the idea of attending Christmas services at a church in town, even though it was Roman Catholic and I was not. I had always privately believed that God was God, and it was only in how we chose to worship him that we were divided. However, with my limited understanding of Latin and even less of Italian, I no doubt would have spent the service in a fog of dutiful ignorance.
The questions that had filled my head through the long restless hours of last night now had less to do with concerns about my life and everything to do with the man with whom I'd shared Christmas Eve.
Same Time, Next Christmas Page 7
