A Christmas delight

by Anthea Malcolm

  She had almost made good her escape when she was stopped by a tall figure looming over her.

  "Not thinking to run away, Miss Willoughby?" queried Oliver Crandall, his blue eyes quizzing her. "Not after your triumphant performance. You must tell me sometime what possessed you to take such a risk. Or did you know all along you could choose no better repertoire with which to follow Lady Gwendolyn's classical renditions?"

  "No," Maggie answered shortly, vaguely confused and wanting only to be left alone. Immediately, she relented. "Yes—perhaps," she added, regretting her rudeness. "I don't know. It-it was all a foolish impulse, nothing more, Suddenly Mozart simply did not suit my mood." A wry grin tugged reluctantly at her lips. "No doubt I have you to thank for delivering me from my own folly."

  "Don't be maudlin, I beg you," he said with an abruptness wholly out of keeping with what she had come to know in him. "The truth is you were a succes fou and would still have been had I interfered or not."

  Hurt by his harshness, Maggie felt her cheeks grow flushed.

  "Nevertheless, I do thank you," she retorted, turning her face away. "And now, if you will excuse me, I was just going in search of Carleton to take me upstairs."

  "Maggie, wait!"

  Maggie, who had leaned down to push the wheels for-

  ward, suddenly froze. It was all very absurd, but she could not stop her heart from its ridiculous pounding. Indeed, she was beginning to wonder if she had been stricken by some strange malady the symptoms of which were brought on only by blond-haired men with eyes the color of lapis lazuli. Chiding herself for an utter idiot, she forced herself to look at him.

  "Maggie, I-"

  At her look, he broke off whatever he had been about to say, his eyes probing hers with a curious intensity. He appeared to shake himself just when she thought she could not bear it anymore.

  "There's no need to summon Carleton," he said at last, gruffly. "If you are set on leaving us, I shall take you."

  Maggie shook her head.

  "No, really. I shouldn't want to put you to the trouble."

  He ignored her protest. Leaning down, he lifted her bodily into his arms. And all at once her temper snapped.

  "Put —me—down!" she gasped, shoving with all her strength against his chest. "Have you the least notion how many times I have been snatched up into a man's pair of arms today?"

  A gleam of humor flashed across the lean countenance.

  "IWo, is it? Or three, perhaps," he replied, appearing to reflect even as he tightened his hold on her. "Of course it could be more. I can't be held responsible for what you did when you were not in my company."

  "This makes four/' she said in triumph. "And not once was I consulted beforehand. Contrary to what you apparently think, I am not some plaything which you and your brother are free to manhandle in any manner you deem fit. I am a person with a mind and a will of her own."

  "As you have repeatedly demonstrated any number of times since I met you," he conceded with obvious feeling. "You, my girl, are not only impetuous and incorrigible,

  you are utterly lacking in commonsense. And if you do not cease to struggle at once, you are going to make a spectacle of yourself."

  It was true. In spite of the fact that the company had thinned to a mere dozen or more, the rest having departed either to the parlor where the bowl of cider resided or to the rooms set up with card tables, they were undeniably beginning to attract attention to themselves.

  Immediately Maggie went still in his arms.

  "I am not incorrigible, 111 have you know/' she whispered fiercely. "And I promise I am possessed of a deal of commonsense. Which tells me there cannot possibly be a good reason to remain standing where we are."

  Incredibly, he grinned.

  "Oh, but I am afraid there is, Miss Willoughby. One superlatively good reason."

  Mistrusting the sudden gleam in his eye, Maggie knitted her brow in a frown. Short of the unlikely possibility that he had thrown his back out when he picked her up, she could think of nothing that would prevent him from carrying her on upstairs.

  "Oh, very well, Mr. Crandall," she said in exasperation after a moment. "Please be so good as to tell me."

  "It is hanging over your head, Miss Willoughby."

  Maggie's heart skipped a beat. She did not have to look up to know to what he was referring. Above them, suspended from the chandelier, the kissing bough hung in all its glory.

  "Oh, no," she said slowly, shaking her head.

  "Indeed, yes, Miss Willoughby," he answered her. "It is, after all, a very old custom, one which you surely, of all people, woukTnot refuse to honor. Unless, of course, it is only that you are afraid?"

  The devil! thought Maggie, her mouth suddenly dry. He was baiting her. What was worse, he knew she would die first before she appeared craven. A dangerous spark leapt in her eyes. Very well, if it was a

  kiss he wanted, he would have one.

  "On the contrary, Mr. Crandall," she said, doing her best to feign a cool indifference, when in reality her stomach was doing flip-flops. "I am not in the least afraid. Indeed, why should I be? It is only a kiss, is it not?"

  Determined to suit action to words, Maggie tilted her head back and, closing her eyes, promptly pursed her lips in readiness.

  Thus she did not see the swift leap of amusement in the handsome face or know when the amusement faded to be replaced by a slow, searching intensity. Deliberately the blond head bent toward hers.

  Maggie had seen her mama and papa embrace any number of times —a sweet buss on the cheek or a light brushing of the lips followed very often by her mama's cheeks flooding becomingly with color should she happen to discover they had been observed. But nothing she had ever witnessed had prepared her for the sudden shock of emotions that shot through her at this, her very first kiss from a gentleman.

  It was not a very lengthy kiss and certainly could not be characterized as one of great passion. Indeed, compared to those about which she had read in the more lurid romances, it must have been categorized as disappointingly gentle, almost tender, in fact. Why, then, she wondered, did she feel as if she had just suffered the onset of a heady fever accompanied most alarmingly by symptoms of delirium and every indication that she might be on the point of succumbing to a swoon? It made absolutely no sense. But then, it seemed that nothing had since it had been her misfortune to have the twin Lords of Misrule drop into her life. Her eyes looking dazed and more than a little bewildered, she blinked up at the handsome face looming over hers.

  His lips curved in a smile that unreasonably made her heart flutter.

  "I'm afraid, infant," he said apologetically, 'that I shall have to ask you to retrieve the token. My arms are full at the moment."

  "I-I beg your pardon?"

  "The berry," he chided her. "Surely you have not forgotten?"

  Maggie blushed. She had forgotten. It was, of course, traditional to pluck a berry from the mistletoe in token of the kiss they had exchanged.

  "No, of course I haven't forgotten," she lied. "I-I just wasn't sure I could reach it."

  As it turned out, however, the gentleman's height of six feet three inches was more than enough to have allowed her to pluck any number of berries with ease had she been so inclined. Indeed, doubtless it was the altitude at which she found herself that made her absurdly dizzy, she wryly concluded as she pulled one of the white berries from the bough.

  "There," she said, closing her fist around it. "Now, if you don't mind, I really should like to go upstairs."

  "Are you sure I cannot change your mind?"

  Maggie shook her head, quite certain she had experienced enough unsettling events for one evening. "No, please. I am rather tired."

  Maggie, who was acutely conscious of the silence that had fallen over them as he carried her up the stairs, could only be glad when at last they arrived at her room. Discovering she had left the door open, he took her straight inside and without a word, set her on the edge of her bed.

  "Are y
ou sure you will be all right by yourself?" he murmured, studying her averted profile. "Is there someone I could send up —a maid, perhaps?"

  Maggie smiled nervously and shook her head.

  "No, I shall be fine," she answered, wishing he would cease to look at her with those disturbing eyes. "Thank you."

  For a moment it seemed he would say something more, then apparently he thought better of it.

  "Good night then, Miss Willoughby. I shall have Carle-ton bring your chair up."

  "Thank you, Mr. Crandall, and good night."

  Maggie waited until the door shut behind him. Then with an explosive breath, she flung herself backward on the bed.

  Maggie sat curled up in the window seat in the dark, her chin propped on knees bent to her chest. Haunted by the image of identical handsome faces with equally disturbing blue eyes, she had given up trying to sleep some time before. Indeed, the hall clock was just striking two when she was startled by a soft scratching at her door.

  "Maggie?" Charlotte whispered thrillingly, sticking her head in. "Maggie, are you awake?"

  "Charlotte? Good heavens, what is it?" Maggie exclaimed, alarmed at the telltale quiver of excitement in her cousin's voice. "Wait. I'll light the lamp."

  "Never mind the lamp." Closing the door softly behind her, Charlotte groped her way across the room to the window seat. "Br-r-r." She shivered and pulled her dressing gown tightly around her as she squeezed in beside Maggie. "Quick, let me under the quilt. It will be just like old times when I used to steal into bed with you after one of my silly old dreams. Only this time I wasn't dreaming, Maggie."

  "Gudgeon, whatever are you rattling on about? What weren't you dreaming about?" demanded Maggie.

  "About Charlesworth and Lady Gwendolyn, but never mind that right now. First, I want to hear all about you and Oliver Crandall."

  Immediately, Maggie drew up. The last thing she wanted to discuss was Oliver Crandall, or Charlesworth, for that matter. She had been doing nothing but think of

  them for the past two hours, wondering if she were going out of her mind. Indeed, she was on the verge of a splitting headache without having come to any conclusions except that she was very nearly certain she wished them both to the devil for having cut up her previously ordered existence.

  "If you are here to tell me that Charlesworth has offered for Lady Gwendolyn, I promise I couldn't care less/' she declared with the greatest outward manifestation of indifference, though, inside, she was experiencing a suddenly queasy sensation. "As for Oliver Crandall, I'm sure I haven't the least notion what you are talking about."

  "Fudge," Charlotte retorted. "Everyone saw that Oliver Crandall was paying marked attention to you tonight. Indeed, he could not have been more obvious if he had announced it to the world. Faith, Maggie, he kissed you!"

  "We were under the mistletoe. What did you expect him to do? I'm sure it meant as little to him as it did to me."

  "Maggie, this is Charlotte to whom you're talking. The girl who grew up in the same house with you. We swore an oath once never to have any secrets between us." Charlotte's hand felt ice-cold as it closed about Maggie's wrist. "When Papa shot himself because he couldn't pay his gambling debts, and Mama and I came to live with you, you said we would always be like sisters. No matter how many times Lady Gwendolyn and the others reminded me of-of what happened, you always stood my friend. And that is why I have to know, Maggie. You do like Mr. Crandall just a little, don't you?"

  Startled, Maggie peered at the indistinct silhouette of the other girl against the window. As if by tacit agreement, the subject of Charlotte's father was one that neither of them ever mentioned.

  "Well, yes. I suppose I do. A little," Maggie confessed gruffly. "Though what it has to do with anything — "

  "It has a great deal to do with your future happiness," Charlotte interrupted. "Now tell me the truth. Do you not like Mr. Crandall more than just a little?"

  Maggie drew in a deep breath and harshly let it out again.

  "Yes. No," she said, flinging up her hands. "Oh, Charlotte, how can I possibly tell you that when I don't know myself what I feel? I liked Mr. Crandall even when I thought he was Charles worth. And then when I discovered he wasn't, I was relieved. Oh, he is a dangerous flirt, I told myself. Someone to have fun with but never to take seriously. Then after supper, when the gentlemen joined us in the Hall, he seemed suddenly different."

  "Different?" Charlotte prodded. "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know," Maggie replied testily. How could she tell her cousin that after supper was when her strange malady had manifested itself, occurring before only when Charlesworth was around? Indeed, how could she tell her that it was not Crandall who had changed but apparently herself? "Suddenly he just wasn't the same anymore. The way he looked at me, the things he said. He was just . . . different. I don't know what else I can say."

  "I think, whether you will admit it or not, that you like Mr. Crandall more than a little. Indeed, I think you like him a lot. The trouble is, I think you like Charlesworth more than a little, too. Be honest, Maggie," Charlotte said gently. "Isn't that what is bothering you?"

  "I wish you will not be absurd," Maggie retorted, still stinging at the memory of Charlesworth stealing out of the Great Hall with a triumphant Lady Gwendolyn on his arm. "Indeed, I don't know where you could have gotten such a ridiculous notion. I'm sure I haven't the least interest in the earl."

  "You will pardon me if it seemed to me you were suffering some slight pique at his marked attention to Lady Gwendolyn at supper. I collect that I was mistaken. In which case you will not mind that Lady Gwendolyn is

  plotting a trap for his lordship. In fact, she is in his room this very minute, waiting for him to turn in. No doubt she will claim that he lured her there, and if no one believes her, it will hardly matter. However it is interpreted, he will have no choice but to offer.for her."

  Maggie recoiled as if she had just been struck.

  "Charlotte, you cannot be serious. Not even the Ice Queen could be so calculating."

  "Oh, but I am perfectly serious. I saw her slip into the earPs room myself, just as I was coming here to see you."

  "Then we must stop her somehow. Indeed, we must find Charles worth and warn him before it is too late!"

  She was already off the window seat and hopping across the room to find flint and steel to light a candle. As the wick caught and flared, casting weird shadows against the walls, she saw Charlotte looking at her strangely.

  "It is Charlesworth, isn't it, Maggie," she said. "You fell for him the first time you saw him, did you not?"

  Caught off guard by her cousin's pointed question, Maggie faltered in her hurried attempt to dress. Could it be true? Had she fallen in love with the arrogant nobleman the first time she had set eyes on him at the skating pond? Indeed, was that why she could not bear the thought of his falling into Lady Gwendolyn's trap?

  The memory of his arms around her, the strong body next to hers, was so vivid as to bring a blush to her cheeks. But then, no less vivid was the recollection of Oliver Crandall's lips touching hers and the bewildering flood of sensations they had caused to sweep over and through her. An image of blue, laughing eyes rose up to haunt her, but whether they were Charlesworth's or Oliver Crandall's, she was not certain anymore. As though they were one man, in her mind, she could not separate one from the other.

  The devil! she thought, wishing she had never set eyes on either one of them. She was doing it because she owed

  it to Charles worth to warn him, she told herself firmly. And that was all there was to it.

  "Never mind that now," she said briskly, returning to the task immediately at hand. "It does not matter what I feel. The important thing at the moment is to stop Charles worth from going into that room. Do you know where he is, Charlotte?"

  "He was partnered with your papa in a game of whist when I left Felix. But we dare not approach him there. As little as I care for Lady Gwendolyn, I should not wish to see her ruined.
Besides, such a scandal could only reflect badly on your parents."

  "Faith, I hadn't thought of that. You are right. They mustn't know, especially Mama. She would feel bound to tell the duchess, which would only make things exceedingly uncomfortable. Still, we cannot simply do nothing!" exclaimed Maggie, who was well-aware they could not be found lurking outside his lordship's door at such an hour.

  "Well, there is Felix," Charlotte suggested doubtfully. "Though I cannot think it would be at all proper for me to go to his bedroom, even if we are betrothed. His mama is a great stickler for the proprieties."

  "No, Felix is out of the question," Maggie declared decisively. "You go to your room, Charlotte, and stay there. I am afraid I shall just have to confront Lady Gwendolyn myself."

  "Maggie, no! You will both be ruined."

  But Maggie, having given up in disgust the hopeless task of fitting a shoe over her swollen foot, was already limping barefoot out the door.

  For once she was almost glad to see the odious wheelchair outside her room where Carleton must have left it. Her ankle was paining her like a thousand toothaches. Fortunately, the suite assigned the earl was on the same floor as hers, and she wheeled herself resolutely down the corridor.

  She was soundly questioning her own rationality as she

  drew near the earl's closed door some moments later. She had encountered no one on the way, but luck had a way of turning on one, she noted wryly. Very likely she would find herself in deep waters before all was over and done with. And it would be all the fault of the odious earl for having upset her peace and tranquility. His and Oliver CrandalPs, she amended, willing to give equal blame to that gentleman, who had only complicated matters more. If feeling utterly confused and finding oneself constantly on the verge of disaster was what love was all about, it was greatly overrated. And yet she could not deny that she had never felt so tinglingly alive as she had those fleeting moments with Charlesworth at the ice pond and after. Or as she had, for that matter, when she found herself beneath the kissing bough with Oliver Crandall. Faith, she could not have lost her heart to both of them—could she?