The Christmas Visit: Comfort and JoyLove at First StepA Christmas Secret

by Moore, Margaret

  Most disconcerting of all, the Earl of Cwm Rhyss stood in front of the glowing hearth, his expression fierce, feet planted, arms crossed, the very image of enraged authority, although he was dressed as simply as one of the local farmers, in a pair of woolen straight-cut trousers, white shirt open at the neck, a worsted vest and dark jacket. A plain gold watch chain and fob gleamed in the light.

  Also visible in the light was a terrible scar that left the left side of his face permanently red and mottled.

  She’d seen worse ruin done to a human face. Much worse. The scar skirted the eye socket, and she surmised that his long hair was intended to hide most of the scarring and likely a damaged ear.

  “I’m sorry, my lord!” Mrs. Jones exclaimed, panting, as she followed Gwen inside. “I couldn’t—”

  “I heard,” the earl growled. “You can leave, Mrs. Jones. I’ll deal with this person.”

  Instead of scurrying away, as Gwen expected, Mrs. Jones gave the earl the same sort of look one might give a recalcitrant child. Then she dipped a curtsy. “I’ll go get some tea.”

  “We don’t need any tea,” he retorted. “I’ll ring the bell when this insolent woman is ready to leave. Shortly.”

  Mrs. Jones nodded, gave the earl another chastising look, then departed.

  “My lord, I’m sorry to intrude—”

  “The hell you are.”

  Supplicant or not, there was a limit to what Gwen would endure, and she was fast losing her temper. “If you think to dissuade me by such coarse language, my lord, I must tell you that I’ve heard far worse in my time.”

  She subdued a smirk of satisfaction when she saw that she had taken him aback with that remark. “My name is Miss Gwendolyn Davies, and I’ve come—”

  “To ask me for money.” He looked her up and down. “I thought you must be another charlatan out to rob me with some story about good works, or one of those ladies who turn themselves into Lady Bountiful at Christmastime, helping the poor unfortunates. But I can tell by your exceedingly ugly wardrobe that you’re neither. I suppose, then, you’re the sort of woman who, failing to get a husband, throws herself into charitable works. That would explain your incredible gall. And you probably want to preach the necessity of saving my eternal soul at this joyous season of rebirth, too. You may spare yourself the effort.” He pointed at the door. “I think heathens are better off left alone, and so am I.”

  She very calmly and resolutely continued to face him. “My lord, I’m afraid you misunderstand. I don’t give a damn about your eternal soul and you may happily go to hell for all I care.”

  His brown eyes flared, but she ignored his reaction and carried on just as matter-of-factly. “However, my lord, you can’t take your money with you when you go. Before that melancholy day, and since it’s nearly Christmas, a time when most people are inclined to be grateful for their good fortune and pleased to share with those less fortunate than themselves, I was hoping you’d make a contribution for some presents and special treats for several Welsh children who live in the orphanage of which I’m the matron down in Llanwyllan.”

  He limped around his desk. She hadn’t noticed that he had difficulty walking before. He’d probably been trying to hide that, the way he grew his hair to hide his scar and what was left of his ear.

  “By God, you’re the most aggravating, presumptuous woman I’ve ever met.”

  “I simply refuse to be intimidated, especially considering the reason that I’ve intruded upon your—” she surveyed over his messy study “—interesting existence.”

  “I prefer that my interesting existence not include unwelcome visitations by people who want my money.”

  “And I would prefer not to trouble you, but it’s only four days until Christmas and we have almost nothing for the children.”

  He sniffed as he sat in the chair behind the desk. “Christmas comes the same day every year. You should have planned for it, and not waited until you were forced to ask a stranger to come to your aid at the last minute.”

  “I did plan for it. What I did not plan for was the need for a new chimney when the old one collapsed. Or the addition of four children to our ranks. Or the sudden loss of one of our principal benefactors. What I had put by for Christmas had to go elsewhere.”

  “So you gathered your courage and came to beg of the Earl of Cwm Rhyss?”

  “So I decided to ask a rich man if he’ll consider helping us. We don’t require much, my lord. Just something to get a treat for each child and a goose for Christmas dinner.”

  “How many children are you talking about?”

  “Fifty.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Only fifty?” he asked sarcastically.

  “They don’t expect much from Father Christmas, my lord. Perhaps an orange, or a bit of candy. The sum I require is likely almost nothing to you, but it would mean so much to them. I would hate to have them find nothing Christmas Day.”

  The earl’s full lips twisted into a smirk. “You’re very good at trying to wring a man’s heart with thoughts of pathetic children, their big eyes moist with disappointed tears. Perhaps you should consider a career upon the stage, Miss Gwendolyn Davies.”

  “Perhaps I shall, if I’ve succeeded. Have I?”

  “If I tell you you haven’t, what will you do then? Go down on your knees?”

  “If I must.”

  She made as if to do so, until he snarled, “Good God, woman, I wasn’t serious.”

  “Oh?” she replied evenly. “You must forgive me for not realizing you possess a sense of humor. Or not comprehending that you wouldn’t require a suitably humiliating display before you agreed to part with a small sum of money.”

  He gave her a sour look. “If giving you some money gets you out of my study and lets me get on with my work, I’ll contribute to the orphans, the infirm, the aged and anybody else you’d care to name.”

  Not the most gracious of replies, but she smiled nonetheless. “In that case, my lord—”

  “I was joking.”

  “Again, you must forgive me for not appreciating your wry sense of humor.”

  With something that sounded like a muttered curse, the earl yanked open a draw and started rifling through its contents. “As it happens, Miss Davies, I contribute to a number of charities through my solicitor. I simply don’t advertise the fact, although perhaps I should consider posting a list on my door to keep shrewish harridans from marching into my house like irate sarjeant-majors and demanding I help them.”

  “You may insult me all you like, my lord, if it gives you pleasure,” she replied. “I’ll consider it the price I must pay for troubling you. But if it’s any consolation to you, the children will be most grateful. Take it from one who knows, it’s the one time of the year they find it easy to believe people care about them. It is the one time of year many do.”

  “You’ve been in the orphan business some time, then.”

  “Both before the war, and after.”

  He didn’t reply, and as he continued to rummage, she pushed away her memories of Christmases past and surveyed the room again. It was clear the man enjoyed collecting medieval artifacts. Or perhaps they helped with his writing.

  The books crowding the shelves, the pedestal table and even piled on the floor were many and various. The titles she could read were all histories and biographies. The titles she could not were in Latin.

  “I’m so glad you’re still here, miss!”

  Mrs. Jones had returned, carrying a large tray with a teapot, cream, sugar, two Wedgwood china cups, scones and strawberry jam. “I’ll just set this down over—”

  She made an exasperated noise as she shoved the pile of books out of the way on the pedestal table. “For the love of God, Griffin, must you pile your dusty old books everywhere?”

  If the earl’s eyes could have shot arrows, the dear woman would be dead. “I told you, Mrs. Jones, that we don’t need tea. Miss Davies will be leaving as soon as I find my damned cheques.”

  Mrs.
Jones beamed, clearly not a whit disturbed by the earl’s propensity to curse. Then she frowned. “You didn’t even invite her to sit down—and after walking all that way!” she chided as she hurried toward Gwen. “She’ll think you’ve got no manners at all. Give me your bonnet and cloak and sit you there by the fire, Miss Davies. I’ll bring your tea to you. Do you take sugar?”

  “No, thank you. I prefer mine clear.”

  “This isn’t a damn tea party!” the earl muttered.

  “No need to be rude, Griffin,” Mrs. Jones said. “You’ve already growled at the poor dear quite enough. You ought to respect her, considering what she’s done.”

  Gwen couldn’t make out what he mumbled, but the gist of it was he didn’t think she was a poor dear, and only barely deserving of a cup of tea or a chair.

  “She was a nurse in the Crimea.”

  The earl shot Gwen a questioning glance. “You were in that mess?”

  “Yes, I was,” she replied, realizing that his eyes were not like any other brown eyes she’d seen before. They were flecked with green and gold, yet not green enough to be hazel.

  He was fortunate his left eye hadn’t been blinded in the fire.

  He went back to the search.

  “I do hope you can find a cheque, my lord,” Gwen said as she regarded the top of his head and his thick, curling hair.

  Many a woman would weep to have such hair. And such thick lashes, which should look ridiculous on a man but, somehow, seemed perfectly suitable to him.

  “They’re here. Somewhere.”

  “Perhaps I could help.”

  “No!” he snapped, darting an annoyed look at her. “Sit down, drink your tea and don’t touch anything!”

  “He’s got a system, he says, so his notes won’t get out of order. For his book, you see,” Mrs. Jones explained in a loud, conspiratorial whisper as she handed Gwen a cup of fragrant Earl Grey. “I think he’s just too lazy to tidy up.”

  Mrs. Jones’s confidential revelations elicited another scowl and mumble from the earl, and a stifled smile from Gwen as she sipped her tea.

  “Aha!” the earl cried triumphantly after rustling in the very back of the bottommost drawer. He straightened and brandished a book of cheques. “I found them. Don’t get too comfortable, Miss Gwendolyn Davies. You’ll be leaving very soon.”

  “No, she won’t,” Mrs. Jones declared. “She can’t.”

  She frowned at their puzzled faces. “She can’t go anywhere in a snowstorm.”

  Chapter Two

  As Gwen looked at the window in dismay, another gust of wind rattled the panes. She could barely see beyond them because of the blowing, heavily falling snow.

  She should have turned back at the gate. “I was sure it was going to hold off,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else in the room.

  The earl came around the desk to stand beside her. “Unfortunately for you, Mother Nature doesn’t seem to take much heed of your desires. Or maybe coming here in inclement weather was a clever scheme. Perhaps you thought you might need considerable time to soften my hard heart and being trapped here would give you the opportunity. I may live in relative isolation now, Miss Davies, but I spent plenty of time in society, and I know the wiles women are capable of.”

  “I thought nothing of the kind!” she indignantly replied. “I thought that if it was going to snow, it wouldn’t be until I was safely home. And it was either venture forth now, or have nothing for the children. If you don’t believe me—”

  The earl held up his scarred hand to silence her. “As it happens, I do believe you. Only a fool would try such a tactic with me, and I don’t think you’re a fool. Headstrong, determined, stubborn and you can curse like a navvy, but not a fool.”

  He turned away from the window. “You can go home in my carriage. Jones can spend the night in the inn and return in the morning, or whenever the snow stops.”

  Mrs. Jones regarded him as if his suggestion was utterly ludicrous. “Daniel can’t take the barouche out in a blizzard! They might get stuck. And it’s not been used these four years or more—a wheel might fall off.”

  “It’s not a blizzard,” Gwen protested with more hope than conviction.

  The earl snorted. “What else would you call it? A bit of bad weather?”

  “Whatever you call it,” Mrs. Jones said, “she can’t go home tonight, or while this snow keeps up. I’ll go get the blue bedroom ready,” she finished, bustling off before Gwen, or the earl, could protest.

  Gwen looked at her obviously disgruntled host, who couldn’t be any more unhappy than she about the situation. “I must get back to the orphanage.”

  The irate nobleman limped back around his desk. “Will the children riot without you there to oversee them?”

  Gwen stiffened. “I’m sure my staff can keep order.”

  “Then you fear your family will worry about you?”

  “I don’t have any family, and I said I’d take refuge at the Denhallows’ farm if the weather changed.”

  “Aha!” the earl cried triumphantly, splaying his hands on his desk and leaning toward her. “Then you did realize the weather was likely to turn bad and you came anyway!”

  “I truly did think it would hold off, at least long enough to get to the Denhallows’ farm,” she answered with all the dignity she could muster. “I didn’t plan to impose on you, I don’t want to impose on you, and I’m sorry I must.”

  “It’s a little late for regrets,” the earl growled as he lowered himself into his chair.

  She’d had enough of his rudeness. “I may be nothing more than the matron of an orphanage in need of funds, my lord, but I deserve to be treated with courtesy and respect, regardless of how I came to be here, or what the weather’s done. I’d rather risk trying to get to Denhallows’ farm than put up with your incivility. Good day, my lord.” She turned on her heel to leave.

  Proving he was more agile than she suspected, he reached the door before her. “Don’t be an idiot, Miss Davies. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m not an idiot, and that sort of comment is precisely why I’m leaving,” she said as she attempted to go past him.

  He moved so that he was blocking the door. “I won’t allow you to martyr yourself in a snowstorm.”

  “I won’t stay where I’m treated with such disrespect.”

  His eyes narrowed and his frown deepened. “Very well, I shall endeavor to refrain, since I don’t want to be held responsible for your death—which means I’d best keep my distance from you entirely.”

  She met his glare with her own. “I believe that would be best, and I assure you, my lord, I’ll cease imposing upon your generosity the moment I can.”

  The nobleman’s expression shifted, to one slyly curious. “It’s only my insolence that upsets you, Miss Davies? Or is there another reason you don’t wish to stay here? Are you worried about your reputation? What will the neighbors say? The villagers? The clergy? A young, unmarried female staying with the reclusive Earl of Cwm Rhyss?”

  Sure he was trying to use his powerful physical presence to intimidate her, she regarded him with contempt. “They’ll say that I had no choice.”

  His lips curled up into the most wicked, devilish smile Gwen had ever seen. “You don’t fear that I’ll come creeping into your bedchamber and try to have my way with you?”

  “You could try, my lord, but I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time, and I daresay you’d regret it.”

  “That sounds like a challenge, Miss Davies.”

  “Only if you are a fool.”

  He limped to the pedestal table and picked up one of the teacups, which looked ridiculously small and delicate in his large, powerful hands, as if he could shatter it simply by holding it. “There was a time, Miss Davies, when I could have made you fear for your virtue.” He cut her a glance. “Or gladly give it up.”

  Her throat suddenly seemed very dry. But she’d been propositioned before, by soldiers and their officers, so she qu
ickly mustered a response. “Boasting of past seductions and your ability to make a woman throw away her virtue is hardly the behavior of a gentleman.”

  He came toward her, his movements slow but seemingly inexorable. “The gentlemanly eldest son of the Earl of Cwm Rhyss died when that beam fell across me and left me a ruin.”

  Still she stood her ground. “Are you planning to continue this rather unusual method of seduction, my lord? Because if so, it won’t work. I’ve spent many years around men, several of whom thought a woman who is neither pretty nor well-to-do should be only too willing to share their bed and be thankful for the opportunity. They didn’t succeed, and neither will you, because my virtue is the one thing I can call my own. Still, I must admit the notion of portraying yourself as a scoundrel and reprobate in an attempt to make yourself more attractive is a novel one.”

  He set down the china cup with such swift force she was surprised it didn’t break. “And no man who looks like me would ever succeed with any woman.”

  “Am I now to feel sorry for you, my lord, because your scars have ruined your ability to seduce women?”

  “They ruined a lot more than that,” he muttered as he went to the door. He shot her another look. “But you can’t possibly understand that. Where the devil is Mrs. Jones?”

  As if his question had immediately summoned her, the elderly woman appeared in the doorway, holding a candle that flickered in the draft.

  “I’m right here, my lord,” she said, giving him a chastising frown. “Come along now, my dear. I’ve got a nice fire going and some water to wash.”

  As Gwen joined her, the earl turned on his heel and limped back to his desk. “I’ll have my supper in my study tonight. Alone.”

  Mrs. Jones looked as if she wasn’t pleased, but said, “If you say so.”

  Then, holding the candle aloft to light the way, she led Gwen toward the staircase. “Please don’t mind him, miss. He can be a bit rude when his work’s interrupted and the cold makes his leg ache.”