by Jo Beverley
The past few nights Kitty had found herself wishing he would do more. Thank heavens she was too shy to act on her impulses herself, or she'd be behaving as wantonly as Sherry had in heat! She was not an animal, though, and could control herself. Since there was no question of marriage between them, she must not let him ruin her.
Let him.
With a sigh, she had to admit that Lord Chatterton had made no attempt to ruin her, which was part of her wicked dissatisfaction.
Was it possible to be just a little bit ruined?
Oh, you foolish woman.
Twelfth Night. Her saner part rejoiced that the Christmas season was almost over, and her madness with it. This reminded her, however, that she still didn't know why an earl's heir was stuck in his house without servants except for Ned. He'd promised to tell her, and he would.
Tonight.
Chapter Five
That night, Kitty greeted Lord Chatterton and Ned, hoping her feelings did not show. Tears threatened because this was the last of their magical evenings. On top of that, however, was a kind of relief that the disturbing madness and temptation would soon be over and she could be cool and calm again.
As usual, they sat in her drawing room, chatting. Then Lord Chatterton said, "You have a piano. Do you play?"
"Yes." Kitty hadn't suggested it because Pol didn't know how, and she didn't want to make a distinction between them.
"Would you not play a piece or two for us?"
Asked directly, Kitty could not refuse, and went to the instrument. He followed, and raised the lid for her. She realized then that it was another clever way to give Ned and Pol some privacy, and smiled as she took her seat.
She played a number of pieces from memory, enjoying herself. In fact, she lost herself in the music so that she was surprised, looking up, to see him leaning on the instrument, watching her.
The look in his eyes could turn her foolish -- if she were a foolish woman.
"Do you sing?" he asked softly.
"Not well, I'm afraid."
"I do. Could you accompany me?"
"To what? I don't have music for many songs."
"Let's see."
She rose and he flipped through the music in the bench. "Ah. This one?"
He'd pulled out Tom Moore's Believe me, if all those endearing young charms. She was certainly familiar with it, for her father had loved to sing it, generally with his eyes on her mother. For a moment she couldn't bear the thought of hearing it again, but then, like a healing salve, she decided she would let it bring back sweet memories.
She ran through the melody once, reminding her fingers, and then he joined her.
"Believe me, if all those endearing young charms
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy gifts fading away,
Thou would'st still be adored as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still."
He had a beautiful baritone voice and he acted well, too, singing to her as if he meant the words. Embarrassed, Kitty looked away for a moment and saw Ned gazing into Pol's shining eyes, honestly meaning the words.
Oh love, how sweet it could be.
As her beloved sang on, she let her eyes lock with his, creating an impossible fairy moment to treasure all her days.
As soon as the song ended, however, she leaped up, closed the instrument and moved away from it.
"We've made a Twelfth Night cake, so you must eat some of it and make a wish." Impulsively, she added, "We really should have punch with it, too."
"I'll make some," said Pol, jumping up.
"I'll help," said Ned. "No woman knows how to make punch right."
"Do you say so?"
"I do indeed."
They disappeared, squabbling as lovers do, leaving Kitty alone with Lord Chatterton.
She shared a smile with him over their charges, but then looked away. She really didn't know how to behave with him these days, or how to react to anything.
He went to put another log on the fire, then stayed there. He often did that these days, she realized, left her side when they were alone.
Did he think she'd leap on him?
Were her feelings obvious?
In defense, she headed toward the question he'd once promised to answer. "So, my lord. At your family's country seat -- at Oakhurst -- are they celebrating Twelfth Night with punch and cake, and with shots fired around the apple trees?"
He stood, brushing his hands together. "The tenants doubtless are." His tone was cool.
"But not your family?"
"My parents do not approve of pagan rites."
"And you?" she asked, rather shocked.
"I find nothing of worth in such things. In fact," he added, almost with bravado, "I detest Christmas."
"Detest...."
"Why gape? I took you for a sensible woman. Christmas is merely a plague that comes back every year. If it escapes false sentimentality, it is only to plunge into crude bawdiness."
"It's a celebration of the birth of Christ!"
His lips twisted into an unpleasant smile. "With punch, cake, and shots fired around trees? Not to mention Yule logs, holly and mistletoe. It's pagan, Miss Mayhew, and might be slightly more bearable if everyone acknowledged that."
"It is a blend of many things, my lord, all of them good."
His brows rose. "What possible good is there in the Lord of Misrule?"
Kitty had never been in a household that followed the tradition of appointing someone to rule throughout Christmas, forcing others to entertain, or to suffer fanciful punishments. "It is just a game, which surely brings family and friends together in laughter. That is suitable for Christmas."
"Laughter? Only at other people's embarrassment. If it brings people together, it is in enjoying the humiliation of those they dislike, despise or envy."
Kitty looked up at him in dismay, fighting tears.
"I never took you for a sentimental fool," he said harshly. "I suppose you like this new fashion for crèches, too. Simpering plaster madonnas praying over babies that never cry or spit."
Kitty was too dismayed to tell him that she did like them, very much indeed. It was as if a stranger stood before her.
She sought refuge is her original question. "But this doesn't explain why you're skulking all alone in your basement, my lord."
"Does it not? My dear Miss Mayhew, have you ever tried to escape Christmas? The servants insist on it. Street vendors wish you a merry Christmas -- expecting a penny for it, of course. Even my most irreligious friends end up singing sentimental hymns over a wassail bowl."
Hurt was rapidly turning to anger. "No doubt I have offended you by ordering punch!"
"I'll endure it as long as you forego the hymns. At least you seem sane in most respects. You have no silly trappings here."
"Because of mourning. I enjoy Christmas, my lord, and I think it cruel of you to deprive poor Ned of it just to suit your whim."
His jaw tightened. "I pay him to endure my cruelties. And my damnable interference. Which reminds me that I had better go interrupt whatever is keeping them."
He stalked out, and Kitty stared at the closed door, shocked and saddened. She had been deceived, for she couldn't really like anyone who detested Christmas. She certainly couldn't love such a person.
She sat staring into the fire, feeling as if she'd suffered another death. Slowly, however, her hurt and anger changed into pity. How horrible not to see the blessings of the season.
Her memories were full of wonderful Christmases in this house. Of greenery and kissing boughs, plum pudding and mince pies, carols, and stories, and chestnuts roasting in the grate.
Of laughter and song.
Song. Believe me....
She wiped away a tear. No matter what little problems had fretted her family
, at Christmas they'd always found joy. Each year her family and friends had renewed their warm feelings, like new logs placed on a spiritual fire.
Had he never felt that?
Did he really reject Yule as entirely pagan?
When he returned with the servants and the punch, he said, rather stiffly, "I apologize. I've upset you. I thought you of a similar mind. So normally you would be romping to the end of twelve days of mayhem?"
That didn't quite describe her family's practices, but she said, "Yes."
"Then I'm disappointed in you, Miss Mayhew."
It didn't seem charitable to snap that she was even more disappointed in him, and Kitty could see the concern in Pol and Ned. So she put it aside, accepting a glass of punch, and a piece of cake. As she ate it she made the traditional wish, and her wish was for him, that he could somehow one day find the light and blessings of Christmas.
Superficially everything eased and they sat to play hazard for millions. Since Kitty didn't like the dice game, she felt pleasantly virtuous to endure it. Unhappiness simmered in her, however, so when Lord Chatterton and Ned rose to leave, she stayed them.
"It is Twelfth Night," she said. "Why not stay to see the end of Christmas?"
"If only I could," he muttered.
But Ned -- perhaps obliviously, or perhaps rebelliously -- said, "Aye, why not?"
"Oh, and we've some chestnuts," added Pol, bright-eyed. "We could roast some and sing some songs."
When the two of them disappeared in search of chestnuts, Lord Chatterton growled, "I could throttle you."
"For making you endure some roasted chestnuts and an hour more of my company?"
"For spoiling everything with Christmas." She was pulled to her feet.
"What-!"
And kissed.
It was short, rough, and rather unpleasant. When it stopped, she said, "Why?"
"I might as well have some benefit -- kissing beneath the mistletoe for example."
"But we have none."
"I, at least, have an imagination. Try to guess what I'm imagining now."
He kissed her again, just as roughly, but something in the way he held her to him, pressed her to him, shaped her to him, left her shaken rather than annoyed. She could guess what he was imagining, and it stirred visions in her own mind.
Visions of entwined naked bodies from Renaissance masters and Grecian urns.
Voices made them break apart to stare dazedly at each other, wicked notions still dancing between their minds. Kitty felt she could hardly breathe. Or that at least her breath should be visible as a wavering, broken line of light between his lips and hers.
Ned and Pol came in, chattering, carrying a big bowl of chestnuts and a cellar of salt.
Kitty caught a mischievous, assessing look from both servants, followed with a shared smile of knowing amusement. Just who was chaperoning whom?
But chaperoning would imply courtship.
She glanced at Lord Chatterton. He, however, had turned away to study a landscape on the wall, as if attempting to reject the company.
There had certainly been no courtship in that attacking kiss. Perhaps he'd hoped to be thrown out so he could retreat with honor.
Very well, she'd make the wretched man endure it.
Kitty joined Ned and Pol on the floor in front of the fire and placed a chestnut in the embers. Rebelliously, she began one of her favorite seasonal hymns.
"The race that long in darkness pined
Have seen a glorious light...."
Pol joined in, for the whole household had sung this at some point during the Christmas season. She saw Ned glance at his employer, but then he began to sing, too, in quite a pleasant voice.
Kitty refused to look at the man who detested Christmas.
If he wanted to sulk, let him.
He didn't sing, but suddenly he sat beside her, close beside, so his legs brushed hers and his body was there, all along her. He even leaned past her, pressing against her, to place a chestnut on the edge of the fire. "I will think of a suitable revenge," he murmured into her ear.
"For what sin now?"
"Carol singing."
She turned and met his eyes. "If you're so set on revenge, my lord, I shall have to do something to really deserve it."
She stood and went off to find her Yule candle.
She had made one this year, continuing the family tradition even though she hadn't intended to use it. Traditions were hard to break, and all her life she'd helped her mother make the special candle, which was eighteen inches high and thick as her arm.
She took it off a shelf in the pantry, missing her mother so dreadfully that she thought she'd collapse into tears. She fought it, though, knowing Mama would want her to light the candle in celebration of the joy and optimism of the season, not with the sadness of loss. She placed it securely in its silver holder and returned to the drawing room.
She confessed to herself that she was a little nervous. In talk of Christmas, Lord Chatterton had seemed almost violent. What would he do about this?
She paused just inside the door to study him.
He was lounging on the carpet, picking morsels of roasted chestnut out of the skin, his long strong body edged by the light from the fire. Perhaps because he was so close to the fire, he'd taken off his jacket and cravat, so he resembled the rakish man she'd first encountered.
Or perhaps it was another calculated cut of his revenge. He must know his attractions and how to use them.
He looked up at her, and his expression reminded her of their first meeting, too, while something in his lazy, sprawled elegance reminded her of his rakish cat.
"A candle, Miss Mayhew?" he drawled. "And such a big one. Are we to sink even lower?"
"A Yule candle," she said defiantly, and continued into the room -- to halt when she saw Pol. The maid was actually in Ned's lap, laughing and letting him feed her with bits of chestnut. At Kitty's stare Pol bit her lip and straightened, but not much.
"I think we have light enough," Lord Chatterton said, dragging her attention back to him.
"Not for long." Kitty decided she really couldn't lecture Pol just at this moment, and set about extinguishing the candles.
She slid a wary glance at the man who didn't like Christmas, half expecting him to stop her by force. He just continued to pick apart chestnuts and chew on the meat while watching her in a way that made her feel...
...feel undressed, she realized!
So, that was his true revenge.
How extraordinary that he could do it.
And he was even managing to look undressed himself, to look naked. She could imagine his body beneath the clothes, as if he were a statue from Ancient Rome.
Forcing her eyes away, she put out the last candle so only the firelight broke the darkness. The clock sounded the quarter to midnight. Christmas was almost over.
She headed for the mantelpiece, intending to place the candle there as usual. She, her parents, and any guests had always stood around in front of the fire to watch the candle lit. That was the way it should be done, the respectable way. But she looked at Pol and Ned, so cozily together, and at Lord Chatterton lounging in arrogant ease, and wasn't sure she could get them up and neatly arranged in time.
With an apologetic prayer to her mother, she surrendered to a new way and settled back down onto the carpet.
But everything else would be done properly, she resolved, even if she was twelve days late. Traditions were the glue that bound both family and society, or so her mother had claimed.
She placed the candle on the carpet. "Gather round."
Ned and Pol slid over quickly enough, though almost as if stuck together. He was slower, but shifted slightly so as to form part of the circle. His resistance lay beside her like a deep shadow, and she felt almost guilty at forcing this on him.
She looked at the candle, but spoke for him, longing to convert him. "It has always been a tradition in our house to light a Yule candle. To celebrate both the birth
of our Savior and the blessedness of light."
"I hesitate to object," he said, still eating, "but shouldn't Yule be celebrated on the shortest day of the year? You're rather late, Miss Mayhew."
"I know it. The candle should be lit on Christmas Eve, but this year I neglected the tradition because of mourning. I now see I was wrong. Tradition, even pagan tradition, is precious."
He said nothing more, but she began to tremble. She knew now that he would not welcome this at all. He wouldn't be moved and change his mind about Christmas. He would see this as pagan, unseemly, or even sentimental.
She'd thought to convert him, but now she feared that he might change her, might ruin this for her.
She thrust that out of her mind and summoned the words her mother had always said. Immediately, she was back in this moment last year, remembering how they had dedicated this tradition to the memory of her father.
Tears threatened, but she fought them. She would do this for both her parents, and tomorrow she would begin to make something good, something bright, of her life.
"The world fell into darkness," she said, unable to clear her throat enough to avoid huskiness. "Then God sent His son to be a light -- light to show the spiritual way, but also to bring warmth and brightness to our hearts. This recalls a more ancient gift, a gift dating back to creation, when God gave His world the sun, and then fire. Fire -- the means to make light and warmth even in the coldest, darkest times of winter, just as Christ's love will bring grace into even the most joyless, sinful soul. Let us celebrate, therefore, the gift of light."
She handed Pol the spill. "The youngest should light the candle."
As Pol turned to the fire, Kitty continued, her voice clearer now. "But there are other gifts for which we give thanks as the candle glows -- the daily gifts of love and joy, the treasures of our family and friends."
Features serious, Pol put the splint to the wick. It caught, and in moments the flame spread up in its perfect mellow shape, weaving slightly with the movement of the air, touching each face with warmth.
"Let us give thanks to God, therefore, for sending His son to be our light, but also for the heavenly sun, and for fire, which symbolizes love and joy in our family and friends."
