“I beg your pardon?” she finally breathed out.
But before Lord Michael could repeat himself or respond in any way, the door to the wagon opened and Frannie spilled out onto the Gypsy woman’s small front porch.
“I feel so much better!” her cousin exclaimed, running her fingers over a rather cheap looking necklace at the base of her throat.
But Ivy felt so much worse all of a sudden. Though why it mattered to her one way or the other that Lord Michael Beck was going into trade made no sense at all. If he had decided to dedicate his life to the military or the church instead he’d still be a horrible match, not quite as bad as a tradesman, but still not good. He was Halesworth’s third son. He wasn’t even the spare. And if there was one thing Ivy had learned from watching her older sisters it was that matters of the heart could sour rather quickly and that a lady needed to look out for her own best interests from the very beginning or suffer the consequences of her foolishness. She would not, she could not, end up like Ophelia. She supposed Lord Michael’s revelation should make it that much easier to keep from falling for the libertine, because she could not, she would not, fall in love with a tradesman. That wasn’t even a possibility.
The old Gypsy woman followed Frannie outside, and she narrowed her ancient eyes on Ivy as she tucked her white hair behind her ear. “Your aura is disrupting my entire vardo.”
Well, her aura was still rather stunned, there was nothing Ivy could do about that. She turned her attention to her cousin and said loudly enough for the old woman to hear, “You didn’t let her rob you blind, did you?”
“Be gone with you,” the old Gypsy grumbled.
“There, there,” Lord Michael said soothingly to the old crone. “I’ll see them back to Castle Keyvnor, Madam Boswell.”
But Ivy shook her head. “No need. We can manage on our own, my lord.” Because if she was going to keep from falling for him, any more than she already had, she should spend as little time as possible in his presence.
He looked hurt as soon as those words escaped her, and while Ivy didn’t want to hurt him, she had to protect herself. Who else would do so if she didn’t?
“Very well,” he conceded softly.
Ivy linked her arm with Frannie’s and hurried her cousin back toward the path in the woods.
Damn it all! He shouldn’t have told her. Michael didn’t know what he’d been thinking. But how could he not tell her? If there was any sort of possibility for him to court her, she was owed the truth. Though he didn’t imagine she’d let him come within ten feet of her now, even if she had promised she’d still talk to him after he told her his secret.
He breathed out a frustrated sigh.
“Something wrong, my lord?” Lynwood’s grandmother asked him. Her dark eyes focused on him as though she already knew the answer to her question but asked it anyway.
And then something his brother-in-law said popped in Michael’s head. “Your grandson mentioned a love amulet you have in your possession.”
The old woman laughed as she shook her head. “You don’t need anything of the like, Lord Michael.”
“I might.” He couldn’t help but look off in the distance where Lady Ivy and her cousin had just disappeared. He didn’t think it was likely any such thing would work on the lady, but on the off chance that it might…
“That is a girl who never listens to her heart. If she did, you wouldn’t be standing here, talking to me right now.”
Michael frowned at the old woman. “What do you mean by that?”
“How you can be so blind at your young age.” The old Gypsy shook her head with a tsk.
“Well, do take pity on me as I must be,” Michael replied. Honestly, had he missed something important?
The old woman’s dark eyes nearly seared him, almost as though she could see straight into his soul. It was the strangest sensation, and he couldn’t help but shiver in response.
“She doesn’t trust herself with you,” the woman said, her voice sounding more than ancient. “That’s why she runs away.”
That would be nice to believe. That would make Michael believe there was some sort of hope for winning her, but the truth was most likely… “I told her something, my plans for the future, which will hardly be regarded favorably amongst society. I would wager that’s why she’s running from me now.”
“You are lucky at wagers,” the Gypsy conceded with a nod. “But you would lose this bet if I were to take you up on it, my lord.” Then she gestured back toward the door of her wagon. “You should come inside, so I can get you a little lavender and lemon balm for your mother.”
“Lavender and lemon balm?” Michael echoed.
“To ward off her anxiety before you tell her your plans for the future.”
What the devil? How could she possibly… Michael glanced back toward Lash’s vardo where Lynwood had suggested something similar just a little while ago. His brother-in-law was resting his elbows on the weathered railing of the dilapidated vardo. There was no possible way he could have mentioned anything of the like to his grandmother. “How did you…”
“I see many things, Lord Michael.” Her ancient lips tipped up to the tiniest of smiles. “As such, you may want to wait until after the weddings tomorrow before you tell Lady Halesworth of your plans.”
Michael gulped. He was certainly in no rush to tell his mother anything. Every moment he kept his future plans a secret from his mother was one more moment of reprieve. “I could always send her a letter along with your lavender and lemon balm. Instruct her to drink your tea before reading further.”
At that, the old woman chuckled softly. “You are many things, my lord, but a coward isn’t one of them.” Then she stepped inside her wagon and didn’t even look back to see if Michael was following her.
He had followed her, of course. If lavender and lemon balm could help soothe his mother, then acquiring the special tea was of the utmost importance.
Michael returned to Keyvnor for luncheon in the hopes that he’d encounter Lady Ivy and she’d honor her agreement and still talk to him. Unfortunately, he hadn’t spotted her upon his return and he couldn’t help but wonder if she was avoiding him on purpose.
He did, however, stumble upon a trio of fellows in the portrait gallery. A trio of fellows who owed him a bit of blunt as luck would have it. His friend the Earl of Ashbrooke, John Ackersley, and Lady Ivy’s cousin, Oliver Dallimore.
“Ah!” Michael called to them. “How fortuitous to see the three of you.”
“Didn’t even know you were here, Beck,” Ashbrooke said, a genuine smile upon his face, and he was smiling a lot more these days since his wedding the previous month.
“I’ve been going back and forth between Keyvnor and Hollybrook to see family,” he said once he reached the group. He gestured to one of the old family portraits. His great-grandmother if he wasn’t mistaken. “Not really a beauty, was she?”
Ackersley laughed. “I was just saying the same thing. Like the artist painted a fellow in a dress.”
The man was correct on that score. Though he had been wrong on another. “That carriage race, last season,” Michael began.
“Which one?” Ackersley frowned.
“St. Giles and Nance along the Bath Road,” Michael relied. “You still owe me ten quid for that.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Do I?”
“You didn’t think St. Giles could overtake him,” Michael reminded the fellow.
“Oh! Right you are,” Ackersley agreed and reached into his jacket. “I may have ten pounds on me right now.”
Michael turned his attention to Ashbrooke and before he could say anything, the earl looked quite embarrassed. “And I owe you fifteen from that little incident at Vauxhall.”
The little incident when the pair of them had wagered whether or not Lady Mary Hitchings would disappear down a darkened path with the notorious Brinkworth. She had, and Ashbrooke had yet to pay up. “Afraid I am collecting these days,” he said as Ackersley off
ered him a number of coins.
“Yes, yes, of course,” the earl agreed. “I’ll have to send it ‘round to you later, Beck. I don’t have anything on me at the moment.”
Ashbrooke was good for it. He just needed to be reminded. “Much appreciated, old man.” Michael dropped Ackersley’s coins into his jacket pocket.
And then he turned his eyes on the last fellow in the group. The one of the three who might not be good for it, but Oliver Dallimore did owe Michael ten pounds.
“Miss Sprules does dampen her skirts,” he reminded Dallimore who had not believed the girl in question did such a thing. But one dance with each of them at the Priske ball had proved to both of them that she did, in fact, resort to such measures. And Dallimore still owed Michael, having been on the wrong end of that particular wager.
The man blanched slightly, though it seemed that he schooled his features back in place rather quickly as though he was quite practiced at doing so. “I’ll have to have that sent ‘round to you as well,” he said smoothly. “Nothing on me at the moment either.”
“Ten?” Michael asked to make certain they both remembered the bet the same way. At Dallimore’s nod, he continued, “Perfect. It has been a pleasure wagering with all of you.”
“Michael!” His mother pushed out of a chintz chair in his sister’s yellow parlor and started toward him with her arms open and her smile wide. “How is my baby boy?”
He hated it when she called him that. He’d hated it for more than a dozen years. And Michael wished, not for the first time, that either Harry and his wife or Charlotte and her husband would make quick work with giving their mother grandchildren to dote on. Actual babies in her life might keep her from treating her grown children as such. “The last I heard, Will was enjoying his time at Eton, Mother. But even he’s not a baby any longer.”
His mother swatted his arm as though he was an unruly child. “You will always be my babies. Each and every one of you.”
“Do have a care,” he complained, as he kept the little tea tin from Madam Boswell from tumbling from his hand. “Charlotte will be quite put out with me if I spill this all over her rug.” And Lynwood’s grandmother might not be so willing to give him a second dosage.
His mother glanced at his hand, just now noticing the little Gypsy tin. “What in the world is that?” she asked.
“It’s for you, actually. From Madam Boswell. She said you should steep yourself a bit of tea tomorrow night after Banfield’s Yule ball,” he said as he lifted the tea tin out to his mother.
“For me?” she asked, taking the tin and frowning up at him. “She didn’t mention anything of the like when I saw her the other day.”
No, Michael didn’t imagine she had. “Probably just occurred to her this afternoon while we were talking about you.”
“Why were you talking about me?” His mother frowned. “Is something wrong?”
Oh, for God’s sake. She might need some of the Gypsy tea now. “Of course not, Mother,” he replied soothingly. “Tomorrow with the weddings and the ball will probably be overtaxing. Madam Boswell is so considerate, don’t you think?”
“Oh.” His mother nodded in agreement as she held the tea tin closer to her. “It was so lovely of her to think of me.”
And then a familiar bark from the corridor caught Michael’s ears. He glanced over his shoulder to find Oscar the poodle racing right into the parlor, wearing a big red bow on the top of his head. What in the world? The dog stopped right before Michael and barked again.
“What is this?” Michael sunk down to his haunches to inspect the bow that was affixed to the poor poodle’s head. “Have you been behaving yourself, Oscar?”
“Your sister is not happy about him being here,” his mother said in sotto voce, though there was no one else in the parlor to overhear her.
“Has he been a nuisance?” Michael asked.
“Not really,” his mother admitted. “Lynwood’s sisters all seem to adore him, dressing him up and such, but—”
“I suppose that explains the red bow.” Michael pushed back to his full height.
His mother agreed with a nod of her head. “Well, he and Princess don’t really care for each other, and you know, Charlotte prefers her cat.”
Yes, his sister did not care for Oscar. But then neither did Lady Ivy. She’d called the little poodle a horrid dog, hadn’t she? Michael frowned at the sudden thought of the tempting redhead. He probably should have waited until he’d given her a bit of Madam Boswell’s tea before divulging the truth about his future plans. Hindsight. Things were always clearer in hindsight.
“What’s wrong?” His mother looked up at him with such sincerity, but she was the very last person in the world he’d confide in.
Michael shrugged. “It’s nothing, Mother.”
“Come now.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the settee. “I know that look, Michael Timothy Beck. Something is wrong. Tell me what it is.”
Not for all of the tea in China or in that little tea tin, for that matter. If his mother thought for even a second that he was interested in a lady, she’d drive him to the edge of his sanity, wanting every single detail and then she’d make a complete nuisance of herself. “Just annoyed I’ve been reduced to sleeping in Gypsy wagons as my own family could not be counted upon to save a place for me,” he said as he sat. That should properly redirect her.
“If we had known you were coming…”
Oscar hopped up on the settee between them and placed his decorated head onto Michael’s lap. He couldn’t help smiling at the poor little poodle. “You shouldn’t let them do this to you, Oscar,” he said, fingering the red ribbon on the dog’s head. “You’ve got to have some dignity, boy.”
“Interesting advice coming from you.” His oldest brother Anthony rested his shoulder against the doorjamb, and Michael narrowed his eyes on the jackass.
“Just what is that supposed to mean?”
Anthony shrugged. “I do hope I heard incorrectly. Tell me you’re not really calling in all of the debts owed you. At a wedding, of all places.”
Mother gasped at the suggestion.
“What I do and with whom is no concern of yours.”
“Michael!” Their mother grasped his hand. “You haven’t done such a thing, have you? What will people think?”
Michael eyed the little tin of tea once more and for the first time thought there might not be enough lavender and lemon balm in all the world to calm his mother. “Fellows do owe me money. And it is entirely my right to collect what is owed me.”
“But at a wedding…”
Michael retrieved his hands from his mother’s grasp. “It’s as good a time as any. And so many are here, I hardly see the harm.” Then he urged Oscar from his lap and pushed up to his feet. “I’d best be getting back to Keyvnor. Need to make sure my things were sent on to the Gypsy wagon before it gets dark.” Then he started from the parlor.
Just as he was about to brush past his brother, Anthony asked him very quietly, “Have you ever had any dealings with Westbury?”
Good God. Lady Ivy’s brother? Where the devil had that come from? Who in the world was whispering in Anthony’s ear these days? Michael narrowed his eyes on his brother and said, “No. He reminds me too much of you.” And then he did quit Hollybrook Park without so much as a glance back over his shoulder.
Chapter 8
Ivy had barely touched a morsel at dinner. Neither had she been a remarkable conversationalist. In fact, if those around her had tried to ask her anything over dinner, she wasn’t entirely certain that she had answered them or what she’d said if she had. How could she focus on anything other than Lord Michael across the room, or the way he looked at her, or the way his gaze made her feel?
Anxious. Jittery. Warm. Light headed. Heavy hearted. All rolled together until she didn’t know what she felt or even who she was. If only…
Trade. He was going into trade. Just the thought of the horrid word made her stomach roil anew. Why wo
uld he do something so…awful?
The ladies left the gentlemen to indulge in their after-dinner port, and Ivy automatically started for the drawing room along with the others, not that she had any hope of being even the slightest bit entertaining that night. So why was she even going through the motions? She should just head to her own chambers where her odd mood wouldn’t affect anyone else and she could be left to her own thoughts. If Ethan wanted to send for the village doctor, she didn’t care in the least. Maybe the man could even help. Maybe he could give her something that would keep her from thinking about Lord Michael for more than five minutes. She would welcome any sort of reprieve.
She mumbled a quiet, “Good night,” to Frannie and then turned down a corridor to make her escape from the throng.
But she wasn’t alone. That dark sailor ghost stood right in the way of her path, his permanent scowl still affixed to his face. Perhaps he had been a pirate. He did have the scowl for it. Frannie was right about that, but Ivy was not in the mood to deal with the creature.
“Do go away.” She waved her hand through the air. “You are the last thing in the world I have time for.”
“And I thought that was me.” Lord Michael’s voice came from behind her, and Ivy’s breath caught in her throat.
Goodness! Just the sound of his voice…
Lord Michael Beck had a way of frightening her that the pirate ghost could never even come close to doing. She glanced over her shoulder at him and her heart twisted in her chest. “Are you following me?”
“Is that ghost bothering you again?”
“He’s nothing more than a nuisance,” she said, turning around to face Lord Michael directly. He might frighten her, but she was never going to let him know that.
He stepped closer to her in response, and he seemed suddenly to take up much more space in the corridor than was his fair share. “I do hope you don’t think the same about me, my dear.”
A nervous laugh escaped her, which was completely mortifying. Hopefully, he didn’t notice. Blast him for making her so nervous. “Nuisance is not how I would describe you.”
Kissed at Christmas Page 16
