He followed the direction of her finger. Rabbit tracks marked a trail through the undergrowth. Almost hidden beneath a bush, a thin wire circle appeared between the bare twigs. A snare, but so far the rabbits seemed to have escaped the noose. “No, they use rifles for deer.”
“I haven’t yet heard a gunshot on one of my walks, even when the earl was holding a shooting party. Ah, there we are.” Her strides lengthened as she made for a dense row of bushes.
Bright red berries dotted curling green leaves, their color in defiance of the surrounding wintry grays and whites. From the basket she carried over her arm, she produced a pair of secateurs and snipped off a few branches. Then she turned from her task to contemplate him.
The corners of her mouth stretched with humor. “It’s a good thing I brought my basket, else we’d have to make crowns of holly and carry them home on our heads.”
He shook off his misgivings. “Would you have me decked out like Father Christmas?”
“Or the Lord of Misrule.” Her impish smile widened into a promise of sin and pleasure.
“I’ll give you misrule.”
He gave in to temptation and reached for her, his hands grasping her by the waist. Her basket swung from her arm, its contents threatening to spill onto the frozen ground.
She responded with a yelp that turned into a throaty laugh as he pulled her closer. The cold had brought out a becoming bloom of pink across her cheeks. He dipped his head, but the instant before their lips touched, a great quantity of something cold and wet slipped down the back of his neck.
With a roar, he sprang back. The lump of snow only slipped farther down his spine. “Good God, woman. I’d expect someone as well bred and quiet as you to play fair.”
She laughed again, and despite the cold dousing, the sound spiked straight to his groin. “Goodness, what do you think I did? I cannot control the wind or even the trees if they decide to drop their weight of snow.”
“I call the timing of the action rather suspect.”
“Think what you will, I had nothing to do with that. This, on the other hand . . .” Quick as lightning, she scooped up a handful of snow and lobbed it at him. It splattered across his chest.
“If that’s the way you wish to play it, I shall demand satisfaction.” He bent and prepared his own weapon.
As the projectile left his hand, she ducked before coming back to stand with her own handful of snow and a wicked glint in her eye. “Satisfaction, is it?”
The battle was on, snowballs flying fast and furious. Like a pair of children, they pelted each other, Lady Worthington’s shrieks breaking the silence of the woods. By the third time she got him in the face, he was forced to admit that this woman, one whom he’d thought perfectly well brought up and even on the quiet side, possessed not only a surprisingly forceful arm but also a deadly aim.
Right. He was going to have to change tactics if he expected to emerge from this encounter with his pride intact. Though the action meant eating more snow, he worked his way closer, defending against her onslaught all the while. When he was near enough, he lunged, pinioning her arms.
“Now who’s not playing fair?” Her eyes were bright, her cheeks red, her mouth lush and inviting.
“Didn’t Cervantes have something to say about that?” He caught his breath and pulled her nearer. “Love and war are all one. It is lawful to use sleights and stratagems to attain the wished end.”
She gaped for a moment before pulling her lower lip between her teeth. “And which is this?”
Damn it all, he wasn’t prepared to face a question like that, not with his blood practically singing with emotion. He couldn’t have named the last time he’d had fun with a woman, though. Not like this; perhaps not ever. Not something that was pure innocence.
The frigid air, the laughter, the merriment—complete honesty would force him to admit this wasn’t as good as bedding a woman. But with this particular woman, these things merely made him want to bed her more, if only to hear her sigh and cry out the way she had just now. If only to experience her intensity in the midst of battle in a far more intimate setting.
The devil take those feelings that had prodded him to act the idiot and quote Don Quixote.
“Can it be a little of both?” he hedged.
She struggled against his grip, her hand coming out to smack him on the shoulder.
“War, definitely,” he confirmed. “Why don’t you tell me where you learned to fight like that?”
“I have a brother.” A tendril of dark hair had worked its way from beneath her bonnet to straggle down her cheek. “I thought you were aware. I had to learn out of self-preservation.”
“Ah, but did he teach you to preserve yourself against this?” He lowered his lips, but, once more, fate stood in his way.
Another snowball hit him on the side of the head, and this time, it couldn’t have come from her. Or from the branches above.
Chapter Four
PATIENCE STEPPED BACK. Kingsbury was scrubbing snow out of his right eye, but the culprit’s identity concerned her more. She looked beyond his shoulder. The snowball had come from somewhere over there.
A bush rustled, and the sound of muffled laughter met her ears. Or had she imagined it?
“Who’s there?” she called. “Show yourself.”
The branches stilled. She strode over to investigate. A young boy huddled among the twigs and dried leaves left over from the previous autumn.
“Jamie.” She crossed her arms. “Up you get.”
His gap-toothed smile faded, and he straightened. At the sight of his sunken cheeks and ragged clothes that hung loosely on his thin frame, Patience’s heart swelled.
Still, she forced her brows into as stern a line as she could manage. “What do you think you’re about?”
He stole a wary glance at Kingsbury before replying. “Beggin’ yer pardon, me lady, but yer scarin’ off th’ rabbits.”
The snare. Of course. Lowering herself to the child’s level, she softened her tone. “Don’t tell me you were trying to catch Christmas dinner.”
As bad as the season had been, the notion should hardly shock her. Ever since the previous summer—or, more accurately, what had passed for summer, since the weather had refused to warm—rain and frost and all manner of disasters had led to crop failures across England. Beggars were common. The poor in the cities were starving.
Before setting out for her brother’s estate, Patience had sent what food she could spare to the Worthington tenants, but clearly supplies hadn’t been sufficient.
Jamie stared at the snow-covered ground. “Ain’t nothin’ t’ catch.”
“And you’re not helping matters by adding to the commotion,” Patience pointed out. If the boy meant to snare something for his supper, he needed to rethink his strategy.
“Who have we here?” Kingsbury came to a halt next to Patience.
“Jamie belongs to one of the tenants.” She straightened. “And Jamie, I believe you owe the duke an apology.”
The boy’s face blanched. “Duke?”
“Yes, this is His Grace, the Duke of Kingsbury, and you’ve hit him with a snowball.”
“It weren’t any less than you were doin’.”
Patience’s lips twitched, but she refused to let them stretch into a smile. “That was different. If we were having a snowball battle, it was by mutual agreement.”
“Was it?” Blast Kingsbury and his confounded eyebrow. “I don’t recall any particular negotiations about the terms of our snowball battle. It just happened. In fact, you started it.”
She glared at him. “I did not.”
Jamie sniggered.
Kingsbury crossed his arms, but his blue eyes twinkled. “I am prepared to listen to your excuses. I will consider them at my leisure and let you know if they’re acceptable.”
The
urge rose in her to reach for another handful of snow. Instead, she dropped into an exaggerated curtsy. “I most humbly beg your pardon if my behavior has not met with your standards. I shall endeavor to comport myself with the strictest decorum in the future.”
Kingsbury cleared his throat. “I don’t know if it’s necessary to take matters quite that far.”
Good Lord but the man knew what it took to call a blush to her cheeks. A piercing look, a certain tone, and the heat rose from deep inside her.
Jamie tugged at her skirts. His eyes were round, his brow puckered. “I can’t say all them fancy words.”
“That’s quite all right, my lad,” Kingsbury said. “I shall consider the matter closed, unless Lady Worthington decides to fire another salvo.”
Patience pressed her lips together. “The proper reply is ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ ” she prompted.
Jamie eyed Kingsbury. “What is it that makes ye a duke, er, Yer Grace?”
“An accident of birth.”
Patience looked sharply at the duke, but he concentrated on Jamie, his expression giving away nothing. Still, her chest tightened with something that felt suspiciously like hope. She forced her mind to call up an image of Linnet.
Guard your heart. Yes, she had to. If only she could.
She shook off the moment. Her basket lay where she’d dropped it in favor of a snowball fight. The sprigs of holly she’d already gathered were spread over the ground. “Jamie, how would you like some hot chocolate?”
The boy’s eyes widened for a moment, sparking with the same sort of longing Patience had just tamped down, but then he schooled his features. Lord, but he was too young to know how to do that. “I can’t. Me mum told me not t’ come home without Christmas dinner.”
Her heart swelled further, but for a completely different reason. The situation was more desperate than she realized if his family had gone through the food she’d given them a few days ago. “Well.” She strove to inject a note of cheer into her tone. “Why don’t I give you a job and see if you can’t earn something for dinner?”
His jaw dropped, and the hope returned, along with a healthy measure of joy. “What do ye need me t’ do?”
“You can start by collecting this holly.” She gestured toward her abandoned basket. “And if you know where to find me a few pinecones, that won’t go amiss either.” She handed him her secateurs. “And if you’re very careful, you can cut me some evergreen boughs.”
He brightened, and with an excited “Yes, me lady,” he took up her basket and darted into the deeper woods.
Kingsbury stepped closer—she sensed his presence as much as anything. “That was well done of you.”
The sheer admiration that rang through his voice provoked a wave of heat, both inside and out. If he didn’t stop, one way or another, he was going to make her melt the snow, but then, of course, he’d be free to leave.
Another step and he lifted her chin, compelling her to meet his gaze. “Have I embarrassed you?”
“No.” That came out too forcefully, and her cheeks warmed further.
“You’ve no reason to feel bad, you know.” He shook his head slightly. “Damn it, but my sister was wrong about you. All wrong.”
“Please, I’d rather not talk about her.” The last thing she needed was for thoughts of his sister—his family—to intrude on their little interlude. As long as they stayed at the dower house, it was like they’d stolen this slice of time together.
“Yes, you’re right,” he muttered. A furrow formed between his brows, and he looked away.
He might have said more, but Jamie ran out of the trees, shouting. Evergreen branches trailed over the side of the brimming basket, and pinecones spilled out to mark his path.
Patience smiled at the boy. “Now you can come into the house and help us make something of all this.”
THE WORTHINGTON DOWER house greeted them with succulent scents wafting from the kitchen below stairs. Spices, meat, butter, baking. At the mingled aroma, Nathaniel’s stomach growled.
A similar rumble came from Jamie.
They took their bounty into the sitting room, where Lady Worthington’s maid sat by the fire, a sock forming under her rapidly clicking knitting needles.
“Good Lord,” Lady Worthington said. “Does Jane think we’re having His Majesty’s army to Christmas dinner?”
The maid cast a look in Nathaniel’s direction. “Jane is under the impression His Grace requires a sumptuous repast. She’s been fluttering around all morning making all manner of things.”
Nathaniel cleared his throat. “I can assure you I require no one to go to any bother on my account, but since it’s been done”—he nodded in Jamie’s direction—“I’m certain we can put the spare food to good use.”
Lady Worthington graced him with a smile that set her entire face alight. “That is an excellent idea. Would you ask Jane to set something aside for young Jamie here to carry home? And while you’re at it, ask if it would be too much trouble to send up some hot chocolate?”
The maid bustled out. Before long, Lady Worthington had installed Jamie at a small table with a needle and thread and asked him to string holly and berries along the length. She settled herself beside the boy and began to form pinecones into a complicated pattern.
“Don’t think you can just stand there and oversee.” She sent Nathaniel a sharp glance. “You may be a duke, but you can lend a hand.”
He watched her wield her needle. “I doubt I possess the required skills.”
“Nonsense. You can string berries along with Jamie.”
And so the afternoon passed with holly and evergreens and pinecones formed into garlands, while they gorged themselves on fluffy scones washed down with generous amounts of hot chocolate. At some point Lady Worthington began humming a carol, and it wasn’t long before everyone else joined in. The day outside was beginning to grow dark when they sent Jamie on his way bearing a basket of food, some extra decorations, and a pair of the maid’s woolen socks for good measure.
Lady Worthington stood arranging some evergreens over the mantel. While she adjusted each branch just so, she crooned under her breath, “ ‘Now the holly bears a berry as white as the milk.’ ”
“I wonder where that comes from,” Nathaniel said. “Holly berries are red. Mistletoe, on the other hand . . . those berries are white.”
“Well, we haven’t got any mistletoe, it seems. Not unless Jane collected some in the autumn and laid it aside without telling me.”
He crossed to stand next to her. The heat from the hearth warmed him through, but the lady standing next to him sparked an altogether different flame within. She had from their very first meeting.
He curled his fingers about her waist. “Would I be horribly in breach of tradition if I kissed you without mistletoe?”
She folded her hands in front of her and looked down. “Perhaps. I would like you to explain something to me, though.”
“What’s that?” He leaned closer to breathe her in. She smelled clean, like the outdoors, fresh as the pine boughs they’d brought into the house.
“What you said to Jamie earlier about being a duke by accident.”
“It is an accident, don’t you think?” He sighed. He normally endured his burden without complaint, but suddenly the weight bore down on his shoulders. “Jamie didn’t ask to be the son of a poor tenant any more than I asked to be a duke.”
She looked up at him, her gaze steady. Her eyes reflected the flames like the sparks from emeralds. “Or any more than I asked to be the daughter of a simple country baron.”
“That boy may possess nothing in the way of wealth, but do you realize he has something that I don’t?”
“What’s that?”
“A choice.” He stepped back and raked a hand through his hair. Frustration exploded in his gut. “Someday that boy is going t
o grow up and wish to marry a maid. He’ll be allowed to pick someone to his liking and not have to worry if she’ll be acceptable to his family.” He tried but failed to keep the bitterness from his voice. “And do you know who will stand in his way? No one.”
She stood very still, watching him carefully. Gaging his every reaction, if he didn’t miss his guess. “Unlike us.”
Yes, Lady Worthington had married elsewhere, but only due to his own lack of courage. He might have prevented that if only he’d defied his family’s wishes. And perhaps he’d listened to his sister once too often. “She doesn’t really care for you. She only wants to be styled Your Grace,” Diana had told him more than once.
He hadn’t wanted to believe his sister, but when he’d returned from Italy to learn the young lady he’d courted was now a countess married to a much older man, the news had struck a painful blow. Was she so desperate for a title that she’d consign herself to a life of unhappiness?
But then he might have suspected that any woman who showed an interest in him longed only to become a duchess. And faced with Lady Worthington now, he still didn’t wish to believe her to be merely after status. Had that been the case, she surely wouldn’t have holed herself away in the country all these years.
“It’s my fault,” he admitted. “All of it. My family didn’t approve of my choice, and to my everlasting regret, I let them sway my opinion.”
“Was your wife so bad, then?” Lady Worthington asked the question with more gentleness than he deserved.
“She was perfect.” At least according to his family. Perfect reputation, perfect connections, perfect manners, perfect breeding. “I hardly knew her.”
The wedding had followed fast on his return from the continent. He’d considered it a blessing when Olivia had discovered she was increasing so soon after the wedding, a sign of hope for the future and for his marriage. Perhaps in time he might even forget the country chit whose mere touch had electrified him, whose face he’d seen every time he’d bedded his wife. But there, he’d failed, and the childbed had robbed him of a second chance—with Olivia, at least.
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