by Diane Farr
“If it’s artistic ability that’s wanted, I fancy we should rely upon cousin Celia,” he said, ignoring the stiffness that immediately afflicted his sister when everyone’s attention veered to Celia. “What say you, cousin? Have you a plan?”
“Well,” said Celia, looking very serious, “I think our efforts would best be spent on the double staircase.”
They turned as one to study the staircase. It was a beautiful creation, sweeping down from the gallery in two graceful curves, one on either side of the hall.
Elizabeth laughed affectedly. “Heavens! Do you really think the Grand Staircase can be improved upon?”
Her tone implied indulgent amusement at the very idea. Celia blushed and dropped her eyes, and Jack had to bite his tongue to keep from saying something pretty sharp to his snob of a sister. “It can certainly be made to look more Christmasy,” he avowed, looking daggers at Elizabeth. An idea seized him. “I say, why don’t we team up? Celia and I will take one side of the staircase, and you two take the other.”
“Very well,” said Blenhurst equably. It was impossible to tell if he was disappointed or pleased to be assigned willy-nilly to Elizabeth.
And what did Celia think? Jack searched her face with covert anxiety, trying to discern whether she had hoped to be paired with Blenhurst. Not a clue did he discover. He wished she would show some sort of emotion, whether of pleasure or dismay, at the idea that she must spend the next half hour or so solely in Jack’s company. She did not, however. She looked maddeningly serene. Perfectly indifferent, in fact.
Jack cursed himself for his shortsightedness. Had he suggested that they team up and then waited to see how matters fell out naturally, he might have learned something worth knowing.
His ruminations were cut short when he was called upon to lift a stack of evergreen boughs and carry them to the banister that he and Celia would decorate. Since not only Jack but also Blenhurst had deferred to her artistic judgment, Celia had been placed nominally in command. Elizabeth looked pretty sour at this arrangement, but was managing to swallow her spleen rather than appear shrewish.
The plan proposed was that the men would place evergreen boughs along the banisters and the ladies would follow with twine, scissors and red ribbon, securing the boughs with the twine once the men had placed them, and then tying a swath of wide red ribbon over the twine to hide it. Since the plan was Celia’s, Elizabeth and Blenhurst would watch how she and Jack did it before beginning, in an effort to ensure that the two sides of the staircase would match.
Jack carried his assigned armload of fragrant boughs to the sweep of stairs to the right, Celia following in his wake, and set them carefully on the third step.
“Very well, ma’am,” he said, bowing. “I am at your service.”
“Thank you, Lord Lynden,” she said demurely. The sparkle was returning to her eyes now that they were beginning the task. She eyed the stack of boughs earnestly, tapping one finger absently against her teeth.
“This one, and this,” she said at last, pointing. Jack lifted up the branches she had indicated, smiling at her eagerness. “Do you set them together atop the banister, here—no, a bit lower—we must arrange it so the end of the branch curves down over the end of the banister and hides the newel post. Oh, very pretty!” And Celia quickly wrapped the twine round the center of the branch to hold it tightly in place. Jack held the twine for her while she snipped it with the scissors and tied a knot. She then took a length of red ribbon and tied it deftly over the twine. He watched, fascinated, as Celia tied an elaborate bow. When she frowned in concentration, he noticed, she caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth. Jack found the habit enchanting. Finally she stepped back to display her handiwork to Elizabeth and Blenhurst, who were loitering at the foot of the stairs.
“That’s the most beautiful bow I’ve ever seen,” exclaimed Jack admiringly.
Elizabeth looked a bit dismayed when she saw Celia’s perfect bow. She gave a nervous little laugh. “I am not certain I can tie a bow quite like that.”
Celia’s smile was swift and sweet. “Everyone’s style differs a bit,” she said agreeably. “It won’t matter. We can go back later and make them match if we wish.”
There was not the slightest implication in Celia’s tone that her own artistry might in any way be superior to Elizabeth’s—only different. Jack’s heart swelled with admiration for his little cousin’s tact and generosity. Really, she was the dearest thing …he had to catch himself up short and remind himself that he was not yet sure of her motives or her honesty. Why was it so hard to keep that dreary fact in mind?
Elizabeth and Blenhurst removed to the opposite end of the hall to begin on their own branch of the staircase, and Jack had Celia to himself at last. Would she show any emotion now? Would he be able, finally, to determine what she thought? They were standing so close to one another, he could smell the fragrance of soap in her hair. He even fancied he could feel warmth radiating from her skin. Their hands were ungloved, and would touch from time to time when they began their slow ascent, arranging and tying branches as they went. It all struck Jack as extremely intimate. Not only their close proximity, but the very act of uniting in a shared project, creating something beautiful with their four hands. His heart seemed to beat foolishly faster at the prospect. Would Celia feel the least bit nervous, or exhilarated, or shy of him?
If she did, she did not show it.
Jack, observing Celia’s placid face and steady hands, began to feel a bit annoyed. Well, if she was going to be so maddeningly composed, he’d be damned if he would let her see how her nearness affected him. He had one advantage, at least, in being able to watch her closely—for the most part, her hands were busy while his were idle. Studying her downcast face, therefore, he tried to engage her in conversation.
“Do you know, cousin, last year our only celebration of Christmas was the actual feast itself? And, of course, worship in the morning. We haven’t done any hanging of the green for years.”
Celia looked surprised. “Really? How sad. Do you exchange gifts at all?”
“No. We give something to the servants and tenants, of course, on Boxing Day.”
She looked up from the knot she was tying and shot him a mischievous glance. “Well, I’m glad to hear that, actually, since I haven’t the wherewithal to give anything worth having.”
Jack’s eyebrows flew up. “Nonsense. What about your sketches? Those would be well worth having. Next year, we shall give you sufficient warning and you can do all our portraits for Christmas.”
He was pleased with himself for thinking of that. It would be wonderful to know that Celia was preparing some sort of Christmas gift for him. It would give him an excuse to shower her with presents of his own. And since no monetary value could be placed on a portrait sketch, he could spend whatever he liked on her, buy her any number of things—and she could not refuse to accept his largesse, because he could insist that her gift to him was more valuable than all of his put together.
The pleasant daydream was interrupted when he noticed Celia’s silence. A shadow seemed to have fallen across her face. “Oh, I see,” he said ruefully. “You don’t want my family to know about your sketching. But surely they are your family now, too? Buck up, Celia! I believe I can safely promise you that they would all be pleased to sit for their portraits—only think how it ministers to one’s vanity.” He grinned. “And that same vanity will ensure that they will never, ever, make a fuss over you, no matter how brilliant the results. So you see, you have nothing to fear.”
But Celia looked even more grave than before. She did smile at him, but the smile did not reach her eyes. “Let us enjoy this Christmas before looking to the next, shall we? Anything can happen between now and then.” She paused, looking down at her hands as they snipped a thread. “Why, I may not even be here next Christmas,” she said lightly.
“What do you mean?” Jack tried to laugh. “Where do you plan to go?”
Celia looked as if she wi
shed she had not spoken. “Oh, nowhere!” she said quickly. “Nowhere at all.” Her smile was definitely strained, and her eyes failed to meet his. “I daresay I shall be here at Delacourt. After all, where else would I go?”
But now that she was saying what should be the truth, Jack had the uneasy feeling that she believed it to be an untruth.
He frowned. An unpleasant suspicion tugged at the edges of his mind. He glanced at Blenhurst across the room, soberly assisting Elizabeth as she struggled with her spool of ribbon. Did Celia expect—or at least hope—to marry next year? Is that why she would not be spending next Christmas at Delacourt? He could think of no other reason why she would leave. She certainly had, as she herself had pointed out, no other home.
But if she needed a home, Blenhurst’s estate would suit the purpose admirably. Normally such a matrimonial prize would never look twice at an unpretentious girl in deep mourning. But Celia had noticed His Grace’s loneliness. She might very well have gauged the situation correctly; Blenhurst could be vulnerable.
Jack felt a deep and thunderous scowl gathering on his features as he listened, in stony silence, to the gentle flow of Celia’s conversation. She had regained her composure and was chatting inconsequentially of Christmas in general, of how pleasant it was to maintain traditions, and of—incredibly—the weather. The weather! That sent a real pang through Jack. It was unbearable. She might be conversing with anyone. A complete stranger.
Good God, how had she become so important to him in such a short time? Why did it hurt when she behaved toward him as any young lady of three days’ acquaintance would?
Jack maintained his unhelpful silence as he backed slowly up the stairs, handing evergreen boughs to Celia as they were needed, pressing his finger onto the crossed twine so she could pull it taut, holding the ends of the ribbon while she tied her impossibly perfect bows. He would listen to her polite blatherings for as long as he could tolerate them, he promised himself, and then, if she did not put an end to this nonsense, by George, he would. He had never been good at guessing games, and the stakes of this particular game had become unexpectedly high.
Chapter 16
On the other side of the room, the Duke of Blenhurst was also having to listen to superficial conversation, and liking it no better than Lord Lynden did. His grave courtesy, so ingrained in him that it was second nature, enabled him to listen politely and respond appropriately, however, even while his thoughts were busy elsewhere. He knew Elizabeth was as well-trained as he himself was, so whether she paid any more attention to their discussion of inanities than he did was anyone’s guess.
He lifted and placed the evergreen boughs, smiled and chatted, and watched his companion as she did the same.
She was a striking female, he thought. Tall and slender and graceful, with a white skin and dark hair that made her stand out in any crowd. There was a cool elegance about her that had always appealed to him. It was the sort of beauty that would age well, too. It was in her bones, like the beauty of a statue. Her pedigree was faultless, her fortune substantial, and her behavior consistently above reproach. She was, in fact, the quintessential woman of breeding. A man would be proud indeed to win her.
He admired her. And they were very alike, of course; they had everything in common. Lady Elizabeth Delacourt was an obvious choice, a perfect match—she had always been that.
Three years ago, it had not been enough. Now it was. Now, he would settle for a woman he admired and understood. He would settle for suitability. A perfect match was what he wanted. A perfect wife who would provide him with a perfect heir. During the Season, he and Elizabeth would be the perfect couple, the envy of the ton. During the rest of the year, they would retire to their perfect estate and lead a well-ordered, calm and perfect life surrounded by their perfect children.
Esther’s face floated briefly in his memory, imperfect and adorable. He pushed the painful image away. It did no good to think of his lost love. Comparisons were useless. Besides, the two women were as different as night from day. And that was a good thing. That was a very good thing. It would be terrible to live with anyone who reminded him of Esther, and yet was not Esther. He could imagine no worse torture.
Elizabeth did not remind him of Esther at all.
She accidentally dropped the spool of ribbon, interrupting his reverie, and it bounced merrily down the steps behind them. Since she was in the act of wrapping it round the banister when she dropped it, the spool unraveled ribbon as it went, and when it hit the marble floor it raced eagerly away, trailing a wide stripe of Christmas red all across the hall.
Blenhurst immediately gave chase. This caught the attention of Lord Lynden and Miss Delacourt, who cheered and applauded, so when he caught up the spool he held it aloft like a prize he had caught, then bowed with mock solemnity. However, when he began rewinding the rebellious ribbon onto its spool, he noticed that Elizabeth was not amused. She stood stiffly where he had left her, holding her end of the ribbon. Her cheeks were bright pink, and her face had taken on that pinched, vexed expression she wore from time to time. She looked mortified.
Blenhurst grew thoughtful. By the time he had wound the ribbon up to where Elizabeth stood, her angry flush had diminished. Still, she did not meet his eyes as she took the spool from him.
“Thank you,” she said woodenly. “So clumsy of me! I beg your pardon.”
He touched her hand, causing her to raise startled eyes to his. He smiled rather whimsically at her. “There is no need to beg my pardon, you know.” The flush instantly returned to her cheeks. “Ah,” he said quietly. “You don’t know. I wondered if that might be so.”
She gave a completely artificial laugh. “You are all consideration, Eugene.”
“I am nothing of the kind. But—forgive me if I speak too plainly—I have noticed that you are rather hard on yourself, Elizabeth. More so now than when I knew you previously, I think. I wonder why that is?”
She looked dumbfounded, as if she could not believe that he would do anything so rude, so unprecedented, as to confront her with a personal remark. “Hard on myself?” she repeated, with a polite, puzzled smile. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
She was obviously waiting for the explanation that would reveal that his remark had not been personal at all. He had to fight a craven impulse to give her what she expected—but he had, in fact, meant the remark personally. And having taken the risk, he would not retreat into empty platitudes again.
“You seem, to me, to set impossibly high standards for yourself,” he said carefully. “And you become vexed when you display any imperfection, however slight. This constant vigilance makes it difficult for you to have fun, I think.”
She actually looked frightened. They were entering uncharted waters now, and she knew it. “Fun? Why—that is for children.”
“Perhaps I expressed myself poorly. Surely you don’t believe that enjoyment of life is suitable only for children?”
He watched her closely. This was the most personal conversation they had ever had, and he suspected it was the most personal conversation Elizabeth had had with any man. It was important to know whether she would allow his approach, or whether she would immediately retreat and freeze him out.
It was an obvious struggle for her. He had caught her off guard with his directness, just as he had last night during those few moments in the drawing room. She looked to be at a complete loss. He understood very well the rigid training she was battling; he had received the same training. Her first instinct must surely have been to withdraw, offer him a well-bred reproof, and keep him at a distance. Three years ago, he was sure, that was exactly what she would have done.
Today, however, something was giving her pause. He had never before glimpsed uncertainty or indecision in the precise and self-assured Lady Elizabeth Delacourt. But there they were, in every line of her tense shoulders and troubled face. He spoke again, before she could regain her balance.
“Elizabeth, in all the years I have known you, I canno
t recall a single instance where you have displayed genuine pleasure. So far as I know, there is no activity you enjoy for its own sake, and no person you deeply care for. I think that very hard—very hard indeed. And self-inflicted, I believe.”
She turned away from him, instinctively trying to hide her face, but he caught at her elbow and prevented her escape. She stilled, not trying to break his light grip, and not protesting it. He must speak now, he sensed, or never. He pressed urgently on, watching her averted face.
“You think me uncomfortably frank. But I have learned something in the years we have spent apart, Elizabeth. I have learned that frankness is necessary between persons who desire any sort of intimacy—whether of marriage or friendship. In fact, intimacy is not achievable without it. And I have also learned that intimacy—whether of marriage or friendship—is a valuable thing, well worth a little risk. Worth even a little embarrassment.”
She finally raised her eyes to his again. They were filled with a sort of desperate wariness, as if she were struggling to overcome her ingrained doubt and suspicion.
He offered her an encouraging smile. “You are right to pause. Frankness is a dangerous thing,” he said softly. “If you snub me now, for example, I shall feel extraordinarily silly.”
An unwilling smile tugged at her mouth. “I will not snub you, I hope. But I do not know what to say.”
“Tell me whether I am near the mark. Is it true? Do you become vexed with yourself over trifles?”
She frowned, seeming to speak with an effort. “Perhaps I do. I have no sense of humor, you know.”
He nodded. “I have observed that, I think. My own sense of the ridiculous is not particularly keen, but I have taken pains to develop it. It does add to one’s appreciation of life, to have a good laugh now and then.”
“I thought one either had it or did not. Is it possible to develop a sense of humor?”
