Christmas At Thorncliff Manor (Secrets At Thorncliff Manor Book 4)

by Sophie Barnes

  “You have six siblings.”

  “Who are all fully grown.”

  “Touché.” He allowed the faintest hint of a smile. It tugged at the edge of his lips. “Still, you needn’t worry. Beatrice and Gemma are easy to get along with. I don’t foresee any issues.”

  “Perhaps not,” she said. They reached the dining room and stepped inside. “But you might not like the favor I wish to ask of you in return.”

  Releasing her arm, he moved in order to face her more fully, blocking her from those who were already present at the table: her parents and Rachel. “Name it,” he told her. His hands were clasped behind his back, his head dipped slightly toward her as he spoke in a velvety voice that made her insides turn to goo.

  Bracing herself for his refusal, she met his gaze squarely and said, “Come ice-skating with me later today.” His hesitation, or horror, was instantly apparent in the tightly drawn lines of his face. He opened his mouth, no doubt intent on protesting, so she hastily added, “Please.” She couldn’t fathom why his agreement in this was so important, but the activity was one she’d always enjoyed and perhaps…perhaps if he could find joy in it too, he’d forget the troubles weighing heavily upon his shoulders.

  It took a few seconds, but he eventually nodded. “Very well. I will do it.” And then, in a much quieter voice that almost sounded seductive, he said, “But only because you are the one who is asking.”

  Her heart practically leapt into her throat while her stomach felt as though it was turning into syrup. Silly girl. He was merely being kind and attentive – a proper duke who’d simply addled her brain with his charm. To read more into it was beyond foolish. Especially since he scarcely considered her again during breakfast, his interest entirely captured by her father. He was able to engage Lamont in the sort of conversation she would never be able to enjoy with anyone, since she’d never had a firm understanding of politics. Not that ladies were supposed to discuss such things, but she’d always believed it might be useful to at least comprehend the basics in order to better connect with the man she eventually married. Unfortunately, she’d long since realized that to suppose such a thing would be useless. She simply didn’t have the mind for it.

  Distracting herself with the food, Laura devoured several pieces of bacon, two eggs, and a slice of toast. She was finishing off with a sip of tea when Lamont met her gaze. “Shall we?”

  “The duke has asked me to join him and his charges today,” Laura explained to her parents, who were both looking extremely curious. Rachel paid her no mind, her attention fixed on Lord Belgrave, who’d recently arrived.

  “Then by all means,” her mother said with a bright smile, “you mustn’t let us keep you.”

  Acknowledging the comment with a nod, Laura rose and followed Lamont from the room. “I was thinking,” she said as soon as they were alone once more, “that Beatrice and Gemma might enjoy making Christmas decorations. There are still a few more garlands left to tie with ribbons, and we can also make some paper flowers.”

  “I love how creative you are.”

  His eyes twinkled ever so slightly as he said it, and once again she found herself thinking of him in a different light – in a please-kiss-me-and-I’ll-be-yours-forever kind of light. She had to stop these fanciful notions from creeping into her head. It couldn’t possibly be healthy.

  “This is Lady Laura,” Lamont announced when they entered a sparse room Lady Duncaster had allocated as nursery. There were two sofas, a table, and a carpet on which various games had been strewn about. One of the two girls present was having a marvelous time with a rocking horse. The other lay on her belly, feet kicking in the air, while she drew a picture. Both jumped to attention at the sound of Lamont’s voice.

  Curtsies followed, and then, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” was spoken in unison.

  Laura cast a hesitant glance in the duke’s direction, just in time to see the pleased expression on his face. She gave her attention back to the girls. “It’s a pleasure to make yours.” She stepped further into the room. “I am hoping to join you today, if you’ll let me.” She heard Lamont’s sharp intake of breath as he no doubt prepared to argue her intention to let the girls decide. Her hand reached out and grabbed hold of his arm, and the words he might have spoken immediately died on his lips.

  “That depends,” Beatrice said. She looked Laura critically up and down.

  “On what?” Laura asked.

  “On whether or not you’re any fun.”

  Doing her best to keep a straight face in the light of such an important criteria being pronounced, Laura lowered herself to a squat so she was at eye level with the twins. “I thought we might make Christmas decorations while drinking hot chocolate and eating petit fours.”

  “What are petit fours?” Gemma asked.

  “Little pastries filled with decadent cream and covered in an icing so rich it melts on your tongue.”

  The twins’ eyes gleamed while smiles spread across their eager faces. “That sounds like a brilliant plan,” Beatrice exclaimed, and Gemma nodded.

  “I’m glad you approve,” Laura told them. “I’ll place the order and send word to a footman about the supplies we’ll be requiring.” She rose, her gaze colliding with Lamont’s as she did so, and for a second her feet failed to move in the direction she needed to go. He was looking at her with a mixture of deep respect, gratitude, and… Surely not. For a man as solemn as he to regard a woman like her with such undeniable interest could not be possible. Could it? Her doubts increased as he schooled his features and went to study the picture Gemma had drawn.

  Flustered and feeling terribly flushed, Laura rang for the maid, who arrived soon after. The footman she’d called returned a short while later carrying baskets filled with all kinds of supplies, and pine bundled under one arm. For the next hour, Laura immersed herself in the task of teaching Beatrice and Gemma how to make paper flowers. “They look marvelous,” she told them sincerely when they both managed to produce their first set on their own.

  “Perhaps you can help me with this garland now?” Lamont asked. He’d been told to tie branches of pine together with red silk ribbons. “These bows are proving a nuisance.”

  “Men are terrible at tying bows,” Gemma said. She deftly tied one of her own, attaching one flower to another.

  “Your confidence in my abilities is most endearing,” Lamont told her dryly. The edge of humor to his tone was unmistakable, and when Laura looked at him, she saw he was finally smiling while concentrating on his work.

  She sat beside him on the sofa. “Allow me to assist.”

  “If you’ll hold this together here.” He showed her where with his own hands. “It will make tying it easier.”

  She moved to do what he asked and then paused, aware she wouldn’t be able to grab the loose sprigs without touching him in the process. Swallowing, she edged slightly closer and did as he bade. An immediate spark of pleasure ignited her flesh when her skin brushed against his. His sharp inhale suggested he felt it too. His hands retreated slowly, drawing out the moment of contact until her chest tightened and heat erupted in her veins.

  Unable to look at him for fear of what she might see, she kept her gaze firmly upon the garland they were making. But when he began to wrap the ribbon around it, his fingers invariably touched hers. The feelings they stirred – the unexpected need for greater contact – confounded her. Yes, she wrote of great romance and enduring love, but she had never imagined she would ever feel like this.

  “Thank you,” he murmured while he tied the last bow.

  Licking her lips, Laura tried to quell her frantic nerves. She felt as though she’d been cast into a turbulent storm and was unable to find a foothold. “It was my pleasure,” she told him demurely. What else could she say? To comprehend the effect he’d had on her… She shifted, adding more distance between them, and then hazarded a look at his face. He was watching her closely – so closely it burned.

  “Would it disturb you if…�
�� He paused, broke eye contact for a second before looking at her again. “If I told you I had no intention of accepting Lady Duncaster’s invitation until I discovered you would be here.”

  “But spending Christmas with her has become something of a tradition for you in recent years. Has it not?”

  “Yes, but I was actually planning to celebrate at my own estate this year. I thought it might be fun for Beatrice and Gemma to try planning the festivities. When I heard you would be visiting Thorncliff, however, I couldn’t stay away.”

  The admission was overwhelming. “I don’t know what to say.” The words barely whispered past her lips.

  He winced. “No. I don’t suppose you would.”

  “Your Grace, I cannot think what reason you might have had to—”

  “Can’t you?” He’d grabbed her hand with startling swiftness, his eyes wilder than she’d ever thought possible as he cast a quick glance at the twins, ensuring they were preoccupied with their work, before leaning toward her. “You have my highest regard, my lady, more so after—”

  “Uncle?” Beatrice’s voice stopped him from proceeding. Slowly, he released Laura’s hand and stood, his focus now on his little charges, who were holding up their paper flowers. “What do you think? Aren’t they pretty?”

  “Indeed they are,” he assured them while Laura watched with an ache in her heart. “But not nearly as pretty as you.”

  He might not show pleasure in a physical way, but the duke’s ability to love was very much apparent in his treatment of his nieces. Each received a kiss on the cheek, and his attention never wavered from them while they showed him how each flower was made. And in that moment, Laura felt herself overcome by emotion. This man didn’t love her. How could he, after a few brief encounters? But the possibility for it was there, waiting to be explored.

  Chapter 8

  After parting ways with Lady Laura immediately after luncheon with the promise of reconvening with her on the terrace an hour later, Milton Finigan Hedgewick, Duke of Lamont, enjoyed a quiet reprieve in his bedchamber. Mostly because he needed to clear his head and cool his ardor. Christ! He’d never expected to be so physically attracted to her. Nearing his fortieth year and still consumed by anguish, he would have imagined himself incapable of experiencing such bone deep desire, and yet, she’d stirred a thirst in him that would not be easily quenched.

  It was unsettling since he doubted she felt the same – that she ever would. The age difference was simply too great. He laughed with misery and tossed back the rest of his brandy. Offering her comfort, a prestigious position, and vast amounts of wealth was one thing. Lusting after her would be entirely different. She was unlikely to welcome it while he…He expelled a tortured breath. If only he were ten years younger. Perhaps then he wouldn’t seem quite so old.

  Rising, he pulled on his jacket and went to the door. Maybe he should reconsider his intention to court her. She deserved someone closer to her own age – someone with a happier outlook on life. He, on the other hand, should seek someone else. A widow, perhaps? Reaching the stairs, he paused to consider. No. He’d evaluated every option and decided nobody else would do. Not if he were to think of Beatrice and Gemma and not if he were to marry the woman who drew him in ways no other ever had. His nieces needed a youthful mother with a lively disposition, while he craved her kindness.

  With renewed resolve, Milton wound his way through the maze of hallways that would lead him out to the terrace. But the moment he arrived there and found her waiting, her youthful face so open and trusting, his moral compass began to tremble. Would he truly be able to make her happy?

  “Your Grace?” She must have seen his hesitation, for her smile began to fade.

  “Forgive me.” He strode toward her, the heels of his boots sweeping softly against the snow dusting the terrace like confectioner’s sugar. Reaching her, he stared at her upturned face, his gaze sliding across her rose-colored lips and up to her liquid-blue eyes. “Perhaps we should take a moment to consider the consequence of keeping each other’s company.”

  She didn’t even flinch. Rather, she linked her arm with his and proceeded to walk, leaving him with no other option than to accompany her. “If the lack of a chaperone is your concern, you may rest assured my maid and a footman will be present. They have simply gone ahead in order to set up chairs and blankets for us.”

  “I should have thought of that.”

  “They have also prepared the skates. So unless you intend to break your promise to me…”

  He drew her to a halt and turned her toward him, his heart thudding against the tightening of his chest. “I would not do so without good reason. It is just…” Oh hell! He was going to have to be honest. “My feelings for you are such that it might be best if you kept your distance.”

  This seemed to confuse her. She considered him from beneath a heavy frown. “Whatever do you mean?”

  In all of his eight and thirty years, Milton had never – not once – felt himself blush. How could he possibly tell this innocent creature how much he desired her, of the hunger she instilled in him, that even now as she stood before him covered from head to toe, his fingers itched to rip the clothes from her body? Obviously, he could not.

  “I am in need of a wife,” he told her bluntly, because really, there was no point in denying the fact. “And I had set my sights on you – hence my reason for seeking your company and wishing to watch you interact with Beatrice and Gemma.”

  “You were interviewing me?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the whole debacle. “But I have since reconsidered.”

  “You have?” Her voice sounded weak.

  “I cannot deny my attraction to you or how well you would suit as a mother for Beatrice and Gemma. You have been on my mind since the first time I met you in London last spring. But I fear it would be selfish of me to pursue you in earnest. You deserve a younger man by your side, not someone you’ll eventually have to nurse.”

  Raising her eyebrows, she addressed him with measured words as she quietly asked, “Are you sickly now?”

  “No, but it’s a fair guess that half of my life is behind me.”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed. Her eyes rested on his, and then she abruptly turned and resumed walking. “Are you coming?”

  Blinking, Milton hurried after her. “My lady, I—”

  “Laura, if you please.”

  The informality shook him to his core. He tested the name, allowing it to slide across his tongue with quiet reverence. “Laura.” Quickening his pace, he reached her side and grabbed hold of her arm so he could guide her down the steps toward the lawn below. “Did you not hear what I said?”

  “What I heard, Your Grace, is that you wish to court me, but that you’re afraid I’ll be unhappy if we choose to marry. You think making me your duchess would suit everyone except for me, and so you have decided to spare me. Is that the gist of it?” Reaching a graveled path, they continued toward the lake, where the servants could be seen waiting for them.

  “Yes. I suppose it is.” He drew her closer, inhaling her scent of jasmine as he did so. It made his senses come alive with a sharp awareness that did little to lessen his interest in her.

  “As noble as your concerns may be, I would like the opportunity to make my own choices for my future.” She tipped her nose up, her cheeks pinking in response to the chilly breeze. “I may not be more than twenty, but I do know my own mind, and although you may wish to convince me that you are an ancient fossil–” He coughed, receiving a frank stare in return. “—with nothing but misery to offer, I disagree.”

  They arrived at the spot where the chairs had been placed. She took a seat, as did he, his eyes settling on the pair of skates waiting at his feet. Did he really have to do this? Laura certainly wasn’t hesitating. She was already strapping one onto her right foot. “How can you so easily dismiss our difference in age?” He reluctantly reached for one of the skates and started putting it on. �
�It may not be so apparent now, but it will become so as we grow older.”

  “You assume a great deal, Your Grace.”

  “Milton.” He glanced hastily in her direction before starting on the other skate. “If I am to address you by your Christian name, then you must do the same with me.”

  “Very well then, Milton.” She stood, even as he did his best not to fall apart at the sound of her speaking his name with such care and respect. And then she was suddenly crouched before him, helping him with his skate in an intimate way he ought to prevent but could not bring himself to do. “You have your worries, and I have mine. For one thing, I fear I would not be refined enough. My fingers are always stained by ink. There’s really no preventing it, given my passion for writing. And as much as I wish I could talk about politics with you, I fear myself incapable of it. So then, perhaps it is I who should spare you from having to endure a messy simpleton.”

  He stared at her, dumbfounded by her admission. “You cannot possibly believe such things would bother me.”

  “Do they not?”

  “No.” He reached for her hand, turning it over in his while he stared down at the dark blotches marking her skin. “And I would never ask you to give up your writing. Rather, I would encourage it.”

  The smile she gave him in response was magical. It pulled him to her, so close he could see the deeper shades of violet darkening the edges of her eyes. “Then let us dispense with this conversation and focus on compatibility instead. For one thing,” she said, helping him to his feet, “the man I marry must be able to skate.”

  “Surely you jest?”

  A laugh escaped her. “Of course I do.” Linking her arm with his, she guided him toward the edge of the lake. “Try to keep your balance as well as possible.”