by Mary Balogh
Perhaps the gentleman had merely meant that he wished her to say no more so that the Christmas gift would be a surprise. Perhaps that was what he had meant and why he had sounded so chilly when he had said, “Indeed?” Perhaps after all he was going to be her papa.
Her mother took her firmly by the hand.
Lord Heath halfheartedly supervised the decoration of his hall and his music room the next day. Really, he conceded, his servants were quite efficient and needed no direction from him at all. But the idea of decorating for Christmas had struck him just yesterday morning as a good one. Although his concert was an annual event, it had never before come within two days of Christmas. He might as well make it a suitably festive occasion.
The thought had quite buoyed him up. He had forgotten for a moment that his very reason for remaining in town this year was so that he might avoid Christmas altogether. After all, he had thought, there would be children present at his concert this year. Children would appreciate some of the atmosphere of Christmas. He had forgotten too that he had remained in London so that he might avoid children.
This morning he was feeling irritable. And sorry that he had decided to make the connection between the concert and Christmas. And sorry about a number of other things. That he had not gone to visit Lucy last night, for example. He had intended to go. He had sent word to her. He had got ready to go. He had even left the house. But at the last moment he had rapped on the front panel of his carriage and instructed his coachman to take him to White’s instead. It had been almost deserted so close to the holiday and he had spent a tedious evening and come home early to lie awake half the night staring at the canopy above his bed. Perhaps he would have felt better this morning if he had spent the night in Lucy’s bed, even if it had been an equally sleepless night. At least his sleeplessness would have been more productive and infinitely more pleasurable.
She had more than a lovely face—he was not thinking of Lucy. She had thick and shining chestnut hair, whose glory she disguised but could not quite hide in a careful chignon. She was not slender. Neither was she fat or even buxom. She had a mature woman’s full and shapely figure, and she carried herself proudly and gracefully. He had noticed her beauty and appreciated it during the morning visit to her home with the vicar of her church—he was a connoisseur of female beauty as well as of music. He had noticed it again during the afternoon. He had even felt a stirring of the loins for her—he was a perfectly normal male after all. She would undoubtedly be satisfying to bed.
What he had not noticed was any personal emotion toward her. Not, that was, until that strange and impudent child had said what she had—and how foolish he felt to remember that he had been somewhat touched by her lack of fear of him, almost honored by her raising her arms to be picked up, and charmed by her innocent curiosity about his whiskers.
She wanted a new papa for Christmas. And she had someone in mind. The Widow Berlinton was being courted, then, by a gentleman wise enough to court her children also. And he must be very close to success if the child hoped to net him as a papa by Christmas. The widow was about to remarry. Fortunate man!
But that had not been Lord Heath’s first thought. His first thought had been of another man’s hands releasing and burying themselves in that glorious hair and of another man’s body lying atop hers, pleasuring both her and himself. It was a thought so unexpected and so startling—and so mortifying—that he had indulged it for several seconds before ruthlessly suppressing it.
But not quite in time. He had made himself irritable and restless and he had done a somewhat foolish thing considering the fact that she was about to remarry. He had assured her that the boy would need another rehearsal this afternoon. He had mastered both the acoustics of the room and his own nervousness and had sung even more beautifully than Lord Heath had expected, but the day of the concert would bring fresh nerves to so young a child. He must come back, then, to accustom himself to the atmosphere, to settle his excitement. And since there would be little point in Mrs. Berlinton’s returning home with her children afterward merely to come back again in the evening, she must agree to join his other guests and dine with him. His housekeeper would be quite delighted to look after the children. He would make a guest room available for them and for her, so that she might change into evening clothes.
Miss Kemp had not been included in the invitation. However, he had assured Mrs. Berlinton that the house would be filled with milling servants and guests all day so that there would be no impropriety in her coming alone with her children. He had emphasized the benefits for her son, of course, and she had accepted, though with obvious reluctance.
And so he was pursuing an interest in a widow who was about to remarry. A widow with two young children. He never pursued other men’s women. He rarely consorted with widows. Too many of them were eager to return to the married state. He always avoided women with children. He liked to be assured of the undivided attention of the women he bedded.
Besides, Mrs. Berlinton was dignified and aloof and even hostile. He knew from an instinct developed through long experience that she would not easily enter upon a sexual liaison for the mere sake of pleasure.
He had known that before he invited her.
“No,” he said now to his housekeeper, who had interrupted his thoughts to ask if he wanted any mistletoe pinned up. No mistletoe. The very thought made him shudder. If he was to kiss her, it would not be through such trickery.
If he was to kiss her?
All his irritability returned. This was the day for which he had planned meticulously for months past, the day he had looked forward to more than any other since his last concert. He wished to be able to focus all his thoughts, all his energies, all his emotions on the music with which his guests were to have their spirits lifted into another dimension this evening. He wished to anticipate in some excitement the sensation the boy soprano was certain to create.
He did not want to be thinking, like a randy schoolboy, about stealing kisses from lovely widows.
And he did not want to be remembering, he thought with a grimace, that his concert was to end with a rendition from a group of carolers whose enthusiasm and good intentions could not in any way make up for the fact that they murdered every piece of music they chose to attack. But such had been the price of his boy soprano—and of his lovely widow.
Matthew had vomited once during the morning and had been so restless with nervous energy that his nurse had sent for Fanny and suggested that perhaps they should send for a physician. Fanny had taken her son on her knee, something he would rarely allow these days since he was eight years old, cuddled him, and asked if he would like her to send word to Lord Heath that he would not sing at this evening’s concert.
“You must really not feel that you are being pushed into it, sweetheart,” she had assured him. “No one is going to force you to sing against your will.”
Katie had stood beside them, silent and wide-eyed, and had also regressed a couple of years. She had put her thumb in her mouth and sucked on it.
But then Matthew had almost panicked in the conviction that she would forbid him to sing.
“I want to, Mama,” he had wailed, “more than anything else in this whole wide world. I want to please him. He knows about music and he understands about me.”
Fanny had hated to admit that he was right. Lord Heath had shown unexpected sensitivity the afternoon before and had calmed Matthew and helped him with a few well-chosen words. He had not calmed her, especially when she had seen him with Katie on his arm, but that was quite beside the point.
And so now they were at Lord Heath’s house again and Matthew’s rehearsal was quickly finished—he was relaxed and confident now that they were here, his excitement under control. Lord Heath’s housekeeper had borne the children away to give them their tea and to see to it that they lay down and had a rest while Fanny was to take tea in the drawing room with the guests who were to stay at the house tonight. But Lord Heath was in no hurry to take her to t
he drawing room. The milling servants and guests he had promised just yesterday certainly were nowhere to be seen in the music room. He seated himself in the chair beside hers.
Fanny looked around surreptitiously for mistletoe, but she could not see any among the holly wreaths and the pine boughs and the ribbons and bows with which the room was lavishly decorated. It looked like Christmas here, she thought, and felt a moment’s unreasonable pang when she remembered that in just two days’ time she and the children would be spending Christmas alone in John’s house.
“Your son has enormous talent, ma’am,” Lord Heath said. “But I am sure I need not tell you that. Not only does he have a pure and uniquely lovely voice, but he also has a rare feel for music. His voice, alas, will change within a few years, but the musicality will remain and perhaps his man’s voice will be as lovely. Does he show aptitude on any instrument?”
John’s two daughters had pianoforte lessons, but Mercy was prone to migraine headaches and John had decreed that the privilege should be extended to no one else, his own son included.
“I do not know,” she said.
He stared at her for a long time. His very blue eyes and his proximity made her uncomfortable, together with the subtle fragrance of some expensive cologne that clung about him. She tried to breathe evenly. How humiliating it would be if she became breathless and he were to suspect that she found him attractive—knee-weakeningly attractive.
“Does he have voice lessons?” he asked.
“My brother-in-law believes in bringing up boys to be masculine, my lord,” she said. “He is my son’s guardian.” She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. Matthew’s love of music must be squashed, John always said, or he would be laughed at when he went to school. Besides, Mercy’s migraines . . .
“I see,” he said. “Are you not his guardian too, ma’am? Could you not at least see to it that he have an audition with a reputable church choir? At Westminster Abbey, for example? There he would be among boys like himself and would not appear strange or less masculine than they.”
She was angry. How dare he take it upon himself to advise her or suggest that she had less than total control over the upbringing of her children. That he was right did not lessen her anger.
“He is a child,” she said. “I will not have him exploited.”
“He loves music, ma’am,” he said. “My guess is that he would love nothing more than encouragement to pursue his talent—and his dream.”
“My lord,” she said, no longer trying to hide her anger, “do you presume to know my son better than I know him?” But he was quite right. Oh, he was right. Perhaps Boris would have understood. Perhaps . . .
She gazed down, startled at the ringed, well-manicured, very masculine hand that reached across and covered her two hands in her lap. And looked up into his blue eyes.
“Will you permit me,” he asked quietly, “to have a word with your brother-in-law? He is the elder son of the ailing Viscount Milford, I believe? My word on musical matters carries some weight, I do assure you, and no one has ever questioned my masculinity. Not to my face, at least.”
Two men deciding the fate of her son? Fanny’s nostrils flared. But anger was all mixed up with desire. He had not removed his hand.
“I am Matthew’s mother, my lord,” she said. “I will speak myself to my brother-in-law when I feel it necessary to do so.”
“Some men,” he said, “feel it a weakness to grant the wishes of a woman.” His fingers, she noticed with a twinge of discomfort and intensified desire in the pit of her stomach, had curled about her two hands so that he held them fast. His hand was warmer than hers. “Perhaps you could persuade your betrothed to speak with him.”
“My—betrothed?” She frowned at him. “To whom do you refer, my lord?”
“I understood,” he said, “that you were about to remarry. Did I misunderstand?”
Who could have given him such an idea? The vicar? But she did not even have a regular suitor.
“I am not betrothed,” she said, “or about to remarry, my lord.” She spoke with unwise lack of consideration. “There is enough male interference in my life and in those of my children without my giving up all my freedom again to another.”
He looked steadily into her eyes for several moments before glancing down once at her lips. She felt the terrified certainty that he was going to kiss her—and that she was not going to stop him. But then she felt merely foolish. He squeezed her hands once, released them, and got to his feet.
“Come, ma’am,” he said. “My guests will be in the drawing room by now and you must be ready for your tea. You must not be afraid for your son tonight. I have experience with talented performers. All the excitement and nervousness and sometimes even illness that precede a performance invariably disappear when the time comes and merely ensure that the performance itself is flawless. Tonight your son will leave even you breathless with wonder.”
There was a rush of tears to her eyes and she blinked them back, feeling foolish. “Are you ever wrong?” she asked.
He took her hand and drew her arm through his. “Rarely,” he said. “On this particular matter, never. But you will not believe me, of course, until the performance is over.”
He had a very firm and steady arm. She felt comforted even though her terror for Matthew was still like a ball of ice deep inside her.
How had he known she was terrified?
What was that cologne? she wondered. She had never smelled it on any other man.
Katie was all dressed up in her red Christmas dress with white stockings and shoes and a white bow in her hair. All the ladies in the music room had smiled at her and told her—or Mama—that she looked like a princess or a doll or an angel. But Katie had sat down beside Matthew in the front row of chairs that went all about the room and had taken hold of his hand. He had not shaken her off as he sometimes did, but had clung, his own hand cold and damp. Katie had not cared for anyone but Matt at that moment. Matt was dreadfully afraid and terribly excited, but he was going to be wonderful. Katie just knew he was. She sat quietly telling him so with her hand while a lady with a limp played the pianoforte and then a great fat man sang with a deep voice and then another lady played that harp—Katie was going to play it too when she was grown up. It sounded lovelier than the pianoforte and the lady was able to play it with great sweeps of her arms that made her look very pretty.
And then it was Matt’s turn. When he got up and dropped Katie’s hand, she got up too and sat on Mama’s lap, and the gentleman came and sat down beside them. Katie gazed at him. He was all in black and white tonight and looked marvelously splendid. She wished she could tell everyone that he was to be her papa, but she was not quite sure it was true. This morning for a few minutes she had even been afraid that they were never going to see him again. She had found herself doing something dreadfully babyish. She had sucked her thumb.
He did not look at her or at Mama. He looked at Matt—and Matt looked at him with great frightened eyes. And then the gentleman’s eyes did what they had almost done for her yesterday. Except that it was definite this time and lasted a long time. His eyes smiled at Matt and he beamed at him without moving any part of his face. That was another expression Katie was going to practice. She had had no success with her eyebrows this morning. She wondered if she could smile without moving her face.
And then Matthew started to sing and Katie, who had been contemplating getting down and climbing onto the gentleman’s lap, sat very still because Mama was holding her very tightly indeed. Matt was wonderful, as Katie had known he would be. He was more than wonderful, but she did not know another word. She was going to tell everyone when the concert was over that Matt was her brother.
A funny thing happened when he had finished singing about the little tiny child. Everyone clapped, as they were supposed to do, but some people started roaring—at least, it sounded like roaring—and some even jumped to their feet and started calling out that word the gentleman had use
d yesterday—“Encore!” Mama was holding her so tightly that Katie felt short of breath, and Mama was crying. And the gentleman—well, he was blinking fast. He was crying too, Katie thought, but he would not want anyone to know. Matt always said that men never cried.
She wriggled free of her mother, got down, and climbed up onto one of the gentleman’s legs. “I knew he would be wonderful,” she whispered to him as the noise about them began to subside. “I could have told you so. Matthew is my brother.”
And then he hugged her even harder than Mama had done. “You can be justly proud of him, little one,” he said. “And he of you.”
She gazed up into his face as Matt began to sing again. The gentleman closed his eyes and frowned. He looked as if he were in pain, but Katie understood that it was only the music and the sound of Matt’s voice that were almost too much for him to bear. She heard him swallow during one pause in the music.
He hugged her again when Matt was finished and everyone was roaring again, and kissed her on top of the head, right where her bow was. Then he got to his feet and set her back on Mama’s lap before walking over to set a hand on Matt’s shoulder and to tell everyone what a privilege they had all been permitted to experience tonight. Almost, he said with a smile, as if they were the shepherds outside Bethlehem listening to angel voices—except that it was one day early.
Katie knew the story of the shepherds outside Bethlehem. They had been looking after their sheep, but no one had been able to tell her what happened to the sheep when the shepherds went to Bethlehem to see the baby.
And no, the gentleman said, there would be no other encore. Matthew must be allowed to rest his voice.
And then Matt was sitting beside them again and cuddling against Mama, his face hidden against her side. Katie, touching his hand, found that it was cold and trembling now that it was all over.
