by Cheryl Bolen
Mrs. Leeming still glared.
“What I was saying,” Philip continued, “was we shall play a game to see which of you can . . . can pick out things the fastest. Allow me to explain. Let’s say I ask you to find something that has silver. The first of you who finds something with silver receives a point.”
“I see silber on that clock!” Eddie shrieked, pointing to the mantel.
“He hasn’t started the game yet, stupid.”
“Susan!” her mother scolded.
“I’m sowwy.”
“Eddie’s younger than you. You’re supposed to be helping him, not belittling him.”
The lovely little girl looked truly contrite this time as she solemnly nodded.
Philip turned to the mother. “Do you think you can tally the scores?”
She nodded.
“Mama can remember sums better than most people remember names. Everyone remarks upon it,” Susan said.
His eyes met the mother’s. She looked away quickly.
“Well, shall we begin?”
He was thusly able to entertain the children for the following hour, until they ran out of objects in the parlor, and the children clamored to move into the bedchamber. “I don’t know if your mother would approve of that,” he said, his gaze moving to her.
“I’m afraid if we don’t, we’ll have a mutiny on our hands, Mr. Fenton,” she said with good humor.
So they spent another hour in the bedchamber. The children adored the game, and Eddie was not handicapped in the least by being a year younger than his sister—a fact of which Susan had regularly reminded him.
When he was quite certain he’d run out of items, he declared the game finished. “Now,” Philip’s gaze met their mother’s, “it’s time to declare the winner.”
“Is there to be a pwize?” Eddie asked.
“Yes, indeed there is. The winner receives a shilling.”
Both children exclaimed, then whirled to their mother, both inquiring at once to see if they had won.
“This is most extraordinary,” she said.
The children watched with trepidation.
“Each child has seven-and-forty correct answers.” She looked up at him, mirth in her pale blue eyes. “Whatever will we do, Mr. Fenton? However will we select a winner?”
He put index finger to chin. “Let me see. We could have each child guess a number between one and ten, and who gets closest wins. Eddie can count to ten, can he not?”
“Course I can count to ten.” The lad looked mad.
“Or,” Philip continued, “we could do eenie, meenie, miney, moe to determine the winner.”
Neither child looked pleased.
“Or . . . we could award each child a shilling.”
Two youthful faces brightened as Philip whipped two shillings from his pockets and gave one to each.
“In my whole life I ain’t never had a shilling,” Eddie said.
“Ain’t isn’t proper English,” his mother scolded.
“And I haven’t, either,” Susan said.
Philip couldn’t have been happier had he won a fortune at the faro table.
He was even more touched when Susan crossed the chamber and presented her shilling to her mother. “I know you’ve been needing this, Mama.”
It quite melted his heart to see Mrs. Leeming’s eyes mist as she thanked her daughter but kindly refused the offering.
“Can we play another game?” Eddie asked.
“It’s time for dinner,” Philip said.
“And you can’t expect Mr. Fenton to play with you children day and night—and you can’t expect him to award you shillings for every game. You’ll take all the poor man’s money.”
“I don’t think Mr. Fenton’s a poor man,” Susan said.
Susan was a clever little girl.
By the time they finished dinner it was totally dark. They gathered around the fire as Philip retold the same stories Georgiana had told him when he was a lad. Mrs. Leeming had gathered her children around her beneath a blanket, and once more he longed for such pure, joyous physical contact.
What jewels she had in her children! How blessed was the man who would win this lovely woman and those adorable children.
He longed, too, for his own family. Especially Georgiana. She was barely older than he, but she’d always been the nurturer. And when their mother had fallen ill when he was in the Peninsula, it was Georgiana who had been the one to nurture her back to health. He loved them both very much and longed to be with them again.
The children grew drowsy and went to sleep, draped over their mother. He put index finger to lips. “I’ll help you carry them to bed.”
They put them in the big feather bed in the cozy chamber where the maid had built a wood fire. Then he and Mrs. Leeming returned to the parlor.
“You might as well stay here for a while,” she said as she resumed her seat on the sofa in front of the fire. “I hate to send you out on this nasty night.”
He sat on the opposite end of the sofa from her.
She sighed. “It looks as if we’re to spend Christmas Eve at the Inn. And probably Christmas.” Her voice was forlorn. “Not what I had hoped for.”
“I daresay not what anyone had hoped for—except the innkeepers. If their larder isn’t depleted, they should be most happy.”
Her lids closed as she grimaced. “What would we do if they run out of food?”
“I always say not to cross a bridge until you come to it.”
“How can you always be so optimistic?”
“It beats being glum, madam.”
“Easy for you to say. You admitted you’ve never been in want of money. I, on the other hand, like to contemplate catastrophes ahead of time in order to counter them in some way, if possible. I should think a man with military training would do the same.”
He smiled. “Ah you have me there, madam. A poor officer I must sound.”
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the flames flickering. “Allow me to pour your wine, madam.” He proceeded to do so.
A moment later he laughed to himself.
“Why, may I ask, are you laughing, Mr. Fenton?”
“It’s really shabby of me, but I was recalling your words. Terribly shabby of me really.”
“What words?”
He shook his head. “When you said you liked to contemplate catastrophe. I realize you don’t actually like to contemplate catastrophe, but you must admit it did sound awfully silly—not that I’m trying to make light of the graveness of your perilous situation. It’s just the sound of I, sir, like to contemplate catastrophe.” In earnest, he was trying to cheer her, but he sensed he was failing miserably.
She then surprised him. An ever-so-slight smile hitched across her firelit face.
“Do you, sir, take nothing seriously?”
“Very little, actually. Life’s too full of sadness. I prefer joy.”
“I must confess, except for Eddie and Susan, my life sorely lacks joy.”
“Then it was fate that I happened to be driving along Chappell Street last night. I have appointed myself to be the Usurper of Gloom of . . . may I know your Christian name, Mrs. Leeming?”
She hesitated a moment. Was she afraid he would try once more to take liberties?
Finally, she said, “Charlotte.”
“I shall be the Usurper of Gloom for Charlotte Leeming.”
She smiled. “And the Bearer of Joy to Eddie and Susan.”
Curiously, she had not added their surname. “I hope that I can be. So . . . before you married, what brought you joy?”
The tension within her uncoiled and she pursed her lips. The transformation that came over her was not unlike that in his subalterns after a general inspected the troops. “I vastly enjoyed the assemblies at Almack’s.”
So she had been on the fringes of the upper classes.
“And I derived an equal amount of pleasure from my subscription to the lending library.”
His brows lower
ed and he quizzed her teasingly. “You were not a devotee of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, were you?”
“Pray, sir. Give me more credit.”
“Whew! I cannot abide foolish women. And if I’m to be snowed in for God only knows how long, I prefer to be with one possessed of a semblance of intelligence.”
“It is hoped I can satisfy that meager requirement, Mighty Usurper of Gloom.”
So she possessed a sense of humor after all.
“And were you a good dancer?”
“I was.”
“I need not ask if you were a sought-after partner for I know that answer. I know, too, that a handsome—though obviously not wealthy—army officer captured your heart your first season.”
Her mouth gaped open. “How can you possibly know such a thing?”
“Anyone with more than a pea-sized brain would be able to deduce such facts after knowing you for four-and-twenty hours.”
“But I told you none of those things.”
“You did tell me your husband was in the army, and I believe one of your children alluded to the fact your husband was an officer. And you yourself told me you enjoyed Almack’s. You told me you were four-and-twenty. Most of the elements were there for me to piece together your story.”
“Perhaps you do just have a little better than a pea-sized brain,” she said with a flutter of laughter.
He gave a mock sigh. “That’s the best you could praise me after I gave up my warm bed for you? Ungrateful wench!” He took another swig of wine. “Back to this first season of yours. How many offers of marriage did you receive?”
“I never counted.”
“Aha! See, I was right. There were many. And I suspect you could have married a very wealthy man. Tell me, Mrs. Leeming, could you have married a man with a title?”
She shook her head. “Not a peer. Only a baronet. A Sir Richard Cordray offered for me.”
His eyes rounded. “Cordie? Well, I’ll be. We were at Eton together. Nice chap.”
“Oh, he was very nice, but I only had eyes for my Edward.”
Edward. So that was her husband’s name. Philip should have realized Eddie would have taken his father’s name. It was just another coincidence between the Leemings and Edward Hale’s poor family. It still made him feel wretched to know he hadn’t been able to help them. Especially since they had been evicted from their home.
Especially at Christmas.
“It’s admirable that you were not influenced by title or wealth.”
“But it now appears quite foolish.” The firelight cast golden and blue and orange highlights in her pale hair.
His voice softened. “You could never appear foolish.”
“That’s kind of you to say on so short an acquaintance. You don’t know me.”
“I pride myself on my ability to evaluate the men who served under me—not that I see you in any way in a subservient role—and I’m seldom wrong in my judgment of character. Your children are your best recommendation. You’ve done a splendid job. They’re exemplary in every way. Were I a father, I could not hope to have better children. Yours are intelligent, well-mannered, loving. You’ve taught them everything, and you’ve done it all by yourself. “
Her eyes danced. “Thank you. They mean everything to me.”
“You’re very fortunate.”
“Yes, I am.”
“So, Mr. Fenton, what is it that brings you joy?”
He pushed out his breath. “That’s hard to say. While a lot of people enjoy time to themselves, I have never liked solitude. That’s one of the reasons why riding to Lincolnshire with you and your family was so attractive to me. All those hours in a coach with only myself for company would drive me to the lunatic asylum. I must be around other people.”
“How singular you are. Most people would not countenance riding all those hours with a bothersome, precocious three-year-old boy who excessively pesters his traveling companions.”
“Eddie is not a pest. He’s a delight. I shall miss him exceedingly when our journey terminates.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if it ever will. Is there any sign the snow, rain, or a mixture of two will ever cease?”
He shrugged, got up, walked to the window and looked out. Lanterns in front of the inn illuminated part of the street, showing slushy, puddled ruts, but no snow banks at the roadside. He watched the adjoining rooftop for a moment to determine if snowflakes were still falling. They were not.
“No snow at present.”
“But I suppose the streets are in horrid condition,” she said in a resigned voice.
Nodding, he crossed the chamber. “It’s time for me to return to the Lamb and Staff.”
“There’s no sense in you sinking into mud up to your knees. I’ll get you a spare blanket, and you can sleep here on the sofa.”
Chapter 6
Charlotte’s invitation hadn’t really been impetuous. It had been niggling at the back of her mind while they had been talking throughout the evening. It seemed incredibly cruel to send him trekking through mud to sleep in chilling chambers after all the many kindnesses he had shown them.
And especially after the sweet things he’d done with her children and said about them.
It might be very foolish to put such trust in one she had known such a short time, but she actually trusted this man. Just as he felt he trusted his judgment about her perceived wisdom, she felt she could trust him.
She rang for the servant, and when the maid came she asked for another blanket. This maid was younger than the previous one. The frail and pale redhead could not have been more than fifteen. After she left, he stood there looking at Charlotte. “And what am I to do about my clothing?”
“I know very well about men’s sleeping habits. When I leave the chamber to go to my own bed, you will undress in your usual manner.”
He lifted a brow and grinned at her with amusement.
Her cheeks grew hot. She swallowed. “And when my children awaken in the morning and begin making the customary noises which I assure you they always make, you will quickly redress. I will keep them in our bedchamber until such time that you call out in some way that notifies me you are fit to welcome us into the parlor.”
The maid returned with a thick counterpane that appeared to be reasonably clean. “This be all we could find. It be powerfully cold, and every room’s bursting with folks.”
“Thank you,” he said. “This will do very well. Will you please tell your master we will require the same breakfast delivered at the same time tomorrow morning?”
“He will be pleased to oblige, sir.” The girl curtsied before she left.
“As much as I don’t want to spend Christmas at the White Lion, I need to be thankful I have a place in which to spend Christmas.” Her voice softened. “And we owe it all to you.”
He brushed off her gratitude. “You’d have contrived something. You’re an intelligent woman, Mrs. Leeming, but I’m inordinately happy to have helped.”
Mr. Fenton was the only man other than Edward whose appearance had attracted her in every way even though the two men were vastly different. Edward had been neither dark nor particularly tall. Mr. Fenton was both. He was possessed of the dark handsomeness that made other men look weak by comparison and made women’s hearts race whilst sending them to the nearest looking glass to improve their appearance.
She did not know if it was the firelight and the intimacy of this setting, or if it was how very appealing he looked standing there looking at her in a simmering way without intentionally doing so, or if it was the admiration she felt for this man, or if it was the memory of that kiss so many hours earlier, but she suddenly felt compelled to move to him. She wanted to touch him. She needed to feel him touching her.
For throughout the night as they were talking, she kept thinking about THAT kiss, kept watching the sensuous curve of his mouth as he spoke and wishing to feel those lips pressed against hers, kept longing to feel herself in his embrace. It had been so very long
since a man had shown her any consideration, so long since her senses had been awakened, since she had felt like a woman and not a shrew worrying how she was going to keep a roof over their heads.
When she was close enough to hear his breathing, he gave her a curious look. Clearly, she had surprised him. Especially after her rejection of him that morning, after her initial hostility toward him.
“I wish to kiss you goodnight,” she murmured.
He drew in a deep breath, and then hauled her into his arms for a hungry kiss. It was nothing like the gentle kiss earlier that day. The pure ferocity of it would have frightened her had he been the sole initiator.
But she was as hungry as he. Lips parted. Tongues swirled. He groaned. She shuddered. Her body arched against his. His hands were everywhere. Stroking her back. Her buttocks. Cupping her buttocks.
Lips feathered along her neck, his tongue flicking inside her ear along the way.
She softly cried out. His every touch created delicious sensations that made her mad with pleasure. His head moved lower still. His mouth covered her breast and began to suckle as he pushed down the thin muslin.
Her eyes opened enough to watch as a rosy nipple slipped into his mouth. She closed her eyes, threw her head back, and thought she would go mad with pleasure.
But she wanted more. Her hand sought the bulge between his legs. As her fingers went to coil around the great, jutting organ, he stiffened and stopped pleasuring her. He covered her breast and straightened himself.
Her face turned scarlet with embarrassment. He was refusing what she was offering.
She went to spin away, but he grabbed her firmly, both his hands taking firm hold of her shoulders as he locked foreheads with hers and spoke tenderly. “It’s best that you go to your bedchamber now. I gave you a promise that I would conduct myself as a gentleman, and I’ve never broken a promise.”
She turned.
He softly touched her. “Before you go, I want to thank you for the happiness you gave me just now. You’re a remarkable, noble, beautiful woman, Charlotte Leeming, and there’s not another woman I’d rather be stranded with in a storm.”
She quietly opened the door to her bedchamber, but before she closed it, she turned around. “I believe I should like the full name of the man who has just had my breast in his mouth.”
