How the Rogue Stole Christmas

by Rosemary Stevens

  Making her way carefully down the darkened stairs, Margery held her rushlight high. Reaching the public room, she noted that the dishes had been cleared from the wooden table and the remains of a fire glowed in the grate. A small scurrying sound coming from a corner of the room caused her to shiver and hastened her through the door that led to the kitchen.

  A rapid survey of this slovenly kept area netted heartening results. A pitcher of water and a basin stood on a tray. Margery sighed with relief. Perhaps Mr. Wilkins was not so unkind and meant to fulfill her request after all.

  Now to find a chamber pot. This proved a harder task. Margery opened and closed several cupboards before finally finding what she needed beneath a shelf.

  In a crouched position, she grasped the chamber pot in triumph.

  A low laugh caused her to spin around and jump to her feet, still clutching the indelicate item. Her heart pounded in her chest as her gaze fell on the tall stranger lounging in the doorway.

  “Ah, I see I have acted precipitously by coming downstairs,” he drawled without a hint of the regret his words implied he felt.

  Margery stood frozen to the spot. One end of her shawl slowly dropped to the floor. It had been two years since she had laid eyes on such a handsome, aristocratic male. The lapse in time did not prevent her from instantly recognizing this man as a member of the nobility.

  His exquisite clothing bespoke the finest London tailors. He had a rather high forehead, and his complexion was fashionably pale. His hair was shiny and dark, although Margery judged it not quite as dark as her own, and long. The dim light made it difficult to see the color of his eyes.

  But what struck her the most was the air of elegance emanating from the gentleman’s polished demeanor.

  In a rush, she remembered her own appearance, and a tide of red rose to her cheeks.

  He stood there, regarding her thoughtfully, the silence of the room complete. Margery gave herself a mental shake. What had he said? Oh, yes, he had apologized for intruding on her. She cleared her throat. “You are excused, sir. After all, you had no way of knowing I would be in the kitchen.”

  The gentleman’s lips curved ever so slightly. “True. Mr. Wilkins told me the maids had been sent home for the night.” His gaze ran the length of the flannel covering her.

  Margery turned away from him, her back stiffening as she adjusted the shawl. This was the second time that day she had been mistaken for a servant. Glancing down, she saw the chamber pot in her hands and flushed anew. Well, what was the stranger to think?

  She added the chamber pot to the tray containing the basin of water, and picked it up. She had what she needed. There was no reason to prolong this awkward and embarrassing encounter by correcting his assumptions regarding her identity.

  Turning around, she took a few brisk steps forward before noticing he blocked the doorway.

  “I wondered at the delay in sending up my water,” he told her, glancing pointedly at the tray in her hands. “I forgive Mr. Wilkins as he obviously decided to send you along with it, making my wait worthwhile. I confess I did not expect to find anything so lovely in this ramshackle place.”

  “You are in error, sir,” Margery insisted.

  “Not at all,” he replied equably. “I am accounted somewhat of an authority on the subject of lovely women.”

  She blinked at the unexpected reply. Before she could guess his intention, he reached out and picked up a strand of her hair.

  He ran it leisurely through his slim white fingers in the manner of a connoisseur.

  Margery’s eyes widened at this shocking behavior. Odd, though, the uppermost thought in her mind was how he obviously found her pleasing. It had been a long time since she had believed any gentleman attracted to her. Certainly Simon’s admiration had disappeared immediately after the wedding ceremony.

  She swallowed hard and looked into the gentleman’s eyes. They were a very dark blue, she decided absently. A pleasant hint of the bay rum scent he wore reached her nostrils.

  She felt overwhelmed by his presence and what his nearness was doing to her senses.

  He allowed the lock of hair he had been caressing to fall, and smiled at her knowingly.

  Margery impatiently pulled her disordered thoughts together. He thought her a maid, she reminded herself, an easy target for his attentions.

  “Sir,” she said, wondering at the muted tone of her voice, “If you will let me pass, I shall return to my room.”

  He raised an eyebrow as if in surprise, and she took the moment to move past him into the open doorway.

  Abruptly, she felt a strong arm around her waist turn her gently, but firmly around.

  In the next instant, she found her left side pressed up against him, the tray preventing him from holding her closer.

  She glanced up sharply. “I wish to go upstairs at once!”

  “No, my beauty,” he murmured. “I have someone traveling with me who would only be in our way. We shall remain here.”

  Oooh! Must the man continue to misunderstand the situation? Margery’s temper rose and her lips parted. She intended to toast his ears with a blistering set down.

  A twinkle of amusement in his blue-black eyes was the last thing she saw before his lips covered hers.

  To her horror, Margery did not instantly draw back as she ought and box his ears. Despite the cold air of the kitchen, his mouth felt warm and sweet. A part of her brain screamed to push him away, but the command did not reach her lips, which were otherwise engaged. Simon had never kissed her like this.

  While one arm held her steadfastly about the waist, his other hand cradled her head as his lips continued to pleasure hers. Margery had never felt so weak, so lost to reality and propriety in her life.

  “See here now! Didn’t I tell ye I would have none o’ that?” Mr. Wilkins demanded.

  The gentleman released her mouth with apparent reluctance, and they turned to see the innkeeper standing in the middle of the public room, hands on hips, glaring at them. Behind him, a young man, dressed in the height of fashion, gaped at the scene unfolding.

  Blushing furiously, Margery jerked herself out of the stranger’s arms. Her fingers tightened on the tray she had somehow managed to hold on to during the kiss.

  The gentleman stared down his nose at the landlord. “Are you taking me to task for a mere dalliance with one of your maids?” he asked haughtily.

  Dalliance? The heat in Margery’s cheeks intensified.

  Mr. Wilkins pointed an arthritic finger at Margery. “She ain’t one o’ my servants. Came in ’ere and rented a room, sayin’ she was a lady. One o’ them demireps, more like, throwin’ ’erself at yer lordship like that.”

  Outrage at this defamation of her character prompted Margery to glower at the innkeeper. “That is ‘my lady’ to you, sirrah! How dare you insult me?”

  “Ye be the one in yer nightclothes, kissin’ and cuddlin’ with Lord Reckford in plain sight of all the world and ’is wife,” Mr. Wilkins snapped.

  Good Lord, Margery thought with a sinking sensation in her stomach. He was right.

  Lord Reckford looked down at her, his features unreadable. “You might have identified yourself.”

  Humiliation sharpened Margery’s tongue. “Why, you Town bull. What opportunity had I before you began forcing your person upon me?”

  His lordship had the audacity to look amused.

  “Ain’t ye goin’ to tell me ye is betrothed?” Mr. Wilkins asked. “Fer ye ’ave comprised ’er, iffin she is a lady, my lord.”

  A stunned silence greeted these words.

  Margery’s mouth dropped open. No! This was absurd. She told herself she cared nothing for the conventions. Nothing.

  From across the room, the young gentleman spoke for the first time. “Dash it, Jordan! You are not going to be forced to marry her, are you?”

  “Go abovestairs, halfling,” Lord Reckford commanded easily, ignoring the question. “I shall handle this matter.”

  The younger man
obeyed, although not without a show of reluctance, saying he was far too old to be sent from the room.

  Once the young man had disappeared up the stairs, Lord Reckford slowly turned his dark head in Margery’s direction. His intense expression told her he had not considered the possibility of consequences for his earlier actions. After all, there were none for kissing a mere servant.

  Tension filled the room.

  Again, though, his voice was a self-confident, lazy drawl. “It seems I am caught. Will you marry me, Miss... Miss, er, devil take it, Miss Whatever-your-name-is?”

  Shock yielded quickly to anger at the careless manner his lordship treated such a delicate predicament. Forcing as much sarcasm into her words as possible, Margery said, “While I am conscious of the great honor you bestow upon me—er, Lord Reckford, is it?—I fear I must refuse.”

  He blinked, and then regarded her with the aspect of one who had truly been amazed. He found his quizzing glass and deliberately took his time polishing it with a handkerchief produced from his pocket, then raised it to his eye. After studying her casually he let the glass fall to his chest and finally spoke again. “What did you say?”

  Margery wanted to kick him. “I said no, my lord. I shall not marry you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she retorted saucily, “I cannot care for fast gentlemen.”

  A look of unholy glee lit up Lord Reckford’s handsome features.

  “Just a minute, missy,” Mr. Wilkins said. “Ye can’t be a lady and be compromised without gettin’ wed. It don’t work that way.”

  Margery straightened her shoulders. This was all madness. She turned her back on Lord Reckford and addressed the innkeeper. “I do not care a snap of my fingers for your opinion or your words, Mr. Wilkins! Words, if you are wise, that you will keep to yourself in the future. You may be certain I shall forget the unpleasant time I have endured at your establishment.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes popped in his head.

  Margery stared him down. “I have paid your fee and intend on getting a good night’s rest before resuming my travels in the morning. Good night.”

  “Wait a minute, ’ere,” Mr. Wilkins said belligerently, eyeing the tray. “I pumped that basin o’ water fer ’is lordship, not some lightskirt.”

  Margery’s gaze flicked back to the Nonpareil, who gave her a mocking bow.

  “Please accept it with my compliments.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Margery said in a scathing tone. “You are indeed a gentleman of captivating manners.”

  Without another word, she swept through the room and up the stairs, head held high.

  “Shall I give you my direction, should you change your mind and wish to wed, Miss Whatever-your-name-is?” Lord Reckford called out, and then, unforgivably, chuckled.

  Margery barely restrained herself from flinging the contents of the tray down upon his head.

  Arriving at her bedchamber, she opened the door with trembling fingers. Miss Bessamy’s round face expressed alarm at her charge’s agitated state.

  All in that moment, Margery decided she did not want Bessie to know what had happened. The older woman would become protective, perhaps even demand to meet the gentleman who would dare offend Lady Margery.

  Therefore, with an effort, as the scene she had just endured had been most distressing to her, she brushed off her companion’s concern. “It was dreadfully cold downstairs, Bessie. When I’ve washed and climbed under the covers I shall be fine.”

  Minutes later, after accomplishing these tasks, Margery wished Miss Bessamy a good night and escaped from her old nurse’s sharp gaze by the simple measure of blowing out the rushlight.

  Turning onto her side, Margery closed her eyes. She thought of her damaged cottage roof, the drunken coachman, the surly innkeeper ... anything to keep from thinking about Lord Reckford.

  Hearing Miss Bessamy’s gentle snore, Margery slowly opened her eyes and stared up at the dusty bedhangings. She had been the one at fault, a nagging voice droned in her head.

  How could his lordship have been expected to know she was not a maid? It was common knowledge that maids at the lesser-quality inns and taverns frequently flirted outrageously with the customers, often engaging in activities beyond flirting.

  Could Lord Reckford really be blamed for trying his luck with a female dressed in an old flannel nightgown, her hair down her back, her hands dirty with soot, and clutching a chamber pot in an inn kitchen?

  How she must have looked! Margery covered her mouth before a giggle could escape.

  But the touch of her fingers on her lips brought memories of how his lordship’s lips had clung to hers and the feeling the action had evoked in her. Simon’s kisses had always been a quick, stabbing motion. Nothing like the warm, sensual caress Lord Reckford had bestowed upon her.

  Lord Reckford, she mused, turning his name over in her mind. Who was he? She did not recall him from her time in Town. The young man with him must be the traveling companion he had mentioned.

  Remembering Lord Reckford’s voice and bearing, Margery reflected that in addition to his air of elegance, there was a heavy aura of sensuality that surrounded him. That was what had rendered her thought process foggy and disoriented, resulting in her indiscretion.

  She had indeed behaved like the lightskirt Mr. Wilkins had accused her of being. Margery bit her lip. Was she so starved for male attention after the disappointment of her marriage that she would allow herself to succumb to a stranger’s embrace?

  Drat the man. Tomorrow she would arrive at Lady Altham’s and never have to see his handsome face again. Besides, a handsome countenance did not always lend itself to a kind and loving soul. Above anyone, she should be aware of this truth after her relationship with Simon.

  Why, Lord Reckford’s heart was probably an empty hole!

  Margery shut her eyes and firmly dismissed his lordship from her thoughts.

  She determined to concentrate on Lady Altham’s house party. Where, by God, she was going to have a happy Christmas!

  * * * *

  Muttering about the peculiar ways of the Quality, Mr. Wilkins agreed to secure another can of water for Jordan before retiring for the night. With this treasure in hand, Jordan placed a booted foot on the stairs leading to his chamber, but a furious banging on the door caused him to swing around.

  “Come in then, Gris, and endeavor not to bring all the cold into this cursed inn,” Jordan said. He locked the door behind the stocky figure of his old army batman, who now served as valet, coachman, or groom, as the occasion warranted.

  “Reduced not only to answering the door, but to fetch and carry for yourself, are you?” Griswold said with mock pity indicating the can of water. He brushed snow off his greatcoat.

  Having reached the age of five-and-fifty, Griswold’s chief concern in life was comfort, a condition denied him ever since the viscount had decided to travel to the Midlands at Christmastime.

  Jordan heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I have been without a proper servant since Ridgeton left me when I joined the army.”

  Griswold scowled.

  Mr. Ridgeton was often held up as an example of the perfect valet. His talents would forever remain elusive, however, as after leaving Jordan’s employ, he had met with a fatal accident. While walking down Bond Street, the story went, Mr. Ridgeton had tripped over a small stray dog and plummeted directly into the path of a coach-and-four.

  His detractors said that if Mr. Ridgeton’s nose had not been quite so high in the air, he would have seen the canine and thus might still be alive today. The owner of the vehicle had been so moved by the incident, he had promptly adopted the dog.

  “Hang me! There’s never been anyone to equal Mr. Ridgeton,” Griswold said with false reverence as the two men mounted the stairs. Their easy camaraderie bespoke years together, fighting the French, before Jordan had finally quit the army in disgust a year earlier.

  “I began to think you intended to bed down with the horses tonig
ht,” Jordan said, opening the door to a bedchamber much larger than the one Margery and Miss Bessamy shared.

  “Mayhaps they’d be easier to sleep with than you and that wet-behind-the-ears fledgling, Lord Harry.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Algernon Yarsmith, Viscount Harringham, appeared from the adjoining room, dressed in his nightclothes, with the notable exception that he still wore his neckcloth. Most likely he had been experimenting with different methods of folding and tying that critical item of male attire.

  Currently in his last year at Oxford, Lord Harry, as he had been known to everyone since the cradle, could charm persons of any age with his boyish good looks and ready smile.

  Just now, he flopped down in a high-backed chair near the fire. “So are we for Scotland and a marriage over the anvil, or to the nearest bishop for a special license?”

  “Hey, now, what’s this?” Griswold demanded in surprise, pausing in the act of laying out Jordan’s nightshirt.

  “Nothing to kick up a dust about,” Jordan said, and sent Lord Harry a speaking look.

  Lord Harry grinned. “You escaped the nuptial yoke again, didn’t you, Jordan!” He leaned forward eagerly. “You must teach me how you do it. I wish to avoid marriage forever. There are too many dashing young ladies about to settle for just one.”

  “Ladies? Such as that barque of frailty I observed on your arm at Drury Lane, Harry?’ Jordan questioned, causing the younger gentleman to squirm in his chair.

  “A man has to test his wings,” Lord Harry mumbled.

  “Forget your wings,” Jordan advised. Relieved to have successfully diverted the topic from his encounter with the mystery woman downstairs, and thus avoiding tedious explanations to Griswold, he asked, “Did we not stop here for the express purpose of viewing a mill?’

  “A mill? Ain’t we seen enough fighting?” Griswold asked, rummaging in his lordship’s bags.

  Lord Harry’s blue eyes lit with anticipation. “’Twill be famous, Griswold. The ostler at the last posting house told me all about it. And it’s not so very far out of our way. What’s an extra day or two?’