How the Rogue Stole Christmas

by Rosemary Stevens

  Margery stood deep in thought. Miss Bessamy watched her silently for a few minutes, then turned to hide a delighted smile.

  Evidently, her chick’s interest in Lord Reckford, and his in her, was not just servants’ gossip after all. Miss Bessamy nodded with satisfaction.

  Walking downstairs a few minutes later, Margery’s thoughts were in a whirl. The fact that Lord Reckford had once been married and had subsequently served his country did not reconcile with her impression of him as a languid, pleasure-seeking aristocrat. She really knew very little about him. Was it possible she had judged him too harshly, based on that one kiss at the Two Keys Inn?

  But she would not think of the way his lordship’s mouth had felt on hers. Pray that she might be able to forget the event all together. It was much too agitating.

  The enticing smells of ham, bacon, and freshly baked bread greeted her nostrils when she walked into the breakfast room. This cheerful chamber was smaller than the dining room with its wicked mural. The walls here were covered in rose-colored silk, and the room boasted a cozy oval table that was still large enough to seat a dozen people. A bright bowl of flowers rested in its center.

  Margery’s gaze immediately fell on Lord Reckford, who was already seated. He stood when she crossed into the room.

  Her breath caught as she took in the viscount’s elegant appearance this morning. He was freshly shaven, and the ends of his long dark hair looked damp, she noted, thinking with approval that Lord Reckford did not follow the customs of many older members of the ton who shunned washing.

  He wore a beautifully tailored coat of chestnut brown over ivory-colored buckskins tucked into shiny Hessian boots.

  “Good morning, Lady Margery,” he greeted her, his voice light and smooth. “I hope you had a restful night.”

  “Good morning, Lord Reckford. I am quite well,” Margery told him, embarrassed on two counts. First, because she did not have a restful night and he had been the cause. And second, because he had just caught her standing and staring at him like the veriest sapskull.

  She jerked her gaze away to encompass the room. Lady Altham sat deep in conversation with Oliver Westerville and did not notice her entrance. Lord and Lady Lindsay had been speaking but now looked up at her pleasantly. She returned their smiles and greetings. Georgina and Lord Harry appeared at daggers drawn, as usual. It seemed everyone else was near to finishing their meal.

  “May I serve you from the sideboard?” Lord Reckford inquired.

  “No, thank you, my lord. I shall fend for myself,” Margery answered. She moved to the expansive array of dishes.

  Mr. Lemon presided over the food with an air of authority. Margery was relieved to notice no glare of accusation came from the house steward and surmised that her observation of the men this morning had gone undetected.

  After selecting some toast and eggs, she joined the company at the table where a footman was pouring coffee for her at a place next to the viscount.

  Having no choice but to take the seat beside him, not without appearing rude, Margery moved toward the chair Lord Reckford held out for her. His eyes met hers, then observed her dress and hair with a look of admiration. Disconcerted, Margery seated herself after a brief nod of thanks.

  All at once, her shoulder felt set aflame when his arm brushed it as he was returning to his own chair. She swallowed, dismayed at how his slight touch affected her.

  To her further annoyance, she found her hands trembled as she reached for her toast. His lordship’s presence so close to her felt overwhelming. Margery would have engaged Georgina, seated on her left, in conversation, but the girl was busy trading insults with Lord Harry. Instead, she concentrated on her plate.

  “Here I am, in case anyone was wondering!” a loud voice boomed.

  Margery looked up to see an elderly man of at least eighty years hobble into the room with the aid of a cane. He was quite bald, except for the ring of white wispy hair that circled his head. He was dressed in the grand Georgian style, though minus a wig, with a sky-blue satin coat and matching breeches. The clothes were as aged looking as the man.

  Lady Altham frowned, then went on speaking to Mr. Westerville.

  “Good morning, Uncle Iggy,” Lady Lindsay said. “Let me introduce you around.”

  Margery feared the ancient lord might topple over as he made them a leg, but the old man recovered enough to leer through his quizzing glass at each of the ladies at the table.

  “Don’t pay any attention to Uncle Iggy,” Georgina whispered to her after the octogenarian staggered to the sideboard. “He’s Grandmama’s father’s brother, Lord Ignatius, and still fancies himself a ladies’ man.” Georgina giggled. “Oh, and he doesn’t hear well and speaks loudly as a result.”

  Uncle Iggy sat down at the table and proceeded to put away quantities of food at a great rate. “I was indisposed last night,” he shouted between bites. “That turbot wreaked havoc with my digestion. I’ll tell you, I never knew a man’s bowels could—”

  “Uncle Iggy! Spare us the details,” the dowager countess interrupted sharply. The old man looked mulish, but Lady Altham carried on. “Lady Margery is Lord Edgecombe’s daughter. She has visited us before, but you have not had a chance to meet her.”

  Uncle Iggy turned a rheumy eye toward Margery. Again the quizzing glass was raised. “Pretty thing. Some man will be glad to get a leg over her.”

  A shocked silence greeted these words. Margery felt a strong wave of heat invade her cheeks. The old man seemed oblivious, however, as he continued to shovel food into his mouth, some of which spilled onto his neckcloth and waistcoat.

  Lord Reckford rose and walked to the sideboard. He obtained a plate of rolls, which he then offered to Margery. She accepted one and began to thank him when she caught the look of glee in his blue-black eyes at Uncle Iggy’s behavior. She could only smile in return, with a rush of gratitude toward the viscount for lessening the awkwardness of the moment.

  To counter these unwanted charitable feelings toward Lord Reckford, she turned in her seat to Georgina. “How do you plan to spend the day?”

  With a toss of her red-gold curls, Georgina said, “I hope I shall spend the morning in feminine company, Lady Margery. I confess I long for congenial fellowship.” She shot a glare in Lord Harry’s direction.

  “Well, that’s a relief, Miss Norwood,” said the irrepressible young lord, buttering a slice of toast. “Now the rest of us won’t feel obliged to watch our every word for fear of offending your sensibilities while trying to entertain you. What say you, Jordan, to a game of billiards?”

  “It is not my sensibilities that are offended, but my intelligence,” Georgina responded hotly. “All you gentlemen ever wish to discuss is how many birds you can shoot out of the sky or how many bottles of wine you can drink before falling under the table.”

  “You are pert, missy,” Uncle Iggy informed Georgina, pointing his fork at her.

  Georgina remained unchastened, a stubborn look on her pretty face.

  “I’ll have you know I’ve never fallen under a table,” Lord Harry told her piously. “Nor do I enjoy killing birds. Fishing is more my sport, but it’s too cold for that, you peagoose.”

  “Peagoose?” cried Georgina, looking as if she would soon send him sliding under the table and without the assistance of alcohol.

  Lord Reckford, who had been observing this interchange with an amused air, seemed to judge it had gone too far. “Harry, a gentleman does not resort to name-calling, especially with a lady.”

  “And your point in this case is?” Lord Harry asked.

  Lord Reckford raised his brows at this slight upon Miss Norwood’s character. “Your obtuseness gives credence to Miss Norwood’s comment on your intellect. Of course she is a lady, and therefore your name-calling is boorish as well as ineffectual.”

  “Sorry, Miss Norwood,” Lord Harry mumbled unconvincingly. “Are you ready for our game, Jordan?”

  Georgina sat glaring at Lord Harry.

 
Lord Reckford sighed and rose from the table.

  “Where are you off to?” Oliver asked the two younger men from his place next to Lady Altham. Upon learning a game of billiards was in the offing, he, too, rose and followed the gentlemen, including Lord Lindsay and Uncle Iggy, out of the room.

  “You boys today are too mealy-mouthed,” Uncle Iggy was heard to say as the gentlemen traveled down the hallway. “In my day we spoke our minds. Weren’t anything wrong with Lord Harry calling Georgina a peagoose. He could have said worse, for the girl is a hoyden, make no mistake.”

  “Ladies, we have been deserted,” Lady Lindsay said with a smile, attempting to divert her niece’s attention from Uncle Iggy’s remarks.

  “A pox on them,” Miss Norwood said flatly.

  “Georgina!” admonished her grandmama. “Wherever did you hear such language? Thank God your mama is not in the room.”

  As Lady Altham herself was often guilty of falling into cant, no reply was made to her question. Georgina hung her head in apparent shame, although Margery suspected she was hiding a grin.

  Lady Altham looked toward the doorway that the gentlemen had passed through, as if someone had taken away her favorite toy.

  “I believe I shall go up to the nursery,” Lady Lindsay said.

  “Yes, do, Blythe. I believe my grandchildren have run their nurse into the ground this morning,” Lady Altham replied.

  “I shall come up later, if it is all right, Lady Lindsay,” Margery ventured.

  “Of course. But only if you call me Blythe,” she retorted, her brown eyes sparkling merrily.

  Margery nodded her agreement and then finished her eggs and placed her fork upon her plate. A footman whisked it away, and she sat drinking her coffee.

  She later retired to the morning room with Lady Altham and Georgina, where they were joined presently by Miss Charlotte Hudson. After greeting the ladies, Miss Hudson retired to a corner of the room with a book, no doubt another on America, leaving the other ladies to converse on a variety of topics, including the latest fashions in London. Lady Altham, Margery was pleased to note, treated her granddaughter with loving kindness.

  “I believe the white silk with the coral trim will set off your coloring beautifully, Georgina,” Lady Altham said.

  “Do you think so, too, Lady Margery?” Georgina asked eagerly. “I am looking forward to the assembly tonight at Squire Foweley’s.”

  “Your grandmama is quite right, Georgina. I admired the gown yesterday when you showed it to me, remember?” Margery pinned an expression of pleased anticipation on her face at the mention of Squire Foweley’s assembly. In truth, she dreaded appearing at the local gathering. She had never met the squire and his family and did not know who their guests might include.

  “What are you planning to wear, Margery?” Lady Altham asked, fixing her young friend with a stare. “You must appear at your best.”

  “She’s right, Lady Margery,” Georgina claimed. “For there are bound to be several gentlemen in attendance in addition to Lord Reckford.”

  Margery lowered her gaze to the stitchery she had been working on for the past half hour. It seemed Georgina, too, would play matchmaker. Oh, Lord. “I had not given the subject of what to wear any thought.”

  “I think the white velvet gown you showed me would be lovely with your black hair,” Georgina pronounced.

  “Very well then, it is decided,” Margery said, and smiled at her young friend.

  A short time later, Mr. Lemon brought in tea and informed the women that the gentlemen wished to depart on the greenery-gathering expedition in an hour, if it suited the ladies.

  Margery and Georgina sent their acceptance to this plan.

  Lady Altham declined. “I am leaving you in charge of the decorations, Margery. You are accomplished at organizing such things.”

  “Well, I thank you for your confidence in me, my lady,” Margery said. “I do believe I shall visit the nursery before we go out. I promised the children I would look at the kittens. Do you wish to come, Georgina?”

  “No, thank you. I am going to finish this seed cake before getting ready to go outside.”

  Thus, Margery climbed the stairs to the nursery alone, hearing shouts of laughter coming from the playroom.

  “I tell you I count only four of them.” Lord Reckford’s voice carried out into the hall.

  The sounds of little girls giggling and Thomas yelling could be heard in response.

  “No, there are five kittens, my lord. I am certain of it.”

  “Thomas is correct. Remember we named them Sage, Dill, Mint, Basil, and Thyme. That is five names.”

  “Correct, Venetia. We would not give four kittens five names, Lord Reckford.”

  Margery stood on the threshold of the room and took in the scene. The playroom, which was connected to the nursery, had toys strewn about as if its occupants had taken everything off the shelves, then retrieved all the toys in the attic and inspected the whole before dropping every item on the floor. Scampering among the mess were four adorably spirited kittens.

  Vivian and Venetia were hopping up and down and giggling at Lord Reckford, who stood several feet away from where Margery was standing. His profile was to her. So involved was he with the children’s games, he did not see her.

  “Well, I should not like to doubt anyone’s word, but I cannot help but believe there are only four kittens,” Lord Reckford pronounced in exaggerated tones.

  He turned his back to the children and raised his arms in a wide questioning arc. “Where, pray tell me, is the fifth kitten?”

  “There! There is the fifth one!” shouted Thomas.

  Vivian and Venetia broke into peals of laughter. They jumped up and down, pointing at Lord Reckford.

  For there, crawling up the viscount’s back to peer over his shoulder, was the fifth kitten.

  Lord Reckford pretended not to understand. “Where? Where?” he asked.

  Margery burst into laughter.

  At the sound, Lord Reckford perceived her presence and turned toward her. A sudden grin lit his handsome features, and Margery’s breath caught in her throat.

  The kitten, having tenaciously reached his goal, now perched on the viscount’s shoulder. It leaned over and nipped his ear.

  “Ouch!” Lord Reckford said. He clutched his ear dramatically, as if only by doing so would it remain attached to his head.

  Chaos ruled as the children howled with laughter, causing their nurse to slide past Margery into the room to affect order.

  Lord Reckford was no help, gripping his ear with one hand and trying to hold on to the wiggling kitten with the other. “Ah, here he is, children. You were right. There are five of them. Which one is this?”

  “Thyme!”

  The kitten in question was all black except for two front white paws and a white chest, giving the impression he was wearing a waistcoat and gloves.

  With the nurse calming the children and hurrying them away to get ready for the outdoors, Lord Reckford approached Margery.

  “Here, Lady Margery, might I prevail upon you to help me?”

  Reluctantly, Margery accepted the squirming mass of kitten from his lordship’s hand. It looked up at her with yellow eyes and gave a soft meow.

  Despite herself, Margery’s lips spread into a smile. She raised her hand and brushed the top of the kitten’s head in a light caress. This action caused a happy purr, loudly out of proportion in volume to the kitten’s size.

  Lord Reckford used a handkerchief to wipe a minute spot of blood from his ear. Then he put the square of linen back in his pocket and stood watching the lady in front of him.

  Margery raised her gaze to find Lord Reckford mere inches away from her in the suddenly deserted playroom.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  The lone sound in the room was the kitten’s purring. Margery felt her heartbeat accelerate at the viscount’s nearness. If only he were not so perfectly groomed, so exquisitely handsome, and so clever, she woul
d not be affected by his mere presence.

  She covered her sudden nervousness by lowering her gaze and stroking the kitten’s downy head.

  “You are very beautiful,” Lord Reckford murmured.

  “Are you speaking to the kitten, my lord?” Margery replied. Say anything, she told herself, to break the spell his proximity cast over her.

  The viscount gave a low laugh. “You know I am not. Surely over the years many gentlemen have admired your beauty.”

  Margery did not feel attractive. She felt woefully inadequate in the face of Lord Reckford’s charm. She could smell the light bay rum scent his lordship wore, and knew that, for the rest of her life, the fragrance would remind her of him.

  He leaned even closer and reached out to scratch the kitten under its jaw.

  Margery wondered if she should yank her hand away so that she would not touch the viscount. The next second decided the matter.

  The jolt Margery felt when their bare skin made contact caused her to wrench her hand away. She rested it underneath her arm cradling the kitten, who gave a sleepy, pink-tongued yawn.

  “This kitten is called Thyme. Does it remind you perhaps of your cat who passed away?” Lord Reckford inquired.

  “Y-yes,” Margery lied. In truth, her thoughts centered on the viscount. But at his reference to Brandy, memories did surface, and she felt the familiar pang of sorrow.

  “Remember, Lady Margery, legend has it cats have nine lives.”

  “I have often thought of that belief and hoped it was somehow true.”

  Lord Reckford watched her carefully. “Did your husband share your love of the feline?”

  An image of Simon roughly pushing Brandy away with a booted foot flashed through Margery’s mind. Eventually, Brandy had no longer dared to approach him. Neither had Margery. “Simon did not like animals, other than his horses.”

  “Ah, I see. But you formed a close bond with your cat, and miss him still. What a lucky creature he was to have had you to look after him.”

  She kept her eyes lowered. “His name was Brandy, because of the rich color of his fur,” Margery explained. “He was a good companion.”