How the Rogue Stole Christmas

by Rosemary Stevens

  “Unlike Simon Fortescue?”

  Margery’s head shot up, and she cast a startled glance at the viscount. Once again, she experienced that panicked feeling that made her wish to run away from him. Besides being an appealing male, he seemed to suspect something of the nature of her relationship with Simon. Two good reasons to avoid him.

  She was saved from answering his question when she heard Georgina’s voice coming from the nursery.

  “Lady Margery! Oh, here you are.” Georgina stopped short at the threshold of the room. She was dressed for the outdoors, her red-gold curls peeking out from under a green velvet bonnet that matched a thick green velvet pelisse. “I am not interrupting anything, am I?” She glanced curiously from the viscount’s bemused expression to Margery’s ill-at-ease countenance.

  “Not at all,” Margery replied, recovering her composure. “Lord Reckford and I were just playing with the kittens.”

  “Yes, and this kitten, Thyme, has grown fond of Lady Margery,” his lordship said. “She is thinking of adopting him.”

  “Oh, what a bouncer!” Margery cried, marveling at how easily such an untruth rolled off Lord Reckford’s tongue. “I am thinking of no such thing.”

  “But you should, Lady Margery,” Georgina insisted. “Didn’t you tell me it’s been a whole year since Brandy died? And you love cats. Why do you deprive yourself of what you desire?”

  “Pray, tell us why, Lady Margery,” Lord Reckford said smoothly.

  Margery looked at him warily. His lordship’s expression was bland, but Margery detected a telltale glint of humor in his eyes. He had turned Georgina’s innocent words into something entirely different.

  Margery knew it was not uncommon for widows of the ton to discreetly take a lover. She supposed that after her response to his kiss at the Two Keys Inn Lord Reckford believed she wanted him, and was asking why she denied herself the pleasure. The vain rogue. She would not give him the satisfaction of a reply.

  “Come, Georgina,” Margery said, depositing Thyme gently on the floor to join his brothers and sisters. “I collect I am delaying the greenery-gathering party. Let us go to my bedchamber so I may fetch my cloak.”

  “I shall see you outside, ladies,” Lord Reckford promised.

  Thank goodness the outside is vast, Margery thought.

  'text-align:center;text-indent:0in'>* * * * Clad in a dark gray caped greatcoat, Jordan walked down the front steps of Altham House. Standing about were Keith and Blythe and their children.

  Vivian and Venetia, dressed once again in their matching pink pelisses, chattered about the kittens to their tolerant mama.

  Lord Harry looked on while Thomas held a gardener’s ruler, which he thrust through the snow to the ground with great enthusiasm. Then he placed a mittened finger at the precise point where the top of the snow met the stick. Holding his finger in place, Thomas raised the stick high and squinted at it through his spectacles, trying to measure the amount of snow on the ground.

  Jordan smiled at the boy’s thirst for knowledge. And Harry seemed to be growing fond of the lad. Harry had allowed himself to be drawn away from the billiard table for quite twenty minutes earlier in the day when Thomas asked him for help in deciphering a difficult mathematical equation. Yes, Jordan approved of the relationship. Harry needed a serious influence, and Thomas could do with a bit more fun.

  Glancing across the circular drive, Jordan saw a small group of male servants, who were to accompany them on their outing. They would do the heavy cutting and chopping work, and carry back the Yule log and the greenery.

  Perceiving Gris among the men, Jordan walked over to stand beside his old batman. “Been recruited, or are you just out for some fresh air?”

  Mr. Griswold shifted his booted feet “A body can’t stay indoors for long. Tain’t natural.”

  Jordan looked thoughtful. “You know, I do not believe Mr. Ridgeton would ever lower himself to go out searching for a Yule log.”

  “We all know what a paragon your old valet was,” Griswold replied with heavy sarcasm, “but if you was to ask me, I could tell you just how Mr. Ridgeton could lower himself when it comes to a Yule log.”

  Jordan let out a whoop of laughter, clapped the older man on the back, and moved to meet Harry, who was striding toward him. “Well, halfling, are you enjoying yourself at all?”

  Lord Harry’s lips twisted in a wry grin. “The party is not bad, I daresay. Young Thomas has a keen mind. And your friend, Oliver Westerville, is complete to a shade. He had his valet help me with this cravat. What do you think?”

  Jordan eyed the white confection of linen showing above the collar of Harry’s fawn-colored greatcoat. “The man has talent. Can you replicate the style?”

  “With practice, I’ll wager I can. Just think what the fellows at Oxford will say when they see how well turned out I am.”

  “Indeed.”

  Lord Harry winked. “Mayhaps I won’t have to wait that long to have the technique admired. Oliver’s man promised to help me dress tonight for Squire Foweley’s assembly. I have hopes there’ll be some dazzling young ladies present.”

  “As to that, I doubt we shall find any to equal the two about to join our party,” Jordan told him, indicating Lady Margery and Miss Georgina Norwood just coming out the massive front doors.

  Lord Harry narrowed his eyes. “You can’t mean that freckle-faced hellcat, Miss Norwood?”

  “Harry, your etiquette is appalling.”

  “I wouldn’t say what I think in front of her,” Lord Harry protested.

  “See that you do not. Bad manners are not the way to attach her interest.”

  “Attach her interest? Have you run mad? I can’t abide the chit!” At Jordan’s patent look of disbelief, Harry said grudgingly, “I suppose some might say she is well enough in her own way. Until she opens her mouth. Now Lady Margery, well, she’s all a fellow could want. Sweet, kind. And only look how charming she appears in that fashionable cloak.”

  Jordan did just that. Obviously the hooded cloak was London-made. It boasted a particularly lovely shade of cobalt-blue velvet trimmed with white fur. Lady Margery’s hands were tucked into a large muff of matching white fur. The cold air brought a sparkle to her gray eyes and pinkened her cheeks. “You are too young for her, Harry.”

  Lord Harry raised his brows at his friend. “She’s a bit older than I, but—” A look of dawning realization crossed his youthful features. “Oh-ho! The wind blows in that direction, does it?”

  Jordan silenced him with a warning look.

  Lady Margery’s gaze rested on Jordan for a moment, then she turned away. She and Georgina Norwood greeted the Lindsays.

  So, the lady thinks she can avoid me, Jordan mused.

  Ah, there was nothing like a challenge.

  'text-align:center;text-indent:0in'>* * * * The party trudged to the woods down a path that the servants had cleared earlier. The warmth from the sun made the temperature high enough for the outing to be comfortably endured. All around them, the snow glistened under the golden light.

  Margery gazed about in pleasure. Whose spirits could not be raised by the beauty of nature? Even the stark trees held their own grace. Margery took a deep breath and told herself the very air was filled with Christmas spirit.

  “Lady Margery, have you noticed any change in my freckles?” asked Georgina, walking beside Margery. She tilted her face toward Margery as she spoke.

  Margery studied the young girl’s complexion and could see no lessening in the distinction of the girl’s nemesis. She placed an arm about her shoulder and gave her a friendly squeeze. “I have told you, Georgina, that your freckles will only serve to endear you to the gentlemen.”

  Georgina’s full bottom lip formed a hint of a pout. “That is your nice way of saying there has been no change. I read in a book in Grandmama’s library that applying crushed strawberries can produce results. I had a strenuous time of it, convincing Cook to part with a few of her precious berries from the hothouse. And what i
s the outcome of my efforts? Pah, I’m just as tormented as before. I tell you I am done with mirrors.”

  Margery resisted the urge to smile at the girl’s dramatics. She would not underrate Georgina’s feelings as she suspected Mrs. Norwood often did. “When we return to the house, we must seek out Colette. I am sure she will share her wisdom with us.”

  Georgina’s eyes shone with hope at this promise to consult the French lady’s maid. “Thank you, Lady Margery. Oh, do but look up there,” she said, pointing to a tree not far into the woods. “Isn’t that mistletoe? I’ll ask one of the servants to get some of it down. We absolutely must have mistletoe!”

  Before Margery could reply, Georgina lifted the skirts of her green pelisse and ran ahead.

  As the party entered the woods, Vivian and Venetia dragged their laughing parents aside. “Come, Mama, you must be quiet. We hope we might see a deer like the one in the story you read us last night.” The family walked farther into the woods.

  Margery strolled to where the snow, having collected on top of old leaves, was deeper. The servants laid sacks on the ground and began cutting pine boughs. She intended to follow Georgina, but a male voice stopped her.

  “Shall we search for the perfect Yule log or some holly branches?”

  Margery’s cloak swirled around her as she turned to find Lord Reckford standing close by. After their solitary conversation in the playroom, Margery wished to put some distance between her and the disturbing viscount. Alas, her wish was not to be granted.

  She took in Lord Reckford’s appearance. Was there no situation in which his lordship did not appear to advantage? His caped greatcoat made his broad shoulders seem even more powerful. The tall beaver hat, tilted at a fashionable angle, added to his air of rakish elegance.

  “I intend on gathering mistletoe with Georgina,” Margery said.

  Lord Reckford raised a brow. “Mistletoe? By all means, Lady Margery. What would a Christmas party be without mistletoe? But I assure you, an attractive female like you needs no assistance in coaxing a gentleman to bestow a kiss upon her.”

  Margery felt her cheeks warm. Had he but known it, Lord Reckford was wrong in his statement. Her mind flashed back to a scene from her marriage. “Simon,” she had ventured one morning across the breakfast table a little over a week after their wedding, “is there something about my person that displeases you? Before the wedding you were attentive, but now—”

  Simon had picked up the newspaper placed beside his plate. “Gad, you weary me, Margery. I don’t know what you thought our marriage would be like. Something out of a novel, perhaps.”

  Working up her courage, Margery had replied, “Simon, it is a new year and a chance for starting over. I—I must tell you how disappointed I was on our—on our wedding night when you— when you did not—” She had broken off, unable to continue.

  “Disappointed when I did not take you to my bed, Margery? Is that what you were going to say?” Simon had mocked. He had ignored the tears that trembled on her lashes and instead rose impatiently to his feet. “Not nearly as disappointed as you would have been had I done so.”

  Bewildered, Margery could bring herself to say no more on the subject at that time. Later, after Simon’s drinking grew heavy and more frequent, she had ceased her attempts at understanding her husband.

  Lord Reckford’s voice brought her back to the present. “Georgina is managing the mistletoe without your help, ordering that poor footman to climb a tree. I, on the other hand, require your resourceful assistance gathering the holly. See, I have taken a sack from one of the servants and—”

  “I have been hurt before by the holly branches, my lord. I have no wish to tangle with them again,” she said hotly, aching with an inner pain. “Someone else must help you.”

  To her horror Margery heard her voice tremble. She turned away from the viscount and brushed at a tear that fell to her cheek before she could blink it away.

  For a long moment neither of them moved. Apparently knowing that something was troubling her deeply, Lord Reckford waited until she had herself under control, then said quietly, “It is clear you have been hurt, and by more than mere holly. But, come, I shall show you how to go about it.” He placed his hand gently on her elbow and guided her toward a bush.

  Somehow Margery felt comforted by his light touch. She allowed him to lead her, remaining silent except for a few murmured responses as he cut the holly branches with a knife he produced from his pocket. Together they worked to fill the sack, with nary a pricked finger between them, more in charity with one another than they had been earlier.

  Margery found herself telling Lord Reckford about her efforts to give her cottage in Porwood some Christmas cheer. He proved to be an able listener. Only his hearty laugh at her story about the hedgehog that had made his way into the cottage by hanging on to the holly stopped her flow of words.

  After a short, companionable silence, Margery saw the viscount regarding her thoughtfully. “After I met you at that dreadful inn, I wished to find out the identity of the mystery lady whom I had kissed. Now, even though I know your name, you are still a mystery.” He reached out to the hood of her cloak and pushed it away from her face. The velvet material pooled gracefully down her back.

  Margery felt the cool wind blow across her head, ruffling her hair. “There is nothing mysterious about me. As I have just been telling you, I live a normal life with my companion in a modest village.”

  “And do you always recoil from taking risks?” he asked, pocketing the knife. He turned his blue-black gaze on her, waiting for an answer.

  “Do not be ridiculous. Of course I take risks, though I am no hey-go-mad sort.”

  “From my short acquaintance with you, Lady Margery, I fear I must disagree. Number one,” he said, beginning to tick items off on his fingers, “you did not want to collect this holly because you had a provoking time of it when you decorated your cottage. Number two, you refuse to consider taking one or two of the kittens because you had a cat once, and he died. Er, I assume he passed away from old age?”

  Margery nodded reluctantly.

  “And number three, you seem to shy away from all masculine company because you seem to grieve so for your husband. Tsk, tsk, how dull life must be when one does not take any risks.”

  Margery felt appalled at the quick and accurate way he had assessed her. A need to defend herself rose to the fore. “Lord Reckford, although it escapes me what concern my life is to you, I will say that my coming to this house party must surely count as a risk.” Margery omitted the fact that her cottage was, at present, unlivable.

  “Why is it a risk to come to the Christmas house party of a friend?” he asked, his gaze boring into hers.

  Now the correct answer to this question was twofold: first, because she might meet members of the ton who knew the true circumstances of her marriage; and second, because she feared being placed in the presence of a handsome gentleman whom she might grow fond of, only to have him deceive her as Simon had.

  But she would not tell the viscount either of the true reasons.

  “It is a risk, my lord,” she said with a ring of finality in her voice that indicated she desired the conversation at an end, “because I wish to have a happy Christmas this year. At Lady Altham’s, I might very well grow bored being civil to people I have but a slight association with, or, worse, have to suffer unwanted attentions during my stay.”

  A slow, seductive smile spread across Lord Reckford’s mouth. “Then you must stay close to me during your visit. I promise you will not be bored. And my attentions have rarely been resisted by any female.”

  Including her! Oh, the arrogance of the man! And just when he had been showing a compassionate side to his character. “I should count myself blessed, indeed, that you have joined us in such a country pursuit. Why did you come here? I would have thought someone like you would prefer to stay in Town with its amusements. Or at the very least,” Margery said with an air of false sweetness, “you would wish
for a larger house party with a variety of female guests to captivate.”

  “Oh, as to that, I daresay all the guests have yet to arrive,” he drawled.

  They were interrupted at this point by a sharp cry.

  “Ouch! Devil take it, you red-haired minx!” Lord Harry brushed snow from the back of his neck with one hand, while scooping up a handful of the cold stuff with the other.

  Georgina stood several yards away, her hands on her hips. “I never would have thrown a snowball at you had you not swung that snow-laden branch in such a way as to drop the contents upon my head. Don’t you dare throw that at me!” she yelled, ducking behind a tree.

  Lord and Lady Lindsay and the children appeared, along with Griswold and three footmen dragging a large log. Keith took in the situation at once. “A snowball fight! Capital! Gentlemen against the ladies, is it?” He scooped up a small amount of snow and tossed it at his wife. Blythe laughed and accepted the challenge.

  What followed between adults and children alike was a light-hearted volley of snowy weapons. Margery took delight in the childish game, feeling it an opportunity to take the elegant viscount down a peg or two. No one could pack a tighter snowball than she!

  To her frustration, Lord Reckford merely laughed at the two snowballs that landed harmlessly on his greatcoat. Margery put more effort into the next one hoping to wipe the smile-however dazzling it might be—from his face.

  Just when she thought he was not going to retaliate, the viscount swiftly produced a snowball from behind his back and rushed toward her. She let out a scream and raised her hand in protest when he playfully threatened to put the cold mass down the back of her cloak.

  As he hovered over her, Margery suddenly feared Lord Reckford’s seductive person more than the possibility of snow down her neck. His face was close to hers, and, without thinking, Margery dropped her gaze to his lips. A surge of desire spread through her. She wished to taste his lips again, to feel the warm pressure of his mouth.

  “Enough!” Lord Lindsay’s voice cut through Margery’s thoughts. “We are evenly matched, gentlemen and ladies. I declare the game a tie.”