There were two things fighting for control of his mind at the moment; food, and the lady of the house.
He was unsure which he wanted more.
Lady Pippa, while possessing a spirit unrivaled by all those he’d met before, had a kind and giving heart. She toiled away to knit caps for the village children. She’d welcomed him into her home—no matter how reluctantly—even though she could have sent him to sleep in the stables. She was not loud and demanding like the actresses he’d favored thus far in life. Nor was she petty and vain like many of the debutantes he’d met in the London ballrooms.
She carried herself like a country mouse—yet, he’d witnessed her hoyden side firsthand. The woman was quick-witted. It was no wonder her parents kept her hidden here in the country, for she’d attract every eligible—and not so eligible—man in town. Pippa was a rarity. Lucas had been among society enough to know that for a fact. The men would swarm and act the dandy to gain her attention, tripping over one another in pursuit of their prize.
However, that did not change the fact that she was the complete opposite of the women he normally pursued, the type of women he found alluring—that captured his full attention until they’d outlasted their usefulness to him.
Pippa was beautiful, in an unassuming, understated way—no coal lined her eyes, nor did she apply dyes to her full, pouty lips. She was a true beauty.
One that members of the ton would likely call a diamond of the first water, a rare jewel.
Could it be that he knew he was walking into a parson’s noose when he arrived at Lady Natalie’s country manor?
If Lucas had any sense at all, he’d set out for Lady Natalie’s home on foot if need be to escape what he knew would result from his presence here—he would ruin Lady Pippa, as he’d ruined many things in his life. That was likely the reason his parents kept their distance, except in cases when they found their only surviving offspring useful. But they would discard him, send him back where he belonged, as soon as he’d fulfilled their needs—much like he’d done to those around him.
A vicious cycle…something Lucas was determined not to make Lady Pippa part of.
* * *
He hadn’t been thinking when he’d asked her for a kiss, at least not with the head on his shoulders. The bell cord hung by the door, and Lucas knew he should pull it and request his meal in his room. Conversely, it had been hours since he’d seen Pippa, and he needed to see her as much as he required food.
Lucas pulled the drapes aside, hoping to see the storm had receded and the rain relented. To his utter surprise, the sun had set, and a purple haze sat on the horizon while the rain pelted the windowpanes. The raindrops etched a path down until they disappeared from sight. The wind still howled outside, and the trees in the distance waved wildly as if inviting him to enter the coming darkness and travel to them. They promised secrets far beyond his wildest dreams—but Lucas knew that calling was what had sent his life spiraling to its present condition. He’d answered the call of the darkness—ventured forth to explore its many secrets, all those years ago. He could still smell the air and hear the sound of rushing water in the distance as he’d snuck out through the kitchen of his family’s country estate. It had been twilight, the same as now. He’d been ravenous for adventure, willing to brave the frigid frostiness of night to find it—if it ever truly existed.
Lucas hadn’t known on that night that his younger brother—his only sibling—had followed him into the night. He’d been seven, and his brother only four. Lucas had spent that night vanquishing the pirates from his family’s lands, hunting rare animals through the darkness, and rescuing the damsel in distress as light crested on the horizon. He’d returned and slipped into bed as his nursemaid had come to wake him and Randolph.
But Randolph’s bed was empty.
He was nowhere to be found in the entire house—every servant and village member had searched for hours. They had combed every square inch of the estate until twilight landed once more, and Randolph was found—the life taken from his body as he lay almost frozen by the creek that meandered through their property. The exact spot Lucas had waged battle against his imaginary pirates during the night.
His parents had soon found his footprints leading back into the house after his night out.
They’d never forgiven him—sending him away the next week to be schooled far from the only home he’d ever known, devoid of any familial relationship.
Lucas had never ventured back to his family’s country estate. Neither had his parents.
Pulling the drapes tight, he turned toward the door, banishing the thoughts from so long ago. With time, the images and hurt had dulled, though never completely fading. If he hadn’t stolen a miniature portrait of Randolph before being sent away, Lucas would have long forgotten his brother’s chubby cheeks and lopsided grin. He’d committed the image to memory as best he could, removing the picture it from its treasured spot when he felt the rendering fraying at the edges.
Lucas blamed himself for that night. He would never forgive himself. However, the sin of allowing his brother’s appearance to fade completely from his memory would mean certain death for Lucas. When that time came, Lucas would be prepared for his life to end.
But until that day, he’d seek to distract himself as much as possible from his coming end. For he knew at some point, the sound of his sibling’s light laughter would disappear altogether. His mind would eventually not be able to dredge up the long ago sound that had filled his life so utterly, and he’d be left a shell of a child after it was gone.
And that was when even the allure of London nightlife would cease to pull Lucas in and give him the illusion of comfort he’d convinced himself would see him through his life—until he and Randolph were reunited and he could kneel at his baby brother’s feet and beg his forgiveness. Until then, London kept the loneliness at bay.
All this was made more real by his return to the country. It didn’t matter that Somerset was far from his family estate—the calm, the quiet, the feeling of utter aloneness was the same. Lucas longed to surround himself with people once more. Maybe continuing to Lady Natalie’s wasn’t such a horrid idea. The holiday party was likely full to brimming with people, and distraction would be easily found.
London was his home—a place so teeming with life that Lucas could never get lost, nor be alone—but until he’d fulfilled this one obligation due his parents, he’d remain in the country.
He’d delayed in his room long enough. If he waited any longer, the nightly meal would be long over, and the servants in bed. That would leave him to a meal of day-old bread and cheese, much like the night before. After his morning meal of eggs and meat, Lucas knew Lady Pippa employed a wonderful cook, and he wasn’t about to miss out. But when he arrived below, there was no one about. The dining parlor was empty; as was the room he’d broken his fast in.
A maid appeared, shuffling past him, increasing her pace. She appeared to be in a rush and wanted nothing more than to be away from Lucas—a stranger. He hadn’t even a moment to ask after Lady Pippa’s whereabouts as the maid kept her head lowered and continued on her way.
If all else failed, it would not be difficult to find the kitchens. Even now, the smells of food drifted his way—a mix of sugary goodness and savory meats.
His stomach growled again, protesting Lucas’s slow progress toward the delicious aromas.
A part of Lucas wondered if the smells reaching him were those of the holiday season—sweet treats, doughy breads, and savory soups. He would not know since he hadn’t spent a holiday with family since he’d actually had a family. His meals during the Christmastide season included anything his club offered; normally, a hearty repast of sautéed bird paired with wines, cheeses, and a spicy sauce that fit nothing but was well liked by club members.
Turning down one last hallway, he spotted the kitchen at the end. Candles blazed within, lighting the room as if a full staff of servants were busily at work—from the sound and smell of it, they
were, though he didn’t see a single person from his vantage point.
Curious as to what could possibly be the frenzy at such a time of night, Lucas entered the room—to find only Lady Pippa, elbow deep in flour with sugar crystals clinging to her deep brown hair.
Lucas didn’t know if it was the sight of her, or the mess she’d created, that took his breath away. Yet, there he stood, only a foot into the room, his voice catching in his throat. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to remove each speck of sugar from her hair.
He wanted to take her in his arms once more.
Instead, he stood there as she kneaded a ball of dough, unaware of his presence.
Chapter 7
Pippa huffed and blew a strand of hair from her eyes as she took in the chunky ball of dough before her. There was no use in kneading it anymore—it was ruined, nothing like the light, airy bread she and her mother made each year. She’d need to start over—for the third time—if she were to have time for the dough to rise, bake the loaves, and have them cooling before her parents’ arrival. The thought of failing without her mother’s guidance and helping hand wounded Pippa. Disappointing her mother was not something Pippa enjoyed doing. Cordelia Godfrey, the duchess, would never admit to being disappointed. She’d simply roll up her sleeves and show her only child how to make everything better.
But there is a time in a woman’s life when she realizes she cannot depend on her mother to right every wrong. No, a woman must fend for herself, control her own life and destiny—or be left with nothing on the occasion her mother was not there to rescue her.
How was it possible that she’d stood in this very kitchen every Christmastide season and worked with her mother making all the pastries, breads, and mincemeat pies, and still she could not do it alone? Eighteen years of laughter, love, and baking together. Pippa had cherished the laughter far more than paying attention to the baking process, obvious from the utter disaster she’d made in the kitchen this night. Cook was likely to tan her hide when she arrived come morning—especially if Pippa had nothing to show for the disarray.
Maybe she should give up and simply clean the mess she’d made.
Pippa tossed the ruined dough on the table with the others and looked up, startled to see Lucas standing there, staring. He was outfitted in a freshly pressed shirt. His hair was damp from the bath she’d heard he’d requested over an hour before.
“My lord,” Pippa greeted, rubbing her hands together to be rid of the flour. “I hope you enjoyed your bath.”
“I did, thank you again.” He nodded to her head. Pippa’s hand darted to find her crown and brushed the sugar from the pie crust she’d attempted earlier from her hair. “I came in search of a meal, but I do not see anything edible at hand.” He exaggerated his movements as he looked around the room.
Heat flooded her cheeks, and she wondered how long he’d been watching her.
“May I ask what you are doing?”
Pippa gave the room a desperate look before answering. “I was attempting to bake the pies, bread, and pastries for the holiday, but as you can see, I found little success.”
“Why is your cook not here?”
Pippa sighed, resigned to admitting her failure. “Cook is given this night off each year to spend with her family—who live an hour’s travel from the village—while my mother and I prepare things for our Christmas meal and bake sweet treats to deliver to the village on Christmas Day. I fear, this year, the villagers will have no gifts from us, and we will be left with only cheese and stale bread for our meal.”
A look of concern, mixed with regret, crossed his face. The only signs he possessed any emotion other than anger and laughter. For the briefest of moments, he let his guard down long enough for her to glimpse something more within him.
“May I help with something?” He moved farther into the room, his posture serene. Another new development for him. “I cannot claim to have ever cooked a single meal, nor remember baking a pie. But if you can instruct me, maybe we can save your holiday feast together.”
Pippa hadn’t expected him to offer his assistance. However, she was grateful for it. “My mother normally does the instructing while I hurry about fetching things for her.”
“Is there anything you do remember making from start to finish? We can start there.” He removed his overcoat and slung it on a chair Pippa had used to reach a high shelf, then he rolled up his shirtsleeves. Instantly, she could imagine him on his own estate, no reluctance in rolling up his sleeves to help his tenants repair a roof or mend a gate. “If I can find something to snack on along the way, that would also suit.”
“My apologies.” Pippa rushed to the cupboard where Cook stored the bread, embarrassed that she hadn’t thought to offer him a meal. After removing a half-loaf, she moved to the box that held ice and the meats and cheeses that were better kept cold. “I did not think to have a meal sent to your room. Please, take this.” She handed him a plate of cold pheasant, cheese, and bread—all left from the previous night’s meal.
“You need not fuss over me. I have had many years of practice taking care of myself.”
“And yet you have never cooked a meal?” Pippa’s brow raised in question.
“Very true, my lady,” he said, inclining his head in thanks.
“I feel awful about your holiday plans going awry. I have spent the last two days feeling sorry for myself, when at least I am in my own home, surrounded by the familiar,” Pippa said. “When you, my lord, are stuck in a strange house without even a single family member present. Yes, my Christmas is not as it has always been, but you, you are alone.”
He chuckled, deeply, unlike the carefree sound she’d heard from him before. “I can assure you, this holiday is not so different from the many that came before it, my lady.”
“You are alone at Christmastide often?” she asked before she could stop herself. “I do not mean to pry.”
“Your question is not prying, and is something that all of London knows of me,” he assured her, tearing a piece of bread from the loaf and popping it into his mouth. “My family…we are not close, and have not spent a holiday together since I was sent away to school when I was seven.”
“I’m sorry—“
“Do not be,” he cut her off. “It is best for all concerned.”
He spoke about his family’s distance as if it were commonplace; families spending special days apart—and a boy far from his family at such a young age. Pippa may be hurting from her parents’ absence right now, but she’d enjoyed every holiday in the past with them.
“Do not look so dire, my lady.” Lucas next selected a hunk of cheese and nibbled as he walked about the room, surveying the many bowls and discarded wrappings. “I was well cared for, the best schools, fine clothes, trips around England during breaks, and when I reached my majority, my own London townhouse. I was far more fortunate than many young lords.”
Pippa sensed those things did not, indeed, make up for the lack of family, but rather that his insistence his youth was not a dismal time only covered up something far more damaging to him.
She would not pry—this was a time for celebration, not delving into Lucas’s past—a past he obviously didn’t want to discuss, and something Pippa had no right to know.
Besides, she had a holiday feast to save, even if the only people present to enjoy it were she and a man who’d been a complete stranger only the day before.
“Tell me, why are you so concerned with the villagers? Can they not make their own holiday treats?”
His lack of compassion for others was something Pippa did not understand. But from the softness in his voice, he didn’t mean his question to be rude or make light of the villagers’ circumstances—he’d obviously never been taught any differently than to treat the lower class as just that—below him. It was something made glaringly obvious to Pippa during her short time in London. Lords often treated the servants at balls as nothing. Those lords didn’t so much as acknowledge their presence beyond taking a flute
of champagne from their offered tray.
“My mother was once a villager here. Her father served my grandfather as a blacksmith,” Pippa shared. Her family’s past had made the gossip rags long before Pippa was born—and had, with time, faded. No one remembered the origins of the Duchess of Midcrest, something her mother disliked, as she was proud of her upbringing and her family. “My grandmother was a baker, teaching my mother all she knew.” Pippa paused to cast a forlorn look about the kitchen. “Which it is evident, she did not pass on to me.”
“Do not speak so harshly of yourself. Maybe with a few more years of practice, you will be as great as your grandmother is.”
“Was.”
“Was?” he asked. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Do not be, my grandparents passed when I was still in nappies.” Pippa pushed his apology aside. “I do not remember them, except the smell of flour surrounding my grandmother.”
A faraway look took over Lucas at her mention of relatives long gone from this earth.
Pippa hurried to the cold box once more, allowing him a spot of privacy to think through whatever had taken over his mind.
“What have you planned to attempt next, my lady?” Startled, she looked up to see him only a few paces behind her. “I am ready to assist you in any way. And if things do not fare well, you can lay the blame with me if anyone asks.”
“How generous of you.” Pippa laughed, retrieving a sack of minced meat Cook had prepared before leaving. “We will start by filling the pie crusts I made earlier with mincemeat and putting them to bake.”
A Kiss At Christmastide: Regency Novella Page 5
