“He said that of the yule log as well, Prudence, but we intend to have one tonight—in fact, here come the men now from their expedition to find a suitable one. Why do you not ask Philip what he thinks of these traditions?”
Prudence obediently approached her husband, where he had paused under the just-hung mass of greenery, ribbons, and mistletoe. To Nessa’s delight, her brother-in-law was not at all slow to take advantage of time-honored custom, reaching up to pluck a mistletoe berry before claiming a resounding kiss from his startled wife.
“Philip!” Cheeks as scarlet as the ribbons above them, Prudence glanced wildly about at the appreciative onlookers.
“I believe you may take that as an answer to the question you were about to ask,” Nessa suggested wickedly. Prudence sent her a speaking glance, but then she smiled shyly up at her husband.
“Have you felt deprived of Christmas traditions these past few years, my lord?” she asked.
Philip encircled his wife’s shoulders with an arm and gave her a quick hug. “Only a bit, my dear. Not enough to make you uncomfortable over. I know you were not brought up to them.”
Prudence’s brow furrowed prettily as she considered his words, but she said nothing. Shortly thereafter, the men went back outdoors to strip the remaining branches from the yule log before bringing it in, and Nessa took the opportunity for a few more words with her sister on the subject.
“Are you still opposed to celebrating Christmas, Prudence? Everyone else seems to enjoy it enormously.”
Again her sister looked thoughtful. “Yes, they do. Even Philip.” Nessa had been pleased to note that she often called her husband by his Christian name now, unless many people were present.
“Perhaps ’tis not such a pagan thing to do after all,” Nessa suggested. “It occurs to me that many of the traditions Father despised involve charity to one’s fellow man—Boxing Day, gift baskets to the poor, that sort of thing. How can such customs possibly violate the spirit of the season?”
Prudence nodded. “I believe you may be right, Nessa. Father, for all his virtue, was not a particularly charitable man.”
Though she said nothing more, Nessa took great hope from that statement, the first one critical of their father that she’d ever heard Prudence utter. Yes, her sister was well on her way to becoming her own person—and a far happier one, she suspected.
Celebrating with the villagers and servants in the biggest of the barns on Boxing Day, Nessa found that Jack and Philip enjoyed children as much as she and Prudence did. She watched with delight as they carried a succession of little boys about on their shoulders and danced with every little girl old enough to stand.
When the motley group of local musicians struck up a waltz, Jack charmed the assembly by dancing it with his wife. Nessa was pleased to see that most of the local lasses appeared to have accepted her already. Glancing to her right, she was even more pleased—and amazed—to see Prudence and Philip waltzing!
“You were splendid!” she declared to them when the dance was over. “However did you convince her to learn, Philip?”
Her brother-in-law chuckled. “Actually, it was her suggestion. It began with a private lesson in a corridor at the Hightower ball, followed by—” But at this point he was silenced by a poke in the ribs from a blushing—but smiling—Prudence.
“No matter. I’m happy for you both,” said Nessa sincerely. For a moment she felt the faintest twinge of old envy, but pushed it aside.
Time enough once the festivities were over to worry about the emotional state of her own marriage. For now, she was content with the novel joys of the season—and of the marriage bed, where her education continued apace.
At times, Nessa almost wondered how she could ever have found lovemaking distasteful. Then she would remember Lord Haughton and shudder, turning to Jack with renewed gratitude for everything he’d shown her marriage could hold. If a tiny voice murmured, everything but love, she ignored it. She and Jack had affection and trust, which was surely more than many couples shared.
Throughout the Twelve Days of Christmas, they discovered more and more interests in common. Nessa beat Jack at whist, and he taught her to play vingt-et-un and euchre. When the weather permitted, they took more and longer walks until she felt familiar with most of the Foxhaven estate and longed to see it in other seasons. Never much of a horsewoman, Jack taught her some of the finer points of riding until she began to enjoy the exercise and even earned his grudging praise.
When sleet drove everyone indoors, they discussed books. To her surprise, Jack had read most of the same ones she had, with both professing a fondness for the tales of Walter Scott—novels of the sort Nessa had always been obliged to read in secret.
All too soon, Twelfth Night arrived. On the morrow, January seventh, they were all to head back to London. The decorations were taken down and, after dinner, the Twelfth Cake was brought in to close the holiday season.
Jack raised his glass. “To good times and good friends. May we often gather again in the future.”
All drank to that, Harry draining his glass as was his wont and signaling the servant to refill it. He then lifted his own wineglass for a toast. “To our host, Jack, the best of good friends. May Wellington’s faith in you be justified, as well as yours in me. I wish you the best of both worlds,” he concluded, with a broad wink.
Though Nessa didn’t understand the reference, she drank with the rest.
Jack could see that Nessa was not as impressed by her first sight of his London house as she had been by Fox Manor. Though she politely refrained from making any criticism of Foxhaven House, she looked about at the dark front hallway with its nude statuary, gilt ornaments, and hunting trophies with something akin to horror.
Seeing it through her eyes, he was inclined to agree. In the first flush of excitement at his newfound wealth and title, he’d filled the Townhouse with various things he’d collected over his years of wandering, in an attempt to make it feel like home. The result was…tasteless, to say the least.
“You’ll, er, want to redecorate, most likely,” he said cautiously. “I rather threw things in any which way after I inherited last autumn.”
Nessa seemed to breathe a bit easier. “I believe I would prefer to make a few changes, if you won’t mind terribly.”
Jack grinned at her diplomacy. “Oh, it’s dreadful and I know it. I should have left well enough alone, of course, but now I give you free rein to do what you like with it. I’ve no doubt you’ll do me proud.”
She colored slightly, but lifted her chin. “I’ll do my best. But perhaps I should see what other atrocities you’ve committed before making any bold claims.”
Jack took her through the four-story house, holding his breath each time he opened a door, trying to recall what might be waiting on the other side.
“Never tell me this belonged to your grandmother,” exclaimed Nessa, holding up an extremely sheer scarlet negligee she found in her own wardrobe. “Nor these!” Reaching in again, she produced a pair of lacy black garters adorned with saucy red ribbons.
Vividly remembering the evening—and the party—that had occasioned those particular garments being left in this particular room, Jack could only groan. Had it really been only four months ago? What a wastrel he’d been!
But Nessa was chuckling. “Oh, come, Jack. I’ll not hold you accountable for everything you did before we married—or even met. ’Twas the fact that you were a rake which first fascinated me, if you recall. Don’t worry that I’ll become missish now, when I find occasional evidence of it.”
He managed a crooked grin, remembering his promise to Wellington. “Not many wives would be so understanding, I suspect. Shall we have a ball to introduce the new Lady Foxhaven to Society and to show off the house when it is done?”
The twinkle in her eyes told him she was aware he had deliberately changed the subject, but she answered readily enough. “Of course. It will be an essential step in restoring you to respectability. I’m not cert
ain how long these renovations will take, however, so let’s not send out the invitations just yet.”
Over the next week or two, however, Jack had occasion to wonder once more whether respectability was worth the cost. A continuous stream of tradesmen came to call, with samples of wallpaper, fabrics, carpet, and every other item that might conceivably play a role in redecorating a house. Nessa reviewed everything, made choices, and directed the resultant workmen.
Soon, no room was safe. Bolts of fabric, rolls of paper, tubs of glue, and boxes of pins were everywhere. The furniture went missing or in pieces as it was reupholstered, windows went uncurtained, and all was in disarray.
At first Jack felt like a coward taking refuge at his club, but soon even that offered scant relief. Wellington had written asking Harry and Peter to precede him to Vienna, and they had gone at once. Few of his other erstwhile cronies had yet returned to Town. Staring morosely out the Guards’ front window at White’s across the street, he decided he needed a change.
Back outside, he considered White’s again, wondering whether his reputation was yet restored enough to attempt entry there. Deciding not to risk it just yet, he turned to stroll aimlessly down St. James Street, considering various other clubs. Brooks’, Boodle’s, Arthur’s, Graham’s—none really appealed. Instead, he found his steps turning to Jermyn Street, home of some of his old, disreputable haunts.
“Jack, m’boy!” exclaimed a once-familiar voice as he passed one of the more notorious gaming hells. “Didn’t know you were back in Town. Let me buy you a drink, for old times’ sake.”
“Hello, Ferny,” he greeted the obviously tipsy young man. “How have you been?”
Lord Fernworth shook his head and heaved a dramatic sigh. “It ain’t been the same with you gone, and that’s the truth.” Jack did not resist when he took him by the arm and led him inside. “And then to take Pete and Harry away as well! I ask you!” He signaled for wine and a pretty serving wench obliged.
“Now you’re back,” he continued as their glasses were filled, “things are bound to improve. Look at this lot.” He gestured around the large room in disgust. “Not a decent card player in the bunch, or none willing to play for decent stakes. How much fun can one have in a hole like this, anyway? But with you back at Foxhaven House…”
“I’m married now, remember?”
Lord Fernworth focused on his face with some difficulty. “Yes, yes, of course, but what’s that to do with it? What the little lady in the country don’t know won’t hurt her.”
“Lady Foxhaven is here in London, refurbishing Foxhaven House even as we speak.” Jack recalled the chaos at home with slightly less than his earlier aversion.
“Here in Town? Man, are you mad? What the devil did you want to bring a wife here for? You have changed, Jack.” Lord Fernworth glared at him balefully before tossing off the rest of his drink.
Jack regarded him impassively, then allowed his gaze to take in the rest of the establishment where he’d spent a significant portion of his time last September. The clientele consisted of those on the outer fringes of Society, as well as the occasional younger son hoping to achieve Town bronze in short order. Though it was but late afternoon, most were already deep in their cups. What on earth was he doing here?
“Yes, I suppose I have.” Pushing his untouched glass across to Ferny, he stood. “Or maybe I’ve just grown up.” Leaving his onetime crony to ponder the meaning of that statement, he strode from the place, vowing never to return.
Walking along Piccadilly on his way back to Foxhaven House, yet another familiar voice hailed him, this one feminine. “Jack! What a delightful surprise!”
“You’re looking well, Miranda,” he cautiously greeted the stunning woman before him. “I take it you remained in Town during the holidays?”
She pouted prettily. “I had no choice, unless I wished to join my odious brother and his starched-up wife in Suffolk. I’d planned to attend Lady Hartshorn’s house party, but she took ill and canceled it.”
“How very discourteous of her, to be sure.” Though his tone was light and bantering, Jack’s thoughts were in turmoil. Here was his first opportunity to carry out Wellington’s request. He’d best make good use of it.
“My sentiments exactly,” Miranda replied, trilling one of her lovely laughs.
Jack started before realizing she’d responded to his careless words, not his thoughts. Carefully, he said, “A pity you’ve had such a dull time of it.”
“Ah, but now you’re back in Town, that will change, will it not?” She lowered her voice seductively and laid a hand on his sleeve. “By now you’ve no doubt had time to become bored with your proper little wife and will welcome some excitement as much as I.”
“Surely you haven’t spent the past month entirely alone?” he asked, though his conscience smote him for failing to defend Nessa. Not that the details of his marriage were any business of Miranda’s, he reminded himself.
“It does seem at times as though all the world’s in Paris—or Vienna—but I’ve had escorts to the theater and what few entertainments are available with Town so thin of company. Don’t think I’m that dependent upon you, Jack!” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“Of course not. An attractive woman like you must have so many admirers I’m amazed you missed me at all.” Jack was almost startled to discover he could still spout insincerities so effortlessly.
“Ah, but you are in a class of your own, Jack.” Miranda sidled even closer to him.
“I’m flattered. Say, do you still see anything of Jameson these days?” he asked casually. “There was something I wished to ask him about.” He was becoming impatient with her flirting. Evening was coming on, and he wished to get home.
Miranda smiled. “Owes you money, does he? You’re not the only one, but I may have some information you’ll find useful. If we combine forces—” She stopped, her attention caught by something over his shoulder. “Why, good afternoon, Lord and Lady Creamcroft! I was just having the most delightful coze with your new brother-in-law.”
Damn. Jack turned to face the newcomers, unobtrusively disengaging Miranda’s hand from his sleeve. “I give you good day, Philip, my lady. I was just returning to Foxhaven House. Would you care to see how the redecorating is coming along?”
Prudence glanced from Jack to Miranda, a concerned question in her eyes, while Philip replied, “We’re on our way home ourselves, to dress for dinner at the Glaedons’. I believe Lady Foxhaven has requested we wait until all is finished before calling in any event, has she not, my dear?”
Recovering herself, Prudence nodded. “Yes, she’s determined to do it all herself, though I offered my guidance. I managed a quick peek a few days since, when I brought a few things she’d left at our house, but she shooed me out before I could see much.”
Apparently bored with the turn in conversation, Miranda spoke. “I’ll leave you all to your domestic concerns, then. Jack, I propose we continue our discussion later. If you’ll call on me tomorrow, we can no doubt arrange a more private venue.” With a saucy smile, she continued along the street.
Cursing her impudence but unwilling to make explanations to the Creamcrofts, Jack took his leave as well. “I need to hurry along myself, as Nessa will be expecting me. If the workmen adhere to her schedule, we should be able to invite you to view the finished result in a matter of days.”
A moment later he was on his way, thankful that it lay in the opposite direction to Miranda’s. He wondered who else had seen them together on the street. He quickened his pace, suddenly eager to see Nessa again.
Bounding up the front steps, he opened the front door himself, unwilling to wait for his incompetent butler. This proved a mistake. The door bumped a ladder propped near one of the front windows. It teetered, then fell with a crash, barely missing him. A decorative urn near the stairway was not so lucky, however.
Sweeping the shards to one side with his boot, Jack waited for Nessa and the servants to come running to invest
igate the commotion—but no one did. “Nessa?” Frowning, he headed up the stairs. “Anyone?”
Jack continued up to the second landing, then glanced around. In which of the four bedrooms was Nessa likely to be occupied? He glanced into her chamber first, but found only Simmons there, clucking and shaking her head as she bundled up stray bits of fabric and wallpaper and brushed ineffectually at the dust.
The doors of the two spare bedchambers stood open, and as he heard no sound from their direction, he opened the door to his own room—and stood blinking on the threshold. A remarkable change had been wrought since he’d left early in the day. The new paper was hung, in blue and gray stripes, as were fresh curtains and bed-hangings. The carpet was still rolled up at one end of the room, but everything else appeared finished.
And Nessa herself sat upon the floor, hemming the new curtains!
“My dear, whatever are you doing?” he asked, recovering his wits and striding forward. “Are we not paying an army of people to do such chores as this?”
Nessa turned to him with a smile. “Hello, Jack! I’d hoped to have this finished before you returned. Do you like it?”
He glanced about the room again, but his attention was on Nessa herself. Seated on the floor like a servant, her hair coming loose from its pins, a smudge on the tip of her nose, she looked…beautiful. And tired, he realized, looking closer.
“It’s far better than I expected,” he admitted, “but you have not answered my question. Why are you doing such a menial task yourself?”
Her smile faltered. “Mrs. Latham, the seamstress, wished to get home, for her son is ill. As there was only this last length to them, I decided to complete it myself. And”—she turned back to the folds of fabric in her hands and tied off a knot—“’tis done. I’ll go consult with Cook about dinner.” She scrambled to her feet before he could move to assist her, and hurried from the room.
Jack frowned after her, then turned to examine more closely the results of her labors. Remarkable! Clearly, she’d made a real effort to have it done quickly, in order to cause him a minimum of inconvenience. Smiling, he rang for Parker to help him change for dinner.
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