The question seemed to startle him. “Twenty-seven. Why?”
“I thought you were . . . older,” she said inanely. “But . . . well . . . you’re not terribly much older than I am.”
A shutter darkened his features. “I’m not looking for a wife,” he said bluntly.
After what they’d just shared, the words were a slap in the face.
She must have recoiled, for he cursed, then added, “That didn’t come out right.”
“Still, I understood it.” Dragging the remnants of her dignity about her, she forced a smile. “Fortunately I’m not looking for a husband.” She had to escape before he realized how he’d upset her. “With that being the case, I’d better go.”
“Miss Bancroft, I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t—”
“I’ll see you at breakfast, sir,” she said before he could make it any worse than it already was. Ignoring his muttered curse, she hurried out.
She managed to restrain her tears until she reached her room, but had to pause outside the door once they started leaking out. Meg generally slept through anything, but she mustn’t awaken to find Ellie crying her eyes out. It would mean excuses and secrets no five-year-old could keep. And Ellie would die before she allowed Lord Unpredictable to learn how his cold statement had wounded her.
Curling her hands into fists, she fought for control over her wildly surging emotions. I’m not looking for a wife.
Of course he wasn’t. Not a plain wife like her, anyway. She leaned against the door. A titled gentleman could have his pick of the ladies, foul temper or no.
Why bother to kiss her, anyway? She thought back to their conversation. Oh, of course. He’d probably figured it would distract her from his threat to punish the boys. It had, too.
Given his probable financial difficulties, she should be glad he hadn’t schemed beyond that. If he’d allowed Huggett to discover them in an embrace, he’d have accomplished what no fortune hunter had managed. And that would be disastrous. Truly.
Tears stung her eyes again. It was a pity that she didn’t feel as if she’d made a narrow escape. But who could blame her? He was the first man to rouse her desire.
A disturbing thought wafted through her mind—was it possible that desire could compensate for the disadvantage of having a man marry her for her money?
Don’t be absurd. Nothing compensates for that, and you know it.
Then why did it hurt so much that he’d rejected her? She ought to be glad.
A sound from the stairwell startled her. She couldn’t stand out here all night, nursing her wounded feelings. Goodness knew they’d been battered before; she would survive this time, too.
Slipping inside, she undressed, donned her night rail, and joined Meg in bed. The dear girl cuddled up to her when she lay down, and Ellie clung to her for comfort.
But even Meg’s sweet smell couldn’t make Ellie forget what had happened. If not for his mortifying comment, Lord Thorncliff would fit her fantasy image of a husband. He was certainly dangerous and wild. Though she wasn’t sure about the poetry in his soul, there was plenty of poetry in his kisses. She lay awake for hours, replaying every moment.
Even after she fell into a fitful sleep, she dreamed she was a ragweed growing among lilacs. When Lord Thorncliff came to pluck flowers, he trod upon her without noticing, and all she could do was lie there crushed.
After a night of such misery, she was awakened far too early, when the boys rushed in shortly after dawn. “Meg! Ellie! You have to look outside!” they cried as they danced about the bed. “The snow is everywhere!”
Tim tugged on her arm. “Come on, get up! We want to make snowmen!”
“Go away,” she groused, burying her head in the pillow. She was not in the mood for her cousins.
They didn’t care. They bounced on the bed until Meg kicked them crossly. The ensuing scuffle meant there would be no more possibility of sleep.
The children wanted to go right out, but she insisted upon their washing up and stopping in to say good morning to their mother before she made them dress warmly. After that, only Mr. Huggett, with his promises of hot muffins and treacle, could tempt them to stay inside any longer.
As the boys gulped their breakfast, Mr. Huggett bent to say in a low voice, “I understand that you spoke to his lordship about the stone barn last night.”
Fighting a blush, she rose and led him out of the children’s earshot. “I did indeed. He explained to me about his . . . er . . . experiments. Unfortunately I fear that his reaction at dinner merely heightened the boys’ curiosity.”
“Perhaps the footmen and I should aid you in keeping them entertained.”
“No, Lord Thorncliff made it very clear he can’t spare any of you,” she said. “Besides, we’re already taxing his meager resources to their utmost, and I wouldn’t wish to make that any worse.”
“His meager resources?” Mr. Huggett said with surprise.
“It’s all right.” She patted his arm. “I assure you none of the servants have been gossiping, and I understand why you can’t discuss such things with strangers. But I drew my own conclusions. The lack of staff, the condition of the manor . . . clearly your employer is having financial difficulties.”
Mr. Huggett closed his gaping mouth, then gave her a considering glance. “As you say, it would be wrong of me to discuss the matter.”
“I understand. That’s why I spent last night considering how to manage the children by myself.” During those periods when she was trying not to remember Lord Thorncliff’s thickly muscled arms and poetic kisses. “Since you and the staff can’t be spared to gather the usual Yuletide greenery, I thought the children and I could do it. It would be a way to repay his lordship for his kindness while also keeping the boys out of trouble.”
“Gathering greenery!” Mr. Huggett exclaimed, a strange gleam in his eye. “What an excellent idea, the perfect pastime for the young gentlemen.”
She nodded. “We’ve done it for the last few years, so we know what to gather and how. The boys climb trees like little monkeys. I’ve already spoken to my aunt about it, and she heartily approved. I had some concerns about their handling an axe, but she says Percy has done it before, and his friend Charlie seems sturdy enough. I will need some items from you, however.”
“Certainly! We have the axes, of course, and you’ll require a cart if you’re to gather a great many branches.” He lifted one eyebrow. “You were planning to bring enough for the entire manor, weren’t you?”
“Oh yes, as much greenery as we can find.”
“Be sure to strew it everywhere,” he said, with an odd glee in his voice. “We could use a touch of the season around here.”
“We’ll make it very nice. A grand house as lovely as this deserves no less.”
He eyed her closely. “So you like the place? You don’t find it gloomy?”
“Gloomy! Certainly not.” She cast a quick glance around the great hall, with its oak-paneled walls, its aging tapestry hanging at one end, and its weathered floors. “It reminds me of a drawing I once saw of the Royal Palace of Hatfield, where Queen Elizabeth loved to stay. It’s the sort of ancient English house that makes me think of glorious days of yore.”
Then she colored. “Forgive me, I read a great deal of poetry. Sometimes it seeps into my conversation.”
“Nothing wrong with that—it gives you a certain sparkle.”
She laughed. “I don’t know about that.”
“Trust me, Miss Bancroft.” With a genial smile, he led her back to the table. “You mustn’t let the master’s grumbling dim your spirits. You are the brightest thing to have landed on our doorstep in a long time, and you should enjoy yourself. You and the children.”
“Very well,” she said, feeling less melancholy. “I shall certainly try.”
* * *
It had take
n Martin half the day to pack away the chemicals, black powder, and flints he used in his experiments. It had taken him far longer to stop thinking of Miss Bancroft and her wonder of a mouth. Even riding to the mine to make sure the weather hadn’t created problems for the men hadn’t driven her from his thoughts.
With a groan, he washed up at the basin in the mine manager’s office. But though he splashed icy water on his face, it didn’t wash the taste of her from his lips or freeze the warmth that rose in his loins whenever he thought of how yielding she had been, an irresistible blend of fire and innocence. And if he could actually court her—
Court her! He must be mad. He couldn’t court anyone, certainly not now, when he was so close to hitting upon the right formula for what he called his “safe fuses.” Even after he developed the right mix of powder and the mechanism for conveying it to the explosive, it could take months to test it under different conditions. No woman should be around during such experimentation. It was too dangerous, too distracting.
Besides, Miss Bancroft still didn’t know that marriage to him could brand her for life in society. Marrying her would only lend fuel to the fire, too—they would say he married her for her fortune, just as they said he killed his brother for the title and property.
Never mind that he didn’t want the title or need her fortune. He didn’t follow society’s rules for gentlemen, so that gave them excuse enough to gossip about him. God only knew why she wasn’t put off by his lack of courtly manners.
Or perhaps she was. Certainly his idiot comments after kissing her last night hadn’t endeared her to him, judging from how the color had leached from her face. Perhaps he should tell her about the gossip to push her over the edge. She would retreat to a safe distance, removing temptation from his reach and ending any chance of unwise intimacies.
That didn’t appeal to him, either.
Cursing himself for caring, he donned his clean waistcoat and coat, then headed for home. Darkness had fallen hours ago. He was late for dinner. Not that he minded—he’d rather avoid sharing another meal with Miss Bancroft. She was too potent a temptation, blast her.
He rode up in front and handed his horse to the groom. The smell of fresh-cut cedar assailed him as he neared the entrance. He blinked. There were branches hung over his door. When and how had those got there?
Huggett. Of course. His infernal butler had ignored his orders! Just wait until he got his hands on the miscreant. Having strangers in the house had emboldened the man to greater heights of impertinence than usual, and he wouldn’t stand for it!
Throwing the door open, Martin tramped inside. “Huggett! Get out here, you wretch! You know damned well what I think of this Christmas humbuggery!”
A voice piped up from the window. “Why do you call it humbuggery, sir?”
He whirled to find a dark-haired lad standing there alone, staring at him with wide eyes. It wasn’t a Metcalf; it was the friend. Charlie Dicks or Dickers or some such.
He could hardly tell the boy the truth—that anything to do with Christmas reminded him how he’d failed Rupert.
Then he glimpsed a burst of red color over the lad’s head. God help him, the branches over the front door weren’t the only ones. Greenery adorned every archway and window and mantel in the great hall. Whorled knots of it dotted the dining table, surrounding thick yellow Yule candles that, according to tradition, weren’t to be lit until Christmas Eve. He walked about in a daze, noting how the branches were braided together, entwined with bright red ribbons that erupted at the ends into flamboyant bows.
This wasn’t the work of Huggett. Only a woman could do this. One woman in particular, to be exact.
“What do you think?” came the hesitant voice of his tormentor, who’d apparently entered the room while he was looking it over.
Praying that she hadn’t heard what he’d said to young Charlie, he faced her. Then he caught his breath, his blood jumping into a frenzy.
She stood surrounded by the other children, ablaze in a gown of fashionable red satin that displayed her lush breasts more temptingly than any Christmas treat.
She didn’t seem to notice him gaping at her delicious bosom, for she babbled on. “Mr. Huggett was kind enough to let us into your attic where the Christmas ribbons and such are stored. Fortunately there were even some unused Yule candles. I suppose you stored them from a previous Christmas.”
He forced his gaze back to her face. “My mother probably did. My brother always got new ones from town, and I . . . er . . . haven’t used any since . . . well . . .”
“His lordship says Christmas is all a humbug,” Charlie tattled.
As a stricken look crossed her face, he corrected hastily, “I didn’t say that. Well, not exactly that. And I was referring to Mr. Huggett’s habit of letting his other duties lapse so he can make the manor more festive. I didn’t realize that Miss Bancroft—”
“We didn’t use the footmen or Mr. Huggett, I swear,” she assured him, her hurt expression fading. She pushed up the spectacles that had slipped charmingly down her nose. “The boys and I did it all—went into the woods to cut the greens, found the ribbons and candles, and hung the branches. The only thing Mr. Huggett did was direct us where to look. And provide us with a cart.”
“And let you into the attic,” he said dryly. He’d wager Huggett had been behind it all.
But his anger was already waning. Oddly enough, the greenery reminded him less of that horrible Christmas when Rupert had been killed than it did his childhood holidays, when Mother and Father had still been present at their Christmas feasts. The bright memory of it burst through his senses, and he had to turn away to hide the quick pain of loss that followed.
“Well, you did an excellent job,” he choked out. “It’s spectacular.”
“So you do like it,” she said, the whole tenor of her voice changing.
He nodded, unable to speak. That freed the children to swarm about him, pointing out what parts they’d done, how Percy had chopped the branches with an axe, and how Tim and Charlie had braided them under “Ellie’s” instruction.
Although he’d heard them call her Ellie before, he hadn’t realized how well it suited her. “Miss Bancroft” or even “Elinor” sounded very elegant and high society. “Ellie” sounded like a fresh-faced country lass that a man could tumble in the hay.
By God, he mustn’t think of her like that!
“Is everyone ready for dinner?” asked Huggett from the doorway.
Martin shot Miss Bancroft a surprised glance.
“We didn’t want to eat without you,” she explained. “That would be rude.”
Rude or not, no one had ever held dinner back for him. He didn’t count the trays Huggett made sure were waiting in his study once he got around to ending his work for the day. That wasn’t dinner—that was filling his belly.
Dinner was what his mother had presided over every night until her death ten years ago. And even she had said that if he wasn’t at the table when it was served, he wouldn’t get any. That had happened often enough, since he’d been the sort of contrary child to absorb himself so fully in his scientific experiments that he lost track of the time.
“Sir? Shall I have the footmen serve?” Huggett asked.
Martin looked at his butler, this time noticing how nervously he stood watching for his employer’s reaction to the greenery. Huggett’s question went beyond the matter of dinner. The man was asking for approval. He knew perfectly well he’d overstepped his bounds by encouraging Miss Bancroft and the children. Now he wanted absolution. The question was, would Martin give it to him?
He had to. Because chiding Huggett would mean chastising Miss Bancroft, and Martin couldn’t bear to wound her again.
Forcing a smile to his face, he walked to the head of the festive table. “Yes, Huggett, have the footmen serve. We’re ready to dine.”
Cha
pter Five
Dear Charlotte,
Be careful, my dear. One day when you least expect it, I may indeed show up on your doorstep and reveal myself to be nothing at all as you imagine.
Your cousin,
Michael
Over the next two days, Ellie noticed that she and Lord Thorncliff had muddled their way through to a sort of truce. He seemed less prickly. She couldn’t attribute it to their decorating, because Charlie insisted that his lordship had called that “Christmas humbuggery.” The man had said something similar about the caroling when he’d rescued them. Clearly he had a peculiar dislike of the season.
Yet he’d not only tolerated their efforts, but was trying to be friendly in his own fashion. Although he spent his days elsewhere while she and the children explored his extensive grounds, he joined them for dinner at night. He even sat with them afterward in the parlor with the walls painted to resemble walnut paneling. He would go through the newspapers, or watch the children play charades, or listen to her read aloud from Byron’s The Siege of Corinth. Sometimes he actually read to the children himself.
But the camaraderie ended after she brought the children up to bed. Then he disappeared, and they reverted to being strangers again. Even if she returned to the parlor, he didn’t. Sometimes, as she read alone or sat with Aunt Alys in her room, she wondered if she’d imagined their amazing kiss.
On their fourth night at Thorncliff Hall, with Christmas Eve coming in two days, the children suggested that they play snapdragon.
“Are you mad?” his lordship said. “It’s out of the question. There will be no burning bowls of brandy in my house.”
“It’s not that bad, you know,” she put in, though his response didn’t surprise her. “If you take the proper precautions—”
“The best precaution is not to play it at all. Such humbuggery gets people killed.”
“Snapdragon?” Percy said skeptically. “It’s but a parlor game, sir. Our mother lets us play it every year.”
“Then your mother is a fool.” When the children bristled at that, he scowled and rose to his feet. “Forgive me, I’m not fit company this evening.”
When Sparks Fly Page 5
