She made a soft, contented sound and moved instinctively toward him, no doubt seeking his warmth. His chest burned with a bolt of tenderness, followed swiftly by a dose of fear. Could he do it? Was he capable of bringing her the happiness she deserved?
Frowning, he gazed down at her, struck anew by this quandary. Something about Juliet called to him in a way that he never expected. Would he be able to answer that call in the way she wanted? And what of her children? Could he open his heart and embrace them as she wished?
Confused, Richard tore himself from the warm bed. Shivering in the cool night air, he scooped up his scattered garments and walked soundlessly to his own bedchamber.
Once there, it quickly became evident that he was unable to fall asleep. Cozying up in front of the dying fire, Richard gradually and methodically downed an entire bottle of whiskey, a foolish notion he regretted immediately upon waking the next morning.
The bright sunshine hurt his eyes, the taste in his mouth was foul beyond words, and his head ached all the way down to his scalp. Gingerly swinging his feet out of the bed, Richard waited for the room to cease spinning before standing.
The bedchamber door swung open. Hallet, no doubt. Richard closed his eyes, trying to clear his head. When he opened them, instead of his valet, he saw George standing at the foot of the bed.
“You couldn’t wait until I came downstairs for breakfast?” Richard growled.
“At this hour?” George dropped into a chair by the fire. “Since you are lord and master, I assume Cook will obediently prepare whatever you desire, be it eggs or kippers. However, breakfast was over hours ago and luncheon will be served fairly soon.”
“What?” Richard fumbled for his watch on the bedside table. Consulting it with bleary eyes, he was shocked to see that George was correct. It was well past noon. “Why didn’t someone wake me?”
“I believe your valet tried. More than once. As did your wife.” George grinned. “Apparently neither was successful.”
Richard frowned at his friend’s cheerful good humor, but the gesture made his head hurt even more. Stumbling into the bathing chamber, Richard poured the contents of the water pitcher into the porcelain basin, and then thrust his head inside, fully submerging it underwater.
Annoyed that the liquid was still warm—thanks to his ever efficient valet—Richard pulled his head out, feeling only slightly better. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he reached for a towel. After drying his hair, he proceeded to wash and shave, returning to his bedchamber badly in need of a strong cup of coffee.
Unfortunately, all that awaited him there was George. Irritated, Richard yanked on the bell pull. Hallet arrived within minutes.
“Shall I bring Lord George some breakfast also?” the valet asked after Richard had given him instructions.
“No,” Richard insisted.
“Yes,” George replied.
The men answered simultaneously. Hallet gave Richard a neutral smile and waited.
“Bring a very large pot of coffee and an extra cup for Lord George,” Richard finally compromised.
“Very good, sir,” Hallet replied.
“You’re in a miserable temper today,” George commented. “Are you concerned about Dixon’s visit?”
“No,” Richard lied.
“You shouldn’t be, you know.”
“I said that I was not concerned.”
“Yes, but you were lying.” George stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles. “I predict within a half hour of Dixon’s arrival you will both be locked away in your study, arguing the finer points of a partnership. We shall all be lucky if we see you emerge for supper.”
“Cease exaggerating, George. I won’t be spending that much time exclusively with Dixon. This is supposed to be a holiday for him and his wife. A time for them to enjoy the festive mood of a country Christmas.”
“Hmm, now that will be a feat worth watching. Richard Harper projecting a festive, holiday mood. Leading the Christmas carols, trimming the tree, dancing a country reel.”
Before Richard could reply, a soft knock came at the door. At his call, Hallet entered the room, a silver tray in his hands. He set it on a small table near the window and then retreated to the dressing room.
His headache now reduced to a dull pounding, Richard found himself fully appreciating his valet’s silent, unobtrusive movements. Now if he could only get George to shut up, he might start feeling human again.
Richard poured himself a cup of hot coffee. He hastily stirred in a heaping spoonful of sugar, then lifted it to his lips and took a long swallow.
The sharp, unpleasant tang burst into his mouth, so unexpectedly it nearly choked him. Leaning over the tray, he spat out the foul brew, soaking the toast on the plate.
“Christ, Richard, what’s wrong?” George asked, sitting up in shock.
Richard shook his head, unable to answer. His tongue burned; his mouth felt like straw. Helplessly he broke off a corner of toast that was still dry and shoved it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, waiting for the foul taste to diminish.
“Take a sip of your coffee,” he croaked after swallowing.
George glanced at him warily. Gingerly, he lifted the delicate china cup and took a small sip. Richard watched his friend closely, waiting for a reaction.
George shrugged. “A bit hot, but it tastes fine.”
Frowning, Richard grabbed George’s cup and sniffed suspiciously. He dipped his index finger in the dark brew, placing a drop of it on his tongue. A familiar bitterness spread through his mouth. Coffee. Unsweetened coffee.
Puzzled, Richard stared at the tray. His eyes fell on the sugar bowl and understanding dawned. George drank his coffee black. Pinching a few of the granules nestled inside the silver sugar bowl between his thumb and forefinger, Richard brought them to his lips. Salt. Oh, hell.
“It appears the boys have struck again,” Richard explained.
Wordlessly, George surrendered his coffee cup and Richard gulped down the contents. Unsweetened was far better than salty.
“I had a feeling your mishap in the woods yesterday wasn’t exactly an accident,” George said sympathetically. “What happened with the boys?”
“Edward and James led me to the oak trees and then disappeared when I climbed up to retrieve the mistletoe,” Richard admitted.
“How did you ever find your way back?”
“Sheer luck,” Richard replied honestly, wondering why he had the most ridiculous urge to grin. He suppressed it, because it made his head hurt. “And I simply couldn’t tolerate the idea of being bested by two young boys.”
“I remember when my brother and I went through a similar phase with my father,” George mused. “Those were happy times. Glue on his study chair, which ruined his favorite riding breeches. A lizard in his bed, who decided the best place to burrow was in his lap, creating screams and shouts that scared the maids half to death. Smearing grease on the oak banister, watering down his brandy.”
George leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “And on one occasion when we were both particularly distressed, forgoing the water and using another, uhm, bodily fluid to dilute the spirits.”
“Damn.” Richard’s stomach roiled at the very thought. “You pissed into the brandy?”
“Directly into the crystal decanter, without spilling a drop on the rug.” George’s eyes narrowed with fondness. “It was a proud moment for both of us.”
“What did your father do about it?”
“As best we could tell, he never found out about the brandy.” George’s lips twitched slightly. “As for the rest of it, he’d give an account of the latest mishap during the half hour we saw him each day before our supper, always wondering out loud who might have been responsible for such dastardly pranks. But he never asked us about any of them directly nor accused us of the misdeeds.
“He always seemed amused by our antics and that in turn sparked our imaginations. We spent many a restless night devising outrageous stunts, pl
anning new strategies. Gradually, we came to realize that he actually looked forward to seeing what we could devise, something he only admitted years later was true.”
“When did you finally stop with that nonsense?”
“Soon after my brother Lawrence was sent away to school. It was far more difficult and not nearly as much fun trying to pull the pranks on my own.”
Richard poured himself another cup of coffee. “Well, I do not find this amusing in any way.”
George’s grin widened. “Then I propose retaliation as the best method of stopping the pranks. I’m sure we can find some terrifying bugs somewhere. A creepy, crawling, black insect on a clean white counterpane is enough to incite terror in even the hardiest of boys. Or maybe a few handfuls of crumbs between the sheets. That will bring an army of ants in no time.”
Damn. This was untenable! Richard rubbed the back of his neck. He was not about to engage in a battle with Juliet’s sons. Especially when he had such important business matters to attend.
“I’m going to ignore these antics,” Richard declared. “It’s clear that their purpose is to display their displeasure with me and cause me grief. If I deny Edward and James the satisfaction of seeing me upset or angry, the prank has essentially failed.”
George waved a hand. “A fatal mistake. It seems to me the lads will only increase their efforts if you ignore them.”
“A risk I am willing to take,” Richard retorted, secretly worried his friend might be right. “However, if that doesn’t work, I can always ship Edward off to school. Separating the pair could be the answer.”
“Seems a might cruel,” George mused. “He’ll be going soon enough, once he turns twelve.”
Richard shrugged. He pulled on the charcoal gray trousers and white shirt that Hallet had set out on the bed. Pranks temporarily forgotten, Richard finished dressing, then thrust his right foot into his favorite black leather shoe.
Stiffening, Richard closed his eyes. There was wet muck surrounding his foot all the way up to the ankle. Soft, oozing, and squishy. “Shit!”
“Now what?” George shot him a concerned look.
“Something has been put in my shoe, something that most definitely does not belong.” Richard winced. “It’s wet and soft with a decidedly mushy consistency.”
“Hell.” George gingerly leaned closer before taking a deep sniff. “I don’t smell anything foul.”
“Thank heavens for small mercies.” Richard drew himself upright. “Take a look inside the other shoe and tell me what you see.”
Looking none too pleased at the request, George obligingly retrieved Richard’s other shoe and examined it closely. Richard held his breath and waited.
“Oatmeal,” George announced.
“Little ruffians.” Richard relaxed slightly. It wasn’t manure. That was something at least, he thought.
“Are you sure it wasn’t Hallet who placed the oatmeal inside?” George asked as he carefully returned the shoe to the rug. “You do give your valet fits over your lack of fashion sense. Have you ever noticed how his shoulders bend and his head remains down when you refuse his wardrobe advice?”
Richard made an exasperated noise. “Hallet enjoys the constant challenge of trying to improve me, along with the outrageous salary I pay him. He’d dress me like a dandy if I allowed it. Besides, he is the person who will now be charged with trying to clean this mess. A job I do not envy.”
George raised a brow. “A clever man would have done the deed to put you off the scent,” he teased.
Richard glared at the dressing room door. “Hallet!”
“Sir?” the valet peered into the room.
“Did you put oatmeal in my black leather shoes this morning?”
“Pardon?”
“You heard him, Hallet.” George glanced at Richard. “Someone has filled Mr. Harper’s shoes with oatmeal. We thought it might have been your idea of a joke.”
Pressing his hand to his chest, the valet stepped out of the dressing room. “There is nothing remotely amusing about fine leather shoes and oatmeal, my lord. Surely, you are pulling my leg.”
“I’m afraid not, Hallet,” Richard replied. “There is a considerable amount of oatmeal inside my shoes. Though I, for one, never suspected you of putting it there. It was all Lord George’s idea.” Despite his initial annoyance, Richard was starting to see the humor in the incident. Edward and James were fearless. It took no small amount of courage to enter his chamber while he slept and do the deed.
“I misspoke, Hallet,” George said. “Please accept my apology.”
The valet’s rigid expression softened slightly. Then he glanced down at the ruined shoes. He flexed his shoulders as though he were trying to lift an enormous weight from them and sniffed. “I will fetch you another pair of shoes, sir, along with clean socks.”
Richard watched the servant leave. It wasn’t going to be easy trying to get the shoes clean, but he hoped they could be salvaged. They were by far his most comfortable pair.
Richard looked out at the sunshine streaming through his bedchamber window. It appeared to be a lovely day. Yet considering how it was starting, Richard wondered if it would be far wiser to climb back into his bed, pull the covers over his head, and stay there until tomorrow.
Juliet picked up her silver dinner fork and tackled the final fish course. This carefully planned meal, meant to impress and welcome the Dixons, was turning out to be much more of an ordeal than she had anticipated.
Conversation had not flagged and everyone was exceedingly polite during dinner, but it all felt stilted, even forced. Devoid of the usual merriment and humorous, teasing chatter, the warm camaraderie among her guests was definitely gone.
Juliet was puzzled by the change, dismayed by the underlying tension at the table. She had always prided herself on being an exemplary hostess; she rarely had difficulty putting her guests at ease and making conversation.
Yet tonight she was having very limited success and it bothered her. Mr. Dixon’s visit was important to Richard, and Juliet wanted everything to be perfect—or as nearly perfect as possible.
The menu was elegant, the food sophisticated and well prepared, the wines varied and bountiful. Juliet had used holiday greenery to decorate the table, along with the finest china, heaviest silver, and most delicate crystal, and had intimately lit the room with candles.
She sympathized that it would be difficult for Mrs. Dixon to memorize the various faces and names of this sizable group, but honestly the woman did not appear to be making much of an effort. She spoke only when asked a specific question and even then kept her answers to a minimum number of words.
Juliet found her stiff reticence somewhat grating and in direct contrast to her husband. When he spoke, his voice boomed over the table, interrupting all other conversation. Which might not have been a bad thing, had not the subject matter been so dreadfully dull and uncouth.
Mr. Dixon, they all quickly learned, liked to talk about money—the amount he made, the amount he hoped to make, the substantial amount more he made than his competitors. It was boorish and rude, but there was no way to stop him. Changing the subject proved fruitless; the man had an uncanny knack for always bringing the conversation back to where he wanted it.
Juliet could well understand Dixon’s success in business—the man was the very epitome of tenaciousness. But as her gaze gravitated from Mr. Dixon to Richard, she could not help comparing the two men. Richard was also tenacious, but in a far more subtle, refined way. It was a manner she could appreciate and admire, unlike Mr. Dixon’s endless boasting.
Richard seemed to be attending to Mr. Dixon’s conversation, but he was nonchalant in his attitude. The casual observer would never guess how badly Richard sought the other man’s favor.
Juliet continued her open perusal of her husband, her admiration increasing. Richard glanced up suddenly and looked directly at her. She waited, and then he lowered his lids suggestively and smiled.
The intimate smile half
robbed her of breath, and Juliet felt a blush starting to warm her cheeks. Her heart started to thump, and for a moment she could do nothing but stare at him.
Ah, so he has not forgotten last night.
She had been vastly disappointed to find herself alone when she awoke that morning and even more concerned when she discovered Richard passed out in his bed, the chamber smelling strongly of whiskey.
It was obvious that he was troubled by something. She thought it might be connected to the Dixons’ visit, but upon further reflection, she believed there was more to it. Whatever it was, she wanted Richard to share his worries with her. To include her in all aspects of his life, to share his thoughts, his hopes, his secrets.
Maybe tonight . . .
“Isn’t that right, Juliet?” Uncle Horace inquired.
“Oh, yes,” she replied breezily, trusting it had been an innocent question.
She smiled at the individuals seated at her end of the table. Mrs. Dixon turned her head slightly, her expression sour. Goodness, she was not an especially pleasant individual.
It suddenly struck Juliet that perhaps Mrs. Dixon was shy. Maybe it would be more comfortable for her if there were a familiar face close by? Of course, the only other guest of Mrs. Dixon’s acquaintance was Lord George, and Juliet distinctly remembered Richard’s request to keep Lord George away from Mrs. Dixon. Something about flirting, which Juliet had no trouble believing on his lordship’s part.
It was, however, most difficult trying to imagine Mrs. Dixon smiling at anyone. The woman looked as if she could freeze water with a single icy glare.
She was attractive, with striking blond hair and pale, limpid blue eyes. Too bad her personality was so colorless; Juliet couldn’t imagine any man finding her interesting. Then again, some men preferred their women to look pretty while remaining silent.
A footman inquired if she was finished with her food, and Juliet nodded for him to take it away. Her eyes traveled down the length of the table, catching Lord George’s. He raised his eyebrow ever so slightly in a classic I told you so gesture. Juliet grimaced, remembering his warning that the Dixons were not the most congenial of people.
Tis the Season to Be Sinful Page 18
