And of course his good sense won the day. He would expend all of his energy worrying about how she was doing if she did accompany the men, and it would be for naught. With just murmured greetings of “Happy Christmas to you” and “All the joy of the day,” Rowland and Chappell were soon in heavy coats, grimly going on a mission. Silvia and Beatrice accompanied them to the door, and they threw it open on the dazzling sight of snow that covered the hedges and bushes and trees with a glittering blanket.
As their eyes adjusted, though, they saw a much more welcome sight, one that caused such jubilation among them, such shouting and shrieking, that the bramblings flew up in a panicked rush from their berry foraging in the hawthorn.
Lord Vaughan, staggering slightly under his burden, carried Miss Verity Allen up the drive, finally making his way to the shoveled part of the limestone gravel.
• • •
Lady Bournaud, struggling against the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm her after a night of terrors that she would never admit to anyone, the fear of a lifetime of recrimination over the death of her cousin’s daughter, Verity Allen, was calmer than she would have thought possible. The news that Verity and Vaughan were home and in fine fettle had mended much of her discomfort.
Rowland had been with her and they had prayed together, thanking a beneficent Lord for the girl’s safe return, but now she was summoning her strength for a meeting she had a feeling would be difficult. The tap at the door, then, was not a surprise.
“Come in.”
Vaughan, handsome and cheerful, looking far too rested after a night spent in a dark frigid cave—ah, for the resilience of youth, was Lady Bournaud’s fleeting thought—entered. “Happy Christmas, my lady,” he said, coming over to the bed and leaning down to kiss her proffered cheek.
“And to you,” she said, indicating that he was to pull a chair close. “I assume you have breakfasted?”
“Yes, and bathed and shaved and changed.”
“I thought I detected the scent of bay rum on your cheek. That was François’s favorite, too.”
Vaughan sat and crossed his legs, entirely at his ease.
“Where are the others?”
“Rowland went out to the chapel with Lady Silvia, and Chappell and Miss Copland are still at the breakfast table, looking rather rugged, I might add. Something going on there between them?”
“I most sincerely hope so. Now,” she said, fixing her most stern expression on her face. “We are all extremely grateful for your heroic effort in saving Miss Allen’s life last night and this morning.”
He shrugged. “She would have been just fine,” he admitted. “She was not only not frightened, I think she was rather enjoying her adventure. Once she knew Bolt had taken no harm, she was disgustingly cheerful.”
“You sound like you admire her odd behavior.”
“I do.”
“Good. It makes what I am about to say more easy.” She cleared her throat. “The fact remains that I am, at present, Verity’s guardian. Though four-and-twenty, she is an unmarried young lady of good reputation. It is known, though, throughout the household that you and she spent the night together in a lonely cave with no chaperone.”
He laughed out loud. “No chaperone! Suppose I should have made poor young Bobby struggle on, then.”
“This is not the time for levity! Do you have any idea what I am getting at? I consider you, from this moment, honor-bound and engaged to Miss Verity Allen.”
“Do you now? And am I allowed no say in this?”
“Regrettably, no. I know what we had spoken of, and that Lady Silvia is much to be preferred over the colonial chit, but there it is. You have inadvertently compromised her and marriage is the solution. I owe it to the girl and to her mother.”
“All right then.” Vaughan stood and bowed. “Shall we announce it at luncheon?”
Taken aback, Lady Bournaud gazed up at him, silent for a moment. “You mean you do not object?”
He shrugged. “Life with Verity will never be boring.”
She squinted up at him. “Just what did take place in that dark cave last night?”
“If anything had happened, d’you think I would say a word? I am a gentleman. As far as anyone will ever know we spent th’night chastely speaking of . . . flower arranging.”
Lady Bournaud made a rude noise and waved her hand in dismissal. “Get out, rogue. If we are to make an announcement at luncheon I intend to be there.”
He bowed. “My lady. I shall leave you to your ablutions. Just don’t make yourself too beautiful or I shall have second thoughts about marriage to Verity.”
“Devil,” she said with a chuckle as he closed the door behind him. “Those two will lead each other a merry dance, I have no doubt.”
• • •
Vaughan, whistling, plucked a holly sprig from one of the decorations on a side table and went in search of his bride-to-be. Verity would not have been his choice. She was as unlike the young ladies he had thought of as marriageable as . . . well, he could not think of an adequate comparison. But the night had been interesting and had revealed to him things about her that would make marriage an endless voyage of discovery. He knew things about her now that she did not even know about herself, he would wager.
He opened doors around the great hall, looking in the red saloon, the music room, the gold saloon, and finally, the library, where he would least expect to find her. And there she was looking out the window, the curtain drawn back with one hand. She heard the door and turned.
She looked very handsome, rigged out in her best dress, no doubt, a dull gold gown of simple lines and severe cut. It suited her as no frivolity in frothy lace ever would. He would delight in dressing her after they were married. And undressing her.
Especially that.
Keeping his mind firmly on the task at hand, he approached her, enjoying the glow in her tantalizing blue-green eyes under dark arched eyebrows. She was beautiful really, though she needed some professional help with the cut and style of her hair.
“How are you recovering from our adventure?”
She shrugged and turned back to the window. “I am all right, I guess.”
He sauntered across the floor, much less at his ease than he no doubt looked. When it came down to it, this was damnably difficult, being the one thing he had never done. He perched on the edge of the wide window ledge and looked up at Verity, trying to get used to the idea that this was the face he would see across from him each morning and under him each night. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “That you have taken no harm.”
“I am a tough bird,” she said with a faint smile.
He reached up and tucked the holly behind her ear. “Now you are decked.” How to do this? He took one of her hands in his and cleared his throat. Then he glanced out the window, the view being one of the snowy garden. “Verity—”
She pulled her hand away. “I suppose we should go join the others. It is almost luncheon, and it is Christmas day, after all. Aren’t we supposed to be making merry or something?”
“Verity, wait! We have to marry!”
It was not at all what he had intended to say, but at least it got her attention. She had been turning to go toward the door, but she stopped and turned back, gazing at him, her blue-green eyes wide. “What?”
“Lady Bournaud thinks . . .” No, that was not a good start. Damn, but this was difficult. “I think we had better get married, my dear.”
“Why?”
Her bald question left him speechless for a moment. “Well, for one thing, I have compromised you.” Again, not what he had intended to say, but if she insisted on acting unlike a normal young lady, then she would get an abnormal proposal.
“Compromised me?” she echoed.
“Yes.” He stood, strode toward her and took her hand. “Let me do this right. Every girl should have a proper proposal to remember.” He knelt. “Miss Allen, would you do me the inestimable honor of agreeing to be my wife?”
S
he snatched her hand away. “No!”
“What?”
“I said no!”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Oh, for . . .” She made an impatient noise and left the room.
Vaughan stayed stupidly knelt on one knee in the dim library for a full minute before he recovered his wits. She had refused him. He ought to be happy. Ought to be doing a caper across the floor. The girl he had never intended to marry had refused him.
Instead he felt like he had one Christmas morning at the age of eight, when a toy drum he had very much wanted had been snatched from his hand and broken in two by his irritated father. Bereft. All the joy of the day gone in one stroke.
He stood. But he would shake off that feeling. It was just that he had thought his future was settled and had looked forward to getting on with things, and now he had to start all over to find a suitable wife. That had to be all it was.
• • •
Verity, shivering, bolted up to her room and locked herself in.
Coward. Coward! She paced, limping still, castigating herself for the cowardice that would not let her admit to herself that what she wanted most in the world was to accept his horrid proposal of marriage.
Or was that just her baser instincts longing to explore the revelations of the previous night? For Vaughan really had the most amazing way with his hands and his lips and tongue. It made her warm just to remember places his hands had been. She had not had to worry about being cold all night, that was for sure.
She slumped down on the bed. No, the one thing she had always been certain about was that she was not suited to marriage. Suffering the London Season had only stiffened that resolve. She never wanted to go back there, never wanted to suffer the humiliation of being the awkward girl on the sidelines, the one no one wanted to dance with. It was grim and horribly boring.
No, this being “compromised” was a welcome twist, really, if she could just look at it in that light. For now, if that was so and her reputation was really ruined, then she could go home, back to Canada. She took a deep, calming breath. Home.
She stood, patting down the gold skirts of her dress and putting up one hand to smooth her hair. And there was that holly sprig Vaughan had put there. She pulled it out and stared at it, touching the points of the glossy green leaves. She had done him a favor by rejecting him. He was even now likely rejoicing.
Sighing, she heard the butler ring the chime that meant luncheon was served, and she slowly exited her room and went down to the dining room. Everyone was gathered already, and eager, expectant faces greeted her. Lady Silvia, her sweet face wreathed in a smile, came toward her and surprised Verity by catching her to her bosom in a tight embrace.
“Congratulations, my dear friend! I am so happy for you!”
“What?” Verity stared stupidly around the room, her survey ending with Lady Bournaud’s smiling face.
“I took the liberty of telling them your good news, child,” she said from her position at the head of the table.
“Good news?”
Vaughan, just arrived at the doorway, said, with a sardonic grin, “Sorry, folks. Should have waited, you know. Should’ve waited for the official word. The lady has said no.”
• • •
“Verity looks miserable.” Lady Silvia, under the guise of her cards, whispered across to Rowland.
He slanted a glance over to where the young lady in question was sitting, playing cards with Lady Bournaud, Mrs. Stoure and Mr. Chappell. “How can you say that?” he asked as Verity’s voice rang out in a loud laugh.
She shook her head, her lips primmed into a firm line, and watched for a moment longer. “Look,” she said. “Her knuckles are white, she is holding her cards so tightly. And her movements are jerky and inelegant. She keeps looking over to Vaughan, and he does not even seem to notice.”
“My lady,” Rowland said softly, “even if it is true, it is none of our affair.”
“Well, it is just too bad of him, I say, not to marry her.”
“She rejected him!”
“I can just imagine how the lout asked her. He is a very careless fellow, and for all his town polish does not seem to have the slightest idea what others are thinking or feeling.”
“Ladies are unfathomable to most of us poor males,” Rowland said. “And I think Miss Allen is every bit as inscrutable in her way as any lady. I pity Vaughan.”
Lady Silvia threw down her cards with an exclamation of disgust, tossed Rowland an exasperated look and walked over to join Beatrice.
What had he said? Rowland stared after her. Their fragile connection of the night before seemed to have evaporated. Troubled, he looked ahead to the days to come. He would be leaving very soon after Christmas. He wanted to visit his aunt Selwyn, and then in January he was to go to Loughton to take over his new parish duties. The challenges ahead had been all he thought of before coming to Yorkshire, but now they rarely entered his mind. It was not right, and if he was made of sterner stuff he would be able to conquer this ungovernable passion for Lady Silvia.
But now, when he did think of Loughton, and the quaint cottage the parish provided for him, he saw it all with Lady Silvia in the picture, at the low stone fence, by the comfortable kitchen hearth, in the garden, in the attic bedro . . . his face flaming uncomfortably, he tried to rid himself of the sensual images that tortured him at night. It was not for her body that he had fallen in love with her, and yet just the touch of her slender fingers, or the merest brush of her form as she passed by, left him breathless.
He needed advice on how to rid himself of these inappropriate thoughts and feelings. But surely no one would understand. He was in the throes of a completely unbefitting infatuation. If he was at all methodistical he would think the devil was tormenting him, but he subscribed to no such beliefs, and could only reason that lifelong abstinence from physical liaisons other men took for granted had left him vulnerable. He would prevail.
And Lady Silvia would find someone more suitable to wed. The thought stung, but he welcomed the pain as an antidote to his sensual desires.
The afternoon dwindled into evening and dinner was served. Lady Bournaud, looking tired but calm, surveyed the company, her eyes lingering on each one. Things had not turned out at all as she had planned. Her own physical strength was less than she had calculated, and she had not been as interfering nor as intrusive as she had expected.
In the end she had decided that there was no way to prod people into relationships they had no taste for. Verity Allen, the silly chit, was passing up a match the likes of which many a London mother would swoon over. Vaughan was handsome, plump in the pocket, and not an unpleasing pup, certainly. And Verity was miserable. It was plain by her stiff manner and determined avoidance of Vaughan, who had a damnably sardonic expression fixed on his face.
And there had been no announcement from either Beatrice or Davey about the state of their dalliance. Was it love? Something had changed in the last twenty-four hours, but no one had thought to take a poor, ill old lady into their confidence. She almost snickered to herself. Should she play that card, the pity card? No. If there was something between them they would tell her soon.
Strangely, the most pleasure she had came from the one relationship that was not progressing. She had trusted to Mark’s good sense, even though anyone with eyes could see Lady Silvia fancied him. But Mark knew his place. He would never overstep the bounds of good taste and propriety.
Pity they both looked so miserable.
This was not how folks should look at Christmas. She clapped her hands. Everyone looked up from their meals, the last remove being all that was left.
“It has been a delightful Christmas season for me,” she said without preamble. “I thank you all for making an old woman’s last Christmas—”
There was an outbreak of voices, but she put up one hand. “I don’t know the workings of fate, of course, but I just have a feeling. I won
’t say it again,” she said, glancing over and seeing tears start in Beatrice’s eyes. “You must know that death means something different to everyone, and to me it means joining François at long last. When my time comes I will go willingly. But I did not start out to talk of things such as that. I was thanking you all for indulging me. And I was about to say that the Christmas pudding is all that remains of the feast.”
Tidwell, trusting no one else with the burden, brought in the large pudding, waiting a moment as a footman touched a lit taper to it. It blazed up, and the guests burst into applause.
“Thank you, Tidwell. As always, you have the instincts of a Haymarket stage manager. You and the other staff are now to consider yourselves on holiday. Make merry, but don’t break the crockery.”
He bowed and exited, and Beatrice, as prearranged, took over serving the pudding, slicing it neatly and passing a sauce boat with the rich hard sauce in it.
“Be careful of your teeth,” she said. “As Cook has put in the traditional charms and, she assures me, a few more.”
Beatrice took her own place, and each person dug into the spiced pudding, the rich sauce dripping down off forks and coating the dark treat to brandy-flavored excess. She watched, and the first person to get a token was the reverend.
Rowland carefully removed the glinting piece from his portion and held it up. “Sixpence.”
Vaughan snorted. “And are you likely to become rich at your chosen profession?”
“No,” Rowland said, smiling. He put the sixpence to the side of his plate. “I cannot imagine any eventuality that would bring me a fortune of any kind.”
“Ow,” Verity Allen cried, and picked from her mouth the silver thimble. “Well, that’s appropriate, anyway,” she said. “I am not likely to ever marry.”
“Too prickly,” Vaughan said. “Though what a thimble has to do with you and spinsterhood, I do not know. Unlikely female to take up stitchery!”
“Maybe she will go home and meet a handsome woodsman and marry and have ten children,” Lady Silvia said, shooting Vaughan a look of dislike. “I know what the thimble is supposed to mean, but if she did, would she not be more likely to have to sew?”
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