The Girl is Not For Christmas: A Christmas Regency Romance Novel

by Emma V. Leech

  “Best part of my day, it is. I feel like… like… a dream. Does that sound daft?”

  King snorted, realising he must be about to intercept a courting couple and went to turn back, except then he recognised the woman’s voice.

  “No. Not daft at all. I feel just the same way.”

  Livvy.

  His heart crashed about in his chest like the waves had done on the beach, the first time he’d kissed her. No… she had kissed him. She had kissed him, and so… and so what the devil was she up to now? He moved to a gap in the bushes and saw Livvy, one hand holding onto her bonnet, the wind tugging at her honey-coloured curls as she smiled up into the face of a bloody Adonis. Who the devil was this bastard? And… the strangest sensation filled his chest as he saw her lean in and kiss the man’s cheek. It… hurt. He tried to breathe around the pain of it, but his lungs did not seem to want to cooperate.

  He should not be here. He should not be here watching her like… like some blasted….

  The Adonis gave a soft chuckle, staring at Livvy with affection. “Ah, I loved you when we was tiddlers, Liv. You know that, and I’d never let ye down.”

  “I know, Ross. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Ross? So she was on first-name terms with him, was she?

  Well, she must be to go about kissing the fellow and meeting him in secret, you imbecile.

  “I’ll be there.”

  King meant to leave. He really did. None of his business, he told himself. So what if she had told him she needed help and then… and then went and used that help to seduce the local… whatever he was. None of his affair. She was a free woman. Yet no matter what his intentions, or what furious words circled in his mind, his feet were planted and he stayed right where he was.

  “Oh, King!” Livvy said as she turned the corner into the garden.

  Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes bright and full of life and….

  “Who is he?”

  Oh, marvellous. He had not meant to say that. Now he sounded like a jealous prick.

  “W-Who is who?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence, though he could see she was nervous as hell and clearly did not want to answer the question, the little jade.

  “The young Adonis you were just kissing.”

  The colour in her cheeks went from a pretty pink flush to a full scarlet burn, and did not make him feel any better.

  “Oh,” she said, standing a little taller. “That is our neighbour, Mr Moyles. I… I happened to bump into him on my walk. P-Purely by accident. He… He’s like a brother to me. We used to play together as children, and it’s been an age since I saw him last. It wasn’t a kiss. N-Not… not a kiss.”

  “Really?” he said, folding his arms and wondering why the fact she was lying to him hurt quite so badly. They’d made each other no promises. Indeed, she’d told him from the start she had no interest in him. He had no interest in her either. None at all. He had no business giving her the third degree… and yet…. “That’s why you’ve arranged to bump into him again at the same time tomorrow, is it?”

  There was no mistaking the anger in his voice now, but Livvy just put her chin up, holding his gaze.

  “It is not what you think, King, but either way, it is none of your affair.”

  “No. Quite right, but you might at least have been honest with me. Why not say you’d wanted to capture the heart of some local chap, rather than all this nonsense about your aunt’s ball? Though how you think that fellow can save you and your family when he’s clearly not got two pennies to rub together….”

  “Oh, King!” she said, glaring at him in fury. “Do stop, you’ve not the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  With blue eyes flashing, she turned on her heel, and King knew he ought to let her go, but his heart was racing, panic building in his chest at the idea she might… she might… that he might not….

  “Then damned well explain it to me, Livvy,” he said, grabbing hold of her arm and tugging her back around. “Explain to me how you can kiss me one day and go to him the next?”

  He was overwrought, he knew he was, and he knew full well he sounded like the wronged hero in a bad melodrama, but he was quite unable to stop himself.

  “King!” Livvy said, staring up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “Why on earth do you care?”

  “I don’t bloody well know,” he said desperately. “But either way, you’ll get caught, Livvy. You’ll be ruined and… and is he worth it? Will he marry you?”

  Her expression softened. “Oh, you’re worried for me.”

  “I’m bloody well not,” he fumed. “I’m….”

  He couldn’t think of what the hell he was, so he didn’t bother trying to explain it. Instead he pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard and, after a moment of resistance, she was all willingness in his arms, pliant and soft and… and had she been this way with Ross Moyles?

  No. Don’t think of it. Make her forget him.

  Make her think of you.

  Livvy pushed him away, and King let her go at once, though he did not want to. The realisation of just how much he did not want to was not a pleasant one.

  “Good heavens, King, are… are you jealous?” Livvy asked, looking for all the world as if she’d said, good heavens, King, are you the King of the Chimpanzees? There was no possible way she could look more astonished, which was just as well as his ego could not take any more for one day.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, just a little too quickly and with too much force. “We have already established that we don’t like each other, so jealousy is out of the question. I just don’t like to be misled or… damn it, Livvy, you lied to me!”

  She stiffened at his accusation. “I did no such thing. I told you, my aunt has a New Year’s Ball, I’m going to get myself a husband. What the devil did you think I was about taking all those gowns, if not for that?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. Perhaps you are planning to run away with your lover… Ross.”

  There was a flash of something in her eyes that suggested he might have pushed her over the line between anger and into incandescent fury. Well, good. Ever since he’d met the dratted woman, he’d been at the mercy of his… his feelings… ugh! But if he must experience all this… this unwelcome emotional stuff, then she dashed well had better be doing the same.

  “My Lord Kingston,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. “Ross Moyles is married with a little daughter, and his wife is pregnant.”

  “Am I supposed to congratulate you on choosing the worst possible candidate for your illicit trysts?” he demanded.

  “Oh, now you can say the word, can you?” she said, folding her arms. “Before it made you all hot and bothered.”

  “Before, I thought you were a nice young lady who was getting in over her head! Apparently, I was wrong,” he retorted, the words out before he could think better of them.

  She jolted as if he’d slapped her, and he was immediately aware of the fact he was a miserable brute. The possibility that he was likely not thinking clearly because he was out of his mind with resentment over her meeting another man was also a sudden consideration.

  “Livvy,” he said, his voice unsteady, holding out his hand to her.

  She shook her head, her eyes too bright, and took a step away from him.

  “Livvy, please, I… I didn’t mean….”

  He watched as she picked up her skirts and ran, and he could do nothing but let her go.

  After throwing herself down on her bed and enjoying a good cry, Livvy got up and splashed her face with cold water. Then she stomped about her room and did some aggressive tidying up while she cursed the Earl of Kingston, and thought of various ways in which he could best be punished for his outrageous behaviour. This ranged from him contracting various illnesses that would shrink his pego to the size of pea and/or covering it in large purple spots, to her being swept off her feet by the Duke of… of somewhere or other, just at the moment King realised he couldn’t
live without her. Both were equally satisfying, but she’d decided the duke was her favourite outcome. The vision of King on his knees and begging for her not to break his heart was too delicious not to give it her full consideration. After she had dreamily imagined various locations for his heartfelt declaration—from her front doorstep to Almack’s ballroom—she was leaning towards Almack’s—she felt a good deal better. Then, because she was a fair-minded sort of person, she considered that perhaps what King had seen or overhead might have appeared to be rather… damning. After all, she had been alone with Ross, and perhaps it had seemed rather intimate. Yes, obviously King ought to have given her the benefit of the doubt, but he was a man, and her—admittedly limited—experience of the male sex, was that they were inclined to be rash and emotional and not make a great deal of sense if their pride had been the least bit dented. Also, it was true that Ross Moyle’s was devastatingly handsome and… and King had been jealous.

  Livvy sat down on her bed with a thud, a little winded as she considered this. On pondering it further, her heart ceased its excited thudding as she realised it was only a case of possessiveness and there was nothing the least bit romantic about it. He had also been concerned for her welfare, as any friend might be, and no matter what he said, they did have a peculiar friendship of sorts, and naturally he would not like her kissing Ross so soon after she’d been kissing him. Not that she had been kissing Ross. If King had seen the kiss, he must have also seen that it was a chaste peck on the cheek, and nothing like the kisses they had shared. Nothing like. Not at all. Not even close. Like chalk and cheese. Really, a million miles away from anything she had experienced with….

  Yes. Well. That was enough of that.

  She let out a sigh of frustration. One thing was for certain, she could not stomp about in her room all morning. There was far too much to do. So, she took a deep breath, and headed down to the kitchen, resolved to put the Earl of Kingston out of her mind until such time as she could think sensibly about him. So possibly sometime in the next century. She’d put it in her diary.

  Chapter Twelve

  13th December 1818.

  Things unsaid, a lot of silent longing, and stiff upper lips.

  King gave himself a critical inspection in the looking-glass. Well, he looked a little less like he’d been dug up by body snatchers the week previous, but that was about the best he could say for himself. He thought perhaps he wasn’t so pallid as before, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were a tad less pronounced. He’d put back on a bit of weight too, but his clothes were still loose and… and he kept remembering the ruddy good looks of Ross Moyles.

  “Don’t be an utter pillock,” he muttered under his breath.

  A knock at the door sounded and Walsh went to open it, smiling as he saw Harry’s eager young face. “Ah, good morning, Mr Penrose, sir. I’ve some freshly starched cravats all ready and waiting for you.”

  Harry beamed at Walsh and came in. “Thank you, Walsh. Are you sure I’m not bothering you, my lord… I mean, King?”

  “No, no,” King said, smiling at the lad. “We didn’t quite get the hang of it last time, did we? Practise makes perfect and all that.”

  King spent the next forty minutes going over the intricacies of tying the perfect cravat until Harry could do it himself with very tolerable results.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all,” King said, giving the boy’s latest effort a slight tweak until it was just as it ought to be. “Keep practising, Harry. You’ll make all the fellows wild with envy when you go back to school in the New Year.”

  The boy’s face fell, and he coloured a little. “Oh, well, I… I’m not sure I’ll be… that is, Father said I might stay at home this year, and—there’s a tutor, you see—and… anyway, I’d best not take up any more of your time. Thank you again for helping me. It was jolly decent of you.”

  King watched him go, a heavy, impotent sensation sitting like lead in the pit of his stomach.

  Walsh shook his head as he closed the door behind Harry. “Poor blighter. They ain’t got the money to send him back.”

  “Yes, thank you, Walsh, I had figured that out myself,” King snapped, and then let out a breath. “Forgive me. I….”

  He did not know what to say, for he did not understand what he was doing or feeling.

  “S’alright,” Walsh replied gruffly. “It’s frustrating. Feel it meself, truth be told. It’s a nice place. Gelly’s a good sort and even Spargo is all right, though he don’t speak more’n two words at a time. The children are sweet natured and kind, and your Livvy….”

  “She’s not my Livvy,” King said at once, stalking to the window.

  He stood staring out with his hands behind his back as something twisted in his chest, and he accepted the truth of it.

  “Aye, well. They don’t deserve the hand they’ve been dealt, is all I was going to say. ’Tis a pity no one can help them. Still, perhaps Miss Penrose will find herself a husband with plump pockets who will take them on.”

  King snorted. “She’ll find herself a husband, I don’t doubt. Any man would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to see what they might have with her, but they’ll not take the children. What newlywed wants to be lumbered with another man’s get? Especially when the bloody fool is still alive and just too irresponsible to look after them as he ought. Though I don’t doubt anyone wanting to court her will say the right things and make her believe they’ll help.”

  “Reckon.” Walsh nodded, his expression grim. “But that’ll break her heart.”

  King rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest, irritable now. “Well, it’s not as if there’s anything I can do about it.”

  “No, my lord. I know it.”

  King made his way down to breakfast, uncertain if he was relieved or disappointed to discover Livvy wasn’t there yet. He sat down with the children, somewhat disconcerted to realise he did not mind breakfasting with the nursery. Not so long ago, the idea would have horrified him.

  The eldest girl was spooning porridge into the baby. King wondered if that was how she’d gotten her nickname, for she very much resembled a baby bird as she opened her mouth wide, waiting for the next spoonful to be delivered to her.

  “Ing?”

  King turned his attention towards George, a little startled to be addressed. At least, he thought that had been his name.

  “Oh, he said your name,” Harry chortled, confirming this. “Clever boy, George.”

  George beamed and held out his hand to King. “Ing?”

  King hesitated, uncertain, but took the child’s hand, wondering at how soft and warm it was as the tiny fingers closed over his much larger ones.

  “Ing? Lib Lib?”

  “Oh, I don’t know where your aunty is,” King said, though he realised he knew exactly where she was. She was with Ross Moyles. Perhaps she’d gone early this morning to warn him they must be more careful. The knowledge settled somewhere in his throat as if he’d swallowed a stone.

  George let out a disconsolate huff, his lower lip pouting. King felt very much like mimicking the expression. He wondered what the children would do when their beloved aunty went off and got married and they were left to their parents’ tender mercies.

  “Here, George, have some bread and jam,” King said briskly, taking a slice and spreading it with butter and a good amount of blackberry jam. He cut it into small pieces as he’d seen Livvy do and handed one to George.

  “Ta,” George said, taking it from him and beaming.

  “You’re welcome.” King said.

  He looked around at the children, at the older girls who were squabbling good-naturedly over the rules of some game they’d invented, and Jane, who was grumbling about whose turn it was to collect the eggs as it was drizzling with rain. The baby was fretting now she’d eaten all her porridge, and Harry was staring out of the window and picking at a thread on his cuff, his expression bleak.

  “Damnation,” King muttered under his breath. “If you’ll excuse me.” />
  He got politely to his feet and escaped the breakfast parlour. This wouldn’t do. This simply would not do. He strode down the hall to Charlie’s study, knocked twice and walked in, only to find the room empty.

  “Gone to town,” barked a low, rumbly voice that sounded like it had been dragged up from somewhere beneath the earth.

  King spun around to discover Spargo standing in the hall behind him, as big as a boulder and about as easy to read.

  “When?” King asked.

  “This morning.”

  “When will he be back?”

  A shrug was his only reply.

  “Did he take his wife?”

  Spargo shook his head.

  King let out a sigh of frustration and wondered if perhaps that was sympathy in Spargo’s eyes. The man must be well used to the vagaries of the household. It was likely why he’d given up on the art of conversation. There was no point in suggesting improvements or making plans when they were on a one-way trip to destruction. They both turned at the sound of trotters on parquet and watched as a piglet strolled along the hall towards the breakfast parlour. It had a string of pearls about its neck. Spargo didn’t so much as blink. Well, at least there was something to pawn if things went to the devil, though he didn’t think they’d get much for the pig.

  “Oh, drat,” muttered an impatient voice that King recognised from the other end of the hallway.

  Spargo turned towards the sound, glanced back at King, and then strode off towards the kitchens, leaving King dithering, wondering whether he wanted to face Livvy after his outrageous behaviour the day before. Though he still hadn’t decided, he couldn’t seem to make himself walk away, so he was still standing by the open study door when she came down the hallway. Her hair was hanging in heavy damp curls about her face, and her skirts were sodden and dirty at the hem.

  “Oh,” she said on seeing him, her expression wary. “Good morning, my lord.”