by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews
“Eve ... dear,” Caro said.
Eve turned, a bemused half-smile still on her lips.
“Are you having a good time, dear?” Caro asked. Before Eve could answer, Caro went on, “Such a lot of things to do at Christmastime that one doesn’t get the chance for a good long coze with one’s dearest friends, does one? At least I haven’t had the time—but neither have you—Eve, dear,” she said quickly. “I would be much remiss if I didn’t—oh, this is so difficult, but mother and I were talking—as are all the girls and their mothers, actually—and as yours isn’t here with us, not that we don’t invite her every year, but ... the short of it is, Eve—everyone’s remarking how much time you’re wasting with Hunt.”
“Wasting?” Eve asked, because that was all she could think to say.
“Well, yes,” Caro said, “since he is a rake, after all. What else could you call passing time with such a fellow? It’s such a mistake; we have so many eligible young men here—take Anderson, for example. He stammers a bit, and it’s true he’s shy as a dormouse, but he comes from a good family, and...”
“I don’t consider it a waste to talk with the viscount,” Eve said quietly, but with enough emphasis to cut off her cousin’s spate of words.
“Eve, dear,” Caro said impatiently, “he is charming, and so attractive—in a glowery sort of way, of course—that we can quite understand. No one blames you! But do be sensible. Do think. He cannot have a serious intention in his head. At least not toward you. So far as we know, he is not hanging out for a wife. And if he were—oh, how difficult, but it must be said—it would be a lady of similar place and condition to his own.”
Eve’s face grew hot. There were a dozen things she wanted to say. She couldn’t. Her cousin had only voiced what she’d thought, but it hurt to hear it. She could only face it squarely. “So you think he wants me for a mistress?” she asked defiantly.
“My heavens, you’ve grown frank, haven’t you?” Caro said, fanning herself, her own cheeks flaming. “Well, then, why not?” she muttered, raising her head. “Think on, my dear,” she said. “What else would he want of you?”
“I don’t know,” Eve answered, “but I intend to find out.”
“Oh!” Caro said.
“Yes. Indeed,” Eve said.
Since neither of them could think of another thing to say, because so much that was unsaid was understood, to their mutual anger and dismay, they merely nodded at each other. Caro took her skirt in one hand and swept away, and Eve, head high, went into her room and pulled the door shut behind her. Then she closed her eyes and rested against it, weak as though she’d been running a long way.
She was so insulted her head and body ached from it. She vowed she’d never come here again—never! But she couldn’t leave just yet, either. There were thirteen days left of Christmas. They were suddenly very precious to her. The flirtation might not last the duration. Her courage might fail, or he might grow bored with her. But she was determined to see it through. Because she knew there would be little left for her after, one way or another.
“A spotted hound, too high-spirited for hunting, too charming to give away. He fell to me. He had no nose, and less sense. But he had a very warm belly. A dog of little use, except he was better than a hot brick when winter came. He was worth a dozen of my father’s finest scent hounds—at least to me. My father didn’t believe in coddling his sons, so the fire in my hearth was always meager. Thank heavens my dog was not.” Ian laughed, remembering.
Eve laughed with him. He thought the sound was gayer than the bells jingling on the sleigh as they glided over the snow. Other guests had gone skating or riding, some visited the little village nearby. Some stayed in the warmth of the manor, playing cards and parlor games. But he had begged and bribed a horse sleigh from the stables, and they’d been riding down country lanes all through the brief winter afternoon. Where else could a man of his reputation take a girl of hers, to speak privately? It was an open sleigh and the temperature hovered below freezing. If he stayed to the open roads, even the most evil-minded houseguests couldn’t gossip. Even they wouldn’t believe he was a determined enough rake to risk frostbite on his more tender parts, no matter how much he might want to seduce her.
Seduce her? he thought quizzically, seeing her glance at him and away again, as if his image burned her eyes. Would holding her, petting her, protecting her, and assuring her that he wouldn’t let her come to harm be called seduction? Yes, he answered himself. In her case. Because he knew he’d never stop at an embrace.
It was so cold their breath no longer made white puffs, so cold she was sure the tip of her nose was cherry red, so cold her teeth hurt when she smiled at what he said. But she couldn’t stop smiling, because he said so many clever things. They’d been chattering without letup since they’d gotten into the sleigh—since breakfast—since they’d caught sight of each other in the morning, she realized.
They spoke about his past—the parts he could tell her about. They talked about her past, what little she had of it. He told her he’d been brought up as any other well-born lad was, except she heard the loneliness of it in his voice. She said she’d been brought up as no less than any richer girl was—and maybe more—because her parents had taught her to think. She said it proudly. And he realized her parents were too out of society to know thinking wasn’t a fashionable thing for a girl to do. They discovered they both loved hounds, and chocolate and mince, and detested turnips, treacle pie, and lap dogs. They acted as though this were a revelation.
He told her about the war, and she knew how to listen and sigh in the right places. In fact, she was as easy to talk with as any man of good sense he’d ever met, and so he had to keep reminding himself that she was a lady. She had to keep reminding herself Christmas was almost upon them, so she’d better store up every word he spoke, every gesture he made. Which was difficult, because she hardly dared look at him lest she forget herself and keep staring, drinking in her fill of him.
So she looked at the sky, at the snowy landscape, at the lap robe over her knees, as the sleigh carried them down the lane. And even so, saw only him.
He smiled. She was staring at her gloves again. A moment before it was at the horse’s rump. Anywhere but at him. He saw more of her profile than her eyes, and that both tickled and irritated him. Because he was as charmed as he was touched by her inexperience. Damn Shelton, he thought suddenly. How was he to broach the subject of what lay ahead for her? It was why he took her out in the sleigh today, to get her alone to speak of it. Time was running as quickly as the runners slid over the snow, and he hadn’t been able to bring up the subject yet. Hadn’t been able, he corrected himself, or hadn’t wanted to?
“What is it? What’s happened?” she exclaimed in consternation, turning her head all the way toward him and staring.
“Nothing—what’s the matter?” he asked, pulling back on the reins and bringing the horse to a sliding stand, alarmed at her concern.
“You were frowning again. I mean,” she said, embarrassed by her outburst, “you suddenly looked as you did when I first saw you.”
“That bad, eh?” he laughed.
That bad—and yet that good, she thought on a secret sigh. For while the sight of his dark face laughing did her heart good, his brooding look did something altogether different to regions a little lower down. “I meant—well, yes,” she said, greatly daring, “that bad. Was it something I said?”
Now he did frown. “No,” he said, turning in his seat to look at her. “Something that I have to say. Look—Eve—I ... Blast! Do you know Lord Shelton?” he asked abruptly.
She blinked. “Lord Shelton? Why, yes. I do. Why? Oh, no!” she cried, her face growing pale, her hand flying to her mouth. “Has anything happened to him?”
His brows drew together. “No, nothing I know of,” he said. “Why are you so stricken? Is he important to you?”
“Important? Why, yes—he is,” she said thoughtfully. “But why are you scowling? I thought yo
u were friends.”
“Acquaintances,” he snapped. He stared at her, trying to phrase the thing smoothly, knowing there was no easy way. “Then you are aware of his interest in you,” he finally said.
“Yes,” she said, lowering her gaze. “I could scarcely not be.”
“And?”
“And what?” she asked in confusion, her eyes wide as she gazed at him. Molten fire, he thought dazedly, liquid amber shining. He had to drag his attention back to what she was saying. When he did, he forgot her glorious eyes. “He has a dreadful reputation; is it that you think I don’t know it?” she was asking him. “I do. But I also know he is much maligned. For he has always been kind to me.”
“Kind?” he asked, astonished. He didn’t say it angrily. But she heard the insinuation.
“I cannot say I approve of the way he has lived his life. But I can say,” she said, her chin coming up, “that he has harmed no one—and nothing but his own reputation.”
“Indeed? He has done no harm?” he asked, as angry at her defense of the rake as he was troubled by it. “And so I may presume that your superior but unconventional upbringing gave you Latin and world history, watercolors and maths, but stinted on the Bible? And you never went to church of a Sunday morning?”
Her nostrils pinched, and she sucked in her breath. He was right, of course. She hadn’t thought. But she was a proud girl and hated to look foolish. “Oh! And you are a Methodist, I presume?” she asked haughtily.
“Hardly,” he said. “But at least I know what a rake is. Do you?”
“Of course” was what was on her lips, but when she opened her mouth, she found his lips on it instead. He just reached over and pulled her up against his chest and kissed her hard. They’d been riding in the frosty air for hours. Their mouths were cold. It should have been like kissing ice. It was. For a moment.
But then she felt the sweet, treacherous fire of his mouth, and his lips softened as he felt the incredibly sweet warmth of hers. And they both forgot the ice and the hour, the day and the moment. She was shocked, and then astonished, and then overwhelmed. The kiss led to a second’s breathing space, and then to another kiss. And another. She gave herself up to his embrace.
He was the one to come to his senses first. Not because he was less moved. But only because he knew what to do with such an outpouring of passion and discovered he could not do it. His body craved more, his hands sought more—the silk of her cheek, the curve of her neck, the contours of her breast—and found only frustrated desire. Because as he reached to caress her, he became aware that he was wearing gloves, and she, a heavy woolen cloak. When he realized that their kisses, stupefyingly sweet as they were, could actually lead nowhere that he wanted to go—at least not in the open air, with the temperature freezing—he reluctantly raised his head. And so freed her. She gasped, and scuttled back to her end of the seat, staring at him.
He didn’t know what to say.
She thought she did.
She bit her bottom lip, still rosy pink from the kisses, and asked fearfully, “Is it—were you trying to show me what a rake is?”
“God, no,” he breathed. “But I suppose I did, didn’t I?”
They stared at each other. They both knew what a gentleman’s kiss meant to people of their station. It could be tantamount to a proposal—if ... if, she thought, he regarded her a social equal. On one level she knew it wasn’t really always so. Many girls kissed and were kissed, and thoroughly, too, without having to marry the poor fellow who dared. Many a fellow dared and didn’t have to take a wife for it. But today her feelings were raw as the day, and she wondered if he thought her too poor, too insignificant, undesirable for anything but what a rake found women good for.
A kiss was as good as a declaration, he thought. If a girl was a high stickler—which he was sure she was not. But such a kiss could be considered a declaration of intent if a gentleman chose it to be. But that was madness. He didn’t really know her or what her feelings were toward him. She might just have a weakness for rakes. Just think of her defense of Shelton ... no—he didn’t want to think about that. Instead, he realized that he had kissed her, and so he might actually have to propose marriage to her. He was shocked by the thought—more so when he realized he wouldn’t mind as much as he ought. Still, that was a powerfully big step to take in return for a few minutes of madness—delicious madness, he remembered with renewed interest.
He collected his thoughts with difficulty. He had to know what she thought. The more fool he if he actually declared himself if he didn’t have to—or if she didn’t want him to. He was no coward. Nevertheless he didn’t look at her when he spoke.
He cleared his throat, and took up the reins. “Forgive me, will you? In the spirit of Christmas?” he asked. “I mean, can you simply pretend we were under some mistletoe?” He laughed, and never meant it less.
She smiled, though she felt like weeping. But her tone was no less light than his.
“Consider it done,” she said, and paused, and then said too brightly, “my goodness! Just look. The sun is starting to sink and I’m afraid my reputation will, too, if we stay out much longer...” She stopped, flustered by her missaying, but went on valiantly, “I mean, we ought to be getting back, don’t you think?”
“Eve,” he said seriously, “I meant nothing by it—damnation! I mean to say I meant no harm to you, believe that. And I give you my word that no harm will come to you because of it, come what may.”
She muttered something excusing him, he nodded, snapped the reins, and they sped back to the manor. They didn’t speak, but they were both too busy thinking to realize that they weren’t.
No harm did come to her because of what he did—at least, not exactly, Eve thought later that evening. But she was sure people were looking at her differently. The girls her age seemed cooler toward her, their mothers and chaperones definitely colder. And the gentlemen seemed to be eyeing her differently. Shy young Mr. Kensington, who had been one of her most persistent friends, stole sad glances at her but didn’t approach. And that portly bachelor Lord Fellowes, with his red face, big belly, and roving eye, who had never spoken directly to her before, was now seeking every opportunity to talk with her, even though she only replied in monosyllables.
She chided herself for having an overactive imagination, coupled with a guilty conscience—and a new understanding of men and what they could make a girl feel. If they were the right man. Which none of them were but the one who hadn’t shown up in the salon yet. She didn’t know how she should react to him when he did arrive. She wished he would ignore her when he came—equally as much as she yearned for him to come directly up to her, sweep her into his arms, and kiss her before all the company and the immediate world.
He did neither. He only came into the room, saw her, and walked to her side, as though she’d been waiting for him by prearrangement.
“Tonight’s the lighting of the log, and the caroling, isn’t it?” he asked her after a moment.
It wasn’t a loverlike comment, but she smiled at him as though he’d just offered her the most flowery compliment on her gown and hair.
“Yes,” she said shyly. And he looked at her as though she’d just offered to rush up the stairs and hurry into his bed with him.
“Well, then,” he said, offering her his arm, “shall we?”
He took her into dinner as though he were taking her to that bed. And she went with him like a bride.
But their hosts had sat them so far apart they might as well have been in different houses, not just rooms.
Ian couldn’t even catch sight of her down the long table. After a while he gave up trying. He ate his dinner in stony silence, in spite of the conversational efforts of the married lady on his left and the single one on his right. It didn’t discourage them. His glowering looks only fascinated them more. His reserve didn’t bother the men they sat with, either. They took his taciturnity as interest, and kept boring on about their opinions of the war he’d just fought. H
e was so glad when the meal was over that he shocked the company by rising, without comment, and leaving the table when the ladies did.
Eve didn’t notice. She was trying too hard to keep her head up as she left the room. Because no one had talked with her at all.
He stopped her in the hall. “This is nonsense,” he said.
She nodded.
“Come with me,” he said, and led her into the drawing room, where the Yule log—a stout half of a goodly sized tree—lay in the hearth, awaiting Squire’s ceremonial lighting.
The other guests followed soon after, eyeing the pair avidly all the while. But before long they were forgotten; the possible scandal unfolding before the guests’ eyes couldn’t compete with Christmas at Moon Manor.
When all the guests were assembled, Squire strode to the great hearth, raised a charred stick, and showed it to the assembled company.
‘The last bit of last year’s Yule log,” he announced, waving it in front of them. A servant brought him an old-fashioned tarry torch, and Squire solemnly used it to ignite the stick.
“Thus, Christmas to Christmas we go at Moon Manor, wishing you all the joy of the season, and all the peace, goodness, and luck of it, too. The log shall bum through the holiday, but no brighter than our hopes and hearts,” Squire intoned, holding the flaming stick high before he touched it to the massive log in the fireplace. He laid that bit of the old log atop the new one (and the tarry torch, too, though that was supposed to go unnoticed), and the bed of dry brush and tinder under the great log began to chuckle and spit Soon the log was surrounded by a filmy wall of dancing flames, and the company cheered.
“Wassail!” commanded Squire.
“Caroling first,” one of the guests cried.
“Not at Moon Manor,” Squire retorted, and the company laughed as bowls of hot punch, redolent of ale, cinnamon, and nutmeg, with roasted crab apples bobbing in them, were borne in by smiling servants.