“I realize costs will be incurred as part of the undertaking,” his lordship said, pushing a curtain aside, “but I was unsuccessful at dissuading my sister from her open-house scheme. The guests will number well over a hundred if Eliza runs true to form, which means every available public room must be put to good use.”
Meg would have liked to have told his lordship that she was too busy to add his gallery to her list of responsibilities, but in truth she had yet to line up much work for the coming Yuletide season, and he did not quibble over coin. Duty, as his lordship had mentioned, required sacrifices.
“I’ll put together an estimate when I go home this evening,” Meg said, though for once the prospect of additional income didn’t provide the lift to her spirits it ought to.
“Go home?” Lord Marcus peered out the window. “That is out of the question, my lady. The way this snow is coming down, nobody with any sense will be abroad if they can help it. Come see for yourself.”
Meg joined him by the window, which overlooked a back terrace blanketed in white. More snow was falling at the steady, this-means-business rate of the season’s first real winter storm.
“I should send the children home now,” Meg said. “Some of them are quite small, and deep snow is dangerous when a child lacks decent boots.”
“Will their parents worry for them?” Lord Marcus asked, dropping the curtain over the window.
“They haven’t any parents. Some of them have older siblings, relatives who would let them shelter for a short time, but these children are largely homeless, my lord. I can’t keep them here all afternoon, then send them out into deep snow.”
“Then don’t.” Lord Marcus started for the door. “Keep them here, proceed with your decorating. We will contrive to shelter them from the elements until the weather is more obliging.” He held the door for Meg, and the corridor felt like a tropical conservatory compared to the gallery. “Have we a bargain, Lady Margaret? You will add the gallery to your list of tasks, the children will complete the foyer today, and you and they will bide here for the present?”
He pulled the door closed, once again the military officer securing compliance with orders, executing his duties. Meg wanted to retreat to his office, curl up under his old morning jacket, and shed a few tears—the holidays were always such a trial, and she was still short of sleep—though time spent in nameless regrets would be time entirely wasted.
Instead she tarried with him in the corridor. “I am forced by circumstances to agree with your lordship’s plan, but I like it not.”
“Neither do I, when I know King Wenceslas boasts at least forty verses, but needs must when Christmas approaches. What have you in mind for my gallery?”
“I’ll think of something,” Meg said. “I always do. I’d best have a look at how the greenery is coming along on the front walk.”
His lordship peered down at her, a damp lock of hair curling over his brow. “And what shall I do while I await our proper picnic in the library?”
She folded her arms, rather than smooth his hair back. “Inspect the handiwork of your princesses, my lord, and do try to look impressed.”
Meg left him by the doors to the gallery, but before she donned her cloak to brave the elements and offer the boys encouragement, she did step into his lordship’s office and allowed herself just a few moments of disappointment. Not tears, of course, or not many tears, but a little disappointment, and a wish that this Yuletide could somehow be more joyous and less dutiful than its predecessors.
“Marcus has hired a professional decorator, though she’s something of a mystery,” Lady Eliza said, dipping her quill into the inkpot, letting the ink pool into a drop at the tip of her pen, then fall back into the bottle.
“The answer is no, my dear,” Ralph Hennepin murmured, head bent over the invitation he was writing. “No professional decorations. You haven’t the coin.”
He said that as if reminding a small girl that she’d neglected to bring her parasol, so she must suffer the disobliging beams of the sun in her eyes.
“And where in my settlements,” Eliza asked from her side of the desk, “does it say that the annual expense of kitting the house out for the holidays is to come out of my accounts? When the coach must be repainted, you pay for that, though it’s also an annual expense.”
The increasingly foul weather meant Ralph was trapped in the house for the day, and Eliza had seized the moment. The sooner her invitations went out, the more likely they were to be accepted. The holidays could be so busy for those who spent them in Town.
And yet, somehow, the holidays could be lonely too.
Ralph sent her a calculating glance. “I admit that I pay for the repainting of the coach. That is an entirely different matter. The coach is attached to the stables, and the stables are a masculine province.”
Eliza put pen to paper, this invitation going to Lord Grimston. His lordship was unlikely to accept—enthusiasm for the holidays was not among his noted fortes—but Marcus had demanded that some invitations be sent to the less fashionable, the elderly, the widowed, and other unfortunates.
“My mare bides in your stables, husband. You made me pay for her new saddle.”
He sprinkled sand over vellum and sat back. “That sidesaddle was made for your elegant backside, Eliza. Nobody else in the household has a prayer of using it. It’s as personal to you as a ballgown or a pair of shoes.”
He was looking directly at her. Eliza realized how rare that had become, but then, she rarely looked at him. They read their respective newspapers at breakfast, they arrived separately to social affairs, they retired to separate chambers in the evening.
Now that she was looking at Ralph, she realized he was more handsome than when she’d married him. Then, he’d been down from university for only a year or so. Now, he’d developed gravitas to go with his dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and trim figure.
“My saddle is my expense,” Eliza said, “though the stables are your province. You dwell under this roof. You expect me to entertain all of your friends and enemies here, but the cost of those gatherings comes entirely from my accounts. Do you know, sir, the difference between the expense of hosting one of my at homes, versus the cost of one of your political dinners?”
He cocked his head at the angle that warned Eliza she was about to be charmed.
“How could I know such a detail, my dear, when both undertakings are entirely in your capable hands?”
She named him a figure that had his brows coming down as he set aside his pen.
“That much? A single dinner costs that much?”
“I hire extra footmen to ensure the food arrives to the table hot, and that means we keep extra livery on hand for those footmen. Cook needs more help in the kitchen for the evening itself and several days prior. The wine you fellows consume boggles the mind, and you lot stay up so late debating that we can run through a week’s candles in a night. Beeswax, of course, lest it be said that Ralph Hennepin is pinching pennies. I am very aware of your consequence, Ralph, and I try my best to protect it.”
“But, Eliza,” he said gently, “you gamble. I know you have gone to Marcus for assistance more than once. He never says anything, but your creditors stopped approaching me, and he’s the logical source of relief. One doesn’t care to be indebted to one’s brother-in-law.”
“Everybody gambles, and Marcus would be horrified if I asked anybody else for money. He likes to be of use and considers scolding me periodically to be his duty. I merely give him the pretext for the exercise that delights him most in the whole world.”
That was a bouncer, and Ralph’s smile said he knew it as such. “Does the Regent allow his loyal subjects an opportunity to show their regard when he expects us to pay his enormous bills?”
“Marcus is not the Regent. He worries for Papa, and chiding me gives him a target for his anxieties. The day grows chilly. Shall I pour us some brandy?” In theory, ladies did not take strong spirits. In private, theories were of little
merit.
“Please,” Ralph said. “Snow is lovely, but chilly and hardly convenient.”
Eliza brought him his drink. “Was that a comment directed at me?”
Ralph took the brandy, set it aside, and much to Eliza’s surprise, tugged her down onto his lap. “My wife is lovely, make no mistake about that, but she’s a puzzle as well.”
Eliza hadn’t sat in her husband’s lap for ages, not since they’d courted, probably. She surrendered to the urge to curl against Ralph’s chest.
“You are warm,” she murmured, “and you puzzle me as well.”
Ralph had such a marvelous way with a caress. His hands drifted across her back in sweet, slow strokes, and Eliza closed her eyes, the better to listen to his heartbeat.
“I puzzle you? Eliza, I am the most forthright of fellows. I go about my business, I dote on the children, I meet your father or brother for dinner at the club at least once a month. I ride out on decent mornings and stand up with those of your friends whom you deem it appropriate for me to partner. How can I be anything like a puzzle?”
Life went along, relatively smoothly, like a stream flowing over and around rocks and fallen logs. Then something happened—a washed-out bridge, a storm, a farmer with a new irrigation scheme—and a change of course became possible.
Eliza had that sense about this rare midday privacy with her husband. She could pat his lapel, stand up, and go back to rewriting invitations, or she could talk to Ralph as they’d once talked to each other about everything.
“In your recitation of duties and appointments, Ralph, you do not mention this wife who puzzles you so.” She burrowed closer, hiding her face against his throat. “I miss you.”
His hand on her back stilled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I miss you. Once upon a time, you danced with me before you stood up with anybody else. I always had your opening set. Once upon a time, you’d bring your breakfast plate down to my end of the table and share the paper with me. Once upon a time… I’m not too old to have more children, Ralph. Not nearly.”
He still came to her bed, but nothing like enough to suit Eliza.
“One doesn’t want to impose on the woman he has pledged to protect from all harms,” he said slowly.
Eliza kissed his cheek. “Does one want to neglect that woman? To fill his days with business and his evenings with dinner at the club or political discussions? Is it so awful to spend time with me, Ralph?”
He gathered her into an embrace, and Eliza braced herself for a lecture about sentiments mellowing and marriage being a cordial alliance rather than a romantic folly.
Ralph sighed, probably rehearsing his explications, and Eliza abruptly wanted to cry. Marriage was not supposed to be lonely, for God’s sake. Marriage wasn’t supposed to be a constant battle to win a spouse’s notice.
“I have concluded,” Ralph said quietly, “that I bore you. You are so vivacious and friendly. I am a dull old stick who can only talk politics and the latest gossip on ’Change. I try not to avoidably annoy you with my presence.”
Ralph was an honest man. Eliza treasured that about him. But was there a limit to his honesty?
“I have concluded,” Eliza said, “that you are keeping a pretty, clever, wicked mistress, and you find me tedious and tiresome. You would rather stand up with anybody but your own wife. I don’t even like to play cards, Ralph. The chairs are seldom comfortable, and finding a partner worthy of the name is nearly impossible.”
A gust of bitter wind rattled the windows and even moved the heavy velvet curtains a few inches. The fire danced in the grate, and the candles flickered.
“Eliza, are you saying you gamble to get my attention?”
“Do you carp at me for exceeding my budget just to remind me that I have a husband?”
His hold on her became more snug. “My dearest darling, I do believe we have been at cross purposes. I miss you too.”
Thank God. Thank God, thank God, and thank Marcus for suggesting that Eliza seek her husband’s help with the invitations.
“I am actually quite talented at whist,” Eliza said, “and I don’t really want a holiday decorator telling me what to do with our house. As to that, I’d rather nobody else hired Lady Mistletoe’s Holiday Helpers.”
“You will explain your reasoning to a poor, befuddled husband, please.”
“You are not befuddled. Witness your ability to spot worthy investments. I don’t want anybody else hiring Lady Mistletoe, because Marcus’s decorations—and his open house—must be the talk of Mayfair. Lady Mistletoe has a reputation for doing exquisite work, and I will ensure Marcus’s buffet is equally impressive. He will set the standard for holiday entertaining, see if he doesn’t.”
Ralph rose with Eliza in his arms and shifted to the sofa facing the fire. “You are scheming, my dear. Marcus will not thank you for meddling.”
“I am not meddling, I am helping. Marcus has nobody else to aid him in his search for a wife. If the ladies aren’t dazzled by his understated wit or rare smiles, they can at least be impressed with his holiday decorations.”
“You are daft,” Ralph said, nuzzling Eliza’s throat. “Marcus is a dear fellow, but he has no charm, less wit, and his smile is more fleeting than summer lightning. I love how you smell right here,” he said, pressing a cool nose to Eliza’s throat. “Gives me ideas.”
“We didn’t lock the door, dearest.”
“The staff would never intrude, and you used to like it when we didn’t lock the door.”
He kissed her right below her ear, and Eliza shivered, not with cold. “Do that again.”
“Leave Marcus in peace, Eliza. Peace on earth and all that. He’s gracious enough to host this open house, and you should be content with that.”
Eliza was growing anything but content. As Ralph untied the ribbon of her décolletage, she made a mental note to tell Lady Stephanie Hambleton how expensive Lady Mistletoe’s services were—unbelievably exorbitant would do. Her ladyship’s penchant for exaggeration and gossip would do the rest, and Marcus—who had a lump of coal where his heart should be—would come across like Father Christmas determined to secure himself a bride by the New Year.
“Did you mean what you said about more children, Eliza?”
All thoughts of Marcus and holiday brides flew from her head. “Another child would be the most precious, wonderful, and dear Christmas present you could give me, Ralph. I mean that with my whole heart.”
“Then I will devote my whole heart to ensuring your holiday wish is granted.”
The campaign to see Amanda and Emily settled into Marcus’s house traversed an unexpected route, led by Charlotte and Lady Margaret, supported by Aunt Penny, and further advanced by a horde of ill-spoken urchins.
As evening approached, the children had taken over the library, where Marcus’s footmen had passed out blankets, sandwiches, and other provisions suitable for Lady Mistletoe’s minions. After darkness had fallen, and Aunt Penny had chivied Charlotte, Amanda, and Emily up to a well-heated nursery, Marcus found Lady Margaret at the library desk, trying to work by the light of a single candelabrum.
“They’ve sung themselves to sleep,” Marcus said, stepping gingerly around a heap of blankets from which a mop of blond hair peeked. “I have never heard so much seasonal music, nor seen so much gingerbread disappear so quickly.”
Lady Margaret sat back and rubbed her eyes. “They are good workers, and I am lucky to have them. They will need a substantial breakfast, and I would appreciate it if—assuming the weather obliges—you could send them on their way with a hot potato or at least some bread and butter when they leave.”
Marcus peered at her ladyship’s sketches. “You are working on plans for the gallery. Might the children start on that task rather than go trudging off through the snow first thing in the day?”
He could feed them breakfast and lunch that way and dispatch a few footmen to see that the youngest reached whatever destinations they needed to reach. Then too, London
merchants would clear the walkways by midday, and the going would be easier for the children.
“We could make a start,” Lady Margaret said. “I will need another hour or two finishing the plans, and you will have to approve them first thing in the morning. Has it stopped snowing?”
“Let’s have a look, shall we? We can leave your elves to their deserved slumbers, and you can work in my office.”
Where Marcus would light every blessed candle in the room for her, rather than see her toil in near darkness for the benefit of a dozen scamps and rapscallions.
“Go along, your ladyship,” said a sleepy female voice. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
Lady Margaret rose and gathered up her papers. “Thank you, Daisy. I’ll be across the corridor.”
Marcus picked up the candelabrum and escorted her ladyship to the office.
“You must be ready to make an extended visit to your father’s house,” Lady Margaret said. “I have brought more upheaval to your doorstep than even I had foreseen.” She sank into the chair behind his desk with a weary sigh.
Marcus passed her a pillow. “That chair belonged to my father. The seat could use restuffing.”
When she’d situated the pillow to her satisfaction, he draped his old morning coat over her shoulders and went about lighting more candles.
“You need not cosset me,” Lady Margaret said. “I am quite used to fending for myself.”
He lit the candles on the mantel and set the candelabrum on the desk. “That is not exactly true, is it? You fend for your daughter, for a dozen cast-off children, and probably for the various seamstresses and merchants who supply your wares. I suspect that the very last person you fend for is yourself.”
She sent him a peevish look. “Is that the pot calling the kettle black? You worry over your papa, you are guardian to your brother’s daughters, you accommodate your sister’s social schemes and even allow me to invade your home with cloved oranges and satin ribbons, but your own wishes and wants go unacknowledged.”
He could not read her mood, but he knew very well how he’d like to end this interesting, challenging day.
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