by Lisa Kleypas
“My grandfather once told me,” she volunteered, “that the secret to happiness is merely to stop trying.”
Bowman continued to stare at her, as if he were intent on memorizing something, absorbing something. She felt an exquisite constriction between them, as if the air itself were pushing them together.
“Does that work for you?” he asked huskily. “The not trying?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I don’t think I can stop.” His tone was reflective. “It’s a popular belief among Americans, you know. The pursuit of happiness. It’s in our Declaration, as a matter of fact.”
“Then I suppose you have to obey it. Although I think it’s a silly law.”
A swift grin crossed his face. “It’s not a law, it’s a right.”
“Well, whatever it is, you can’t go looking for happiness as if it were a shoe you lost under the bed. You already have it, you see? You just have to let yourself be.” She paused and frowned. “Why are you shaking your head at me like that?”
“Because talking with you reminds me of those embroidered quotes they’re always putting on parlor pillows.”
He was mocking her again. If she’d been wearing a pair of sturdy boots, she would probably have kicked him in the shins. After giving him a scowl, she turned to look for her discarded shoes.
Realizing what she wanted, Bowman bent to pick up her slippers. In a lithe movement he knelt on the floor, his thighs spread. “Let me help you.”
Hannah extended her foot, and he placed the slipper on her with care. She felt the light brush of his fingers on her ankle, the smooth fire racing from nerve to nerve until it seemed her entire body was alight. Her mouth went dry. She looked down at the broad span of his shoulders, the way the heavy locks of his hair lay, the shape of his head.
He lowered her foot to the floor and reached for the other. It surprised her to feel the softness of his touch. She had not thought a large man could be so gentle. He fitted the shoe onto her foot, discovered that the top edge of the leather upper had folded under in the back, and ran his thumb inside the heel to adjust it.
At that moment, a few people entered the room. The sound of female chatter stopped abruptly.
It was Lady Westcliff, Hannah saw in consternation. How must the scene have appeared to them?
“Pardon us,” the countess said cheerfully, giving a look askance at her brother. “Are we interrupting something?”
“No,” Bowman replied, rising to his feet. “We were just playing Cinderella. Have you brought the rest of the decorations?”
“Loads of them,” came another voice, and Lord Westcliff and Mr. Swift entered the room, carrying large baskets.
Hannah realized she was in the middle of a private gathering…there was the other Bowman sister, Mrs. Swift, and Lady St. Vincent, and Annabelle.
“I’ve enlisted them all to help finish the decorating,” Lillian said with a grin. “It’s too bad Mr. Hunt hasn’t arrived yet…he would hardly need a ladder.”
“I’m nearly as tall as he is,” Bowman protested.
“Yes, but you don’t take orders nearly so well.”
“That depends on who gives the orders,” he countered.
Hannah broke in uncomfortably. “I should go. Excuse me—”
But in her haste to leave, she forgot all about the A-frame ladder directly behind her. And as she turned, her foot caught on it.
In a lightning-fast reflex, Bowman grabbed her before she could fall, and pulled her against his solid chest. She felt the flex of powerful muscle beneath his shirt. “If you wanted me to hold you,” he murmured in a teasing undertone, “you should have just asked.”
“Rafe Bowman,” Daisy Swift admonished playfully, “are you resorting to tripping women to gain their attention?”
“When my more subtle efforts fail, yes.” He released Hannah carefully. “You don’t have to leave, Miss Appleton. In fact, we could use another pair of hands.”
“I shouldn’t—”
“Oh, do stay!” Lillian said with enthusiasm, and then Annabelle joined in, and then it would have been churlish for Hannah to refuse.
“Thank you, I will,” she said with a sheepish smile. “And unlike Mr. Bowman, I take orders quite well.”
“Perfect,” Daisy exclaimed, handing Hannah a basket of handkerchief angels. “Because with the exception of the two of us, everyone else here loves to give them.”
It was the best afternoon Rafe had spent in a long time. Perhaps ever. Two more ladders were brought in. The men wired candles onto the branches and hung ornaments where directed, while the women passed decorations up to them. Friendly insults flew back and forth, not to mention flurries of laughter as they exchanged reminiscences of past holidays.
Climbing the tallest ladder, Rafe managed to snatch the dangling toupee before anyone else saw it. He glanced at Hannah, who was standing below. Surreptitiously he dropped it to her. She caught it and shoved it deep into a basket.
“What was that thing?” Lillian demanded.
“Bird’s nest,” Rafe replied insouciantly, and he heard Hannah smother a laugh.
Westcliff poured an excellent red wine and passed glasses around, even pressing one on Hannah when she tried to refuse.
“Perhaps I should water it,” she told the earl.
Westcliff looked scandalized. “Dilute a Cossart Gordon ’28? A sacrilege!” He grinned at her. “First try it just as it is, Miss Appleton. And tell me if you can’t detect flavors of maple, fruit, and bonfire. As the Roman poet Horace once said, ‘Wine brings to light the hidden secrets of the soul.’”
Hannah smiled back at him and took a sip of the wine. Its rich, exquisite flavor brought an expression of bliss to her face. “Delicious,” she conceded. “But rather strong. And I may have secrets of the soul that should remain hidden.”
Rafe murmured to Hannah, “One glass won’t overthrow all your virtues, much to my regret. Go ahead and have some.”
He smiled as she colored a little. It was a good thing, he thought, that Hannah had no idea how badly he wanted to taste the wine on her lips. And it was also fortunate that Hannah seemed to have no idea of how much he desired her.
What puzzled him was that she wasn’t using any of the usual tricks women employed…no flirtatious glances, no discreet strokes or caresses, no suggestive comments. She dressed like a nun on holiday, and so far she hadn’t once pretended to be impressed by him.
So the devil knew what had inspired all this lust. And it wasn’t the ordinary sort of lust, it was…spiced with something. It was a steady, ruthless warmth, like strong sunlight, and it filled every part of him. It almost made him dizzy.
It was rather like an illness, come to think of it.
As the wine was consumed and the decorating continued, the large room echoed with laughter, especially when Lillian and Daisy tried to harmonize a few lines of a popular Christmas carol.
“If that sound were produced by a pair of songbirds,” Rafe told his sisters, “I would shoot them at once to put them out of their misery.”
“Well, you sing like a wounded elephant,” Daisy retorted.
“She’s lying,” Rafe told Hannah, who was stringing tinsel below him.
“You don’t sing badly?” she asked.
“I don’t sing at all.”
“Why not?”
“If one doesn’t do something well, it shouldn’t be done.”
“I don’t agree,” she protested. “Sometimes the effort should be made even if the results aren’t perfect.”
Smiling, Rafe descended the ladder for more candles, and stopped to look directly into her ocean-green eyes. “Do you really believe that?”
“Yes.”
“I dare you, then.”
“You dare me to what?”
“Sing something.”
“This moment?” Hannah gave a disconcerted laugh. “By myself?”
Aware that the others were observing the interaction with interest, Rafe nodded. He won
dered if she would take the dare and sing in front of a group of people she barely knew. He didn’t think so.
Flushing, Hannah protested, “I can’t do it while you’re looking at me.”
Rafe laughed. He took the bundle of wires and candles she handed to him, and obediently went up the ladder. He twisted a wire around a candle and began to fasten it to a branch.
His hands stilled as he heard a sweet, soft voice. Not at all distinguished or operatic. Just a pleasant, lovely feminine voice, perfect for lullabies or Christmas carols or nursery songs.
A voice one could listen to for a lifetime.
Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green,
Here we come a-wand’ring
So fair to be seen.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
Rafe listened to her, barely aware of the two or three candles snapping in his grip. This was getting bloody ridiculous, he thought savagely. If she became any more adorable, endearing, or delectable, something was going to get broken.
Most likely his heart.
He kept his face calm even as he struggled with two irreconcilable truths—he couldn’t have her, and he couldn’t not have her. He focused on marshaling his breathing, stacking his thoughts into order, and pushing away the mass of unwanted feeling that kept flooding over him like ocean waves.
Finishing the verse, Hannah looked up at Rafe with a self-satisfied grin, while the others clapped and praised her. “There, I took your dare, Mr. Bowman. Now you owe me a forfeit.”
What a smile she had. It set off sparks of warmth all through him. And it took all his self-control to keep from staring at her like a lovestruck goat. “Would you like me to sing something?” he offered politely.
“Please, no,” Lillian cried, and Daisy added, “I beg you, don’t ask him that!”
Descending the ladder, Rafe came to stand beside Hannah. “Name your forfeit,” he said. “I always pay my debts.”
“Make him pose like a Grecian statue,” Annabelle suggested.
“Demand that he give you a l-lovely compliment,” Evie said.
“Hmmm…” Hannah eyed him thoughtfully, and named a popular parlor-game forfeit. “I’ll take a possession of yours. Anything you happen to be carrying right now. A handkerchief, or a coin, perhaps.”
“His wallet,” Daisy suggested with glee.
Rafe reached into his trouser pocket, where a small penknife and a few coins jingled. And one other object, a tiny metal figure not two inches in height. Casually he dropped it into Hannah’s palm.
She regarded the offering closely. “A toy soldier?” Most of the paint had worn off, leaving only a few flecks of color to indicate its original hues. The tiny infantryman held a sword tucked at his side. Hannah’s gaze lifted to his, her eyes clear and green. Somehow she seemed to understand that there was some secret meaning to the little soldier. Her fingers curved as if to protect it. “Is he for luck?” she asked.
Rafe shook his head slightly, hardly able to breathe as he felt himself suspended between an oddly pleasurable sense of surrender, and an ache of regret. He wanted to take it back. And he wanted to leave it there forever, safe in her possession.
“Rafe,” he heard Lillian say with an odd note in her voice. “Do you still carry that? After all these years?”
“It’s just an old habit. Means nothing.” Stepping away from Hannah, Rafe said curtly, “Enough of this nonsense. Let’s finish the blasted tree.”
In another quarter hour, the decorations were all up, and the tree was glittering and magnificent.
“Imagine when all the candles are lit,” Annabelle exclaimed, standing back to view it. “It will be a glorious sight.”
“Yes,” Westcliff rejoined dryly. “Not to mention the greatest fire hazard in Hampshire.”
“You were absolutely right to choose such a large tree,” Annabelle told Lillian.
“Yes, I think—” Lillian paused only briefly as she saw someone come into the room. A very tall and piratical-looking someone who could only be Simon Hunt, Annabelle’s husband. Although Hunt had begun his career working in his father’s butcher shop, he had eventually become one of the wealthiest men in England, owning locomotive foundries and a large portion of the railway business. He was Lord Westcliff’s closest friend, a man’s man who appreciated good liquor and fine horses and demanding sports. But it was no secret that what Simon Hunt loved most in the world was Annabelle.
“I think,” Lillian continued as Hunt walked quietly up behind Annabelle, “the tree is perfect. And I think someone had very good timing in arriving so late that he didn’t have to decorate even one bloody branch of it.”
“Who?” Annabelle asked, and started a little as Simon Hunt put his hands lightly over her eyes. Smiling, he bent to murmur something private into her ear.
Color swept over the portion of Annabelle’s face that was still exposed. Realizing who was behind her, she reached up to pull his hands down to her lips, and she kissed each of his palms in turn. Wordlessly she turned in his arms, laying her head against his chest.
Hunt gathered her close. “I’m still covered in travel dust,” he said gruffly. “But I couldn’t wait another damned second to see you.”
Annabelle nodded, her arms clutching around his neck. The moment was so spontaneously tender and passionate that it cast a vaguely embarrassed silence through the room.
After kissing the top of his wife’s head, Hunt looked up with a smile and extended his hand to Westcliff. “It’s good to be here at last,” he said. “Too much to be done in London—I left with a mountain of things unfinished.”
“Your presence has been sorely missed,” the earl said, shaking his hand firmly.
Still holding Annabelle with one arm, Hunt greeted the rest of them cordially.
“St. Vincent is still away?” Hunt asked Evie, and she nodded. “Any word on the duke’s health?”
“I’m af-fraid not.”
Hunt looked sympathetic. “I’m sure St. Vincent will be here soon.”
“And you’re among friends who love you,” Lillian added, putting her arm around Evie’s shoulders.
“And there is v-very good wine,” Evie said with a smile.
“Will you have a glass, Hunt?” Westcliff asked, indicating the tray on a nearby table.
“Thank you, but no,” Hunt said affably, pulling Annabelle’s arm through his. “If you’ll pardon us, I have a few things to discuss with my wife.” And without waiting for an answer, he dragged Annabelle from the ballroom with a haste that left no doubt as to what would happen next.
“Yes, I’m sure they’ll be chatting up a storm,” Rafe remarked, and winced as Lillian drove her elbow hard into his side.
Ten
Every common room of the manor was busy after supper. Some guests played cards, others gathered around the piano in the music room and sang, but by far the largest group had gathered in the drawing room for a game of charades. Their shouting and laughter echoed far along the hallways.
Hannah watched the charades for a while, enjoying the antics of competing teams that acted out words or phrases, while others shouted out guesses. She noticed that Rafe Bowman and Natalie were sitting together, smiling and exchanging private quips. They were an extraordinarily well-matched pair, one so dark, one so fair, both young and attractive. Glancing at them made Hannah feel positively morose.
She was relieved when the case clock in the corner showed that it was a quarter to eight. Leaving the room unobtrusively, she went into the hallway. It was such a relief to be out of the crowded drawing room, and not to have to smile when she didn’t feel like it, that she heaved a tremendous sigh and leaned against the wall with her eyes closed.
“Miss Appleton?”
Hannah’s eyes flew open. It was Lillian, Lady Westcliff, who had follow
ed her out of the room.
“It is a bit of a crush in there, isn’t it?” the countess asked with friendly sympathy.
Hannah nodded. “I’m not fond of large gatherings.”
“Neither am I,” Lillian confided. “My greatest pleasure is to relax in a small group with my friends, or better yet, to be alone with my husband and daughter. You’re going to the library to read to the children, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“That’s very nice of you. I heard they all enjoyed it tremendously last evening. May I walk with you to the library?”
“Yes, my lady, I would enjoy that.”
Lillian surprised her by linking arms with her, as if they were sisters or close friends. They went along the hallway at a slow pace. “Miss Appleton, I…oh, hang it, I hate these formalities. May we use first names?”
“I would be honored for you to call me by my given name, my lady. But I can’t do the same. It wouldn’t be proper.”
Lillian gave her a rueful glance. “All right, then. Hannah. I’ve wanted to talk with you all evening—there is something highly private I want to discuss with you, but it must go no further. And I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I must. I won’t be able to get any sleep tonight otherwise.”
Hannah was dumbfounded. Not to mention rabidly curious. “My lady?”
“That forfeit you asked of my brother today…”
Hannah paled a little. “Was that wrong of me? I’m so sorry. I would never have—”
“No. No, it’s not that. You did nothing wrong at all. It’s what my brother gave to you that I found so…well, surprising.”
“The toy solider?” Hannah whispered. “Why was that surprising?” She had not thought it all that unusual. Many men carried little tokens with them, such as locks of hair from loved ones, or luck charms or touch pieces such as a coin or medal.
“That soldier came from a set that Rafe had when he was a little boy. Having met my father, you won’t be surprised to learn that he was quite strict with his children. At least when he was there, which thank God wasn’t often. But Father has always had very unreasonable expectations of my brothers, especially Rafe, because he’s the oldest. Father wanted Rafe to succeed at everything, so he was punished severely if he was ever second best. But at the same time, Father didn’t want to be overshadowed, so he took every opportunity to shame or degrade Rafe when he was the best.”