Cecelia followed Cooper’s slow progress to the drawing room and gasped in delight at the transformation. Holly, laurel, and mistletoe hung above the doorway and along the mantle of the fireplace, and in the corner, the same greenery Cecelia did not recognize on the banister adorned the table. Elizabeth sat perched rather properly with a book in one hand, but her silver head of soft curls tilted scandalously back to sip on her Scotch—a practice Cecelia knew Elizabeth’s husband had encouraged when he was alive—hinting at how little regard the marchioness held for propriety.
Cecelia strolled into the room, her heart feeling immensely lighter, as it always did when she was here, in the company of someone who believed in her innocence.
She picked up a book of poems and sat in the chair Elizabeth always had waiting for her. Elizabeth lowered her glass and, with a conspiratorial look, slowly pushed a second crystal tumbler across the dark wood table toward Cecelia.
“I poured you a teensy, tiny sip,” she said. Elizabeth grinned, her pale, wrinkly cheeks creasing even more, and her blue eyes sparking to life.
If Mother even knew Cecelia was at Elizabeth’s home there would be the devil to pay, so if Mother knew Cecelia had indulged in a drink, in the middle of the day, she might very well ship her daughter off to the nearest convent. Ladies did not do such things, she thought as she curled her fingers around the cool glass. She was not the hoyden everyone painted her to be, but she understood deep within that she was not the prim-and-proper miss she knew she should be, either. This was her one secret, wicked indulgence in a life that had lost all color but boring, drab gray.
Cecelia brushed a finger across the dark, prickly green decorations. “What is this? I’ve never seen it.”
“No?” Elizabeth asked in surprise, her French accent more pronounced than usual. Cecelia had learned that Elizabeth had left her family in Paris many years before when she married the Marquess of Burton. The union had been quite scandalous since Elizabeth had been an opera singer and had not been considered fit by the ton to be the wife of the marquess. She had been barely tolerated by Society, and when her husband had died, she had been no longer tolerated at all. Her distaste for societal rules was even greater than Cecelia’s.
“This is evergreen,” Elizabeth told her. “I put it here, especially for you.”
“Me? Whatever for?”
Elizabeth smiled wickedly, as only a French woman of advanced years could. “In medieval times, it was thought to bring fertility. I once heard a story about a great medieval healer named Marion who had put evergreen throughout her home—Dunvegan Castle in Skye, I believe it was—so that she would conceive another son for her husband.”
Cecelia’s cheeks flamed instantly at the image of Liam that flashed in her mind. At Elizabeth’s merry chuckle, Cecelia fanned herself and took a sip of her Scotch, which heated her further instead of cooling her.
“I don’t need to be fertile,” she whispered, certain that even though her mother was many townhomes away, she might somehow see Cecelia upon her return and know she had talked of improper things.
“Not now, you don’t, dear,” Elizabeth replied, “but you will when you marry!”
“But who would marry me?” she asked, voicing the concern she normally held deep within. “I’m disgraced in the ton’s eyes, and even if I were not, I don’t have anything to bring to a marriage.”
Elizabeth took Cecelia’s hand in her bony one. “Shh, my dear. You have yourself to bring to a marriage, and any man of any true value will recognize that your good heart and joyful, loyal spirit are worth more than a hundred bags of gold. Perhaps the Scot you told me of meeting yesterday?” she teased, raising her eyebrows.
Cecelia dashed a hand across her eyes, which had pooled with unshed tears. Purposely ignoring Elizabeth’s comment about Liam, Cecelia asked, “Is that what happened with your husband?”
Elizabeth squeezed Cecelia’s hand. “Yes, exactly. When George told his father he wanted to marry me, his father threatened to take away all money and property that was not entailed. George wisely told him to go to the devil and married me anyway.” She winked at Cecelia.
Excited because she had heard the story before and it gave her hope, Cecelia could not help but finish it. “And because neither George nor his father had any siblings, he decided he could not afford to lose the affection of his one living relative, his son.”
“Precisely,” Elizabeth crowed.
Cecelia set down her glass and glanced out the window, surprised but delighted to see snowflakes falling against the graying sky. Unbidden, Aila MacLeod and her declaration that she was going to secure an invitation for Cecelia to the Rochburns’ ball popped into Cecelia’s head. “Perhaps this Christmastide season I will be allowed back into the ton’s good graces, and I will meet a man who wishes to marry me, despite my circumstances.”
The thought did not make her happy as it should.
Elizabeth patted Cecelia’s hand. “Perhaps you will meet a man not of the ton, who cares naught for their rules and who does not believe the vicious gossip about you.”
Cecelia knew Elizabeth was referring to Liam again. Sighing, she said, “You know I must try to secure a good match.”
Elizabeth offered a scowl before she leaned to side of her chair—away from Cecelia—and seemed to be gathering something in her arms. When she straightened, she was holdingwire, evergreen, apples, candles, and mistletoe.
“Whatever is all of that for?” Cecelia inquired.
“You could very well have a kiss stolen while standing under this ball we are going to make,” Elizabeth said in a conspiratorial voice.
“What?” Cecelia gasped. “From whom?”
“I suppose the Scot you just met, unless there is another gentleman vying for your attention.”
Cecelia quickly shook her head. “There is no other. In truth, there is not even him. And I cannot afford to be fanciful.”
“I will afford it for you, then,” Elizabeth said on a harrumph. “I’m an old woman, and I suspect I don’t have much longer to live.”
Cecelia tsked at her friend. “Don’t be ridiculous. You have years yet to enjoy. I’ll make the ball with you, but I cannot take it home. I would have no way to explain it to Mama.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, frowning. “I hadn’t thought of that. That’s such a shame, as the only man ever in this house is Cooper, and I doubt you want a kiss from him.”
“I shall pass,” Cecelia said with a giggle.
For the next half hour, they worked on the ball as Elizabeth relayed a story about how her parents had first met at a party on Twelfth Night. Her father had found the bean in the Twelfth Night cake, which meant he got to pretend to be the king for the night, and her mother had found the pea, which meant she got to pretend to be the queen. They could each choose a partner they wanted to spend the night talking to, and they had chosen each other.
When the clock chimed two o’clock, Cecelia jumped up to leave. “I better hurry,” she said, the continued heavy snowfall outside the window catching her attention.
“Miss Cartwright,” Cooper interrupted as he appeared in the drawing room door. “There is a Lord MacLeod here who says he has come to escort you home.”
Cecelia’s heart leaped with excitement. “Where is he? The study?”
“Certainly not,” the butler replied, his tone a protective one she had never heard before. “I was not about to let a stranger into this home without ensuring you know him and would like him to escort you home.”
Cecelia frowned. “Do you mean to say you left him standing outside in the snow?”
“Of course I did,” Cooper said with obvious pride.
“Cooper!” Elizabeth said, slowly rising to her feet, Cecelia assumed to scold her butler. “You are a genius!” Elizabeth crowed, motioning to him. “Make haste, my man, and secure the kissing ball over the front entranceway!”
Cecelia’s mouth dropped open. When Cooper started walking toward the mistletoe ball to do Elizabe
th’s bidding, Cecelia gave herself a little shake. “Elizabeth, no! I do not even truly know Lord MacLeod.”
“Pishposh,” Elizabeth replied, brushing past Cecelia in a surprisingly spritely manner. Clearly, scheming put a spring in the woman’s step. “I’m not suggesting anything indecent. It’s customary, after all.”
“Where?” Cecelia demanded. Her mother had never indulged in that particular custom.
“In my home,” Elizabeth returned, and before Cecelia could protest further, Elizabeth was breezing out the parlor door while issuing orders to Cooper on how to quickly and correctly hang the kissing ball.
Cecelia actually had to double her step to try to catch up with Elizabeth, but by the time she reached her, Elizabeth was stepping around the chair Cooper had already managed to drag in front of the door, and her friend opened it—to Cecelia’s great horror—just as Cooper announced triumphantly, “’Tis done, my lady. There was already a hook there.”
As Elizabeth greeted Liam and introduced herself, she motioned him in while Cooper quickly moved the chair out of the way. Before Cecelia could even contemplate what to do, Liam filled the door, towering over her, Elizabeth, and Cooper, who stepped out of the way, and then turned and quit the entrance hall.
Liam reached up, his coat straining against his massive shoulders, and brushed the snow out of his hair. Cecelia had the sudden desire to sigh, but she managed to hold it in, even as wet tendrils of hair curled against his forehead, enhancing his appeal. He looked utterly, perfectly ruffled. And he had, Cecelia decided, the most beautifully proportioned body she had ever seen. The muscles of his long legs—slightly spread—bulged against his tan breeches, and she could see that his arms filled out his coat just as fully as his shoulders. She had only just noticed he did not have on a cravat when her eyes took on a will of their own and feasted on the exposed skin of his neck and the very top of his chest.
When Elizabeth coughed delicately, Cecelia wrenched her gaze to Liam’s eyes, which danced with amusement. “I cannot abide the cravat,” he offered. “I’ve tried, but I’m afraid this is as civilized as I get. Aila says ye can take the man out of the Highlands, but ye cannot take the Highlands out of the man. I hope my bare state does not offend ye.”
“Not at all,” she replied, fighting to keep from gawking at his chest once more. “Whatever are you doing here?”
His face, unfashionably bronzed by the sun yet achingly handsome, softened even as his burning eyes made her catch her breath. “I took a turn around the park after ye hurried away, and when it started to snow, it occurred to me that ye may verra well need assistance to yer home with the delicate slippers ye have on. I’d not be able to sleep tonight worried ye might take a fall again and not have anyone there to assist ye.”
Her mouth parted with as much shock as pleasure. He’d been concerned for her?
She glanced at Elizabeth, who was grinning like a loon at Liam.
“I sh-should be going,” Cecelia said slowly.
“Oh yes,” Elizabeth agreed, so readily that suspicion shot through Cecelia just as Elizabeth gripped her by the arm and dragged her in front of Liam with shocking strength. “My goodness!” she exclaimed. “You two are standing under my Christmastide kissing ball!”
Liam’s brow wrinkled. “Yer what?”
Cecelia could feel heat practically pouring off her body from embarrassment. “It’s of no importance,” she rushed out, which elicited a scowl from Elizabeth.
“The kissing ball is a tradition I uphold for Christmastide,” the French woman explained.
Liam looked up at the ball, and Cecelia could see a distinctly skeptical expression cross his face. “We celebrate Hogmanay—the last day of the new year—in the Highlands,” he offered as he turned his attention to them once more. A devilish smile curved his lips. “But if it’s the tradition here to celebrate Christmastide—”
“It’s not, truly!” Cecelia interjected, rubbing the burning tips of her ears.
“It is in my home,” Elizabeth added.
Liam nodded at both women. “I certainly want to respect yer customs.” He glanced at Cecelia. “Will ye do me the honor?”
A longing to kiss him shot through her, yet how could she? After all that had occurred, after how far she’d fallen—precipitated by the exuberant rule-snubbing behavior that had been trying to resurface since she had met this man—she had to be proper. She simply had to live a gray life. No more vivid colors of joy and spontaneity for her if she was to make amends with the ton and secure a safe future for herself and, in turn, her mother.
She swallowed, the noise resounding in her ears, and she licked her suddenly stiff lips. “We scarcely know each other,” she whispered, the threads of her voice sounding regretful to her own ears.
“Aye, that’s true enough,” he agreed. “But I’m trying to remedy that.” He cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Oh, you must share a kiss!” Elizabeth encouraged.
Cecelia glanced at her friend and could not help but laugh at the indignation and determination shining in Elizabeth’s blue eyes.
“Will ye trust me?” Liam asked Cecelia, his gaze holding hers.
“That’s quite a question, Lord MacLeod. I’ve trusted before and much regretted the foolish decision.”
“Ah, but I’m a Scot, Miss Cartwright. My word is my honor. I will never break it.”
She swallowed. “I daresay, it’s hard to argue with such a declaration. You have my temporary trust. Now what are you going to do with it?”
“Give me yer hand,” he replied in a voice that was but a velvet murmur, yet left room for nothing but compliance. He was, she understood in that instant, a man who was accustomed to being obeyed. And why would he not be? He had a presence about him that commanded acquiescence.
Slowly, she offered her gloved hand to him.
“Oh, dear me,” Elizabeth exclaimed, making Cecelia jump and Liam turn to see what was the matter. “I do believe the snowfall grows even heavier!”
Cecelia watched as Elizabeth made her way across the entrance hall to the window farthest from them, though there was one much closer. “Yes,” she murmured, without turning around. “It is falling in buckets now. I do so love to watch the snow.” She kept her back squarely to Cecelia and Liam.
Cecelia loved her dear friend for attempting to give them a modicum of privacy while remaining in the room, as was proper.
Cecelia turned to Liam and was surprised to find him watching her. Something intense flared in his eyes as he reached for her hand and gently clasped it. Her heart pounded, and heat swirled within her chest. Slowly, he peeled off her glove, and when his warm skin came in contact with hers, her heart jolted and she had to stifle a gasp. Her eyes sought his, sure she did not have the effect on him that he had on her. But the smoldering flames she saw there startled her, then sent her spirits soaring.
He caressed her with his gaze as his fingers found their way to the tips of her own, grasped them in a sure hold, and raised them to his lips. As he brushed a kiss across her skin, everything about him consumed her. His heat enveloped her—most especially upon the top of her hand, which felt singed from his touch—her heart fluttered wildly when his warm breath washed over her sensitized skin, and her belly tingled. He brought her hand down between them, and much to her surprise, he began to put her glove back on her with such tender care that she shivered. Desire unlike any she had ever known ran through her.
When he was done, he released her, but neither of them moved. They stood face-to-face, and she could almost feel a connection forming between them.
Jonathan had kissed her on the lips before, but his kiss had elicited nothing in her. It was a gray, drab exchange. But a single kiss upon her hand from Liam had sent her senses swirling as if she’d just watched the most magnificent display of colorful fireworks in the sky. His eyes, she realized, were on her mouth, and she had the overwhelming urge to press her lips to his.
She forced herself to step back. “I need to be making
my way home,” she said.
He nodded. “Of course.”
After she collected her new book and they said their farewells to Elizabeth, they stepped outside. A cold breeze whipped Cecelia’s hair up around her neck, and she wrapped her arms around her middle to ward off the chill. She had been rushing to leave the house this morning, knowing she had wanted to go by the bookstore after the market, and she had not taken the time to don a pelisse.
As they descended the steps away from Elizabeth’s home, Liam paused, so Cecelia did as well. When she looked to question him, he had removed his coat. He arched an eyebrow at her.
“May I?” he asked, as he jangled the coat a bit.
She nodded and stood, unmoving, as he placed his coat over her shoulders. She was immediately enveloped in his lingering warmth and masculine scent. She felt utterly drugged. She was not the hoyden they said she was, she reminded herself, but she could suddenly see how a woman might be led down a less than virtuous path by a man such as Liam. He had a lure about him unlike anything she had ever encountered before. In truth, it scared her a little. She could not afford to be foolish, yet it was hard to think sensibly with him near.
He took her hand to help her down the last step, and as he did, Lord Northington, one of Jonathan’s friends, appeared around the corner. He paused when he saw them, and then a distinct leer spread across his face. She stiffened and immediately released Liam’s hand. Lord Northington was not the first man to leer at her. Since Jonathan and Lord Tarrymount had conspired to ruin her, she had been subjected to the most lurid offers the few times she had been out in Society. Frankly, she had almost been relieved when invitations to events hosted by the ton had stopped arriving.
Christmas in the Scot's Arms (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 3) Page 4