Merry Misrule

by St. Clair, Ellie

  He didn’t say anything to that, although she could have sworn she felt rather than heard a low grumble from deep in his chest.

  “I’ve apologized.”

  “You do a lot of apologizing,” she couldn’t help but remark, in part to warn him off, and in part to remind herself of who he was and what he had done.

  “So it seems,” he said, stepping away from her for a moment, and as she was about to turn around and tell him to leave, he slipped the netted dress over her head, the whoosh of fine fabric and his nearness causing every nerve to tingle.

  “There,” he said, pulling it down as he patted it in place around her. He took a step to the side, bringing her with him so that she could see herself in the mirror, with him standing over her shoulder, his head close to hers. “Perfect.”

  Joanna watched her eyes widen in the mirror, taking in his words, as well as the picture of them side by side.

  “Far from perfect,” she said, although even she had no idea whether she was referring to herself, or to the two of them together.

  On the outside, he was perfection. All sculpted cheekbones and dark features; but the man inside had terrorized her — a fact she must not forget.

  “You’re still upset.” His eyes met hers in the mirror. “I thought you received your revenge in the snow today.”

  She lifted her chin higher. “That was for Caro.”

  “Ah yes, my sister, who doesn’t seem to have any issue throwing her life away for a footman.”

  Joanna whirled around at that, hot once more at how flippantly he said such words.

  “I’m not much more than a servant myself, you know.”

  “Joanna,” he said, tilting his head. “I can call you Joanna, as we’ve known one another so long?” He didn’t wait for her response, which most assuredly would have been in the negative. “You are the granddaughter of a viscount.”

  “That hasn’t accounted for much,” she said, placing her hands on her hips, refusing to allow him to feel sorry for her. “Now tell me,” she said, desperate to speak of something else, “what happened today?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, turning, his hand rubbing against his lips as though by covering his mouth he could stop anything he might be tempted to say.

  “Today, when you were hit by the snowball,” she said, peering at him more closely. “For a moment, it seemed like you didn’t know where you were, that you had been taken somewhere else.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said, snorting, his hand rubbing his forehead, however, in a sign that he was not entirely at ease. “Of course I knew where I was. I have lived at Briercrest Manor nearly my entire life. I know those fields better than any others. I grew up in them. I was merely stunned, that is all, that a woman would succumb to such violence.”

  So he wanted to avoid the subject. Fine.

  It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Violence, is it? I would call it retribution.”

  But it was the violence that had lost him for that moment. Even now, uneasiness swam in his eyes, and Joanna wasn’t sure if she was better to press on in asking him to reveal more, or if it would be best to leave it be.

  “You must have faced many horrors over there, my lord,” she said, softly, gently, trustingly.

  “Call me Elijah. And I did,” he grunted uncharacteristically. “But no more than any other man.”

  And suddenly Joanna hated the war viciously, of all that it was, all that it held, that it could take a man like Elijah, who was so full of life and vitality — as mischievous as it was — and turn him into a man that became closed off at even the slightest notion of sharing some idea of his experience with her.

  “Leave your hair down,” he said suddenly, his eyes running over her now, assessing, attracting.

  “Down?” she responded with surprise. “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Well… it just isn’t done.”

  “Says who?” he challenged, his eyes glinting as they narrowed.

  “Says everyone.”

  Her response was thin, but she couldn’t think of anything else. And it was the truth.

  He reached out ever so slowly, as though waiting for her to knock his hand away. She should. She really should. But that part of her — the part that seemed to be continually betraying her — waited for him to touch her. Longed for him to touch her.

  But it was a tease. He stroked one strand of her hair and said only, “Well, then, leave this one down for me, will you?”

  And with a wink, he was gone.

  Joanna tried to forget his comment about her hair, but when the maid finally arrived, quite surprised and impressed to find that Joanna had succeeded in dressing herself — “but how did you tie the stays, miss?” she had questioned with wide eyes — she had asked if there were any style Joanna preferred.

  Joanna had hesitated, finally telling the maid to do as she pleased.

  But when she left, she couldn’t help but draw one tendril from its pin, allowing it to fall next to her face.

  It was only because Elijah’s suggestion was likely a preference held by most, she told herself.

  That was all.

  Even though it wasn’t.

  She had just descended the staircase when Ophelia cried out from the adjoining room, “It’s time for the Yule log!” and Joanna stepped back as the front doors opened wide and two of the footmen — including Thatcher, who was quite obviously keeping his gaze to the floor and not anywhere near Caroline — entered carrying the felled tree. Joanna followed them into the drawing room, where they heaved it into the fireplace that must have been emptied shortly before. A bit of light still filtered in through the white, icy windows, but already a slight chill had entered the room, although Joanna wasn’t sure whether or not it was due to the idea of an empty fireplace or the actual absence of heat.

  The Kentmore family gathered around it first, with their guests to the outside. All took turns sprinkling the log with oil, salt, and wine, each person invited to say a prayer as he or she did so.

  Caroline turned and held out a hand to Joanna, who tried to shake her head, but Caroline insisted more firmly, placing the cup of wine in her hand.

  “Say your prayer,” she commanded, and Joanna nodded dutifully, pouring the wine on the log as she closed her eyes for a moment.

  She said a quick prayer for peace and prosperity for all who were here with her this evening. That should be more than a big-enough ask, she reasoned.

  But she couldn’t help the small part of herself that had one more thing to ask for, something she didn’t entirely deserve yet she couldn’t help but wish for anyway.

  Please Lord, she prayed, bring me love this Christmas.

  It meant nothing that she met Elijah’s eyes when she opened her own.

  For he was the last man she would ever — should ever — fall in love with.

  So why did his wink cause her heart to flip?

  She was going to have to get a handle on herself, she reasoned. Or she would be in for humiliation once more.

  Humiliation she had vowed to avoid for the rest of her life.

  Chapter 7

  Elijah had spent most of his life lacking any real purpose.

  He had gone to school, yes. He had joined the army, yes.

  But at that point in time, he hadn’t particularly cared about what he was doing. He went through the motions because it was expected of him, but he’d never actually worked incredibly hard in excelling or in proving himself to even be worthy.

  Because what did it matter?

  He would always be the second son of a marquess, who wasn’t good for anything, really — not even in standing in line for the title anymore, not now that Baxter had sons.

  He would have made a terrible marquess, anyway. For he lacked commitment. He lacked responsibility. He lacked purpose.

  Until now.

  Now he was determined that there was one thing — or one person — who was going to change all of that.
/>
  For he wanted Joanna Merryton.

  All he had to do was convince her that he was not the man she thought he was.

  And he wasn’t. Not really. The Elijah Kentmore that had left for the war years ago had been killed along with dozens of others on the fields of Salamanca.

  The man who stood in his place now was but a shadow of who he had been before.

  A shadow lacking memories, recognition, time.

  One thing he could not forget, however, was the image in his head of Joanna half-dressed. Nor the sight of his fingers, so rough and undainty, upon the soft, pale skin of her back. Nor the reflection of the two of them, staring back from the mirror.

  This Christmas he would win Joanna over. He had no idea how just yet. He could only wish that it was her memories of the past that were erased, for then it might be much easier for her to give him a chance.

  But that was a lie — for he would never wish this upon anyone, least of all her.

  He watched her enter the drawing room, slightly hesitant, unsure, and he longed to go to her and offer his arm, to help her acclimate to all of these people who were part of his friends and family, but who seemed so distant since his return.

  But to do so would quite contravene his promise to her to stay far away, and so instead he followed her with his eyes — until he saw that Alex took the very place he had wished for himself.

  Suddenly, his brother, the man who had always been his partner in everything they did, who he had always so wanted to be like to the point of joining the army, became his opponent.

  His attention was caught by his elder brother across the room, where Baxter and Ophelia were holding court as though they were king and queen of their castle, which he supposed they were, in a sense. And yet, still, it grated on him, especially when his parents were still here, and should be filling that role themselves.

  Elijah had an idea.

  An idea that would solve both of his immediate annoyances.

  He made his way across the room, sidling up next to his brother.

  “Alex, Miss Merryton,” he said, taking a sip of his drink as he greeted the pair, keeping his voice light. “I have an idea.”

  Alex turned to him, one brow quirked, although he couldn’t mask the interested gleam in his eye.

  “Oh?”

  Eli tilted his head over toward Baxter and Ophelia. “It’s about the two of them. They’re a bit high on their thrones, don’t you think?”

  “Well,” Alex said as he shrugged, “that’s kind of the way of it now. You’ve been gone for some time, Eli, and Baxter will be the next marquess.”

  “But he’s not yet,” Elijah said with a grin, “so what do you suppose we have some fun with him while we still can?”

  Alex’s eyes glinted.

  Elijah didn’t care so much about what Alex thought, however. He stole a glance at Joanna, who was eyeing him with interest, for which he breathed a big sigh of relief. He knew he should be trying to prove to her that he had matured, yet he couldn’t help but try to have some fun and liven this party up a bit.

  “What are you thinking?” Alex finally asked.

  “Well…” Elijah said, already laughing, “you know how Baxter likes to make a long, drawn-out toast at every dinner?”

  “Of course,” Alex said.

  “I have an idea on how we could make his toast a little more interesting this evening.”

  Alex eyed him doubtfully, but nodded for him to continue.

  “I’ll need a little help,” Elijah said, and then outlined his plan. Alex grinned with delight at the thought, while Joanna seemed skeptical, but intrigued at how it might all play out. “Now, we must wait.”

  So wait they did. Elijah was hoping that Alex would find somewhere else to take his interest, but he seemed just as curious by Joanna and her newfound beauty as Elijah was. He couldn’t blame his brother, but nor did he feel like competing with him. For Alex would win. He always did.

  When the dinner hour came, he found himself on one side of Joanna, Alex on the other.

  As though on cue, Baxter stood, glass in hand.

  Elijah kept his eye on that glass, hoping that Thatcher had carried out his task as he had requested.

  “Good evening, my friends,” Baxter said, his glass small in his large fingers. His smile stretched wide in his heavily jowled face, so unlike his brothers in looks and stature. “My family and I would like to thank you all for being here.”

  He continued on for a couple of minutes, speaking about nothing at all, before lifting his hand, and Elijah sat up straighter.

  “Now, a toast, to all of you — the best wine that we have to offer. Here is to the greatest Christmas celebration in all of England!”

  He lifted his glass, while the rest of them did so with their wine as well. Then Baxter took a big swig of his drink — and started sputtering.

  “What in the devil is this?” he snarled, staring at the glass as though it had conjured itself into a different liquid. “This is… why this is—”

  “Absolutely lovely,” Ophelia cut in, a hand on his arm as she leaned forward, her smile forced and obviously intending to be contagious. Baxter, however, did not seem to understand.

  “You!” he pointed to Thatcher. “Come here.”

  Thatcher obeyed. Baxter leaned in and muttered something in his ear. Thatcher nodded and walked away.

  “My apologies, all,” he said with a low, sweeping bow. “This is not the drink I expected. We shall have all of the port cleared immediately.”

  A low rumbling began around the table, and Elijah hurriedly tossed his drink back.

  “It’s fine, Bax,” Alex said, leaning forward. “It tastes as excellent as ever.”

  “Are you daft?” Baxter said incredulously. “I don’t know what this is supposed to be, but it most certainly isn’t fit to drink.”

  Elijah choked back his laughter and reached out a hand.

  “May I?”

  Baxter nodded and Elijah took the glass and tasted.

  “Baxter,” he said, looking at him with a tilted head, “it’s water.”

  And at that, the rest of the table dissolved into laughter. Alex clapped Elijah on the shoulder, but Elijah didn’t even look over. For what mattered most? Joanna.

  He turned, but saw her head was dipped, the smile he was sure was on her face hidden.

  When she finally looked up at him, he didn’t like what he saw. She seemed disappointed. And he realized then that he had done nothing but continue down the path she had expected him to take. The path away from her.

  * * *

  Elijah stared across the room.

  Every time he thought he was making some kind of progress with Joanna, he seemed to be pushed backward. He had thought she enjoyed his joke, but apparently, he was wrong. It had been too cruel, she had murmured, and after it, she hadn’t spoken to him throughout the entirety of dinner. Should he leave things where they were or take it a step further?

  Probably leave it.

  But Elijah had never exactly been known for doing what he was supposed to do, the thing that would be rational.

  One of the women, Lady Ox something or other, had sat down at the piano and was beginning to tinkle away a Christmas tune that he thought had something to do with greenery, although he couldn’t be entirely sure. His parents took to the dance floor, followed by the admiral and his wife, and then Lord Cristobel approached Caroline, who reluctantly took his hand with a forlorn look back at the doorway, where Thatcher was, of course, standing sentry, waiting to be required.

  Elijah saw Alex take a step toward Joanna. He should let them dance together. She would surely prefer him, and Alex would be a much better man for her than Elijah would ever be.

  He was always out for himself first. For a good laugh, for attention, for fun.

  Which was why he did what he did, and cut in first.

  “Joanna,” he said with a nod to her, “may I have this dance?”

  “No,” she said firmly, sett
ing her jaw, and he looked down into her eyes with supplication.

  “I promise to be on my best behavior,” he said, hoping she could read his true intentions. “Please?”

  “Very well,” she sighed, although she looked from side to side as though hoping someone would come rescue her. But tonight, he was going to be her savior instead of her foe.

  He took her hand in his, leading her toward the middle of the dance floor, taking great joy in placing one hand on her waist and taking her gloved hand in the other. The netting of her dress caused friction against his hand, every inch of his skin already sensitive to her touch.

  He couldn’t say what it was about her that was causing him to be as drawn to her as a gift on Christmas morning. A gift he could hardly wait to unwrap.

  He could already imagine what she would look like. All delicious curves, soft skin, with that captivating mouth on top like a bow, a mouth that would say exactly what she thought.

  She was beautiful, yes. She was dewy skin and high cheekbones and chocolate tresses.

  She was also very firm that she wanted nothing to do with him. He had an innate need to prove her wrong, to show her that he could be the man she never knew she needed.

  It wouldn’t be easy. For there was the knowing behind her eyes, the way she watched others, the fact that she was different from every other woman of his acquaintance.

  She hadn’t lived the easiest life, and yet she found joy in it all the same.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, looking up at him, her eyes squinted slightly, and he wondered if they were narrowed in question or if she actually couldn’t see him altogether very well.

  “Nothing,” he answered, his response rote and immediate, and then he decided to be honest rather than polite. “Actually, that isn’t altogether true.”

  “No?”

  “I’m thinking about just what is so alluring about you.”

  Her eyes widened at his clearly unexpected answer. “That’s not exactly a word most would use to describe me.”

  “Then most are wrong.”