by Sara Lindsey
Charlotte and Edward soon lost interest and quietly slipped from the room. They returned with armfuls of her aunt’s bonnets, which they proceeded to try on the unprotesting dogs stretched lazily before the fire.
Sir Charles declared he had never seen more beautiful ladies, present company excluded, of course. When Blue rose to stretch, Sir Charles walked over to him and held out his hands. At once Blue leaned back on his haunches and lifted his front legs in the air. Sir Charles guided his paws onto his shoulders.
“Dance!” Charlotte clapped her hands in delight.
The expression on the dog’s face was a combination of puzzlement and eagerness, which made for such a comical effect, even Lord Sheldon was moved to smile. He had to laugh, though, when Blue leaned forward and licked his companion’s cheek.
“Ugh!” Sir Charles laughingly pushed Blue away. He wiped his face against his coat sleeve. “I never smelled anything so foul in my life.”
“Oh, goodness!” Her aunt wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “Olivia, you must get your sketchbook and capture these poor beasts in all their finery. On second thought, I doubt my poor bonnets will survive that long. Charlotte, that dog is about to chew those feathers right off!”
Sir Charles and Lord Sheldon assisted the children in removing the dogs’ headdresses, which was no easy task, as the dogs had decided this was some sort of game and refused to let themselves be caught. Livvy and her aunt laughed themselves silly watching the two grown men chase after the enormous, bonnet-wearing canines. Edward and Charlotte were very little help, as they mostly stood to one side, looking terribly proud of having so amused the adults.
Even with the dogs returned to their natural state and the bonnets put away—minus a few feathers—the fun did not end. The marquess and Sir Charles taught Edward and Charlotte how to play whist while Livvy and her aunt tied up bunches of holly, ivy, rosemary, mistletoe, and bay leaves. The scene was so cozy, with the warmth from the fire, the fragrant scents of the evergreens, and the happy chatter of the children, that the hours slipped past. With her fingers occupied, her mind began to wander. . . .
The marquess snagged Olivia’s arm. “You have made the mistake of walking beneath the mistletoe, Miss Weston. Now you will pay the price.” He caught her up against him and leaned her back over his arm.
“Is this why all the maids keep leaving, my lord? You believe you can force your attentions on the women in your employ?”
A wicked gleam came into his dark eyes. “Only you, my dear Miss Weston, and I’ve yet to find a woman who flees from my attentions.”
“Such arrogance is most unappeal—”
He silenced her with a kiss. And, oh, what a kiss it was!
Olivia’s knees turned to jelly, and she had to cling to the marquess to prevent herself from collapsing. Her heart was thundering so loudly she felt certain he must hear it. Oh, why had she no defenses against this man?
He laughed against her mouth, sensing her capitulation, and deepened the kiss.
She gave herself over to the magic, forgetting she was the lowly governess. She had come here for him—for this. She knew it was true. Whatever lies she told herself, in this moment, in his arms, she knew in her heart of hearts what had really brought her here. She had come for—
“Wake up, Livvy.” Aunt Kate squeezed her arm. “It’s after midnight, and we must get about putting on our winter wear. The service likely won’t start until three, or perhaps later,” she explained as they made their way upstairs, “but in this weather, we won’t make it to town in less than an hour. And what with the time needed to get the children dressed and put our own things on and have the carriage readied, we’ll be lucky to leave by half past one.”
Her aunt had been right, Olivia realized, glimpsing the carriage clock as they drove off, with Dimpsey acting as coachman. The time was nearly two! Of course, as her aunt had pointed out on more than one occasion, she was nearly always right. It was, she thought, the one trait all the women in her family shared.
December 25, 1798
Christmas/Y Nadolig
St. Mary’s Church was located in the village of Haverfordwest, which lay about ten miles west of Arlyss. The medieval town actually boasted three parish churches but, as Jason’s stepmother informed the other occupants of the carriage, “The Trahernes have had ties to St. Mary’s for three centuries. To go anywhere else would be unthinkable.”
Jason needed no such reminding. He had been baptized in the font at St. Mary’s, as had Edward, and it was under the oak-paneled roof, with its carved Tudor roses, that he had spoken his marriage vows. Damn Katherine for making him return to this place.
Miss Weston pushed the curtains aside and peered out the window of the carriage. Jason was just able to make out the church in the distance. The building seemed to glow in the near blackness, a welcoming beacon for all those cold, weary pilgrims who sought shelter within.
But there would be no comfort for him there that night. Only memories. And with the memories came anger and regret. The two emotions were so entwined for him, he no longer knew how to separate them.
He was careful to let none of this show on his face. Katherine would almost certainly notice, and he had no wish to have another of those conversations, but more important, he didn’t want to do anything that might spoil the night for Edward.
The joy and magic of the holiday might be dead for him now, but Jason remembered a time when he had believed anything was possible on Christmas. That had been before he had learned that some prayers were too impossible to be answered and some sins were too grievous to be forgiven.
He knew there were those who would say he had lost his way, and perhaps they were right. Those were the same people who had tried to console him with the rationale that everything in life happened for a reason. He remained unconvinced.
For all his disbelief, Jason found himself hesitating on the steps to the church, waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike him down, but none was forthcoming. A punishment of another sort struck on the brief walk from the carriage to the church; icy gusts of wind pricked at his face like a swarm of tiny needles, making his eyes sting and water. He drew Edward close to his side, trying to shield him from the harsh elements.
Edward shrugged off his arm and nimbly dashed up the stairs behind Charlotte. Charles was helping the ladies mount the slippery steps, and Jason moved to help him. He offered his arm to the lady nearest him, which happened to be Miss Weston. That was how Jason came to see her face the moment they entered the church.
In the countryside, people from even the most remote farmsteads came to attend the Plygain at the parish church, which meant that St. Mary’s was filled nigh to bursting. As was the custom, every person had brought a candle to help to illuminate the church. In addition to the candles held by individuals, the chandeliers held brightly burning colored tapers, and yet more flames danced from the hundreds of votives set upon every possible flat surface. There could be no doubt that the day marked the coming of the Light of the World.
Miss Weston gasped and clutched at his arm. He smiled down at her. “It is certainly a sight, is it not?”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, her face suffused with joy and her eyes shining.
Watching her, Jason forgot to remember. He forgot to be angry. Her happiness overflowed, spilling into him, and he found himself smiling back at her.
“How magical!” she whispered. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so lovely in my life.”
An unfamiliar feeling settled in Jason’s chest and took root somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. For once, he could not agree with her more.
Chapter 8
“Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?”
Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene 3
When they returned from services, Olivia was quite ready to seek her bed and sleep for the rest of the day, but it was not to be. The Welsh, she kept finding, were a people of a great many traditions. Along with these
traditions came an equally great number of prophecies about what might befall should the customs not be properly adhered to.
Upon their arrival back at the castle, Lord Sheldon’s tenants arrived with a plow, which they proceeded to bring inside. This, her aunt explained, was to symbolize that work was stopped for the holidays. Ale was sprinkled quite liberally over the plow to reward it for its hard work throughout the year and to suggest that though it was not being used, it had not been forgotten.
If she had not been so tired, Olivia was sure she would have found this ritual touching. As it was, she thought it perfectly idiotic. The plow didn’t have feelings, but she did, and she was feeling like she wanted to seek her bed. But she could not, as it was then time for the feasting to begin.
Goose was on the menu, along with many other dishes, and by the time the plates were removed Livvy felt certain she would not be able to eat another bite for at least a week. After the feasting, Olivia was coaxed into helping to finish the decorating started the previous evening. She wanted to suggest that she could decorate her room (and by decorate, she meant sleep, and by her room, she meant her bed), but the excitement surrounding the day was contagious and gave her energy.
Lord Sheldon, Olivia noted, vanished after the meal. She supposed he had hidden himself away in his study, but she was surprised when he failed to appear for dinner. She was even more surprised that Aunt Kate seemed unperturbed by his absence.
“Are you not worried?” she fretted.
“Not a bit,” her aunt replied. “I have it on good authority from Gower that my stepson is quite well.”
“In that case, are you not going to insist he join us?”
Aunt Kate looked bemused. “I suppose I could try, but Gower said it was nearly impossible to keep him awake long enough to walk to his chamber. No, I think I will be generous and let the poor boy sleep.”
With the marquess absent from the table, Sir Charles and her aunt began to discuss the upcoming party once more. Olivia had little to add to the conversation, and eventually she stopped trying to participate. Neither of her companions seemed to notice her withdrawal.
Her thoughts turned unerringly, like the needle on a compass, in the direction of the castle’s enigmatic owner. The day would have been trying for him. How difficult it must be to witness so much cheer when one’s own life still seemed so bleak and empty. His coming to the morning services had been a good step forward. She couldn’t expect him to heal all in a day, though patience was not a virtue she possessed.
She would have to learn, though, for she sensed that if pushed, the marquess would only retreat further into himself . . . perhaps beyond reach. This slow coaxing was the right attitude. She felt certain he had smiled more in the days since their arrival than he probably had in the past several years.
It was not all her doing, of course, and she wasn’t so vain as to think so. Livvy imagined the marquess had been gradually creeping out of his shell, a little bit every year, but perhaps more so this year since Aunt Kate was determined that she have a true Welsh Christmas. And this was just the beginning. After today, she still had eleven more days of merrymaking to look forward to. And the more noise and fun they made, the emptier the house would seem when they had gone.
Then Lord Sheldon would slowly begin to seek out the company of his neighbors and begin participating in Society. Perhaps one day he would even come to London, though he had said the city air was not good for Edward. And maybe he would meet a woman who would fill his heart, someone who would adore Edward and his too-serious yet passionate father, and make a family with them.
Livvy felt a sharp pang thinking of this mystery woman, which was silly. Of course she wanted what was best for him and Edward. She just had to remind herself that this woman would not be her . . . and, what took even more reminding, that she did not want it to be.
The marquess had no place in her future, especially because the more time she spent with him, the more she worried she could truly come to care for him. Perhaps, provided he refrained from quoting Shakespeare and locking his library, she might even fall in love with him. And that would be disastrous.
Love was her daily sustenance, her bread and butter, as it were, but she was practical enough to know that no living, breathing man could ever match the perfection of a carefully crafted hero from the pages of her books. It would be a futile endeavor for her to look for one. Especially among the men of the ton.
And she would rather maintain her fantasy of what a perfect love ought to be than risk having it spoiled—and her heart broken—by allowing herself to get caught up in a romance that might not last. She knew she could not bear it if she were disillusioned, so it was better to go on as she was, reading about true love and grand passion and happily ever after, sure in the knowledge that her books would never disappoint her.
She was not averse to the idea of matrimony. In fact, she very much wanted to get married. She liked the quiet pleasures of home and family above all else, and if she was one day going to have to fly the nest, she would like to jump sooner rather than later so that she might begin building a new nest for herself and avoid that most dreaded fate of dependent spinster.
All she wanted from marriage was comfort and stability, mutual respect and affection. Affairs might be tolerated so long as they were discreet, but never bad manners or poor personal hygiene. She had resigned herself to a marriage of, well, she supposed it could be called a marriage of convenience, for it would certainly be convenient to keep her heart in one piece.
She hadn’t told her family about her plan, of course. They simply wouldn’t understand. She was the dreamer, the romantic, the girl with her head always stuck in the pages of a novel, so how could she explain that she didn’t want to fall in love? All she wanted was a little adventure, a taste of excitement before she settled down to her nesting.
That was all Lord Sheldon was to her.
All he could ever be to her.
It was for the best.
Sir Charles joined Olivia and her aunt in the drawing room after dinner, declaring he had no desire to be left to drink port all by himself. As Aunt Kate wished to work on her embroidery, Sir Charles persuaded Livvy to play piquet. He was an excellent companion, and she relaxed more in his company than she had since arriving at Castle Arlyss.
He was quite in tune with her sense of humor, which could not be said of most of her acquaintances. It seemed incredible she had known him for so short a time; they were soon teasing each other and engaging in the same playful bickering she shared with her siblings.
So easy had she grown with him, she forgot to mind what she said. “You’re nothing at all like I expected.”
Sir Charles looked up sharply. “I beg your pardon.”
Olivia flushed. “Never mind. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t trouble yourself trying to spare my feelings. My brother-in-law does so enjoy telling all and sundry what a plague I’ve been to him.”
“No, that isn’t it at all!” Livvy protested. “Lord Sheldon hasn’t said a word about you.”
“He hasn’t?” Sir Charles looked surprised.
“When would he? When one eschews the presence of one’s guests, one rarely has time to comment on the weather to them, let alone family squabbles.”
Sir Charles laughed. “Yes, Jace has become quite the hermit as of late. As long as I’ve known him, he’s been a proud, quiet sort of fellow, but he wasn’t always like this. Just since . . .”
“Since your sister passed away,” Olivia finished for him. “I am so sorry. I know the two of you were close.”
Sir Charles nodded, then looked at her suspiciously. “How did you know that Laura and I were close?”
Why was it that she seemed only to have to open her mouth to get herself into trouble? Olivia wondered. She tried to think of some logical explanation.
“Miss Weston?” Sir Charles prompted.
“Oh, I just assumed—” she floundered. “I mean, what with losing your mother so
young—”
“You seem to know quite a lot about my family.”
“It was a long trip from Scotland,” Livvy reasoned. “I confess I asked my aunt to let me in on all the family gossip to pass the time.”
Her answer seemed to satisfy the baronet. “Very well, Miss Weston, but I think it only fair that you even the score. Tell me, whatever possessed you to wish to spend the holiday season here?”
Olivia laughed. “You make Arlyss sound like one of the innermost circles of Dante’s Inferno.”
“My brother-in-law does bear a striking resemblance to Lucifer, does he not?”
Livvy giggled and wagged her finger at him. “You are bad, Sir Charles!”
“I pride myself on it, my dear, but please, call me by my Christian name. Sir Charles sounds like such a prosy bore.”
“Very well, but you must call me Olivia, or Livvy, if you like. There’s no need to stand on ceremony here, and we are family of a sort.”
He clasped a hand to his heart. “Is that how you see me, fair Olivia? Oh, you wound me.” His green eyes twinkled.
“I doubt that very much. I suspect you are a terrible flirt. How many broken hearts are strewn in your wake?”
“None at all. I avoid attachments like the Plague.” His voice grew somber. “I was very close with my—with a lady. She was everything good and kind in the world.”
“Was?”
He gave a curt nod, not meeting her eyes. He stared instead at his clasped hands, stretched out before him on the card table. “When I was just out of university, I wound up in a bit of trouble. Well, more than a bit. I had lost a sizable sum at the tables, and then I stupidly gambled more to try to win back my losses. The greater my debts, the deeper the stakes I played. After a time, I had no choice but to turn to my, er, lady friend. She had helped me in the past. I would to God she had turned me away—” He broke off, his voice anguished.