What Happens Under the Mistletoe

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “But it wouldn’t be what you want,” he said tightly. “Living here. With me.”

  She concentrated on her fichu. “I’ve worked hard to gain my birthright. I have people depending on me, who need the work that my mills provide. So the ‘living here’ part wouldn’t be what I want.” She slanted a shy glance at him. “But the ‘with you’ part sounds . . . lovely.”

  A long silence fell between them, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire and their slowing breaths. She could hardly believe they were discussing this. Was he really so taken with her that he would marry her? Or was this just his manly urges prodding him on?

  She had to know. Twisting to face him, she said, “You could move to America. With me.”

  “And what would I do there?” he asked warily.

  “The same thing you do here. Try to change the world.” She seized his hands. “You can help me try to change my little corner of it.”

  “And abandon all the children who have no one to speak for them?” he said harshly. “The pauper apprentices, the orphans, the lads and lasses whose families can’t feed them so they’re farmed out to the factories instead?”

  She gave him a sad smile. “You wouldn’t be abandoning them. There are bad mills in America, too.” When he tried to pull his hands free, she gripped them tighter. “You could help those workers. You could help me make my own factories better.”

  “It’s not the same,” he bit out.

  “Why not?” When he had no answer for that, she had to resist the urge to shake him. “You aren’t the only person in England who cares about the children, you know. Other people care, too. You don’t have to take the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  Temper flared in his features. “That’s precisely why I want you to stay. So we can do it together. Make a difference together. You say it doesn’t matter whether we do it here or there, so why not stay here with me?”

  “Because my mills aren’t here. And England isn’t my home.” Struggling to conceal her disappointment, she slid her hands from his and rose. “From what I can tell, England hasn’t been much of a home to you, either. But if you’d rather live here alone than leave with me, I was obviously wrong about that.”

  As he shot to his feet with a shuttered expression but said nothing to contradict her assertion, she fought a sudden urge to cry. She should have known better. She should never have tried to alter his rigid principles. They were unalterable, even for her.

  “It’s odd,” she said past the thickening lump in her throat. “That first night in the conservatory, I actually got the insane notion that you might teach me how to have fun.” She shook her head. “But all you really know how to teach is guilt and loneliness. And I already have plenty of both.”

  “Damn it, Amanda—”

  “So these are yours.” Grabbing his hand, she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out several white berries, which she placed in the center of his palm. She closed his fingers around them. “I believe I’ve paid my debt in full.”

  Then she left him standing there under the naked kissing bough.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  That evening before dinner Stephen stood in the drawing room, watching as Amanda talked intently with Blakeborough. Was she trying to make him jealous? Or was she simply cutting her losses, now that it was clear he wouldn’t come to heel?

  Stephen winced. That wasn’t fair. She was the least manipulative woman he knew. She hadn’t attempted to force him into anything, not with guilt, nor with any other weapon at her disposal. She’d merely stated the obvious—that their lives were in two different places.

  And yes, it had been unfair of him to ask her to give up everything for him. But she was asking him to give up everything—his work, his home . . .

  From what I can tell, England hasn’t been much of a home to you, either.

  She had a point. He’d made his life here not because he wanted to, or even because he belonged here. He’d done it because he wanted to show them all that he didn’t need them. That, younger son or no, he could make a difference in the world without playing by their rules.

  “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

  He jumped, then scowled at Warren, who’d come up to stand beside him. “Why? Because I won’t move back home and do your bidding?”

  Warren took a sip of his mulled wine. “Because you won’t take what you want.”

  He went rigid. “And what do you think that is?”

  His brother nodded at Amanda. “Her.”

  Bloody hell, the last thing he needed was Warren reading his mind. “What makes you think I want her?” he asked with feigned nonchalance.

  Warren snorted. “Right. You only stare at her every chance you get, spend every waking hour with her, and watch her as if she holds the key to your future.”

  Sometimes he nearly hated his brother. “Has it occurred to you that she might not want me?” he said irritably.

  “No. I’ve seen how she looks at you, too.”

  Not anymore. Not after their discussion this afternoon.

  His brother lowered his voice. “She’s an heiress, you know.”

  “And I suppose you think I should marry her for that reason alone.”

  “It’s as good a reason as any.”

  “If I were a fortune hunter—which I’m not.”

  “True. Her brother may worry about it, but I know you better. You’re too full of righteous fervor to be a fortune hunter.”

  He bristled. “I’m getting damned tired of people accusing me of that.” Seizing his brother’s glass, he downed the spiced drink, then handed Warren the empty glass. “There’s nothing wrong with having a conscience.”

  “And you wonder why we haven’t invited you to join our club,” Warren muttered as he waved over a footman carrying a tray of steaming glasses.

  “Because I have a conscience?”

  “Because you can be a dead bore sometimes.” When that made Stephen scowl, Warren added hastily, “Don’t get me wrong: I’m proud of what you’re doing. Your articles are well written, and your speeches inspire people to do the right thing. They’ve made a stir in Parliament, whether you realize it or not, and that’s always good, given how stodgy those Tories can be. I daresay you’ve influenced more than one MP.”

  Stephen just gaped at him. Warren was proud of him? He’d read the articles, heard about the speeches? He actually thought Stephen had made a difference?

  “But you do have a tendency to go on and on.” Snagging a glass from the footman, his brother stirred the wine with the cinnamon stick. “You’re very single-minded. And sometimes when a man goes to his club, he just wants to relax and enjoy himself, not hear a lecture about the miseries of the world.”

  I actually got the insane notion that you might teach me how to have fun.

  Damn Warren. And damn her, too. Stephen knew perfectly well how to have fun. He just . . . chose not to most of the time.

  “Yes,” Stephen clipped out, “God forbid you should do anything important at your club, like discuss reform.”

  “No, we just talk about how to keep our women safe,” Warren said dryly.

  Belatedly, Stephen remembered the real purpose of St. George’s Club—to provide a place where gentlemen could band together to protect their women from men who threatened their future or their virtue.

  Stephen arched an eyebrow at him. “Who the hell are you protecting? We don’t have any sisters.”

  “I have a ward.”

  “Clarissa?” He rolled his eyes. “That woman can take care of herself.”

  Warren’s expression grew shuttered. “Not always.”

  The words gave Stephen pause. “Is there something I should know about?”

  “Not a bit. I’ll look after Clarissa.” Warren drank from his glass. “You need to concentrate on looking after Miss Keane. Or doesn’t she deserve to have someone care about her, too? Are only pauper apprentices worthy of your concern?”

  The rebuke stung. “Don�
�t be absurd.”

  He wasn’t choosing the paupers over Amanda. Well, perhaps he was, a little. But only because they had no one. While she had—

  He let out a breath. No one. Not really. Oh, she had her mother, but Mrs. Keane didn’t deal with the mills. And Jeremy Keane had washed his hands of them long ago. So Amanda would be going back to America to run them alone. Because he wouldn’t go with her.

  Stephen muttered a curse. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but she and I have already decided we wouldn’t suit, so that’s an end to it.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Stop saying that! It won’t change anything.”

  “You do tend to be a particularly inflexible idiot.”

  Inflexible and single-minded and full of righteous fervor. Warren was painting a rather dour picture of him that Stephen wanted to ignore. But Amanda had said much the same. It was harder to dismiss when it came from both of them.

  A masculine guffaw from across the room made him look over to see Amanda being teased by another male guest. A handsome one. By all accounts, an unmarried one. And as Warren had so helpfully reminded Stephen earlier, she was an heiress.

  Stephen choked down bile. Judging from the misery on her face, she probably wasn’t getting ready to run off with anyone just yet—but one day she would. One day she’d find a husband who did care about her. Who knew how to compromise and have a little fun.

  And then she’d forget him. The thought made Stephen’s gut knot.

  “Either go after her or put her from your mind,” Warren said. “But whatever you do, stop drooling over her. You’re making an arse of yourself.”

  He’d already done that—by hurting her. By ignoring the precious gift she’d offered. By insisting that everything had to be his way, or no way at all.

  So perhaps it was time he reconsidered the convictions he’d held so dear. Because if he didn’t, he was going to lose the only woman he’d ever wanted to marry.

  Chapter Six

  Christmas Eve was generally Amanda’s favorite day of the year, with all the anticipation of Christmas and none of the tumult. But when she rose early, after a night trying to beat thoughts of Stephen from her head, she was too heartsore to even think of Yule logs and feasts and carols sung by roaring fires.

  So with a footman accompanying her, she took her brother’s carriage over to Mrs. Chapel’s. Maybe giving joy to someone else would help drown out her despair. And considering the nature of her errand, no one would think it amiss this time if she drove right up to the cottage, especially since the sky threatened snow.

  Before Amanda could even knock, Mrs. Chapel opened her door and stood beaming at her. “Miss Keane, what a welcome surprise! I couldn’t believe it when I saw your carriage coming up the road. After the many visits you’ve already paid us, I didn’t expect you on Christmas Eve.”

  “I know.” She forced a smile to her lips. “But I have some happy news for you, and I just couldn’t wait to tell you.”

  “How very kind of you to come all this way for that, miss.” Mrs. Chapel peered beyond her to where the footman stood with the horses. “Where’s your mother? And his lordship?”

  “I’m afraid Mama has a bit of a cold. And his lordship—” The emotions were still too raw; she couldn’t even drum up an excuse. And to her horror, that made tears start in her eyes.

  “Oh, my dear Miss Keane.” Mrs. Chapel drew her into the cottage and urged her to sit at the table. Then. handing little Mary a doll, the woman checked on the babe sleeping in the crib and then went to fetch the kettle off the hob. “You just tell me all about it while I make you a nice hot cup of tea.”

  For some reason, that simple kindness started the tears flowing that Amanda had suppressed ever since yesterday’s encounter with Stephen. She couldn’t speak, much less lay out all the intricacies of her tangled relationship—such as it was—with Stephen. All she seemed able to do was cry.

  Mrs. Chapel bore it all with sweet generosity. She urged tea on Amanda and offered her honey for it, a luxury that Amanda knew she could ill afford.

  “No, no,” Amanda protested. “You keep the honey for your little ones. I won’t be the cause of you . . . of you . . .”

  Tears burned her eyes again, and she swept them ruthlessly away.

  Mrs. Chapel sat down to pat her hand awkwardly. “There, there. Can’t be as bad as all that. Surely his lordship weren’t so cruel as to break your heart.”

  Amanda drew out her handkerchief to dab at her eyes and nose. “What makes you think . . . this has to do with his lordship?”

  As Mary climbed into her mother’s lap, Mrs. Chapel shook her head. “Any fool can see that he’s sweet on you.”

  “I wish you’d tell him that.” Amanda scowled. “I don’t think he knows.”

  Mrs. Chapel laughed heartily. “Go on with you, of course he knows. But men ain’t good at saying such things proper. They like showing it better than saying it.”

  That was certainly true of Stephen. Amanda stared down at her balled-up handkerchief. “He wants me to stay here and marry him, instead of returning to America.”

  “Well, that ain’t fair. Who’s supposed to take care of them mills of yours?”

  She blinked at the unexpected support from Mrs. Chapel. “That’s what I said!”

  “But that’s how them lords is, you know. Even a nice one like Lord Stephen wants to be in charge. And if he goes off to America with you, he’ll have to give that up.” Mrs. Chapel bounced Mary on her knee. “He’ll have to find his place in your world. P’raps that don’t sit well with him.”

  The words gave her pause. She’d been so eager to convince him to go with her that she’d ignored his manly pride, which dictated that he ought to have a purpose, too. Had she been too hasty in brushing off his concerns?

  But she couldn’t give up her whole life for him. Why couldn’t he see that?

  A knock came at the door, and they both started. Setting Mary down, Mrs. Chapel rose to peer out the window. “Well, well,” she murmured as she headed for the door. “Speak of the devil.”

  Before Amanda could even react, Mrs. Chapel was opening the door.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Chapel,” said a painfully familiar male voice. “I understand that Miss Keane is here?”

  Oh, Lord. Had Stephen followed her?

  “Why, indeed she is,” the woman answered.

  As Amanda frantically wiped at her eyes and nose, Mrs. Chapel ushered him inside.

  Determined to hide that she’d been crying, Amanda rose to face him. “What are you doing here?”

  As he looked her over, he paled. “You weren’t at breakfast.”

  “I figured I’d get my errand run early, before all the festivities began. Why do you care, anyway?”

  “I was worried about you. No one seemed to know where you’d gone. I had to ask ten servants before I could find out.”

  “Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

  “All the same, I’m happy to accompany you back to Walton Hall. It’s snowing now, so we should probably return.” He glanced from her to Mrs. Chapel. “Er . . . what errand are you on, anyway?”

  “Miss Keane says she’s got good news for me,” Mrs. Chapel said. “We was just gettin’ to that.”

  “I came to tell Mrs. Chapel that Lady Yvette wants to hire Tom as a footboy.” Amanda turned to Mrs. Chapel, whose mouth had fallen open. “That is, if you can spare him. Yvette says she could really use him at Walton Hall, and he’s just the right age to start, since he’s nearly eight.”

  “A footboy?” Mrs. Chapel said. “Oh, miss. My boy in service at Walton Hall? I . . . I can’t believe it!”

  It had taken Amanda a while to learn that being “in service” in England was the holy grail for those without education or birth. Aside from the fact that it paid better than most rural or factory positions, it had a certain cachet.

  But Amanda cared less about that than about the fact that little Tom would no longer be risking life a
nd limb as a mule scavenger. The one time she’d met the child, when they’d come here late in the evening to speak to Mr. Chapel himself, Tom had shown them the scars on his hand from where it had gotten caught in one of the machines. That had chilled her to the bone.

  “Shall I tell her that you’re interested in having Tom take the post?” Amanda asked Mrs. Chapel.

  “You bloody well shall!” Mrs. Chapel blushed. “Forgive my language, miss. I’m just so delighted!” Seizing Amanda’s hands, she squeezed them hard. “I know this was all your doing, and I’m ever so grateful, I am. My husband will be beside himself. Our Tom, a footboy! Oh, he shall be so grand!”

  “He shall indeed,” Stephen said, clear emotion in his voice. “I’m very happy for you, Mrs. Chapel.”

  When Amanda ventured a glance at him, he was watching her with a soft approval that turned her knees to jelly. She steeled herself against the warm emotions threatening to swamp her. She wouldn’t let him do this to her again. She wouldn’t!

  Suddenly they heard a commotion outside. Then the door to the cottage swung open, and young Jimmy dashed inside. “Mother! Mother, you must come! The mill has caught fire! Father is hurt, and Tom . . . Tom’s inside.”

  Mrs. Chapel screamed, and just that quick, they all plummeted from heaven to hell. Amanda knew better than anyone that fire could eat up a cotton mill faster than a glutton at a feast, and the thought of little Tom being trapped made her sick.

  The soot-stained Jimmy caught sight of Stephen and grabbed his arm. “You got to help Tom, milord. You got to!”

  “Of course.” Stephen swung the door open and strode out, with the rest of them hurrying after him. “If you don’t mind, Amanda, I’ll take the carriage in case we need it to ferry people. You can ride, can’t you?”

  “I’m going with you,” she said stoutly.

  “So am I,” Mrs. Chapel said, “me and the children. My husband’s hurt and my boy’s in there!”

  Stephen gritted his teeth. “There’s no time to argue it.”

  “Exactly, so we’re all going,” Amanda said. “We’ll walk if we have to.” She turned to the footman. “Take his lordship’s horse and ride back to Walton Hall. Tell them there’s a fire at the mill, and we could use any servants they can spare.”