When next he peered in the window, he looked decidedly cheerier. “Listen, old boy, the mill chaps here tell me there’s another exit. It’s boarded up and it’s behind equipment and furniture in the back of the cellar, but they’re going for the ax to chop the door down, so if you and Miss Keane can start—”
He hadn’t even finished the sentence before she and Stephen were racing to the back of the cellar. They couldn’t see any door, but there was so much refuse and equipment that it would be impossible to see anything without moving some of it.
“Did they tell you where exactly the exit is?” Stephen called out to his brother as he started yanking pieces of equipment off the pile and tossing or shoving them behind him.
“I’ll find out!” Lord Knightford cried, and disappeared.
Meanwhile, she pulled anything she could reach from the tops of bureaus and cabinets and dragged empty barrels back from the mass of refuse.
Wisps of smoke had started to seep through the floorboards over their heads, lending their efforts more urgency. She kept her head down and took great gulps of air from below to keep from breathing in smoke. All it would take was one spark from the floor above, and half of this, especially the cotton bales in the corner, would go up in flames.
“How deep does this go, anyway?” Stephen wrestled a broken carding machine away from the wall, then paused to wipe sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve.
“I don’t know,” she shot back, her hands bleeding from tugging on jagged metal objects. “I didn’t get to tour the place, remember?”
Then suddenly they heard it. Chopping. And it didn’t sound too far ahead of them either. Heartened by that, they focused their attention on the sound, frenziedly pulling and jerking and tossing refuse behind them. They were about to attempt to move a massive cabinet when it suddenly started moving toward them of its own accord.
They both jumped back just as a soot-blackened head peered around the edge of it. “This way, Miss Keane!” the fellow said and extended his hand.
That was all the invitation she needed to get the hell out of that cellar.
Choking on smoke, they rounded the cabinet and stumbled up an ancient cracked brick stairway overgrown with ivy. When they broke free into the snow-covered lawn behind the mill, she thought she’d never seen a more beautiful sight. Behind them, smoke billowed into the air and fire crackled, but they were safe. Alive. Together.
Once they got free, they were swamped by friends and family, everyone laughing and crying and congratulating the men who’d rescued them.
Amanda glanced anxiously back at the burning mill. “Is there anyone else in there, do you think?”
Mrs. Chapel pushed to the front of the crowd. “They done a count, miss, and they think everybody got out, thank the good Lord. Though if not for you and his lordship, my Tom—”
She burst into tears, and it was Amanda’s turn to soothe the woman who’d become a friend. Next thing she knew, Lord Knightford was drawing Stephen away to consult about something, and Jimmy came running up to tell her that her mother was out front looking for her.
And she was engulfed in chaos.
Chapter Eight
Several hours later, night was falling when Stephen drove back from the Chapels’ cottage to the now smoldering mill. He’d just ferried Mr. Chapel home after the lone village doctor had seen to setting the man’s leg. The poor physician had been sorely taxed all day, but fortunately, though nearly fifty workers had suffered burns and some had broken limbs from trying to escape the fire, everyone was expected to recover.
Still, as the carriage approached what had once been the main building of Hanson Cotton Works, Stephen thought again that it looked like the scene of a battle—smoke still rose from the blackened shell and twisted hunks of metal lay in the ashes.
A shudder wracked him. He and Amanda had nearly been entombed there. He prayed he never came that close to death again. They had been very, very lucky.
As he got out of the rig, he glanced about for her. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been helping the townspeople in the makeshift tents erected for those injured who couldn’t be moved until the doctor saw them. But those tents were rapidly emptying and he saw no sign of her.
So he scanned the area where Yvette’s servants were scurrying about at her command, spooning bowls of soup from vats that she’d had brought from Walton Hall. He didn’t see Amanda there, either, though he caught sight of her brother speaking to the magistrate, and Hanson being forced to answer what were probably some very pointed questions.
“If you’re looking for Miss Keane,” Warren said from behind him, “she took her mother back to Walton Hall. Mrs. Keane is still suffering the effects of her terrible cold, and the day wore sorely on her. Besides, most everyone has been taken care of, so I believe even Yvette and her husband are heading back shortly.”
Stephen released a frustrated breath. He’d tried to get Amanda alone ever since they’d escaped the cellar, but they’d all been drawn into helping the mill workers.
Glancing over at Yvette, Warren smiled ruefully. “I’m told that she invited the pauper apprentices to sleep at the hall tonight and eat Christmas dinner there tomorrow, since they have nowhere else to go. They were all housed in the mill.”
Stephen chuckled. “Does she have any idea what she’s getting herself into? I think Hanson Cotton Works has something like twenty pauper apprentices.”
“You know Yvette. She has a big heart.”
Just like Amanda. And like Mrs. Keane, judging from what he’d seen of Amanda’s mother today. Not to mention Yvette’s husband.
He frowned. Come to think of it, every single guest at Walton Hall had been at the mill, dishing up soup or allowing their carriages to be used to ferry food and servants, or sitting with those waiting in the tents for their burns to be tended. He’d even seen Blakeborough helping a little girl find her mother.
A lump clogged his throat. What had Amanda said yesterday? You don’t have to take the weight of the world on your shoulders.
She was right. He chose to take that weight, and he chose to take it here. But there were other mills, other workers. Other possibilities. And even if Yvette and Keane were more altruistic than most, he had met other good people of their rank. He just chose to dwell on the worst ones.
A half smile tipped up his lips. Just as Amanda had accused him of doing with the mills. And if he were to marry her . . .
He turned to his brother. “Why did you never consider marrying Yvette? I used to think you might, before she ended up with Keane.”
Warren shrugged. “She’s a fine woman, but I’ve always seen her as rather more of a sister than anything. I’ve known her too long, I suppose.”
Stephen nodded. He’d felt much the same about her, even though he hadn’t been as close to her and Blakeborough as Warren had been.
“What are you going to do about Miss Keane?” Warren asked.
He gazed over to where Blakeborough and Clarissa were attempting to drink wassail while they pulled a succession of small boys about on sleds. His heart thumped in his chest as he remembered something else Amanda had said: You aren’t the only person in England who cares about the children, you know. Other people care, too.
Perhaps it was time he let them. “I’m going to marry her, of course.”
Warren let out a long breath. “Thank God. In that case, I have a proposition for you . . .”
♦ ♦ ♦
Amanda awoke on Christmas Day feeling as if she’d been pummeled. Every inch of her hurt, and her throat still felt raw from the smoke. Thank goodness she’d been able to have a nice long bath last night.
She’d intended to join everyone for the hanging of the greens and the burning of the Yule log and the singing of carols, but she’d fallen asleep in the tub and then had crawled into bed.
Besides, she’d been afraid to see Stephen in a crowd when she didn’t yet know what he intended. He’d said he loved her, but that was when they’d bot
h thought they were about to die. Since then, she’d had no chance to talk to him privately.
Did he still want to marry her? And if he did, would he only do it if she stayed here? Because now more than ever, she wanted to go home. She wanted to make changes in her own mills, to do more to help workers there. And she wanted him to do it with her.
Mama came into the room and frowned. “Good heavens, girl, are you still abed?”
The look of disapproval on her face was so comical, Amanda couldn’t help but laugh. “What happened to, ‘I would have died if I’d lost you’?”
“That was yesterday,” Mama said. “Today is Christmas, and Yvette has planned a big breakfast for her guests and all those children. I don’t intend to be late to anything my daughter-in-law has planned, and neither should you.”
Then Mama called for their lady’s maid, and that was that. Amanda could no longer put off seeing Stephen.
A short while later, dressed in a new gown of green silk, Amanda nervously descended the stairs with her mother. As they passed under the kissing bough, she noticed all the berries were gone. The last time she’d checked, there had been a good dozen left, so the gentlemen must have been quite busy last night.
A footman redirected them from the breakfast room to the ballroom, where several tables had been set up, including a long one for the children. Each place was set with little treats, and the apprentices were all huddled in a group in one corner, gawking at the decorations and the tables groaning with food.
Someone came up behind her to murmur, “I suspect there will be more than one pauper apprentice who finds a position in Yvette’s stables or kitchens.”
With pulse stammering, she faced Stephen. “You look well this morning.”
And oh, he did. His beautiful hair fell recklessly about his collar, and he was dressed in a suit of dark green wool that brought out the emerald lights in his eyes.
“You look beautiful.” His gaze played over her with a hunger that roused her own.
Her cheeks flamed, and she knew everyone would notice. But right now she didn’t care.
He offered her his arm. “Let me escort you to your seat, Miss Keane.”
As she let him lead her to the table, she noticed that everyone—everyone—was observing her furtively while heading for their own seats. Even the apprentices seemed to be watching and whispering as they sat down with a scraping of chairs. What the devil?
Stephen brought her to a chair and pulled it out for her. It was only after she sat that she noticed the bowl in the center of her plate.
It was filled with mistletoe berries. He must have stripped every bough in the house.
With her blood pounding, she looked up at him as he took the seat next to her. But before she could say a word, his brother rose across the table and tapped his glass with a knife to gain everyone’s attention.
Beneath the table, Stephen clasped her hand.
“As some of you have already heard,” Lord Knightford began, “I have bought what’s left of Hanson Cotton Works.”
Amanda’s mouth dropped open. Thank goodness someone had finally taken action! Hanson could no longer torment his workers.
“Hope you got a good price for it!” Lord Blakeborough called out, and everyone laughed.
“A very good price indeed.” Lord Knightford scowled at Lord Blakeborough. “Now stop interrupting, or I’ll convince you to invest.”
That got another laugh.
Lord Knightford shifted his gaze to Stephen and Amanda. “I asked my brother to run the place since he seems to have a fondness for mills—”
Everyone laughed again, but Amanda’s stomach sank. This was what happened when you trusted a man. He did things behind your back without consulting you. Like Papa, and every man she’d ever known.
She tried to tug her hand from Stephen’s, but he wouldn’t let her.
Lord Knightford went on. “It seems he has other plans, though. So he recommended some competent people to serve as managers, and I will soon be interviewing them.”
And just like that her heart went from sore to soaring. Her gaze flew to Stephen. He was smiling softly at her, giving her hope, making her blood quicken.
“In the meantime,” his lordship said, “it appears that I have become the owner of a cotton mill.”
“Better you than me!” Jeremy cried and gave her a sly wink.
With another squeeze of her hand, Stephen rose and held up his glass. “To the new owner of Hanson Cotton Works!”
Everyone stood and toasted Lord Knightford, who was now wearing his usual world-weary expression. But after seeing how he’d fought to save her and Stephen from the fire, after watching him purchase a whole mill on his brother’s behalf, she knew it to be a facade.
As she drank from her glass, Stephen used his knife to clink his glass, and every eye turned toward him.
With an uncertain smile, he took her hand. “Miss Keane, while we were in the cellar yesterday, you said that even I have my limits. You were speaking of my rather pompous tendency to believe I can save the world single-handedly.”
She was finding it hard to breathe, hard to do anything but hope.
“While I admit that a self-righteous fervor is a particular flaw of mine, I’ve recently learned that there is one person who understands it for what it is: a fear of losing what I love most . . . a world of decency and honor . . . good people . . . and you. As it happens, what I love most of all is you. So would you possibly consider doing me the honor of becoming my wife?”
The word yes was on the tip of her tongue, but she still needed to be sure. “Before I can answer, I have to know—”
“Where we will live, yes.” He cast her a tender smile that made her throat tighten. “That’s up to you. Because I am perfectly willing to follow you to the ends of the earth.”
As tears stung her eyes, she whispered, “Even if the end of the earth is in America?”
“Especially if the end of the earth is in America. That’s where the love of my life resides, and I cannot live without her.”
There wasn’t a sound in the room as everyone waited for her answer. Normally she would hate being the center of attention like this. But normally, the only man she’d ever loved wasn’t proposing.
“In that case,” she said, “of course I will marry you. Yes.”
Cheers went up around them, and no one made a single protest as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly on the lips.
When at last they broke apart, Yvette gave a signal and the servants started serving. But as Amanda sat down at her place with her cheeks on fire from all the jokes and well wishes, she caught sight of the bowl of berries.
Leaning over to Stephen, she whispered, “What were these for?”
With a grin, he plucked one from the bowl. “These were in case you refused me.” His eyes gleamed at her. “That way I could have kissed you as many times as it took to get you to accept.”
And as he kissed her again, she realized that she’d been right, after all. He did know how to have fun.
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TWELVE KISSES TO MIDNIGHT
Karen Hawkins
Blessed is the
season which engages
the whole world in
a conspiracy of love!
—Hamilton Wright Mabie
Chapter One
“Och, what is she doing here?” Marcus Sutherland, the fourth Duke of Rothesay, narrowed his gaze on a lone female who stood to the side of the sitting room.
Nikolai Romanovin, the Crown Prince of Oxenburg, turned a mildly curious glance at the other guests waiting for supper to be announced. “Which ‘she’? There are too many ‘shes’ to count.”
“That one.” Marcus nodded toward the petite brunette who stood near the terrace doors, under a long b
ough of evergreen and mistletoe. Dressed in gray, as befitted her widowed station, she stood alone, her gloved hands clutched awkwardly before her, a huge reticule hanging from her elbow.
Nik’s grandmother, Grand Duchess Natasha Nikolaevna, peered past them from where she sat on a gold settee. Dressed in black, stiff backed and regal, her hand clutched about her cane as if it were a scepter, she looked like an elderly queen holding court. She eyed the woman and snorted. “That reticule is the size of a portmanteau. What on earth could she be carrying in that thing? A whole cake? A child?”
“A book,” Marcus answered. “Perhaps two. She’s never withoot one.”
Nik’s brows rose. “I don’t suppose you know the topic of these tomes?”
“Either history, horses, or some sort of romantic novel.”
“You know her well, then.” Nik eyed her as if she were an especially sweet pastry. “You must tell me about her. She is quite lovely.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened. The last thing he wanted to do was talk, think, or in any way remember Kenna Stuart. Just seeing her stirred memories he had hoped were dead. He had to fight an instant vision of full, lush breasts, of a trim waist that swelled into voluptuous hips, of thickly lashed eyes, slumberous after hours of lovemaking—
He clenched his jaw and turned away. At one time, he’d worshipped her and thought no other woman could compare. But she’s far, far from perfect. I’ve tasted the bitter cut of that icy heart.
Of course, all Nik saw was a pretty young woman, looking lost even while surrounded by boughs of holly and festive Christmas candles. Marcus refused to allow that to affect him. “I used to know her,” he said shortly. “But nae more.”
“Who is she?” Nik’s gaze slid back to the woman, approval on his face. “She is the most beautiful woman here.”
What Happens Under the Mistletoe Page 8