He’d realized then that she’d never heard the gossip; that he needed to tell her the whole of it. But the feel of her in his arms, like a revelation unfolding, had stopped him. How could I risk losing this? he’d thought. Not now. Later . . .
“Look at this mess!” Lady von Bittner’s voice came very close, causing them both to flinch. “You would think the maids might have straightened up. The staff is poorly managed, I think.”
Judging by the jerk of Miss Trent’s shoulders, she understood that bit of German well enough.
“I’ll ring for someone,” said Lord von Bittner. Footsteps came closer yet. They were about to be found out—
A banging came at the door. An unfamiliar voice, a man with a country accent, announced that the von Bittners were wanted downstairs immediately.
“I’d thought to change before breakfast,” Lady von Bittner said querulously. “But this place is such a tip!” Her voice faded as she headed toward the exit. “Fetch somebody to straighten it, boy. How the Trents put up with this—”
The sharp slam of the door cut off the rest of her words.
Miss Trent did not wait a moment after the couple’s departure to exclaim, “Blaming my staff for this disorder! What gall!”
Lucas pushed open the wardrobe, taking a deep breath. In large doses, Lady von Bittner’s perfume smelled more like poison.
Miss Trent leapt out of the wardrobe, then turned back, hands on her hips, to glare at him. “You’re looking very relieved,” she said. “I suppose you were dying of horror, imagining what should happen if we were caught.” She tipped her head, her dudgeon fading to puzzlement. “Don’t you mean to come out of there?”
“In a moment.” He remained in his awkward crouch, forty pounds of ball gown crushing into his back, praying for his rampant condition to subside.
She rolled her eyes. “Paralyzed by panic, no doubt. Well, rest assured—I wouldn’t have married you. I would rather be ruined.”
It took a moment to follow her meaning. “You thought . . .” He laughed despite himself. “That was your worry? That the von Bittners would find us hiding in their wardrobe and think us overcome by passion?”
The color drained from her face. “No,” she choked. “As you say—what a laughable idea!” She turned away, stalking out of the bedchamber.
Her reaction baffled him sufficiently to tame his bodily humors. He stepped out of the wardrobe and followed her into the sitting room, catching her by the elbow as she took hold of the outer doorknob. “What is it?” he said. “What did I say?”
“Absolutely nothing.” She would not look at him. “Naturally, the thought is absurd. Carried away with passion? You, with me? The thought is absurd.”
He dropped her arm. A very fine thing that she had no grasp of the male anatomy. “Indeed,” he bit out. “God forbid! A more preposterous mésalliance, I’m sure nobody could imagine.”
She twisted, spearing him with a blazing look. “Quite right. Why, I would rather consort with—with—”
“Keep thinking,” he goaded. “I’m sure you’ll eventually find someone worthy of you. The Prince of Wales?” When she wrinkled her nose, he said sarcastically, “Oh, pardon me. The bloodlines are rather suspect. Too German for a Trent.”
She huffed out a breath. “If you imagine I am forced to look to a married man for attention, even a prince, I’ll have you know that I—I am quite—”
“What?” He was burningly, bitterly curious to know. What pristine, incontrovertibly pedigreed gentleman qualified as worthy of Miss Georgiana Trent’s approval?
“I am quite happily affianced!” The words exploded from her with such force that she herself looked shocked. “To a—a very upstanding gentleman of considerable charm and fortune!”
The news staggered him. For a moment, he could only goggle at her. But . . . of course she was betrothed. Had he imagined she would remain unwed forever? A woman as winsome as Georgiana Trent, whose family recommended itself not only by its age but also its wealth and influence, would have no shortage of suitors—even if her taste was selective indeed.
“Well,” he managed to croak, “my felicitations. Who is the fortunate gentleman?”
Her gaze broke from his, wandering to the far corner of the room. Obviously, discussing her private affairs with one such as him mortified her extremely. “Mr. Augustus Brumkin,” she said.
“Augustus Brumkin.” The very name felt like death in his mouth. He did not want to picture the man, but an image sprang forth, so vivid that it might have been conjured by magic: resplendently blond; bluff and hale and irritatingly overfed. In Lucas’s mind, Mr. Brumkin posed, one hand in his waistcoat, with his pack of hounds brawling at his heels, a fine horse of seventeen hands at his shoulder, and a bloody manor looming on the hilltop behind him, pennants flying.
“Yes,” she said. “That is—no. Sir Augustus. He is a—baronet.”
“Oh, very good,” he said. “So you’ll be Lady Brumkin.” The Trents would settle for no less. “My congratulations to you.” He took a step backward to sketch a mocking bow and nearly slipped on one of Lady von Bittner’s shawls.
At the same time, they both recalled where they were. Miss Trent yanked open the door. “Hurry,” she snapped.
But he felt curiously indifferent to his own escape. He waited until she had slipped down the hall, until her footsteps had faded from the stair, before stepping out.
And when he shut the door behind him, he had only the strength to lean against it, and remember again how to breathe.
Sir Augustus bloody Brumkin. Had there ever been a name better suited to buffoonish, inbred idiocy?
Chapter Five
What the devil had possessed her? Georgie asked herself this at regular intervals throughout the morning, as she led her conspicuously unenthused guests on a tour of two local farms. Judging by their reddened eyes and sallow complexions, the Sobieskis and Lipscombs were suffering from last night’s excess of champagne. The Obolenskys, on the other hand, proved noxious in a different vein as they helped each other around piles of dung—pointing them out with increasingly loud giggles, as though dung were an affliction unique to English sheep. Nevertheless, of the whole group, Georgie felt certain that she proved the most pitiable specimen. Inventing a fiancé wholesale!
Her pride had demanded it. Seeing Lucas Godwin laugh derisively at the very prospect of seducing her—it had grated beyond her ability to bear. Still . . . Augustus Brumkin? Could she not have invented a more dignified name? Brumkin! Why not call him Bumpkin and be done with it?
After the agricultural tour came tea at the vicar’s house. As Georgie privately willed time to run backward so she could invent a better name for her betrothed (Matthew Hill. Charles White. Even John Brown would have sounded more distinguished), Mr. Sobieski asked the vicar where the gold was stored, as if this were a cathedral rather than a humble vicarage. Meanwhile, Count Obolensky happened across a bottle of sacramental wine, happened to take it into his possession, and then happened to pour it into his teacup—twice! As though nobody would notice!
The vicar noticed. He gave Georgie a shocked look, which she took as a sign that it was time to hurry the group along to the bakeshop. Perhaps she would not take them to church on Christmas, after all.
The village itself seemed to delight the diplomats. Swanhaven was no larger than a single long street, thatched houses and shingled shops winding sinuously along the riverbank toward the green. The sky was overcast, but every window glowed with the light of Christmas candles. The bare-branched trees lining the lane had been strung with ivy, their trunks wrapped in red ribbon. At the end of the road, a group of young girls stood on the green, singing “God Bless Ye Merry Gentlemen” in high, pure falsettos to a small crowd.
The rest of the village was crammed inside Mr. Tilney’s bakeshop, where the atmosphere felt close and warm, rich with the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg. Perhaps the sacramental wine had been parceled out rather more widely than Georgie had noticed. As her
flock crowded inside, they jostled each other and joked with unseemly familiarity to those already queued at the counter. Fearing a spectacle, Georgie stepped up to remind Mr. Tilney of his offer: he had agreed to provide her guests a sampling of culinary delicacies particular to an English Christmas.
Tilney was a squat, broad redhead who took his trade very seriously. “Right,” he said, frowning at the lot. “But they’ll buy, afterward, won’t they? For they’re driving out my customers.”
“I assure you, Brisbon Hall will make a sizable purchase,” she said.
“That was Mr. Jones what just left. He was on the hook for three trays of mince pies.”
She glanced over her shoulder and saw the countess blowing kisses at Mr. Jones’s retreating back. “Send them to the Hall instead,” she said hastily as she turned back. “Indeed, mince pies are a fine idea. Let’s start with them.” She clapped to call her guests’ attention.
Like errant children, they straggled into a semicircle around her. She introduced Mr. Tilney, then retreated to the back of the room to watch.
Mr. Tilney held up a mince pie, rotating it right and left to show its dimpled crust. Tilney, now there was a fine name. Far more respectable than Brumkin! Any woman could hold her head high, betrothed to a man by that surname.
The baker handed his pie to Mrs. Sobieska. “See the shape,” he said. “What does it remind you of?
“A bean,” said Mrs. Sobieska brightly, before taking a large bite.
“The human kidney,” said Mr. Lipscomb.
Mrs. Sobieska gagged.
Mr. Tilney, scowling, said, “It’s an oval, aye?”
“Bit lopsided for an oval,” Mr. Lipscomb said.
“ ’Tis an oval in the shape of a manger,” Mr. Tilney bit out. “Like the manger where the Christ child was born! And as for the savory bits inside”—here his livid gaze swung to Mrs. Sobieska, who froze mid-chew—“those be gifts of the Magi. So if you’re Christian, swallow them down!”
Mr. Tilney’s provenance seemed doubtful to Georgie, but among diplomats, facts meant little, so long as the story seemed persuasive. Mrs. Sobieska swallowed obediently. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, it’s quite delicious!”
Hands shot out. With a satisfied smirk, Mr. Tilney continued to distribute pies.
Relieved, Georgie settled her weight against the plate-glass window. The bell rang overhead, and Mr. Godwin stepped inside.
“No letter,” he said curtly as he joined her along the wall. “Not in the von Bittners’ rooms, nor the Sobieskis’, either.”
She sighed. “The Obolenskys next, then.”
He jammed his hands into his pockets and nodded, his mouth a tight line. “Will you take them home after this?”
“Thank goodness, yes.”
He glanced at her. “Given you trouble?”
She smiled faintly. “They’re diplomats, Mr. Godwin. Their livelihood depends on trouble. When they find none, they must invent it, lest they be thrown out of a job.”
He blinked. “A cynical view, from Sir Philip’s daughter.” But the hard set of his mouth loosened; after a moment, he leaned back against the wall.
Perhaps, she thought, she should try to strike a truce. Quarreling certainly hadn’t served her. Why, if they argued again, she would probably invent a secret wedding for herself, and two well-behaved children besides.
She leaned back, too. “Pardon me,” she said politely. “I recall that you were an idealist about the cause of diplomacy.” He’d spoken most impassionedly in Munich about his hope to do good in the world; to temper the sharp edges of British power abroad. “I don’t mean that all diplomats are so self-serving.”
He snorted. “Perhaps I’m not an idealist so much as a pragmatist. As a second secretary, after all, I have little scope to enrich myself.”
She recalled her unkind jab about his position last night. “I doubt you would abuse your power, regardless.”
He cast her a sidelong, measuring glance. “That is kind of you,” he said after a pause. “I suppose we may soon find out. I have it on rather good authority that if I remain in the— Well. There is a rumor that I might be made secretary of legation next year.”
He spoke stiffly, as though prepared for her mockery. But such news did not deserve it. “Goodness,” she murmured, making a rapid calculation. “By thirty? You would be the youngest in the history of the service, I believe.”
His color rose. “A rumor only. It may be empty.”
Truce, she reminded herself. “I doubt it.” Now she sounded stiff. “Everyone always spoke of you so highly. And you have—” She cleared her throat. “You have charm, sir, in addition to your erudition. And charm, I fear, is the main thing for a diplomat.”
He looked at her directly, his blue eyes somber. “You fear it, do you?”
The solemn weight of his attention made her pulse trip. Yes, she feared his charm. Any wise woman would fear charm when paired with looks like his.
She felt herself flush at the thought. “It’s terribly warm in here, isn’t it?” She made a show of fanning herself. “Mr. Tilney must be using all the ovens.”
He glanced toward the counter, and she felt released, able to breathe again. “Gingerbread,” Mr. Tilney barked, holding up a cookie in the rudimentary shape of a man. The diplomats murmured and nodded.
Lord von Bittner raised his hand. “That is not an English food,” he volunteered. “That is a German tradition.”
“German!” Mr. Tilney bared his teeth, then turned the gingerbread man upside down and snapped its head off.
Audible gasps followed.
“It’s English,” he said.
Lord von Bittner cleared his throat. “Perhaps . . . it is both.”
Tilney held out the gingerbread head to Lord von Bittner, who accepted it with great dignity.
“Ah, the spirit of Christmastide,” muttered Mr. Godwin.
Her giggle startled her. She felt him glance over at her again, but kept her eyes trained on Mr. Tilney. “Watch them go back to Germany talking of our curious rituals,” she said. “England, where they must behead their gingerbread man before they eat him.”
“No stranger than the Swedes burning their straw Yule goats,” he said.
“Perhaps we should make it a tradition, then!”
He made a sound of amusement. “If you told me it already was one, I might believe you. I haven’t spent a Christmas in England for eight—no, nine years.”
“And what a fine holiday for you, doing my father’s dirty work.” When his expression darkened, she wanted to kick herself. Why bring that up? Quickly she rushed on. “Of course, I imagine Paris has much to recommend itself during the holidays. Do you hope to stay there, once you’re promoted?”
“Paris is lovely,” he said. “Very comfortable. But I may request a farther-flung posting. The Ottoman Empire. China, perhaps.”
“China!” She felt a strange clutching in her chest. That was very far away indeed.
He shrugged. “There’s real work to be done there.” His lips twitched. “And no absinthe, you’ll be glad to know.”
Hesitantly, she smiled. Perhaps this truce might work, after all. “Well, I suppose in your shoes, I would long for adventure, too.” Imagine it, having the entire world ranged before you, any spot on the map open to your choice! Where on earth would she start? “I think I should choose Persia myself.”
He turned to her, his weight braced by one shoulder against the wall. He had found time to shave, but his hair remained unruly, unfashionably long; he wiped a dark cowlick off his brow as he said, “Persia. Yes. Did you keep up with your studies of the language, then?”
She refused to let the question startle her. A truce meant speaking companionably, without bristling at each reference to the past. “I fear it proved too much for me. Anyway, I simply wanted to read the poetry, and it turns out that several gentlemen have undertaken studies recently. Mr. Whinfield has a lovely manuscript in press of Jalal al-din Rumi’s verses—have you read
it?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“Oh, it’s remarkable. ‘Did my beloved only touch me with his lips—’ ” She came to an abrupt stop, realizing that the verse was hardly suitable for public discussion. Her enthusiasm had always outstripped her mindfulness of decorum.
But he was watching, his expression intent. “Finish it,” he said.
“I’ll send you a copy,” she muttered.
“Shy, Miss Trent?”
The challenging note in his voice made her spine stiffen. She locked eyes with him. “ ‘Did my beloved only touch me with his lips, / I too, like the flute, would burst out in melody.’ ”
He stared at her a moment longer—oddly, searchingly. “That is very fine,” he said quietly.
His gaze was too intense to hold. She slid her palms down her skirts, knocking away a stray speck of flour.
“Why don’t you have the choice, Georgie?”
She caught her breath. But he was frowning slightly; she did not think he realized his own slip of the tongue. “What choice?” she asked.
“The choice to go,” he said.
“To . . . Persia?” She tried to laugh. “All on my own? I should think my father would have something to say about that. I do depend on him for an allowance, you know.”
“So find someone willing to go with you,” he said. “A companion in adventure. That’s what you always wanted.”
She turned away from him blindly, fixing her face in the general direction of the others. I tried, Lucas.
I thought I had found you.
He broke the silence by clearing his throat. “God save us. It’s come to goose pies, has it?”
For Mr. Tilney had hoisted aloft a fine specimen—the pastry crust gleaming with a coating of egg white. “But you love goose pie,” Georgie said without thinking. “Eating the enemy!”
Their gazes caught again. He must be remembering the same moment—that enchanted discussion they’d had at a Christmas party in Munich, keeping to themselves the entire night, lost in their laughter. Would he deny recalling it?
What Happens Under the Mistletoe Page 29