A Mask, A Marquess, and a Wish Upon a Christmas Star

by Ingrid Hahn

  Perhaps she should pick another. Make a new wish.

  No. She was done with foolish wishes.

  She straightened her shoulders. In the deepest recesses of her heart, there were no true regrets. Nothing over which to feel any self-pity. She’d had one night, one glorious night. It stretched her nerves to their fraying point to be so unbearably near him again so soon and be so locked in silence, but this too would pass, leaving her with the cherished memory of what they’d shared. Even knowing now how the one night with the marquess would end, she’d do everything again, from start to finish, without a single alteration or amendment.

  That’s when the low notes of a familiar masculine voice tumbled through her being, eliciting warmth through her veins and a shiver through her spine.

  “Miss S, I presume?”

  It was her. In the low light of the conservatory, there was no mistaking the color of that hair. The way her head tilted upward as she studied the night beyond, there was no mistaking the gentle curve of the nape of that neck, either. And when he came up behind her, there was no mistaking that scent.

  Harland’s entire being went taut. Of all the absurd unlikelihood—of all the chances—of all the inanely impossible odds, here she was. All he had to do was reach out and he could touch her.

  She turned.

  “This is the first time I’ve been able to discern the true color of your eyes.” They were a deep shade of brown, the rich darkness of which would have been perfectly obscured by the shadows of the mask.

  “My lord.” Her gaze dropped, her color going high.

  There were no denials, no claims of being ignorant of that which he spoke. How could there have been? It was as if the recognition seared them both together in an invisible binding threatening to consume them both in hellish fire should they so much as attempt denying everything between them.

  “It’s Abigail, isn’t it? Abigail Sutton?” Funny. Once he’d recognized this woman as being the woman, her name had floated up in his mind, emblazoned in flame. No need to ask his aunt to remind him. He’d never forget again.

  Abigail. Such a simple name for such unconventional beauty. And yet nothing could have fit more perfectly. Humility hung in the name—an unassuming, unshowy quality that was her through and through.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Sutton.” He shook his head, half mad when at last all the loose threads wove together. “You’re the gamekeeper’s daughter.” And what an insurmountable gulf existed between them. “Now I know why I thought I remembered you. I did. You grew up on the Thurber estate. You spent all your time with old Lord Thurber’s young daughter. What was her name? Sarah?” Harland’s father’s seat—now his—bordered Thurber lands.

  “I can’t believe you remember, my lord.”

  “Yes, well. I’m not that old. There was that one occasion on which you pushed me into the pond and ran away laughing, didn’t you?”

  “I was very young, my lord, and that was a very, very long time ago.”

  “You ruined my new silk waistcoat.” He’d been rather puffed up about the thing. It’d been the same flashy color as the green on a male mallard’s throat, and he’d fancied himself so grown up.

  “What business did you have wearing it by the pond, my lord?”

  That had been his father’s question exactly. Although young Harland had claimed he’d slipped on a mossy rock instead of admitting the truth, not knowing how his father would have reacted to his having been so thoroughly defeated by a girl in one easy swoop.

  The passage of time had considerably altered his feelings on what it would mean to be at Abigail Sutton’s mercy.

  In some ways, he already was. If she knew the power she held over him…what he would do for one more taste of her lips…

  Harland struggled to keep a cool head. “I think we’re a bit beyond that ‘my lord’ business, don’t you think?”

  “I think formality exists with good reason and I’d like to observe proper behavior now more than ever.”

  Proper behavior. Yes. This from the woman whose cunny he’d tasted not a full twenty-four hours ago. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Afraid?” Her gaze met his. There was iron there—real force of will. She didn’t care for being called afraid, that much was plain enough. “I’m not afraid. I just don’t see as there is anything to discuss is all.”

  His stare fell upon her lips. “All things considered, discussion wouldn’t make my list of ideal activities, either—”

  She went a deep crimson, no doubt understanding his meaning perfectly.

  “—however, in this case, I believe discussion would be prudent.”

  Proper behavior, indeed. What a liar she was.

  If he suggested she turn around so he could lift her skirts and rut into her from behind, she wouldn’t be able to refuse.

  Her blood pounded as if he’d already moved to claim her.

  A good hard and furious tup would be far preferable to the idea of being made to talk with the man. All except for the fact that perhaps—and this was a rather significantly large perhaps, depending on the direction of the conversation, which could as easily encourage the devilish delights as quell her yearning for them—discussion might save her from herself and all those wicked things she’d go to her knees to beg him to do to her.

  To be this close to him…to look upon him in open recognition as he looked upon her. If she weren’t careful, she’d succumb to a fainting spell for the very first time in her life.

  His eyes. Who knew that the human iris could capture such a shade?

  “What happened happened. I have no interest in discussing anything, my lord.”

  “You can’t possibly want last night to have been our only night. I don’t.”

  “I do. You forget, my lord, you are a man and a marquess. I’m a woman with respectable employment—employment I’m eager to keep, I might add.” She drew herself up. There were a hundred solid, advantageous reasons for saying what she was about to say, all of them requiring immediate deprivation for the long-term good. “I won’t be your mistress.”

  “What if I want more?”

  “The daughter of a gamekeeper and a great lord such as yourself? What more could there be? Nothing. Believe me when I say that I would be tempted if you offered to make me your mistress, my lord.”

  He glowered, looking away, jaw hardening. “Then why wouldn’t you?”

  “Because one day you’d cast me off. Then where would I be? I have to think about myself—I have to think about my security over the whole span of my life.” When he opened his mouth to respond, she held up a hand. “It’s better this way. We’ll always be each other’s secret. I can’t speak for you, but I can speak for myself, and I want you to know…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’ll always be my very best secret, my lord.”

  14

  When she left the conservatory, Harland stayed back. The mask she’d worn might be back in the cottage of Mandeville House, but Abigail Sutton, the glorious Miss S, was still hiding.

  Hand fisted as he leaned on his arm against the window frame, he worked his teeth back and forth over each other. Secrets.

  Was that any way to live? Was that what he would stand for, being relegated to being a memory? Was that what he deserved?

  Enough of this. He knew what he wanted. And he wasn’t about to stand by while she pushed him aside without first hearing what it was.

  The company was assembled in the drawing room when he returned.

  He came to the mantel, but Lady Ingrahme accosted him before he could speak, a sharp sort of wary alertness on her features. “You look agitated, nephew.”

  “Yes, I think that might be quite an accurate assessment of my current state.”

  She leaned close, head bent conspiratorially, relaxing her features into pleasantness, no doubt to fool the casual onlooker about the true tenor of their conversation.

  Schooled expression or not, behind her, one of the guests—the one with feathers wh
o might or might not have been Abigail’s employer—turned all her attention to what was happening before the fire between him and his aunt. The woman made no attempts at hiding her curiosity.

  Good.

  He’d never been more ready in his life to make a scene than here and now before the biggest gossipmongers London could provide.

  “Whatever it is you’re thinking, nephew, leave it off until tomorrow. Your current state has put you in no condition—”

  “What is it precisely you think me to be about to do, aunt?”

  “Something you’ll regret.”

  “I’m past regrets.” Past fear. Past holding himself back because of some idea that to be a gentleman, a man must show reservation and restraint. If he kept living his daily life by those rules, he’d be resigning himself to spending all the rest of his years alone. Somewhere along the way, that had become unacceptable. It wasn’t certain that she’d take him—it was a risk. A huge risk, never one bigger. Never one more important.

  “You say that now, but it’s always best to reflect on the matter in the fresh light of a new day with a clear and calm head. It isn’t like you to be rash.”

  “Maybe it ought to be.” His gaze landed on Abigail. “I know what it is I want and I find I’m unable to wait one more minute to claim it.”

  His aunt blinked and drew back a little. “That’s quite the assertion.”

  “It’s not an assertion. An assertion has little claim to support or reason. It will stand to reason, but a very different reason than any with a basis in a scientific turn of mind.”

  She covered her face with a bejeweled hand and shook her head. “Oh, my dear boy, is there any other kind of reason?”

  “The reason of my heart.”

  The grand lady only stared, lips parted, gaze frozen and unblinking upon him. He’d never before seen her struck dumb—if she’d ever before been at a loss for words, it hadn’t been in his lifetime.

  She reached out to pat his arm. “You’re my nephew and I will always hold you dear. Remember that.”

  “You believe I’m about to make a fool of myself?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “The only way I could make myself a fool now is by caring either way.”

  “Then who am I to stop you?” She swept an open hand to the side to indicate he was free to take the attention of the room and resumed her position in its center, black skirts perfectly arranged about her legs.

  The company’s pretense of being involved in their own conversations fell away. Everyone was silent—staring at him in open expectation.

  It was one of those dreamlike moments. If not for the snug tailoring at the armscyes of his jacket keeping such a firm clamp about his shoulders, he might have glanced down to ensure each and every article of clothing remained affixed in its proper place on his person.

  But this wasn’t a dream. He wasn’t asleep. Despite this—despite having no slumber from which to break—Harland was finally about to awaken.

  For a long time afterwards, the smell of roses and wood polish would send him right back to that moment he’d stood before them, though he hadn’t been consciously aware of noticing either at the time.

  “There is something I very much want you all to know.”

  He glanced back to Abigail. She’d gone pale, and her wide eyes remained fixed unblinkingly upon him. If she noticed others in the room turning their heads to follow the direction of his stare, she made no indication.

  “I’m afraid I’ve done a very wicked thing.”

  “Oh, thank heavens for that.” It was one of the unidentified matrons who’d spoken. “Well? Speak up, my lord.” She glanced around the room and then gave a little toss of her head, making the superfluity of feathers upon her head flounce. “I, for one, have no qualms about saying what everyone here is thinking, which is that we should very much like to know what it is.”

  Before now, Harland would have found her grating. But she was right—it’s what everyone in the room was thinking. Moreover, it was the perfect invitation for him to continue. The most important thing was to say what he had to say.

  “I’ve been keeping a secret. This particular one I have in mind is not of long duration, but I find I can bear it no longer.” He drew a breath. “Just now I had a brief meeting in the conservatory. I was told I had no hope of attaining my heart’s desire. But I stand before you now to declare that I have no intention whatsoever of giving up the one and only thing—the one and only person—who will make the rest of my days worth living.”

  When he paused, the room was perilously silent.

  The matron with the feathers raised a gloved hand. “The conservatory sounds a grand place. Might I chance a pass through it myself, Lady Ingrahme?”

  A few of the guests tried to hide smiles while others had no apprehension about sharing their disapproving frowns.

  Lady Ingrahme’s mouth unpinched long enough for her to offer a few words. “What is it you’re trying to say, nephew?” She couldn’t have sounded more stiff had she given her voice a bath in starch.

  “That I have no patience for secrets—not any longer. That I won’t hide where it is my heart has at last found purchase. I’m not ashamed. Neither am I sorry. Nothing matters any longer, except that we stave off all possibility of regrets.”

  The turbaned woman adjacent to the be-feathered matron spoke. “Forgive me, my lord, but are you speaking of my companion, Miss Sutton?”

  “I am, indeed, madam.”

  She looked exceedingly uncomfortable, like a mouse was crawling up her leg and she’d wagered a hundred pounds she would endure the ordeal without screaming or flailing. “But you’ve only just made her acquaintance today, my lord.”

  “Not true. Last night—” He locked eyes with Abigail’s, the memory warm honey in his veins. “Last night, we danced.”

  15

  “It’s difficult not feeling those antics in the drawing room weren’t intended as some sort of strange form of revenge upon me.”

  Abigail had withdrawn from the company with the marquess into one of the lesser rooms, this one having not been thought of in anticipation of use, had no fire and only a few branches of candles that Harland himself had hastily lit. They were well away from the others, though. For now.

  Although it wasn’t hard to guess what the subject on their tongues would be for the remainder of the evening. Or year, rather.

  He replaced the tinderbox upon the mantelpiece and faced her. “When I was a boy, I found a kitten. A small creature with grey and white patched fur that I—well, I wanted to keep it. I still remember how I felt the day I held it and it fell asleep curled on my knee.” He swallowed. Hard. “But my father told me men don’t keep cats, they keep only dogs, else they’re not men. I’ve gone my entire life without stroking another cat so much as once. I’ve wanted to. Every time I come close, I relive standing there before him and I—I can’t. I like dogs plenty well, believe me, but I want a cat. I always have.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I’ve never told anyone before. I let my father shame me, and I’m tired of holding onto it. Because by thinking what I said was spoken out of a need for revenge is casting my actions in the worst possible light. I’m weary of secrets. They’re isolating. They’re corrosive to the soul. I don’t want that for either of us—not where the other is concerned. Not in anything, really.”

  “What did you expect? That you might bend me to your will?”

  “I have no expectation of you.”

  “No expectation, indeed.” She pursed her lips. Her stomach was heavy, as if she’d overindulged in the sumptuous meal instead of only having picked at her plate. “I realize who and what you are, my lord, what you’ve been raised to expect from the world, but are you really going to tell me you had no thought of what your declaration would do to me?”

  “I’m not ashamed of what I feel for you, Abigail.”

  “The world is bigger than that. You’re a man and a marque
ss. Nothing can touch you. I’m one of thousands of women who need employment if she hopes to keep herself warm, fed, clothed, and dry. And for the first time in my life, the certainty of being able to continue a quiet, respectable existence has been thrown into serious doubt.”

  “You’re entitled to having wants and desires. If you didn’t believe so yourself, you would never have come to Mandeville for the ball.”

  Impatience sparked within her. How dare the man see through her with such effortlessness? “You forget, my lord. I’m nothing but the daughter of a gamekeeper.”

  “Is that all? The sum of one accident of your birth, trapped like me into that one, single idea?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do. I think you’re scared to see it. Because you’re so much more. You’re the woman who loves me—the woman I love. That’s what you are. So don’t be frightened. Everything else, what does it matter?”

  Love?

  Oh dear sweet savior, the marquess wasn’t going to toss that word into the mix, was he?

  Abigail tried to swallow away the lump that had risen in her throat. The sooner she parted ways with this man, the better for the both of them. It would be all too easy to be talked into becoming his mistress. It would be all too easy to believe that they had something—something real that wouldn’t pour through their fingers like water.

  “You’re full of pretty talk now, my lord, but it’s only a matter of time. You’ll tire of me. This…this…” She struggled to find the words to express the burning desire that ignited her soul when she was near this man. Even now when he was the most muddle-headed, ignorant, infuriating man of all time, the desire to throw herself down to let him have his most wicked way with her could have burned her bones red hot until they vanished to dust. “…hunger between us, it will fade. It’s not love. It’s as fleeting as a wave in a lead tub. No matter what you think, I haven’t stolen your heart.”