It Happened One Christmas: Christmas Eve ProposalThe Viscount's Christmas KissWallflower, Widow...Wife!

by Carla Kelly

  Miss Rutherford sat in the back of the room near the French doors, the glow of excitement surrounding the others failing to reach her. The moonlight from outside spilled over her sadly rounded shoulders while the fire from the Yule log warmed her high cheeks and flickered in her eyes, though the light wasn’t enough to reignite the sparkle which had filled them this afternoon.

  Pygmalion trotted away from Gregor to join Miss Rutherford, rising up on his back feet and placing his front paws on her knees. She frowned at the small dog and raised her hand. Gregor thought she meant to shoo him away. Instead, she drew the dog up into her lap, clutching her to him and stroking his fur as though he were her last friend in the world. The sight of it tore at Gregor and he moved around the back of the room, behind the family, to join her.

  ‘I think the rumours of the beast’s ferociousness are unfounded,’ Gregor offered as he settled himself in the lyre-backed chair beside hers.

  ‘I’m stunned.’ She shook her head at the animal. ‘He’s never sat with me before.’

  ‘Perhaps he recognises someone in need of a friend.’

  Her hand paused between the dog’s ears before she resumed her steady scratching, making the dog’s eyes narrow with delight. If it could sigh, Gregor felt sure it would. Miss Rutherford did, a small one which whispered across Gregor’s hand where it rested on his thigh, making him want to slide his arm around her and draw her head down on to his shoulder, the same way her eldest sister now sat with her husband.

  Damned fool, his father would have said if he’d seen such a display, always disapproving of the regard Gregor had shown to others, but he wasn’t here to stand over him with censure at best and indifference at worst.

  ‘You asked me in the dining room what I hoped to achieve with my apology,’ Gregor hazarded, determined to finish what he’d come here to do. ‘I’d very much like to be your friend and for you to be mine.’

  Lily stroked the dog, staring straight ahead as her brother finished his turn and relinquished the floor to Lord Winford. ‘Why?’

  Gregor took a deep breath, then began in a voice just above a whisper. ‘Many times in France I thought of you and the way you’d sat beside me in the alcove listening to my complaints. We were strangers and yet you treated me with the tenderness of an old friend. It would have been nice while I was in France to have received letters from you and known there was someone, besides Laurus, who cared if I came home safe.’

  Lily drew the dog a little closer to her chest. ‘Surely your parents cared, even a little.’

  ‘They didn’t. I wasn’t my brother, only an unwanted disappointment best got out of the way.’ He rubbed his thumb in a circle over the scar on his thigh hidden by his breeches. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Rutherford, to burden you with such things. I know it isn’t proper, but for some reason I feel you more than anyone else will understand.’

  She shifted in the chair, holding tight to the dog as she moved, and he thought she might rise and flee from him as she’d done in the dining room, but she didn’t.

  ‘I do understand and please call me Lily. Only not in front of the others. If they heard us on such intimate terms, there’d be no end to the teasing.’ The smile she blessed him with dipped all the way down to his toes, bringing one of equal joy to his lips.

  ‘I’ll call you Lily in private, and you’ll call me Gregor. Will that suit?’

  ‘Yes, very well.’

  They sat together watching Lord Winford take his turn at charades, listening as the children and adults called out animals only for Lord Winford to shake his head in reply.

  ‘He’s a goose,’ Lily said, but only loud enough for Gregor to hear.

  ‘You think so? I thought he might be a carriage.’

  ‘No, Charles does some kind of fowl every year. Once it was a duck, another time a swan. He’s quite taken with fowling.’

  At last Lady Winford guessed her husband’s character and he sat down, relinquishing the floor to Sir Timothy, who squatted down, then rose, throwing out his limbs in a display Gregor could only imagine was meant to imitate a flower blooming.

  While the family called out guesses, Gregor leaned in close to Lily, noting the slight separation between her full breasts above the fitted bodice of her gown. He swallowed hard, very much wanting to press his lips against the soft skin and revel in the heat of her. His body began to stiffen at the thought, but he forced it back, determined to behave like a gentleman.

  ‘What did Laurus mean earlier when he said you’d painted the entire family?’ he asked, his breath disturbing the small curl at the nape of her long neck.

  Lily turned to face him, so close to him he could see the single small freckle just beneath her right eye. He expected her to lean away, but she remained near him, her voice sliding like satin across his cheek. ‘The portraits in the entrance hall are mine. I did them.’

  An unmistakable pride filled her voice.

  ‘Will you show them to me?’

  She looked back and forth between him and her family, the small curl dangling near her ear brushing her cheek as she moved. ‘Now?’

  ‘Unless you wish to be chosen as the next person to do a charade, then yes.’

  She grimaced at the thought. ‘Then we’d better hurry before someone guesses Father is a rose.’

  She set the dog on the floor. It didn’t bark, but trotted behind them as they slipped out of the room and down the hallway. Candles twinkled in their holders, catching the red of the berries pressed among the shiny holly leaves decorating each table and painting. Down the opposite hall, in the far wing of the house, the high strings of a fiddle drifted in like snow through the open ballroom door. The music was joined by the laughter of the maids and footmen and the sounds of their shoes banging over the wooden boards in time to the lively song as they enjoyed the servants’ Christmas Eve celebration.

  The candles glittered as much in the entrance hall as they did in the hallway, but without the heat and fire of the Yule log, the air took on something of the crispness of the cold night outside.

  ‘I painted these.’ She waved her hand at the numerous portraits of her family lining the walls and following the rise of the stairs. On either side of the door hung the ones she’d done of her parents. They looked back into their house and up at the line of children arranged on the wall above the stairs, each with hair the same shade of brown as their mother’s. ‘I’m to do little Adelaide’s soon, and John and James once they learn to sit still.’

  ‘Then they may be adults by the time you manage it,’ he observed, making her eyes dance with delight.

  ‘And perhaps not even then for I don’t think they’ll ever settle down.’

  ‘I’d like to sit for you while I’m here, if you don’t mind.’

  The suggestion seemed to catch her off guard and she chewed the bottom of one full lip before an impish smile to mimic the ones her nephews often wore split the tender bud. ‘If you’d like, though I’d have thought you’d been painted enough today.’

  She was teasing him and he wanted more of it. His father would never have allowed such humour at his expense, but Gregor wasn’t his father, or his brother, and he never would be.

  ‘I assume Pygmalion shares your talent for oils?’ He pointed to the slashes of paint on the wall at the bottom of the stairs, the faint stain of blue and yellow sitting just beneath the bright red.

  Instead of the frustration she’d exhibited with her family at dinner, she rolled her eyes with some humour at the marks. ‘That brush wasn’t the first one the little beast has snatched from me. He’s quite well behaved now, but usually he’s stealing all manner of things. If the holly and mistletoe weren’t so high, he’d have them, too.’

  She pointed to the sprig of mistletoe with one last berry clinging to the leaves hanging from the brass chandelier. Only then did either of them realise they wer
e standing beneath it, in the centre of the stone circle inlaid in the floor. Lily slowly lowered her hand, as aware as Gregor of what their present position implied. He studied her face, noting the eager nervousness in her eyes, as if, like him, she wanted a kiss, but feared it at the same time.

  Gregor remained where he stood, allowing the tinkling of ‘Here We Come A-Wassailing’ on the pianoforte and the voices of the family singing the carol at one end of the hall and the servants’ laughter at the other to cover the stretching silence between them. He could drop a quick peck on her cheek, pluck the last berry from the hapless branch and they could smile and laugh and return to the sitting room, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t manage something so innocent because he wanted to enjoy the feathery caress of her fingers against his neck while he took her in his arms, pressed her body to his and felt her breasts flatten against his chest as he tasted her full lips. He’d asked for her friendship and she’d granted it, but in this moment, he wanted a great deal more.

  He took a hesitant step forwards and she didn’t move, looking up at him with anticipation. She wouldn’t flee if he dared to claim her lips, nor would she push him away or chastise him. It was as frightening a prospect as it was exhilarating and her silent entreaties drew him closer. He raised his hand to her face, his fingers so close to her skin he could feel the heat of it. The embroidered leaves on her dress shimmered as she took in one deep breath after another, waiting, as eager as him to steal the last berry off the mischievous plant.

  Gregor leaned closer, his lips aching to know hers, all desire to be a gentleman forgotten. He’d won her forgiveness and friendship, now he wanted her heart.

  ‘There you both are. I wondered where you’d gone to.’ Laurus’s voice cut through the moment, dampening the waver of the candles across her face and making them jump apart.

  With some frustration Gregor glanced to the plant, the lone berry mocking him as much as Laurus’s knowing look as he hustled into the entrance hall.

  Gregor exchanged a worried glance with Lily, wondering if she blamed him for this near compromise of her in front of her family. He’d made such small gains with her, he hated to think his weakness might lose them. Whatever irritation she experienced, it didn’t reveal itself in her eyes, which crinkled at the corners with the same frustration at the interruption Gregor felt as he flexed his cold fingers behind his back.

  * * *

  Lily watched her brother’s approach, not sure what to expect. She’d nearly kissed Gregor and in front of Laurus no less, but instead of wanting to creep away in shame she was mad at her brother for interrupting them. Thankfully it was Laurus who’d stumbled on them and not someone else. He was far more discreet than either Rose or Daisy, but even he wasn’t above commenting on such a discovery. Standing beneath the mistletoe, St Nicholas himself might forgive her for extending a viscount a kiss. However, for all her desire to claim the near indiscretion was simply a result of the season, she knew it was something more and the idea was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

  ‘Come on, we must prepare.’ Laurus grabbed Lily by the hand and linked his arm with Gregor’s to lead them down the opposite hall towards the ballroom.

  ‘Prepare for what?’ Lily demanded, her slippers rustling over the stone as she worked to keep pace with the men.

  ‘The arrival of the Lord of Misrule. We must be ready to appear before the carols end.’

  ‘You need us to help you get dressed?’ Lily asked as Laurus stopped outside a door set in the panelling of the hallway walls.

  ‘I’m not going to be him this year, Gregor is. And you’re to be his Queen of Folly.’

  Oh dear. ‘But you love being Lord of Misrule, why won’t you do it again?’

  ‘Because the twins are expecting it and I want to surprise them. No one will suspect Lord Marbrook, especially if you’re with him. Everyone knows you don’t like him.’

  Lily’s cheeks burned as she glanced back and forth between her brother and Lord Marbrook who seemed to be taking his friend’s ribbing in his stride. ‘That’s not true. How can you say such a thing?’

  ‘I’m glad to discover I’ve been mistaken in my assumptions.’ He pulled open the door, revealing the large cupboard behind it. It’d been a priest hole in the days of King Henry, but was presently used to store linens, candlesticks and other odds and ends. ‘Now inside, both of you, and get changed before Aunt Alice reaches the end of her repertoire.’

  He hustled Lily and Gregor inside where the clothes he’d pulled out for the masque were strewn over the old trunk where they were usually stored. A single candle burned in a brass holder on one of the shelves, its dancing shadow casting a strange eeriness over the room already believed to be haunted by the children and a few of the older servants.

  ‘As soon as you’re ready, we’ll go back. I can’t wait to see John’s and James’s faces when they realise it isn’t me who’s the Lord of Misrule this year.’ Laurus closed the door on them, leaving them alone.

  ‘I suppose we’d better prepare,’ Gregor suggested, picking up a velvet doublet in a shade of red to make a cardinal jealous.

  ‘Yes. Aunt Alice only knows about five of the old carols and I believe she’s already through two of them.’

  Lily picked up a robin-egg-blue damask gown with a wide neckline and full hips, both cut more in the style of Old Queen Anne than the current Queen Charlotte. She wrinkled her nose at the mustiness of it as she slipped it over her head, catching the wide sides before it fell past her shoulders to puddle on the floor. Whatever great-grandmother had worn this had been much wider than Lily, who’d have to find a way to make do for there were no other dresses in the trunk.

  Across from her, Gregor cast aside his coat and dark grey waistcoat and stood only in his breeches and shirt. A touch of chest was just visible through the openings between his shirt strings. As Lily stared at the contrast between his skin and the linen, the chilly priest hole grew a great deal warmer. The idea that this was wrong, very wrong, whispered through Lily’s mind as did the music from the fiddler down the hall. With Gregor standing so close in a state of simple undress, it was too intimate and, were it not Christmas Eve, too scandalous. Whatever new faith she’d developed in Gregor, she hoped he deserved it. Otherwise he’d return to London and tell who knew what tales of his time alone with her in the priest hole and she’d never be able to set foot in society here or in London again.

  ‘Can you do up the doublet?’ Gregor slid on the velvet, then turned his back to her.

  Beneath the short-waisted garment, his dark breeches sat tight against his buttocks and the sight of the round, solid firmness made her blush. Thankfully he couldn’t see her red cheeks or her curiosity as she stood behind him, fingers trembling as she did up the laces. She tried to breathe evenly, to give no hint of her nervousness but it was difficult with the hue of the skin of his back just visible through the shirt. She wanted to trace the curving arch, feel the sinew and muscle of it, but she didn’t dare let one finger accidentally slide along the line of it. She was as much afraid of how he might react to such an intimate touch as how she would.

  ‘I’m done,’ she said at last, both regretting and relieved by the end of her task.

  He turned, regarding her as he had under the mistletoe, as though there was more to this than simply the merriment of the moment, or his desire for friendship. It was the same sense of belonging and need she’d experienced with him in the alcove four years ago, the one which had been as badly interrupted now as then.

  ‘Hurry up in there,’ Laurus called through the door. ‘Aunt Alice is already halfway through “The Twelve Days of Christmas”.’

  ‘I’ll do up your gown now,’ Gregor instructed, taking her by the shoulders and turning her around, his finger sweeping the open neck of her dress before he let go. ‘We don’t want to keep the little ones waiting.’

  The bodic
e only grew a touch tighter as he tied the laces, but it could have been strangling her for all the trouble she had breathing with him so close.

  ‘Turn around and let me see,’ he instructed.

  Gripping the skirt of the dress, she turned with stiff steps to face him. If he didn’t look so strange in the doublet, she’d feel silly standing here in a dress which was much too big. Already the heavy damask was sliding from her arms. With no shoulders to help keep the dress in place, she’d barely make it down the hall before it would sink around her feet. ‘It’s still too large.’

  He snatched a red bodice from the pile of clothes. ‘I have an idea.’

  His sandalwood scent teased her as much as the closeness of his cheek to hers when he dipped down to slide the satin under her arms and around her waist. She stared straight ahead at the faded outline of a saint on the far wall, determined not to meet his eyes as he paused beside her, so close she could hear him breathe, feel the heat of his skin against hers. All she need do was turn and their lips would meet. She forced herself to remain still, but she wanted to turn, very badly.

  At last he straightened, slowly as if he regretted moving away.

  She let out a long breath, then looked down at the red satin around her waist, holding the wrinkled thing closed. ‘It’s backwards.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ His fingers worked the laces through the eyelets, brushing hers as he tightened the strings. She tried not to breathe too deeply, afraid of bringing his hands closer to her breasts than they already were. Her nipples grew taut against her stays as his hands moved lower towards her waist, making her head swim as if she’d had too much wassail.

  When at last he tied off the laces, he stepped back to admire her, not with a critical eye, but with the heady interest he’d shown beneath the mistletoe. She was thankful the little branch was still on the chandelier and not in here, for if it was, she’d surely throw herself against him and claim the last berry, and his lips, for her own.