by Mary Balogh
Besides, if she went on a purely adult party, without the presence of Anna to excuse her, he might think that she expected to accompany him. There were three sleighs apparently, each of them large enough to accommodate only two passengers.
“Another reason why evening is the best time for the rides,” one young gentleman had said, smiling warmly at a blushing young lady.
He might think that she expected to be taken with him. Her cheeks burned at the thought. And they burned again, and her breath came in uneven gasps, as she remembered that kiss in the hallway beneath the mistletoe and the way her lips had clung to his instead of jerking away as soon as a semblance of a kiss had taken place to satisfy Anna. And the way she had swayed against him so that her breasts had come against his coat and she had felt all the male hardness of his upper body.
And she had stood beneath that mistletoe for all of a minute before the kiss, held there by Anna’s hand in hers, not wanting to hurt the child by breaking away. But to him it must seem that she had waited patiently there until he had noticed where it was she stood.
She squirmed with embarrassment at the thought.
No, she would not join the sleigh rides. She would not dance later that evening, either. She would remember again who and what she was and behave accordingly.
But other people had other ideas.
“You are not joining the sleigh rides, Miss Milford?” Colonel Porchester asked her loudly from across the table at dinner, when she had just said as much to Lord Hodges beside her.
Emma swallowed a mouthful of goose. “No, sir,” she said with a smile. “I do believe I will give in to sanity and stay indoors where it is warm.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “You went cavorting with the children this afternoon, did you not, ma’am? Most sporting of you, I must say.”
“Not going sleighing, Emma?” Peter said from three places down the table, leaning forward so that he could see her. “Nonsense! The snow will probably be melting by tomorrow or the next day and we will not see it again for another two years or so. Of course you must come. You may squeeze in between Sophia and me.”
“I would not dream of it,” she said.
“Emma,” Sophia said with a sigh from even farther away, “Peter and I have been wedded for longer than nine years. We no longer need the romance of a sleigh ride.”
There was general laughter from their end of the table.
“We can find it in other, ah, cozier places,” Peter said.
His words were greeted with far heartier laughter.
The colonel coughed. “It goes against all the laws of gallantry to allow a lovely young lady to ride in a sleigh sandwiched between her brother and sister-in-law,” he said. “Ma’am, I shall dust off these aged bones and air out these ancient lungs in order to take a turn with you myself if you will consent to trust yourself to my care.”
Emma smiled. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “That would be very pleasant.”
So much for melting into the background, she thought ruefully as the conversation moved on to other topics. And so much for aging, decorous spinsters.
A schedule had been worked out, since there were only three sleighs and twelve couples who wished to ride in them, so that nine couples would not be standing outside for an hour or more getting no more pleasure from the evening than cold feet and reddened noses. Miss Chadwick and another fortunate young lady were to ride twice, since there were two gentlemen eager to escort each.
Emma was to ride with the last group. In the meantime she played blindman’s buff with the children.
The ride when it came was very sedate and almost anticlimactic. While Lord Radbrook drove away with Miss Chadwick in the direction of the lake, and another young gentleman took the lady of his choice toward the pasture, the colonel took the ribbons of their sleigh and set the horses to moving slowly along the cleared driveway to the gates, out onto the highway for a mile, and back again.
It was very pleasant. The moon and stars made the night bright, and the slight breeze, which had made the air brisk during the afternoon, had died down so that it hardly felt cold at all. Of course, Emma thought, she had a heavy lap robe tucked about her, and her hands were snug inside her muff. The runners of the sleigh squeaked across the snow.
“Christmas Day,” the colonel said. “There is always a special feeling about it, is there not? I remember . . .” And he was off on a series of reminiscences about Christmas and his military experiences. Emma relaxed and enjoyed the journey.
They arrived back at the house at almost the same moment as Lord Radbrook and Miss Chadwick.
“Ah,” the colonel said, having helped Emma to the ground and turned about. “The freshness of youth. I swear that your eyes shine as brightly as the stars, ma’am.” He bowed over Roberta’s hand and took it in his. “And I will wager you are preparing to dance the night away.”
“How could I possibly resist, sir?” she said gaily, linking her arm through his and proceeding up the horseshoe steps and through the main doors with him.
Emma felt a hand on her arm as she prepared to follow.
“Come for a drive with me,” Lord Radbrook said quickly, and before she knew quite what was happening, she was seated in the other sleigh, its heavier lap robe about her knees, and he was setting the horses in motion. The bells on their bridles jingled.
She turned to look at his profile in the darkness and looked away again. They seemed very much surrounded by darkness and emptiness. The house seemed already far behind them.
She thought for a minute that he must have something very particular to say to her, perhaps a repetition of last night’s tirade. Perhaps after all he had resented her going sledding with his daughter that afternoon or joining in the sleigh rides this evening. But he said nothing as he took the sleigh over the already well-worn tracks toward the lake.
“She has not spoken or made a sound or smiled or laughed since Marianne died,” he said abruptly at last. “Not, at least, since her voice gave out after almost two days of nonstop screaming.”
She thought of that afternoon, when Anna had shrieked with laughter on their near-disastrous run down the slope. At the time she had not realized the significance of what was happening—not until he had spoken and she had seen the tears in his eyes. She had thought at first that he was furious with her.
“It will all come back,” she said. “It is bound to.”
They rode on in silence.
“I almost did not come this year,” he said jerkily, “when I knew that you would be here. I thought of taking Anna into Italy. But the pull of family is always too strong at Christmas.”
“Yes,” she said, the pain in her chest making it difficult to draw breath. “Peter and Sophia and the children were coming here. And Aunt Hannah wished to come. I did not have the heart to insist on staying away. If it had not been for her, I would have.”
“Yes,” he said. “As you did last year. I was relieved.”
They lapsed into silence again. A long silence until suddenly, when they were on the path high above the lake at its eastern end, making the turn to return to the house along its other bank, he drew the horses to a halt and cursed expressively into the night. Emma clenched her hands into hard fists beneath the robe.
“Do you know where we are?” he asked her, speaking through his teeth. “For God’s sake, Emma, do you realize where we are?”
She looked about her, startled. And her eyes widened. The high point of the lake, with bare trees falling away to the frozen water below. Trees laden with green leaves during the summer. Blue water, a darker shade than the sky. Warmth and the smells of trees and grass and wildflowers and water.
“Yes,” she said, and the word trembled out of her.
It was the place where he had kissed her lips red and swollen until she had moaned and arched into him. The place where he had poured out words of love and asked her to marry him and told her what he wanted to do with her for what remained of a lifetime.
The plac
e where she had said yes and then no and then she did not know, until he had laughed with lighthearted confidence and agreed that she should consult her parents. He must speak with her father too, he had said. He had not yet done so. But there had been no cloud of uncertainty in his face.
He had already been living in the happily-ever-after.
“Yes,” she said again.
“Emma.” Her name was a groan on his lips, and then one arm was about her shoulders and the other hand was turning up her chin, and his mouth was on hers.
Not his lips. His mouth. Open. Warm. Moist. Tasting faintly of wine. The kiss of a man of experience, not of the very young man with whom she had lived out a summer of innocent love. Or so she supposed. She knew nothing of men of experience. She felt his tongue against the seam of her lips, hard, demanding, confident—or desperate.
She pushed him away, resisting with every ounce of willpower in her the urge to jump from the sleigh and run and run.
“This is not why I came here,” she said. “I did not come for this. I would not wish you to think . . . Just because Anna . . . Edwin . . .”
“No.” His voice was calm. Expressionless. He was picking up the ribbons of the horses again and slapping them into slow motion. “Of course not. And neither did I. Forgive me, please, ma’am.”
“Edwin,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm, distressed.
“You will get cold,” he said. “Pull the robe up over your knees again and put your hands back inside your muff. You must already be chilled after two successive rides.”
“Edwin,” she said, her voice pleading.
“Christmas will be over soon,” he said. “Christmas always does strange things to people, does it not? It gives one dreams of perfect peace and love and amity. Ridiculous, really, though I suppose it is a pleasant myth. One worth perpetuating. In another few days we will be going our separate ways, ma’am. Next year I will try Italy, and the year after, perhaps Austria or Spain or America. I suppose there are enough places in the world for all the Christmases remaining in my life and yours, are there not? For nine years it has been relatively easy to keep our paths from crossing. I am sure that with a little ingenuity we can manage it for forty years or more longer.”
She pulled the robe up about her and slid her hands inside her muff. She directed her eyes at the latter.
“I don’t suppose you have ever visited Carlton House, have you?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Good.” His voice was brisk, cheerful. “I shall describe it to you. If we are still not quite at the house when I have finished, I shall describe the Pavilion at Brighton as well. I suppose you are unacquainted with that monstrosity too?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Good.” He launched into speech.
The children were allowed to stay up well past their usual bedtime, despite the lateness of their falling asleep the night before. Christmas came only once a year, after all. And no child was about to argue with that profound adult pronouncement.
They were herded upstairs from the drawing room to the nursery only when the adult sleigh rides were finished and the countess declared that it was time to have the carpet rolled up and the room prepared for the dancing.
It was high time to go upstairs anyway, Aubrey said, flushed with excitement and indignation. If he had to kiss one more of his female cousins beneath the kissing bough, he would run away to sea, see if he did not. And he had no desire to stay to watch the silly dancing, either. He condescended to slap a hand on the shoulder of the younger Peregrine and suggest that they set up a battlefield with the tin soldiers.
Anna was not so eager to go up, since neither her papa nor her new mama appeared with the return of the last of the sleigh riders. But she took her Aunt Marjorie’s hand obediently and allowed her grandmama to kiss her cheek, and she climbed the stairs to the nursery without complaint.
She even played for a while with the other girls and their dolls. But when her papa finally came, she took his hand and led the way into her bedchamber. The others were not going to bed, but she had no wish to stay up longer.
“Tired, sweetheart?” her papa asked, sitting on the edge of her bed while she undressed without her nurse’s help.
She nodded and allowed him to unbraid her hair and then tuck the blankets up under her chin. She raised puckered lips for his kiss.
“Good night, Anna,” he said, cupping one of her cheeks with a warm hand. “It has been a good Christmas, has it not?”
She nodded.
He leaned over her and kissed her again before leaving.
She lay very still on her back, staring upward. Yes, it had been a good Christmas. She had had the best Christmas gift ever, and her wish had been granted. She had the most wonderful mama of all—better than Aunt Sophia or Aunt Patricia. Better even than Aunt Marjorie.
Better than her own mama? She could not remember her and usually tried very hard not to do so. But she thought of her now and found that she could not remember her clearly at all. Mama had drowned. She knew that. She had seen it. But she had not pushed her. She had been afraid that they would say she had, but Papa had told her over and over and over again that she had not, that Mama had simply leaned over too far and fallen in. Yes, it was true. She tested the memory in her mind and no longer felt the old terror.
She could scarcely remember her mama. Except for a warm feeling. Mama had been warm. Just like her new mama was.
Except that there was something else with her new mama—a tiny feeling inside that she could not quite express. A tiny pain or emptiness or panic. She could not put a word to it.
Were Christmas wishes sometimes granted for Christmas only? She had never thought of that before. She had been given a new mama, but perhaps she was for Christmas only. Perhaps tomorrow she would not be Mama at all. Perhaps she would be just Miss Emma Milford.
Perhaps Papa would never marry her. And unless he did, then the gift could not last longer than Christmas. Papa had kissed her beneath the mistletoe and she had kissed him back. And clinging to them both, Anna had had a wonderful feeling about it all. She had expected when Papa had stooped down to kiss her too that he would tell her that they were to be a family.
But he had not done so. And when the adults had come into the drawing room after dinner, her papa had immediately taken himself off to talk with some of the gentlemen while her new mama had played with the children. And then, when they had both gone outside for their sleigh rides, they had not been together. Papa had taken Miss Chadwick on his arm, and her new mama had been with the elderly gentleman with the white hair and mustache.
They had not come back afterward, either of them. And though Papa had come upstairs to say good night to her, Mama had not.
She had been so sure that it was to be the best Christmas ever. She had been so certain that today it would all be perfect. Tomorrow Christmas would be over. Wouldn’t it? Was it still Christmas tomorrow? She did not think so. Not really, though everyone would still be there and the decorations would still be up, and there would still be all the good foods to eat.
But Christmas would be over and not quite perfect after all.
Anna continued to stare upward. After a while one tear spilled from the corner of an eye and ran down the side of her face and into her ear.
Emma was doing without the services of a maid, though the countess had offered her one. She had laid out her green silk gown, her most becoming one, before going down to dinner, intending to change into it for the dancing.
But she hung it back inside the wardrobe and took out her lavender frock instead. She drew it on slowly and deliberately, smoothing the sleeves down over her wrists. She took the pins from her hair and brushed it out. She parted it carefully down the center, combed it back over her ears, and knotted it tightly at her neck. She set her best lace cap on the smooth crown of her head.
She looked at herself in the mirror, hesitated, and rejected the idea of putting on her pearls. She turned away an
d went downstairs and seated herself in a shadowed corner of the room beside her aunt, who was having a comfortable conversation with the elderly sister of the countess, Marjorie Fotheringale’s mother.
She was almost the last person down, she saw, looking about her once she was safely seated. Sophia was already at the pianoforte, practicing quietly. The carpet had been removed.
It was Christmas night. The room was warm and festive, with its loops of holly and ivy and its decorated pine boughs, with the dozens of candles in the chandeliers, all brilliantly lit, and with the ornate kissing bough hanging from the center of the ceiling.
The ladies were dressed in all their silks and laces and feathers and finery. Most of the gentlemen wore satin knee breeches and brocaded waistcoats and coats.
It was Christmas, the most wonderful and most joyous season of the year. There was a buzz of anticipation as the Earl of Crampton led his countess onto the floor to begin the dancing, and a wave of laughter as he kissed her smackingly on the lips when they paused beneath the kissing bough, waiting for Sophia to begin to play.
“No,” Emma said, distracted a moment later as she watched the couple begin to dance. She looked up at Lord Hodges. “I do not dance, thank you.”
“But you really ought, dear,” her aunt said in a loud whisper after his lordship had turned away to claim another partner. “You are not quite an old maid, and you know that you always like to stand up at the assemblies at home.”
“It has been a busy day, Aunt Hannah,” she said with a smile. “These aging bones of mine are weary.”
Miss Beynon tutted and the countess’s sister chuckled.
Lord Radbrook was dancing with Roberta Chadwick. He had not intended to single her out for the first dance, but somehow it had happened. And he smiled down at her and wondered if he should control his reckless mood or give it free rein. It would be the easiest thing in the world to guide their steps to the center of the room, claim his kiss, steer her to the door and out and into some quieter room to make his offer.