Lady Joy and the Earl: A Regency Christmas Novella

by Regina Jeffers

  Jocelyn sighed heavily. “I do not know whether to laugh in relief or to cry at the loss of so much of my and James’s history. There is nothing to mark what might have been.”

  An equally heavy sigh from Lady Meredith brought her back to the present. Around her, everyone sought coats and scarfs and gloves. This was the day they were to gather the greenery to decorate the house. Customarily, they would add the fresh holly and evergreen to mantels and staircases on Christmas Eve, but as Christmas would arrive on a Monday this year, decorating on the Sabbath would not be employed. Lord Hough had ordered Mr. Locke to choose an appropriate yule log for the large fireplace in the main hall, and, for several days now, his lordship’s servants had decorated the least used rooms, leaving those their party commonly used to their devices.

  “Are your grandmother and the Effroms not to join us?” she asked Michael before he could dart past her.

  “I believe she and the Mister Effroms are to aid Ladies Hough and Mary with the baskets for the tenants.”

  Jocelyn bit her bottom lip in indecision. “Perhaps I should join them. It is not as if I will be of use to Lord Hough.”

  Her son frowned deeply. “I, for one, would despise seeing you relegated to the grandmother sect. You have spent a decade advising Andrew and me, but soon we must be on our own. I do not wish to find you spending your days alone.”

  Jocelyn attempted to keep the tears from her eyes, but Michael’s kindness always caught her off guard. “And where might I find someone to share my days?” she asked in a light-hearted tease.

  Michael lowered his voice. “What of Lord Hough? Andrew says his lordship wished to court you.”

  “Your brother does not approve of my reclaiming Lord Hough’s attentions,” she whispered.

  Michael shook off her protest. “I do not believe such was Andrew’s objections. Neither he nor I wished his lordship to force his attentions upon you. We sincerely wish you never to know anguish again. Although we have not discussed it, I believe Andrew only wishes you happy, as do I.”

  Jocelyn cupped his chin line with her open palm. “Where did my boy go?” She smiled warmly. “I see a young man before me.”

  He bent to kiss her forehead. “If it makes any difference in your opinions, both Lady Meredith and Lord Bluffton wish equal happiness for their father. Lady Mary says you have always owned Hough’s heart.

  “Thank you for your blessing. You are becoming a remarkably intuitive young man. I shall seriously consider your advice.”

  Chapter Eight

  Complete joy makes one speechless; if I were only a little happy, then I could say exactly how much. Lady, you are mine and I am yours. For you, I give myself away and I’m ecstatic about the exchange.

  William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing, Act II, Scene i

  “We must have at least one kissing bough,” Miss Stephenson declared boldly.

  Without thinking upon his response, James shot a quick glance to Jocelyn and was surprised to find her smiling back at him. Despite his best efforts, warmth flooded James’s insides. Demme the woman! Will I never be free of her?

  “My staff have secured several kissing boughs, Miss Stephenson, but they will be placed only in very public places within the household. I would be most disconcerted to learn anyone laid in wait to claim a kiss from an unsuspecting passerby,” he declared with a hint of warning to all assembled.

  Miss Stephenson blushed thoroughly. “I never meant to imply, my lord—”

  James permitted the girl her protest. “Neither did I, Miss Stephenson. My caution was meant for all in our gathering. It was never my intention to suggest otherwise. Please say you will accept my apology.”

  “Certainly, my lord,” the girl said with another blush of what appeared to be genuine embarrassment, likely a first for the girl.

  After an awkward pause, everyone moved off to gather more greenery, and, watching them go, James smiled in satisfaction. However, his smile quickly faded when he turned to find Jocelyn standing close—too close for his good sense.

  “Nicely accomplished, my lord,” she said softly.

  James made an effort to relax and smile. “A technique I learned at the hands of the new Duke of Thornhill, a handsome young aristocrat with more swagger than had his lecherous father. After he eviscerated my original proposal for the formal apprenticeship of apothecaries, His Grace privately took me aside and reminded me to expose openly those who would manipulate me into doing their bidding. I must sorely admit listening to the advice of a man only a little less than half my age was humbling, but Thornhill understands people and how to persuade others. Quite magical indeed. You might have heard of the duke. His country seat is in Kent.”

  “I fear not, but perhaps my family should cultivate his acquaintance. If you admire the duke, then perhaps Andrew might benefit from the connection,” she admitted.

  “I would be pleased to extend the introduction.” He stepped a bit deeper into the conversation by moving closer to her. “Would you care to join me, Joy?” Although he offered her his arm, James never expected Jocelyn to capitulate.

  He glanced around them to note the others had deserted them. Purposefully? He suspected their children were more than a bit aware of the turmoil between Jocelyn and him. When his gaze again settled upon her, she stared at him through narrowed eyes, as though she wondered upon his secrets—or perhaps she wondered upon her own—those that kept them apart.

  “I believe we possess enough assistance to perform the task you set for our children and relations. I will join you, sir, but in conversation, not pruning holly.”

  He hesitated and then asked, “Has this something to do with our latest conversation?”

  “According to Michael, our children hold no objections if we find happiness.” For some reason, she stiffened, as if she had said too much.

  So much for comfortable ground between them. These days, they could not manage a simple, casual conversation. “Are we to discover this happiness together?”

  Jocelyn bared her teeth in a parody of a smile. “Michael did not say.”

  “Would you wish to claim happiness with me, Jocelyn?”

  “There are things we must discuss,” she said softly, dropping her eyes and head, so he could no longer look upon her.

  “In the middle of Hough woods?” he questioned. “With the possibility for an interruption?”

  She shook off the idea. “Perhaps in your study, at say four?”

  “I will anticipate this discussion. Now mayhap you will walk with me. We should observe the progress of our children and relations, who hold no objections to our speaking of private matters together.”

  “And you assume said lack of objections gives us permission to walk arm-in-arm?” she teased.

  He smiled genuinely upon her. “For the pleasure of your company, I am willing to chance their ire, my lady.”

  * * *

  James glanced again to the ormolu clock. Three minutes past the hour. He was thinking of going in search of Jocelyn when a tap came on the door.

  “Come,” he called before standing to straighten his waistcoat.

  Jocelyn entered tentatively. “Are you still willing for us to speak, my lord?”

  “Most assuredly.” He gestured to two chairs before the fire. “Should I ring for tea?”

  As she primly crossed the room, an old sizzle raced through him. She belongs to me, an insidious whisper rang in his head. Whether Jocelyn knows it or not, she belongs to me.

  “If you do not mind, my lord, might I have a sherry instead?” she asked before she sat.

  He watched as she carefully adjusted her skirt’s seams. “Certainly.” He poured her a short glass, but when he handed the drink to her, James noticed Jocelyn’s fingers trembled, and he wondered if her resolve required shoring up.

  “Not frightened of me, are you, Joy?” he asked in teasing tones, hoping to set her more at ease.

  “I am frightened of so many things,” she croaked, after a large swallow of
the sherry sent her into a fit of coughing.

  James removed the glass from her hand and set it to the side before lifting her arms above her head and pulling her to a standing position. “Easy. Slow breaths,” he instructed.

  As her coughs subsided, he gathered her to him. “I am here, Joy. There is no reason to know fear. Whatever you share with me, goes no further.”

  “Although I wish you to understand, I do not think I am brave enough to give credence to the past,” she murmured on a deep shuddering sigh. She snuggled deeper into his embrace, and James closed his eyes to enjoy the feel of her along his front. He had dreamed so often of such moments, and he meant to savor this one.

  “Is it necessary for us to revisit the past?” His hands drifted down her arms to catch her hands in his. “I do not wish you to think anything you share will ever change my feelings for you. I would be content to go forward from here.”

  Another heavy sigh escaped her lips. “In truth, I am not certain I can—I can lie—” She buried her face into his chest.

  “Can speak a lie or rest in my arms?” he questioned.

  “The second,” she whispered against his shirt. Her warm breath heated his desire. However, James swallowed his lust. Jocelyn needed him to listen with more than his ears.

  “Do you feel comfortable as we stand here or would you prefer to sit?” he asked cautiously.

  She edged closer to him. “Here.”

  “Here it is.” He nuzzled her ear. “Should I ask questions, or would it be easier if you chose the order of our discussion?”

  “Two things must be settled before anything more occurs,” she murmured.

  James stroked her arms. “You lead, love.”

  Jocelyn drew a deep breath. “Harrison’s death. The rumors.”

  “I am listening,” he whispered. “Tell me the story in your own manner.”

  A long silence followed before she said, “On the day of Harrison’s death, Andrew’s tutor reported that my son had chosen to visit the stables where a new litter of puppies had caught Andrew’s attention.” Another deep sigh followed. James’s hands slowed their progress. How could something so commonplace lead to a man’s death? “Harrison tolerated no deviation from Andrew’s schedule,” she explained, as if she knew what question had crossed his mind.

  “Was Andrew to be punished?” he asked cautiously.

  “Yes. But I would not allow it. Not again.”

  “Again?” he asked, fearing her answer.

  Jocelyn’s voice trembled. “Andrew often knew his father’s ire, much more so than did Michael. My husband punished Andrew when my son’s actions did not please Lathrop, as well as doling out punishment for my sins.”

  A muscle in James’s jaw tightened. Her sins? A wrinkle of confusion rested upon his brow, but he swallowed the ire rising in his chest. “What did you do to stop Lathrop from mistreating Andrew?”

  She raised her head from where it rested against his chest to look upon him. “I accepted the punishment in Andrew’s stead.”

  James knew his eyes caught fire as anger rushed through his veins. He had no means to disguise his fury. Lathrop had raised his hand to Jocelyn. Indignation ripped through him. He was half tempted to ride to Kent, dig up Lathrop’s carcass and scatter the bastard’s bones off Dover’s white cliffs. Lathrop did not deserve a place of honor in his family’s history. “And what then?” he hissed through tight lips.

  “Harrison thought my suggestion a fine idea. At least, those were his words.” Her expression held an unwavering determination, which made James proud to love such a woman. “Lathrop chose a sturdy strap into which he carefully embedded small nails while I looked on.”

  James could no longer breathe. Jocelyn lifted her chin in a rebellious gesture. “He wished me to beg for his forgiveness, but I would not. Could not.”

  A bitter chill settled over him, but he managed to ask, “How many lashes?”

  “Ten.” She stiffened. “It was not the first time I had displeased Harrison. Other than my dowry and a connection to the marquessate, there was little about me of which Lathrop approved. But this particular time, my husband used more force than was customary. He meant to punish both my defense of my son and Andrew’s defiance. Afterwards, he left me lying bloody upon my bedroom floor. With orders that none of the servants assist me, he visited his mistress, a woman he kept in a large cottage upon the estate, along with her three sons. It was with great pleasure I ordered her and Lathrop’s bastards from the Lathrop land once Harrison’s funeral was complete.”

  James looked down upon her, not with sympathy, because Jocelyn would not ask for such, but with satisfaction of knowing such a remarkable woman. “And Lathrop died how?”

  “Andrew found me on the floor. He assisted me to my bed, but before I knew what was what, my son swore to avenge my degradation. I attempted to stop him from seeking out his father. I pleaded with him not to confront Lathrop, but he stormed away. Although I was weak, I followed. Lathrop was on his way home, striding along the cliffs, a crisp bounce in his step. He had appeased his lust with that woman.” Her breath came in harsh bursts as she spoke the words. “I watched in horror as Andrew challenged his father. Just eleven years old and more of a man than was Lathrop. Angry with Andrew’s continued insolence, my husband caught up my son to throw Andrew over the cliff.”

  “His own son?” James questioned in complete disbelief.

  “My son,” she corrected. “I wrestled with Harrison, attempting to free Andrew, but he kept throwing me off, as if I were nothing more than a wet rag. Andrew was crying for help, and I was near exhaustion when, from nowhere, Michael rushed at his father to join the fracas. With the power only a nine-year-old can hold, he hit Harrison’s legs from behind, causing Lathrop’s knees to buckle. It was all so fast, there was nothing I could do to prevent it. Lathrop pitched forward, but could not maintain his balance as he still held a squirming Andrew over his head. When his footing gave way, I grabbed Andrew’s arm to keep him from following. My arm popped from its joint, but I held on. Something miraculous occurred, I cannot explain how, for I know not the answer, Michael and I managed to keep Andrew from falling to his death. With God’s grace, we pulled him over the lip of the cliff. I did not look for Harrison, and I forbid both boys doing so. My world is, and was, my sons. Despite the loss of their father, we were complete. The three of us held on to each other until several servants came to our rescue. I told the authorities Lathrop beat me when we argued, and I was not in my right mind when he again turned to his mistress for comfort.”

  Jocelyn closed her eyes, apparently reliving the aftermath of the scene she just described, the tension in her body breaking over her. “Michael does not remember how it happened, refusing to think upon his part in his father’s death, and Andrew and I agreed never to discuss it before him.”

  “Although none of you are at fault, I understand your reticence to speak on Lathrop’s death,” he said as he caressed her cheek, but before either of them could say more, the door swung wide. They jumped apart, but her niece did not appear to notice. Constance stood in obvious agitation.

  * * *

  “Thank goodness, I found you.”

  “What is amiss?” Jocelyn crossed to take Constance’s hands to lead the girl to a nearby chair.

  “Please, aunt.” Constance wailed. “It is Andrew.”

  “Where is he?” Jocelyn demanded.

  “We were hanging holly in the gallery,” was all the girl said before, instinctively, Jocelyn was rushing toward the door. James followed, but she had no time for an explanation.

  “Have someone find my mother and ask her to tend Constance. Tell my mother Andrew has seen the portrait,” she ordered when he caught up to her. “Then join me in the gallery.”

  Without questions—in complete trust—an idea which both frightened and pleased Jocelyn—his lordship’s steps turned toward the common rooms on the lower floors, while she quickly climbed to the gallery overlooking the main foyer. Bursting th
rough the still open door, she stumbled to a halt when she discovered Andrew sitting upon the floor, much as she once had, before the portrait of Captain Lord Jackson Highcliffe, 6th Earl Hough.

  She stood dumbstruck, attempting to construct an excuse—an explanation—in her head, but there was none to give but the truth—her emotions growing more and more strained. Will I lose Andrew’s affections today? Dashing away the tears she did not know were upon her cheek, she moved to sit beside him. For long, excruciating minutes, she waited, first staring at the hard features upon her son’s face and then upon the image of Jackson Highcliffe. The 6th Earl’s features were so like her son’s, there was no means to disguise the obvious.

  At length, she murmured, “I never wished you to discover—” Her whisper reverberated through the gallery, like a dark sigh of resignation. She could not finish. “The portrait was not here when I looked last evening.”

  He did not turn to look upon her: His anger filled the room and his words. “Then you did mean to keep the truth from me?”

  He held so perfectly still, a silent warning they were not going anywhere until they settled this. She thought to reach for him, but he recoiled from her touch. Planting her hands firmly upon her lap, she said, “I do not know whether I would have ever told you,” she whispered through trembling lips. “I knew you would be devastated, and I could not bring myself to harm you.”

  “You did harm me.” His bitter words rang in the empty hall. “Tell me, Mother, how many more lies have you told?”

  “You will address your mother in respectful tones.” From the still opened door, Lord Hough’s voice and presence filled the gallery.