A Christmas delight

by Anthea Malcolm

  "What choice did I have?" he asked simply.

  "I would have broke off with Charlie in a moment. I did break it off with him. You should have known that."

  "I never did have much faith in miracles. The closest I ever came to one was when the girl I adored came into my room and shyly begged for my love. I knew I mustn't take everything she offered, but I couldn't resist something to carry away to war. I was honored to be the first to show you

  the magic of love, Miranda."

  Alice rose to her knees and worked her way down the bed until her legs brushed his. At last she dared to tease. "And succeeded so well that I never even noticed you kept your breeches on. Thily noble restraint, my lord."

  "I'm glad you finally appreciate that." He plucked off her gold circlet, slid back her veil, and began to unravel first one plait then the other.

  Alice's heart was thundering. "What are you doing?"

  "In filthy mud, when deafened by cannons, choked by smoke, and surrounded by the dead and dying, I held a picture in my mind. Miranda with her hair long and loose around her . . ." He threaded his fingers through the heavy mass of it, letting it drift down around her so the ends trailed softly on the counterpane.

  His hands slid beneath to circle her neck, cradling her skull. "Do I get to set the date, then, since you proposed? Not that it was much of a proposal . . ."

  Joy bursting within, Alice pulled out of his lax hold and fell to her knees beside the bed. "Oh noble hero, mighty warrior! Honor this humble maid by giving her your name and heart in return for her everlasting devotion and love. Shield me in your strength and let me wrap you in the warmth of my tender love . . ." She had begun in parody but ended in honesty. "Please, Tyr, let me chase all the shadows from your eyes."

  In a heartbeat he was on the floor beside her, and she was in his arms, wrapped again in the power of his kiss. After a satisfying interval Alice fought free to gasp, "Does that mean yes?"

  "Did I ever have a choice?" His eyes were warm with laughter as his lips hungrily sought hers again.

  The door burst open. Lord Raneleigh, Roland, Charlie, and Rebecca all pushed into the room.

  "Damme!" spluttered Alice's father.

  "Rebecca!" accused Alice. She began to scramble to her feet.

  Tyr snared her and kept her in his lap. "Very comfortable

  carpet you have, Lord Raneleigh. Won't you join us?"

  "Damme!" said Lord Raneleigh again. Roland and Charlie began to laugh.

  "Sorry," said Rebecca unrepentantly to Alice. "I thought Pd make sure you didn't muff it this time."

  "Muff what?" bellowed Lord Raneleigh. "Damn it, girl, get out of his lap!"

  "I can't, Father," said Alice. "He's very strong. And anyway, since we're to be married, I suppose I should obey him."

  Her father glared at her. "Well, of course you're going to be married when I find you rolling on the bedroom floor with him. What I want to know is why you couldn't go about it in a more normal manner. First you throw over Charlie, now this!"

  Tyr suddenly stood, carrying Alice with him, then setting her on her feet. "You're completely correct, Lord Raneleigh," he said. "The only thing for it is to get her married before she changes her mind again. I think two weeks from now would do nicely."

  "TWo weeks," said Alice's father blankly. "You can't be married in a fortnight!"

  "We don't want a big wedding, Father," said Alice, "and it's long past time I was wed." She smiled up at Tyr. "In fact, I think twelve nights would be quite long enough to wait."

  His arms tightened. "Twelve nights it is. Did I ever tell you twelve is my lucky number?"

  "Mine too," said Alice against his lips. "In fact Twelfth Night will always have a very special place in my heart."

  "Damme," said the earl. "They're at it again!"

  "Maggie Willoughby, you cannot mean that!" exclaimed Charlotte Fenwick, eyeing her cousin in disbelief, who was sprawled on her stomach across the fourposter bed.

  "Charlesworth and Oliver Crandall are two of the most sought after bachelors in England," continued Charlotte. "Any hostess would simply die to have them counted among her guests. And they are coming here to Willoughby Hall for Christmas. Why, it is a feather in your mama's cap, and yet you claim you could do just as well without their presence! Anyone would think you were a candidate for Bedlam for saying any such thing."

  "Nevertheless, it is true," Maggie insisted, her brown eyes stubborn. "Christmas is meant to be a family affair, and now that the earl and his brother have condescended to accept Father's invitation, what has Mama done but get it in her head that she must invite the Winterbottoms, the Brewsters, the Thomas Smythes, the Guthries, and, heaven forbid, Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Al-mouth."

  "Maggie, how could you!" Charlotte could not quite suppress a startled giggle, half-amused and half-scandalized. "You know very well Almouth is pronounced with an '00/ not an 'ow/ "

  "Yes, but you have seen her. And worse, been forced to listen to her prose on forever about the merits of her

  daughter. Oh, yes, did I tell you? Lady Gwendolyn is to favor us with her presence as well. No doubt in spite of the fact that she is sister to a duke, she will be all too happy to cast her lures at a mere earl, especially since he is reputed to have an income which surpasses that of His Grace."

  "Now you really are doing it much too brown," Charlotte insisted, flopping down on the bed beside the other girl. "It is not at all like you to be concerned over such things as incomes and titles. Why, if I did not know better, I should think you were jealous of Lady Gwendolyn."

  "Jealous? Of Lady Gwendolyn? Charlotte, you must be mad. What in the world should I possibly find to envy in her?"

  "Well," Charlotte considered, propping her chin in the palm of one hand, "she is thought to be quite beautiful, an Incomparable, in fact, with a fair wit and unexceptional manners. A diamond of the first water, if you will."

  Maggie wrinkled her short nose in disgust. "Oh, she is beautiful all right, like a sculpture in ice or a porcelain figurine. I think her face would crack if ever she indulged in a real laugh instead of that tinkling sound she makes whenever she is beguiling some poor devil. As for her wit, you know as well as I that it is barbed, and while her manners may not be brass, they are most certainly polished steel. She has demonstrated the cutting edge of her tongue on more than one occasion of which I can think."

  Charlotte's gaze abruptly wavered and fell from her cousin's. From the dark flash of Maggie's eyes, she had known instantly that uppermost in her mind was one particular occasion when it had been so. A blush stung her cheek at the painful memory. "Yes, well," she murmured quietly, "that was a very long time ago." She lifted her head, though she did not yet look at Maggie. "We were only children. You must learn to disregard it, Maggie. As have I."

  Maggie bit her tongue to keep from blurting out a denial. They might have been children, but the memory was as fresh as if it had happened only yesterday. Nevertheless, it would do neither of them any good to dredge it all up again. The last thing she wanted was to hurt her cousin. Dearest Charlotte, who had never hurt anyone.

  "Oh, you needn't worry," Maggie said, giving her curls a toss. "I have forgot all that long ago. In fact, I have come to view Lady Gwendolyn's presence at Willoughby in the light of a cloud with a silver lining. It is my one consolation that with her in our midst, the earl and his brother are hardly likely to notice me. I shall be free to go my own way, while they, no doubt, will be thoroughly occupied with Lady Gwendolyn."

  Charlotte, taking in her cousin's lustrous brown curls and matching eyes, could not but have her doubts about that. Maggie, if she onlyknew it, was far more attractive than the duke's sister with her pale good looks. Besides having a fetching figure, smooth, unmottled skin the color of ivory, and cheeks with a rosy glow that came not from the rouge pot but from her affinity for the outdoors, Maggie was blessed with a natural warmth and vitality, which made her the life of any gathering. People were naturally drawn to her, somethi
ng which Maggie herself seemed never to notice, no doubt because she'd never been farther from Willoughby Hall than ten miles. In Maggie's mind she'd never gotten the chance to put her popularity to the touch beyond the confines of home. Had she not been forced to forego her come-out last spring because of her mama's lying-in, she doubtless would have discovered herself at least the equal of Lady Gwendolyn, who, after all, was in her third Season and still unattached. Indeed, it was entirely conceivable that Maggie might find the earl and his brother not as indifferent as she hoped.

  TUrning over, Maggie bounced off the bed to embrace with wide open arms the sunshine streaming in through

  the bay window. Having vented her disapproval of her parents' invited houseguests, it seemed she had returned to her normally good humor. "Charlotte, did you ever see a more beautiful day?" she said expansively, flashing a look over her shoulder at her cousin. "It seems a positive shame to waste it, does it not?"

  Charlotte, who had seen that look before and knew what it portended, sat up in alarm. "Oh, no," she warned, slowly shaking her head. "You know your mama said you were not to leave this room. Had you not put up such a fuss about singing tonight for the guests, you would not have been denied permission to attend Chloe's impromptu skating party. And, truly, I cannot think why you should have done, when you have a perfectly lovely soprano and play the pianoforte so well. One can hardly blame your mama for wanting to show you off, especially since she already blames herself for causing you to miss your come-out in London."

  "Oh, but that's just it, don't you see? A come-out is one thing, but Christmas is quite another." Dropping down on her knees before the other girl, Maggie clasped Charlotte's hands earnestly in her own. "Dearest Cousin, next spring I shan't cavil at being paraded before all the dowagers, matrons, and eligible males. It is one's duty to marry, after all —as little as one might like it —especially when one has three younger sisters. But this was to be my last Christmas when I was gloriously free, and I do not intend to allow it to be ruined." Giving Charlotte's hands a squeeze, she sprang to her feet. '7 am going skating," she announced with an ominous sparkle of defiance. "Are you coming with me?"

  Charlotte, who did not understand at all her cousin's rejection of two eligible gentlemen, could only shake her head in wonder. Obviously Maggie did not have the least inkling what it was to have one's heart suddenly quicken at the mere appearance of a certain someone in a room or to know the delicious quiver of one's nerves at the ac-

  cidental touch of a strong masculine hand. Maggie, it was quite certain, had never been in love.

  "Maggie, pray do not look at me that way. You know I cannot," Charlotte said. "You forget. You may be free, but I am not. I am betrothed now. I dare not do anything that might reflect badly on my future husband. Besides, Felix is waiting. I promised him a drive."

  "Are you quite sure? Everyone will be there," Maggie persisted, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. For as long as she could remember, she and her cousin Charlotte had been closer than even sisters ever hoped to be. Now that was all changing, and she felt powerless to stop it. But then, that was the way it was when people set themselves up to be married. Only in this case, she had hoped against hope it would be different. Still, it was not Charlotte's, fault, she reminded herself upon seeing the very real distress in her cousin's face. Charlotte, she realized with an odd little pang, did not love her any less simply because she loved Felix more.

  "Oh, very well." With an effort she summoned her old, impish grin, which brought enchanting dimples out in either cheek. Playfully, she shoved her cousin toward the door. "Go for your drive. Though I daresay we should have had more fun stealing an afternoon at the pond. Oh, pray don't bother your head about me," she added, sensing her cousin's hesitation. "You may tell Mama that I have learned my lesson and shall be exceedingly pleased to perform after supper. Now, go."

  Charlotte, smiling her relief, gave her cousin a quick hug and fled, free to enjoy her afternoon with Felix now that Maggie had apparently come to her senses.

  No sooner had the door closed behind her, however, than Maggie was tugging on her cashmere pelisse trimmed with fur and covering her brown curls with a sealskin hat. Then, slinging her skates over her shoulder, she peeked out the door.

  It was scarcely an hour since nuncheon, and the old

  manor house was buzzing with last-minute preparations for the anticipated arrival of the guests. She could hear her father's good-natured raillery issuing from the Great Hall below, where, under her mother's watchful eye, he was in the process of hanging the kissing bough. Suddenly she grinned as her little sister Winifred's delighted squeal rang out.

  " 'Lizabeth, look! Papa's kissing Mama!"

  "The children, Mr. Willoughby, and the servants!" came her mother's scandalized reproach, which fooled no one, least of all her errant spouse.

  "Now, now, Effie. You can't fault a man for stealing a kiss from the prettiest girl in the house. Especially when she stands so fetchingly beneath the mistletoe."

  "Prettiest girl indeed. Such flummery. I am a woman of eight and thirty and the mother of a grown daughter," she did not hesitate to inform him, though Maggie was quick to discern the gruffness in her tone that clearly bespoke her pleasure at such a compliment.

  Unexpectedly Maggie felt a lump rise in her throat. It was all a game. Everyone knew it. It had been the same every Christmas for as long as she could remember. How absurd that this time the antics of her parents should make her feel perilously close to falling into a fit of the megrims. Indeed, were she honest with herself, it was likely a twinge of conscience she was feeling for having precipitated the argument with her mama. Sneaking out of the house was not about to make matters any better. Still, she was eighteen. Old enough to decide things for herself. The fact was, she had not meant to be impertinent. Indeed, it seemed patently unfair to be punished simply for voicing her opinions on the subject of unwanted houseguests at Christmas.

  Angry with herself without really knowing why, she firmly pushed such thoughts aside. It was the season for merriment, and she would be dashed if she spent it sulking indoors.

  "Now be so good as to take yourself off," her mama was saying, shooing her husband from the room, no doubt, with the hem of her apron. "I've no time for such foolery."

  Mr. Willoughby's laughter rumbled through the house, and Maggie, who had stolen out to the head of the stairs, backed hastily into a shallow alcove. Too late, it seemed, as her father, emerging from the hall, suddenly halted and glanced up.

  She could have sworn the keen blue eyes looked straight into her own. Indeed, she could not mistake the significant arch of a single assessing eyebrow. The next instant to her surprise, she heard him noisily clear his throat and then, without a word, turn and stride off in the direction of the foyer, apparently for his morning ride.

  No sooner had Maggie breathed a long sigh of relief than her lips quirked whimsically in a lopsided grin. With his twinkling blue eyes and his rather substantial figure garbed in a bottle green riding coat and buff unmentionables, her papa might have been Father Christmas himself. Truly, he had ever seemed to embody the spirit of the season with his hearty appreciation of all that was best about it—the drawing together of family, the observing of time-honored traditions, the warmth, the love, and, of course, the rollicking good fun. Surely he, of all people, must have realized how she felt.

  This time next year, Maggie would already have made her come-out, and Christmas would never again be the same. She would either be betrothed or, worse, an acknowledged failure. In either case, her carefree days of girlhood would be gone forever. Not that she viewed her passage into womanhood with trepidation, she firmly told herself. But it had been so much fun growing up at Willoughby Hall! She was simply in no hurry to have it all behind her. She had made her feelings on the matter quite plain to Papa. She'd assured him that she was in no

  way devastated at having her come-out postponed by the birth of her new baby brother but had seen it as a so
rt of reprieve. Which was why she simply could not understand how he could have ruined everything by inviting Charlesworth and Oliver Crandall to Willoughby for Christmas!

  Unfortunately, some quirk of fate had caused her father to suddenly desire a matched set of grays for the old landau. And of course, nothing short of Ihttersall's in London would do for the acquisition of such a pair. But why did Charlesworth and his brother have to be there on that particular day? And if they had to be there, why did they have to strike up an immediate acquaintanceship with her father? And apparently they had hit it off very well indeed for her father to have invited them to join the family for the holidays. As to why two such noted gentlemen about town should have accepted was simply beyond her comprehension.

  The fact remained, however, that they had, and standing around moping about it would change nothing. It would only mean she had wasted a perfectly glorious afternoon that she might have better spent skating. Firmly relegating the troublesome matter of the earl and his brother's impending arrival to the back of her mind, she turned and made her way quickly down the gallery to the back stairs and from there, out of the house.

  December that year had been unseasonably cold with early threats of snow, but today the sun was out, and though there was a definite nip in the air, it was only enough to bring out the roses in Maggie's cheeks and a sparkle to her eye. There was a bounce in her step as well, as she made her way along the track, which led through a spinney of oak and down a low, rolling hill. By the time she had reached the bourne where it widened into a pond on the outskirts of the village, she had forgotten all about Charlesworth, Oliver Crandall, and Lady Gwendolyn.

  She was not surprised to see the pond crowded with skaters. It was not often that the ice was thick enough before the first of January to allow for this favorite winter pastime, and she had known everyone would be of a mind to make the most of it. No sooner had she got her skates strapped on and launched herself with long, sure strides out on to the ice, than she was surrounded by a bevy of friends, all laughing and badgering her for news of her illustrious houseguests.