The Christmas Visit: Comfort and JoyLove at First StepA Christmas Secret

by Moore, Margaret

  “Shh,” he urged. “I’ll be done in a moment.” But he had no intention of hurrying this. She was ready—more than ready—for this. He took intense satisfaction in the feel of her, the slick heat at the entrance of her passage and the little mewling sounds she made when aroused.

  She swallowed hard, her gaze holding his again.

  With his thumb, he found the hard little nub that was the core of her arousal. Simultaneously, he slipped his middle finger to her opening. He made a shallow entry and pressed lightly upward.

  “Oh!” Charity gasped.

  Her knuckles turned white where they grasped the arms of the chair. Lord, how he longed to be inside her, watch her cheeks flush from his lovemaking, feel her warmth close around his shaft as he buried himself inside her. Soon, he promised himself. Soon.

  Her eyes had grown dark as her pupils dilated with passion. Her tongue wet her lips and Drew could not tell if that was a nervous reaction or an invitation. If it was an invitation, he dared not take it. He was already on edge. The least little provocation would destroy his self-control and he was painfully aware that the door was closed but not locked.

  He continued his rhythmic stroking, increasing the depth of his entry in small measures. When her breathing became ragged and erratic, he deepened the pressure of his thumb. She arched her throat and moaned as pleasure swept over her, her muscles convulsing around his fingers. He kissed her and murmured endearments, stroking lightly now, ever slower, until her gasps softened to sighs.

  With profound regret, he withdrew his hand, unfastened her rear garter, and began to roll her stocking downward. Charity sat mute and limp, her hands in her lap, as he chafed her foot to restore the circulation.

  Not trusting himself not to ravish her, he stood and stepped back. “Warm enough yet, sweet Charity?” he asked with a grin as he retreated to the door.

  Would she be angry with him and declare that she hated him or swear that she loved only Lingate? Would she call him well-deserved names and accuse him of being a libertine?

  She covered her mouth to muffle a giggle. “Quite warm, thank you.”

  What an unexpectedly saucy wench she was! It was all he could do to close that door and keep walking.

  Chapter Eight

  A footman helped Charity and Grace down from the sleigh at their first stop at the Lord Mayor’s house. Charity had worn her red wool coat trimmed in white fur and carried her white fur muff. She also wore her warmest stockings and boots. There would be no repeat of this afternoon. Just the thought of that had her aching for Drew’s touch again. Was he some wizard who had cast a spell on her? Everything was so confused in her mind that she vowed to stay away from him until she could think clearly.

  She glanced around as the other sleighs arrived and deposited their occupants. Julius waved to her from a small group of his friends and she gave a listless acknowledgment. Oh, dear. What was she going to do about him? She used to live in happy expectation of his declaration, and she now lived in dread. She was finding it nearly impossible to let go of her dream. She was not at all sure she could.

  And there, stepping down from yet another sleigh was Andrew MacGregor. No boyish wave, just a slow, knowing smile that started a burning deep inside her. He looked as if he were going to come over to their group, but Lord Edward shouted and gestured him over to a small circle of men. He gave her a regretful smile that said he would look for her later. She sighed. And what, dear heavens, was she going to do about him?

  How could things that had been so clear mere days ago be so muddy now? She couldn’t believe the change just three days had wrought in her life. She had arrived at Wyecliffe Manor a rather prim little miss with her heart on her sleeve for a young man she’d known half her life. But since Drew MacGregor’s arrival, she was considerably wiser and close to surrendering herself to a man she’d known two and a half days all told. And all without mention of love, a future or a commitment.

  Make no mistake—he was seducing her, conditioning her to respond with no more than two simple words. All he needed to say was Sweet Charity and she was pulsating for his touch. She was mortified that he had such power over her, and that he knew it. It was a dark, erotic secret between them, and it was almost unbearably intimate.

  Seeking to break her brooding mood, she glanced around to get her bearings. A group of women who had been among the first to arrive were standing in a tight little circle speaking in whispered tones and looking toward Edward Mackay’s group. A moment later, a peel of laughter rose from their circle. They had turned their backs on Miss Foley, a sweet-natured, soft-spoken young woman with a pleasant but plain face. There had been something deliberately exclusive about the way the other women had turned their backs on Miss Foley that angered Charity. She and Grace started forward as if of one mind, but before they could arrive, Andrew MacGregor called out.

  “Miss Foley,” he said in a raised voice, gesturing her over to his group of mostly men. “Will you consent to lend your voice to ours? Without you I fear we shall all sing off-key.”

  Grace opened her mouth to issue her own invitation, but Charity silenced her with a wave. “No, Grace. ’Tis better this way,” she said, fighting down a twinge of jealousy. “Now Miss Foley will be the envy of all.”

  “Very generous of you, Charity, given that I collect you are growing fonder of Sir Andrew by the moment.” Grace smiled and winked. “Shall we join Olivia’s group?”

  “Go on without me. I shall be along in a few moments.”

  She watched Sir Andrew a little longer, noting how kindly he treated Miss Foley and how deliberately he flaunted her before her peers. The girl glowed with shy pleasure. Charity knew how it felt to fall outside the bounds of society. Oh, she was accepted by virtue of her good birth, but when her father’s fortune failed, she learned very quickly who her friends were and how such a thing could taint acceptability.

  She sighed, squared her shoulders and went to stand beside Miss Lucinda Matthews. “We have not found time to chat since you arrived, Miss Matthews. When was the last time we talked?”

  “Last spring?” Miss Matthews ventured. “We discussed the virtues of waltzing over a reel, if I recall.”

  Charity laughed. “I hope I did not shock you, but it is ever so much easier to talk to your partner when not separated by other dancers.”

  “I quite agree.” Miss Matthews smiled. “And it would take much more than that to shock me.”

  “Yes, I would imagine.” Charity affected a look of world-weary sophistication. “We are both too wise for our years, I think. That is why I can tell you that I know your secret.”

  “Ah,” she said with a sage nod. “And I know yours.”

  Charity thought nothing could surprise her after the past few days, but this left her speechless. “Mine?”

  “’Tis fairly plain to anyone with eyes in their head.”

  What could the woman be talking about? “You must tell me how I betrayed myself, Miss Matthews.”

  “It is not something you can control, Miss Wardlow. Love shines out.”

  Love, was it? Had Miss Matthews seen the way she looked at Julius? How she found occasions to meet with him, talk to him, touch him? And if she had seen it, who else might have seen it? She groaned. “Am I a laughingstock? Are people talking?”

  “Not at all. ’Tis so recent that I do not imagine many have had the opportunity to notice.”

  “Recent?”

  “Yes, and I must say I am glad. I never thought Julius Lingate was the man for you. Not enough depth, my dear.”

  Heavens! Miss Matthews was talking about Sir Andrew MacGregor! “I am an absolute idiot,” she muttered.

  Miss Matthews laughed. “Never say so. ’Twas coup de foudre, my dear. The thunderbolt. It often takes the brain several days to catch up to the body.”

  Yes, she’d agree that her body was well ahead of her mind. It was true, then—that niggling suspicion that she’d have to refuse Julius.

  “I wonder, Miss Wardlow, what
you will do with my secret.”

  “Oh, um, that depends, Miss Matthews.” On whatever the secret was. She liked Miss Matthews, and she hoped the girl was not the mother of Mackay’s baby. She withdrew the handkerchief from her muff and pretended to dab at the corner of her eye, but she could not discern any flicker of recognition.

  “How did you discover what I’d done? Did you see me putting it outside his door?”

  Heavens, had she left the baby outside Mackay’s door? There was nothing for it but to bluff. “Yes. I must say that I was quite surprised.”

  “I hope you will consider keeping the secret. The world would not end if you told, but I’d prefer to remain anonymous.”

  “Anonymous?” she repeated.

  “Certainly. Mr. Fredrickson would consider it charity, and I would not embarrass him for all the world. If he should see pity in my gesture or some implied criticism, it would make our friendship very awkward. The same could be said if he misread my intent as affection.”

  Completely bewildered, Charity nodded. “M-may I ask what it was?”

  “A new cravat along with the latest book on stylish knots. He is always fiddling with his cravat, especially after a spirited dance, and his knots are…shall we say abominable? I hope the instructions will help.”

  “But why Mr. Fredrickson, if you have no particular affection for him?”

  “He is a very kind man, Miss Wardlow. He does not have a valet to attend these matters for him, and he deserves better than to be laughed at behind his back.”

  Charity smiled and squeezed Miss Matthew’s arm as the sound of voices raised in a carol beckoned them to the task. “I shall never say a word,” she promised.

  “How long have you known?” Charity asked Grace the next morning.

  Grace continued brushing her glossy dark hair. “I think from the day he arrived. There was an excitement to your step that I hadn’t seen before, and a saucy lift to your chin. I must say, dear, love becomes you.”

  “But I love Julius.”

  “You are infatuated with the idea of Julius,” Grace contradicted. “I wonder how much longer you will allow him to waste your time.”

  “I hate it when you are so right,” she complained. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “Would you have listened?”

  “No, but that is beside the point.”

  Grace stood from the dressing table and tightened the sash of her dressing gown. “More importantly, Charity, what will you do about it now?”

  Charity slipped her willow-green gown over her head and turned her back for Grace to button. “What can I do? It isn’t as if Sir Andrew has declared himself. I sometimes think he barely suffers me. We are at odds on so many things, and even our friendship, if you can call it that, began with an argument and a challenge.”

  “Yes. I am glad you finally told me what you’ve been up to. I was beginning to wonder what was taking so much of your time. And time is growing short. There is only today and tomorrow, then the wedding day. How many women do you still have to interview?”

  “Two. Laura Tuxbury and Lydia Foley.”

  “Lydia? The same Lydia that Sir Andrew befriended last night? Can you be serious?”

  “Her name begins with L and there is no one else left that we have not investigated. I cannot believe it is either of them, but who else remains?”

  “Someone unknown to you. Someone not on the guest list. Have you taken the handkerchief to the linen merchant in the village to see if he recognizes it? The Mackays have made their home here for many years. It is not beyond imagining that Edward might have dallied with one of the local girls.”

  “That is an excellent idea, Grace. I shall walk to the village to make inquiries directly after lunch.”

  “Leave Lydia Foley to me, Charity. Now that I know what you’re up to, I want to help. Oh, and dress warm, dear. The temperature is dropping.”

  Charity glanced helplessly up and down the deserted street. All her careful plans were falling apart. She had been almost to the village when great huge flakes of snow began to fall in such a thick curtain that she could scarcely see her hand in front of her face.

  The villagers were saying it was the worst storm they had seen this early in the season. Most merchants closed shop early and hurried home for the day, including the linen dealer. She’d made the long walk for nothing. There was no place she could take refuge in such a small village, and the last wagon that passed Wyecliffe Manor had departed hours ago. Unless the snow relented, she was stuck.

  There were no rooms available at the local inn, the Falkland Arms. The innkeeper had doubled and tripled guests, and there was simply no more space. He sent inquiries to a local family requesting lodgings, but they responded that their homes were full to bursting. The innkeeper told her she could spend the night in the public room, though he recommended against it. The crowd would be mostly male and very rough, he warned.

  There was nothing for it but to trudge back to Wyecliffe Manor in the storm. In all the confusion of guests and activities, only Grace would miss her, and she would be beside herself if Charity was not home by dark. She was heading into the storm this time, and she fastened her bonnet tightly and tucked her hands as deeply as she could inside her muff.

  She had to be back by morning. Tomorrow she had the final fitting for her bridesmaid gown, the arrangement of the hothouse flowers and the preparation of the Christmas Eve feast that night. In addition, it would be her last opportunity to interview Laura Tuxbury.

  Depending on her findings, she would need to have a long talk with Olivia and disclose the information she’d been able to gather thus far. Once disclosed, she would still urge Olivia to go through with the marriage. She could not doubt Mackay’s love for Olivia after seeing them beneath the kissing bough.

  Not half a mile outside the village, she knew she’d made a mistake. Better the hearth at the Falkland Arms than frozen on the road. The large, heavy flakes turned to water when they melted against her face and clothing, and she was beginning to feel the chill all the way to the bone.

  As she debated the wisdom of turning back, she heard the sound of hooves muffled by the blanket of snow. A moment later, a huge chestnut stallion reared before her and she lost her footing, tumbling to the side of the road as she tried to scurry out of the way. She was still brushing the snow off her face when a strong arm lifted her to her feet.

  “Well met, Miss Wardlow. I thought I’d have to knock on doors to find you. What are you doing out here? Have you not the good sense to come in out of the weather?”

  Relief made her weak and she sagged against him. “Sir Andrew, thank heavens. I feared you might be a highwayman.”

  He laughed. “Even highwaymen respect the weather. When Mrs. Forbush told me you’d gone to town, I was appalled. She assured me you did not know how severe the storm would be.”

  “Oh, dear. Is she worried?”

  He brushed the snow from her cloak and righted her fur-trimmed bonnet. “I promised her I would find lodgings for you.”

  “A premature promise,” she said. “There are no lodgings to be had, save for the public room at the Falkland Arms. That is why you find me on the road. I could not even find anyone I knew to prevail upon. Could you take me back to Wyecliffe Manor or lend me your horse?”

  “You’re daft,” he said, lifting her off her feet. “It took me an hour and a half to come this far. We would both freeze before we could get to Wyecliffe. No, it’s back to Great Tew for us.”

  “Very well,” she consented as he put her in the saddle and swung up behind her. “But I shan’t be responsible if I come away swearing like a soldier and smelling like stale ale.”

  “And you’re mad if you think I’d leave you in the common room,” he grumbled. “I have comfortable accommodations.”

  The horse set off at slow but steady pace and Charity relaxed against the broad, warm chest at her back. “The innkeeper said he had doubled and tripled the guests.”

  “Not me, Miss
Wardlow, unless you count doubling my rate.”

  “Do you propose to sneak me up the back stairs?”

  “There’s only one staircase. We shall have to brazen it out.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Why in blazes did you not think to ask for me by name?” Sir Andrew asked Charity as the innkeeper stood by.

  Unprepared for this tactic, Charity batted her eyelashes. “I did not think of it, sir.”

  “Women.” He exchanged a telling glance with the innkeeper.

  She was not going to let him get away with making her look like a simpleton. “Why did you not tell the innkeeper you were expecting your wife? Last time you did not leave word for me, I found a tart in your bed. How was I to know—”

  “Never mind. I’ve found you now and I think you will thaw satisfactorily.” He grinned and turned back to the innkeeper. “Could you send up some bread, cheese and wine for me? A little eggnog for the wife, if you wouldn’t mind, along with a hot bath and fresh towels.”

  He dropped a few coins on the counter—more than the items cost, Charity was certain—and took her by the arm. He led her up the narrow winding staircase and to the end of the second-floor hall. She should have been shocked to the core, but all she could do was try to muffle her laughter. When he unlocked his door, she hesitated.

  “Come now, Miss Wardlow. You’ll find no tart in my bed. Too late for maidenly modesty now. And if we do not get you out of that sodden stuff and warm soon, you’ll have pneumonia.”

  A gentle nudge at the small of her back propelled her across the threshold into a charming little room with a canopy bed and a fire on the hearth. The room smelled of spice and citrus, like Sir Andrew’s coat. A heavy mound of snow had piled against the panes of a mullioned window with heavy draperies that looked out on the green where the snowfall deepened. A single chair sat in front of a side table, where a tiny box wrapped in gaily colored paper sat. Everything was quite charming—and tantalizingly indecent.