Noel's Wish

by Donna Lea Simpson

  But the little thing was not going to go down without a fight. Though it was cornered against some wooden crates, it had its back up and was hissing and spitting with all the courage in its small frame. He just couldn’t let nature take its course. He had scooped up the kitten, getting a scratch for his efforts, and had taken the little thing home in his pocket, not sure what he was going to do with it but determined not to let it die.

  In the light of morning, after the scullery maid at his town house had given it a bath, it turned out to be an enchanting fluffy ball of fur with a precocious attitude that reminded him of his daughter. Impulsively, he had decided that would be her first Christmas gift, and so he found a red ribbon and tied it around the little devil’s neck, which was no easy chore since it never stopped wriggling and batting at the ribbon.

  But back to the mystery of Lady Beecham-Brooke. It had only been a week ago that he was in London. Surely he could remember all the gossip he had heard just that long ago?

  A stirring in the great hall made him put his glass down on a table and leave the library. Two women stood blinking in the chandelier-lit great hall, one with her arm over the other’s shoulders in an oddly protective gesture. Ruston’s housekeeper, Mrs. Bowles, greeted them with Stoddart, and she led away the shorter of the two women, by her dress likely a lady’s maid.

  Ruston stepped forward. “Good evening, my lady. I trust your accident left you unharmed?”

  The woman left behind whirled, her velvet cloak swirling around her and settling in folds. She was tall for a woman, and slim, with a regal air. She lifted her chin and said, her voice brittle and as cold as the night air, “My lord, I had no idea you were in residence. We would not have imposed had we known that was the case.”

  Staring into her eyes—violet eyes; how rare!—he thought how cold and penetrating her glare was. And then it came to him.

  “Of course!” he blurted out, jabbing the air with his forefinger. “You are Lady Ice!”

  Chapter Two

  Her glare turned to an expression of disdain.

  Ruston froze. Had he actually said that out loud? He had remembered quite suddenly where he had heard her name: Perry and Sylvia had been full of the latest on dits about her. He had not expected the subject of London’s favorite tittle-tattle to be quite so beautiful, though, and his shock had caused him to blurt out that savage sobriquet.

  A maid descended the wide staircase from the second floor. While the girl helped divest Lady Beecham-Brooke of her cloak he stared at the woman before him.

  She was absolutely lovely: flawless, creamy skin, raven hair dressed high, with bunches of curls near her exquisite face, and with a figure that, though slim, was curvaceous too. When she turned, she pierced him with those amethyst eyes, but stood, composed and wordless. Lady Ice.

  He bowed. “Please, warm yourself in the gold saloon while your room is being prepared, my lady. You must be chilled to the bone.” Only after he said it did he realize how that sounded, given her nickname. He grimaced.

  • • •

  Up in the gallery, above the great hall, a pair of hazel eyes and a pair of green eyes gazed down at the scene. Mossy stared. “I wonder who she is, Noël?”

  The kitten dug his claws in and wriggled in her arms.

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” she whispered, tightening her hold. “Look, she’s taking off her cloak and turning back to Daddy, but he’s just standing there with his mouth open.” She giggled but stifled it with her hand. The woman glanced up, as if she had heard something, and Mossy stared at the lady’s face.

  She was beautiful, the most beautiful lady Mossy had ever seen, but there was something else. Furrowing her blond brows and squeezing her kitten to her, though he squawked in protest, Mossy thought she had never seen a lady whose eyes looked so sad. Lost in her thoughts, she let Noël leap from her arms and scamper down the hall.

  • • •

  Ann raised her eyebrows but followed the viscount’s direction. She thought for a moment she had heard a ghostly laugh in the gallery, above the hall, but that was superstitious nonsense. She was furious, as angry as she had ever been in her life. She had left London to escape that ridiculous epithet, only to be taunted with it in the middle of nowhere!

  She had thought by accepting her old school friend Verity’s invitation to spend the Christmas season in Bath with her and her husband she would let the furor of her appellation, and how she had earned it, die down, but it appeared that it had infiltrated even this far into the countryside.

  Outwardly she maintained her air of calm disdain. Who was this Viscount Rustic, or whatever Jacob had called him? He was well enough looking, she supposed. Under her dark lashes she studied him as she waited to see where he planned to sit in the warm, golden room, so she could sit a distance away from him.

  He was tall and broad-shouldered. Reggie had been tall, but thin and dark, whereas this fellow seemed to glow with health and vitality. His hair was a dark auburn, his skin tanned, golden in the light from the fire. He moved with an easy grace, whereas her husband had always had a rigidity about him, as though he was a puppet.

  “Please, you must be cold, er . . .” The viscount colored, his cheeks mantling with a brick-red color. “What I mean to say is, the fire is warm, and the night has been exceptionally frosty. Why don’t you come closer to the fire?” he coaxed. “You must have been frightened out there on the Bath road alone with just your maid. I can’t imagine what your driver was thinking!”

  “Jacob knows me well enough to be aware that I am never frightened,” she said. It wasn’t the truth, but it sounded well. “I am quite happy here, my lord.” Knowing he would not sit until she did, she sat on a sofa between two big, gold-draped windows.

  The butler entered, followed by two footmen with trays, one of tea and one of food. They set the trays on a low table near Ann and she glanced at the viscount. “Shall I pour, my lord?” She was pleased with herself. She was in a towering rage, and yet no one would have known it by her voice, which was calm and even, unlike during that little incident in London, the one that had cemented her reputation.

  “Certainly.”

  He was prowling closer to her, and to her annoyance her hand on the silver handle of the teapot trembled slightly as he joined her on the brocade sofa. He loomed so large and warm; he radiated heat like one of the great beasts she had seen at the Tower menagerie.

  She was tired and overwrought, that was all. It had been an eventful night. She handed him a cup and served herself, gratefully sipping the steaming brew. It was certainly nothing to do with being sorry he knew the gossip about her. Nothing at all.

  Ruston, too, sipped his tea. He had taken the opportunity to sit next to her because he had not believed it possible that any woman could be as beautiful as she appeared. Surely there was some flaw. He gazed at her steadily, pleased beyond reason to see her hand tremble, then castigating himself the next second. She had been through a horrendous experience and then waited by the roadside with just her maid for company in the frigid darkness. Despite her brave words she must have been cold and a little afraid. It was unchivalrous of him to take pleasure from any discomfort she might feel.

  She was, indeed, flawless. Her skin had the pale beauty of cream, her full lips the color of pink roses. Her hair was black and glossy, and even after tumbling in a carriage accident was still coifed and neat. But it was those violet eyes, clear and large, fringed in coal-black lashes, that had taken his breath away from the first moment. She would not look up at him. He cursed himself again for the ill-timed blunder of calling her Lady Ice, but the wicked appellation being bandied about London had come to him just at that moment and had been out before he thought.

  Lady Ice.

  She was proud—no, haughty was more the word—with a cold, piercing glare and a supercilious tilt to her small nose. It was said that she took pleasure in crushing the pretensions of love-struck young men who were wont to throw themselves at her feet. Perry declared that sh
e had seen the woman refuse an invitation to dance, made by a young cub who stared adoringly at her, saying loud enough for all to hear, “Sir, if I should ever feel the need to stumble about the floor and humiliate myself with an inept partner, I shall know upon whom to call.” It was said that after that crushing embarrassment the young man had dejectedly departed from the ball, setting out immediately on the Grand Tour to recover from the humiliation.

  Aware that the silence had been too long and that he was still staring at her, he rushed into speech. “I hope you may be convinced to stay more than just one night here, my lady.”

  She gazed at him in frank astonishment, as if he had just asked her to disrobe in front of him. “Why would I do that, sir?”

  “I-I . . .” Damn, but she made him feel like a tongue-tied schoolboy!

  He took a deep breath and gathered all of his considerable experience around him like armament. He was not one of those love-struck cubs, to immolate himself on the pyre of her disdain; he would seize control of the conversation and prevail. He moved closer to her on the sofa. She put her cup down on the tray, using the motion to move slightly away.

  “It is often lonely in the country. Surely you must realize how welcome is the diversion of a beauty like yourself?”

  She glanced at him once, impaling him with her icy stare. “You mock me, sir.”

  “Mock you? By calling you beautiful? I only concur with common feeling, I believe.” Enthralled once again by those amazing eyes, he wished she would look at him—really look at him—for longer than that brief moment. What would it be like to be the man who lit those icy orbs into violet fire? Ah, but he was falling into the same trap those other poor sots—the ones she demolished with a well-placed bon mot—fell into, the desire to warm the ice maiden.

  “I have no wish to pander to ‘common’ feeling,” she replied.

  “Let us move away from what is evidently a sensitive area. Where are you headed, my lady, so late on a December night?”

  They made desultory conversation as she told him of her friend Verity, and then Ruston, mindful that Lady Ann must be exhausted, rang for a footman to show her to her room.

  Ann was relieved to be led up the stairs and down a wide hallway, grateful to be away from Ruston’s warm brown regard. She glanced around her room with pleasure. It was done in shades of softest moss green, like a leafy bower. Sage draperies and bed hangings figured in a muted leaf pattern continued the verdant motif, and the heavy Turkish carpet underfoot was pale green with a pattern of wood violets and emerald green ivy wending around the perimeter. It was an exquisite room, planned by a person of exceptional taste.

  Lady Montrose, Viscountess Ruston perhaps, if there was such a person?

  A scratch at the door was followed by a young woman who curtseyed and said, “Mrs. Bowles said as how I was to be your lady’s maid while your abigail recovers, milady. My name is Sarah.”

  “I will appreciate your help, Sarah. First, will you tell me where Ellen is?”

  “She is in the servants’ quarters, ma’am. Mrs. Bowles said not to worry yourself about Ellen; her arm is just twisted, not broke, and she is in bed with a mite of laudanum and sleeping like a babe.”

  Satisfied, Ann said, “Excellent. I will see her in the morning, before we leave. I will get ready for bed now.” She glanced over at the bed, so inviting. The covers were turned down to expose snow-white sheets trimmed in lace. The counterpane was heavy emerald brocade. It looked inviting and soft, if a little lumpy just in the middle. Perhaps this room was not used much and they had an old mattress in it. Oh well, she thought. She would be able to sleep on a bed of nails, she was so tired.

  Sarah helped her into her night rail and then brushed her long hair out.

  “Shall I braid it for you, milady? Such beautiful hair!”

  “I prefer it loose. Braids give me the headache.”

  Sarah snuffed all the candles but one and put that at the bedside, curtseyed and then left, closing the door softly behind her as Ann climbed into bed.

  The chill was off the sheets where a warming pan had been, and she slid her bare feet down into the delicious heat. Her toes encountered something warm and furry and she gasped, kicking at it. Needle-sharp teeth sank into her toe and she stumbled out from under the heavy covers and stood staring at the bed and shrieking.

  “A rat! A rat!”

  In moments the door was flung open and Ruston raced into the room, holding a branch of tapers high. “What in God’s name is going on!” he shouted, his voice a commanding bark.

  Ann had the strangest impulse to throw herself at the broad chest, bare beneath an open shirt, but she resisted and pointed one trembling hand at her bed.

  “Th-there . . . a r-r-rat! It bit me!”

  Ruston squeezed her arm with one strong, long-fingered hand. “Hold the candles, my lady, and I will dispatch the creature, and then we shall see that you get another room.”

  Ann took the candelabra in her trembling hand and watched the viscount grab a hairbrush from the vanity table and approach the bed. Sarah, her temporary lady’s maid, stood in the doorway with horror writ over her young features. Ruston prowled to the bed, grasped the bedclothes in one hand and glanced over his shoulder at Ann.

  “If it escapes do not worry about me, just get yourself away.”

  Sarah gave a squeak of alarm, but Ann nodded, and said fervently, “You can believe I will, my lord.”

  Ruston jerked the bedclothes back with one mighty yank and held the brush high ready to swing down doom on the rodent. Instead he was faced with a spitting, growling, hissing little ball of erect fur and glaring green eyes.

  He dropped the covers and erupted into huge gusts of laughter.

  A kitten! Ann stared at the tiny gray and white ball of fluff and slumped with relief, her heart thudding a sick tattoo in her breast. A kitten! Finally, though, it registered on her that Ruston was having his huge laugh at her expense.

  “I do not see what is so funny!”

  “If you could have seen your face!” Ruston tossed the brush back on the vanity table and took the branch of tapers from her. In a falsetto voice he said, “A r-r-rat!” He broke into laughter again and set the tapers on the table by the bed, then moved to pick up the kitten.

  Anger boiled over in Ann’s heart and, her hands balled into fists, she flew at Ruston, buffeting his arms, then his chest as he turned toward her, with the hardest blows she could manage. “You brute!” she screeched. “You wretched, wretched . . .”

  Ruston caught her hands in his and held them easily away. His dark brown eyes held a dangerous glint, and Ann gazed up into them thinking that never had she been so angry in her life, and yet . . .

  He was devastatingly handsome. Warm, big, strong, and with his shirt open to the waist, though it was still tucked into his breeches. The expression in his dark eyes changed, subtly, as he gazed down at her. She felt his gaze like a touch over her brow, her eyes, her cheeks and finally her lips.

  Time slowed to the beat of her pounding heart as his eyes dropped lower, lower to the ties of her night rail where they had come loose, exposing her white skin to his caressing scrutiny. The intimacy of the surroundings did not escape her. Never had she been in a bedchamber with a man other than her husband, Reggie, and truth to tell, never had her heart pounded like this in the presence of her husband.

  She jerked her hands away, breaking the spell that had bound them both.

  Ruston swallowed and stepped away from her. He paced to the bed and scooped up the kitten, who was unconcernedly washing its face, licking its paw and scrubbing it over one ear and then leisurely doing the other.

  “My daughter’s first Christmas gift this year. May I introduce you to Noël, Lady Ann?”

  “D-daughter?” Ann faltered over the word. She glanced toward the door. “I . . . is there a Lady Montrose I should have met, or . . .”

  Ruston shook his head, ruffling the kitten’s fur under its chin. The tiny animal’s rumbling purr could
be heard through the room. “My wife died many years ago. Mossy is my only child.”

  “I am sorry.” Finally Ann thought to cross her arms over her bosom. She could not meet Ruston’s eyes and she stood, silent and uncertain.

  The viscount stirred. “I shall leave you to your sleep, my lady. I will see you in the morning.”

  He exited, and Ann was left alone in the big room. She paced around it, touching the brush Ruston had used to defend her, remembering his booming laugh and masculine presence with feelings she could not decipher. It was good that she would be leaving in the morning. Very good.

  Chapter Three

  The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. The figure in the bed did not stir at the incursion into her room. A small figure crept in, but an even tinier one darted ahead, leaped at the dangling bedclothes and clambered up the dark green counterpane.

  “Noël,” Mossy hissed. “You bad boy! You’ve caused enough trouble tonight.”

  The figure on the bed stirred.

  Mossy crept closer and peeped up over the edge of the bed, appalled to see her madcap kitten chasing its gray-ringed tail in whirling circles. “Noël!”

  He scampered up the bed and stood, right by the lady’s face, gazing at one exposed earlobe with an arrested expression in his glittering green eyes.

  “Oh, no,” Mossy moaned, knowing, after only a week, of her pet’s penchant for sinking his pin-sharp teeth into soft human flesh.