by Regina Scott
"How very thoughtful of you to remind us,” her mother all but snarled.
"My duty, madam, my duty” he replied, patting his sagging belly with complacency.
"I don't know but I rather like them,” Geoffrey insisted. He leered at Allison. “Especially the kissing bough."
"What a pity there aren't any proper gentlemen on which to use it,” Allison replied with a toss of her flaxen curls.
"Chimes!” her mother fairly shouted. The beleaguered servant bumped through the door leading to the dining room, rubbing a stain off his already dirty black trousers. “How soon do you expect dinner?"
"I'm quite happy to report, Madam, that dinner is ready to be served."
She rose, and the rest of the company rose with her. Gen suppressed her disappointment as Alan made to take his mother's arm again. To her surprise, Vicar York, his considerable bulk quivering, fairly leaped from his seat to offer Mrs. Pentercast his arm. Alan raised an eyebrow but stepped aside. Geoff snorted as they moved past him. When Alan made no move to claim the hostess, William, looking awkward, offered her mother a tremulous smile. “Mrs. Munroe?"
She inclined her head, accepting his arm. He sighed visibly, and Gen bit back a smile at her childhood friend's difficulty playing the gallant. Allison stamped after them, ignoring the grin Geoffrey cast her. He fell in behind her.
"May I?” Alan asked beside Gen. The room was suddenly too warm and much too small. She swallowed, unable to meet his eyes. This is what you wanted, she reminded herself. You've been dreaming of him noticing you since you were fourteen. She put out her hand, noticed it was trembling, and scowled at her own timidity. She was no longer that girl of fourteen in the midst of her first crush. She had gone into dinner with marquesses and earls, danced with royal dukes and princes alike. She had no reason to be so nervous around Alan Pentercast, of all people. She slapped her hand down on his arm.
He chuckled. “I was hoping it wouldn't be quite this difficult.” He grinned, and she wasn't sure if he was referring to her attempt to bring their families back together or her own hesitation in accepting his offer. With a smile that was much too stiff, she allowed him to lead her in to dinner.
The mood at dinner was no better than it had been in the drawing room. Chimes had done a credible job of making the long, damask-draped table look festive, with a silver epergne of red-berried holly in the center and sprigs of ivy by each crystal goblet. She found herself wondering where he had found the silver serving platters and how much they might sell for at auction. But as the first course, which included a lovely mulligatawny soup, was served, she found she had other problems.
Geoffrey continued to live up to her mother and Allison's preconceived notions of the Pentercasts by gulping enormous quantities of food, guzzling glasses of wine, and burping after each course. Allison, seated opposite him, glowered at each infraction and made a point of daintily picking at the various dishes. Mrs. Pentercast spent her time comparing everything to other dinners she had had: It seemed the table was not nearly as festive as her first Christmas Eve dinner with friends, the various courses were not as exotic as what the Regent served, and the large brass candelabra above the table was not nearly as large as the one in the Manor dining room. The only time she paused in her litany was to blush and giggle over Reverend York's incessant stream of compliments. Seated at the head of the table, Gen's mother refused to eat, her conversation dwindling to nods when someone addressed her directly. Although both Alan and William continued to be congenial, Gen was hard pressed to find topics of conversation that would be entertaining.
The men didn't even stay for their after-dinner port but repaired with the ladies to the withdrawing room. Geoffrey insisted that Chimes produce the Yule Log he had brought and then uttered a few more curses when there wasn't a brand from the previous log available to light it. Alan managed to turn his tantrum aside with a joke, but she could see that her mother was ready to throw the youth out.
She had to think of something safe to discuss, some way to pass the time until it would no longer be rude to send them home. She considered cards, but she wasn't sure of the Vicar's feelings on the matter, and she shuddered to think of the fighting that would accompany any attempt to pair the group into partners. Music was out of the question: She'd never get her sister to perform, and she didn't think her voice or fingers would be steady enough given the present company. Heaven knows she found it hard enough to focus on the conversation when every time she looked up she met Alan's gaze. Another occasion she would have been thrilled by his regard, but at the moment it seemed singularly inappropriate when the rest of the room was actively feuding. She had to think of something. Her eyes lit on the Christmas greenery over the mantle. Perhaps the season of peace might inspire.
"You mentioned the Wenwood Thorn a while ago, William,” she ventured as the flames licked around Geoffrey's Yule Log and they had all settled in their places around the room. “That was always one of my favorite Christmas customs. What was yours?"
Always willing to join in the conversation, he smiled at her, looking thoughtful. “My goodness, there are so many. I suppose one might be the bells calling the villagers to midnight services. It's so quiet then, one can almost imagine what that first Christmas must have been like for the Holy Family."
"I've always liked that old wives’ tale that the animals talk on Christmas Eve,” Alan said with a smile. “When I was a boy, I don't know how many times I crept out to the stable to find out. Unfortunately, I always fell asleep before I could prove the tale true."
Gen smiled as well, imagining the dark-haired boy curled up in the hay. Then her mother surprised her by joining in the conversation.
"Rutherford always liked that story as well. He loved all the Christmas traditions. Do you remember, Gen, how he liked to play Snap Dragon?"
Gen nodded. “Oh, yes. I think his grin was brighter than the flames from the brandy."
Allison clapped her hands. “Oh, Mother, may we?"
"Now who likes childish games?” Geoffrey muttered.
Gen ignored him, signaling to Chimes, who left with a wink. At last, she seemed to have found something they could all agree on. She was pleased when a few moments later Chimes returned with a large, shallow silver bowl filled a quarter of the way with raisins. A footman followed him with a bottle of her father's best brandy. Mrs. Pentercast pulled her chair closer to the little table on which he set the bowl, and the others drew around it as well, eyes shining with expectation.
The gentlemen peeled off their gloves, and the ladies did likewise. With a flourish, Chimes poured the brandy over the raisins and lit it on fire. Gen wasn't sure who uttered the “oooh” as the other lights in the room were put out.
"This was your idea, Allison,” her mother said quietly. “Why don't you start?"
William's tenor began the song, and Alan's baritone joined in.
"Here he comes with flaming bowl
Don't be mean to take his toll,
Snip! Snap! Dragon!"
Allison's quick fingers darted through the flames, and she popped her captured raisins triumphantly into her mouth.
"Take care you don't take too much
Be not greedy in your clutch.
Snip! Snap! Dragon!"
William pounced in, then snatched his hand ruefully back, fingers empty. He shrugged good naturedly.
"With his blue and lapping tongue
Many of you will be stung.
Snip! Snap! Dragon!"
Her mother daintily reached through the blue mist and produced a single, plump raisin, which she ate in two bites.
"For he snaps at all that comes
Snatching at his feast of plums.
Snip! Snap! Dragon!"
Geoffrey had stepped up beside her, darting a hand into the bowl and scooping up a handful while the hairs on the back of his hand smoked. He shoved the raisins into his mouth and licked the brandy off his fingers.
"But Old Christmas makes him come,
&n
bsp; Though he looks so fee! fa! fum!
Snip! Snap! Dragon!"
It was her turn. She reached through the blue mist of brandy flames, but before she could reach one of the plump raisins beneath, she felt the heat on her skin and snatched back her hand. Geoffrey snorted in contempt.
"Don't ‘ee fear him, be but bold
Out he goes, his flames are cold.
Snip! Snap! Dragon!"
Alan's large hand swept through the flames and brought out a handful of the raisins. With a bow, he offered them to her. Shyly, she reached out and pulled two from his palm, popping them into her mouth. Licking the brandy from her lips, she looked up at him, noticing the blue flames reflected in the depths of his dark eyes. Then Chimes stepped forward and covered the dish, extinguishing the blaze.
"That was fun!” Allison exclaimed as the candles were relit. “Let's do another game. How about Forfeits—the Twelve Days of Christmas?"
As the others moved back to their seats, Alan blocked her way. “Sure you wouldn't like some more raisins?” he murmured, large hand open.
Gen shook her head, pulling on her gloves. As before, it was as if the temperature in the room had increased with him so near. She reminded herself again that she was an accomplished lady and squared her shoulders. “You won them fairly,” she managed to reply congenially. “I never was all that good at these kinds of games."
He popped the remainder in his mouth. Then he cocked his head, regarding her even as he pulled on his own gloves. By the light in his deep brown eyes, she would have sworn Chimes had never extinguished the flames. “I've heard you were very good at other games, however. What do you say to a friendly wager?"
She frowned at him, feeling a bit unsteady. “What do you mean, sir?"
"I wager you'll not be able to remember the gifts in the Twelve Days of Christmas."
"And what must I do if I loose?” she asked, trying not to eye the nearby kissing bough.
"Marry me,” he replied.
Gen stared at him, growing cold all over. She could not have heard him correctly. But the intent look on his face told her she had.
"La, sir, but I do not understand,” she murmured, lowering her eyes and praying he would confirm it as a poor joke.
"Surely I'm not the first to propose to the Incomparable Miss Munroe,” he quipped, and she was forced to look up, surprised by the touch of bitterness in his tone. His expression, usually so open, seemed guarded. He watched her as intently as Chimes had. It made her no more comfortable.
"If you truly are sincere, you will understand when I say this is rather sudden."
"Ah, but we have so little time. You return to London after Epiphany, do you not? I fear I must make my mark while I can. Come now, Miss Munroe, have we a wager?"
She stepped back from him, the sharp look in his eyes, the implacable line of his jaw, the perfect cut of his coat combining to focus her thoughts to a spear point. She had struggled to understand the change in him: now it was clear. The self assurance she had admired had inflated into arrogance, an arrogance that was all too familiar from her time in London.
He'd become another wretched Corinthian.
How she despised the breed. They lived on a shallow plane. To them, a female was only to be coveted for the pretty exterior; the woman beneath held no interest. And to think she had always considered him different, more noble, better. He was the standard to which she had held all others. She marveled at her own naiveté. She felt as if a favorite statue had fallen and shattered at her feet, a statue of a hero, no doubt. With two words he had destroyed the last of her childhood illusions. Illusions that had been destroyed one by one as she learned of her father's other life.
"Only a Pentercast would wager something so important on a trifle,” she heard herself sneer.
That she had stung him was obvious by the look that quickly came and went in his eyes. For a brief moment, she thought she had misjudged him. Then his face stiffened. “Apparently the good Reverend Wellfordhouse has been remiss in his duties. He should have warned you that what the Pentercasts set out to get, they achieve. Whether you take my wager or not, by Epiphany, you will agree to be my wife."
She could have cried at his arrogance. “Then he should have warned you as well that we Munroes are not to be had so easily."
She was surprised to see the return of his former grin. “I never expected it to be easy. But I will prove to you that we are meant to wed, if I have to play the devoted lover and bring you the twelve gifts myself."
"How typical.” She shook her head. “Do you honestly think you can buy my love as easily as your ancestor bought my home?"
"I won't spend a penny,” he replied with a twinkle in his eyes. “If I can do it, will you marry me?"
She ought to slap his face for daring to ask. Better, she ought to order Chimes to throw him out, him and his entire rude family. Her mother had been right—Pentercasts were not to be trusted. What a shame she had to bring her own family here to live near them. And she had so hoped they might be of assistance.
Perhaps they still could.
She eyed him, mentally calculating his chances of success as Carstairs had taught her to do. The exact nature of the gifts eluded her at the moment, but surely at least a few of them were rather obscure. And if he somehow had to gather them without purchasing them, it would make winning harder still. She had twelve days to outwit him. With his arrogance, it shouldn't be all that difficult. Perhaps it was time the Munroes put the Pentercast arrogance to good use. Perhaps this time, the wager would turn out differently. “If you fail, will you renew the harvest tithes—ten percent to my family in perpetuity?"
"Now who's after money?” he countered.
Gen blushed but stood her ground. She knew how difficult the change in finances would be for her mother and sister. Life at Wenwood would be easier if they could count on a steady source of food. “Come, sir, you cannot expect me to play if there is nothing to my advantage. Have we a wager?"
Alan cocked his head. “If I succeed in giving you the appropriate gift for each day of Christmas according to the old Forfeits game, without spending a penny, you will agree to be my bride. If I fail, I provide your family with ten percent of the harvest from my land and ensure that future generations do likewise. That's it?"
"That's it.” Gen peeled the glove from her right hand. “I believe you Pentercasts follow the traditional way of wagering.” She spat on her palm and held it out to him. “Is it a wager?"
Alan grinned, peeling off his own glove. He spat on his palm. “A wager it is."
He clasped her hand, and she felt the strength of his grip, his warm fingers curling around the back of her hand until his fingers touched his thumb. She pulled away much more quickly than she had intended. Turning to hide the blush that must be staining her cheeks, she felt him catch her arm. “Oh, no. I suggest we enter the wager tonight with a neutral party."
She frowned, and he released her. “We are not in London, sir. There is no betting book at Wenwood as there is at White's."
"No,” he said with a smile, “but there is the Reverend Mr. Wellfordhouse."
Gen glanced over at William, who was actively helping her mother through the various verses of the poem, to much laughter by Allison and Geoffrey as he insisted that it was a goose in the pear tree. Catching her glance, he excused himself and joined them near the sofa.
"Is there something you need, Miss Genevieve?"
Pulling on her glove, she felt her blush deepening as she tried to think of a way to phrase what she had just done. William would of course be shocked at her mercenary wager. She felt a little shocked herself. But of course, Alan would not win, and her family would have no need to worry for their food. And perhaps this Corinthian at least would think twice before making such an insulting offer again.
She put up her head. “Yes, William. Mr. Pentercast and I wish to enter a wager with you."
He frowned. “A wager?"
Alan grinned, and she knew he was wat
ching her squirm. “Yes, Mr. Wellfordhouse. Miss Munroe has just wagered her honor against the harvest tithes from my land."
William choked, and Gen glared at Alan.
"What this odious man is trying to say, William,” she explained, thumping him on the back to help him catch his breath, “is that Mr. Pentercast has wagered that he can bring me each of the gifts in the Twelve Days of Christmas poem on the appropriate day without spending a penny. If he cannot, he will owe my family the income his forefather stole from us."
"Uh, uh, uh,” Alan tisked with a shake of his finger. “He won a wager, fair and square, as I intend to do. And if I win, Miss Munroe has agreed to become my bride."
William looked back and forth between Alan's confident smile and Gen's equally determined scowl. “I see. And what is it exactly you expect me to do?"
"Set the rules of this contest,” Alan explained, “and act as judge to ensure that each of us follows them."
"Fairly,” Gen amended.
"I see,” William said again. “And you are willing to marry Miss Genevieve in full ceremony and treat her as any other wife, Squire?"
Alan nodded. “I so swear."
"And you're willing to marry the Squire and be his obedient wife, Miss Genevieve?” he continued.
Gen glared at Alan. “Perhaps not completely obedient. But, yes, I so swear as well."
William glanced between them again. “Very well. Here are your rules, then. The gifts are fairly well specified in the poem, I believe. They shall be delivered through no direct use of money to Miss Genevieve before the last stroke of midnight on each of the days specified. If the Squire succeeds in this undertaking, I shall be more than happy to read the banns myself."
Gen turned her glare on him.
"And of course should the Squire fail,” he quickly added, shrinking back from her, “I will be just as happy to count the harvest tithes."
"Done.” Alan nodded. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I had best see to my mother before the Vicar quite turns her head with his flattery.” He moved off to stand beside his mother's chair.
"I must say, William, that I am a bit surprised at you,” Gen chided.