Her heart plunged. It was not a renewal of his proposal, then. How foolish of her! Why would it be? She’d only ever been supposed to be his ‘comfortable’ wife.
‘There is to be dancing. And I should like you to be my partner for the opening set even if you do not care to stay longer. Will you stay for just one dance? Please?’
He held out his hand to her. The rest of the room was in a bustle as the children were shepherded out of the door. The villagers cleared away the chairs, and musicians mounted the stage and began tuning up.
But where she was standing there was nothing but Lord Bridgemere, holding out his hand to her with an intensity in his expression that produced an echoing yearning deep within her. As he had said, this was her last night. The last time she would ever see him. And he wanted her to spend it with him.
What else could she do? Go up to her room and finish her packing? Sit on her bed and spend the whole night weeping?
Or make the most of this chance—this one last chance to be with him?
She put her hand in his and he smiled.
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, and led her to the head of the first set that was now forming to the cheers of the locals.
Helen had never seen Lord Bridgemere looking so carefree as he did that night.
He was dressed fairly casually, so that he did not look so very different from the other young village men in their Sunday best. When the first dance was finished he proceeded to dance with his tenants’ wives and daughters, whilst the farmers and their sons swept her up into the merriment. Though even when she was not his partner, she still felt as though she was dancing with him. The nature of the country dances was such that they all continually moved up and down the set, so that she never knew when he might take hold of her hand or swing her round by the waist in performance of one of the figures. So long as she was dancing and he was dancing it was as though they were dancing together, no matter who their nominal partners happened to be.
Which was why she stayed. And kept on dancing. Until she was so tired that she was forced to go to the refreshments table for a glass of the local cider.
It was only moments before Lord Bridgemere joined her.
‘You have enjoyed your last night here, I think,’ he said, accepting a drink from the girl who was serving. ‘Rather more than you have enjoyed most of the rest of your stay at Alvanley Hall.’
She nodded as they both sipped their cool, refreshing drinks. In spite of everything she was glad she would have the memory of this night to look back on. When she had glimpsed yet another facet of Lord Bridgemere’s character.
‘I have, too,’ he said. He moved a little closer and lowered his head, so that she could hear him above the music that was striking up again. ‘We only danced the once, but somehow, because you were here, too, and happy, it made it…very special.’ He smiled at her, ruefully.
Helen closed her eyes. Hearing him say that was unbearably poignant. She wanted to savour his words without giving away her state of mind. She was not wearing her best bronze gown tonight, but a simpler dress that she’d thought more appropriate for the activities in which she had envisaged taking part. And he was standing so close that she could feel his body heat through the thin muslin.
Her heart began to pound. Her eyes flew open. And she saw him looking down at her with sadness in his eyes.
‘It is almost midnight,’ he said. ‘I really think we should leave. Some of these men have been partaking of the ale I have provided somewhat too freely and the atmosphere is about to become rather boisterous. I should like to take you back now.’
Take her back. She had not given a thought as to how she would get back to the house. But the prospect of leaving did not sound quite so terrible now she knew he meant to escort her. The dancing might be over, but there was still the walk home.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I shall fetch my coat and bonnet.’
Lord Bridgemere waited for her by the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. She had not liked it when he’d spoken to her of his feelings. From being relaxed and seemingly happy in his company she had completely withdrawn. And when he had suggested they leave her relief had been palpable.
She really did not want to marry him.
Helen thought Lord Bridgemere had never looked more isolated as he lounged against the doorpost, watching his tenants enjoying the festivities. It was as though a great gulf separated him from other, lesser beings.
As if to confirm her opinion of his exalted status, the moment she joined him the band stopped playing, the villagers stopped dancing, and everyone turned to look at him.
‘I usually make a sort of farewell speech when I leave the ball,’ he explained to her. ‘It will not take a moment…’
But before he had the chance to say anything to his tenants the fiddler, who had been imbibing steadily all night, suddenly yelled, ‘Don’t leave without giving her a kiss, Your Lordship! Don’t let that mistletoe go to waste!’
Everyone was either roaring with laughter or pointing at the kissing ball under which, he now perceived, he and Helen were standing.
She was looking up at it, too, but then she glanced at him, her cheeks turning fiery red.
That reckless spirit that she so often managed to provoke in him surged to life. She might rather become a governess than his wife, but, dammit, this was Christmas. He had every right to kiss the woman he wanted to marry under the mistletoe. Whether she wanted him to or not!
In a spirit of defiance, he reached up and plucked a berry from the already much used bough.
‘It would disappoint them if I did not oblige,’ he said, tucking it into his waistcoat pocket. Then he took her firmly by the upper arms, and drew her close. ‘You do not mind, do you?’
She was staring at him wide-eyed, lips already slightly parted. ‘N…no,’ she stammered. ‘W…we would not want to disappoint anyone, would we?’
‘Not at Christmas,’ he said, his heart pounding in his chest as he drew her closer still. ‘I make a point of giving everyone exactly what they want at Christmas.’
Then he bent down, just slightly, and brushed his mouth against hers. She shut her eyes. He felt a quiver run through her body.
He stepped back. She opened her eyes and looked at him. As though what he had done had stunned her.
And then a sheen of tears began to form in her eyes.
He flung his arm about her shoulders and turned her to shield her from view. Waving his arm at the revellers, he pulled her out of the barn and into the yard, to the accompaniment of cheers and applause.
How little his tenants knew! They thought he was going to have a romantic walk home with his sweetheart by starlight. Not escort a reluctant and probably highly offended female back to the Hall.
‘Miss Forrest—’ He pulled himself up short. He was not going to apologise for kissing her. He had asked her if she minded, and she had not refused. If she had disliked it so much it had made her cry…
Dammit, he had never meant to ride roughshod over her feelings. Just because he wanted her it was quite wrong of him to conveniently forget the fact she did not want to marry him!
Beside him in the dark he heard her give a little sniff, as though she was trying hard not to weep.
‘Hell,’ he growled, coming to a complete halt and pulling her into his arms. ‘I never meant to make you cry. I would not have kissed you if I had known you would dislike it so much. You should not have said you did not mind if you did!’ he finished, confusion and frustration making him spit the words at her angrily.
She raised her head and looked up at him. ‘I d…did not mind at all!’ she said, confusing him even more.
‘Then why the devil are you crying?’
‘I am not crying,’ she said, averting her face.
He took hold of her chin and turned her face up to his, so that he could see quite clearly the silvery tracks glinting on her cheeks that exposed her lie.
‘Then what are the
se?’ he said, brushing his thumbs across the tearstains. ‘Miss Forrest, what is the matter with you? If you do not explain, then how am I to make it right for you?’
She took a breath, as though she was going to speak, but then shook her head, looking so woebegone it tore him up inside.
‘You cannot make it right for me, Lord Bridgemere. The reason I am crying is something you can never mend for me.’ She reached up and placed her palm against his cheek. ‘Though I wish with all my heart that you could.’
Chapter Twelve
It was no use wishing, though, was it? He did not love her. And that was that.
Reluctantly she removed her hand from his cheek and let it hang at her side.
‘Tell me what I can do to make you happy,’ he said.
Her mind went back to the way she had felt when he had kissed her under the mistletoe. She had known he was only kissing her to amuse his tenants. She had known she had to keep that thought very clear in her head and not permit herself to indulge in any kind of romantic fantasy. And, as if to reinforce her strict warning, he had barely brushed his lips across hers.
So briefly, and yet it had felt so sweet. Like a benediction which she had felt all the way down to her toes.
And so powerful that it had completely erased the shame she had felt after Swaledale assaulted her.
What would make her happy would be another kiss just like that one. Only given because he wanted to give it, not because she or anyone else had asked for it. She smiled sadly.
‘There is nothing you can do, truly.’ She had finally, she reflected ruefully, had her curiosity satisfied in regards to Lord Bridgemere’s mouth. And the memory of that kiss would be something she would treasure for the remainder of her life.
She shivered, suddenly picturing all those cold, lonely years without him.
‘We should not be standing here like this,’ said Lord Bridgemere. They had paused beside the gate after he had closed it behind them. They were still only a few yards from the barn. Helen could hear the sounds of merriment spilling through the gaps in the barn door, along with the light from the lanterns.
‘You are getting cold,’ he said with concern.
Helen had been driven over in the cart, with a thick rug tucked over her lap and the bodies of all the children squeezed up against her to keep her warm. It was much colder now than it had been earlier. The clouds that had made the day so dull had cleared and frost coated every surface, so that every branch and twig and blade of grass, even the old farmyard gate, glittered brightly in the light of the almost full moon.
Lord Bridgemere began to unbutton his coat.
‘No,’ cried Helen, thinking he meant to take it off and lend it to her. ‘If you remove your coat then you will be cold. As soon as we start walking again I am sure I shall get warm.’
He paused, but then resolutely went on unfastening his coat. ‘I have a better idea,’ he said. ‘Stand still.’ He opened the front of his coat, stepped forward and wrapped his arms about her, enveloping her in the thick folds of material and his own body heat. ‘If you turn a little and put your arm about my waist we can share the warmth of my coat as we walk home,’ he said. ‘So neither of us need feel the cold.’
For a few seconds Helen stood quite still, revelling in the feel of his arms about her. But eventually, when she felt she had absolutely no excuse for stretching the moment out any longer, she said, weakly, ‘Y…yes, that is a most practical solution.’
‘I thought so,’ he said softly. ‘Though I don’t suppose we will be able to walk very fast like this.’
As she turned he kept both his arms about her, so that his coat completely enfolded her.
‘N…not very fast, no,’ she agreed, as he attempted to match his stride to accommodate her stumbling steps.
It was highly improper to cling onto Lord Bridgemere as he held his coat about her for warmth, but who was ever going to know? They were the only two people out here tonight. And even if somebody did spot them, what could they do? For once Helen was just going to do exactly as she wished and hang the consequences!
Slowly, entwined like lovers, they picked their way along the frozen rutted lane. As soon as they drew away from the farm buildings the deep silence of a winter’s night descended. She was more than ever aware of how utterly alone they were under the vast canopy of stars. And also of how very intimate it felt. Why, even their breath mingled visibly, as it rose above their heads before dissipating into the clear cold air.
Neither of them said a word. Helen was afraid to break the spell that seemed to be holding them suspended in this moment out of ordinary time, and every time she peeped up at him Lord Bridgemere looked as though he was concentrating on where he was putting his feet. Though he did not seem to be in any hurry. And that was good enough for her—for now. She shut her eyes briefly, revelling in the feel of his body flexing beneath her hands with every step he took.
But all too soon they were entering the kitchen court and crossing the slick cobbles. And then he was removing one arm to reach out and open the door. His coat was still round her. He still had one arm about her shoulders as they stepped inside, into the unlit lobby of the servants’ hall.
The door creaked shut behind them, blotting out even the moonlight, and as they both stood quite still in complete darkness Lord Bridgemere remarked, ‘Nobody seems to have thought of leaving a lantern lit.’
‘I expect,’ replied Helen, ‘the servants know exactly where it is, and can put their hand upon it and get it lit in an instant.’
‘No, I do not think that is it. I think it is more likely that there are usually plenty of people about down here and lights all over the place.’
But tonight the servants were all still at the barn, dancing. The gentry were all above stairs, for once fending for themselves. They were utterly alone.
And somehow, even though they were no more alone than they had been on the walk back here, being within doors, with her arm about his waist and his arm about her shoulder, felt a whole lot more intimate. And risqué. Especially since there was now absolutely no excuse for them to be touching each other.
With great reluctance Helen began to slide her arm out from round his waist.
Lord Bridgemere sucked in a sharp breath. She felt his body jerk.
‘No,’ he said, turning as she moved her arm so that it stayed imprisoned under the fabric of his coat.
They were standing face to face now, although it was still too dark to see. But she could feel the warmth of his breath fanning her cheek, so she knew he was angling his head down towards hers. And then he slid his arm from her shoulder, lower down her back, and exerted a slight pressure. Only a little, but it was all the encouragement she needed to move closer to him and lay her head against his chest. The buttons of his waistcoat stung cold against her cheek, but she did not care. For Lord Bridgemere had given a great sigh and put his other arm around her.
Helen slid her other arm about his waist and held him, too. For a moment or two it seemed to be enough. They stood, clinging together in the dark, as though neither could bear the thought of letting the other go. But then the tenor of his breathing changed.
‘Is there mistletoe hanging above this doorway, do you suppose?’ he said.
It was far too dark to see. So there was no point in raising her head to look.
‘There might be,’ she said wistfully.
‘If there was, would there be any chance you would let me kiss you again?’
Beneath her cheek Helen could feel his heart beating very fast. And he was breathing hard, as though he had been running, not walking slowly with her cradled in his arms like some precious, fragile piece of porcelain.
And in the dark, with nobody to see them, and the minutes before she had to leave ticking away urgently in her mind, she gave him the only answer possible.
‘Yes, I am sure there is mistletoe here. And yes to the other question, too.’
It would be too brazen to actually say Yes, I want you
to kiss me. But he knew what she meant, because the moment she lifted her head from his chest and raised her face he swooped down and took her mouth.
This time his kiss was not the polite brush of the lips he had given her in the barn, with all his tenants watching. It was too dark here for anyone to see anything—even each other—and it was as if the very darkness freed him from all restraint. His lips moved urgently across her own, nipping and tasting her. He stroked his tongue across the seam and when she gasped he plunged it into her mouth with a groan. It was as if he wanted to devour her.
Helen was in such bliss that she yielded to every prompt he gave her, opening her mouth wider to allow him deeper access, tentatively tasting him as he was tasting her. He tasted sweet, like the cider they had both been drinking. His lips were soft, but the skin of his cheek felt rough, even though he had looked clean-shaven in the moonlight earlier. But she did not dislike the sensation of his jaw abrading her chin. It made her thrillingly conscious of his masculinity.
All her senses seemed particularly acute. She expected it was because she could not see him with her eyes. She was aware, for example, that he smelled slightly different. Or perhaps because he had been dancing the scent of his skin was slightly stronger than usual. For whatever reason, she felt as though she was breathing in the heat of his body, along with the more familiar smell of cologne and clean linen she usually associated with him.
And the darkness freed her from some of the restraint she would have felt in bright light. She felt bold enough to reach up and loop one arm about his neck and press her body closer to his. He encouraged her by holding her harder, as if he wanted to meld their bodies into each other.
Excitement flared through her when his hands slid down to her waist, tracing the shape of her body through her clothing. She did not feel cold any more. In fact she felt warm in the most unlikely places. Not just where his hands were touching her, but in the pit of her stomach, the tips of her breasts and, most shockingly, in the secret folds of skin between her legs.
A Countess by Christmas Page 20