“You must not use your skills,” she said. “You told me that you might lose yourself that way.”
He offered her the flowers. “I think I am lost either way. I love you, Lady Laurel. I love you, and not because you are my best hope of salvation, but because you are the best woman I have ever met. I will love you forever, as an old man, although I would love you longer and better, with the vigor and appetites of a man nearing his thirtieth birthday. Will you kiss me, my dear heart?”
“But I did, and nothing happened.”
“What, no tingle, no warmth spreading from your lips to your toes? I could have sworn I heard you purr with pleasure. I know something happened to me.”
She blushed, glad he could not see in the dark. “You know what I mean. You did not become a handsome young man, earl or not.”
“But that kiss was to please your company. A mistletoe kiss. There is no kissing bough now. No one urging you, except me.”
Laurel closed her eyes and wished—not for true magic this time, but for true love—and placed her lips against his. And they were soft and warm and made her lips tingle and…and his beard did not tickle, not in the least.
He did not have a beard. He had a tanned, square jaw in a handsome face with dark wavy hair and laughing blue eyes. And dimples. Laurel sighed. “Happy Christmas, my Lord Roddermore.”
“Happy Birthday, my Lady Laurel, Countess Roddermore to be.”
“But will you miss it?” she worried. “The power, the ability to shape people and things to your will?”
“No power is greater than love, nor gives its owners more joy. If I have the power to make you happy, then I am content.”
“Being your wife will make me the happiest woman on earth.”
Which statement called for more kisses, endearments, promises. His joy and her delight lasted through all the years of their lives, raising their three children and clutches of owls, devoting themselves to their estates, their responsibilities, and each other.
Which is to say they lived happily ever after.
Of course.
Wooing the Wolf
Chapter One
Women are frail and fragile creatures who must be sheltered and guided by wiser, male heads. Remember, dear sir, that females’ emotions are boundless, while their intelligence is less so. You must plan your courtship accordingly.
—George E. Phelber, A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship
“The post, madam,” Lady Bartlett’s butler announced as he placed a silver salver beside his mistress’s plate at the breakfast table. As usual, the tray was filled. Half the cards were invitations, which the baroness would not accept for fear she would have to reciprocate. The other half were letters filled with gossip, which she devoured with her kippers and eggs. As usual, bills went directly to her man of business so Lady Bartlett did not have to ruin her digestion with the cost of coal or candles.
Not nearly as usual, the butler turned to the older lady’s young companion. “And a letter for you, Miss Todd.”
Margaret seldom got mail. Her sister in India was a poor correspondent, and her cousin, Sir Fernell Todd, in Marionville, Suffolk, was a poor excuse for a relative. This letter, however, was indeed from India, but not addressed in Lily’s neat copperplate. With fingers trembling in dread, Margaret set it aside, and her breakfast also.
“Go ahead and open it, girl. Running off to India with that harebrained husband of hers was bad enough, but what has your fool of a sister done now?”
Margaret opened the letter and gasped. “She…she has died. Along with Harry, of an epidemic.”
“What else did they expect, living in that heathenish country?”
Margaret ignored her employer, and the fact that Lady Bartlett had not expressed an iota of sympathy. Even if Margaret had not seen Lily in twelve years, she was still her beloved sister. With tear-filled eyes, Margaret read on. “The children—Lily had two daughters, you will recall—had been sent to the cooler mountains, and so were spared. This gentleman writes that they are being sent to England, to me, as Lily’s last request, since Harry had no living relatives. The girls will arrive in London harbor before Christmas, he says, and he has notified our solicitor of the particulars.”
Lady Bartlett snorted. “The particulars are that they are likely paupers. No matter, they are your cousin’s responsibility. Head of the household and all that. Your solicitor will send a carriage to the docks to convey them to the baronet.” She went back to reading her mail, oblivious to Margaret’s distress.
Cousin Fernell had inherited Margaret’s father’s estate and baronetcy, but not his kindness or caring. Sir Fernell did not want Margaret or Lily, except as unpaid nannies for his own unruly children or maids for his overbearing wife. Lily had fled to India and Margaret had accepted a position as companion in London as soon as she could. At least here she was compensated, and away from the reminders of what used to be.
Mentally, now, she added up her savings, wondering if there was any way she could keep the girls with her, depending on what the solicitor had to say about the finances. She had been orphaned and unloved since she was sixteen. She could not let that happen to her nieces.
She arose early the next morning, far before Lady Bartlett would call for her to read the newspapers out loud or walk her pug dog. She took a hackney coach to the solicitor’s office, only to find the establishment locked up tight, with a note on the door: CLOSED FOR THE HOLIDAY. WILL RETURN IN THE NEW YEAR. He had added a forwarding address in Cornwall and another solicitor’s card, for emergencies. That lawyer knew nothing of any India correspondence, orphans or inheritances.
Checking the watch pinned to her dark gown, Margaret ordered her waiting driver to hurry to the docks. The clerk at the shipping offices proudly informed her that the Belizar had been spotted and was due in London in two days, two weeks early.
Two little girls losing both parents, crossing an ocean, facing a new land and relatives they had never met, was too sad to think of. Margaret could not simply put them in a coach by themselves and send them on to Suffolk where they would get a cold welcome, if any welcome at all. Lily had meant for her sister to raise the children, after all.
Lady Bartlett meant for Margaret to get back to her duties. “No, you cannot bring them here, missy, not for a whole month until some rackety man of affairs returns to his own business. I am not running a charity home, am I? Children mean noise and nuisance and nursery meals. Besides, they will take up your time, when I am paying for it. I need you to handle my correspondence and such. You have not forgotten about the Boxing Day gifts for the staff, have you?”
Margaret had hemmed half the handkerchiefs Lady Bartlett deemed suitable gifts for her servants. Margaret had intended to put one of her own coins into each folded square, but now she did not think she could spare the money.
“And I need you to look after Charlie. You know he does not take to just anyone.”
Charlie the pug took a piece out of anyone foolish enough to get between him and Lady Bartlett, whose pockets were always filled with treats. Margaret had come to terms with the fat, surly creature by bribing him. The children would not be safe from his nasty temper, or Lady Bartlett’s. But where could she go with them, and how could she support them if there was no bequest?
While her employer had her afternoon nap, Margaret went through the rear garden to Wolfram House next door, where she had befriended the housekeeper over the six years of her London employment in Berkeley Square. Perhaps Mrs. Olive knew of cheap but respectable lodgings somewhere, just until the solicitor returned. Margaret might lose her post by leaving Lady Bartlett’s household, and without references at that, but she felt that neither she nor her nieces had any choice. They needed a loving home, and, at twenty-five years of age, Margaret thought this might be her only chance of gaining the family she had always wanted, perhaps a tiny cottage where she could be aunt and mother to the poor dears, if Lily and Harry had provided for their futures. Perhaps there was only enough to se
e to their schooling, in which case Margaret would find an academy in London for them, so she could visit on her days off from whatever new position she found. They were her kin, and they needed her. Lady Bartlett would simply need a new underpaid, underappreciated, overworked companion.
Mrs. Olive would not hear of Miss Todd taking the unfortunate orphans to a rooming house, not when Wolfram House stood nearly empty. Viscount Wolfram was traveling to various Christmas house parties across the country, and only Mrs. Olive, Dora the maid, Phillip the footman who was sweet on Dora, and a day cook remained to care for his lordship’s home and his great-auntie. The small staff would all be delighted to have children running about the place, especially at Christmas. They’d have an excuse to decorate and plan a feast and make merry, just as they ought at the joyous season.
Nothing could be more perfect, since Margaret might still assist Lady Bartlett in hopes of keeping her position if needed, or at least getting that important reference. Leaving so suddenly, without giving her employer time to hire a new companion, was nothing Margaret could approve, no matter how beastly the baroness. But to move into Wolfram House without the owner’s permission? That was nearly as rude and unprincipled.
The housekeeper shrugged. “No time to write to him if your girls dock afore the post leaves London.”
“What about his great-aunt, Mrs. Bolton?” In all her years next door, Margaret had seldom seen the elderly lady. “Should I not seek her approval?”
Mrs. Olive shook her gray head. “She’s naught but his lordship’s pensioner herself, and she hardly leaves her apartment, except to walk in the garden. But the nursery is far away, and as long as she has her novels from the lending library, Mrs. Bolton won’t care. Might even do the old lady good,” Mrs. Olive added with a touch of disapproval, since she could have gone off to her own sister’s for the holiday if not for the reclusive relic. While she was being critical of her betters, the housekeeper told Miss Todd not to worry her pretty head about his lordship, for while he was considerate and generous, he was also too busy sowing wild oats to tend to his own fields.
The viscount was not due back from his carousing until nearly February, the housekeeper said with a scowl, if the ladies in the country let him go then. “I know all about those house parties, I do. An excuse for prowling dark corridors and passing bedroom-door keys like they were calling cards. Flirtation and fornication, and him all of five-and-thirty, without an heir in sight.” She clucked her tongue all the way to the all-too-empty nursery where Margaret and her nieces might stay until their affairs were settled. “Trust me, Miss Todd, taking his pleasure means more to our Lord Wolf than taking offense at any uninvited guests.”
*
Contrary to his housekeeper’s expectations—and his own—Wolf, as he was known, was not enjoying himself. John, Viscount Wolfram, was not called Wolf because of any gray hair. He still had his full head of curly blond locks. Nor did he have eerie, golden eyes. He had bright blue ones. Neither was he a predator, a sly hunter, for his prey came to him gladly. No, what earned him the sobriquet, other than his own name, was his lordship’s elusiveness. One of the premier bachelors of his time, with a title and fortune and looks and charm, he had been damnably hard to catch by all the matchmaking mamas who had tried since he was one-and-twenty.
What, wed before he had to? Confine himself to one woman forever? One might as well tuck one’s tail between one’s legs and howl at the moon. Wolf was not ready, but his days were numbered, as he well knew. Was he truly thirty-five already? His friends were nearly all wed, assuring their successions if not their conjugal bliss. Even his faithful servant Paul, who acted as valet, secretary and confidant, had taken to putting pamphlets on Wolf’s desk, silly twaddle about the proper way to court a real lady, implying that Wolf’s successes were with lesser, unsuitable sorts of females.
Not so. Just look at his current mistress, the young widow of an elderly earl. Unfortunately, Lady Siddering was not half as appealing by the early morning light, when Wolf left her bedroom before the servants arrived. She slept with her mouth open, and she drooled. Well, a chap did not have to share a bedroom with his wife, Wolf reasoned. Most did not. And Martine was a real lady for all that.
Or she had been, until Wolf decided over breakfast that she simply would not do as his viscountess. He planned to end the affair with a ruby bracelet, then move on to the next invitation. If he had to wed in the new year, he was determined to celebrate the Yuletide and his remaining bachelor days in high fashion, not listening to Martine’s snores. Or her diatribes when she discovered him leaving after luncheon.
“But I never promised you a wedding ring,” he said as she hurled the expensive bracelet at his head. “You had to have known that.”
“Nonsense. It is time you married, everyone says so. And you have compromised me irreparably. You must do the gentlemanly thing.”
Lack of sleep and an abundance of wassail had obviously addled Wolf’s wits, unfortunately. He laughed.
Martine slapped him.
Which only confirmed his decision that she was not of the caliber of the future Lady Wolfram. Growing angry at the scene, the delay and his stinging cheek, Wolf told her, “Madam, since I was not your first gentleman, nor your last, undoubtedly, I shall not deign to address your absurd claims of compromise. But understand that I would not take to wife a female who is free with her temper, or her favors.” Free? Martine had cost him a pretty penny in baubles and dressmakers’ bills. A wife had to be less costly.
The lady was incensed. She was also in fear of growing older, losing her looks, having to live on the pittance her husband had left her. Her best chance of making a brilliant match was leaving this dull gathering where no other unwed gentlemen of means were attending. She could have gone to Lady Plannenbord’s gathering, where the hunting was better. Furious, she raked her fingernails down his cheek.
Wolf bowed and returned to his bedchamber, where his loyal valet Paul was finishing the packing. Paul took one look at his master’s face and his complexion turned as gray as his hair. Wolf looked in the mirror and felt his own heart clench. Blood was pouring from four parallel gashes down one side of his face, onto his neckcloth. Damn, he looked like he’d been at a bearbaiting, and lost! How could he go on to another happy holiday gathering? His hostesses would swoon at the sight of him. The females he’d been hoping to dally with would cringe away from him. Prospective brides would worry he’d be disfigured. Worst, his friends would laugh. Wolf could not even claim a riding accident—four sharp twigs hitting him at once?—for the gossipmongers at this party had seen him at breakfast with his phiz intact.
To add insult to the injury, or injury to the insult, the deuced thing hurt when Paul dabbed at it with spirits. Now Wolf did not even feel like celebrating Christmas, singing carols, cajoling another woman to his bed.
He wanted to hide. So that was what he decided to do, return to his empty London town house until the marks healed, his good humor was restored and he was resigned to finding a bride in the spring. Unless the bitch had scarred him for life.
Chapter Two
Every woman deserves to be courted, even the ones who are betrothed in an arranged match, the settlements signed before you so much as glimpse your prospective bride. She will be gratified at your kindness and consideration, and not feel like chattel. If your success is not thusly guaranteed, then you must strive that much harder to ensure that your suit is welcome. A pleasant character and a clean and neat appearance should be considered de rigueur, for both you and the young lady.
—George E. Phelber, A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship
Wolf rode through the day and half the night, leaving Paul to come with the carriage and his bags. The viscount would make better time that way, and take fewer chances of meeting people he knew. With his hat pulled low and his scarf raised high, Wolf rode into Berkeley Square.
Oddly, lights were lit on the ground floor of his house. For a moment Wolf wondered if Great-Aunt Bolton had fin
ally decided to socialize. While the cat was away…? No, the old lady was a mouse, and had no acquaintances in Town as far as Wolf knew. He let himself into the front door with his key and was again surprised, this time by the smell of evergreens, cloves and apples, and the sight of red ribbons trailing up the banisters of the marble stairwell. The few servants must have decided to decorate for the holidays, he thought, gladdened by the idea. Now his own Christmas would be a little brighter, if possible.
Then he heard noises from the music room—singing, laughing, tinkling notes. His great-aunt had never stepped foot in the music room to his knowledge, or shown any interest in attending concerts, the opera or musical recitals at his friends’ homes, although he had asked for a year when she had first arrived, before giving up. He doubted the quivery, quaking old woman was raising her voice so merrily in the old Christmas carols now.
He did not mind the servants celebrating, or begrudge them the expense of a bit of greenery, but truly, they should not be in the formal rooms. And his pianoforte was a rare and valuable piece, not to be thumped by amateur fingers.
He strode down the hall and through the open door.
The songs, laughter and music all died. Mrs. Olive shrieked. Little Dora the maid threw herself into the arms of Phillip the footman. A child of about ten—a little girl, in his home?—pointed at his mutilated cheek and started crying. Another, smaller one—two little girls, in his home?—hid her head in the skirts of a pretty female in a faded brown gown who was standing by the pianoforte, her face as white as the ivory keys. Wolf instantly and expertly assessed the woman: young but not in the first blush of youth, even before the instant pallor. Too young, he thought, to be the little girls’ mother, although the blubbering one that he could see had similar brown hair. The woman had large green eyes, a straight nose, soft lips, and a pleasing figure from what he could tell under the modest, unfashionable gown. And she was a total stranger.
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