Oh, the tale just got better and better, Dominick thought sarcastically. Arthur was not just a bacon-brain, as Beatrice had put it, but a weakling who had refused to put Ginny’s welfare ahead of his own.
It was going to be a long evening indeed.
Chapter Eight
Mary took a slow bite of her dried-apple tart, surreptitiously studying Dominick across the dining table. Lady Amesby had kept up a bright, steady stream of chatter throughout the meal, asking after her friends in London and imparting all the neighbourhood gossip. Even Ginny had managed to become more cheerful, joining in the talk as her suitor sat beside her in chastened silence.
But Dominick, even though he smiled at his aunt and answered her questions, seemed preoccupied. It was as if although he sat with them in the warm, candlelit dining room his thoughts were very far away. What she would not give to know what those thoughts were! Perhaps he was missing the pleasures of Town, left behind to help her with this wild chase. Perhaps he regretted the flash of chivalry that had made him come with her.
‘Well, I know the circumstances are not all that could be desired,’ Lady Amesby said, ‘but I must say how happy I am to have both my nephews with me for Christmas. And Lady Derrington and Miss Smythe, too! It will be a very merry time.’
Mary gave her a smile. In only the short time they had been at Rose Cottage she had come to like Dominick’s aunt so much. Her warm welcome and cheerful conversation kept away even the cold outside. ‘It is very kind of you to take us in, Lady Amesby. But surely Christmas should be for family? It seems the storm is abating. Ginny and I could leave for London in the morning.’
‘Leave?’ cried Lady Amesby. ‘Certainly not. Christmas is to share with everyone, and I love having so much company. My cook has prepared far too much food for me to consume myself. Unless there is someone in Town awaiting your return, Lady Derrington?’
‘Only my brother-in-law and his wife, who are such dears,’ Mary answered. She felt a pang as she thought of her son, who was not there. But it did not have quite the terrible sharpness it once had. ‘I sent them a message as soon as we arrived here, saying I am quite safe.’
‘Then you must stay,’ Lady Amesby insisted. ‘It is still very cold outside.’
Mary glanced again at Dominick, who watched her with that unreadable expression on his face. The candlelight gilded his skin and hair, his jewel-like blue eyes, making him glisten like a pagan idol. She could not quite catch her breath. ‘You are very kind, Lady Amesby.’
Ginny clapped her hands happily. ‘Oh, it will be so much fun! Just like when we were children, Mary. Shall I play some Christmas carols after dinner?’
Mary smiled at her sister, glad to see that Ginny had ceased weeping and sulking to find some joy in the Christmas holiday. She did not remind her that when Ginny had been a child she, Mary, had been grown and married. She did not want to feel old—not tonight. Not when Dominick was there.
‘Ginny is the finest musician I know,’ Captain Heelis said—the first time he had spoken since the fish course. Ginny gave him a shy smile, strange after all the two of them had got into together.
‘Christmas carols will be most welcome,’ Lady Amesby said. ‘My poor pianoforte has become quite rusty with disuse, I fear.’
‘Oh, no, Lady Amesby! It is a lovely instrument,’ Ginny said. ‘So much finer than mine at home.’
And when they all gathered in the drawing room after the meal she demonstrated that fineness for them. With Captain Heelis to turn the pages, she launched into song. ‘“I saw three ships come sailing in, on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day. I saw three ships come sailing in, on Christmas Day in the morning!”’
Mary leaned against the pianoforte, sipping at a glass of warm spiced wine as she listened to her sister’s sweet, clear voice. With the music, the firelight and the wine, she felt the cold tension of the journey finally slide away from her and the first soft, bright feelings of Christmas slip into its place. Her sister was safe, and Mary had a little more time with Dominick. They were all cosy against the cold outside, the cold that waited in her real life.
I will enjoy this, she thought fiercely. And then she would have to put this moment of contentment away as a precious little memory.
Ginny finished her song, and smiled at their hostess. ‘Lady Amesby, what is your very favourite carol?’
Lady Amesby laughed, gesturing to the footmen to bring more wine. ‘My mother used to sing “The Holly and the Ivy”. It always makes me think of her.’
Ginny nodded, striking the first chords of the old song. ‘“The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood the holly bears the crown…”’
By the end they were all singing, even Dominick.
‘“The rising of the sun and the running of the deer, the playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir!”’
‘You have a beautiful voice, Mary,’ Ginny said as the last note faded away. ‘And yet I never hear you sing!’
Mary laughed. ‘That is because only my sister would say my voice is beautiful.’
‘No, Miss Smythe is quite right,’ Dominick said quietly. ‘You do have a beautiful voice.’
Ginny gave him a searching glance, her eyes wide. ‘You see, Mary, I have confirmation. Won’t you sing something for us?’
Mary shook her head, still laughing. ‘I fear I don’t remember any carols well enough to sing alone.’
‘Nonsense,’ Ginny said. ‘What was that song you used to sing to me when I was a child? No one else knew it.’
‘I remember. It was something my old Cornish nursemaid used to sing when I was a child.’
‘Then you must teach it to us,’ Lady Amesby said. ‘I insist.’
‘Please, Lady Derrington,’ Dominick added. He smiled at her, and she could not resist.
‘Very well. But do not blame me if that pretty looking glass over there shatters, Lady Amesby!’
Mary took Ginny’s place on the piano bench, her fingertips poised over the keys as she tried to recall the whole song. It had been so long, and yet the tune was still there, buried deep inside her.
‘“Tomorrow shall be my dancing day,”’ she sang. ‘“I would my true love did so chance to see the legend of my play, to call my true love to my dance.”’
She looked up to meet Dominick’s gaze, so dark and mysterious in the night.
‘“Sing oh my love, oh my love, my love, my love. This have I done for my true love…”’
She sang what she remembered of the song, then rested her hands on the edge of the keys. A sweet sadness washed over her, warm as the wine, as a long-concealed realisation revealed itself in that song. She had only ever had one true love, and that was Dominick.
And she loved him still. No matter what he had done in the years since they had parted. No matter that she felt his own true love must be the poor, lost Lady Newcombe. He must never know, and she would have to forget. But now she fought back her tears.
She folded her hands in her lap, smiling at her sister. Tears shone in Ginny’s eyes, too. ‘Was that the one you remembered, Ginny?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Ginny said. ‘That is exactly it.’
‘That was indeed beautiful, Lady Derrington,’ said Lady Amesby. ‘Will you sing another?’
‘I fear I am quite tired,’ Mary answered. ‘I think I will retire now—if you will excuse me, Lady Amesby?’
‘I will show you to your chamber,’ Dominick offered.
Lady Amesby quirked her brow but said nothing; this hardly seemed a gathering for strict propriety.
He was the last person Mary wanted to be alone with, not when she was feeling so suddenly vulnerable and sad. But she was too tired to argue, and she had to admit still too desirous of his company.
‘Thank you, Lord Amesby,’ she said, rising from the bench to accept his outstretched arm. He felt so warm and strong under her touch. ‘Goodnight, everyone.’
‘Goodnight, Lady Derrington,’ Lady Amesby said. ‘Be sure and get s
ome rest. We must plan our festivities tomorrow!’
Dominick led her up the evergreen-bedecked stairs and along a long dim corridor. The soft carpet runner muffled their footsteps, the only sound the occasional soft hiss of the candles in their wall sconces. They were alone in the dark quiet.
‘Here we are,’ Dominick said, stopping in front of the chamber door.
‘Thank you,’ she answered, slowly sliding her hand from his sleeve. ‘For everything, Dominick. You have been a good friend to my sister and me.’
He shook his head. ‘Mary, I have not been a good friend at all. There are things I need to tell you—things you must know if I am to prove myself your friend in truth.’
Confidences? Whatever could they be? She did not think she was yet strong enough to hear truths about his life and loves. ‘You need not…’
‘Yes, I do need to,’ he said. ‘Please, Mary. I need to tell you the truth. You deserve that from me, at least.’
She was now thoroughly confused. ‘Do you want to talk now? Here?’
He glanced down the deserted corridor. They could hear the faint echo of the others, talking and laughing, the strains of the pianoforte. ‘Can I come to you later? When the house is quiet?’
And with those few words all her resolve to stay sensible and forget about Dominick and their night together flew away on snowy wings. Her stomach fluttered with trepidation, excitement, and a foolish hope. What did he want to say to her? Was it good—or ill? What good could there be in their situation? And yet—yet there was that hope. A hope she’d thought long-dead.
She studied his face, cast in flickering shadows, but she still could not read anything there. His eyes were full of caution as he watched her—as if he, too, felt that uncertainty. Felt that sense of standing atop a cliff: one push and they would tumble down into a life they didn’t even recognise.
She should send him away, once and for all. But she could not. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Come to me later.’
He nodded, and his hand slid past her waist. She thought he would touch her, curl his hand around her and pull her close again, and she shivered, imagining it. Yet he just turned the knob and opened the door. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said, and then he was gone, vanishing into the darkness of the corridor.
She slipped into her room, closing the door behind her before she collapsed to the floor. She covered her face with trembling hands and felt as young as Ginny. All the years between tonight and her first meeting with Dominick might never have passed at all.
Yet they had. Time had certainly passed, and so much had happened to both of them. She felt the marks of her life on her body and her soul—and especially on her heart. She would never, ever forget her son and her great love for him. But maybe she could let go of the terrible grief and keep only the sweetness of his life in her heart. Could she? Was it even possible?
She caught a glimpse of herself in the large looking glass across the chamber. Her brown curls were pinned back in an austere knot, revealing the dark shadows of sleeplessness under her eyes, the tiny lines around her lips that had not been there when she had first met Dominick. She wore one of the few gowns she had packed, a sensible grey silk, with a high neckline and matronly elbow-length sleeves.
Whatever Dominick had to tell her, whatever was meant to happen between them tonight, she couldn’t see him while she looked like a frump. She scrambled to her feet and hurried over to the wardrobe. She had to remind him—remind them both—of how things had once been…
Dominick stood outside Mary’s door, listening to the silence of the house. His aunt, along with the young lovers, had retired at last, and most of the lights in the corridor were now extinguished, leaving only one sconce near the stairs to chase away the winter gloom. The storm outside had ceased; no sleet battered at the windows, no wind howled. Only the cold remained.
He should go back to his own chamber, leave Mary alone. She had the life she was always meant for—a life of position and respectability which her kind heart and devotion to her family deserved. The flame that obviously still burned between them should not take that away—he should not take that away.
But she deserved to know the truth. He could not keep it from her any longer. He knocked on the door.
After a moment, a moment that seemed to last an hour, there was a rustle and the click of the lock being drawn back. The door swung open and Mary stood there, outlined in the golden glow of dozens of candles. Her hair flowed over her shoulders, a dark, soft cloud, and she wore a pale pink dressing gown trimmed in fluffy white fur. She looked so young and bright and warm, a spirit of sunrise mornings and summer days. She smiled at him, and all he wanted to say, all his honourable intentions to leave her, were worth nothing.
His body obviously agreed, as he felt an erection stir to life at the sight of her smile. He remembered their night in the hay barn, the hot need between them, the way her skin had felt against his and the sound of her cry as she’d climaxed. It took all his strength not to grab her, to carry her down to the floor and make love to her again, just as rough and fast and desperate as before.
‘I thought you had changed your mind,’ she said. She reached out and took his hand, drawing him into the chamber.
He kicked the door shut behind him.
‘Or that maybe you had forgot,’ Mary said. Her hand trailed lightly up his arm, her fingers drifting over his linen shirtsleeve, along his shoulder, before she toyed with the edge of his open collar. Everywhere she touched she left little drops of pure fire.
‘How could I forget?’ he said hoarsely.
With the very tip of her finger she traced his throat, the taut line of his jaw. She gently cupped his cheek, studying his face as if she had never seen it before. ‘I’m glad you’re here now.’
He reached up to catch her hand. He could not think at all when she touched him like that! ‘Mary, I have to tell you…’
‘I think—I think I would like a kiss first, Dominick,’ she murmured.
She tried to give a seductive smile, but her lips trembled and her eyes were wide with uncertainty. That only made him want her more, his sweet Mary. There was no artifice about her, as there was in all the other parts of his life.
‘I would never want to disoblige a lady,’ he said. He slid his hands around her waist, slender and warm, unencumbered by any stays. Was she naked under her robe? Her bare skin covered only by pink silk? The alluring image made him grow even harder, but he kept his touch gentle, his movements slow, as he drew her close to him.
She held onto his shoulders, going up on tiptoe and leaning into him. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted as she stared up at him. He traced the supple curve of her back, tangling his hands in her hair. This was Mary he held, Dominick thought in disbelief. Mary who stood only a breath away from him, when for so long he had thought her lost to him for ever.
‘I should never have let you go,’ he muttered, and covered her mouth with his kiss.
It was soft at first, as he savoured the taste of her, the way her body moved against his. He wanted to go slowly this time, to enjoy every single moment with her. But that resolve was sorely tested when she moaned against his lips, her hand drifting over his chest. She caught the hem of his shirt, bunching it in her fist as she dragged it up to touch his bare skin.
His stomach muscles tightened at the lightning-hot shock of pleasure. He parted her lips with his tongue, tasting her deeply. He untied the sash of her gown, pushing the soft fabric away from her shoulders. She stepped back, letting it fall to the floor, and he opened his eyes to see that she was indeed naked.
For an instant her eyes shifted away from his in uncertain shyness. But then she straightened her shoulders, shook her hair back, and smiled at him. ‘Well? What do you think?’
Think? He could not think at all—not one single coherent thought. The tantalising glimpses he had had of her as they had tumbled through the hay had only fuelled his imagination, but the reality was so much more beautiful.
Sh
e was pale and slender, her waist a narrow line above a stomach still flat after her child, an alluring triangle of dark curls. Her breasts were upturned, delicate, crowned with enticingly lush pink nipples. She was—perfect.
Her hands fluttered, as if she would cover herself with them, and he caught them in his fingers. ‘You are so very beautiful, Mary.’
‘So are you,’ she whispered.
He could bear it no longer. He swung her up in his arms, carrying her to the waiting bed. He laid her gently amid the soft sheets, lowering himself to her side. ‘A real bed this time,’ he said with a hoarse laugh.
‘Is it?’ She fell back into the pillows, her hair swirling around her. ‘I hadn’t noticed. I fear all I can see is you.’
He kissed her again, bracing himself above her as they both sank deeper into the feather mattress. She wrapped her legs around his hips, tugging him closer into the curve of her body.
‘And I fear you are much too overdressed for the occasion, Lord Amesby,’ she said. She laughed, too, a gloriously carefree sound, like silver chimes in a warm breeze.
‘As I said—I always try to oblige a lady.’ He went up on his knees, dragging his shirt over his head, and Mary watched him avidly, lolling among her pillows like a sultana waiting for her pleasure.
Dominick certainly did not want to keep her waiting. He unfastened his breeches, and she reached out to help him pull them over his hips. He could do no more as she wrapped her legs around him again and urged him close for another kiss.
‘Mary, Mary,’ he whispered, trailing his lips over her cheek, her throat. He leaned his face into the curve of her shoulder, where her hair fell in a riot of curls, inhaling deeply of her very essence. She smelled of lavender soap and the salty, intoxicating musk of desire. A sharp longing swept over him. He had never known anything like this sheer, desperate need.
He felt her kiss the top of his head, felt the stroke of her caress through his hair. ‘Dominick,’ she whispered, and he knew what that longing was. His whole life, ever since he had seen Mary Smythe at that ball so long ago, had been leading him here. To this moment in her arms.
Regency Christmas Proposals Page 15