“Perhaps because it is. Think now, sir. How did the ring disappear six years ago?”
“You know how, your aunt’s brigand of a magpie took it.”
“Exactly.” She could barely hold back her laughter.
Realization dawned, and at last Charles began to look higher than the furniture and floor. Sure enough, entangled amid the greenery on the chimneypiece was the purple ribbon and its precious band of gold. Without further ado he seized a nearby upright chair and dragged it in front of the fire.
Juliet was perturbed. “Oh, do be careful, Charles, for that chair is—”
But it was too late. He stepped up, and as he stretched out a hand to the purple ribbon, the chair collapsed. For a moment he flailed in midair, but managed to get hold of the ribbon before he, the chair, and the greenery crashed to the floor.
Winded, he lay in the wreckage of the chair, with sprigs of holly and pine scattered all over him, but he brandished the ring triumphantly aloft. “I have it! I have it!” he managed to gasp.
Helpless with laughter, Juliet knelt beside him. “Oh, Charles, what a catastrophe! Whatever next?”
He seized her left hand. “Whatever next? Why, this, my lady, this!” He pushed the ring, still entangled with the ribbon, onto her fourth finger. Then he enclosed her hand in both his, his eyes silently pleading.
She hesitated, and then with her other hand plucked a holly berry from his blond hair. “Do you really wish us to begin again?” she asked softly.
“How can you doubt it? You are the only woman for me.”
“Then the ring will stay on my finger,” she whispered.
The gold already felt as if it had never been removed at all; indeed, the terrible rift might almost never have been as Charles drew her down into his arms and her lips to his. Their first kiss for six years healed a great deal of the pain, although only time would repair the wound completely. This Christmas was the beginning, but already they both knew how very much they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together.
In Lady Marchwell’s bedroom, Jack snuggled cozily in his velvet nest in front of the fire. He was in a rosy glow of the highest order, the room swam pleasantly before his unfocused eye, and he was happily contented. Of course, if he had realized that sobriety was to be his lot in the coming year, he would probably not have been quite such a merry magpie. But for the time being . . . He gave a delicious sigh, closed his eye, and fell asleep.
Best Wishes
by Edith Layton
“I wish I’d never laid eyes on you!”
His head shot up. “Indeed?”
The nostrils on his long elegant nose pinched. That was the only outward sign of any emotion. His lean face was expressionless. He put his book down on the coverlet and stared at her.
“I might say the same, my dear,” he said after a second, picking up his book again. “But I am not histrionic. And I believe this is a tempest in a teapot. I think if you considered it, you would agree.”
All she could think was that he ought to be glad she didn’t have that teapot the tempest was in at hand. She’d throw it right at his head.
“I have thought about it,” she cried, stamping her foot. “It is not a tempest, it’s a reasonable request.”
He looked down and pretended to be reading again. She knew it. How could he read when she was standing by the bed, screaming at him? He was probably shamming it just because she was screaming, she realized. He never shouted and so doubtless thought she was beneath his contempt for raging the way she was. But the fact that he just sat there in bed, holding the cursed book, seemingly calm and deaf to her arguments, made her even wilder. He could at least tell her how shocked and disappointed he was with her. Then she could tell him exactly how shocked and disappointed she was in him.
She fought for composure.
“I do not wish to go to the Fanshawes’ for Christmas,” she said again, only this time woodenly. “I do not like them. I do not like their friends. And I do not want to spend my holidays with them.”
He turned a page. “We are promised to them.”
“You are promised to them!” she shouted, losing all pretense of composure. “And what’s more, I believe because you probably promised far more to her! I don’t want to go and I won’t. I will not!”
She thought she saw him wince, but it was likely only an illusion from the flaring of the lamplight. It was probably feeling a draft. She’d shouted loudly enough to crack the glass that sat over the candle.
“You are my wife. I have given my word. We are going,” he said, and turned the page again.
She was pleased to see that the pages were turning like leaves in a storm, and he didn’t seem to notice. That was the only thing that pleased her. She wondered if she’d actually have to throw something at him to get any other reaction. It was like fighting with a damp feather pillow. If he’d raise his voice, she’d know what he was really thinking. But he was too civilized. The hotter she got, the colder he grew. It just made her more frustrated, and so even angrier.
This was only the third fight they’d had. The first two had been so foolish she thought they’d fought only to be able to make up again, as they had, delightfully. They’d been married three months now and she’d never been angry with him before. Not really. Oh, she hadn’t liked little things he did here and there, now and again, but she never mentioned them. They were, after all, trivial and no one was perfect. For example, he ate kippers for breakfast and the scent made her ill at any time but especially made her breakfasts unpleasant; he didn’t love music as much as she did, so they didn’t go to as many concerts as she’d like; he kept dogs but not cats. And he never raised his voice, even when he was annoyed.
These were, admittedly, little things. Doubtless he’d had the same sorts of minor complaints about her.
But this was enormous, in her eyes. Worse, she suddenly realized he did have minor complaints about her, but he told her about them and they laughed over them together. She’d never complained about him, to him. Until now. But now she had a lot to complain about and could not let it go.
She straightened her back. She was very angry, and if he was surprised she was capable of such fury, it was only his own fault. There were many things she felt deeply about, and if he’d known her longer he’d have seen evidence of them before this. Her family was not a fractious one, but they had words, and sometimes those words were loud. It helped clear the air. The air in here was getting heavy and thick with unspoken resentment. She didn’t know how to fight with raised eyebrows and curling smiles, the way he and his set did. She wanted to have it all out in the open. But he didn’t know that. How could he? It wasn’t her fault they hadn’t disagreed about anything before they were married. They’d married so quickly.
He was the one who had wanted an immediate wedding. She’d only instantly agreed. They’d met in May and married in September. True love, their friends said, such love needed consummation, not more time to come to fruition. It had seemed so at the time.
She’d had some reservations, but they never gave her more than a moment’s pause. He was eight years her senior. But her own father was that much older than her mama, and they had a wonderful marriage.
Jonathan was so clever and worldly wise, and she had only book knowledge of the world. But she was as smart as he was, or at least she always felt she had a great deal of knowledge, if not experience. Also true, and most significant, her new husband, Jonathan, Viscount Rexford, was a reserved fellow, distant, even with her.
But that was an essential part of his charm. He was the very paragon of a perfect gentleman. Handsome in classic fashion, he was tall, lean, and elegant, a study in dark and light with his inky close-cropped hair and steady slate eyes. He was sophisticated, with a famous dry wit and a signature style that was cool and reserved. His smile was hard-won, but once won, unforgettable in its warmth and charm.
Everyone said they were surprised to see him tumble into love with a pretty little thing from the c
ountryside. She knew they always said, “Good family” when they talked about her behind their hands, but she also knew they then added, “ . . . of no particular distinction.”
“She was new to town, and fresh as the morning,” she’d overheard one buck say about her to another just the other week at the theater, when they didn’t know she was behind them. “That’s what probably accounted for that surprising marriage. Damned pretty filly, though, with such a sweet little ars . . .” He’d stopped talking abruptly when he’d seen Jonathan’s eyes on him.
Well, she’d thought, who wouldn’t freeze under that stare? Such cool gray eyes Jonathan had, they were what first attracted her to him—when she’d seen them light with silver when he laughed. Tonight, as that night at the theater when he’d overheard the improper remark, those gray eyes were flinty, cold as the surface of an icebound lake. The foolish young buck who had been overheard had turned pale and quaked, before he’d fled. But she was too angry to be afraid.
“I won’t go,” she said again.
She stood at the foot of their bed, staring, sure her eyes were burning holes in the back of the book he still held.
He put a long finger into the book to keep his place—if he even remembered what book he was reading now, she thought spitefully.
“I see. Am I to assume you are going back on your word?”
“I never gave my word. I don’t remember being asked.”
“I remember telling you.”
“Aha!” she cried. “There it is! There you are! You told me. You never asked.”
Was that a shadow of surprise she saw on his face? It was gone before she could tell.
“I recall our discussing it.”
“So do I. We discussed it. We did not decide it, or anything. I read you Mama’s letter asking if we were coming home for Christmas. I told you how much fun it was and how much you’d enjoy our traditions. You mentioned your invitations, including the one to the Fanshawes’. I made a terrible face. You laughed. We talked about other things. So, where is the word I gave, eh?” She tossed up her head, triumphant.
There was a silence.
He turned to his book again. “I said we were going. I assumed you agreed . . .”
“You had no right!” she cried.
“Pamela,” he said, snapping his book shut and putting it down with finality. “Whether or not I asked—and I do recall asking, but if you don’t it is possible there was a misunderstanding—the point is that I wrote to accept and said we were going. And so that is the end of that. Now, are you coming to bed?”
She stared. He’d said that in a conciliatory tone, in the deep smooth voice she’d fallen in love with. And he lay in their bed, waiting for her. The room was strikingly chill now that the fire in the hearth was dying, and the great bed was covered with a huge, plump, feather-filled silken coverlet that warmed a person within minutes. His body would be even warmer and would heat her even faster. It did even now, just thinking of it. She knew the warmth of the man behind that cool façade and knew that the slender body under those heavy coverlets was all supple well-knit, smooth, hard muscle. She knew how clever those long sensitive hands could be on a woman’s body, and knew very well the sighs he could win from her with them.
But she also wished she could see that strong handsome body of his better; she often wished she weren’t still so shy with him. She wished she could bring herself to ask him to leave the lamp on sometimes. He was a wonderful lover. At least, since she’d had no other, she believed him to be so, because he drove her mad with desire and pleased her very much. But she sometimes wondered if he could please her a little more. She dearly wished she could ask him, sometimes, to do that more, or this a bit less, and could she do that to him . . .?
The truth was that she was still reticent with him about their lovemaking, as well as other things, and unsure of herself with him and his world. She’d thought that in time . . .
But now this! Her anger flared again.
“I will go to bed,” she said stonily. “But not with you, thank you very much.”
His eyebrow rose in his signature expression of surprise. She wished she could say something to make both of them fly up. “Indeed?” he asked, and now his nostrils flared.
Too sad, she thought angrily, that his nose was his most expressive feature tonight.
“Indeed!” she said, and hesitated.
Because she didn’t know where she could sleep if she didn’t go to bed with him.
They shared a bedchamber, rare for a couple of their noble standing. She’d loved the closeness of sleeping beside him through the night and waking with him in the morning. Because of that, she couldn’t leave the room tonight. That would be an irrevocable declaration of war to the world. She was of good birth, but didn’t come from a high-nosed, care-for-nothing family with centuries of aristocratic training; she cared about what servants thought. If she now left this room to go to any one of the dozen other bedrooms in this great house of his, all his servants would know it.
She didn’t think she could bear the speculation in everyone’s eyes tomorrow morning. And that would be literally everyone in the immediate vicinity, because she knew how servants loved to gossip about their masters. Even at home, let Papa and Mama have a shouting match and the whole neighborhood knew about it the next day.
So where could she go now?
He realized her problem, of course. She thought she saw a ghost of a smile on his lips. That decided her.
There was the dressing room. It was small, but there was enough space for a person to sleep. Unfortunately, she remembered, there was no cot or couch to sleep on. She glanced at him. The smile looked larger. It looked a great deal like a dawning gloat. She’d rather sleep on the floor than near him tonight.
She walked toward the bed. The smile on his face grew warm and welcoming.
She grabbed the bottom of the silken coverlet in both hands and pulled, dragging it from the bed. It slid off into her hands before he could snatch it back. His eyes widened, and she wondered if he would try—but realized he probably believed fighting for his covers was beneath his dignity. That might have turned into a tug-of-war, which could have turned into . . . anything. No matter, she had it all. She gathered up the coverlet, turned, and marched toward the dressing room, trailing it behind her. Then, with the swirl of red silk half enveloping her, she turned around and faced him again. She held her head high.
“I will sleep in there,” she announced. “And there I will sleep every night henceforth. I will not spend Christmas with your mistress. Bad enough I must know of her.”
“My ex-mistress,” he said through clenched teeth. “My one time, a long-time-ago mistress, and I wish no one had ever told you about her. She is entirely respectable now.”
“Unlike your other ex-mistresses?” she asked sweetly.
“I was not aware you wanted a husband straight from a monastery.”
“I wanted one with a bit of discretion. I think it is the outside of enough that you still wish to share your holidays with her. And God knows what else.”
“Only the holiday,” he said with outsized patience. “She has not been anything but a friend to me for over a decade. So why are you distressed? A decade ago you were too young for my attentions,” he added with a faint, amused smile.
“I wonder if I am not still too young for you now,” she said, just to erase that supercilious smile, “or at least not jaded enough to appreciate your dissolute ways.”
“You did not think so last night.”
She flushed. “I did not know you were planning to run to your mistress for the holidays then.”
“I am not running to her,” he said in bored tones. “We will take the traveling coach and arrive in slow and splendid style. Come, what is your real objection?”
“My real objection?” she asked, incredulous. “Apart from the fact that I wanted to be with my family, aside from the fact that I never said yes to your plan? Or that I wonder how you can want to take
your new wife to celebrate Christmas, of all holidays, with a woman you used to make love to? Or that I am aghast at the thought that you can wish to sit at a holiday table beside two women you have bedded? Do you want to compare how we each responded to your touch, your kisses? I find that . . . loathsome.”
He sat frozen. Before he could answer, she went on, unsuccessfully trying to keep her voice from breaking. “I don’t understand you or that set of your friends, my lord. I thought you’d be done with such when we married. But to go to a house party with such people! From what I hear, half of them will spend half their nights in the wrong beds; the other half will spend the next day making jokes about it. That is not my idea of Christmas.”
“Well,” he said in a hard, cold voice, “there you are. You obviously don’t understand, and clearly pay undiscriminating attention to foolish gossip as well. We are not going to an orgy. They are just my friends. That is all I am to Marianna Fanshawe now. And no, I do not compare—the very idea is repellent. I would never have thought of doing so. Ten years is an eternity.” He added, very much on his highest ropes, “The thought of such comparisons or activities is absurd. I am looking forward to intelligent conversation with old friends, and thought you might like to get to know some of the kingdom’s finest minds.”
“And bodies?” she asked sweetly.
“I would not have married you if I wished to share you,” he said icily. Seeing her hesitate, he added, “I thought you’d enjoy it. Yet here you are, acting like an outraged virgin invited to a Roman revel. At least I considered your feelings. I wonder if you considered mine at all? You think passing the holidays in a merry round of sticky sweets and stickier infants, discussing the childhood colics of all your assorted nieces and nephews, as well as rehashing all the childhood pranks of your brothers and sisters, would be ‘great fun,’ as you described it, for me?”
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