by Cheryl Bolen
Emily Dunsford expressed mock outrage. “I declare, Alfred! You must be cheating! How can you possibly know what cards are in Lady Sarah’s hand?”
“Now, now, my love,” Lord Dunsford said, “you know what an excellent player your brother is.”
“Indeed he is,” Sarah found herself saying. The ice she’d erected between the two of them had melted as the evening had progressed and their partnership had flourished.
“Ah, what a lucky man I am,” Mr. Wickham said, “to not only have so skilled a player for my partner, but how fortunate I am to be able to look upon one as pretty as she.”
Their string of winning hands and the ability to tap into each other’s weaknesses had the two of them exchanging compliments and encouragements.
She felt uncomfortable under his lazy-eyed gaze. Especially when his gaze lowered to her bosom.
She did purposely attempt to annoy him from time to time. “I would expect, Mr. Wickham, if you had applied yourself to your studies at Oxford with the intensity that you do to games of chance you would still be revered within those hallowed halls.”
Lady Dunsford giggled. “How well you know my brother, Lady Sarah. In fact, you sound exactly like Papa!”
Sarah looked into Mr. Wickham’s amused gaze. His eyes were green, his lashes dark. When he grinned, as he was doing now, a dimple slashed into his lean, manly cheek. He caused her breathing to be erratic. “I am trying to determine if you complimented me, my lady.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Wickham. You’re intelligent enough to realize I gave you credit for considerable intellect.” Their eyes locked. “Did I not?”
He smiled. “Then permit me to say of all the whist partners with whom I’ve ever played, you are my favorite.”
She was taken aback. That was high praise indeed. He was being very nice to her. But she kept wondering if his mother was forcing him to do so.
She was determined to bolster her pride. “I hate to boast, but we have been good together. It doesn’t seem fair. Perhaps tomorrow night I should pair with Lord Pottinger.”
She ignored her mother’s worrying glance.
Chapter 6
Alfred’s fire had gone out during the night, and even though the velvet curtains were closed around his bed, his bedchamber was devilishly cold when he awakened. He threw off his blankets, hurried into his velvet robe, and padded to the casement. The lawns around Hedley were carpeted with snow.
Radcliff would finally get to hunt for that Yule log today. Alfred could not deny he would be awfully happy to get outdoors himself. Being shut away during winter in town wasn’t nearly as oppressive as it was when one was in the country. He supposed that was because when he was in the country he was accustomed to riding and shooting and enjoying all manner of outdoor activities. He’d always preferred country life to city life. Because of those activities.
While he stood there, the char girl came, started the fire in his grate in under two minutes, and quietly left.
The fire drew him like the face of a pretty actress . . . or the bosom of Lady Sarah Milton. He went to stand before the fire, ashamed of himself. Lady Sarah had many more attributes than a fine pair of breasts. And they weren’t all physical—though her physical attributes were abundant. Even the timbre of her voice was pleasant. The way she walked and held her cards with such grace could make most other women look masculine. Her eye for fashion was unerring. Her skill at the pianoforte was unmatched. And her intelligence! Granted, he’d only been with her for two days, but in that time he had been significantly impressed with her mind. She thought like a man.
He smiled to himself. She’d be furious if he ever said that in front of her.
Lady Sarah was not without flaws. Unlike other women, she was not attracted to him. Not that he minded. But while his mother was observing, he bloody well wished Lady Sarah would have appeared to have taken some kind of interest in him.
Also, behind that lilting, feminine voice of Lady Sarah’s lurked a sharp-tongued shrew. And one more detriment: he suspected the woman preferred Potts to him.
Which was all very good. Potts was a fine fellow. Potts deserved the lovely earl’s daughter. So why in the devil did it make Alfred so beastly angry that this lady preferred Potts?
He did want that money his mother promised. How likely was his mother to give it to him if Lady Sarah spent her time gushing over Potts?
His man came to assist him in dressing for the day. “Warm clothing, Marks. We’ll be going outside today.”
* * *
“Hah-wee-ett.” Charlie was up on his knees upon the seat of his parents’ sleigh, peering at his cousin, as the sleigh sped off. He was about to cry at the separation from the other child.
The frowning duchess eyed Sarah, who sat across from her. “He doesn’t understand why Harriett isn’t coming with us.”
Sarah smiled. “It would be hard to explain to a child Lord Dunsford’s exceedingly worry for the child’s mother.”
The duke and duchess chuckled. “Dunsford does seem to think his wife’s some delicate egg that will crush during a sleigh ride,” the duke said.
“Or a coach ride,” the duchess added. “He insisted they come to Hedley a month before Christmas. He didn’t want her in a coach so close to her time.”
The duke gave a resigned shrug. “I would have done the same.” He put two strong hands around his lad’s waist and hauled him onto his lap. “I told you, son, you’re going to have to help me and the other men today. We have to find a big log, and we need strong fellows like you.”
This had the effect of making Charlie forget about Harriett.
A smaller sleigh carrying Lady Babington, Lady Landis, and Mrs. Twickingham glided along beside them, and the other men rode horseback on either side of them until they reached a copse of woods, and everyone dismounted.
The ladies, as had Lady Dunsford back near the house, carried baskets with which to gather holly. “You won’t need a basket,” Mr. Wickham said when he and Lord Pottinger approached her. “Those who are not married must go and locate mistletoe.”
She looked at Lord Pottinger. “Is that so?”
He looked from Mr. Wickham to her and shrugged. “That’s w-w-w-what Wick tells me.”
“Won’t I need a basket for the mistletoe?” she asked.
“I suppose you will.”
They broke away from the others and walked off toward the taller trees. “Are you proposing to climb the trees, Mr. Wickham?” she asked.
“Perhaps.”
“I’ll give you a leg up, old boy.”
She had noticed that Lord Pottinger never stuttered when speaking to his friend, only when speaking to her. She supposed he was exceptionally comfortable when talking to Mr. Wickham, owing to the fact they’d been close friends for almost three-quarters of their lives. They were rather like siblings.
She moved nearer to the baron. “Pray, Lord Pottinger, could I impose on you to offer your arm? I fear I’ll fall on this uneven terrain and muss my dress.”
His step slowed, and he turned to her. “B-b-b-but of course, m-m-m-my lady.” He proffered his arm.
Mr. Wickham stalked ahead.
“Oh, look there, Wick!” Lord Pottinger stopped and pointed to their left. “I believe that’s a bunch of mistletoe.”
“So it is,” Mr. Wickham said icily.
Was he angry because he hadn’t seen it first?
Lord Pottinger turned to her. “Pardon m-m-m-m-me. M-m-m-must help Wick up.”
He proceeded to thread his gloved fingers together, stoop, and offer his friend a step to advance him up the tree trunk.
She could not help but admire how easily Alfred Wickham scurried up the tree and snapped off three bunches of the parasitic plant with the pearly berries before he shimmied back down and plopped them in her basket. “That ought to be enough,” he snapped.
Then he did a most peculiar thing. “May I offer you my arm, Lady Sarah?”
Uncharitably, she wondered if he was wanting to
display her on his arm for his mother’s sake. “I’m thinking your actress would object.”
“As I said before, I’m not yet tied down.”
She gave him a disapproving glare. “Your mother’s description of you as a naughty boy does come to mind.”
Lord Pottinger burst into laughter. She turned to the baron and took his arm, presenting her back to a fuming Mr. Wickham.
* * *
An hour later they were all gathered in the drawing room, and the ladies were decorating the chamber with lengths of holly they’d gathered earlier. Alfred sat on a big comfortable chair watching his niece. Though his mother had never fully embraced Emma’s daughter as a member of the family, owing to her illegitimacy, Alfred could not help but love the child. His sister obviously adored her. And Harriett was such a sweet little thing.
While the little girl was the image of the Dunsfords, she had adopted many of Em’s mannerisms, and it was probably Alfred’s imagination, but the child reminded him in many ways of his sister. He even fancied she had Em’s hands, those squared off fingers Em had always deplored for their lack of elegance. They were not long and graceful like Lady Sarah’s.
His gaze moved to Lady Sarah. She wore red velvet but not the full ensemble she’d worn earlier that day with ermine-trimmed hood and ermine muff. Now she held up Harriett so she could place a sprig of holly berries upon the mantel. His sister had been forced to sit on the sofa and prop up her swollen ankles while she watched the proceedings. The other men, like him, deemed themselves ill qualified to decorate.
“What a fine job you’re doing,” Lady Sarah said to Harriett. “Are these the berries you found this morning by the house?”
Harriett nodded proudly.
“I do believe they’re the best of all. You must be very proud.” Lady Sarah turned to Em. “Look, Lady Dunsford, how beautiful are these berries your little girl found!”
Em’s mouth formed an oval. “Oh, my! They are most lovely.”
Little Harriett slipped her arms around Lady Sarah’s shoulders, and she beamed.
Charlie moved across the chamber and tugged at Lady Sarah’s skirt. The lad spoke very little but seemed to understand everything. Alfred suspected he had no impetus to talk when the spoiled duke’s son’s every wish was fulfilled.
Lady Sarah looked angelic as she looked down at the lad and smiled. “Do you want me to pick you up, too?”
The young marquess nodded.
Still gripping Harriett, Lady Sarah bent down and scooped up Charlie, making it look effortless. The toddler’s face shone like the noon-day sun in summer, his smile stretching across it.
“See the pretty berries?” Lady Sarah said, balancing a child on each arm.
Charlie nodded. “Me berries, too.”
“Where are your berries?” she asked.
His head swiveled to the duchess, who was laying a garland upon a window seat. “Mama.”
“Shall we go get some of your berries to put up here?” Sarah asked him.
He nodded vigorously.
How in the devil, Alfred wondered, did a spinster like her know how to read children’s minds? As out of charity as he was with her, he had to own that she was decidedly good with little ones. He seemed to recall she had elder siblings who must have made her an aunt. That must explain how she’d acquired such expertise.
As she moved back to the chimneypiece, he could not remove his gaze from her. He knew of no other woman who walked with such grace. And her figure! It was womanly perfection. She was neither short nor tall, but just right. If he waltzed with her—something he never did—her face would meet his chest. In all physical aspects, she gave pleasure.
A pity he had alienated her. She was admired by all. She was pleasant to everyone except him. He had the feeling that if she had been as sweetly solicitous to him as she was to everyone else he would have been clay in her delicate hands. But, of course, he had destroyed that.
His gaze flicked to Potts. He, too, could not look away from the beautiful woman. Had Lady Sarah Milton bewitched him?
After a few moments, Alfred could tell Lady Sarah’s arms were aching. Harriett did not weigh so very much, but Charlie, though younger, must double her weight. Alfred sprang to his feet and moved to the mantel, smiling at his niece. “Ah, Harriett, come to your uncle. I think it’s time you had a ride upon my shoulders.”
Her wide blue eyes brightened and she happily went to him as he and Lady Sarah exchanged amused smiles. “I think you may have overextended yourself, my lady,” he said.
“Ah, but I enjoy these children far too much to think logically.”
He put Harriett on his shoulders, careful to hold on to each of her knees. “They are fun.”
“Alfred!” his sister shrieked. “You worry me to death when you carry her about like that.”
“Stop it, Mother,” Lord Dunsford said. “He’s not going to let anything happen to her. You worry too much.”
His wife looked him up and down. “Now that’s the pot calling the kettle black!”
To which everyone in the chamber began to laugh.
“Speaking of your husband’s excessive worries,” the duchess said, “we ladies have been invited to have tea tomorrow by Mrs. Carlisle—she’s the local squire’s wife and also Cressida Twickingham’s mother. You’ll recall Cressy was our neighbor. That’s how she met Twigs. Do you suppose Lord Dunsford will allow you to ride over with us?”
Lady Dunsford looked to her husband.
His eyes narrowed. “You know I can’t allow you to ride in a carriage until after the babe arrives.”
Lady Dunsford sighed.
The duchess sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
Lady Sarah looked at Emma. “I shouldn’t like for all the women to go off and leave you tomorrow. I’ll stay with you. Do you fancy a game of chess?”
Em’s face softened. “That would be lovely. I adore chess.”
Em was very like him, Alfred thought. They had always played games when they were growing up.
Now that Alfred thought about it, Lady Sarah was very like them. She, more than any other woman, liked to play games that required skill. She was more like him than any other woman he’d ever met. Even more than his sister.
And he’d repulsed her.
“Hey, Wick, you’re much taller than me. Come help hang this mistletoe,” Potts said.
Alfred had been so caught up in the children’s activities, he’d forgotten about the mistletoe.
“There should be a tiny nail just above that door from last Christmas,” Bonny said, pointing to the door leading to the corridor.
Even though Alfred was well over six feet, he would not be able to hang the mistletoe on the twelve-foot doorways without standing on a ladder. Within a few minutes, a footman lugged a stepladder into the chamber, and Alfred started to climb with the largest sprig of mistletoe, all the while imagining what it would be like to capture Lady Sarah beneath it for a kiss.
Once he was finished, Radcliff seized his wife and carried her to the doorway, where he planted a kiss upon her lips as both of them merrily laughed. Then Charlie wiggled away from Lady Sarah and ran to his parents. “Me. Me, too.”
His father set Bonny down and swung the little lad into his arms, and both parents showered his face with kisses.
Next, Cressida Twickingham went and stood beneath the mistletoe. Her husband ignored her.
“I believe, Twigs,” the duke said, “you’re to kiss your wife when she stands beneath the mistletoe.”
Twigs scrunched up his face. “In front of all these people?”
The duke nodded.
Twigs looked at his wife. She nodded.
Frowning, Twigs got to his feet and stalked across the chamber, and then pressed a quick kiss upon his wife’s cheek before returning to his chair.
When the duke turned his attention to the Yule log, the children grew fascinated over it, and everyone forgot about the mistletoe.
Everyone except Alfred. He was waiti
ng for the moment when Lady Sarah walked under it.
When that moment came, the others were still gathered around the hearth and not paying attention to Lady Sarah or to him. As she moved to the doorway, he intercepted her.
“I must claim a kiss, my lady. You’re under the mistletoe.”
Before she could respond, he drew her into his arms, lowered his head to hers, and kissed her thoroughly. At first she was all stiffness, then her body eased into his.
And he lost his senses. For a moment. Then he remembered where he was—and remembered this was a well-born lady. He drew a deep breath. “You, my lady, are as skillful at kissing as you are at whist.”
With that remark, he executed a neat pivot and left the chamber.
* * *
Later that evening Potts took Alfred aside. “I can certainly understand now why Lord Fox was so madly in love with Lady Sarah. She is perfection. I am so relieved that you, my friend, are not attracted to well-bred ladies, for I would never stand a chance with her.”
Alfred felt rather as if he’d been walloped in the chest with that Yule log Radcliff had hauled home this morning. Obviously his friend had not witnessed the scene under the mistletoe. “Are you saying you’ve fallen in love with the lady?” Like himself, Potts had heretofore never fallen in love with respectable ladies. He’d been marginally in love with his widowed contessa. For a very short time.
“Frightfully so, I’m afraid.”
“Then you mean to offer for her?” For some unaccountable reason, Alfred’s gut sank.
Potts shrugged. “I should like to. If I could ever summon the courage. I know she could do vastly better, but I do think she fancies me. And I’m exceedingly grateful you don’t fancy her.”
“Don’t say she could do vastly better, old boy. You’re a far better prize than, say, Lord Fox, even though his fortune is significantly larger than yours.”
“That’s awfully nice of you to say so, Wick.”
Alfred patted him on the back. “Only speaking the truth.”