She even considered asking to borrow his handkerchief and then returning it to him with the jewelry wrapped inside it, but that was too obvious and a little revolting. He would hardly welcome its return, and when he discovered the ring, he would immediately know too much.
Denbigh had kept up a disconcerting scrutiny of her during the meal, broken only when he was forced to engage in discourse with the married woman to his left while Sarah chatted with Lord Devonstone to her right.
Upon a few occasions, Denbigh had made hushed remarks to her out of the side of his mouth about the frightful height of the woman’s hair across the table from them or the way one of the gentlemen was stuffing food into his mouth so quickly crumbs were flying across the tablecloth, like a cache of lead balls form a blunderbuss.
However, his comments were not truly mean-spirited, but seemed designed to amuse her, which she thought endearing. In fact, she couldn’t help but feel in good spirits, surrounded as she was by happy people, a man whom she liked immensely by her side, and another year of good health drawing to a close.
Then Denbigh ruined it by asking, “So, how fares your little plan?”
Miles wondered at the stillness of the woman beside him. She actually went pale at his question, indicating she was truly up to something, and he feared he knew what it was. If she was intent on the earl, she was selling her future for a luxurious new townhouse in Mayfair, grander than old Worthington’s home. But perhaps it was something else, something far more nefarious.
A part of him didn’t care about her shadowy intentions. Sarah’s presence at Forde Hall had actually brought him a little joy already, and there were many more days ahead of them. Nevertheless, he didn’t like how guilty she appeared at his blunt question, so he asked another.
“Are you well?”
He watched her swallow before she turned to him. “I am quite well, my lord, and I don’t know to what little plan you could possibly be referring.
Miles decided to speak plainly. “To make yourself the Countess of Devonstone.”
He was relieved when her visage relaxed noticeably. She even reached for her wine, as she smiled at him. “Oh, that plan.”
And then he knew something else was afoot.
“Why don’t you tell me all of your Christmastide plans at once,” he suggested, “so I don’t have to suss each one out individually.”
She laughed, a delicious sound that reached inside of him and grabbed hold with a clutch of desire. The sparkle in her eyes and the pretty way her lips bowed enchanted him as on previous occasions. He nearly sighed like a moonstruck lad of fourteen. Instead, Miles shook his head and reached for his own glass. It was a good night to imbibe.
“The first of the pastillage will be finished for tomorrow’s dinner,” Lady Macroun said. “Something quite spectacular, I assure you.”
Miles didn’t know how spectacular sugar carvings could be, but he was game to find out.
“Meanwhile, tonight’s pudding course,” their hostess continued, “will be marchpane cakes and gingerbread with fresh cream. I hope you will enjoy some of each. Naturally, there will be butter biscuits in the parlor with mulled wine during the games.”
Naturally, Miles thought. What better way to cause guests to make fools of themselves?
On the other hand, most were there for jollification, eager to have a giddy, country Christmastide and forget about any cares they might have in the city. While there was a captain or two at the table, there were no companies of soldiers in scarlet uniforms as there were in the city, always reminding one of the long war. Napoleon was in exile, Wellington was a hero, and a portion of London, along the Pall Mall, had been lit by the new gas lamps—not very effective and apt to explode, but better than what they made do with before.
That particular Twelvetide, bringing them into 1815, was certainly better than the previous couple of years’ conclusions, with their king going mad, Glasgow weavers rioting, Prime Minister Perceval being assassinated in the House of Commons. Truly, 1814 had represented a turning point, not only with the war with France, but also with the Prince Regent settling into his role.
And Miles, for one, was looking to the future with hope. Shouldn’t he be ready to settle down with a wife and have a family? Someone had to carry on the Denbigh name, after all.
Again, he glanced at Lady Worthington. She was the only female he even considered remotely up to the task of being his mate. Yet she was probably entirely unsuited, not to mention uninterested, in settling down, not while she still had enough dew on her petals to capture another fortune and bury a couple more husbands. He looked past her to the unwitting Earl of Devonstone.
On the other hand, Miles had wealth and a title of his own. Frowning, he wondered why she hadn’t attempted to trap him after either of their intimate encounters. Did she really value the freedom of a widow’s life over any other?
That seemed a hollow existence, enjoying a man’s name, money, and house without enjoying the rest of him. And she certainly could enjoy herself with a man. He had first-hand experience.
Musing over his gingerbread, he missed what caused Sarah to knock over her wine glass, and in his direction, too. Pandemonium broke out. A footman dashed forward with a rag to sop up the wine, standing right in between them so Miles couldn’t see what was happening on the other side. Another footman stepped forward with the carafe of wine, but Lady Macroun could be heard wondering aloud whether perhaps Lady Worthington didn’t need any more.
“We are nearly ready to leave the table,” their hostess pointed out.
Moreover, Sarah was leaning away from both footmen toward Lord Devonstone, who exclaimed, “My word!”
“Excuse me,” Sarah offered to the older gentleman, and no wonder. From what Miles could see, peering under the second footman’s arm, she was practically in the old earl’s lap.
“I’ll have no more wine, at present, thank you,” Sarah agreed.
“Carry on, everyone,” Lady Macroun commanded, and the noise at the table resumed, a good hostess trick for making a guest feel comfortable after a severe bout of clumsiness.
And then, suddenly, everything was back to normal. The footmen vanished, the table had been repaired nearly to perfection, and Sarah was sitting straight in her chair, taking the last bite of marchpane onto her fork.
Turning to Miles, she smiled, and for the first time all evening, she looked entirely relaxed and happy.
Something was definitely afoot.
Chapter 3
Here he comes with flaming bowl,
Don’t he mean to take his toll,
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
Once they were in the drawing room some of the more jubilant guests began to sing, prompted by the viscountess herself, in anticipation of playing at Snap Dragon. Servants put out almost all the lamps, leaving the guests in a dim room, assembled around not one but three different wide shallow bowls of heated brandy.
Knowing these were to be set on fire, Miles couldn’t help but think of the waste of good liquor. At the same time, servants stepped forward, and scooped raisins into each of the bowls spread about the room to give the many players a place to partake of the game.
Lady Frances approached him. “I missed you at dinner,” she said.
“I beg your pardon.” He was scarcely listening, as in the darkness, he’d momentarily lost sight of Sarah.
“I thought we might be seated nearer,” the earl’s daughter continued.
“Nearer to what?” he asked, having already lost her meaning.
“Why, each other,” she clarified. “In fact, I was assured of it. No matter, I had a pleasant conversation with a young lord who owns diamond mines.”
“How wonderful for you.” He searched the three groups again, and then spotted Sarah in the middle one.
Take care you don’t take too much,
Be not greedy in your clutch,
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
“Snap Dragon!” Lady Frances said with derision, posing with he
r arms crossed, chin in the air. “So childish and tedious. Don’t you agree? We could slip away for a stroll while the rest are trying to grab at raisins.”
He fully intended to enjoy the moment but not with her.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Miles said.
When Lady Frances pursed her lips, he added, “I intend to get close enough to play and to win. If parlor games are not to your liking, there’s a library nearby, or you could simply stand over by the wall.”
And he walked away toward the center bowl, just as a footman lit the brandy. It flamed into life, as did the bowls on either side, casting all those gathered in a bluish glow. Miles had to admit, in the darkened parlor, with only a few candles on the edges of the room, the burning bowls were impressive, and the smell was delicious, too.
“Do you intend to try?” he asked Sarah as he took the spot beside her.
She glanced at him, merriment sparkling along with the reflection of flames in her blue eyes, turning them into a shimmering sea in which he longed to swim.
“You first,” she said, her voice breathy with excitement. He remembered that honeyed tone all too well from when she writhed under him, and it made his blood flow thickly.
With his blue and lapping tongue,
Many of you will be stung,
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
Catching her enthusiasm, he nodded, reached forward while a few of the other less-timid gentlemen did the same. Swiftly, Miles snatched two raisins from the swirling, burning brew, holding them up briefly for Sarah to witness his triumph, before presenting them to her on his open palm.
She laughed and plucked one raisin, popping it between her lips.
“Tasty!” she declared. “Go on, try it.”
He did, although now he longed to kiss the brandy off her lips and taste it on her tongue.
“Let me try to get two more,” she said.
“Careful,” he warned, as he heard more than one voice exclaim in pain.
For he snaps at all that comes,
Snatching at his feast of plums,
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
Humming along, Sarah reached toward the bowl. Unfortunately, she bumped hands with a man beside her, and her fingers disappeared for a moment into the flames and hot brandy before she drew it quickly back.
“Ouch,” she muttered.
She was rather stoic, in Miles’s view, since he knew it must smart like a host of bee stings.
Pulling her away from the group, he steered her toward the side of the room and the nearest candle.
“I am fine, my lord,” she protested, while shaking her hand slightly.
“You’re not very good at this game,” he teased.
“No, I never was. My sister always had quicker fingers,” she confessed. “She still does.”
Ignoring her prattle, he held her hand up toward the light, leaning close. A pungent aroma filled his nose—the distinct smell of Macassar oil.
The scent distracted him as he examined her hand. Her thumb and the ends of two fingers were definitely red, but there were no blisters. Still, he drew her hand close to him again.
There was no doubt—it was the Earl of Devonstone’s hair oil he could smell. What the Devil!
The old man had a habit of rubbing his own hands on his head before placing them in his pockets. He’d done it all afternoon. Had Sarah also rubbed the old man’s curls?
His stomach churned to think of it, but he could come up with no likely reason for the earl’s hair oil to be on her hand.
But Old Christmas makes him come,
Though he looks so fee! fa! fum!
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
“I tell you, Lord Denbigh, my hand was stung as it should have been due to my awful clumsiness—the second time I have been so maladroit tonight—but now, it’s fine. Still, I wouldn’t mind a biscuit and some of the promised mulled wine. How about you?”
He wasn’t pleased by her hand smelling mysteriously like Devonstone’s Macassar oil. Nor did he approve of how she’d practically sat on the old man’s lap. And he hated how she’d put her fingers in flaming brandy, but he could do nothing about any of that. He could, however, attend to the lady’s wishes.
“Yes, both sound good to me, too,” he agreed.
Don’t ’ee fear him but be bold.
Out he goes his flames are cold,
Snip! Snap! Dragon!
As the brandy flames died out and the lamps were lit once again, the room went from a somewhat eerie blue-black to the familiar warmly orange glow. Laughing, some guests were still dipping their fingers into the bowl for the sodden raisins. Miles led Sarah to the sideboard, laden with biscuits, cherry-almond shortbread, and bowls of mulled wine. He ladled her a cup, and then one for himself.
“Why are you being so attentive?” she asked, although her tone was not unfriendly.
“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s Christmas eve.”
“It was Christmas eve when you found me on the road today, but you weren’t so pleased then.”
He eyed her over his cup of wine, breathing in the spices.
“I suppose I was simply caught unawares, and now I’ve warmed to the idea of your presence.”
His words made her smile. “And here, I thought you were plastered close to me because you didn’t trust me.”
He grinned. “That, too.” And Sarah rolled her lovely eyes.
Lady Macroun approached. “So sorry about the seating at dinner,” she said, confounding him. What was she on about? he wondered. “I must cry peccavi,” their hostess added.
The way Sarah kept her face utterly blank was a clear indication she knew something. If anyone was to cry the blame, it was probably her.
The viscountess eyed them both. “However, it appears you two have become fast friends, so it was for the best, I suppose. The next game is Steal the Loaf.” And her ladyship lifted her cup of mulled wine, nodded, and moved on.
“Would you like to tell me something?” he asked.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Sarah assured him, her blue eyes staring directly into his.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I have no doubt you’ll do better at the next game. Sneaking up on someone while their back is turned and stealing the treasure, it seems made for you like a perfectly tailored suit.”
With a dismissing tilt of her chin, she looked past him. “I think I shall go chat with a few of the other guests.” And with that, she walked away.
Sarah took the chance to escape from Denbigh’s watchful gaze. She had absolutely no intention of doing well at Steal the Loaf, and was only glad Julia wasn’t there to win the prize.
However, when the game began, she played along. Who could resist trying to creep up on someone and then freezing when they turned? It was good fun. Lady Macroun’s paramour was the first to be “it,” and he held a candied shortbread as his treasure. Within moments, Lord Devonstone was caught creeping and became the next one to be “it.”
“A treasure,” he exclaimed, standing at one end of the room, gazing at the party-goers. “Let me think on that. What do I have?”
As he reached into his pockets, Sarah felt her heart briefly stop then begin to patter like a galloping horse. Dear God! Sure enough, after fumbling around in his pockets for a moment, the elderly gentleman drew out the ring she’d managed to slip in at dinner.
At the time, nearly desperate to succeed, inspiration had suddenly struck, making her knock over her wine glass as a diversion. Then, snatching up her napkin, which she’d clutched to her chest, she’d been able to recover the ring from her décolletage. While leaning toward Lord Devonstone and away from the attentive footman—not to mention Denbigh—she had wriggled against the earl, so he’d not noticed her hand sliding into his pocket, depositing the gold and amethyst jewel. And now…
“Gad-so!” The earl now held it up to a small gasp from the onlookers, even though they had no idea why it was confounding him. He wandered closer to the oil lamp. “Can it be? It is! Why, how astounding! It
was in my pocket all along.”
Sarah’s heart began to slow to a normal beat. That was exactly what she’d hoped he would believe.
“Is that your treasure?” someone called out.
“No, most definitely not. I mean, yes, it most certainly is, but I’m not willing to give it up as ‘the loaf.’ No matter, I shall find something else for you to steal.”
He sounded so happy, Sarah couldn’t help smiling. When she turned away, she noticed Denbigh staring at her, frowning again. Trying to look less pleased, she shrugged as if as bewildered as anyone, which only made him narrow his eyes, cocking his head, trying to figure out what she was about.
Another guest rushed forward and pressed what turned out to be a chess piece into the earl’s hand, and the game of Steal the Loaf began anew.
Relief stole over Sarah when, in another hour, they were allowed to retire. It was probably the earliest evening they would be in their beds for the entire Twelvetide. With everyone sleeping soundly from the long day and the copious amount of mulled wine, she was determined to complete a second task that very night and have only two left for the remainder of the Yule gathering. She might actually get to enjoy herself.
Yawning broadly, for she, too, had traveled and spent a full day of merriment, she let Dorie remove her blue silk gown with all its trappings, assist her into her nightshirt, and take down her hair before dismissing her maid to her own room. Still, she had to wait at least an hour, maybe two, to be assured everyone was asleep.
Remaining on top of the counterpane and laying her head upon the pillow, almost instantly, Sarah knew it was a mistake to have done so. Just as quickly, she fell asleep, only to awake with a start, unsure of the time, but relieved it was still dark outside. By the size of her candles, she would guess nearly three hours had passed, and she’d best hurry.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 46