The Christmas Gift (A Regency Novella)

by Georgina Devon

  "Comfortable?" he asked, flicking the reins to start the mare. "If not, we can ride horses."

  "Perfectly." She forced her leg muscles to relax against the hard length of his. "I was just taken unawares by the way the cart swayed when you mounted."

  He grinned down at her, and she knew he knew she lied.

  Try as she would, her body would not let her ignore his warmth. He beckoned to her like a blazing fire. His form even blocked some of the bitingly cold wind coming from the North.

  Davenport breathed deeply. "There will be snow within forty-eight hours. I can smell it."

  Lavinia shivered. "It feels as though there could be snow now."

  He grinned at her. "Regretting your impetuosity in coming out in this weather?"

  She lifted her chin and smiled at him. "No. I believe in doing what needs doing and not looking back. Life can not be lived looking over your shoulder."

  He nodded. "A good philosophy, but not always easy to follow."

  Lavinia studied his profile as he maneuvered the farm track. He was all angles and lines, harsh and unyielding. Only his mouth, the lips full and chiseled, spoke of passion that could burn a woman to cinders - or make a married woman leave her husband for the promise in his dark eyes.

  Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out. "Did you love her?"

  She had thought the answer no longer mattered and had forced the question from her mind; not even allowing herself to contemplate it while she prepared to ask him to sponsor her. It appeared that she had not known her own feelings.

  When she'd given him the cut direct at Almacks', so many years ago, she'd immediately regretted it and would have hastened to make whatever amends necessary. But Davenport took that opportunity from her by running away the next day with another man’s wife. The news had brought Lavinia to her knees, for - yes, she could admit it to herself - even then she had loved him.

  Frowning, his lips a thin line, he turned on her. "What did you ask?"

  Lavinia met his glare openly, even as she clasped her hands together under cover of the blanket to stop their shaking. "I asked, Did you love her?."

  His voice as icy as the wind cutting through Lavinia's pelisse, he said, "Whom are we discussing?"

  "Lady Hyde."

  Without warning, he stopped the pony, sending Lavinia off balance so that she very nearly fell from the vehicle. She had not expected this reaction from him. She'd thought him a man of the world who, at worst, would tell her to mind her own affairs, not his.

  In slow measured tones, Davenport said, "Lady Hyde is with her new husband in France. Madeline was a childhood friend of mine, nothing more."

  Confused, but determined to learn all that he would reveal, Lavinia pursued. "Then why did you run away with her?"

  His eyes seemed to stare into the past. "Madeline sent a note to my lodgings which I found upon returning from Almacks’. She'd been married to an old man during her first Season, but she'd always been in love with Robert Matheson, a Scot who was a younger son with no future but the military. When she and I disappeared, I was escorting her to Matheson, who was badly wounded at Salamanca. Society chose to see the situation differently."

  Relief at his disavowal of love for another woman washed over Lavinia, making her feel almost lightheaded. But she was still perplexed over the treatment his father had accorded him. "Since that was the way of it, why did your father denounce you? Why did he insist on disinheriting you?"

  His gaze focused on her face, but instead of seeing bitterness in his eyes as she'd expected, she saw maturity and understanding.

  "The Duke was disappointed in his son and ashamed of his heir. To my father, the future Duke of Umberland should bear no hint of scandal. No matter that I had not seduced Madeline, he would not listen to me and I had no way of proving that I didn’t make love to Madeline on the journey." His shoulders moved under the many layers of his great coat as though he were shrugging off a heady burden. "When I returned two months later without Lady Hyde, it only made the situation more reprehensible in his eyes."

  Impulsively, she put her gloved hand on his arm. Her voice trembled with indignation at his hurt. "So, he disowned you. The ton says he banished you to the West Indies, changed his will leaving every item not entailed to a distant cousin, and forbade anyone to speak your name in any of his residences. How can you be so accepting?"

  He took her hand from his arm and raised it to his lips. Even though he kissed her through a thick leather glove, his touch burned her flesh.

  "You are young, Vixen, and your blood runs hot. My father is an old man who had his dreams ruined by my actions. It took many years; but finally the heat of the West Indies’' sun burnt the anger from me. It is not always easy, but I can understand why he did as he did." A sardonic smile twisted his lips. "And it does not hurt that I am now a wealthy man in my own right because of my labors in those sweltering islands." Then, as abruptly as she’d begun the talk, he ended it. He released her hand and urged the pony onward. "But enough of my past."

  Lavinia understood from his tone that the discussion was closed. Her heart was heavy for the rejection he had been through, and she longed to reach out and comfort him in any way he would allow. A look at his stern jaw told her more clearly than words that he did not want her compassion.

  Neither did he want to talk with her, Lavinia decided several hours later as they trudged wearily into the hall of the hunting box, their arms laden with greenery. Since the revelations in the pony cart, Davenport had not spoken another word to her, nor had he allowed her to initiate any further conversation.

  Well, two can play mum, she decided, taking off her soaked pelisse and handing it to Mary who was doing double-duty in the wake of limited servants. "Mary, I will take dinner in my room, thank you."

  Before Mary could answer, Davenport interjected, "Miss Russell will eat in the dining room with me. Please see that Mrs. Hatchet prepares plenty. Gathering evergreens for Christmas has given me an appetite. And we missed lunch."

  "I will -"

  He stared at Lavinia, his lean body relaxed but his eyes hard. Softly, so that only she could hear, he said, "Remember our bargain."

  "That would be hard to forget when I am a single female under your roof." And when every fiber of her being tingled with the awareness of his blatant masculinity.

  He chuckled and his large hand descended on the small of her back. Warmth radiated from his caress until it encompassed her entire body. It was only a touch, the bare brushing of his hand.

  The intensity of her reaction scared her. With a searing intake of breath, Lavinia jerked away from the contact and hurried up the stairs to change.

  Behind the heavy oak of her door, and only then, did she feel safe from the uncontrollable desire he evoked in her. She chided herself for a fool. It would be better for her she did react so brazenly to his slightest stroke.

  At dinner, Lavinia had composed herself sufficiently to watch with equanimity as Mary served them the simple, one course meal and then withdrew to the kitchen where she would eat her own with Mrs. Hatchet and Jaimie. However, the maid was not long removed before Lavinia began to feel uneasy in the silence.

  "For being so overbearing and insisting that we sup together, Davenport, the least you could do is engage me in conversation."

  "Is it?" He cut a bite out of the succulent roast beef that was mounded on his plate and ate it with obvious enjoyment. "And I suppose that you also expect me to play the gallant."

  "It would not go amiss."

  "Very well, Vixen. As a gallant protector, I've provided your brother and sister with Christmas gifts. I was sure that you would wish it so."

  His wording made it sound as though she expected him to do these things for her. Like... like a kept woman. Bile rose in her throat and she wanted to leave the table, but knew that if she ran from him and his hurtful words now, she would be running from him as long as their relationship lasted.

  "That was very considerate of you, milo
rd. May I ask what you gave them?"

  His black eyes watched her like a hawk studying its prey. Almost, she felt as though he tested her. A silly idea and she shrugged away.

  He took another bite of the meat and chewed slowly. "I sent your sister a single strand of pearls, as befits a young lady. For your brother, I chose a prime-blooded stallion."

  She had been wrong in London when she'd told herself she was the only person who could make her feel like a slut. "Those are too expensive. I cannot allow them to accept."

  Davenport picked up his wineglass and swirled it so that the dark ruby liquid caught the candlelight and sparkled like blood. "They have already been delivered."

  Humiliation squeezed her chest like a vise. "Emily and John will wonder where I got the means to purchase such extravagant items."

  He took a sip of wine before replying. "And they will not wonder where the money comes from to keep them in school?"

  Anger began to color her cheeks and to give her the strength to withstand his continued belittlement. "I told them there was just enough money left from the estate to pay their last tuition."

  "Ah," he said, drawing the word out, his full lips thin, white lines. "You were very sure of your marketability."

  He had done everything but call her a whore. She raised her chin. "I did what I had to. And not you or anyone else will make me feel cheap for doing so."

  Fueled by pain and fury, she pushed up from the table and stormed from the room. Only later, huddled under the warmth of a thick down comforter, did she allow the tears to fall.

  This was indeed a horrible Christmas season, Lavinia thought for the umpteenth time. Even decorating the parlor with holly and yew on the mantle and over the doorways, did nothing to lift the pall of melancholy that Davenport’s treatment at dinner the previous night had brought on.

  Only two other times had she cried herself to sleep. The first had been after her mother’s funeral, the second had been the night she’d heard of Davenport’s elopement many years ago.

  Her despondent mood was interrupted by Mrs. Hatchet's voice coming from the doorway. "Very nice, Miss. This may be his lordship’s hunting box, but a woman's touch does not go amiss."

  Lavinia smiled with delight at Mrs. Hatchet. The cook cum housekeeper was a stout woman with iron gray hair pulled back into a severe bun that did nothing to dampen the jolly contentment of her features.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Hatchet. I thought that after the rooms are decorated we would make a Kissing Bough." She blushed to mention the old custom, but the holiday was already an unhappy one, she did not want to further darken it by leaving out the Kissing Bough and its twelve candles.

  "A lovely idea, Miss," Hatchet said, beaming like a brightly polished apple. "I will just fetch Mary to help. If you do not mind, that is. I dare say she would like to catch young Jaimie under the mistletoe."

  Lavinia laughed, beginning to relish the fun of preparing the small house for the holidays. Davenport might treat her like a tramp, but the servants were all as respectful as though she were the marquis' wife, not his doxy.

  Several hours later, mending one of Davenport’s fine lawn shirts, Lavinia decided she did almost feel like his wife. To her left the fire burned brightly, warming the small parlor and casting an orange glow on the work in her hands.

  She felt almost content. The small, neat stitches required to darn the cuffs forced her to concentrate on her task and not to dwell on thoughts of Davenport and all the hopes she'd once entertained in regards to him.

  She'd been a green girl that first season, but she was a naive chit no more. A man of Davenport's stamp did not want anything respectable with her - never had.

  "So this is where you have gotten off to."

  The sound of his voice ran running over her nerves like smooth honey, soothing and beckoning in one easy stroke. He leaned against the door jam, his hair dipping rakishly over his left brow. He was not classically handsome, his features too irregular for that, but nonetheless she found him mesmerizing. Longing for what he would never give, made her heart ache and her throat tighten.

  He strode into the room, took the chair opposite her and stretched out his long legs until his booted feet almost touched her slippered ones. His shirt opened at the neck and black, glossy hairs curled around the white lawn. Her awareness of him heightened, a seeming impossibility.

  "Still mad at me for last night?" When she did not answer, he shrugged. His hooded eyes roved over her with leisurely thoroughness. "You will have to grow a thicker skin, Vixen. What I did was nothing compared to the extravagance some fools lavish on their chere amies."

  His continued derision bothered her more than she could admit, even to herself. Perhaps he was beginning to regret their arrangement and seeking to insult her enough so she would leave. The thought turned her blood cold. She had to know if he were tired of her before they even began their journey of desire.

  "Davenport, do you have a particular reason for these continued slurs? If so, pray tell me." She was proud of her even voice even though her hands shook with mingled ire and dread.

  His features gave nothing away, and his body remained loose-limbed. "Should I?"

  "You answer a question with a question. Evasion tactics mean there is something hidden." With slow deliberation, she folded the shirt she'd been mending and set it back into the wicker basket at her feet. "If you are trying to get me to renege on our agreement, then please say so and stop all of this petty sniping."

  "I am merely testing your mettle." If possible he seemed to lounge more completely in the leather chair, but his eyes remained sharp. "Whose shirt are you mending?"

  Irritated beyond measure, she spoke sharply. "Yours."

  "I do not pay you to sew. Any woman can prick cloth with a needle, but only one can share my bed."

  Lavinia flushed, and told herself the roaring fire was too hot and too close for comfort. She was not a mouse to be toyed with at his leisure.

  "Then why do you not take me to your bed?"

  "Why do I not," he mused, his long, blunt fingers tented under his chin as he studied her. "I have asked myself that very question since leaving your London townhouse."

  "And?"

  Abruptly, he rose until he towered above her, his shadow falling over her and darkening the room. "Come." He reached out to her.

  Lavinia knew that once she put her hand in his there would be no turning back. Her heart as well as her body would be in his keeping for as long as he chose to hold them.

  A knock sounded on the door. Torn between relief and chagrin, Lavinia turned from Davenport.

  "Pardon me, Miss," Mary said, drawing back even as she entered. "I...I didn't know. That is, I came for the mending."

  Taking pity on the young woman, Lavinia stood up and took the basket to the maid. "Thank you for letting me help, Mary. I enjoy sewing very much."

  Mary bobbed a quick curtsy, twisting to include the marquis in the deference. Then she bolted.

  But to Lavinia's way of thinking the damage was done. Davenport, his back to her, had one booted foot on the grate and stared into the leaping flames with stark concentration. His posture rebuffed any overture she might make.

  Doubting he would be social, Lavinia held her head up and left. Tomorrow would be another day.

  The next morning Lavinia stared out her bedroom window, hair hanging about her waist and dressing gown pulled tight to ward off the December chill. Outside snow blanketed the ground and hung like a pure, velvet mantle from the barren trees and bushes. Davenport's prediction of snow had been correct.

  Why didn’t she feel as though it were Christmas? True her father's death was still fresh in her heart and her brother and sister were not with her, but Davenport was here. That should have been enough. If he loved her, she knew in her soul that his love would be enough for every Christmas of her life.

  But he did not love her.

  Heart-heavy, she turned from the window and made her way to the dresser where she took up a dam
p cloth and began to wipe away the roman balsam. At the first swipe, she heard the door open and whirled around.

  Davenport stood in the doorway that connected her room to his. This was the first time the door had been opened since she'd arrived, and the knowledge of why that passage was there combined with the dynamic presence of the man. Her heart skipped a beat before racing like a thousand horse's hooves.

  He was casually dressed in a navy hunting jacket, buff breeches and Hessians. Consequently, she felt naked and tried with nerveless fingers to pull her robe even more tightly around her.

  "Davenport! What are you doing here? I thought you would be at your morning ride."

  He sauntered into the room, his arms swinging easily at his side, his eyes traveling over the length of her. "Perhaps I shan't go. The view is much more enticing here, and, I warrant, the exercise as invigorating."

  She blushed to the roots of her hair. "There is no need for crudity."

  He grinned at her discomfiture. "What is this?" He reached out and ran a finger down her cheek, coming away with a generous portion of roman balsam.

  Lavinia blushed even more deeply. It felt as though the heat of her embarrassment penetrated to the very depths of her body, warming her in places she had never realized existed.

  She turned her head away so that he could not easily touch her again and stepped backwards, putting the chair between them. "That, milord, is a cream."

  He sniffed. "Made of honey and almonds. I know that much, but why have you got the bloody stuff on?"

  "There is no need to curse," she sniffed, feeling pressed. Her vanity balked at telling the purpose of the concoction.

  He raised one black brow. "Are you going to tell me, or must I use more drastic measures to get the information that I question?"

  The gleam in his black eyes told exactly what 'drastic measures’ would entail. Her treacherous body wanted his attentions, but her heart was developing a different desire. "It is for freckles," she blurted, her chin rising automatically.