by Sophia James
All the time Nell’s attention was partly on the far left corner—where he was. That feeling was still there...
Unable to resist, Nell stole a glance in Mr Beresford’s direction. His dark gaze met hers, sending a shocking thrill through her.
I was right—he is watching me!
She felt herself flush as she and Mr Beresford locked gazes. There was hunger in his expression—a hunger that matched her own.
With some difficulty, she tore her gaze away. Her insides were melting and her heart was pounding so loudly she feared others might notice.
She glanced at Beatrice. Oh, dear! Her stepmama looked most put out—presumably because Mr Beresford was no longer paying her any attention.
Did she see how he looked at me?
An entirely feminine wave of triumph rippled through Nell—followed by guilt at her own uncharitable thoughts. Still, to have disrupted Mr Beresford’s concentration in such a manner was rather gratifying.
‘Then let us take over the kitchen together!’ she suggested brightly.
‘An excellent notion!’ agreed Lady Cecily.
I like her so much!
Nell’s friendship with Lady Cecily was an excellent distraction from other, less clear connections that might possibly be made.
Mr Beresford was taking up too much of her attention. If something serious were to happen between them she would welcome it, but she did not wish to have her heart bruised by a gentleman set on a simple interlude.
Stop looking at her! Tom admonished himself silently, as his gaze drifted yet again to the place where Nell was.
Lord, she was beautiful! And bewitching. And intriguing. Memories of the intimate kiss they had shared had not faded, and his desire for her seemed to be increasing by the hour—fuelled not just by her beauty, but by her charm, and her kindness, and her lively mind.
This fixation was entirely outside his control, and it was not a feeling he welcomed.
Add to that the fact that old memories from his childhood were reawakening, and it seemed as though there were moments when his heart was being torn in two. It was to do with Nell, he knew, but also with his own family, and the little ones here at Wyatt House. He did not often find himself in the company of families.
Thankfully the children had now gone to bed. It was difficult to forget that little John was the exact age Tom had been when his own mama had died. Just before Christmas.
Yes, being with loving families at Christmastide was bringing back memories of long, long ago and leaving him feeling exposed, heartsore...almost frightened.
That lump was back in his throat.
Between inconvenient memories and raging desire, he knew he had, until tonight, somewhat stalled in his task of persuading the widow to sell him this beautiful house.
Business. Calmness. Certainty.
That is exactly what I need right now.
With some effort, he pasted a smile on his face and turned back to Mrs Godwin.
Nell eyed the mistletoe bough with disfavour. Seeing it suspended from the crystal and bronze chandelier in the small parlour that had become her own particular haven was bad enough. Noticing that not one but two of the pearly seeds had disappeared was bothering her enormously. She had sought refuge in the parlour before bedtime, believing she could have a half-hour’s peace before ascending to the tiny chamber she shared with some of the serving maids. Now, her peace was disturbed.
Tradition held it that each time a couple kissed under a mistletoe bough they had to remove one of the seeds. Earlier today there had been three; now there was but one. That meant people had been kissing each other right here, in her sanctuary, under the watchful eye of Mama’s portrait, and Nell was not at all happy about it.
She stood beneath the offending greenery, regarding it with a baleful eye. Who were the offenders? Some of the servants, perhaps? Or the guests?
She recalled the attention Mr Beresford had given Beatrice earlier tonight. Had he kissed Beatrice—or some other woman—in this very spot?
Of course he had not!
Yet it seemed unfair that others were sharing kisses while she was yearning for another kiss from a particular person. It would probably not happen, she knew. Mr Beresford, sadly, would be gone soon, and with him any chance of another romantic moment to lighten the dreariness of her existence.
She frowned.
No, it was more than that.
In truth, she admitted, she believed the kiss she had shared with Mr Beresford was different. Special. Magical. Yet he had made no attempt to seek her out today.
Oh, he looked at her. Constantly. She felt his eyes follow her any time they were in the same room, and the gossamer threads of an unseen connection grew between them each time they met. But he had made no obvious effort to fix her interest. Indeed, he had probably spoken with her less than he had the other ladies. This evening he had shared his attention equally among them all—save for Beatrice, who got more, and Nell, who got less. It almost seemed as though he were avoiding her.
Yet still she understood in her heart that the way Mr Beresford looked at her was different, somehow, from the way in which he engaged with the other ladies. There was fire in it. And it had lit an answering flame in her—one that had disturbed both her sleep and her waking thoughts since they had met.
At times it felt as though she burned for him—for a man she had only recently met. And the Christmas magic in the air seemed to be leading her to impossible thoughts, unachievable dreams. That kiss, the snow...all pointed towards something wonderful—something just out of reach.
Fleetingly she wondered if she, just like Mama, could know this early on that she had met the man who was her destiny.
Oh, how absurd!
Mama had been exceedingly romantical, and Nell had long since dismissed her mama’s description of her courtship with Papa as memories based on wishes rather than reality. And yet...
For heaven’s sake—what woman could deny the attraction of Mr Beresford’s handsome features, wicked smile and well-formed figure? For Nell, though, the attraction was much more complex than an earthy appeal—although that pulsed through her constantly. What she felt was more than a simple physical urge. It fired her heart and her mind as much as it did her body. And while he watched her, she also watched him...
Having succumbed in less than three days to this unanticipated obsession with Mr Beresford, she had become conscious of the certain sadness that crept into his expression from time to time—particularly when he was unaware of being observed. It was particularly apparent when he looked at the children.
Nell had no idea what was behind it, but her heart melted each time she noticed it. And, whatever his frailty was, it was not apparent to the others in their circle, who laughed and played and conversed with seeming ease. No, there was more to Mr Beresford than met the eye. He was, she understood now, a puzzle she needed to solve.
Despite the attraction and the obsession and the need he had created within her, she continued to remain wary of his effect on her and her lack of certainty about his motives. So when he suddenly entered her sanctuary via the red drawing room, real and immediate, her instinctive reaction was to take a step back.
He was no fool, and his eyes narrowed at her response. ‘Good evening, Miss Godwin,’ he declared formally.
‘Good—good evening, Mr Beresford.’ Her heart was pounding and her mouth suddenly dry with a disconcerting mix of excitement and nervousness.
The last time we were alone together we kissed.
‘I came to offer my services for tomorrow. As there are to be no servants, I thought you might need assistance in carrying trays to the dining room.’
His dark eyes fixed on hers, making her stomach tighten and her knees feel strangely soft.
‘That is kind of you. Thank you.’ Her voice sounded remarkably normal. ‘We shall dine at th
e usual time tomorrow, so I would appreciate your help—perhaps half an hour beforehand?’
‘Perfect!’ He grinned. ‘Like you, I enjoy peace and quiet at times.’
She smiled wryly. ‘I do hope you do not think me rude for disappearing now and again?’
‘Not at all! I believe we are similar in that regard.’
There was silence. A silence in which the air took on the heaviness and anticipation Nell associated with thunderstorms and lightning strikes. Their eyes locked. Nell’s heart was pounding so loudly she could almost hear it in the room, and the air prickled with suspense. In the background, the clock began to chime. It was midnight.
Nell gazed at him hungrily, drinking in the sight of him, unable in that moment to hide what she wanted.
‘Dash it all!’ The words exploded from him as he took three steps forward, taking her into his arms. ‘Kiss me, Nell!’
She did so, glorying in the passion between them.
Propriety, reason and common sense were abandoned as she devoured him and he her. Crushed against him, she pressed ever closer, seeking contact from chest to hip, his heat fanning the conflagration within her. Her hands were in his thick dark hair, while his were busy on her back, her bottom, her hips.
‘Nell!’ he groaned against her mouth, and she claimed him again, her desire for him the only reality.
Eventually they paused, forehead to forehead, both breathing noisily.
‘What are you doing to me?’ he murmured. ‘I have never felt anything like this!’
He feels it too! Her heart sang at his words. It is real!
Abruptly, he stepped back, his breathing still ragged. ‘I apologise. I should not have—’ His face had hardened. ‘I cannot offer you anything, Miss Godwin.’
She watched, agape, as he turned on his heel and left, the door closing behind him with an audible click.
What on earth...?
Nell put a hand to her head, trying to understand what was occurring. He wanted her—that much was clear. And there was no obvious barrier to a marriage between them. So why had he left her? Why was he trying to deny what was between them?
Mama’s portrait looked down upon her. Nell closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing, to calm her racing thoughts.
Mama would have approved of that kiss, I think.
She well remembered how affectionate Mama and Papa had been, and had no doubt that they had known passion in their marriage. And Mama had chosen Papa the first time they had ever met.
‘I want that one,’ she had apparently said to her friend, on first seeing the young Mr Godwin. ‘I knew, you see,’ she had told Nell. ‘I knew he was the man I should marry.’
Marriage. Never before had Nell seriously considered marriage with anyone. But if her instincts were right, and he was a man of good character, then it seemed her heart was well on the way to choosing Mr Beresford as her ideal husband. She had known him for only a few days, but already her gut was telling her he could be the right man for her. That midnight mistletoe kiss—and his response to it—confirmed it in her mind. This was more than lust. It went deeper than anything she had ever known.
Exhilaration rushed through her at the realisation, but she bit her lip. Judging by his hasty—one might say panicked—departure, Mr Beresford was not yet of the same view. That would have to be managed.
Reaching up, she plucked the last lustrous white seed from the mistletoe above her head and slipped it into her reticule with a secret smile. She had much to think about.
Tom made it to the safety of his chamber, his mind, heart and his body all in disorder.
What the hell is happening to me?
Never had he experienced anything like the attraction he felt for Nell Godwin. It consumed him.
He paced around the chamber, unable to think clearly, his mind overwhelmed by the instinct to return downstairs and kiss her again.
Damn it! I have known her only three days.
It felt much longer.
He disliked this feeling of not being in control of himself. Even the warmest of his affaires had never disturbed his equilibrium.
I must master this!
After quite half an hour of anguished pacing, he gradually began to feel more rational again, yet still he was not ready to sleep. Pulling open the drawer in the mahogany desk in the corner of the room, he removed his folio of papers. Focusing on matters of business for a while should further calm his spirit.
He sharpened a pen and began making notes, including his observations on Wyatt House as the location where he would entertain his contacts in future. The problem was that each time he tried to imagine how he might use the various spaces he saw Nell. Nell in the dining room. Nell in the salon. Nell in this bedchamber, he on top of her.
He groaned, then exclaimed with frustration as his pen snapped in two.
‘Hell, damn and blast it!’
He began flinging drawers open at random, sure there must be another pen somewhere. And in the bottom left drawer of the desk, at the back, he saw something which gave him pause. A book. And written in a neat hand on the cover were the words Miss Eleanor Godwin—a journal.
Knowing he should not, he lifted it out, his hand caressing the cover, lingering on her name. Opening it with what felt like reverence, he saw it was filled with multiple entries, dated between 1815 and 1817.
Nell’s journal.
Her handwriting called to him, being both mysterious and beautiful. The temptation to know her better was too strong to resist.
I must not read it, he told himself, opening it at random.
A moment later he shut the book with a snap. Here was just punishment for the sin of invading her privacy. He had happened upon the entry in which she wrote of her papa breaking to her the news that he was ill. Dangerously ill.
May 25th, 1816: Papa is returned from London, where he saw the doctor about the lump in his neck. It is, the doctor informs him, a malign growth, and it will before long obscure Papa’s windpipe.
There was no emotion expressed afterwards. The rest of the page remained empty.
Tom knew just how distressing the news would have been to Nell. He closed his eyes briefly as grief washed through him. But why should he feel grief for the loss of a man he had never met? Then he knew. It was grief for Nell’s sake.
And there were other shades in it too. For the first time in many years he felt again the bewilderment of a small boy whose mother had suddenly vanished, called to live in heaven, far away from home.
Mama.
Chapter Five
Tom glanced around the chamber, slightly dazed by his abrupt return to the present. Placing the journal back where he had found it, he began mechanically to undress.
A thousand thoughts were swirling around his disordered brain, like leaves in autumn. One drifted into focus.
Why is her book here, in this chamber?
The journal was so intimate, so personal—surely Nell would have kept it in her own chamber?
He stopped, stunned by a sudden moment of clarity. Abruptly he began opening closets and drawers, searching for confirmation. Here a comb. There a length of ribbon.
This is Nell’s chamber!
So why on earth was she not sleeping in it?
He slapped a hand on the bedpost as the answer came to him.
Because the house is full of guests, of course.
Guilt washed though him as he realised she had been displaced from her own chamber in order to accommodate him. She should not have been so discommoded! Presumably she was sharing a bedchamber with one of the young ladies—or possibly her stepmother.
Grimly, he considered his options. There was no way he could see by which to remedy the situation. Under no circumstances could he admit to having found her journal. He would therefore have to pretend he did not know.
He g
lanced at the bed. Nell’s bed. There she slept, night after night. And tonight he would sleep there again. The thought was disturbing, exciting and comforting all at once. Nell Godwin was altogether too interesting.
I am my own master, and I choose my own path.
As he climbed into bed, it did not occur to him to notice how completely she was occupying his thoughts.
December 26th
Nell felt as though she were in a beautiful dream. As she worked in the kitchen, serving bread, meat, pies, cheeses and precious fruit onto platters and into serving bowls, she sang softly to herself. Not since losing Papa had she felt so happy, so light of spirit.
Mr Beresford had come into her life and brought light and wellness and happiness. Yes, he had left her rather abruptly last night, and there had been as yet no opportunity for private speech with him today, but he would surely be warm again when next she saw him. She did not know exactly how events would unfurl in future, but at this moment the future was not her concern.
Lady Cecily had helped earlier, but was now gone to dress for dinner. Finding a large pot of soup in the second larder, Nell decided to reheat it so the guests would have something warm on this cold winter’s day. Stoking up the kitchen fire, she accidentally got some soot from the cinders on her hands in the process, but soon had the fire burning merrily and the soup pot suspended from the iron chimney crane.
She washed her hands, then stirred the soup gently, enjoying the sense of purpose in so simple a task. Absent-mindedly she hummed another tune, enjoying the feeling that for the first time in a long time, her burdens felt lighter, the darkness around her less dense.
She did not hear him enter, but some sense told her he was there. She turned, unable to prevent a welcoming smile lighting her face.
He blinked, as if walking into strong sunlight, and then, as if nothing at all had passed between them last night, remarked cordially, ‘You have been hard at work.’
‘I have.’ She dimpled at him. ‘It is surprisingly satisfying.’