Читать книгу A Magical Regency Christmas - Elizabeth Rolls, Bronwyn Scott - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Susan called the following afternoon, arriving in the carriage just as the children left. Polly greeted her politely and invited her in. Susan gave the living room a derisive glance, then swung around, a pitying expression on her face. ‘You poor thing, Hippolyta. I mean, living like this!’ She shuddered. ‘And you actually sleep in here, too? How can you? Really, you must be ready to see sense now. Mama says that Lady Littleworth is still looking for a companion, you know.’

Polly shrugged. ‘This is my home, Susan, and I’m perfectly happy here.’ She would be even happier if there wasn’t that sneaking suspicion that she looked forward to Alex Martindale’s daily visits far more than she ought to, that they had somehow become the high point of her day. And not because so often when he called, he had something for her. The woodcock yesterday, a pat of butter, or a small pot of jam that he claimed Mrs Judd had asked him to deliver.

Susan looked disbelieving. ‘Happy? Here? But it’s so—’ She waved her hands about. ‘It’s so squalid! I mean, there’s only that frightful settle, or whatever you call it, to sit on, and nothing to do except teach the village children! What on earth do you do in the evenings?’

Apart from wondering if Mr Martindale is going to kiss me?

Polly also refrained from telling her cousin that she went to bed early to save lamp oil. ‘I read. And any mending I do is my mending.’

‘Oh.’ Susan’s wrinkled nose suggested that she couldn’t think of anything more ghastly. Probably because she had never faced the thought of being Lady Littleworth’s companion, or mending the sheets.

‘Should you like a cup of tea, Susan?’ offered Polly, wondering if she could get away with re-using the breakfast tea leaves.

Susan looked slightly aghast as her gaze fell on Polly’s plain, earthenware cups. They were a far cry from Lady Eliot’s elegant tea service. ‘Oh, well. I shouldn’t like to put you to any trouble. It’s just, well, Tom is home, you know.’

‘No. I didn’t know.’ She didn’t much care, either. She’d see Tom at Christmas and that would be too soon.

Susan gave a conspiratorial smile and said, ‘Mama would be furious if she knew what I’m going to tell you, but I thought that it was only fair.’ She looked around, as though afraid her mother would pop up out of the floor, and went on. ‘Tom thought it better if I spoke to you first.’

Polly stared. ‘Tom thought what better?’ Surely he didn’t regret the way he had behaved two years ago?

Susan patted at her curls. ‘Well, you know he’s been staying with the Creeds? You remember the Creeds?’ Not bothering to let her answer, Susan rushed on. ‘He came home yesterday, terribly pleased. And you’ll never guess—he’s betrothed to Angelica! Mama is in alt, as you may guess!’

For a moment Polly was speechless, but Susan’s avid eyes, greedy for the least sign that her barbed news had struck home, stiffened her.

‘Oh. That is lovely news,’ she said. Susan’s slight frown gave her the impetus to forge a smile. ‘How nice for them. Aunt Eliot must be delighted.’

Susan stared at her. ‘You don’t mind, then?’

A little thread of amusement uncurled itself, mocking her. ‘Mind? Why ever should I? Please do wish Tom very happy for me. Although I suppose I shall be able to do that for myself next week.’ Christmas was so close now, and never had she looked forward to the festive season less.

Susan recovered somewhat. ‘You’ll still come for Christmas then?’

‘Why should I not?’ asked Polly. Was that it? Had Tom wanted her told, so that she might decide not to come, but not had the courage to tell her himself? To hell with him! If he had a guilty conscience, it was his problem.

Susan shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘Well, you see, Angelica and her parents are coming to stay. They arrive Christmas Eve.’

Which would make the manor uncomfortably crowded.

‘Oh. I dare say I shall only remain a couple of days, then,’ said Polly in very cheerful tones. ‘You might mention that to your mama for me.’

Susan glared at her and Polly tried hard not to smile. Her sweet little cousin wasn’t supposed to have told her anything.

‘You know everyone is talking about this, don’t you?’ burst out Susan.

‘About Tom and Angelica?’

‘No! About you! About how disgraceful it is that you’ve done this! You should have gone to Lady Littleworth!’

‘And not been paid,’ pointed out Polly. ‘Instead I have my independence.’

‘You would have been respectable!’ snapped Susan, as if it were a holy grail. She gestured at the room. ‘You think only of yourself! It’s selfish—living like this, you’re shaming all of us!’

‘How dreadful for you,’ said Polly sweetly. ‘Fancy not being able to hide the shame of a poor relation. And, yes, I am afraid that as a woman who must make her own way in the world, I do think of myself.’ No one else was going to do it for her.

Susan uttered a frustrated noise, turned on her heel and flounced out, banging the door.

With Susan gone, Polly sat slowly on the settle and stared into the glowing fire. Despite the warmth, a cold emptiness yawned inside her. Fool that she was to have thought even for a moment that Tom might have regretted his behaviour. All he regretted was her lost fortune. If she had married him, how long would it have taken her to see that? To see him for what he truly was? Would she have lied to herself day after day? Year after year? Pretended that all was well? That he was still the handsome, devil-may-care, big cousin of her childhood? How long could she have lied to herself and not become something beyond pity?

With a jolt, she realised that she didn’t care about Tom’s betrothal. That she had realised a long time ago what a lucky escape she’d had there. A queer thought came to her—if she could turn the clock back, regain her fortune, would it be worth the price of being married to Tom?

* * *

Alex winced at the yowl emanating from the basket as he walked through the village that evening. How such a tiny creature could make so much noise was beyond him. And what on earth was he thinking giving Polly—Miss Woodrowe, he corrected himself—a kitten without even asking her if she would like a cat. Although he doubted that she would like a cat less than that blasted great rat.

And even a cat would be company for her. He glanced down at the pup trotting politely at his heels. Not as good as a dog, of course, but better than nothing, and a great deal cheaper to feed. Especially if it dined largely on rats and mice. Still, if she preferred not to have the kitten, she could always say so. He didn’t much like cats himself, but he thought he could survive one more cat at the rectory if Polly declined.

Serve his housekeeper right! He still wanted to know how on earth Mrs Judd had known he’d visited Polly last night. The dratted woman had asked after Miss Polly when he’d come in, quite as if she had no doubt as to where he’d been, and before he’d known what he was doing, he’d told her about the rat. She’d produced the kitten at breakfast, informing him that it was from the smithy, its immediate antecedents renowned and celebrated ratters.

He should have come earlier, but he’d had to recite the Office and he’d had a sermon to write, not to mention adding up the various parish bills for the month. So there was no question of lingering to talk to Polly now. Quite apart from Mrs Judd’s ire if he were late to supper, there was Polly’s reputation to consider. There was no doubt that Mrs Judd knew exactly where he was this time. He squashed the flicker of regret.

The little cottage was nearly lost in the darkness, but a faint light crept out from behind the shutters, and the odour of wood smoke and something savoury drifted to him, reminding him that he was hungry. Another yowl from the basket suggested that someone else was hungry. Bonny gave the basket a wary sniff and backed off when it hissed.

Alex grinned. ‘Very wise of you.’ He’d back a cat, even one this size, against a setter any day. He rapped on the back door.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s just me. Alex.’ Too familiar. ‘Alex Martindale.’

Inside the bolts were shot back and the key screeched in the lock. He tried to steel himself, but at the first sight of her, the tawny hair spun to a golden nimbus in the lamplight, heat rose in his blood, and his heart and stomach twisted and clenched. Rather like his tongue.

‘Er, Miss Woodrowe.’ It was all he could manage. Wonderful. He’d told the woman her own name. He’d never understood that desire could tie a man in knots. Bonny apparently saw nothing in the least awkward in calling at this hour. She shoved past him up the steps and reared up, planting muddy paws firmly on Polly’s gown. Nor was her tongue in the least affected by shyness as she licked enthusiastically at Polly’s hands. Which weren’t trying to push her down, but rather were petting the silly creature, rubbing her ears and under her muzzle. His breath shortened and his mind seized. Such soft, gentle hands...

His voice came out as a croak. ‘Bonny—down.’

The pup sat, casting a sheepish look up at him, as her tail swept the step.

‘It’s all right, sir. I don’t mind.’

He snorted. ‘You will when she’s bigger.’

The basket gave another indignant wail.

Polly stared at it. ‘Your supper, sir?’

‘What? Good God, no!’ He held the basket out to her. ‘It’s a cat, a kitten really. For you.’

Silence spread out around them as she took the basket.

‘You brought me a kitten.’ There was a queer note of disbelief in her voice.

A stray curl had tumbled over her brow and he had to exert his will against the urge to stroke it back for her. Everything in him clenched as he imagined her silky hair sliding through his fingers, the velvet softness of her cheek under his touch...

Ignoring the rising beat of his blood, he said, ‘I thought...it must be lonely by yourself. And the rat yesterday—well, that can’t be pleasant.’

‘No. Will you come in, sir?’

He shouldn’t. Not at this hour. Not after dark when she was living quite alone.

Who on earth is going to know? Apart from Mrs Judd and she seems to like Polly...

He would know and he ought not to do this, but his feet were already over the threshold and she was closing the door behind them. The warmth of the little room enclosed them. Dancing firelight and the fragrance of her supper, her counterpane tossed over the back of the settle with a book propped in the folds.

Don’t think of her wrapped in bedclothes!

‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

Kneeling down to open the basket, she looked up as she lifted the kitten out. Her smile did odd things to him. ‘Yes. A woodcock from last night. It was lovely. Thank you again.’ She cuddled the kitten to her, murmuring to it as it batted her face with a tiny paw. It was a very small kitten, all black and gold patches laced with white.

‘You like cats, then?’ he got out. Lord! Her hands cradled the little creature so tenderly, touching a gentle fingertip to a ridiculous buff stripe on its nose... He shoved away the thought—the image, God help him!—of those hands touching him. He shouldn’t stay, but just being with her, here in the same room, was a joyous torment. Thank God she still had the lamp lit. The intimacy of firelight, with her bed there in the corner... His head spun.

‘Oh, yes. But cats made Mama sneeze, so we never had one. Is it a boy or a girl?’

‘Female,’ Alex got out. ‘Mrs Judd says tortoiseshell cats are always female.’

She rose and sat down on the settle beside him, the kitten in her lap. It was content there for a moment, but then, with a determined squeak, clambered down her skirts and began to explore the room.

‘Another independent female,’ he said.

There was a moment’s silence. Then, ‘Is that so very wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ he asked. In a cat? But, no, she was not speaking of the kitten. Something, someone, had upset her.

‘To want to be independent. Is it really so unnatural?’ Her voice was very quiet and full of an uncertainty he’d never heard in it before.

‘I can’t see that you had very much choice,’ he said. Who had hurt her? He was conscious of an aching need to reassure her, to pull her into his arms and just hold her. Perhaps rest his cheek on that tawny cloud and find out if it really was as silken as it looked. Just hold her. For comfort, of course. He groaned silently. Lord help him—he was even lying to himself now. His body, so well disciplined for so many years, was making up for lost time. Apparently he was not immune to the sins of the flesh after all.

‘My cousin Susan called.’

Ah. No doubt Miss Susan had expressed her mama’s opinion of Polly’s rebellion. ‘Is she well?’

‘Very well. We...we were talking about Christmas.’ She was bent down, detaching the kitten from where it was climbing her skirts, taking care with each tiny claw. Firelight glinted in the curls drifting around her temple, falling against her silken cheek so that his fingers ached to stroke them back, to tangle in them, tilt her face up to his and find out just how sweet her mouth was.

‘I can take the kitten to the rectory while you are with the Eliots,’ he forced out, closing his fingers to fists against the beat of temptation in his blood. What the deuce was wrong with him that he could scarcely get himself to act with disinterested chivalry?

She went very still. ‘Thank you, sir.’

There was something odd about her voice. As if she were close to tears. ‘Polly—Miss Woodrowe, is something wrong? Did Miss Eliot have bad news?’

Her chin lifted. ‘Bad news? Not at all. Quite the opposite. My cousin, Tom, is betrothed.’

That brittle voice splintered somewhere deep inside him and all that was left were the most useless, banal words in the language. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t pity me!’

The words exploded from her, and he bit back everything he would have liked to say. Pity? It was more like rage. Rage that there was nothing he could do to shield her from the pain she must be feeling. Rage that the Eliots, instead of protecting Polly, had cut her adrift. Rage that the world was like this at Christmas when such love was coming into the world that it could barely be contained.

‘It’s wonderful news,’ said Polly, still in that tight, controlled voice. ‘My aunt must be delighted. It’s Miss Creed, you know. A very eligible connection. She is an heiress.’

This time there really were no words. Instead, he reached out and took her small, cold, mittened hands, and just held them, contained them in the protection of his own. Sometimes words were inadequate things. Touch was better.

* * *

She thought if he had not done that, had not enveloped her cold hands in the warmth of his, she could have held herself together. As it was, the gentle strength shredded the threadbare cloak of pride, thawed the frozen place where she had interred all the pain, until her eyes burned and spilled over. She swallowed. Oh, damn! One powerful hand loosened and she wanted to cry out in protest, but his arm came around her and drew her close to rest against his shoulder.

Still he said nothing. No soothing words, no injunction not to cry. Just his solid strength to lean against for a moment, the sort of unspoken sympathy that made the wretched tears flow faster, and his arm about her. She knew he meant only to comfort, but her foolish, wanton body was dreaming of so much more than that. Dreaming of what it would be like if he truly took her in his arms, and not to comfort.

She must be a very wicked girl to entertain such thoughts. Wicked to feel this burn and dazzle in her blood at the gentle clasp of his hand. Wicked to wish that his arm might tighten, that his mouth... Well, it was a sheer miracle that a thunderbolt had not obliterated the schoolhouse with what she was thinking. But then it might have obliterated Alex and she supposed God would not want that.

I’m wicked to think such things.

He snorted. ‘I don’t think so.’

With a shock she realised that she had spoken aloud.

‘Wicked to be angry at injustice and hypocrisy?’ asked Alex. ‘Well, that makes two of us.’ He lifted their linked hands and the grey eyes smiled, full of understanding. ‘Linked in the heinous sin of disapproving of the social order.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Thank you, God, that he didn’t realise what I was really thinking.

The crooked half-smile—the one that turned her insides to jelly—twisted his mouth. ‘For what? Wanting to kick your cousins into the middle of next week for hurting you?’

He did? Her throat ached.

For being kind.

For understanding.

Her heart full, insensibly eased, she shook her head. ‘No,’ she said softly, and set one hand on his shoulder, feeling a flicker of muscle beneath the broadcloth. ‘For being you,’ she said and reached up to kiss his cheek.

* * *

For being you. As though he were a gift, when God knew he was nothing of the sort. His heart blazed, and his whole body tightened at her nearness, her fragrance—intoxication itself—and the light touch of her fingers through layers of cloth, the sweetest torment, a burning. The knowledge that she was going to kiss him—only on the cheek, but still the loveliest gift he’d ever been offered.

Then her lips were there, such peach-silk softness, a featherlight caress on his jaw that he should accept as it was meant—but somehow his head had turned—not at all what Christ had meant by turning the other cheek—and his lips had captured hers, his arms drawing her against the burning ache of his body.

Her startled gasp he took gently, even as for one soul-shattering moment she remained utterly still in his embrace. His conscience gave one last, feeble flicker. He must release her, apologise...but her lips moved hesitantly against his and he was lost.

Every nerve, every sinew and muscle leapt to flame as his arms tightened of their own accord, as his mouth returned her shy kiss and took more. Shaken to his soul, he tasted the fullness of her mouth—sweet, so sweet—and her lips parted. His mind reeled, his tongue dipped, found milk and honey, and tasted again and again, while his resolution dissolved, mind and body awash with delight as her tongue met his in hesitant wonder.

This. Just this.

This delight of a woman’s body in his arms, her lips and mouth tender under his, and this burning, this singing in blood and bone that could steal a man’s senses as surely as any siren.

Desire. His body recognised it and responded, hardening, tightening his arms around Polly, drawing her in to the consuming heat, cradling her closer. And she came, soft and willing, body and mouth yielding, melting against him. One hand found the supple curve of her waist, drifted higher against the swell of her breast and he tasted the surprise in her soft gasp.

Desire. A maelstrom threatening to sweep everything away. Sense, honour, both gone, and reason fast fading. One floundering scrap of reason found a foothold, a touchstone.

Polly. This was Polly.

Somehow he broke the kiss, drew back a little, breathing hard. A little more reason surfaced. He shouldn’t be doing this. In a moment he might remember why not...

You’re the rector, for goodness’ sake!

That hit him like a bucket of icy water. He stared down at Polly, dazed. She looked dazed, too. And her lips were damp and swollen. Pink and ripe. Because he’d kissed her. Even as he looked, all the reasons he shouldn’t be kissing her closed in, accusing.

Surely only a complete blackguard kissed a defenceless girl like that? When all she had offered was a sort of sisterly peck on the cheek.

‘I...I have to go,’ he managed. Because God only knew, if he didn’t, where this would end. His gaze fell on the alcove holding Polly’s bed and gave him back the lie. He knew perfectly well where it could have ended. That, right there, in that shadowed alcove, was the natural end for such a kiss.

Somehow he forced his hand to withdraw from the fall of her hair, now tumbled around her shoulders. Had he done that? His fingers shook at the silken caress. With even more difficulty he dragged the other hand from her waist.

‘Polly,’ he whispered. Lord, had he only just seen her? Seen what was in front of him. ‘I’m—’

‘No.’ The luminous golden eyes pleaded. ‘Don’t apologise. Please, just...just pretend there is a little bit of mistletoe above us.’

Mistletoe? God help them both if he’d had that pagan incentive above him!

He was the rector and Polly had confided in him, turned to him for comfort. He swallowed, brutally aware of aching need. Wanting to cast discretion and propriety, not to mention his vows, to the four winds.

He forced himself to release her and stand up, away from the warmth that was Polly. But his eyes—his eyes remained on her face, lost, and somehow found. Until her gaze fell and scarlet mantled her cheeks.

‘I’ll...I’ll bid you goodnight, sir.’

Polly. Her name lay unspoken on his tongue like honey, as sweet and intimate as her mouth itself.

He swallowed. ‘Miss Woodrowe.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’ll bar the door behind me?’ What the hell would he do if she said no? Refuse to leave until she did?

‘Yes.’

Thank God.

‘Well. Ah, goodnight then.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

Bonny bounded up from the hearth as he headed to the door. He made a mental note that dogs appeared to be very poor chaperons.