Читать книгу Unlaced At Christmas: The Christmas Duchess / Russian Winter Nights / A Shocking Proposition - Elizabeth Rolls, Christine Merrill - Страница 12

Chapter Seven

She had tasted of iced cakes and ginger and smelled of woodsmoke and brandy. Montford turned the branch in his hands, staring at it. How long had it been since he had kissed a pretty girl under the mistletoe, just for the fun of it?

He had done it last Christmas, of course. His own house had mistletoe boughs in several doorways. It was pleasant for both parties to catch a young lady under the berries, to swing her briefly off her feet and buss her on the cheek.

If the girl was not willing and wandered beneath the bough in mistake, he would make a playful start for her and send her scampering in fright before she realised that it was naught but a game. Then they would both laugh. And sometimes he would get his kiss after all, if she came back to award him for his good humour.

But had any of those previous kisses been as this one? It was sweet and sad at the same time, tasting of lost youth and aged like wine on his tongue. But there was hope in it as well, reminding him that while he might never be a boy again, there was much to enjoy in the present. The clock had not precisely stopped when he’d kissed Generva Marsh. But the passage of time had not felt quite so loud and insistent.

When he had pulled away from her he’d seen the same thing mirrored in her eyes. Her needs might have changed over the years. But the desire to be loved, and to love in return, had not diminished.

He had kissed her. For a moment, the title had fallen away and he’d felt like nothing more than a man. But he was a man without a wife. And for the first time in a long time, he felt incomplete. Both of his courtships, while not devoid of romance, had been foregone conclusions. He had shown interest and they had been flattered. He had proposed and they had accepted. It had all been very simple.

But that was the past. He had consoled himself that he was too old to start again. It had been a lie. But to open his heart when the answer was not guaranteed...

There was a shifting from behind him and a whispered, ‘Your Grace?’

He turned, surprised that he was not alone in the room.

It was Gwendolyn, holding a step stool in front of her. ‘Mama said you needed a ladder.’

So Mrs Marsh had lost her nerve and sent the girl to deal with him. Perhaps she still hoped that there would be a match between them and that a moment alone in the presence of mistletoe would be the answer. She was wrong.

But that was no fault of Generva’s. ‘Of course,’ he said, smiling. He took the stool from her and climbed it to hang the branch on a nail above the door. Then he stepped down again, standing well clear of the thing so that he might talk to the girl in peace. ‘And while I have you alone, I wish to speak with you for a moment.’ He gestured to the chairs by the window and they sat.

He resisted the urge to clear his throat, fearing that it would make him seem even more old and pompous than he already felt. ‘I wanted to apologise personally for the actions of my nephew.’

He could see, in the bright afternoon light, that her eyes were still red from crying. But for the moment, at least, they remained dry.

‘That is not necessary. They were not your fault after all.’

‘He is my heir and it reflects poorly upon my family that he used you, in such a way. I wish to make it right, if that is possible.’

‘I fail to see how you can,’ she said with a sad smile. ‘The man is already married. Even if he were not, I doubt I would take him back after how he has treated me.’

‘I understand that,’ he said as gently as possible. ‘Nor would I wish you to. It disappoints me to say so, but had I known of his courtship from the beginning, I would have warned you away from him.’

‘Because you did not think me worthy?’ She seemed ready to take offence.

He hurried to put her at her ease. ‘On the contrary. It is he who is not worthy. I had hoped on hearing that he meant to marry that it would be otherwise. But he has proved my worst fears and toyed with your affections. I must do what I can to make reparation.’

She gave him another sad smile that made her seem older than her years. ‘That is very kind of you, Your Grace. Mama said something on the subject to me already. If you mean to propose, I beg that you do not. It will save us both the embarrassment when I refuse.’

He hoped the relief he felt was not as obvious as it seemed. ‘You would not accept such an offer? You would be a duchess, you know. It is what Tom would have made you on my death.’

She shuddered. ‘Let us not talk of that, either. You are in good health at the moment, are you not?’

‘And I hope to be so, for some time,’ he said. ‘All the same, you would have been the duchess eventually.’

‘I hope you do not think that was an enticement when I accepted your nephew. I saw nothing further than the man in front of me.’ She smiled again. ‘I proved myself a very poor judge of character.’

‘If gentlemen behaved as they ought, it would not be necessary for ladies to be on guard,’ he reminded her. ‘And it is unfair that your reputation should suffer from his cavalier treatment of you.’

She gave a slight nod to say that he was too kind.

‘There will be a settlement,’ he said, stopping her before she could speak. ‘I will not accept a refusal of that, after the mortal blow you have dealt me by refusing my hand. You wound me to the quick, miss, for though I am old enough to be your father, I do not like to be reminded of the fact.’

She hurried to deny the fact, then noticed his smile and relaxed at the shared joke. ‘Very well, Your Grace. I thank you for your concern.’

‘I have another plan that might suit you better,’ he said, trying not to sound as cryptic as he felt. ‘I do not wish to speak of it as yet. But if I could repair your reputation in some other way, one that would give your broken heart time to heal and not trap you in a marriage not of your choosing, would you accept my help?’

Her shoulders sagged as well-disguised tension was released from them. ‘If such a thing was possible, I would accept it gladly, Your Grace.’

He rose and offered her his hand. She rose as well, and he escorted her to the door. ‘Then I shall endeavour to do my best for you.’ He glanced up to see the mistletoe that he had hung only a few minutes ago. ‘And now, you must indulge an old man, if only for luck.’ He laid a finger to direct her and she went up on tiptoe to kiss him, a brief, daughterly peck on the cheek.

He responded with a fatherly kiss on the top of her head. ‘Merry Christmas, my dear. Do not worry, I will make all right.’

She all but scampered as she left him, and he reached thoughtfully up to pluck one of the berries and toss it into the fire.

* * *

Seven, eight, nine...

Generva stared suspiciously up at the mistletoe, counting the berries there. She was sure there had been ten when she had left the room earlier in the day. She held her breath as she peered around at her feet to make sure the berry had not dropped off and rolled away. There was no sign of it on the floor.

She resisted the urge to move the furniture just to make sure. It was a roundabout solution to a perfectly simple problem. If she wished to know if a kiss had occurred after the meeting between the duke and her daughter, she had but to go and ask Gwen.

Strangely, she did not want to. She had left them alone together so that the matter of the proposal could be properly settled. But she had trusted that he would behave as a gentleman, especially if the answer was no. If he had pressed his advantage, as he had when Generva had been alone with him, she could not ignore it. She would explain to her daughter that what might have been a simple Christmas game last season might now be seen as permission to take even greater liberties. If she had agreed to a marriage, then it must occur tomorrow as scheduled.

If not? Then Generva would inform the duke that he must offer again and allow no second refusal. The girl would likely pout and sulk. But in the end she would have a husband who was both rich and powerful, and good-humoured, as well. He had a friendly, almost playful nature, and an excellent singing voice. Smiles came easily to her when he was around, and she was not normally given to such frivolity.

She was waxing on his virtues again. It netted her nothing. If she must speak of them at all, it would be to Gwen. After his marriage to her daughter, she could brag of the match to the jealous mothers of less-fortunate girls.

Perhaps Gwen would not have the grand passion she hoped for. But it was well past the time for romance. If she married the duke, she would have kindness and security, and never feel the desolation of the soul that came with knowing one was alone. The women of the Marsh household, both of them, must stop behaving like silly, love-struck maidens and face facts.

‘Are you looking for something?’

She jumped at the sound of his voice, placing her hand over her suddenly heaving bosom.

The duke was glancing down at the floor, just as she had as she searched for the berry. ‘I am sorry to startle you. But it seemed, just now, that you were searching for something. May I be of assistance?’

Darling, it has been a long time...

A sudden image flashed into her head of John, returned from sea. He would smile and coax her to the bedroom, claiming he needed help removing his boots. She would smile and follow, and they would close the door, even if it was the middle of the afternoon....

Why, of all times, must she think of such a thing? And why, in the presence of this particular man? The answer was obvious. But she was sure, somewhere on the other side of the veil, her husband was laughing at her.

She caught her breath and swallowed. ‘The room needs sweeping. It was foolish to decorate before giving it a good cleaning.’ She looked up into his face, which was very near hers, and leaned back into the door frame to keep from falling.

‘I shall bring the broom from the kitchen, if you promise not to strike me again.’ He was smiling, as though they shared a secret joke.

Her heart was beating so loud and fast she feared he must hear it from where he stood. She braced her shoulders against the woodwork, leaning back into the solidness of the house. ‘That will not be necessary. It has been a most confusing week,’ she added, hoping this would explain her behaviour.

‘It has indeed,’ he replied. ‘And I suppose you are wondering the results of my conversation with your daughter just now.’

‘I...’ What was the answer to this? Courtesy suggested that she deny curiosity, but her duty as a mother was just the opposite. She swallowed and attempted another breath. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘While she is a lovely girl, I fear our first hope was in vain. She has little interest in wedding me and I would not persuade her against her will. She is still quite young, and full of romantic illusions, as we all were at that age.’

‘She will outgrow them in time,’ Generva said firmly, thinking of how far her own life had veered from young romance.

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps not. She deserves a chance at a love match, does she not? And a man who can prove that all of us are not such bounders as my nephew proved to be.’

‘But how will that be possible? Tomorrow people will be talking of nothing else but her jilting.’

His finger was on her lips now, resting gently to silence them. ‘I will make sure the blame falls where it belongs, with my erstwhile heir. And—’ he gave her a smile that was both reassuring and secretive ‘—I have another plan in mind. Something that will occupy the gossips for weeks to come.’

‘But...’ If she had forgotten the finger resting against her lips, this attempt at speech made her immediately aware of it. The movement of her mouth dragged across the skin of it, and she had a sudden, totally irrational desire to touch it with her tongue, to take it into her mouth and suck.

Perhaps he had a similar thought. For though his smile did not falter, his already dark eyes seemed to grow darker. ‘Do you trust me?’

She should not. She should ask him about the missing berry. But she gave the barest of nods. And again, the friction of her lips on his hand made her mind wander.

‘Then you must not fear,’ he said. His hand dropped away from her face to rest upon her shoulder. ‘And you must not take everything upon yourself.’

‘Who else has there been to help me?’ she said, unable not to rail, just a little, at the unfairness of widowhood.

‘No one yesterday,’ he agreed. ‘But today you must remember that you are no longer alone.’

She wanted to argue that of course she was still alone. John had been captain at sea, but she had always been the captain of her own little ship right here in Reddington. While it might seem that she deferred to him, he would soon be gone. Today or tomorrow, St Stephen’s Day at the latest, he would be on his horse, riding south, and she would be alone again.

His hand tightened upon her shoulder ever so gently, the thumb settling in the hollow of her collarbone and stroking. ‘You knew the old song I was singing before, did you not?’

She nodded again, barely able to breathe.

‘It was a man’s song. The man is the holly. The woman is the ivy, who clings to him for support.’

She did not need to, she reminded herself. But it would be pleasant, for a time, to cling to anyone.

‘That song is rather unfair to poor ivy, for she is standing outside the door with cold fingers. But do you know the chorus?’ he asked softly.

At the moment, she was not sure she knew anything, other than that the duke had the beginning of a beard shadow, just under the curve of his full lower lip. Her eyes dropped to the ground again, so she would not have to stare at his mouth.

‘“Let Holly have the mastery, as the manner is.”’ The words were barely a breath against her hair. ‘That is what you must do for me, Generva. Let me help you.’ His thumb travelled up her shoulder until it rested under her chin, and tipped her face towards his.

She should not be doing this.

She allowed herself one token protest before putting it aside and closing the last inch between them to accept his kiss. His mouth was warm and wonderful, and the nearness of his body as comforting as a blanket on a winter night. She leaned into him and felt his hand on the small of her back, supporting her as he opened her mouth, capturing her tongue with a lazy possessiveness, drawing it back into him so that she might kiss him as he was kissing her.

He tasted of mulled wine and mischief, and she gave herself over to it, wrapping her arms around his neck so that their hips touched. She felt his body stir against her belly, growing hard. He wanted her in that way?

Her heart and mind warred for a moment, trying to decide whether to be offended or flattered. If she was not careful, she would have a reputation more damaged than her daughter’s. The world would think she was one of those too-gracious widows, willing to let a man warm her bed for favours.

In the end, her body won out over reason. Her knees weakened, pressing her hips ever so slightly in welcome towards the budding erection.

‘What are you doing?’ Ben was sitting on the stairs in the hall, watching the whole scandalous moment.

She broke quickly from his kiss, straightening her skirts and touching her hair. Then she cursed herself for the fussiness. It made her look even more guilty than she felt.

The duke was given to no such sudden movements. He was still staring down at her, eyes pools of blackness, a slight satisfied smile upon his lips. ‘I am kissing your mother,’ he said to the boy, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be caught in an embrace in the middle of the day.

‘Oh,’ Ben responded. Perhaps that was just the way to handle such a thing, for her son did not seem the least bit surprised. His tone said that such carrying on was not nearly as interesting as catching wrens in the woods.

‘Like you kissed my sister before?’

Generva pushed away so fast that her head hit the door frame. ‘Your Grace.’ There was much more that she wanted to say, and none of it was appropriate for little ears. For now, two words would have to be enough to tell him what she truly thought of the sort of man that would do such a terrible thing. Then she gave him another push for good measure and fled past her son, up the stairs to her room.