Читать книгу Snowbound Wedding Wishes: An Earl Beneath the Mistletoe / Twelfth Night Proposal / Christmas at Oakhurst Manor - Louise Allen, Joanna Fulford - Страница 12

Aristocrat. It was not until she heard the word in her head and felt the sharp pang beneath her breastbone that Emilia understood her own foolishness. Part of her, some part that was utterly out of touch with reality, had been dreaming that her handsome major would want her, kiss her, fall for her. Ridiculous, even if he had merely been a landowning officer, for he was too decent to seduce her and anything else was simply moonshine.

But an aristocrat? Connections, respectability, dowry were all. The only relationship Hugo Travers, Lord Whatever He Was, could have with her was as a kindly passing acquaintance or to take her as a mistress. She almost laughed at the notion of herself as mistress-material as she brushed ashes off her worn skirt and held out one chapped hand to the warmth of the fire.

‘You’ll have that bread in cinders,’ old Mr Janes cackled. ‘Looking for your lover in the flames, eh?’

‘You’re a dreadful old man and you’ve had too much mulled ale,’ she scolded him, pulling back the toasting fork and setting it aside. Years of practice putting on a cheerful face for the boys under all circumstances stood her in good stead with adults, too, she was learning.

He grinned, revealing one remaining tooth and a great deal of gum. ‘I’m old, that’s a fact, my pretty. But you gets wisdom with age.’

‘And what’s your wisdom telling you now, eh, Grandfer Janes?’ one of the younger men called.

‘It’s telling me we’re having snow from now until Christmas morn and none of us is getting out of this hamlet for a week, so we’d best be thinking what we’re going to do about the Feast.’

‘Are you certain?’ Hugo’s deep voice cut through the buzz of comment.

‘Aye, he’s certain,’ the smith said. ‘Best weather prophet in the Chiltern Hills is Old Janes. Best make your mind up to it, Major. You’re spending Christmas in Little Gatherborne.’

Hugo’s face in the candlelight, through the haze of tobacco smoke, was unreadable to anyone who did not know him as she was beginning to. His lips moved. She thought he murmured, ‘Hell’, then he asked, ‘What feast?’

‘The Christmas Feast,’ Cartwright explained. ‘We hold it every Christmas Eve over at Squire Nicholson’s big barn in Great Gatherborne. Everyone comes from both villages and the farms all around, there’s dancing, music, games for the little ones, food.’

‘So where will you hold it over here?’

‘Don’t see how we can,’ someone complained. ‘None of us has a barn and Squire provides the beast for roasting.’

‘What’s the barn up the hill, then?’

‘That belongs to Sir Philip Davenport. He’s got a big house down the valley,’ Emilia explained. ‘I think he’s going to sell it to the Squire. It’s empty, though. We could use it if it isn’t locked.’

‘What, without asking? He’d be powerful mad and he’s a magistrate.’ That was Jimmy Hadfield, who’d had a close scrape over a poached pheasant or two if she wasn’t mistaken.

She couldn’t ask Sir Philip, that was for certain. She had actually danced with him, just the once, at her very first, and last, ball on the night she and Giles had eloped. If he didn’t know who she was, he would not see her, the humble alewife, but if she told him her real identity to gain an interview he would be highly embarrassed. And it would be even more embarrassing for her parents if he let slip to society that Lord Peterscroft’s wanton daughter was running a rural alehouse.

‘I could have a word with him afterwards,’ Hugo said. ‘If we don’t do any damage—’ The rest was lost in a roar of approbation.

‘What about food?’ Emilia managed to make herself heard above the din. ‘The squire gives us a bullock.’ She tried to sort out the conflicting emotions in her head. Delight, of course, that the hamlet could have its Feast after all and a grudging resentment that Hugo would stroll into see Sir Philip, exchange a few casual words and it would all be settled. Once she had accepted that kind of privilege without thought. Now she knew she could never be that girl again.

‘None of us has got any spare livestock,’ someone said from the back of the room. Gloom descended.

‘Has anyone got an animal you could spare if you had the money to replace it?’ Hugo asked. ‘I’ll buy it as my contribution to the feast.’

That settled it. Several meaty palms slapped Hugo’s shoulders before the men recollected who he was and then, when he showed no sign of taking exception to the treatment, he was offered a quantity of dubious snuff and a tot of Granfer Jane’s even more dubious, and decidedly illegal, home-distilled spirits, which rendered him speechless after one mouthful.

Emilia filled another jug with ale. This was going to turn into a planning meeting and that required lubrication. Across the room she met Hugo’s eyes. He raised his eyebrows and grinned and she found herself grinning back. He was a good man, she had known it instinctively, and it was pleasant to be proved correct. If only she could hold on to that and not allow those wicked, wistful longings to creep in when she looked at him, thought about him.

‘Now then.’ She clapped her hands for silence. ‘How many people will be coming do we think?’

The boys were muttering at his heels as Hugo dug his way through the fresh snowfall so they could feed the pig. They had been subdued all through breakfast, he realised.

‘What’s the matter with you two?’ The three of them hung over the sty door and scratched Maud on her broad, bristly back as she rooted vigorously in the trough.

‘We were going into town to buy a present for Mama for Christmas and now we can’t,’ Nathan said. ‘We left it too late, but we were saving up and…’ His voice wavered.

‘Then you’ll have to make something, won’t you?’ Hugo said briskly. ‘What would she like?’ He thought about the craftsmen he had met the night before. The carpenter had seemed an amiable, easy-going man. ‘If you can think of something to make from wood, I expect Mr Daventry would take you on as apprentices for a few days.’

‘Mama said the other day she didn’t have a nice shelf to put the pretty jug we bought her on safely. If we made her one, she could put it in her bedroom with flowers in the jug,’ Joseph suggested. They both looked enthusiastic.

‘Come on, then, we’ll dig our way through to the old folks and then go and find Mr Daventry.’

When they came back, cheerful and hungry after a hard morning digging and negotiating, Emilia was standing in the sunshine on the front step, shaking out a duster. He felt a ridiculous stab of pleasure at seeing her there, as though she was waiting to welcome him home. Warmth spread through him when she saw them and smiled straight into his eyes, her face open and happy. She made him think of fresh-baked bread, wholesome and edible and tempting.

He was forgiven for yesterday’s insanity. He wanted to taste her skin, to nibble, very gently, at those sweet curves. Stop it, she’s a decent woman. But what was that feeling in his chest, that ache that made him want to hold her and protect her and, yes, make love to her?

‘What a marvellous morning!’ she called when they came into earshot and he wiped his thoughts off his face. ‘But Granfer James says we’ll have snow again later. I’ve just been and taken him some chicken broth.’ They stamped into the yard, kicked snow off their boots and stacked shovels under the eaves. ‘What have you been up to?’ Emilia asked. ‘I sense mischief. Or secrets.’

‘Men’s business,’ Hugo said. ‘I’ve hired these two out as apprentices to Daventry the carpenter. He needs a hand. That’s all right, isn’t it? I can set them some Latin exercises for this evening.’ He winked at her over the boys’ heads and shook his head when she opened her mouth, obviously to demand to know what on earth he was about.

‘I see.’ Emilia clearly did not, but she was willing to trust him and play along. It provoked the most unexpected sense of partnership. ‘I had no idea Mr Daventry had so much on that he needs assistance, but we must be neighbourly. You two are to be back before it starts to get dark, or as soon as it begins to snow, do you understand?’

Goodness knew what Hugo and the boys were plotting, but she guessed it must be something to do with her Christmas present. Emilia had realised they were fretting about it and had been racking her brains for something she could hint that she wanted that they could make her. Their own presents had been bought weeks ago, the last time she had been into Aylesbury.

But what about Hugo? Whatever she thought of, she was going to have to make it right under his nose…Nose! Of course. There was that fine white cotton she had bought for summer underwear. There was a good yard left, more than enough for handkerchiefs with his initials in the corner. She could whip those up without him noticing she was doing anything other than her usual sewing.

She had the fabric spread out on the table when he came back from seeing the boys off after luncheon. ‘What are you making?’ He hitched a hip on to the corner of the table. Big, relaxed, male. Gorgeous.

Emilia felt the blush rise and turned it to her advantage. ‘Female underthings.’

‘Ah.’ He was off the table and over by the hearth at once, just as she had hoped.

‘Thank you for helping the boys.’ She took up the scissors and cut along her markings, careful to get the edges straight. For some reason her hand did not seem quite steady.

Hugo sat down on the arm of her armchair. ‘My pleasure. They were fretting about not being able to finish their shopping.’

‘It seems very quiet without them.’ She had ruined that square—oh, well, it would make a smaller handkerchief for her. With an effort of will Emilia completed the six squares, folded them all into her workbasket and cleared up the scraps.

‘In the summer they must be out a great deal of the time,’ Hugo observed. He did not move as she came and set the basket down by her chair.

‘Yes. Of course. It is just that…’ Her normally fluent tongue seemed to be in knots.

‘That having me in the house when no one else is here is disconcerting?’ Hugo asked with devastating directness.

‘Yes.’ Emilia found she had no idea what to do with her hands, which appeared to want to tie themselves into knots.

‘Why? Do you feel unsafe with me?’ He stood up and she found they were almost toe to toe. ‘Is it because of yesterday?’

‘No! It is just that I want…I mean I…’

‘You want me to hold you?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes. No,’ she corrected with desperate honesty. ‘I want you to kiss me.’

‘What an extraordinary coincidence,’ he said. She glanced up at him, confused. ‘I was just thinking how much I would like to kiss you.’

It was not tentative, or gentle or subtle. Teeth bumped, she trod on his feet, his hands were so tight around her waist that she was breathless. It was wonderful and life-affirming and dangerously exciting.

When they fell apart, Hugo’s eyes were dark, deep blue and he looked faintly stunned. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Why? I am not.’ She wasn’t. She should be, but she couldn’t find a whisper of regret anywhere.

‘My technique seem to have become inexcusably clumsy.’ His grip on her waist loosened, but he did not let her go.

‘Perhaps it is a while since you kissed a woman?’ she suggested. The sudden calculation she could see in his eyes was amusing.

‘A month or two,’ Hugo admitted. ‘I am not in the habit of wantonly kissing my way around, you understand.’ He cocked an eyebrow quizzically, but Emilia sensed he was concerned with how she replied.

‘No, I can tell that.’ His hands were still warm on her waist, she was no longer treading on his toes, so she reached up, curled her fingers around the strong column of his neck and drew him down. ‘We could try again?’

‘I would appreciate a second chance. You disconcert me, Emilia.’

Disconcert him? Me, plain ordinary Emilia Weston? Then his mouth closed firmly over hers and his tongue swept along the fullness of her lower lip and she let herself sink into the sensation. It was strange to know what she was doing, to know what to expect, and yet to be experiencing it with a different man.

And any memories were lost almost immediately. Hugo tasted different, felt different, kissed differently. She had thought that to make love with any other man would feel like disloyalty to Giles, although she knew he would never want her to be alone after he had gone. But this felt right and wonderful as sensations she had almost forgotten about tingled and throbbed and ached deliciously from her lips to her thighs.

Hugo explored deep into her mouth as though he wanted to drink her in and she responded with as much boldness, learning the taste of him, teasing him with nips and licks, digging her fingers into his broad shoulders.

When he lifted his head finally they stared at each other until he released his grip on her waist and she dropped her hands from his shoulders. Emilia groped her way to the nearest chair and sat down on it with a thump. Her breasts felt heavy, as sensitive as if he had been caressing the naked flesh, and between her thighs the pulse of arousal beat a distracting, insistent rhythm.

‘I did not send the boys to the carpenter’s so I could do that,’ Hugo said abruptly. ‘It has just occurred to me that you might believe I had schemed to get them out of the house.’ He put one hand on the mantel and stood looking down into the fire, then abruptly swung the kettle over the heat.

‘No. It never occurred to me that you would do such a thing.’ Was she being hopelessly naïve and trusting? But did men set on selfish seduction raise such concerns? Perhaps they did if they were very subtle. Emilia gave herself a mental shake. Every instinct had told her to trust Hugo from the moment she set eyes on him. ‘I asked you to kiss me.’ She ought to feel shame at being so bold. She certainly should feel alarm at what she was doing.

‘I am honoured. And flattered. And I think we should stop this right now while there are only kisses between us.’ He began to spoon tea into the pot as though the banal domesticity of the act would somehow disperse the tensions that thickened the air between them.

What is this? she wondered, but did not ask. Hugo was apparently too decent to seduce her and leave her and she was impossible as a mistress—no man, certainly no aristocrat, offered an alehouse keeper with children a carte blanche.

‘That would certainly be sensible,’ she agreed, dredging up remnants of common sense from wherever they had vanished to. ‘It would also be a saving on the housekeeping if you stopped heaping tea into that pot.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ He peered into it and began to spoon tea out again. Emilia laughed and for a minute or two while she fetched mugs and milk it was as though those kisses had never happened. Then Hugo looked up, straight into her eyes and said, ‘I have never met another woman like you, Emilia. I doubt I ever will again.’

What could she say to that? What did it mean? He seemed blurred somehow and then she realised it was not her emotions playing havoc with her eyesight, but the light dimming. ‘Oh, no, here comes the snow again.’

‘I’ll go and get the boys.’ Hugo swept his heavy cloak from the peg, clapped his hat on his head and went out, snowflakes swirling into the room in his wake.

They melted in the warm air and all trace of him was gone, only the two mugs standing on the table left to mark that she had not dreamed the last half-hour.

‘You are going to break my heart, Hugo Travers,’ Emilia said. But hearts had been broken before and no one died of it, not while there were stockings to darn and boys to feed and ale to brew. She swirled her big white apron around her waist and went to survey the larder shelves in search of inspiration for supper.

‘Have you done your Latin exercises?’ Hugo felt the concerted power of two sets of eyes on his back, but he did not look round from grooming Ajax.

‘Yes, Major. And we’ve done our chores and Mama says we are under her feet because she is trying to sweep. Is it ever going to be Christmas?’

‘Today is the twenty-third. Christmas Eve is tomorrow. How are the shelves coming along?’ He sponged Ajax’s muzzle and the big horse sighed gustily, spraying him with water. He was bored, standing in this stall. The deep, narrow paths through the snow were unfit for anything but walking, but he would take him out in a minute.

‘Really well, they are finished almost. Mr Daventry has carved a star on both ends for us and he is going to help us put our initials on it this afternoon.’ There was an anxious pause. ‘Do you think we have enough money to pay him for the wood and carving the stars and helping us?’

‘How much have you got?’

‘Two shillings and four pence halfpenny.’

Hugo had already spoken to the carpenter, agreed a price and promised to make up the difference. ‘Well, that should do it. Do you want to come and help me exercise Ajax?’ He untied the halter rope, slid the bridle on to a chorus of excited agreement and led the horse out into the front yard. ‘Come on, then, up you go.’

He swung Nathan up, then Joseph. They were almost too excited to speak. Hugo put the reins into Nathan’s hands and walked away into one of the pathways through the snow. Ajax plodded behind, the boys’ feet brushing the tops of the snow banks.

It was a relief to get right away from the house. He had been trying to ever since he had yielded to temptation and kissed Emilia and felt the ache of desire sweep through him, felt the pain under his breastbone that he did not understand intensify. He had dug, visited, joined the other men in planning, helped clear the barn and select the beast for the roast. And every time he had gone back to the house the very lack of contact, the control with which Emilia ignored what he had done, scarified his pride.

That would be sensible, she had said when he had summoned up every ounce of his crumbling will-power and said that they should put a stop to it. Whatever it was. She had spoken calmly, dispassionately, as if she had taken all she needed from him. Certainly she was not hurt or desperate to be back in his arms. He had thought she needed him more than he needed her and it seemed he was wrong.

I do not need her. I need a wife.

The ride had been a wild success. After half an hour Hugo swopped them around so Joseph had the reins, by which time they had their voices back.

‘Are you married, Major?’ Nathan asked.

What? For an appalled moment he thought he was being asked his intentions towards their mother, then he realised his own conscience was imposing undertones on a perfectly innocent piece of curiosity.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’ Joseph enquired earnestly. ‘Aren’t you really old not to be married?’