A Christmas Bride (10 page)

“I don't know.”

“Will you try?” She tightened her fingers around his as she leaned toward him. “Timothy, I know you are very busy with the plans for your grandfather's party and the many calls you need to make and receive while you are at Cheyney Park.”

“You need not make me sound so heartless.” Without releasing her hand, he ran the back of his own along her cheek. “Such fire you have! You must have been a vexing scold to your lady.”

“I hope I was if she did something as misbegotten as letting a delightful child let her life slip away.”

“Your point is well-taken.” He hesitated, then asked, “Why is this so important to you?”

“She is a little girl all alone in that empty wing.”

“I can understand why that would bother you, but, Serenity, I have never seen you in such a snit. You were ready to banish me to perdition without giving me a chance to explain that I share your dismay, as does my grandfather.”

“Then why—”

“We have no choice but to follow her mother's wishes.”

“What of Theodora's wishes? She is not a baby any longer. I would wager she is almost six.”

“Actually she will celebrate her tenth birthday in the spring.”

“Ten?”

Timothy sighed. “The doctors have said that her lack of growth is part of her whole condition. As I said, she was not expected to live at all.”

“Then that is an even greater reason to make the time she has more precious and filled with joy.”

“All right, Serenity. I will try to devise something to help her read her books.”

“Thank you.” She smiled and let her shoulders drop from their angry pose. “And I should thank you again for the wonderful clothes that Madame DuLac has been designing for me.”

He raised her hand and twirled her about beneath it. Chuckling, he said, “I had heard she was a true mistress of her art of stitchery, but you are the proof. This gown is lovely.”

“It is, is it not?” She plucked at the pale pink gauze over the underskirt, then looked up at him. “Timothy, you have ordered more than I will need, even for the time between now and Christmas. What shall you do with all these clothes when this is over?”

“Me?”

“A lady's maid has no use for such elegant clothes.”

“No, a lady's maid would not.” He frowned.

“What is wrong?”

He shook his head. “Nothing but the course of this conversation. The clothes are for you, Serenity. You may wear them or give them away or sell them, if you wish, but I do not take back gifts.”

“They must be so costly. With Madame DuLac and her girls here and—”

“Do not fret over what I am not fretting about.”

She wanted to protest again, but saw the unmistakable glint of determination in his eyes. He would not be swayed. She had seen that in his conversations with his cousin and with Mrs. Scott. Even though he might assume a teasing tone, only a widgeon would assume he was ready to cede his will.

Quietly, she repeated, “Thank you.”

“You are the one who should be thanked.” He tipped her hand over and brushed it with his lips.

She gasped as sensation exploded within her as strongly as had the pain when she woke in the inn. This was far from pain, for it was an exquisite pleasure that had no name.

His eyes grew wide as he slowly lowered her hand away from his lips. Was he astonished, too, at this unexpected burst of delight?

“Serenity …” he whispered.

Consternation riveted her. She was not his dream woman. She was … Tears seared her eyes, but she raised her chin to keep them from falling. She did not know her name; that was true. Yet she was a person, not a figment of his imagination, created to betwattle his grandfather and offer him pleasure.

Pulling her hand out of his, she backed away one step, then another. He called her name, but she did not stop as she fled along the hall. She did not know where she was going, for she had no idea where she had been. All she knew was that she must not become accustomed to this life, for it could never be hers.

Never.

Eight

Timothy's ears still rang with the greetings from his effusive Aunt Ilse. He had been squeezed in a bear hug and given an enthusiastic buss on the cheek before he managed to step aside and let Felix receive the same. No guilt pinched him that he had rushed away while Aunt Ilse was treating Melanda Hayes to an identical greeting. It had been easy to disappear when the foyer had been filled with Aunt Ilse's bags and several crates that were as big as a chair. Although he wondered what Aunt Ilse had brought from the Continent on this trip, he did not let his curiosity trick him into staying.

Hurrying down the stairs to the kitchen that opened out into the lower gardens behind the house, he began to doubt if he had heard Mrs. Scott correctly. What would Serenity be doing in the kitchen? He could not guess, for he knew so little about this pretty lady who plagued his thoughts.

Laughter and the clatter of pans and metal utensils greeted him at the wide door that led into the kitchens. This maze of rooms beneath the house had been a favorite place during his childhood, but he seldom came here now. He was not certain when his visits had dwindled or why. They simply had.

Walking into the kitchen, he pretended not to notice how the workers paused and stared when he passed by. Had it been that long since the last time he had come down here? He nodded to them and continued through one room to another, where the aroma of mincemeat and spices reminded how few days were left before Christmas Eve and his grandfather's birthday.

And saying good-bye to Serenity.

That thought made his voice harsher than he had intended when he stopped by a table where Serenity was rolling out dough for a pie. “What are you doing in the kitchen?”

Serenity's eyes widened, and he was overpowered anew by their crystal warmth in the moment before they became icy cold. Looking back at the table, she pinched the crust of one of the pies in front of her as juice oozed out of it. “I enjoy cooking very much, it seems. Apparently I have some true talent in that direction, because your grandfather's cook, Mrs. Gray, has allowed me to work here.”

“I thought you were a lady's … a lady.” He gulped so loudly that one of the kitchen maids turned to stare at him in amazement.

“What I am does not mean that I cannot have talents of various types.” She pointed to the trio of pies in the middle of the table. Each was topped with crust cut to look like leaves of holly. “And it seems that I have a true gift for making pie crusts.”

“A very good skill to have at this time of year.”

“Yes.”

When she added nothing else, Timothy hesitated. This conversation had not gotten off to a good start. He tried to recall if any of their conversations had. Clasping his hands behind him, he knew that exchanging heated words with her could lead to even more heated yearnings, the very yearnings that pleaded with him to find a way to speak with her alone again. An endless spiral of risk and need was tightening around him until he was breathless when his gaze met her silvery one.

“My Aunt Ilse has arrived,” he said.

Serenity smiled. “So I have heard. Is that why you came down here?”

“No, I was looking for you before I got waylaid in the foyer by Aunt Ilse and her exuberant homecoming.”

“I heard she brought a dozen dogs with her.”

“Only a rumor.” He laughed and leaned one hand on the table. “She has only three. They simply seem like a dozen when they are racing about the grounds. Grandfather has forbidden her to allow them in the Chinese garden, because last year they dug up all the plantings.”

“I am surprised he allows her to bring them back.”

He shrugged. “I think he is feeling a little guilty for arranging her marriage to that humorless German.”

“Guilty? Is that something everyone in your family enjoys wallowing in?” She wiped her hands on her apron. “You act too guilty all the time.”

“That is because I feel guilty all the time.” He rubbed his forehead with two fingers.

With a laugh, she took a cloth from the table and handed it to him. He regarded her with a baffled expression. Taking the cloth back, she brushed it against his forehead. “You should take care that you do not have flour on your fingers before you start painting your face with it.”

“The last time I helped in this kitchen, I was young enough that Mrs. Gray made sure I did not make a mess of myself.”

“My lord!” called the cook, as if he had called her name. “Did you wish to request something special for tomorrow's dinner?”

He turned to see Mrs. Gray, who was so gaunt that one would suspect that she hated food and everything to do with it. He knew better, because he had seen her eat with the enthusiasm of a field worker from a plate with enough food to daunt even a growing lad.

Smiling, he replied, “I simply am paying a call upon your domain, Mrs. Gray. It smells wonderful in here.”

“You can thank Miss Adams for that.” She wiped her hands on her apron, which was stained with every color of food that would appear on the table tonight. “I hope that after you are wed, my lord, you do not feel that you need to give me my congé.”

“Why would I ask you to leave?”

“You are getting yourself a wife whom, if she were one of the village lasses, I would have asked to join my staff straightaway.” Her smile broadened, stretching her thin cheeks. “Anytime you want to help as you have today, Miss Adams, you are more than welcome.”

“Thank you.”

Timothy chuckled when a pretty blush caressed Serenity's cheeks as he wished his fingers were. His laugh threatened to strangle him when that craving to hold her exploded inside him. While Mrs. Gray waved an admonishing finger at him and warned him that there would be no samples before the pies were served, he forced a smile. The only thing he wished to sample was Serenity's mouth.

As Mrs. Gray went to check that her cooks were preparing the food just as she wanted, he reached under his coat. Then, looking at the flour covering the table, he asked, “Are you finished, Serenity?”

“Almost. Just this one to go.” She placed the pastry in the pie pan and reached for the ladle to pour into it some of the mincemeat that had been prepared, on Stir-Up Sunday at the beginning of Advent. With quick, skilled motions, she set the top crust on it and sealed the edges closed.

“Allow me,” he said, as she reached for a knife. He cut the vents in the top of the crust. With a chuckle, he ran his finger along the flat of the blade and wiped off the mincemeat. He licked his finger. “My favorite part of working in the kitchen.”

“Just don't let Mrs. Gray see that. She would not want anyone to get the idea that sampling is all right in her kitchen.”

He set the knife on the table. “One of the rights of lord of the manor.”

“And how many seigneurial rights do you claim, my lord?”

“I am afraid the right of the lord of the manor to share the bed of a bride on her wedding night has long gone out of style at Cheyney Park.” Realizing that Serenity was not the only one listening to his answer, he slipped his arm around her waist and tugged her against him. “Save for his own bride.”

His breath caught in his throat as her pliant breasts pressed against him. Her eyes grew round, then softened with a luminescence that sent that fiery craving through him again.
Blast it!
He was addled to hold her like this when he wanted to hold her more intimately, to taste the luscious flavor of her mouth, to watch her eyes close as she offered those lips and more to him.

Her fingers coursed across his chest as she whispered, “What is this?”

“What …?” He shook the tendrils of longing from his head and smiled as he realized her hand was on the pocket beneath his coat. “That is what I came to show you before I took it to show to Theodora.”

“To help her read?”

Again he was aware of the many ears cocked in their direction. A man should not be speaking of a device to help a child when he held the woman he intended to marry in his arms. “Can we go where we can speak more privately?”

“Where?”

He smiled as he released her and held out his hand. “Leave that to me.”

Serenity stared past the door Timothy opened at the top of the third floor. This must be Cheyney Park's nursery. Toys were scattered about the room as if a child had been playing with them only that morning. She wondered why Theodora had her rooms below, but she did not ask. The child was isolated too much already.

As she went to peek out the curved window at the moors undulating toward the horizon, she sat on the window seat. This had the same view as the seat where she had spoken with the earl two days ago. In front of the house a trio of wagons were being emptied.

“Aunt Ilse's boxes,” Timothy said as he looked past her, leaning his hand on the side of the window, which, unlike the others on the lower floors, was not bedecked with greenery. “She does not believe in being without anything she might need when she comes home.”

“Why does not she leave items here for her next visit?”

“You are too logical, Serenity.” He laughed. “Aunt Ilse likes to make a grand and glorious entrance wherever she goes. I thought it was because she was a princess, but Grandfather tells me she has been like this since the day she was born.”

“Mayhap she knew she was born to be a princess.” Folding her hands on her knee, she asked, “What did you want to show me?”

She knew she had spoken unwisely when his eyes glittered like the sun on the snow below. Her fingers curled upon her knees as he reached to draw back his coat. Had he brought her up here to seduce her? She should have guessed what he wanted to “discuss” with her when he whispered softly to her that he wished for them to be alone.

“This.” On her lap, he placed a twisted piece of metal with a wooden knob on one end.