A Dangerous Nativity (8 page)

When the barn door closed, Chadbourn and
Catherine convulsed in laughter.

"Oh, my lord," Catherine laughed, tears
rolling down her cheeks. "However am I going to keep from laughing
on Christmas morning? I will disgrace myself during services."

"Will."

"I beg your pardon?"

"My name is William. Two people who laugh so
hard together certainly ought to make use of given names,
Catherine." His expression held a challenge.

She looked to the house, as if she could hear
her father's fervent admonition about trusting titled blackguards,
from the yard.

"Say it. Say my name."

"Will," she whispered. She felt a blush heat
her cheeks. "For this moment. For the laughter, but not—"

"—not when I talk with your father? Have you
convinced him I'm right about your brothers?"

She shook her head, a sly smile appearing
only briefly. "Not quite. I'm wearing him down, though."

When he took her hand, she let him. When he
drew it toward his lips rather than bowing over her fingers, she
let him. When he cupped her cheek and leaned in to kiss her, she
almost let him.

"Unhand my daughter, you damned rakehell!"
Papa stood in the doorway in full outrage. She felt bereft when his
warmth pulled away.

"Ah, Lord Arthur, just the person I came to
see."

Papa looked skeptical, but he held the door.
"Come in, then, and get at it." He glared at Catherine.

She watched the door close behind the two
men. It was the third such visit. She suspected her father had come
to enjoy sparring with the earl, and was holding out just for the
fun of it.

The boys would be in school the following
fall. The thought dampened her spirits. The earl would leave
sooner. That thought depressed them thoroughly. One attempted kiss
notwithstanding, the bastard daughter of a country scholar did not
aspire to be Countess of Chadbourn.

***

"Will this do?" the earl—she would not let
herself think of him as Will—called from the top of the tree. He
waved a large sprig of mistletoe triumphantly.

"It certainly will. Now, come down before you
break your neck," Catherine said in her best older-sister voice. He
had visited her father twice more. The second time, he brought his
friend, the marquess, who frightened both of her brothers into awed
silence, no small feat. The elegant and reserved marquess confirmed
Catherine's belief that the earl's world lay far outside of her
experience or ambition.

The marquess also leant a firm hand and logic
to the earl's persuasion of her father, however. Papa, she thought,
was poised on the brink of capitulating.

When Chadbourn heard they were going to
gather greens to decorate Songbird, there was nothing for it but to
invite the young duke along. His uncle had to accompany him, of
course. The marquess wisely declined. Her father snorted about
nonsense, but didn't forbid it.

"Isn't he grand, Cath?" Randy exclaimed. "He
climbed up there like he does it every day, not like some stuck-up
earl." He did, at that. She tried to imagine the Marquess of
Glenaire at the top of the tree and failed miserably.

The not-so-stuck-up earl grinned down at her.
"Catch!" he shouted, and she scrambled to obey. He climbed down
with the same grace and alacrity with which he climbed up.
Catherine watched in rapt fascination, mistletoe clutched to her
breast.

"Cath won't usually let us get the mistletoe.
We make do with holly," Freddy told Charles. At least the earl's
efforts kept her brothers from breaking their foolish necks.

Will leapt down from the lowest branch,
landing on his feet, with laughter in his eyes. "Mistletoe is the
best part, Freddy," he said. "Let me demonstrate." He moved toward
Catherine, a predatory look taking the place of laughter in his
expression.

Catherine took a step back, still clutching
the mistletoe. She tried to control panic. Don't be a ninnyhammer.
What can he do in front of the boys?

When Will pulled her hands forward and took a
sprig, she couldn't take her eyes from his. "When a lady finds
herself under mistletoe," he told the boys without looking away
from Catherine, "she must pay the forfeit." He leaned in, and her
eyes focused on his lips, his fine, chiseled lips. Her mouth parted
in amazement just as he closed the distance between them. He took
her lower lip in his gently, before moving over her mouth in a
caress that took her breath. Before she could disgrace herself by
clutching his neck and drawing him closer, he pulled back and
smiled knowingly.

"That, my boys, is how it's done," he said
hoarsely, without taking his eyes from her face.

"Take the mistletoe back," Freddy crowed,
while Randy made retching noises. The duke looked from one of his
friends to the other and joined in the mockery.

"Oh, very well," Chadbourn said. "You may use
this option, too." He leaned in and kissed her cheek quickly. Only
then, did Catherine realize his arm on her waist steadied her. If
he hadn't held her, her knees might have buckled.

He looked at her, as if to confirm she could
stand, and turned briskly.

"Let's get these greens to the house," he
said, and organized the boys for the trek back to the kitchen. When
they got there and unloaded greenery all over Mrs. MacLeish's
worktable, Will announced he would pay his respects to Lord
Arthur.

Catherine bolted to her room before he could
ask her to join him and have a private moment along the way.

Two hours later, she stood in her father's
study in shock. Not only had Lord Arthur agreed to the boy's
schooling, he had agreed to come to Eversham Hall to discuss
arrangements.

"Boy's right. I may as well face it sooner
rather than later."

He would face his childhood home. And
Catherine? She would face dinner with a hostile duchess, a toplofty
marquess, and an earl who made mush of her senses and left her
unable to think. Damn it, anyway. She couldn't wait.

***

For the most part, it went well, Will thought
later. Sylvia, fortified by two weeks of dinners with the marquess,
and mindful of Will's orders to be welcoming, had behaved. It
didn't hurt that her new lady's maid had been watering her 'tonic,'
gradually decreasing the drug's effect. Will determined to give the
woman a bonus.

The evening began well. Randy and Freddy,
scrubbed and dressed in their church clothes, followed a footman to
the nursery floor, where Charles had planned more War of the Roses.
Will hoped they confined themselves to the army of toy soldiers he
had liberated from the attic, in a box labeled "Master Arthur." No
crashes, screams, or other catastrophes indicated otherwise.

Catherine made proper curtsey to the marquess
and the duchess. The dress she wore, a lovely green muslin,
flattered her curves and brought out the gold in her auburn hair.
She would look spectacular in green watered silk. Will would see to
it. He no longer had any doubts that Catherine would be his
countess, her origins and Sylvia's nerves be damned.

Lord Arthur worried him at first. Stowe had
stiffened showing him in, but Lord Arthur managed a sardonic
twinkle. "It has been many years, Stowe. The prodigal has
returned." He bowed to Sylvia, who seemed utterly bemused to
discover her uncomfortable neighbor was, in fact, her
brother-in-law. That she didn't know Will put down to Emery's pure
negligence, if not spite. Sylvia eyed Catherine speculatively, but
said nothing. God be praised.

"Is it as you remember, Papa?" Catherine
asked.

"Oh, yes," the old man said. "You've made few
changes, Your Grace." He looked at Sylvia sympathetically. Will
suspected the old man must guess what it had been like for her,
living with his father and brother. "Perhaps now …" Lord Arthur's
voice trailed away while his eyes scanned the gilt and ornate
foyer.

Glenaire put his diplomatic and social polish
to use, keeping the conversation flowing over dinner. When politics
failed, literature worked. When the social season proved no
interest to the company, Glenaire spoke of education. He and Will
told stories of their boyhood at Harrow, and their successes, along
with their friends Jamie Heyworth and Andrew Mallet, in keeping the
worst of the bullying at bay. Lord Arthur seemed to find that
reassuring. Catherine provided no input at all.

"Heyworth—a baron, if I recall correctly,"
Lord Arthur said.

"His father, yes. But the son is nothing like
the father," Will told him.

"Thank goodness," Glenaire said. "Jamie lives
on half-pay since Waterloo, but he served in the cavalry like Will
for seven years, by all accounts, with distinction."

"You were in the army?" Catherine asked,
suddenly alert. She searched him, as if assessing damage.

"Neither as long, nor as well, as Jamie,"
Will answered. "I sold out three years ago to take over for my
father. He died six months after I came home."

"Did you miss it?"

"The mud and the horror of it? No. But I
should have been in Belgium."

"Nonsense, Chadbourn," Glenaire said. "Andrew
and Jamie were enough of a contribution to the wretched
Corsican."

"Were they wounded?" Catherine asked. The
compassion in her expression warmed Will's heart.

"Andrew was badly damaged," Glenaire told
her. "He has gone home to Cambridge to heal. Jamie came through
unscathed."

"In body, perhaps. Not all wounds are
visible," Will said sadly. He caught his friend's eye. When he
looked away, he found Catherine looking at him speculatively. Could
he tell her about war? Most men would not; most women wouldn't want
to hear. Somehow, he thought this woman strong enough to bear
whatever burdens he chose to share.

Glenaire skillfully moved the conversation to
the weather, always a safe choice. The impact of weather on
agriculture drew knowledgeable comments from Catherine. A brief
discussion about her father's work put color in her cheeks. She
understood the publishing business as well as she knew wheat
cultivation. She'll succeed at whatever she tries, Will thought
proudly.

When Sylvia rose, the panic on Catherine's
face brought Will to his feet. "We needn't be formal among family,
gentlemen. I suggest we join the ladies for after-dinner
refreshment." And buffer Catherine from Sylvia's company.

Conversation in the withdrawing room did not
go as well. Sylvia's control started to slip, and something in the
room bothered Lord Arthur.

"You were right, Chadbourn. Sometimes, a man
has to face his demons," the old man said. "But if this room were
mine, I would strip it of its furnishings and change it
completely."

Catherine looked suddenly wary. She put a
hand on her father's arm. Lord Arthur, however, appeared lost in
his own thoughts. "This is where I told m'father I planned to wed
my Mary."

Stunned silence greeted that
announcement.

"He disapproved," Will said, and immediately
regretted it, when Lord Arthur went on as if he hadn't heard.

"Beat me over the head." He pointed to a
finely carved side chair next to the folded card table. "There used
to be two of those. He broke one over my shoulder. Dislocated it. I
never saw him again."

Lord Arthur looked around at the company and
blinked. "I am sorry, Your Grace," he said to Sylvia, who had gone
pale as a ghost. "Old history."

"Chadbourn, I… I feel poorly. I need to lie
down," the duchess said, rising unsteadily to her feet. Will
wondered, fleetingly, what ghost Lord Arthur's description of
violence had resurrected, but he took her elbow to assist her.

He stopped and addressed Lord Arthur. They
had come this far; he couldn't let it drop.

"Why? What did he have against your lady?" he
asked.

Perhaps it was his use of "lady" to describe
Mary, but Lord Arthur seemed to stand a bit straighter. "Believed
the disgrace would 'taint' the family, as if we didn't have worse
blots on our family escutcheon, as if my Mary weren't a treasure
that would enrich any family."

Will opened his mouth to ask more, but Sylvia
sagged against him.

"Come, girl, we'd best leave," Lord Arthur
said to Catherine. "I hope you feel better, Your Grace. I'm sorry I
upset your evening." Lord Arthur bowed correctly, but left the room
without pausing.

Catherine looked at Will, perplexity and
sorrow in her expression.

"We'll talk later," he said.

***

Catherine desperately wished that "later"
meant in a year or two. She wished, at least, that Will would give
her a week to think about his sister's distress, to recover from
her father's revelation, and to steel herself against the perilous
attraction she felt every time he came close. He gave her no such
time.

The big bay trotted down the lane, raising
dust and Freddy's hopes. For weeks now, the earl had arrived by
phaeton with Charles. Today, he came alone.

"Where can we talk?" he asked without
preamble, while Freddy happily led Mercury to the meadow for "a
gentle walk."

"Alone?" she asked. She shouldn't be alone
with him. She couldn't.

"Catherine, I won't hurt you. I won't—" He
broke off with a curse and led her to the tool storage closet in
the barn.

She tripped along next to him, and her
thoughts raced.

He closed the door and pulled her into a
fierce kiss, before putting a hand on each arm and setting her
carefully away.

Trapped between a desire to slap his face and
a sharper desire to throw herself into his arms, Catherine crossed
her arms around her waist, as if to protect herself.

Will ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry.
That probably doesn't help my cause, but I thought of nothing else
last night." He took a steadying breath.

"I won't be your mistress," Catherine burst
out, unable to hold the thought in.