A Stockingful of Joy (17 page)

When they reached their assigned chamber, the duchess said, "Because so many guests have just arrived today, dinner will not be formal." She smiled. "Not much changes here, you know. Tomorrow will be a formal dinner, the night after is Christmas Eve and the service in the chapel. And so it will go until the Twelfth Night ball."

"The events might not change, but the people do," Emma observed. "This will be my first time dining with the adults rather than at the children's table."

"Why, so it is. You were still in the schoolroom the last time you came for Christmas." The duchess's expression became grave. "Such a terrible thing, your parents' deaths.
Maman
and I were sorry that you would not come to us afterward. But you obviously decided wisely, for you are blooming now." She turned to leave. "I mustn't keep you talking. It isn't much more than half an hour until we dine. You remember the bell, I'm sure."

"Who could forget it?" Anthony said feelingly. He took the duchess's hands. "Thank you for having us here, Aunt Amelia."

"The pleasure is mine. Family is the touchstone of life. We're fortunate that Harley is large enough to hold so many Vaughns. I think of us as traveling through time together. There are constant changes—births, marriages, deaths—yet as a family, we are whole and healthy." With a last smile the duchess left.

When they were alone, Emma removed her bonnet, saying, "As a child I wished that the towers were round, not square, but this is still one of the nicest rooms in Harley."

"We must have received it because of our status as newlyweds," Anthony replied. With typical Harley efficiency, their baggage had already been delivered. While he and Emma had socialized, her maid and his man had done the unpacking and vanished again. The mechanics of life always flowed smoothly here.

As Anthony removed his cloak, he added, "I'm sorry you don't have a private room. Shall I have a dressing screen brought up?"

Emma made a face. "Everyone in the household would know, and since we're just wed, speculation would be rampant. We'll manage well enough."

She went to the window, where a Christmas candle burned inside a special fixture designed to protect against fire. Every afternoon during the holiday season, a servant came around to clean the fixture and put in another candle that was designed to burn until dawn in a custom that was at least two hundred years old. Musingly Emma said, "I like being so high. When I was little, I would climb out on the roof and scamper around."

"In December?" His brows arched with surprise. "You were an intrepid little thing. Roof walking can be dangerous, especially when it's icy."

"I only went out during mild weather, and I stopped entirely when my mother found out and made me promise not to do it again." Gazing out at the dark landscape, she said dreamily, "I used to imagine flying off the roof and soaring over the hills."

Anthony had an unsettling image of her lying broken and lifeless in the wintry courtyard far below, her dark hair fanned about her and a glaze of ice crystals on her face. "I'm heartily glad that you never actually tried to fly."

"I've always had a firm grasp on the difference between dreams and reality. At least I did as a child." She turned back toward the room. "I'd forgotten how women always flutter around you. Do you ever tire of it?"

He almost passed the comment off with a light reply. But the subject was one that should not be dismissed. "I suppose women like me because I like them. I'm not particularly flirtatious, you know."

She sighed. "I know. Just as flowers cannot help attracting honeybees, you can't help attracting females."

He'd always been grateful for that quality, but he understood that Emma might be less than enthused by the effects. "I can't stop them from buzzing, but you are my wife, Emma," he said seriously. "My one and only."

She nodded and spoke no more on the subject, but he sensed a certain sadness in her. He hoped that she wasn't beginning to regret her hasty marriage. He would have to try harder to make sure that she didn't.

A raucous bell clamored through the building. Even with a closed door between them and the source of the sound, it made a shocking amount of noise. Emma jumped and Anthony winced. "The fifteen-minute bell. Since it will take us easily five minutes to walk to the salon, that gives us only ten minutes to get ready."

Emma frowned and went to the wardrobe. "Even though the duchess said this wouldn't be formal, I'll feel better if I put on something fresh." She took out a green gown. "Heaven only knows where Becky is. Could you help me with this, please?"

"Of course." Anthony came up behind her and began unfastening the complicated tapes and buttons of her traveling dress. When he was finished, he slid the garment down her arms. He swallowed hard when he saw the creamy slope of her shoulders. She had the most deliciously touchable skin he'd ever seen. It cried out for caresses.

Emma stepped out of the travel dress. Her shift and stays and petticoats covered as much of her as most gowns would, but there was a wicked sense of intimacy in seeing her in her unmentionables. He remembered what Madame Chloe had said about Emma's figure:
magnifique
. The modiste had been right. Emma was no fashionable sylph, but a woman of lush, sensual curves. He wondered how the weight of her full breasts would feel in his hands. A stab of swift heat ran through him.

Struggling to suppress that response, he went to the dressing table, where Hawkins had laid out his brushes and other personal items. If there were more time, he would have shaved. Luckily his chin was still presentable, though only just.

"I need more help." Emma had pulled on the gown, but could not manage the fastening herself.

Silently Anthony moved behind her again. His imagination was rioting. He wanted to lock the door and miss dinner and seduce his wife. But that really was not possible tonight, when they were both making a kind of homecoming.

Fingers uncharacteristically clumsy, he began tying the tapes. She'd put on a perfume with a complex, provocative scent. Not for her the girlish, floral fragrances.

His fingers brushed Emma's back as he tied a hidden bow. A little shiver went through her. Hoping it was a shiver of pleasure, he leaned forward and kissed the juncture of her shoulder and throat. Her skin was silky warm under his lips. He wanted to lick her from head to toe. He settled for tracing the elegant curve of her ear with his tongue. Emma stiffened.

Though he'd had his fair share of female companionship, he wasn't such a coxcomb as to believe that he could infallibly sense what a woman wanted. And understanding this particular woman was more important than any of his casual affairs. "Whenever I touch you, you seem to pull away," he said softly. "Would you rather I stopped?"

"No," she replied, her voice constricted. "I don't dislike your touch at all." She swallowed, her throat going taut. "Quite… quite the contrary."

Thank heavens for that. With the lightest of touches, he put his arms around her and cupped her breasts. She gasped, and he felt the hammering of her heart under his hands. Then, very gently, she leaned back against him in a silent gesture of trust and surrender. Her warm curves fitted against him as perfectly as matched puzzle pieces.

His own heart hammering, he said with deep feeling, "I really, really wish we didn't have to go down to dinner."

She turned her head and glanced up at him with an expression in her eyes as old as Eve. "We'll be back here later, and all the more eager for having waited."

He chuckled. "You've the makings of a wicked wench."

"Good," she said with great satisfaction.

Moving away from him with obvious reluctance, she went to finish her toilette. Anthony combed his hair rather blindly, since most of his attention was on the vivid memory of Emma in his arms. There was a gentle sensuality about her that made him simultaneously want to protect her and ravish her. Was this what marriage was about? Please God, he'd learn soon enough.

"I'm ready," Emma said with a touch of nervousness. "Do I look all right?"

He turned and surveyed her from head to foot. The shade of green she wore did wonderful things for her creamy skin and made her changeable eyes into a striking light green. Her softly waved chestnut hair was also far more flattering than the severe style she'd worn when they met. "You look perfect. Not too formal for tonight, but every inch a lady." He walked toward her. "There's only one problem."

Her expression, which had brightened, became anxious again. "What's wrong?"

"This." Women often wore a gauzy scarf called a fichu around the neck as a way of making low-cut gowns more modest, and adding a bit of warmth as well. Emma had donned such a scarf. He swept the fichu away, exposing the dramatic swell of her upper breasts. "You won't need this. With so many people present tonight, the rooms will be warm."

She blushed scarlet and instinctively brought her hands up to cover her bare flesh. Dropping them again, she said apologetically, "I feel very bare."

"I've a cure for that." He went to his dressing case and pulled out a worn velvet box. Inside was a triple rope of pearls and a pair of matching earrings. "Not too many heirlooms survived my father's debts, but these did. They were my mother's, and now they are yours. Merry Christmas, Emma."

Emma caught her breath. "My mother had a necklace much like this, but hers had to be sold." A glint of tears in her eyes, she lifted the necklace and pressed it to her cheek. "Pearls have such a wonderful feel. Silky. Almost alive."

"They must be worn to be at their best." He took the necklace from her and clasped it around her neck. It was a lovely neck, long and graceful. He kissed the nape under her upswept hair. She made a small, breathy sound, and this time he knew that it was not distress.

Fingers not quite steady, Emma put on the earrings, then turned for his inspection. He said with absolute conviction, "You look lovely, Emma. Any man would be proud to have you by his side."

She gave him a smile so radiant that for a moment she took his breath way. "I'm very glad you think so."

He offered her his arm with a courtly bow, and together they went to rejoin their family.

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Bubbling with anticipation, Emma held Anthony's arm as they went down the icy halls and staircases. He wanted her! Even an innocent could recognize the desire in his voice and his touch. He hadn't been uninterested before, merely giving her the period of adjustment that she'd requested.

Well, she was ready to be a wife now. In fact, she was eager for this long-awaited evening to be over so they could return to their room, and the waiting bed.

The thought made her glance up shyly. He met her gaze, and gave her an intimate smile.
His one and only
. The knowledge made her want to turn somersaults the way she had when in the nursery.

Almost floating, she let him guide her toward the main salon, where the adults were meeting for predinner sherry. The great house looked exactly as she remembered, with the scent of pine boughs and the bright colors of holly berries and scarlet ribbons everywhere. Christmas at Harley was magical.

The salon was already teeming with people and noisy with talk when they entered. Emma looked around, trying to put names to faces. Most were cousins of some sort, though older family members had generally been made honorary aunts and uncles. Heavens, Aunt Agatha had put on weight. Lord only knew who that tall youth was, except that he was obviously a Vaughn. And was that young woman in blue her cousin Margaret, or could it be Margaret's sister, Mary?

Someone called out, "Verlaine has arrived!"

Emma smiled a little wryly, knowing it would be like this for the rest of their lives. It was Anthony whom people would remember, Anthony who would bring that smile to their faces. He had the same effect on her. As long as he was hers, she didn't mind sharing his attention at gatherings such as these.

People crowded forward to offer hugs and best wishes on their marriage. Emma knew she must be glowing like a Christmas candle. She'd dreamed of this warm welcome for ten years, and never believed she would feel it again. Once more she was a Vaughn among Vaughns. And to judge by the admiration in men's eyes, Anthony had not been lying when he said that she looked well.

The dowager duchess entered the room through another door, and many of the group around Emma and Anthony went to greet her. The dowager had been a great beauty as a girl. She still was.

As the crowd thinned, Emma saw a young woman standing by the great fireplace, her gaze turned in their direction. Emma caught her breath with surprise. It was Cecilia, and she hadn't changed at all. She must be near thirty, but even after two children, she was slim and graceful. As beautiful as she had always been.

Taking leave of the ancient aunt with whom she had been speaking, Cecilia came to greet the newcomers, her golden hair shining in the light of dozens of candles. Coming to a stop, she said, "It's wonderful to see you again, Emma. I'm so glad you're here."

The warmth in her voice seemed sincere; Cecilia had always been very pleasant to Emma. It wasn't her fault that her petite blond beauty made Emma feel like a giant graceless ox by comparison. Barely managing a smile, Emma said, "Thank you, Cecilia. You look marvelous. Do your children favor you or Brand?"

"They are unmistakably Vaughns." Cecilia's face tightened, and she turned to offer Anthony her hand. "Verlaine. It's been a long time since you've come to Harley."

"Cecilia." Anthony bowed over her hand, then straightened, still holding it. "It's… it's good to be here again." The tension between him and Cecilia was palpable.

Emma felt as if she'd been struck a physical blow. Of course there would be some reaction when two people who had once been sweethearts met again, but she had not expected Anthony to turn to marble. Blast it, she thought he'd put his feelings for Cecilia behind him! Instead he was gaping like a mooncalf.

The two were still gazing at each other as if they were alone in the room. Feeling invisible, Emma released Anthony's left arm. He didn't even notice.