Christmas By Candlelight: Two Regency Holiday Novellas (10 page)

“I am beginning to think that any female is unfathomable for a poor simpleton like me.”

“Please don’t jest. It’s just that. . . it’s obvious that Lord Kirtland doesn’t like me above half. He looks at me as if. . . as if I was a lump of coal, come blacken the holidays for his family.”

Charles laughed. “Then, I shall bring a pair of spectacles for him, along with your things.”

Before she could make further protest, he rose and took up his hat and gloves.

“That should ensure that he will not pop you in the stove to warm up the cold winter night.”

“Charles!” Her tone became even more plaintive.

“Cheer up. It won’t be nearly as bad as you think.”

Emma bit back a caustic reply—which proved fortuitous because no sooner had her cousin left the room when another person appeared at the half-open door.

“I understand there has been a dreadful accident,” said Anne, venturing a step into the room. “I do hope you are not in too much pain, Lady Emma. You must tell me if there is anything I can do to make you more comfortable.”

She quickly bent to fuss with the pillow, gently propping up Emma’s freshly bandaged ankle. “I am Noel’s—that is, Lord Kirtland’s—sister, Mrs. Hartley.” A twitch of embarrassment played on her lips. “I am still getting used to the notion of his being a titled gentleman.”

Relieved that someone was showing a little sympathy for her plight, Emma managed a wan smile.

Although Mrs. Hartley was dressed in somber black, there was a warmth to her expression, especially in her soft hazel eyes, which were now crinkled in concern.

She was, Emma judged, some years older than herself, though not far past the first bloom of youth. Indeed, with such lustrous raven hair accentuating her delicate features and porcelain complexion, the baron’s sister was likely to be thought a very pretty lady by anyone making her acquaintance.

“How kind of you, Mrs. Hartley,” she murmured. “I should very much like a cup of tea and some toast. Then, perhaps you might spare some time to sit with me and read—”

“No, Lady Emma, she
cannot
spare the time.” Noel paused by the open doorway and added, “I warned you, we are all quite busy enough as it is around here, without having to cater to the whims of one used to being waited on hand and foot.”

“Noel!” cried Anne in some surprise. Biting her lip, she then dropped her voice to barely above a whisper. “There is no need to speak so harshly.”

Emma noted with dismay that his expression became darker.

“I told you, Anne, I’ll not have you forced to play nursemaid to our
exalted
guest
.”

The emphasis he put on the last two words made it clear he was even less pleased with the situation now than he had been at their first encounter.

“I know you are anxious to choose the material for Toby’s room, and there is no reason for you to put it off,” continued Noel. “I, too, have some errands that cannot wait, so I have had the gig brought around for a trip into the village.”

Emma took pains to hide her embarrassment as he turned her way.

“Our housekeeper will bring you some refreshment when she is done putting fresh linens in one of the spare bedchambers,” he said brusquely. “Later, she will fix you a light nuncheon as well. But from this evening on, you will have to take your meals when the rest of us are served, though the fare may be not to your taste.”

Goaded on by his rudeness, Emma could not keep a rein on her own tongue. “You need not bite my head off, sir. I wasn’t expecting Mrs. Hartley to wait hand and foot on me—I was merely asking if she might be free to help distract me from the pain in my ankle.”

Noel’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then his glance fell on his sister’s workbasket. He took it up and dropped it none too gently within Emma’s reach. “You need some distraction? Then pray, why not make yourself useful and mend one of my nephew’s stockings.”

She stared in confusion at the jumble of darning threads and needles.

“Or perhaps you can’t manage so much as a simple stitch.” He shrugged. “If not, then you will have to think of something else to amuse yourself.” He turned to his sister. “Anne, come along with me. Before we leave, I wish to know your opinion on what color is best for the trim in the dining room.”

The young widow shot an apologetic look at Emma before hurrying after her brother.

It was all Emma could do to keep from bursting into tears, more from anger than from any physical injury. Drat the insufferable man! Arrogant, sharp-tongued, uUnfeeling—it was not
she
who should be put to blush for boorish behavior!

Or should she?

Her throat constricted as she thought back on the events of the morning. Her cousin’s warnings had been eminently reasonable, and yet she had paid them no heed. Indeed, she had deliberately flaunted his advice. She swallowed hard. It was exceedingly lucky that a twisted ankle was the worst result of her actions. Her horse might have been seriously injured. Or Charles, who had been obliged to risk his own neck in giving chase to her.

And what about his other chidings?

Emma shifted uncomfortably against the faded chintz cushions of the sofa. It hadn’t occurred to her that any of her actions might have caused pain to anyone else. Surely he must know that she would never consciously seek to hurt. 

Her chin dropped and she gave a small sniff. That, she suddenly realized, was exactly the point he had been trying to make. As she recalled his little lecture, she saw that he must consider her thoughtless. And no doubt just as arrogant, sharp-tongued and unfeeling as the odious Lord Kirtland.

A tear spilled down her cheek. It was not a pleasant thing to have to contemplate, and it set off a warring of emotions within her. A part of her wished to deny the truth of his words. Her behavior might be less than perfect, she reasoned, but it was wrong of him to bring up such serious matters during a holiday that was meant to be joyous. Nor did her own shortcomings in any way excuse the cold rudeness of her reluctant host.

And yet. . .

And yet, no amount of reasoning could chase away a most unsettling thought. Perhaps the effusive praise she was receiving from all the gentlemen seeking to curry her favor was indeed turning her into a spoiled brat. It seemed no matter what she chose to do—drive too fast, laugh too loudly, tease too sharply—everyone laughed and encouraged her, calling it a show of high spirits.

In a word, everyone told her she was perfect.

And deep inside, Emma knew all too well that she was not.

She bit her lip in confusion, uncertain on how to sort it all out. Here she was, with peace and quiet in which to think through the conundrum, and yet she wasn’t quite sure where to begin.

Between her own depressed state of mind and Lord Kirtland’s obvious dislike, how would she ever endure this confinement?

Feeling very small and very alone, she allowed her gaze to wander around the small room, hoping to find any sort of respite from such dismal thoughts. Perhaps there was a book or newspaper that might offer a brief distraction. Though how she would fetch it was another matter.

However, she spotted nothing.

Repressing a sigh, Emma rearranged the wool blanket over her lap and looked around once more. The room was, at least, a pleasant one, with light to stream in through the large mullioned windows, though the second glance did make it clear that the baron had not exaggerated—there was much work to be done to put things in order. The hearth could use another coat of beeswax, the draperies were in need of a good beating to rid them of the dust and the planked floor had a dull scuff of neglect to it.

Perhaps it was no wonder that Lord Kirtland was not in the best of humors, admitted Emma. Heddy looked to be correct for once in guessing that he had not inherited much blunt along with the title and house.

Still, it did not excuse the man’s execrable manners—

The thump of a cricket ball bouncing through the doorway drew her from her reveries. It was followed by a small boy, who was so engrossed with retrieving his toy that he nearly collided with the sofa before he noticed there was someone else in the room.

“Oh!” He pushed a shock of tousled hair back from his forehead, and his eyes grew wide. “Are you an angel sent down from Heaven as a Christmas present?” he asked, staring at Emma’s face and golden curls.

She smiled faintly in spite of her bleak mood. At least one male of the household did not consider her a termagant. “I’m afraid not. I am simply your neighbor who is here in your drawing room because of a riding mishap.”

He looked rather crestfallen. “I thought maybe you had been sent to cheer up Mama,” he mumbled. “She cries a lot, when she thinks I don’t see her. Uncle Noel says it is because she misses Papa.” His lip trembled. “So do I.”

“I fear I am hardly cheerful company for your mother or anyone at the moment.” Seeing disappointment spread across the boy’s features, she quickly added, “But I will do my best to lift her spirits.”

That was, of course, assuming she could manage to lift her own. However, her own misfortune suddenly seemed rather insignificant, and she felt a twinge of contrition on recalling her earlier complaints to Mrs. Hartley.

The boy’s face brightened a bit, then his gaze fell on her bandaged ankle. “When I must stay abed, Mama always reads to me. Shall I get one of my books and read you my favorite story?” He looked up shyly. “You would only have to help a little with the words.”

Emma’s lips twitched. “I should like that very much, sir.”

He giggled. “I’m not a sir, I’m just Toby!”

“And I am Emma.” She smiled. “Fetch your book, Toby, and let us begin.”

If truth be told, she usually found her young nieces and nephews rather annoying, but at this point any diversion—even the company of a five-year-old boy—seemed preferable to sitting and stewing alone.

C
harles had
to clear his throat to gain Emma’s attention. “Well, as usual, you have captivated the attention of every male in your vicinity,” he remarked dryly as he entered the drawing room and set down several bandboxes on the worn carpet.

Emma gave a low snort, but before she could answer, Toby shot him an aggrieved look.

“You are interrupting the best part of the story!”

“I beg your pardon.” Charles took a seat in one of the side chairs and grinned at his cousin. “Do go on.”

She finished reading the page aloud, then put the book aside. “We shall start the next chapter in just a bit,” she promised, taking in Toby’s mutinous expression.

“Oh, very well,” allowed the boy.

The grin on Charles’s face grew wider. “Perhaps tomorrow I shall bring along some of the picture books from the nursery to keep the two of you occupied.” He gestured at the boxes he had brought. “Your maid packed a few essentials while I took the liberty of adding a few books.”

He glanced at Toby. “Though the offerings from Minerva Press might not be exactly to your present audience’s taste.”

“Does the big brown horse I saw this morning belong to you?” interrupted the boy, the awe apparent in his voice.

Charles nodded. “And if you ask your housekeeper for an apple, I shall take you out when I leave and let you feed him the treat.”

With a squeal of delight, Toby scurried off as fast as his little legs would carry him.

“I told you it wouldn’t be so bad,” her cousin said after the boy had quit the room. “You have a gentleman hanging on your every word.”

Emma made a face. “You needn’t keep reminding me that you think me a vain and selfish creature, Charles.”

“I don’t—just a bit headstrong at times.” He toyed with a fob hanging from his watch chain. “Is there anything else you would like?”

“A ride home,” she shot back. “Despite your teasing, there is one gentleman here who, I assure you, is
not
enamored with my presence. I vow, I should not be surprised to find myself relegated to a bed of straw in the stable when night draws nigh. And grudgingly at that.”

His brow rose a fraction. “You exaggerate. Kirtland seems quite a solid fellow to me.”

She crossed her arms. “I do not.” He might be solid, she added to herself, recalling his muscular chest and the corded strength of his arms. But he was not very nice.

“Hmmm,” was the only answer her cousin made. After a brief pause, he changed the subject. “Robert is expected to arrive by Friday. He is bringing along a Lord Bryson from Devon. And my friend—you remember Mr. Harkness, from the Fernleigh’s ball—arrives this afternoon. ”

The conversation continued on for a time on the comings and goings at Telford Manor until Toby, who had been standing at the doorway, could no longer contain his impatience.

“Mrs. Crenshaw has given me an apple,” he piped up in a not so subtle reminder.

Charles made a show of consulting his watch. “I do believe my allotted hour is nearly up. Wouldn’t want to face the firing squad for disobeying orders, would I, lad?”

He rose. “Perhaps I can contrive to coax permission from his lordship to allow an extra hour tomorrow.” He winked. “And maybe I shall smuggle in a sweetmeat or two to supplement the bread-and-water rations.”

“If
Papa were home, he would not make such a jest of my predicament,” she replied.

“The time will pass quicker than you think. After all, it’s only for a few more days.”

“It’s easy enough for you to say,” she murmured as he strolled off with Toby.

But indeed, she hardly noticed the passing hours. When Toby returned a short while later, they quickly resumed reading the latest chapter of the swashbuckling adventure.

The boy had climbed up beside her, his small head nestling against her shoulder as he sat listening with rapt attention. Emma was so engrossed in the story that she didn’t hear the front door open and shut.

“Oh, Lady Emma, I do apologize if
Toby has given you no peace this afternoon.” The sight of them together on the old sofa drew a sharp intake of breath from Anne as she peeked into the room. “I
am sure you would have much preferred to rest or—”

“Toby has been a delightful companion,” assured Emma. “He has helped keep my mind off my injuries.”

And the rude manners of the lady’s brother, she added to herself.

Anne gave Emma a grateful look. “That is very kind of you to say.”

“I read the story to Emma—well, almost all of it,” chirped the boy.

Both ladies smiled, then Anne cleared her throat. “Toby, you can’t address our guest so informally. You must call her Lady Emma, or milady. It is not proper—”

“Oh, please, it’s quite all right,” interrupted Emma. “I should very much like for
Toby to think of me as a. . . friend.”

“Mama,” continued Toby. “Emma has been great fun.” He cocked his head to one side. “Why did Uncle Noel call her a whiny brat?”

Anne turned a vivid shade of crimson. “Toby!” she gasped in strangled embarrassment. “You must learn
not
to repeat what you overhear adults say, for there is much you, er, misunderstand.”

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Hartley. Please don’t trouble yourself over it,” said Emma softly. “Lord Kirtland has not exactly kept his sentiments a secret. I am sorry that my presence appears to be an onerous burden on your household at this time. If I
had any choice in the matter, I assure you I would have taken myself off long ago.”

Anne’s color deepened. “I apologize for my brother’s manners, as well as those of my son. I
am ashamed that you have been made to feel so unwelcome.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what has brought on such unaccountable behavior in my brother—he is usually the soul of politeness.”

“You needn’t apologize for me, Anne,” said Noel, as he came to stand in the doorway. “I am capable of making my own, if necessary.”

Anne fixed him with an odd stare for a moment, and seemed on the verge of making some sort of reply. Instead she merely turned and picked Toby up from the sofa. “Come, lambkin, it is way past time for you to have your nap.”

“But I haven’t shown Emma the spillikins Uncle Noel made for me! Or the painted pony he brought from Spain.”

“I should love to see such treasures, but I am a bit fatigued right now. Might it wait until after supper?” said Emma, darting a look at the baron that seemed to challenge him to issue an order to the contrary.

“Oh, very well.” The boy’s eyes were already half closed, and his head was resting on Anne’s shoulder.

As soon as mother and child had quitted the room, Noel took a step closer to Emma. “Do you wish to be taken up to your bedchamber for the evening?” he asked gruffly.

Her chin came up. “Despite your wish for me to be out of your sight, sir, I am not in the least tired and would rather remain where I am. That is, of course, assuming I really do have a choice in the matter.”

“Very well. But I warn you that I have a few things in here that I must attend to.”

She made a wry face. “Well, I shall try very hard not to get in your way.”

To her surprise, a glimmer of a smile twitched on his lips. Instead of taking his leave right away, he shifted his weight from foot to foot and clasped his hands behind his back. “I see I shall have to watch my tongue a good deal more carefully around my nephew from now on. I am sorry that he gave voice to a comment that was not meant to be repeated.”

Emma drew in a breath. It was hardly a handsome apology, but as it clearly cost him some effort to make, she supposed she must accept it.

Still, stung by his obvious reluctance, she couldn’t resist a less-than-laudable reply of her own. “Ah. You are sorry that Toby repeated it? Or sorry it was said in the first place?”

His jaw tightened. “You may take my words to mean what you wish.” With that, he turned on his heel and left.

In a few minutes be was back again, carrying several rags, a tin of beeswax, and a large wooden box. Studiously avoiding any glance in her direction, he stripped off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began a vigorous cleaning of the carved pine mantel.

Emma made a show of picking up one of the books that Charles had brought for her. But try as she might, she couldn’t keep her gaze from straying to where he was working and watching the way his corded muscles moved beneath the fine linen of his shirt.

To her acute embarrassment, he turned abruptly to reach for another rag and caught her staring.

“Gentlemen are not supposed to engage in such menial tasks,” she said sharply to mask her embarrassment.

“As you are well aware, I am not a proper gentleman. At least not the sort of gentleman you are used to,” he answered, taking up another dollop of the fragrant wax and rubbing it into the wood.

She couldn’t tell whether his expression was a smile or a sneer.

“But in my mind, a true gentleman would not ask another person to do a task which he is not capable of doing himself,” added Noel. “I am not ashamed to put an honest effort into making this house a more cheerful place in which to live.”

Emma bit her lip as she forced her eyes back to the printed page, realizing that once again she had appeared a pampered and spoiled prig. The thought of it shouldn’t bother her in the least—after all, why should it matter what some rough country lord thought of her?

But somehow it did.

She couldn’t help but think about why. Another furtive glance at Noel showed him working diligently to polish the wood. He was as different from other gentlemen of her acquaintance as chalk was from cheese. There was a certain strength that radiated from him—not just a physical presence but a sense of character as well. He certainly made no attempt to hide his true self behind a facade of charming manners or amiable wit, like so many bucks of the ton.

And although he presented a hard and impenetrable countenance when he regarded her, the softening of his features when he looked at his sister and nephew revealed that a caring, compassionate nature lay within.

Loath as she was to admit it, she found that much as she wished to dislike him, she found him quite. . .

Admirable. And, if truth be told, quite intriguing.

Her fingers turned the page with a decided snap. Well, she chided herself, there was little need to wonder what he thought of her! He had ignored her presence since making his barbed retort, focusing all his attention on his work. Why, he was even whistling under his breath, as if he was enjoying himself.

She slanted another sidelong glance in his direction and saw that he was finished with the polishing. Putting the rag aside, he drew the wooden box closer and removed a half dozen oranges, a long length of ribbon, scissors, and a glass jar of cloves. He lay all the items on the rug in front of the hearth, then picked up one of the oranges and began to stick the pieces of spice into its skin in a willy-nilly fashion.

The first few went in without mishap, but the next one slipped and pricked the tip of his thumb.

“Damnation,” he muttered, giving his finger a shake.

“Perhaps I should remind you about slips of the tongue, sir,” she murmured, “lest Toby keep adding to his rapidly expanding vocabulary.”

“I beg your pardon,” he growled. After another grimace, his mouth quirked upward into a wry grin.

Emma swallowed hard at seeing how the smile brought a certain golden sparkle to his eyes.

“Quite right,” he continued. “I doubt Anne would appreciate that sort of progress in his learning.” He paused to jab another random spike into the fruit.

“Lord Kirtland, those cloves are supposed to be arranged in a certain order, you know.”

His brow furrowed. “They are?”

“Yes. You must make sure that the ribbon can wrap around—oh, here, hand it to me and I’ll show you.”

He hesitated. “You have made pomander balls before?”

“I have,” she said rather wistfully. “My brother Robert and I had great fun making decorations for Christmas when we were children.”

“And?”

She thought for a moment. “And then Mama died, and well. . . I suppose the servants did it.”

Still, he made no move to give it to her. “You might scrape your delicate skin or break a nail,” he warned.

Emma felt a sharp stab of disappointment. She looked down at her book again, hoping that she might hide the glint of a tear that his casual rebuff had brought to her eyes. “If I did, you need not fear that the whiny brat would complain,” she replied in a brittle voice. “But of course it is clear that you do not wish my touch to sully anything in your ·precious household.”

Taking great care to smooth a crease from one of the pages, she pretended to turn her full attention back to the volume in her lap.