Christmas Ghosts - Fiction River (33 page)

At the head of the stairs, he met a flushed maid carrying a candle. She bobbed him a quick curtsey and proceeded past him to light the sconces.

“Lord Tarrick?” It was Cecilia’s voice. “Is that you? I was just coming to fetch you for supper.”

“It is,” Liam said, descending to where his hostess waited at the foot of the stairs, her slender hand resting on the carved newel-post. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

He offered his arm, as a gentleman should. At least he knew
some
of the proper protocols.

“Not at all.” She slipped her hand through his elbow, and together they proceeded toward the dining room.

As they passed the parlor, Cecilia let out a sharp cry and stumbled against him.

“Miss Fairfax!” He immediately caught her by the shoulders. “Are you well?”

She shook her head and glanced about, a suspicious tilt to her brows. Clearly not finding what she was looking for in the warmly lit hall, she gave him a half-distracted smile.

“My apologies, my lord. I thought… well. No matter. Clearly I am clumsier than I’d imagined.”

“I don’t find you clumsy in the least.” He ought to release her, now that she had regained her balance, but his hands seemed incapable of lifting from her shoulders.

A faint flush colored her cheeks as she lifted her head and met his gaze. Then her eyes slid to a point somewhat above his head, and her flush deepened.

What was… Ah yes. If he was not mistaken, they stood directly below the ball of mistletoe.

He gave her a heartbeat’s chance to pull away. Instead Cecilia swayed imperceptibly closer to him. Her lips, when they were not pressed into an anxious line, were full. And eminently kissable.

Locking away all rational thought, Liam leaned forward. Their gazes met, with a shiver that sped down his spine. Then, deliberately, she closed her eyes and tipped her face up to his.

Heart jolting like a runaway coach, he lowered his head and brushed his mouth over hers. Soft, warm—and then warmth sparked to vivid flame. He pressed his lips more firmly to hers, and she sighed, her mouth opening slightly beneath his. His tongue, most traitorous and ungentlemanly, took advantage, dipping in to taste her sweetness. Fire spiraled through him, and a curious sensation of rightness. Cecilia Fairfax belonged in his arms, her slender fingers curling through his hair, her body pressed close, her mouth pliable and delicious beneath his.

But they stood in the center of Wilton House, and a kiss that he’d meant to be a gentle caress had blazed all out of proportion. Liam forced his head to lift, away from the warmth of her lips; forced himself to step back and release her, though his blood clamored for more.
Sweep her into your arms, carry her up the stairs
, a wild, reckless part of him demanded.

She stared at him, her eyes bright, her cheeks becomingly rosy. Then, slowly, she smiled.

“Happy Christmas, Lord Tarrick,” she said, no trace of disdain in her voice.

“Likewise, Cecy—Miss Fairfax. Though we are a bit early, are we not? Christmas is two days hence.”

She glanced up. “There is no rule about when the mistletoe may be used. Though now you must pick a berry and give it to me.”

He reached up and plucked one of the small white berries. It was hard and smooth, like wax. She held out her cupped hand and he dropped it in.

“What will you do with it?” he asked.

Her smile took on a mischievous edge as she slipped the berry in her pocket. “Come along, sir. Supper awaits.”

He finished escorting her to the dining room, and they spoke no more of the kiss—the splendid, secret kiss now indelibly engraved in his memory. He would sleep, and wake, and sleep again with the remembered feeling of his lips on hers. For years, no doubt. Years upon years. He could not decide if that was a wonderful thing, or a terrible one.

Either way, he would never regret that kiss.

***

Christmas Eve came inexorably—and it
was
evening, despite Cecilia’s best efforts to hold the day at bay. She had spent the hours in a whirlwind, making sure all was in readiness for the holiday. Cakes were baked, the Yule log ready to light in the parlor’s hearth, and all her gifts wrapped.

The Widow Pomfrey had arrived, pies in hand, as promised. She was keeping Father company before dinner, while Cecilia dressed.

Cecilia sat before the glass in her room, brushing her hair. Martha had helped her don the red satin gown, and the fabric glowed richly in the light. Too richly, perhaps. Her skin looked pale in contrast, her eyes wide and weary. She was not certain she was worthy of such a pretty gown.

Although the earl had kissed her, pretty or not.

Ah, that kiss
. She had lain awake far too long the previous night, rekindling the moment behind her closed eyes. The serious look he had given her, the warmth of his lips upon hers, the solid strength as his arms had closed about her, the stunning softness of his raven-black hair between her fingers.

She had not meant to end up beneath the mistletoe with the earl. Perhaps she had dreamed of it, but she never would have maneuvered him so blatantly. No—that had been the ghost’s doing. Sneaky little thing, to push Cecilia so violently at just the opportune moment. It was unlike Lizzy, to make such an overt showing.

Not that the ghost of the girl had been visible, but still. Cecilia could hardly explain such a thing to their guest, and so had passed it off as clumsiness.

“Mistress?” Martha said, interrupting her thoughts. “Cook says all is in readiness. Shall I call the family to dinner?”

“Yes—in ten minutes.”

Cecilia caught her hair up and coiled it into a bun. Watching her, Martha
tsked
.

“Now, mistress, let me fix your hair. It won’t take but a moment.”

Without waiting for assent, the maid set the curling iron in the fire, then pulled a few strands of pale hair free from Cecilia’s bun. Deftly, she curled them, the soft ringlets falling about Cecilia’s face.

“That’s better,” Martha said. “Though you need something more. Those ruby-studded combs.”

“I couldn’t.” Cecilia’s response was automatic.

The combs had belonged to Mother, and though Cecilia had inherited all her jewelry, she had not touched it since her mother’s death.

“Now, mistress, your dear mother would have wanted you to look well. Especially tonight.”

Martha winked at her, and Cecilia flushed. Did all the servants know of her growing affection for Lord Tarrick?

“Oh, very well. But be quick about it.”

She waved at the jewelry box on the dressing table, where the mistletoe berry was concealed like a small, precious pearl. Smiling, Martha plucked the combs out and deftly inserted them into Cecilia’s coiffure. The gems winked and shone, set off by her pale hair.

“Lovely,” the maid said. “I’ll go fetch the family now.”

After she left, Cecilia spent a moment admiring her reflection. She did look well—in a waifish sort of way. Enough to please the earl, or so she hoped.

She rose and collected the last gift to bring down to the parlor—a book wrapped in brown paper and sealed with red wax, for Lord Tarrick. After hours of consideration, she had settled on her beloved copy of
Lyrical Ballads
by Wordsworth and Coleridge. The poems had often comforted her, and she wanted to give him something of personal value, that showed the esteem in which she held him.

Something that would thank him for that most splendid kiss.

***

Dinner was a jolly affair—in no small part because Cecilia could not help the little bubbles of joy that cascaded through her whenever she met the earl’s gaze. Oh, it was foolish of her, but she could not help but indulge in her feelings.

He would leave soon enough, she knew it. But he was here now, and it was Christmas time, and so she let her smiles come freely. The Widow Pomfrey added to the air of merriment as well, with her unfailing good humor and witty stories of life in the village. And, of course, her delicious pies.

After dinner they repaired to the parlor, where the Yule log crackled merrily. Cecilia was careful to give the mistletoe a wide berth, though she could feel the earl’s gaze upon her as she entered the room.

She went to the pianoforte and began to play the family’s favorite carol;
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
. Marcus took up the melody first, his baritone clear and strong. The widow joined him in a wobbly alto, quickly shored up by Father’s tenor.

Cecilia sang softly, but it was difficult for her to keep her place in the music and sing out at the same time.

A shadow fell over the page, and she glanced up to see Lord Tarrick standing at her shoulder. Quietly, he began to sing as well, reading the words off the sheet music. His voice was low and deep, a bit husky as if from disuse, but tuneful enough.

When the carol ended, she turned and smiled at him.

“I didn’t know you sang.”

“I don’t.” His gray eyes were serious. “Until now.”

Their gazes held, until Marcus cleared his throat.

“
Here we Come a Wassailing
!” he cried.

Despite the merry noise of caroling issuing from the parlor, no actual wassailers arrived at Wilton House. No doubt they thought the estate still in mourning. After the family and their guests had drunk their fill of the spiced wine, Cecilia directed the rest to be shared out among the servants.

At last, late into the evening, the small party wound to a close.

“My heavens,” Widow Pomfrey exclaimed, glancing at the pocketwatch pinned to her gown, “Look at the hour! I must be returning home.”

“Oh, do stay,” Cecilia said. “I had an extra room made ready, just in case.”

It took very little coaxing to persuade the widow to stay, and soon enough they were all making for their beds. Cecilia lingered a moment in the parlor, to make sure the Yule log was well banked.

Satisfied, she stepped into the hall, only to catch light and movement near the kitchen. Likely it was only a servant nipping the last of the wine, but Cecilia turned her steps in that direction. The kitchen was empty, the door gaping wide, admitting the frigid night air.

She paused at the threshold, rubbing the gooseflesh from her arms.

“Hello?” she called. “Is anyone outside?”

At the corner of the house she caught sight of a white-capped figure carrying a lantern. Heedless of the cold, Cecilia hurried out.

“Mrs. Bess!” she cried, when she was near enough to recognize the figure. “Whatever are you doing?”

The old woman had descended the steps leading to the cellar and was fumbling with her keys. At Cecilia’s voice, she looked up.

“We must have plum cordial for tomorrow.”

“Certainly,” Cecilia said, “but we can fetch it in the morning.”

“No, no.” Mrs. Bess’s voice was anxious and thin. “It’s a Wilton House tradition. Plum cordial for Christmas.”

Clearly the old housekeeper’s mind would not rest until she was holding a bottle of cordial. Cecilia descended the steps as Mrs. Bess unlocked the cellar door. She took the lantern from the housekeeper’s chilled fingers.

“Stay here,” Cecilia said. “I’ll find the cordial.”

She hurried into the musty confines of the cellar, once again wishing they had an interior access. But Wilton House was oddly built, and no one had seen fit to make the cellar convenient to reach.

In the lamplight, the rows of glass jars and bottles glinted like foreign treasure; amber and verdigris and old rubies. Cecilia located the plum cordial at the far end of the cellar. The glass was cool beneath her fingers as she carried it to where Mrs. Bess waited by the door.

“Here we are.” Cecilia handed the old housekeeper the cordial. “Now, back to our warm beds.” Her words left a white plume in the air.

“Oh.” Mrs. Bess squinted at the bottle. “Plum cordial. But oughtn’t we to have two? For the guests?”

Reigning in her impatience, Cecilia turned and proceeded back to the shelf. She set down the lantern and was just reaching for another bottle of cordial when the cellar door slammed shut.

“Mrs. Bess?” She whirled and hurried to the now-closed door. “Hello?”

She tried the latch. It was locked, and dismay crept through her, even colder than the chill night air. Had Mrs. Bess forgotten that she was in the cellar? It was entirely too plausible.

“Mrs. Bess? Let me out!” she called, pounding on the door. The wood absorbed her fistfalls, turning them to soft thumps.

Cecilia pivoted and grabbed a jar of pickles, beating it against the door until she feared the glass would shatter. There was no reply. Mrs. Bess did not return.

Still, Cecilia called and pounded until her throat was sore and her hands ached. Swallowing back her fear, she slumped against the cold stone wall. There was nothing for it—she would have to wait until morning, and hope that someone would venture out to the cellar. Although the kitchen was completely well-stocked with everything they would possibly need on the morrow. Her chances of being discovered were not good—unless Mrs. Bess recalled their nighttime trip.