Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas) (10 page)

He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been truly excited to see Alice walk through a doorway or find her in their favorite corner at the Cheese and Plunder. His heart had never leapt, just sputtered along in a rhythm he’d thought good for him. Comfort, no drama. Shared background, shared history.

Alice would never leave him for an Argentinian polo player.

Ha. She’d left him for the Marquis of Ellingwood, who was balding and couldn’t ride a horse to save his life. The man was rather a bore, if one was to be honest, no snapping black eyes and enchanting accent like Griffin’s stepfather Julio. Nothing at all tempting save that Ellingswood’s bank account was undeniably healthier than Griffin’s and Alice would have more than three rooms to live in at Kings Ellingwood.

As he ruminated so philosophically, Carrie had snuffled and snuggled against him, her curvy body glued to his side. He’d actually held her all night, the arm under her developing pins and needles that sucked the soul right out of him. But he couldn’t roll away. Didn’t want to. A slight crippling was good for him. Made him realize he was still alive.

As if his rigid cock wasn’t enough to give him a clue.

But in the morning, she’d scampered away, and he’d spent more time in the loo than was absolutely necessary to brush his teeth and shave. They had worked out what to say to his aunt—they’d each stayed in a local hotel and had only bumped into each other on the ferry line. The story should hold up as long as Carrie kept her turtleneck up to cover his love-bites.

In contrast to his own lurching heart, the dark water was oddly calm as the ferry plowed through it. A white-washed lighthouse stood in the distance over the snow-crusted rocks, a giant fir Christmas wreath facing the mainland. Griffin watched the orange-slickered ferry service employees make the boat ready for its docking as the lighthouse loomed. His car rocked a bit as the ferry banged into the pen, and before he knew it, he was directed up the ramp.

Carrie had disappeared on the slushy road ahead. Griffin studiously avoided waving at the other cars that drove past him—he remembered the waving business from his boyhood and always felt it was fake friendliness. Apparently it was a tradition throughout the Maine islands, one tradition he could easily ignore since he needed two hands on the steering wheel. The island road crew had skimped on sand and driving was nearly as treacherous as yesterday.

8:28. In ten or so minutes he’d pull up the circular drive to Aunt Rosemary’s “cottage,” a monstrous shingled affair with wraparound porches and a widow’s walk. So very different from Archer Hall. For one thing, it was only one hundred years old instead of four hundred, and it was built as ship-shape as any prime schooner that had come out of the coastal boatyards. Griffin had enjoyed his summer here years ago, and crossed his fingers he could get through Christmas.

He remembered the winding turns, which was fortunate since Carrie seemed to have driven off like a bat fleeing hell. She did have the bloody turkey, after all, which had to be popped into the oven as early as possible. Griffin wondered if Carrie would join the family for the feast, or be relegated to the attic or wherever Aunt Rosemary kept her.

It might not be too awkward at the meal if they never made eye contact. Limited the conversation to “Please pass the cranberry sauce.” Let his aunt think him rude. He wasn’t an actor and was not sure he could keep his hands off—

Whoa, dude. Where did that idea come from? For that matter . . .
dude
. Really? That was not in his current vocabulary. Carrie had corrupted him.

They had corrupted each other, and Griffin discovered he liked the taste of sin.

Here he was. In for a penny, in for a pound. Or a dollar or some other form of international currency.

Aunt Rosemary was waiting on the front porch, swathed in scarves and a virulently pink sweater and matching lipstick. “Griffin, my dear!” She angled her cheek for a kiss.

“Happy Christmas, Aunt Rosemary. You look lovely. As usual.”

“Don’t fib, darling, it doesn’t become you. What’s the family motto?”

“Truth Without Flinching.” There it was, absurd as ever. It had probably gotten an Archer or two their head handed to them over the centuries. Literally.

“Well, come in, come in. What a little adventure you and Carrie had last night!”

Griffin felt his throat dry. “Pardon?”

“That wretched storm. The Mariner’s Rest isn’t fit for my cat. You remember Puss, don’t you?”

“He can’t still be alive,” Griffin said dubiously.

“Of course not. That motel isn’t even good enough for a dead cat. You poor boy. You’ll want to wash up in a proper bathroom. Carrie is seeing the turkey is delivered to Dottie, and then she’ll join you. Such a shame about the motel pipes freezing. She looks like something poor Puss might have dragged in in his prime.”

Griffin was having difficulty processing. Surely his aunt didn’t mean Carrie would be joining him in the shower? And she’d looked adorable, even if her hair was somewhat flat on one side.

His aunt tucked her arm in his and dragged him into the foyer. “What a coincidence you both stayed in the same motel and didn’t meet until the ferry terminal. What did you think?”

“What? I mean, pardon?”

“Of Carrie! She’s so much nicer than Iris. More efficient, too. I understand Billy is getting his just desserts—that woman is pregnant! Can you believe it? Imagine, Billy a father at his age. It can’t possibly be his, you know.” She held up a finger and let it droop.

Griffin felt his face flush. “Aunt Rosemary!”

“I know he was a decade younger than I, but still. Oh, I won’t bore you with my past marriage troubles. I have such an exciting idea to tell you, but it will keep. Run along and freshen up. Take a nap if you must. Come downstairs no later than noon. There are presents!”

Griffin reached into his bag and brought out the expensive chocolates. “I know you don’t like to wait.”

“Thank you, darling! Just what the doctor ordered.” Aunt Rosemary kissed his cheek. He imagined he had a fuchsia lip print to rival his blush. “You’re in the same room as you were when you were seven. My goodness, more than twenty years ago! Where does the time go?” She pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “No, no. I’m all right, just feeling sentimental. You were such a sweet little boy. Now scoot!”

Griffin didn’t think Carrie would be in the next bedroom over.

Damn it.

He found his way up the stairs to the correct room. Headed straight into the bathroom without unpacking, soaked in a hot tub until he thought he’d shrivel up permanently.

Then he lay down on the bed and could not sleep some more.

He was on the rebound. Vulnerable. Not ordinarily impetuous in any way. But there was a first time for everything.

What would she say? Whatever it was, he had to ask.

Griffin got dressed and went downstairs. He followed the scent of fresh pine to the enormous parlor, where a glittering tree twice as wide as it was tall had pride of place at one end. He was rewarded by the sight of a deliciously rounded bum bent over a haphazard pile of gifts. Her jeans seemed to be painted on her, and she was wearing, of all things, a red twinset.

Alice wore twinsets.

Alice who?

Griffin cleared his throat.

Carrie jumped and turned around. “Oh! Hello again, Lord Archer.”

“Miss Moore.” He winked. His cousin and aunt were nowhere around, so he made quick work crossing the carpet and stood over her, getting a crick in his neck.

This was not the position he wished to be in. Dropping to one knee, he grabbed her hand.

“Wh-what are you
doing
?” she whispered.

“I believe I am about to propose.”

She tried to wrestle her hand away. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she hissed. “We just met! And you’ve got a broken heart from that bi-uh, woman Lady Whatshername. You can’t think straight.”

“Oh, thinking doesn’t factor into this at all, Carrie. You’re exactly what I need, I can feel it.”

“But I haven’t got any money!”

“I don’t care. Let Archer Hall fall down, as long as we’re not in it at the time. You make me happy. You’re—you’re
fun.
”

“You can’t live on
fun
, Griffin. And sometimes I’m not fun. Sometimes I have wicked PMS and I get sinus headaches. I’m allergic to strawberries and break out in hives.”

She wasn’t trying to take her hand away, which was a good sign, wasn’t it?

“Piffle. We’ll buy paracetamol and antihistamines and make Eton Mess with raspberries instead. Carrie, I’ve spent my whole life conforming to a set of rules I don’t even agree with. I’m tired of doing what’s expected of me.”

She was tugging now. “So you think you should rebel and just marry the first stranger you sleep with? How lucky for you I’m not a hooker!”

What nonsense. “I would never hire a prostitute under any circumstances.” For one thing, he couldn’t afford one.

“Well, that’s certainly a huge relief. You’re a
discriminating
lunatic. No, Griffin, I can’t marry you. Let go of my hand.”

“No. Is it because of the three rooms? Well, two, actually, plus the loo. You should know the taps leak.”

“I’d live in a closet with you if I thought you loved me!” Her face was somewhat scarlet. Like her sweater. She looked wonderful in red.

“What do you think this is all about then?”

“You don’t love me—you hardly know me!”

“I know you’re allergic to strawberries. I know the sound you make when you climax. I know you’re kind-hearted and smart and altogether adorable. And you come from . . . Connecticut?” he asked hopefully.

She nodded in perverse triumph. “Exactly! I come from Connecticut! I can’t be a viscountess!”

“I don’t see why not. What about all those Buccaneers that came over from America to marry impoverished British peers in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries? Good fresh blood.”

“As we’ve established, I have twenty-thousand dollars plus a little interest and some old bedroom furniture. But there’s no mattress.
Please
let me go,” she begged. “Your aunt might come in at any moment.”

Griffin reluctantly released her and bounced off the floor. “I’m not giving up, you know. I can come to Maine on weekends to court you. You can visit me in Boston. We can even go to bars. Oh, no sweeting, don’t cry.” He brushed a fat tear drop from her cheek.

“You are—you are a horrible person,” Carrie gulped.

“I’m not! You know I’m not! I may be a bit of an arse, but I’m not
horrible
,” Griffin said, stung.

“You think this is some sort of joke.”

“It is not! I decided last night. I would have woken you up to ask you then but you were snoring so happily.”

“I don’t snore!”

“I assure you, you do. And I didn’t mind at all. I can easily see myself lying next to you for the next fifty years listening to you woof and wheeze.” He’d have to bring a voice-activated tape recorder the next time they spent the night together.

For there would be a next time. He was quite confident. Once he made his mind up about something, he did not deviate from the course.

Which was why he was in his present difficulties. Ah, well. He’d learned a lot these last six months, and he was not going to let Caroline Moore slip out of his fingers and out of his life.

Diana chose this moment to barge in with a tole tray of nibbles. He kissed her dutifully and asked about her children, which caused her to well up too. Gracious, he was making every woman within arm’s length cry today when all he wanted was everyone to be happy.

“It’s just that I miss them so much,” Diana said after blowing her nose into a cocktail napkin. “Our first Christmas apart. They called this morning, but it’s hell, Griffin. Don’t ever get married. Oh! I forgot, you’re engaged.”

“Well,” Griffin said, looking at Carrie. “Not exactly. Alice broke it off.”

“Oh, you poor wretched thing! But maybe it’s for the best.”

“I certainly think so. I’ve met someone much more . . . fun.”

Carrie scowled but Diana didn’t notice. She raged on about what a rat her ex was until Griffin made her a plate of snacks so she wouldn’t talk for a little while. He popped a dozen peanuts into his mouth himself.

“Where’s Aunt Rosemary?” he asked, once he’d finished chewing.

“She’s coming. She was writing something in her office.”

“Maybe I should go help her,” Carrie said, getting up from where she’d collapsed once Diana had come in the room.

“No, she’ll be right along. She’s not
writing
. Working on a book, I mean. Though she said last night when we were sitting in the dark watching the snow fall that she’s got a whole new lease on life. She has
such
a fabulous idea. Mummy’s still so brilliant, and not only about plotting her books. Do you know I never guess the killer until the end? I only hope that when I’m her age I’m half as sharp.” Diana smiled and ate another potted shrimp.

As if on cue, Aunt Rosemary sailed into the room. Well, not sailed. She was leaning on a beautiful silver-topped cane. Griffin rose immediately and led her to the sofa.

“Don’t fuss, don’t fuss. The cane is just an affectation, you know.”

He remembered what Carrie said about his aunt’s knees but didn’t argue.

“We won’t be having our turkey dinner until six or so, but Dottie’s fixing sandwiches to stave off starvation. Shall we open prezzies now?” Her eyes were sparkling like a child’s.

“I’ll get them out from under the tree,” Carrie said.

“And I’ll help.” He earned another scowl but between them they managed to distribute the boxes and gift bags. He noted Aunt Rosemary had already opened hers from him, bless her.

“Before we start, Griffin, this is for you.” She handed him a piece of paper she fished out of her cardigan pocket.

Griffin unfolded it, but was unable to read the disjointed handwriting. “You do the honors, Miss Moore. You’re used to my aunt’s penmanship.”

Carrie flushed. “I’m not family—I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, go ahead, dear. It may involve you if you agree.”

Carrie was silent for a minute as she read the note. Then she obviously read it again, her mouth dropping open.