Lord of Ice (23 page)

“Oh, Damien, I don’t believe it!” She launched out of her chair and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him hard. With one arm still wrapped tightly around his neck, she turned to the others with tears in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure I should accept such beautiful gifts—on the other hand, I don’t think I could bear to give them back. I’ve never had a Christmas like this before. I don’t know how I can ever thank you. You took me in. You all have been so generous and so uncommonly kind to me—and I have nothing to give you in return,” she choked out, starting to break down as the others looked on fondly.

Damien let out a soft, chiding laugh and cupped her head gently against him. “There, there, darling, it was hardly our purpose to make you cry.”

“Of course. I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. Chasing her tears away, she forced a tremulous smile, still clinging to him. She looked at Robert. “Your Grace, may I ask a favor of you?”

“What is it, Miss FitzHubert?”

She disengaged herself from Damien’s light hold and hurried over to his eldest brother, bending to whisper something in his ear.

He smiled at her as she straightened up again. “Capital idea, my dear. Which key?”

“The key of C, please.”

“Very good. Family, I am pleased to announce that Miss FitzHubert is going to give us a song,” he said cheerfully, rising.

They exclaimed with pleasure at this announcement as Robert escorted her over to his gleaming Broadwood grand.

“I hope you will like it. It’s not much, but it’s all I have,” she said, her cheeks turning nearly as red as the crimson roses arranged in a vase on the piano.

As Robert played a few introductory bars, Damien watched her, transfixed by her sweet face and shining eyes. He had never seen a prettier girl, nor a dearer one. Her stint as Miss White served her well when she stood up to sing before them, for her poise was as perfect as her pitch. The song she chose was the ancient Christmas hymn of “What Child Is This?” to the melody of “Greensleeves.”

Nearly bursting with pride in her, Damien basked in the rich mellow alto of her voice, just as he had that night at the Pavilion.

When her performance came to an end, his family sat in charmed silence for a second as though she had cast a spell over them, but Damien, standing behind them, recalled her coquettish words to him on the night they had met:
“Humph! You didn’t even clap for me.”

From the back of the room, he began slowly, loudly applauding.

She looked up and met his gaze, then glanced around, blushing with gratitude as the others joined in. The applause had a predictable effect on his lovely rose. She seemed to grow an inch before his very eyes.

“That was wonderful!” Alice exclaimed.

“What an exquisite voice you have,” Bel agreed.

“Brava!” Alec shouted above the others, grinning at Damien in amazement at her talent.

“You’re too kind, really.” Miranda gave them a saucy little bow and skipped back to her seat, only to be called back a moment later for an encore.

It was midnight when Miranda went to bed in a delirium of happiness. Dreamily removing the combs and pins from her tresses, she held her hair up in back as the maid unfastened her dinner gown; then she slipped her night rail on over her head, her eyes watering with a contented yawn. It was the best Christmas of her life, but that had nothing to do with the gifts the Knight family had lavished on her. The real gift was the effort they had made to welcome and include her. Having been an outsider like her mother all her life, she had never experienced such a sense of belonging, certainly not at Yardley. She never wanted to let it go.

The maid curtseyed in the doorway on her way out. Miranda bade her a happy Christmas and good night. With a pervading sense of well-being, she sat on her bed and closed her eyes for a moment with a private, savoring smile.

I can’t believe he bought me a horse.
Flicking her eyes open again, she glanced at the scrolled print of some race horses that she had bought him, rolled up with a length of green ribbon that she had tied in a bow. It was such a paltry offering that she had been too embarrassed to give it to him in front of the others. Biting her lower lip in thought, she glanced at the door of her bedchamber, then promptly decided to deliver it to his room before he came upstairs. She had promised to surprise him, after all.

She jumped up and glided over to the dressing table, picked it up, then hesitated. Quickly scooping up the little key that Lord Lucien had given her yesterday, she stole out of her room and padded silently down the hallway, counting doors. She had made a mental note a few days ago which room was her guardian's: once around the corner and exactly eight doors down.

Beneath her slippered feet, the marble was cold; she trod on the plush Persian runner down its center. Candles were lit here and there along the dim corridor. They flickered in the draft. Scroll in one hand, key in the other, she crept up to the door of Damien’s chamber and silently entered.

It was difficult to see much by the silvery moonlight, but from what she could make out, his domain was relatively spartan compared to the opulence throughout the rest of the house.

My soldier,
she thought fondly. She rested the beribboned print on his pillow, then gazed at his bed for a moment with a flutter of desire in her belly. God, she missed his kiss. She glanced down at the little key in her hand, then tiptoed over to the door and tried the lock.

Too small.

That wasn’t it. She frowned. What in blazes did the thing open? Casting another furtive glance around Damien’s room, ignoring the fact that she was snooping shamelessly, she spied a fine mahogany box on the chest of drawers.

Aha.
But when she tried the key in this lock, it was too large.

Suddenly, a shout of manly laughter startled her from outside, below Damien’s bedroom window. It was followed by a clamor of yells, whooping cries, and the barking of dogs.

What on earth?
Miranda furrowed her brow in utter bafflement. It sounded as though the house was being attacked by savages.

She knew she had to slip away before anyone discovered her here, but the sounds of hilarity drew her irresistibly to the window. When she peeked out the corner of the drape, her eyes widened. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

Good Lord, were they foxed? She could not believe her eyes.

A grand, jolly snowball battle had broken out across the grounds among the four Knight brothers. They skidded across the veranda, chasing Lord Alec, who had no doubt started it, yelling like a tribe of heathens. They dodged from tree to barren tree, leaped the evergreen parterres, and tackled each other like overgrown schoolboys without their coats on, snowballs whizzing back and forth. At first she thought it was the twins against Robert and Alec, but she soon realized it was every man for himself. All the while, the duke’s big watchdogs leaped and barked all around them, tails wagging, and tried to catch the snowballs in their jaws.

Without warning, Alec let out a war cry like a Highlander and charged Lucien, diving on him. As they went tumbling onto the snowy ground, Robert foiled Alec’s victory by stuffing snow down the back of his shirt; Damien, laughing, came to his youngest brother’s rescue in turn, flattening Robert with a ready swipe of a kick to the back of his knees. The duke went down with a yelp; then the others scrambled. The snow flew once more, and the skirmish moved off around the corner of the house, where Miranda could no longer see.

She blinked in astonishment after they had gone. Had her eyes deceived her? Either it was Christmas bringing out the naughty children in them or they were all perfectly mad, she thought, her eyes twinkling, but she felt her heart lift with joy. As she raised her gaze to the night sky, she made a wish upon a star that she could win Damien’s love and always be a part of this family.

Withdrawing silently, she went back to her own room and curled up contentedly in bed, feeling safer and more cared about than she had since her parents had been alive.

Holland House in Kensington was a grand Jacobean manor of dark brown brick edged with white piping. It was festooned for the Christmas party with candles, ribbons, and bows. From the distance of the surrounding park, Miranda thought it looked like an elaborate gingerbread palace. Her red satin ballgown had been delivered a mere hour before it was time to climb into the Hawkscliffes’ town coach to go to her very first ball.

As the coach rolled up the lantern-lit drive, Damien and the duke argued idly over the political leanings of their hosts, for Lord and Lady Holland were leaders of Whig society, while Damien was a staunch Tory. Fortunately, members of the opposing parties were quite willing to socialize together, for they were still united by their exalted rank in the world.

As the gleaming black coach glided to a halt before the busy entrance of Holland House, Miranda glanced at Damien and thought him unbearably handsome in his full-dress uniform. Her heart raced in equal parts joy and dread of making some blunder as he assisted her down from the coach, then escorted her into the grand entrance, with the duke and duchess of Hawkscliffe a step ahead of them.

Scarcely able to believe she, the erstwhile rebel of Yardley School, was actually going to a real Society ball, Miranda clung to Damien’s arm and hid her giddy lightheadedness. Wide-eyed and on her best behavior, she filed into the crowded entrance hall, where the guests had converged in great cheer. They were calling out greetings to each other as they handed off coats, hats, and wraps to the footmen. Some of the ladies had sat down on the bench by the wall and were exchanging their sturdy, warm shoes for dainty dancing slippers, while liveried servants offered each newly arrived guest a cup of delicious-smelling soup or negus, so they might warm themselves from the elements before ascending, red-nosed, to the ballroom.

Miranda allowed one of the Hollands’ footmen to take her fur-lined pelisse and the luxurious muff that Lord Alec had given her for Christmas, then followed the duchess’s lead, accepting a dainty cup of soup. She took only a few nervous sips before nodding her agreement that they go up to the party directly.

Above the music from the chamber orchestra and the din of the gala in progress, they were announced to the gathering as they entered. In all her nineteen years, Miranda could remember no prouder moment than walking into the sprawling ballroom on the arm of her distinguished guardian.

Garlands of evergreen boughs adorned the long gallery, and sprigs of mistletoe hung from every carved doorway and glittering chandelier. Beyond the windows, flurries floated to earth like the sugar coating that sparkled on the magnificent plum cake, enthroned on a crystal dish in the center of the heavily laden refreshment table.

With Hawkscliffe and Damien in tow, the duchess led Miranda over to their hostess, a heavyset woman with dark curls and brilliant eyes that gleamed with sharp wit. As they approached, Miranda was astonished to overhear Lady Holland telling another guest how she and her husband had sent jars of jam and crates of books to Napoleon on Elba as a Christmas present. Incredulous, Miranda glanced at Damien in question. He did not notice her glance, but she knew that he had heard the woman’s boast, for he bristled as he sauntered over.

When Lady Holland turned from her guest to greet them, the duchess presented Miranda to her. Miranda curtseyed and thanked the baroness for allowing her to come. The baroness gave her a cursory glance, nodded, and engaged the Hawkscliffes in conversation just as Lord and Lady Lucien came weaving through the crowd toward them, hand in hand.

After the newlyweds had greeted their hostess, the four of them drifted away from the small, laughing crowd around Lady Holland. The twins were mobbed by people who gathered around and greeted them. Alice seemed to know everyone, too. Miranda stood beside Damien, trying not to look too visibly uncomfortable. It would have been an easy matter to strike up conversation with some of the people she was introduced to in rapid succession, but she was terrified of accidentally treading upon some rule of propriety that had not been listed in her etiquette book. She was desperate not to embarrass the Knight family, her sponsors.

“Griff!” Lucien exclaimed, reaching through the crowd that surrounded them to pull a tall, handsome man in formal black and white into their midst. “My God, Demon, would you look at this?” He slung his arm around the man, who had a forelock of wavy brown hair that tumbled over his brow. He had precisely chiseled features and brown eyes that gleamed with flecks of gold. “I don’t believe my eyes!”

“Good God, Ian, is it really you?” With equally delighted surprise, Damien stepped forward and shook the man’s hand.

“It’s been a long time,” the man said. “Congratulations on the title, Damien—or should I say Lord Winterley?”