Under The Mistletoe (32 page)

She looked jerkily up at him. “It is quite adequate, I thank you,” she said. “It is just this standing still that is making me cold.”

“When did you last buy yourself anything?” he asked. His voice sounded angry. “Has everything been for the children in the last few years? Your lips are quite blue.”

“Don't,” she said. His face had that shuttered look it had had the first few times she had seen him. “It is none of your concern.”

“Your dress,” he said. “It was quite fashionable six years ago when it was new. You wore it for Christmas then. Had you forgotten?”

She stared at him, though she did not see him at all. She was blinded by hurt and humiliation. She
had
forgotten. She had felt pretty that morning. Pretty for him. She turned quickly away.

“It is none of your business,” she said. “What I wear and what I spend on myself and the children is none of your concern at all. I am not answerable to you.”

“No, you are not,” he said, moving closer to her so that he stood between her and the wind. He lifted his head and his voice suddenly. “Andrew,” he called, “your sister and I are going to begin the walk home. You may bring the girls along behind us. Don't let anyone set even a single toe on that ice.”

“No, I won't, sir,” Andrew called back.

He took her arm through his and hugged it close to his side. He walked at a brisk pace. And he plied her the whole way home with questions about her governess post: where it was and who the family were and how many charges she would have and how arduous the duties were likely to be. And he asked about Andrew, about what school he was to attend, how well he was likely to be treated by his grandfather, how much he looked forward to being away from home. He wanted to know about Great-aunt Hetty in Bath and how suitable a home she would be able to offer a nine-year-old child.

Lilias answered as briefly as she could.

“Why would your grandfather not take all of you?” he asked as they entered the village again.

“Papa defied him when he married Mama,” she said. “He has never recognized us. I was fortunate to be able to persuade him to take Andrew.”

“You are his grandchildren,” he said. “He ought to have taken you. Did you ask him to?”

She shook her head. “I will not answer any more questions,” she said. “I have arranged everything to my own satisfaction, my lord.”

“In other words, it is none of my business, again,” he said, his voice still angry. “You are right. But those children need you, Lilias. They are still very much children.”

She stared stonily ahead to the cottage. The temptation to tip her head sideways to rest against his shoulder, to sag against the strength of his arm, to close her eyes and pour out all her pain to him was almost overwhelming. She was only thankful that for the return walk
he had chosen to be the Marquess of Bedford rather than Stephen. She might not have been able to resist letting down her guard with Stephen.

He put fresh logs on the fire when they went indoors while she filled the kettle. By the time they were ready to settle into an uncomfortable silence, the children were home, and they brought with them again all the joy and laughter of Christmas—and, yes, the warmth too, despite rosy cheeks and reddened fingers and noses.

“Tell the Nativity story again, Papa,” Dora begged when all outdoor garments had been removed and put away, climbing onto his knee.

“Again?” he said. “You have heard it three times already, poppet.”

“Tell it again,” she said, fingering the diamond pin in his neckcloth.

Megan was standing beside them. The marquess smiled at her—Lilias's heart did a complete somersault—and reached out his free arm to draw her onto his other knee. He told both girls the story, and Andrew too, who was sitting at his feet whittling away at the sheep again, trying to improve its appearance. Lilias busied herself getting tea.

 

The time went too fast. He willed it to hold still; he willed eight o'clock never to come. But of course it did come. Stories and singing and charades and forfeits had passed the time merrily. Megan and Dora were bright-cheeked and bright-eyed and very giggly long before eight o'clock came, a sure sign that they were very tired.

“But I don't want to go, Papa,” Dora said, yawning very loudly. “One more hour?”

“One more?” Megan pleaded.

Lilias was sitting in a chair opposite his own, her feet resting on the hearth. She was smiling. She looked very beautiful. Why had he not told her that out at the lake? Why had he not told her that she looked even lovelier this year in the unfashionable blue gown than she had looked six years before? Why had he allowed himself to get angry instead? Angry at a fate that could treat her so? He wanted her to have everything in the world, and instead, she had almost nothing. Why had he not told her she looked beautiful?

“Not even one more minute,” he told the girls. “And, as it is, that coach of ours is late. Wherever can it be?”

He got up from his chair and crossed the room to the window. He pulled back the curtains, which they had closed as soon as they had returned from their walk, and leaned past the evergreen in order to
peer out into the darkness. Not that he had really needed to lean forward, he realized immediately. It was not dark outside.

“Good Lord,” he said. “Snow.”

It must have started in great earnest the moment they had pulled the curtains. And it must have been snowing ever since. There were several inches of it out there.

“Snow!” There were three identical shrieks, and three human missiles hurled themselves against him and past him in order to see the spectacle. “Snow!” There was a loud babble of excitement.

“Well,” he said, “at least we know what has delayed the coach. It is still in the coach house and the horses in the stable, if Giles has any sense whatsoever.”

Dora shrieked and bounced at his side. “We can stay, then, Papa?” she asked. “We can stay all night?”

He turned to see Lilias standing before the fireplace.

“She can share Megan's bed,” she said hastily. “There will be room for the two of them. You must not think of taking her out if the snow really is too deep for your carriage.”

“And you can share mine,” Andrew said brightly.

The marquess laughed. “Thank you, Andrew,” he said, “but I shall walk home. For days I have been longing to set my feet in snow. But I will be grateful to leave Dora here until morning. Thank you, ma'am.” He looked at Lilias.

She went upstairs almost immediately with Megan to get all ready. He took Dora onto his lap to explain to her that he would go home alone and return for her in the morning. But he need not have worried. She was so tired and so excited at the prospect of spending the night with Megan that she seemed not at all upset at being separated from him. He took her upstairs.

The door to one small bedroom was open. Megan was crying. The marquess stood still on the stairs and held his daughter's hand more tightly.

“Hush,” Lilias was saying. “Oh, hush, sweetheart. You know we had a pact not to talk of it or even think of it until Christmas was well and truly over. Hush now. It has been a lovely Christmas, has it not?”

“Ye-e-es,” Megan wailed, her voice muffled. “But I don't want to go, Lilias.”

“Sh,” Lilias said. “Dora will be here in a minute. You don't want her to see you cry, do you?”

“No-o-o.”

The marquess looked down into the large eyes of his daughter
and held a finger to his lips. He frowned. Then he stepped firmly on the next stair. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully. “Two little girls to squash into one little bed.”

Megan giggled.

“Four little girls,” Dora corrected him, indicating the doll clutched in her own arms and pointing to Megan's, which was lying at the foot of the bed.

Both girls giggled.

“Four, then,” he said. “In you get.”

Andrew was no less tired than the girls. He went to bed only ten minutes later. Ten minutes after that the giggling and whisperings stopped. It seemed that all were asleep.

The marquess was standing at the window, looking out into the curiously lightened world of freshly falling snow. Lilias was seated silently at the fire.

“Lilias,” he said. He could no more think of the right words to say than he had been able to twenty minutes before. He continued to look out the window. “You must marry me. It is the only way. I cannot let you take on the life of a governess. And Andrew and Megan must not be separated from each other, or from you. You must marry me. Will you?” He turned finally to look across the room at her. And knew immediately that he had done it all wrong, after all.

She was quite pale. She stared up at him, all large eyes in her thin face. “No,” she said, and her voice was trembling. “No, I will not accept charity. No.”

But she must be made to accept. Did she not realize that? He felt his jaw harden. He retreated behind the mask that had become almost habitual with him in the past few years.

“I don't think you have any choice,” he said. “Do you seriously think that, as a governess, you will ever again have a chance to see your brother and sister? Do you imagine that you will be able to save even enough money to travel to where they are to visit? It will not happen. When you leave here, you will see them for perhaps the last time.”

She was sitting on the very edge of her chair, her back straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“Do you think I do not know that?” she said.

“Andrew will not even be allowed to see you again,” he said. “He will be taken back into the fold, and he will be taught to despise you. Do you realize that?”

“Yes.”

He saw the word forming itself on her lips. He did not hear it. “Megan will be an old woman's slave,” he said. “She will have a dreary girlhood. She will probably end up like you, a governess or a paid companion. Have you thought of that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then you must marry me,” he said. “For their sakes, if not for your own. You will be able to stay together.” His eyes strayed down her body. “And you will be able to have some new clothes at last.”

He ached to buy her those new garments, to see the pleasure in her eyes as he clothed her in silks and lace and warm wool. He wanted to hang jewels about her neck and at her ears. He wanted to put rings on her fingers.

“You
must
marry me,” he said.

She rose to her feet. He knew as soon as she did so that she was very angry. “Must I?” she said softly. “Must I, my lord? Is this what your title and wealth have done for you? Do you talk to your servants so? Do you talk to everyone so? And does everyone kiss the ground at your feet and do what they must do? Is this how you persuaded your first wife to marry you? And did she instantly obey? Well, not me, my lord. I do not have to marry you, or anyone else. And if it is true that my brother and sister will live less than perfect lives according to the arrangements I have made for them, then at least we will all be able to retain our pride and hold our heads high. I will not sell myself even for their sakes.”

The Marquess of Bedford had trained himself not to flinch outwardly under such scathing attacks. He merely stared at her from half-closed eyelids, his teeth and lips firmly pressed together.

“Pride can be a lonely companion,” he said.

“Perhaps so,” she said. “But charity would be an unbearable companion, my lord.”

He nodded. “I will wish you good-night, then,” he said. “Thank you for giving Dora a bed. And thank you for giving her the loveliest day of her life. I know I do not exaggerate. I hope we have not spoiled your day.”

“No,” she said. The fire of battle had died in her eyes. She looked smaller and thinner even than usual. “You have not spoiled our day. The children have been very happy.”

The children. Not she. The marquess half-smiled, though he feared that his expression must look more like a sneer. He picked up his greatcoat and pulled it on.

“Good night,” he said again, pulling his collar up about his ears. “Don't stand at the door. You will get cold.”

He did not look at her again. He concentrated his mind on wading through the soft snow without either falling or losing his way.

 

She sat back down on the edge of her chair and stared into the fire. She would not think. She would not remember . . . or look ahead. She would not think. She would not. She would sit until some warmth seeped into her bones, and then she would go to bed and sleep. She felt bone-weary. But she would not think at all. Tomorrow she would work things out.

She would sit there until she was warm and until she could be sure that her legs would support her when she stood up. And until she could see to climb the stairs. She blinked her eyes determinedly and swallowed several times.

But she would not think.

She sat there for perhaps fifteen minutes before leaping to her feet suddenly and flying to the door to answer a loud hammering there. She pulled it open, letting in cold and snow. And she closed it again, setting her back to it, and watching in a kind of stupor as Bedford stamped the snow from his boots and tore off his coat and hat and threw them carelessly aside.