A Christmas Bride / A Christmas Beau (23 page)

It was so easy to be seduced by Christmas. The thought was conscious in her mind more than once, but she could not seem to fight against it. Stephen, the little Greenwald boy, appeared to have adopted her as a favored aunt and had persuaded a few of the other children of similar age to do likewise. When she should have been directing them in the carrying of a largish pile of holly to the central cache close to the lake, she found herself instead dancing in a ring with the children, chanting “Ring around the rosy” and actually tossing herself into the snow with them when everyone’s favorite line had been chanted—“We all fall down.” And laughing as merrily as any of them as she staggered back to her feet and dusted herself off.

She had known it would happen. She had fought weakly against it and allowed Christmas and the snow to win—for now. Perhaps even in the afterlife, she thought, there were brief vacations from hell. Perhaps only so that it would appear even worse afterward. She tried not to watch Edgar climbing trees for mistletoe, lifting nephews and a niece and other children on his broad shoulders by turns so that they could reach the
desired holly branches—why did the best ones always seem to be above the reach of an outstretched arm? Why were the best of all things just beyond one’s grasp?

A surprise awaited everyone when the greenery was finally gathered and piled neatly in one place ready to be hauled back to the house. A group of warmly clad gardeners and house servants had built a large bonfire and were busy warming chocolate and roasting chestnuts over it.

They all suddenly realized how cold they were and how tired and thirsty—and hungry. There was a great deal of foot stamping and glove slapping and talking and laughing. And someone—Helena thought it was probably one of the Bristol guests—started singing, a bold gamble when he might have ended up singing an embarrassed solo. But of course he did not. Soon they were all singing one carol after another and being very merry and very sentimental and only marginally musical. Helena shivered and found a log on which to sit, her gloved hands warming about her chocolate cup.

“I suppose,” Edgar said, seating himself beside her, “I will have my head bitten off when I ask if you are overtired?”

“Yes,” she said, “I suppose you will.”

He had been offering affection this morning. It was something Edgar would do, of course. A perfectionist in all things, he would not be satisfied with a forced marriage to a woman whose behavior in London must have disgusted as well as excited him. He would try to create a marriage of affection out of what they had. And she had rebuffed him.

Would it be possible? she wondered and was frightened by the question which expressed itself quite verbally in her mind. The answer was very clear to her. Of course it would be possible. One could not respect a man and like him and admire him and find him attractive
and enjoy intimacies with him without there being the possibility of affection for him. Indeed, if she let down all her inner guard, she might even admit to herself … No!

Dared she allow the element of affection to creep into their relationship? Perhaps after all there was an end to punishment and self-loathing. Perhaps Edgar was strong enough … Certainly he was stronger than … No!

Her cup was empty and had lost its comforting warmth. She set it down on the ground at her feet. When Edgar took her hand in his, she curled her fingers about it. He was singing with everyone else. He had a good tenor voice. She had not heard him sing before. He was her husband. Their lives were linked together for all time. It was his child she carried. They were to be parents together—perhaps more than once. That was a new thought. Perhaps they would have more than one child. There would be other occasions like this down the years.

Did she dare to let go and simply enjoy? When someone else, because of her, would suffer for the rest of a lifetime?

She turned her head to look at her husband. Decent, strong, honorable Edgar. Who deserved far better. But who would never have it unless she dared give more in her marriage than she had been prepared to give. And who might forever be sorry if she did.

He looked back at her and stopped singing. He smiled and lowered his head to kiss her briefly on the lips. A small token of—affection. Was he going to pay her warning no heed, then?

“Such a bleak look, Helena,” he said. “Yet you have been looking so happy.”

“Let us not start this again,” she said.

But his next words had her jumping to her feet in terror and panic.

“Tell me about your stepson,” he said. “Tell me about Sir Gerald Stapleton.”

She turned and stumbled off in the direction of the house. She tried to shake off his arm when he caught up to her and took her in his grasp.

“I was right, then,” he said. “I picked on the right person. Steady, Helena. You cannot run all the way home. We will walk. You cannot run from yourself either. Have you not realized that yet? And you will not run from me. But we will take it slowly—both the walk and the other. Slow your steps.”

A chaplain praying over a condemned man must speak in just that quiet, soothing voice, she thought.

“Damn you, Edgar!” she cried. “Damn you, damn you, damn you!”

“Calm yourself,” he said. “Walk slowly. There is no hurry.”

“I hate you,” she said. “Oh, how I hate you. You are loathsome and I hate you. Damn you,” she added for good measure.

I
NCREDIBLY, NOTHING MORE WAS SAID ON THE SUBJECT
of Helena’s stepson. They walked home in silence and Edgar took her straight to their bedchamber, where she slumped wearily onto the bed, taking the time only to remove her boots and outdoor garments before she did so. He went to stand at the window until he looked over his shoulder and noticed that she had not covered herself, though the room was rather chilly. He wrapped the top quilt carefully about her to the chin. She was already asleep.

She slept deeply for two hours while Edgar first watched her, then returned to his place at the window, and finally went downstairs when he saw that everyone else was coming back to the house, loaded with greenery. He helped to carry armfuls inside while their original bearers stamped snow-packed boots on the steps and slapped at snowy clothing. He took the Bridgwater baby from the duke’s arms and had unwound him from his many layers of warm clothing before a few of the nurses came hurrying downstairs to whisk him and most of the other children back up to the nursery with them. They were to be tidied and warmed and fed and put down for an obligatory rest before the excitement was to resume with the decoration of the house.

Edgar told several people who asked that his wife had merely felt herself tiring and was now having a sleep.

“I warned her that it would be too much for her,” Mr. Downes said. “You should have taken a firmer hand with her yourself, Edgar. You must not allow her to risk her health.”

“I believe Helena is not one to take orders meekly, Papa,” Edgar said.

“Oh, dear, no,” Mrs. Cross agreed. “There was never anyone more stubborn than Helena, Mr. Downes. But she was exceedingly happy this morning. She still has a way with children, just as she always used to have. Children warm quickly to her, perhaps because she warms quickly to them. Yes, thank you, sir. You are most kind.” Mr. Downes was taking her cloak and bonnet from her and looking around in vain for a footman who might be standing about doing nothing.

“Let me take you to the drawing room, ma’am,” Edgar said, offering his arm, “where there will be a warm fire and probably some warm drinks too before nuncheon.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I must admit to feeling chilly. But I do not know when I have enjoyed myself as much as I have this morning, Mr. Downes. You cannot know what it means to me to be part of such a happy family Christmas.”

“You always will be from now on, ma’am,” he said, “if my wife and I have anything to say in the matter. Did you ever visit Helena during her first marriage?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” she said, “two or three times. She had a gift for happiness in those days. I suppose the marriage was not entirely to her liking—Sir Christian Stapleton was so much older than she, you know. But she made the best of it. She had that vibrancy and those smiles.” She smiled herself. “Perhaps they will come
back now. I am confident they will. This is a far better match for her.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I hope you are right. Did you know Sir Christian’s son?”

“Poor boy,” she said. “He was very lonely and timid and not much loved by his father, I believe. But Helena was good to him. She set herself to mothering him and shielding him from his father’s impatience—she could always wheedle him with her sunny ways. They both worshiped her. But you do not want to be hearing this, Mr. Downes. That was a long time ago. I am very glad Helena has a chance at last to have a child of her own—and a husband of her own age. I was shocked at first and was perhaps not as kind to you as I ought to have been. I do apologize for that. You are a fine young man, I believe.”

“You were all that was gracious, ma’am,” he said. “Take this chair while I fetch you a drink. You should be warm again in a moment.”

By the time Helena woke up nuncheon was over—Edgar had a tray sent up to her—and the drawing room, the dining room, the ballroom, and the hall were being cleared, ready for the decorating. The older children had already come downstairs and the younger ones were being brought just as she came down herself. There was much to do and many people to do it. It was certainly not the time for a serious talk.

Edgar had been appointed to direct most of the men and some of the bigger children in the decoration of the ballroom. It involved much climbing of ladders and leaning out precariously into space. Cora shrieked when she saw her eldest son, ten rungs up one of the ladders, intent on handing his father a hammer. She showed every intention of climbing up herself to rescue him, though she was terrified of heights, and was banished to the drawing room.

Stephanie, Duchess of Bridgwater, and Fanny Grainger, self-proclaimed experts in the making of kissing boughs, were constructing the main one for the drawing room with the help of some of the other ladies. Helena, self-proclaimed nonexpert, was making another with the help of far too many children for any degree of efficiency. She had thrown herself into the task, Edgar noticed, with bright-faced enthusiasm. Of course the sleep had done her good, she had assured his father and a few other people who had thought to ask. All her energy was restored and redoubled. She smiled dazzlingly. She ignored her husband as if he did not exist.

She could not continue to do so indefinitely, of course. Finally all was done and they were summoned to the drawing room for hot punch—hot lemonade for the children—and for the first annual ceremony of the raising of the kissing bough, Mr. Downes announced when they were all assembled. Adults chuckled and children squealed with laughter.

It was finally in place at the very center of the room below the chandelier. They all gazed at it admiringly. The Marquess of Carew began a round of applause and Fanny blushed while the duchess laughed.

“It would seem appropriate to me,” Mr. Downes said, “for the bough to be put to the test by the new bride and groom. We have to be sure that it works.”

There was renewed applause. There were renewed shrieks from the children. The Earl of Thornhill whistled.

“Pucker up, Edgar, old chap,” Lord Francis said.

Well, Edgar thought, stepping forward and reaching for his wife’s hand, he had not kissed her at their wedding. He supposed he owed everyone this.

“Now, let me see.” He played to the audience, setting his hands on Helena’s shoulders and looking upward with a frown of concentration. “Ah, yes, there. Dead
center. That should work.” He grinned at her. She gazed back, the afternoon’s bright gaiety still in her face. “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Downes.”

They lingered over the kiss, entirely for the benefit of their cheering audience. It was not exactly his idea of an erotic experience, Edgar thought, to indulge in public kissing. But he was surprised by the tide of warmth that flooded over him. Not physical warmth—or at least not
sexual
warmth. Just the warmth of love, he and his wife literally surrounded by family and friends at Christmas.

He smiled down at her when they were finished. “It works exceedingly well,” he said. “But we do not expect anyone to believe it merely because we have said so. Do we, my love? You are all welcome to try for yourselves.”

Rosamond, young daughter of the Carews, pulled the marquess out beneath the bough, and he bent over her, smiling, and kissed her to the accompaniment of much laughter. No one, it seemed, was prepared to take Edgar at his word or that of anyone who came after him and confirmed his opinion. Hardly anyone went unkissed, and those who did—those children of middle years who were both too old and too young to kiss and pulled gargoyle faces at the very thought—did so entirely from choice.

Jack Sperling and Fanny Grainger were almost the last. Edgar had watched them grow progressively more self-conscious and uncomfortable until finally Jack got up his courage, strode toward her, and led her onto the recently vacated space beneath the bough with all the firm determination any self-respecting man of business could possibly want in an employee. Their lips clung together with very obvious yearning—for perhaps the duration of one whole second. And then she scurried away, scarlet to the tips of her ears, her eyes avoiding those of her suitor—and those of her barely smiling parents.

The elder Mr. Downes was last.

“Well, Mrs. Cross,” he said heartily, “I am not sure I believe all these young folk. There is something sorry seeming about that bough, pretty as it is and loaded down with mistletoe as it is. I believe you and I should see what all the fuss is about.”

Mrs. Cross did not argue or even blush, Edgar was interested to note. She stepped quietly under the bough and lifted her face. “I believe we should, sir,” she said.

It felt strange watching his father kissing a woman, even if it was just a public Christmas kiss beneath mistletoe. One tended not to think of one’s own father in such terms. It was not the sort of smacking kiss his father often bestowed on Cora and his grandchildren. Brief and decorous though it was, it was definitely the sort of kiss a man exchanges with a woman.