Mary's Christmas Knight (6 page)

“Should I repeat myself?”

“No!” she half-shouted, stirring Rebecca half-awake again.

“Then you think about it, Mary. When you’re ready for a life of passion and adventure, I will ask.”

Down in yon forest there stands a hall:

The bells of Paradise I heard them ring:

It's covered all over with purple and pall

And I love my Lord Jesus above anything.

~English Renaissance carol

Christmas morning at
Rougemont was delightful mayhem, high-pitched squeals from the children as they dumped presents from their boxes then created yet more noise with the toys. Madeline Cavendish and Christian Tilmore pounded away on a piano duet. Dishes and glasses clinking competed with low to high-pitched voices laughing and buzzing in conversation. It all made Wesley’s ears ring, but his smile was genuine; he found other people’s naughty children hilarious.

Richard, one of Lord Devon’s mischievous twins, had found the box of crackers
meant for Christmas dinner and went around pulling them open with a pop, trying to startle his unsuspecting relatives. Apparently he’d eaten the bonbons inside; his mouth was ringed with chocolate and raspberry jelly. His mother, Lady Devon, was preoccupied laughing with Elise, whose children had opened replica Roman shields and swords in their presents, and so declared war on Lord Devon, whom they called “Uncle Wil.” He defended himself with an umbrella quite poorly, letting the children “slay” him.

Wesley chuckled as Richard’s twin sister, Ros
e, scolded one of her kittens for trotting away with the bow from her present. The other kitten had caught a mouse behind the Christmas tree and batted it around. Tinkering with a toy train for his young son, Phil Cavendish caught Wesley’s eye, gestured to Lady Devon, then gave him the high sign. Wes nodded and picked up a bit of rumpled paper baby Rebecca had chewed on then discarded. Wes grabbed the kitten by the scruff until it dropped the mouse then wrapped the mouse carcass in the paper. Hopefully without being noticed by Lady Devon, he passed by the fire grate and tossed it in, which put him in the same corner of the room with Mary.

He took a seat on the marble
ledge before the fireplace, next to her chair. “Good morning, Miss Cavendish.”

She said, “Oh
,” pretending she hadn’t covertly watched him crossing the room a minute ago. “Sir Wesley. And a good morning to you. You slept well, I hope?” A blush spotted her cheeks a lovely cranberry color, with matching marks on the tips of her collarbones. If she couldn’t play better at discretion, soon everyone would guess something had transpired between them.

He kept his expression casual but lowered his voice so only Mary could hear,
“I slept rather soundly,
thank you
.” Looking her in the eye so she would catch his meaning, she colored again, no doubt recalling the hours she’d slept in his arms. Warm, perfect, a strange mix of satisfaction and temptation, until the clock had chimed seven.

It woke the baby, her fussing
woke Mary, who rose and went away, presumably to return the baby to her mother. Wesley had acted asleep so as to not embarrass Mary; he’d even tossed in a snore or two for good measure. He thought he could still feel the soft pulse in her throat pressed against his neck. Her honey-citrus-clove scent had been branded on his skin, and he liked it. Might not wash his neck for a week to preserve it.

In her lap lay a copy of Thomas Hardy’s new novel
Desperate Remedies.
Beneath that he saw Wilkie Collins’
The Woman in White.
Mary unwrapped a rectangular-shaped present. Another sensation novel,
Poor Miss Finch.
“Wilkie Collin’s newest! Thank you, Uncle Wil,” she called to Lord Devon.

“Have you read it?” He deflected
a blow from a wooden sword.

“Not yet, but I’ve
been pining for it.” She rose to give him a kiss on the cheek, and jealousy hit Wesley like a hammer to the head. He wanted to give Mary a present, one that would make her kiss him, but better than the one she gave her uncle.

S
he opened a set of tea cozies — and a poetry collection — from her Great Aunt Louisa, whose serene expression likely had something to do with the cotton stuffed in her ears. Her brother, Philip, also gave her a book, as did her little sister Madeline. All books, and two tea cozies.

Wesley tucked his hands behind his head and leaned back against the warm stone.
“You must be an insatiable reader.”

A sideways glance gave her away; surely no one else saw her crestfallen expression? Mary Cavendish was not at all pleased to receive a pile of books for Christmas, but clearly her family expected her to be.
Then he remembered how pleased she’d been when old Tom Hart at the hospital had given her a bell carved from field maple.

Two-year-old Jacob Cavendish ran to Mary
— crashing into her knees — babbling something about the model sailing ship she’d gifted him. She lifted her nephew to sit on her lap, and he leaned back to nestle in her bosom, swinging his legs in contentment. Wesley had seen him come to Mary to be held twice already that morning. How motherly she looked, and how loved Philip Cavendish’s motherless little boy was. Mary seemed to be his favorite aunt.

Jacob offered Mary a soppy half-eaten bonbon from one of his contraband crackers. “No thank you, love. It’s all yours.” Did she pause to smell the wrapper, sniffing the chocolate?

“Where’s Lisa?” he said.

Mary answered, “In Austria,
my love.” It took Wesley a moment to discern they meant Alysia Villier, their family friend and his colleague. Lord Preston, her lover and purportedly a great friend to the Montegue and Cavendish families, was conspicuously absent while his younger brother, Christian Tilmore was at Rougemont visiting. “I miss her too.”

“Master Jacob,” Wesley said, and the boy regarded him in curiosity. “That is a fine ship.”

“Aye,” he said. “Ship!”

“Is it like your father’s?” Wesley pointed to the mainmast. “Does
Papa command a ship like that?”

J
acob furrowed his brows, wearing an expression that made him look like a miniature copy of his father. He sprang from Mary’s lap, apparently to consult Philip if it was indeed like his ship.

Mary asked, “I understand you served in the Navy with Philip?”

Wesley nodded. “We ran patrols in the Baltic and supplied the troops in Bhutan.” Everyone knew their fleet had also policed international waters, with the occasional pirate skirmish. Wesley had been knighted for his trouble, and Philip had been made captain since he was already a baronet.

“Philip and I were first and second leften
ants, respectively. Your brother was an insufferable show-off,” Wesley added fondly. “Don’t do it now, or he will know I put you up to it, but one day ask him why a sailor would hide in the galley when the cannons fire.”

Mary arched a brow, and he chuckled.

“And old joke,” he explained.

“A bawdy one?”

“Of course not.”

She toyed with a purple ribbon in her lap. “What a disappointment it must have been
for you, being named to the Order of the Garter.”

Hopefully he betrayed no surprise that she’d followed the same obtuse logic as he. Great minds… “Why so?”

“Because, Sir Wesley, a man like yourself would much rather hear the ladies call him
Mr. Darcy.
Every girl’s fantasy. And you even look like him, as far as I can tell.”

Or perhaps they’d not followed the same logic
at all. “Is that
your
fantasy?” He tilted his jaw, purposely lowering his eyes at her. “Have at it, sweetheart. Call me whatever you want.” He resisted pointing out that his family line had owned the name far longer than Jane Austen’s famous character.

“Can’t. My upbringing prevents me from using such language.”

He allowed a smile. “A shame, because only my old mates call me Darcy these days. I would much rather hear it from you.”

“Then it would seem we both have unfulfilled desires.”

He huffed, then managed to swallow his laughter. “Mary, darling,” he said on a whisper. “I warned you not to go about making such lascivious comments. You’re embarrassing my conservative sensibilities.”

She made a sound suspiciously close to a snort then
opened her last present, a purple box tied with a purple bow. He saw no tag. She peeled open the paper — also purple — and let out a tiny gasp. “How beautiful,” she purred. Little tease, she didn’t hold it up for him to see. What had delighted her so? Made her eyes spark with pleasure?

“May
I ask what your secret admirer sent?”

“Gold, frankincense
, and myrrh.”

He couldn’t help chuckling, and
on impulse he lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. What he really wanted to do was suck on the tip of each finger until she blushed again.

“What, not the
Orlov Diamond? No white tigers? Any swain worth his salt should at least send a Taj Mahal replica.”

She looked skyward and pressed her lips in a flat line, but he suspected he’d hit a nerve; no one seemed to understand Mary beyond her books and nursing and committees. Did no else see that she hid behind all those to keep
her passion from boiling over?

“Someone should give you diamonds, Mary. Or do you prefer pearls?”

“I am a simple woman.” Her thumb stroked a jeweled comb in her lap.

“
No, I don’t think so. Not at all. What’s this?” He leaned to look over the purple paper.

She turned the comb to show him
. Studded with amethysts and surrounded by delicate filigree. “From Alysia Villier, my good friend. She is abroad, unfortunately for me.”

“Ah, yes. I have made Miss Villier’s
acquaintance.” Cryptic, but not untrue. “A lovely lady — in every way.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Philip is quite in love with her,” she warned.

“And so is Lord Preston, I hear. That should be an interesting affair.”

Mary only answered, “Hmm,” and studied the pretty comb from her friend.

“And what did you send Miss Villier in return, may I ask?”

“Chocolate truffles f
rom Paris. She’s fairly an addict.”

Wesley nodded, but internally a truth flashed: people typically gave
the presents they wished to receive. A toy ship for her nephew, Philip had unwrapped an engraved brass telescope with fancy dials and levers, and chocolates for her friend. Beauty and novelty. A dull sadness accompanied the understanding that everyone except Alysia Villier and Tom Hart had told Mary she was a boring spinster by giving her a book.

Across the room, Lady Devon and Elise
were probably plotting his fate, their heads together, flashing appraising glances in his and Mary’s direction. He would find out soon enough.

Martin
, the butler, announced elevenses. Wesley perceived it was significant that Philip Cavendish made a point of taking the seat next to his. Wes made it easier on him. He said in a quiet voice, “I must confess being enchanted with your sister, old mate.”

“
Darcy.” Philip shot him a dark look. “She’s married and quite virtuous.”

A test? Perhaps other men had failed to look past the eldest Cavendish sister, an undeniably impressive creature, if too
iconical for his tastes. “Of that I have no doubt.” Or perhaps Philip made an oblique reference to Wesley’s past conquests. “I’m referring to Miss Cavendish. Try to keep up.”

Philip made an expression that put Wes in mind of a bulldog.
“Mary is a gentle girl. And spiritual and innocent.”
Hands off,
his implication.

“Indeed. A most
capable, accomplished lady. It’s her sharp wit and unconventional perspective I admire most.”

Philip stiffened as though Wesley had made an insult. In the absence of her
late father, the approval of Mary’s brother was vital, and Wesley sensed his interview was going poorly somehow. He risked a glance at Mary, wondering if she noticed him and Philip conspiring.

She seemed
withdrawn, careful not to engage the company, affectedly occupied with a rather sparsely served plate. Plain toast with two bites taken out of it, the white part of a boiled egg, and a quarter slice of an apple.

Her corset had creaked yesterday, it was so tightly laced, he assumed.
Often she placed a hand on her belly, and last night her stomach had growled. She passed on all the sweets. Before her now lay a sparrow’s meal.

Mary thought she was fat?

Taking into account all else he’d seen, no other explanation made sense. But then, it
didn’t
make sense. Did she not own a mirror? She took after her brother, them both Cavendish through and through with their dark, dramatic features. Mary should look to the heroic-shaped figures by the great masters for guidance, not her nymph-like sisters and aunt.

Wesley would take her to all the
best museums and show her life-size paintings by DaVinci and Botticelli and Titian, and the Pre-Raphaelites such as Rosetti and Waterhouse, filled with lovely, healthy, voluptuous women. Women shaped as they were meant to be and not disfigured by steel-reinforced corsets.