Mischief & Mistletoe (A Christmas Novella) (11 page)

To her surprise he merely chuckled at that disclosure, and she couldn’t help but think it rather peculiar that he was no longer furious over the children’s pranks. For her part, she found herself mortified that he had been right all along. “I presume that now you shall be leaving Newgale?” she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Is that what you presume?” he asked by way of a reply. He turned to gift her with a curious grin, and his blue eyes twinkled with mirth.

“Of course, and I do wish you well.”

Lucien said nothing though her disclosure left him feeling bereft. He wasn’t precisely certain what it was he was after this morning, except that he needed to speak with Emma without half-a-dozen pair of eyes affixed upon them both.

The only thing that had become clear to him after Peters had returned his carriage to order and he’d been free to leave … was that he didn’t truly wish to go.

He’d told himself that he felt badly for what he was about to do to Emma and that if he could but speak to her alone... and she could somehow forgive him, then it would set him free. But as he led her further away from the house, it became clearer and clearer that there was something more at work here. His motivations weren’t entirely clear. Craving solitude, he led her toward the cliff where she had once bared her heart to him, his heartbeat quickening euphorically with every step he took.

“Your Grace!” she protested, and still he ignored her, hoping something brilliant would come to him before they finally reached the cliffside.

At last they stopped before the stairs that led down to the shore. And there, with the sun shining down upon him and his heart hammering like a fledgling youth’s, he turned to face her.

“Emma,” he began, and faltered. She was frowning at him now, and he felt suddenly strangely uncertain of himself. “Are you cold?” he asked instead.

“I’m quite fine, thank you,” she said. But she shivered, wrapping her mantle more securely about her shoulders.

Lucien drew her closer, hoping to warm her with the heat of his body.

“Your Grace,” she protested.

“Lucien.”

She turned her face up to his, her brows furrowed, softly, two perfectly shaped arches. “I am not at all the fragile little miss you seem to like to think me,” she declared, eschewing the use of his Christian name, despite his request.

“I don’t think you’re fragile at all, Emma.”

Her brows furrowed more deeply. “You don’t?”

“On the contrary.”

“Impulsively, Lucien brought Emma’s hand to his lips, placing his mouth gently upon the tips of her fingers, considering her, considering his next words carefully…

“Do you wish me to go?” he asked suddenly.

Emma bristled at his question, wanting desperately to shake her hand free of his because it reminded her too much of another time when he’d so gallantly held her hand in just the same manner and she had so stupidly disgraced herself with her silly declaration of love.

If he thought for an instant that she was going to humiliate herself further—even more than the children and Andrew had done already—he was sorely mistaken. “I am quite certainly
not
on the shelf as of yet, sirrah. I will endure this. And quite well, if you please!”

At the mere thought of her with someone else—of another man’s lips upon hers—Lucien’s stomach clenched. He stiffened, standing a little straighter. His brow lifted. “Are you trying to tell me something, Miss Peters?”

“I am trying to tell you nothing!” she declared, sounding a little hysterically now.

Lucien didn’t think; only acted. His hand flew out, seizing her by the wrist and wrenching her to him. His heart hammered against his ribs as he pressed her more intimately against him and he lowered his mouth to hers, crushing it beneath his hungry lips.

She resisted for only an instant, but he murmured her name, and she whimpered softly and went still in his embrace. He groaned with pleasure as she allowed him to caress her mouth with his own. The taste of her was heaven. He wanted her naked and willing in his arms—wanted to love her properly.

“Emma,” he whispered feverishly. “Emma, Emma, Emma…”

Every inch of his body was alive with need of her… the feel of her… the scent of her.

He kissed her thoroughly, and then lifted his face suddenly, crushing her possessively against the length of his body, his eyes heavy lidded as he gazed at her expectantly, searching her expression for answers.

His brow furrowed when he found nothing but anguish in her expression. “Tell me again that I’m free to go,” he demanded, wanting her now to retract her words.

Her deep brown eyes looked a bit like a fox’s at the end of a hunt, cornered and wild. She shook her head. “I don’t know what you wish from me,” she said, sounding as tortured as he felt.

Lucien shook his head and then released her abruptly, disgusted with himself. “I’m sorry... God, Emma… I’m sorry... I... I don’t know myself anymore.” He hung his head, unable to face her.

Without another word, she spun about and hastened away and before Lucien could think to stop her. She lifted her skirts and began to run, obviously eager to be as far away from him as she could manage.

For a dumbfounded instant Lucien simply watched her go. The waves below crashed against the cliffside, sounding as chaotic as he felt.

“Emma!” he shouted, but it was too late. She couldn’t hear him over the pounding of the surf, and all he could think as he stood there watching her go was that he had never felt more miserable than he did at the moment.

He had little notion how long he remained at the cliffs, staring down at the tumbling surf. It rolled in violently, covering the beach below, pummeling the cliffside relentlessly.

When at last he made his way back to the manor, he cut through the rose garden on his way to the stables, thinking to rally his driver and go. To his misfortune, he found them—every last one—being led into the garden by an exhilarated Jonathon. Lucien’s heart tripped as he watched them.

He stood back, watching, hoping they wouldn’t notice him, because in that instant he couldn’t have moved to save his life.

It occurred to him after a befuddled instant that they were all staring up at the sky, and much too preoccupied to notice him. Curiously, he peered up to see what had captured their attention, and the sight he beheld stole his breath away: The heavens were painted with violet clouds and streaks of mauve and plum. Spearing through them in the dusky sky was the most incredible shaft of light he had ever beheld, so bright and luminous that it filled him with awe. It was spectacular…

“See, I told you!” young Jonathon was shouting. “Aunt Em! It’s Heaven’s gate! You were right! We’re all going to get wonderful presents now!”

“It must be!” Lettie agreed enthusiastically.

Emma’s laughter drifted to him suddenly, the sound wholly genuine. If she was angry with him, it didn’t show in her mood toward the children. She gazed up at the sky with wonder, hands outstretched and laughed in delight and then she sat upon a bench … the same bench he recalled from the photo he’d commissioned of her father. He’d had one created for himself as well … a memento … and suddenly, everything seemed to make sense.

If he was wicked, she was his salvation.

If he was unwhole, she would fulfill him.

Maybe her father had realized as well?

Her love was a gift … a promise of better things to come. Regardless that he’d managed to convince himself he would be better off without her, he knew deep down it wasn’t true.

That’s why he couldn’t go.

He wanted her in his life, he realized with sudden certainty. And feeling more joyful than he had in years, he retreated from the garden lest she spy him. He knew exactly who to turn to for a hand in mischief and a little help to win back the woman he loved. And if all went well, it would be a very merry Christmas, indeed.

On the night before Christmas the weather turned foul, dumping more snow in a single day than Newgale had seen most of the winter. Those lavender clouds, lovely as they had been earlier in the day had been harbingers of a coming storm. While fat snow flakes, bigger than a sovereign fell from swollen clouds outside, inside the candles were all lit and twinkling merrily, the fire in the hearth was ablaze, and the house was toasty and gay. But Emma’s Christmas spirit had fled entirely.

How could she celebrate anything until
he
was gone?

This morning had been the greatest of disappointments. She had spied only confusion in Lucien’s eyes, and then she had been so very certain he would speak those awful words again that she had flown from his presence like a frightened child. She was embarrassed now, and worse, it was precisely as she feared, for although he remained in residence, he had yet to even speak to her.

Come to think of it, she hadn’t spied a hair on his too-handsome head all day, despite that they were trapped indoors. After all the fuss about returning his carriage wheels, the vehicle had been rendered completely useless by the weather. It was a conspiracy, she was quite certain—one in which God seemed to be complicit now.

In fact, now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen or heard her brother or the children either.

Frowning, she wondered where they could all be… together somewhere no doubt.

She wandered into the kitchen where Cecile was busy preparing for Christmas supper. The house smelled of the most delightful treats and the servants all were busy under Cecile’s watchful eye. On this day of all days, Cecile took a greater part in the preparations—not that she needed to, but she had to.

“Have you seen the children?” Emma asked.

“No dear. Not since this morning in the garden.”

Cecile smiled, though if Emma didn’t know better, it seemed more of a smirk than a smile. A bit of mischief danced in her sister-in-law’s eyes. Her brother’s influence, she feared.

“Do you need help perchance?”

“Not a bit,” Cecile replied gaily. “The table has been set and Cook is finishing the last of it, and with that, she sent Emma on her way.

The scent of mincemeat pie followed her down the hall as she continued searching for the children, wandering from room to room.

They had made it a relatively new tradition to exchange gifts on Christmas morning instead of New Year’s. Emma had hers wrapped already, but she enjoyed building the children’s anticipation, and loved Boxing Day as well. In many ways, she and Andrew had never outgrown their childhood.

“Where are the children?” she asked Andrew when she found him seated upon his knees in the drawing room laboring over some strange device. With help from Giles, their manservant, he was fashioning some sort of contraption near the hearth. Emma inspected it, wondering what it could be.

“Bedeviling the duke, no doubt,” he replied offhand.

Emma frowned. “Yes, well… as to that… I do wish the duke had gone already. He’s spoiling Christmas.”

“For you?” Andrew asked without turning.

“For all of us!” she declared.

Andrew cast her the strangest expression. “It seems the holiday has become all the rage. Apparently, Queen Victoria celebrates with great vigor at Buckingham Palace.”

“I suppose
he
told you that?”

Andrew busied himself adjusting his contraption. “I remember when scarce anyone else celebrated,” he said. “Though I have always thought of Christmas time as a time for kindheartedness, forgiveness and charity and it seems that others must as well. Don’t you agree?”

Of course she did, but she knew precisely where he was going with this line of reasoning and she wasn’t in the mood to be quite so forgiving. “What are you doing?” she asked.

He turned to grin at her, that same boyish grin she remembered from their youth. “It’s a secret!”

Emma’s brows collided. She had always been privy to Andrew’s schemes, no matter how outlandish they might be. He had never kept secrets from her… though apparently, he did now.

Eyeing his contraption with a bit of irritation, Emma wandered to the hearth to inspect this year’s crèche, which was filled to tipping with new straw. On a small blanket near the crib, she spied milk and cookies—a fine meal for
le petit
Jésus. Andrew would no doubt enjoy them immensely later this eve. It was a tradition they had begun only recently, but one Andrew seemed to enjoy with relish.

She stood, staring down at the little crèche and felt a little sorrowful over the thought that she may never see her own child lying in a crib. She had for so long now envisioned sons with hair the color of their father’s and daughters who waited with bated breath for Papa to regale them with tales—as she had with her father.

Andrew couldn’t possibly understand because he had a family of his own and Emma was destined simply to be a family relation with nowhere else to go for the holidays.

This had once been her house, but now it was her brother’s—something that had never bothered her more acutely than it did at the moment. In fact, with Lucien in residence, she didn’t feel at home at all right now. Though why that should be true she didn’t know. It left her feeling empty somehow—as though someone had set her in the most delightful fairy tale and then had plucked her up and cast her into hell. A bit melodramatic she supposed, but there it was. That was how she felt. And the worst of it all was that she couldn’t even truly blame Lucien. As determined as he had been to rid himself of this engagement, she saw something in his eyes that still called to some part of her, making her long to place her arms about him and enfold him to her breast. There was something sad in his eyes… something quite confused. And it had never seemed more apparent than it had this morning.