A Christmas Dance (4 page)

It hadn’t been his plan to woo Miss Byerly. And it wasn’t in his nature to change his plans with so little forethought. It wasn’t in his nature to change his plans at all.

But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking of her. She was such a fascinatingly incongruent woman. Scolding him for eavesdropping one moment, and lying for her friend the moment after. Impossibly stiff and staid at first glance, then eating cake with her fingers in the next. Blushing with pleasure at the invitation to waltz, then disappearing from the ball before they got around to the actual dancing.

Perhaps it was the novelty of having been so utterly wrong about her that had him changing his plans. Or perhaps it was
knowing that most of the
ton
continued to have a mistaken impression of her. It was as if he’d discovered a secret. He’d wager there were few others who knew her eyes were a lovely dark green, or that she was fond of the social whirl, or that she was quick to smile and laugh.

And it
had
been his plan to woo and marry a young lady who could make him smile and laugh. Someone who might loosen the tight knot of structure he’d tied about his life. Though he’d not thought her capable of it only the day before, Miss Byerly now appeared quite up to the task. . .Probably, he amended after a little more thought. He couldn’t claim to know her well, could he? Which was why he was going to begin a courtship, he reminded himself.

“Holy hell, man. Just do the damn thing.”

Unaccountably nervous, he transferred the flowers to his other hand, straightened his shoulders and knocked on the door. With an efficiency he couldn’t help admiring, he was seen in, divested of his coat and gloves, informed that the Meldrins were currently unavailable, but Miss Byerly was home and receiving visitors, and then ushered into the front parlor.

Patience sat alone, looking wistfully out the front window and, at first glance, appearing very much as she had the night before. Her feet were neatly tucked under her skirts and her hands were once again demurely folded in her lap.

Only she
didn’t
look the same. For some reason, she looked vastly different to him today. Perhaps it was because he’d never before seen her in a cheerful yellow day gown, or perhaps it was the way the late morning sunlight brought out streaks of copper in her dark hair, or perhaps it was simply that he’d not taken the time before to truly look at her. Given a little
more
time, he might have been able to put his finger on what had altered, but he had only a few seconds to watch her unawares before the footman announced his presence and the moment was lost.

Patience rose and curtsied, her face lighting with pleasure a heartbeat before her gaze fell on the bouquet. “I. . .Mr. Seager has taken Caroline out for a drive.”

He glanced at the window. “It’s a fine day for it. I was thinking perhaps a stroll.”

“Yes, well.” Her eyes darted away and her hands began to pluck at her skirts. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to accompany you, if you care to--“

“I’d rather you did,” he cut in and held out the bouquet.

“Oh.” Her hands stilled. In fact, except for the widening of her eyes, she went perfectly still for several long seconds. “They’re for me,” she finally said, sounding rather dumbfounded.

Clearly, he
was
the only gentleman to discover the secret Miss Byerly. He found himself both pleased and irritated by the
idea. He rather liked the notion of being the only man to recognize her charm. He cared less for the idea she’d never before received flowers. A woman like Patience shouldn’t want for flowers.

Apparently, she was content to want a little longer. She hadn’t yet reached for them. “Are you going to make me hold my arm out much longer?” he asked conversationally. “Because eventually I’ll have to assume you don’t care for—“

“I’m sorry,” she cut in, laughing suddenly. “I’m making a terrible fool of myself.” She took the bouquet and buried her nose in the blooms. “Oh, they’re lovely,” she sighed. “They’re exquisite. Thank you.”

William decided a man couldn’t hope for a more gratifying reaction. She made him feel positively heroic, which went a very long way in settling the nerves he’d battled outside the house. “You’re quite welcome. Does this mean you’ll join me for a stroll in Hyde park?”

“Hyde park?” She looked up from the flowers to beam at him. “That sounds wonderful. I’ll just fetch my coat and gloves.”

William watched her nearly skip from the room and decided it was very much a mark in her favor that she was so readily pleased. What man wouldn’t care to have his gifts and ideas met with such enthusiasm?

Nor could he find complaint with the fact that she returned not five minutes later with coat, bonnet, and gloves in place. He did appreciate an attention to promptness.

With a maid trailing discreetly behind, they stepped outside just in time to meet Mrs. Meldrin climbing the front steps.

“Lord Casslebury,” she called out in a conspicuously cheerful tone, “what an unexpected surprise. Have you come to take our Patience out?”

“She’s agreed to accompany me on a stroll to Hyde Park this morning,” he affirmed, and wondered if Mrs. Meldrin was the sort of woman to become miffed at the notion an earl had come to call on someone other than her daughter. But Mrs. Meldrin merely straightened her bonnet, glanced over Patience’s shoulder to note the maid, and smiled broadly at William.

“A marvelous idea. There’s sure to be a crowd with everyone taking advantage of this fine weather.” Somehow, she managed to smile even more brightly. “Perhaps I can persuade Mr. Meldrin to escort me there as well. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Oh, I must see if he can be convinced.” With yet another cheery smile, she swept past them and into the house.

William watched as the front door closed behind her. “She looks to be in very fine mood.”

“Oh, she’s in raptures,” Patience confirmed with a small laugh. “She received an invitation this morning for Lord Hartwell’s Christmas Ball.”

“Ah.” He turned about and started them on a slow walk in the direction of the park. “It is a popular event.”

“Do you attend?”

“Not if I can help it,” he admitted. “And I find I generally can.”

She looked at him, a small line forming on her brow. “Do you not get on with the marquess?”

“Everyone gets on with the marquess. He’s a thoroughly likable gentleman. But I leave London in mid-December.” He shrugged. “I don’t particularly care for Christmas”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Everyone likes Christmas.”

“Most claim to, certainly.”

“But you don’t? Truly?”

He shook his head as he led her around a puddle on the sidewalk. “It’s a deuced inconvenient time of year. Traveling about in the dead of winter. Dragging in boughs of greenery only to have them dry and fall to pieces in your home. Dodging children with sticky fingers and wet heads. Eating--”

“Why should their heads be wet?”

“The children? From playing Bob-Apple, of course.”

“Oh.” She thought about that. “Does it really require a complete dunking?”

“It does if one has an older sister who takes it upon herself to assist. . .Did you never play as a child?”

“No. I’ve only ever caught a glimpse of the game. I should like--”

“Why only a glimpse?”

It was her turn to shrug. “My mother passed when I was very young, and my father did not care for celebrations.”

“I see.” He felt a scowl forming and made a conscious effort to remove it. It was disturbing to think that her father had kept her childhood devoid of parties and games, but he didn’t know her well enough yet to make open judgments on a member of her family. Perhaps she approved of the way she’d been reared. He sincerely hoped not. He didn’t relish the idea of changing his matrimonial plans yet again.

“A stern man, your father?” he inquired in what he hoped was a casual tone.

“Stern?” She laughed suddenly. “Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. He simply took no interest in holidays. He wanted. . .His passion has always been his work.”

He was still living, then, William mused. He wanted to ask her more, but because her laughter had died when she mentioned her father’s work, he let the topic progress in another
direction. “You’ve no Christmas traditions, then? No Yule log, no wassail, no silly games?”

“Not as of yet,” she replied, before giving a decisive nod of her head. “But I shall. There are plenty to choose from. Last year in Belgium, Caroline and I met a lovely family who brings an entire tree into their house and covers it with candles. And we met a gentleman from Sweden who said in his village a young woman puts a wreath of candles upon her head and goes about with a procession—“

“Are there any traditions you’d care to try that aren’t likely to set home and person aflame?”

“Certainly. I
should
like to try Bob-Apple. And the thirteen desserts I heard about in France. They represent Jesus and the twelve apostles.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I’m not sure if that includes Judas. I don’t think I care for the idea of eating Judas almonds, really.” She considered that a moment longer before turning to study him. “Aren’t there any traditions you enjoy?”

He paused before answering. “I’m afraid there is one unavoidable tradition that quite ruins all the others for me. . .The forced proximity and socialization of people who are much happier with a bit of distance between them.”

“Your family?” she asked softly.

He nodded, surprised at what he was revealing, but feeling compelled to share a piece of his family history because she had shared a piece of hers. “My parents did not get on well together. My sister did not get on with my brother, and my brother couldn’t get on with anyone. Christmas was a. . .disruptive time of year.”

“I’m sorry.”

He rolled his shoulders in an effort to release the tension at the back of his neck. “Not an uncommon story. These days, I prefer to spend the weeks before and after Christmas surrounded by peace and quiet at my estate in Staffordshire.”

“Alone?” she asked.

“If I can manage it.”

“Oh. What of your sister?”

He smiled a little. “It is her holiday tradition to insist I visit her brood in Surrey.”

“And is she never successful?”

He had to lift his voice a little over the noise of passing carriage. “As I said, I prefer to spend the holidays in peace.”

“Is it not adequately peaceful in Surrey?”

“My sister has children.”

“I see.” There was a long pause before she spoke again. “I’m quite fond of children.”

“As am I, when they’re present in reasonable numbers.” He waved politely at an acquaintance passing on the other side of the street. “She has twelve.”

“
Twelve
?”

“All boys, including two sets of twins from her husband’s first wife. And all but two under the age of eighteen.”

“Good heavens.”

“I believe Heaven washed its hands of them some time ago. In fact, I’m fairly certain the three-year-old has a pact with the devil. He tried to eat one of my cravat pins during my last visit. Scampered right into my room, snatched it off my desk in plain sight of me and popped it in his mouth.”

Patience grimaced. “It’s fortunate he didn’t become ill.”

“I pried it out of his mouth before he could swallow.”

“Oh, that was--”

“But not before he bit me.”

“Oh.” Caroline managed to wince and smile at the same time. “I knew a little girl like that once. Her family had rooms above ours. She--” She broke off, looking a bit startled. He imagined she hadn’t meant to reveal her family had taken rooms somewhere. “She was a terror,” she finished uneasily.

Her fingers lifted to rub at a bit of lace along her neckline for a moment before she gripped her hands tightly at
her waist, confirming the suspicion he’d developed the night before. Patience Byerly was not stiff by nature; she merely gave that impression when hiding nerves.

He didn’t care for the idea of her being nervous now. What difference did it make that her family was not of great means? As the second son of a second son, he hadn’t been a man of great means until his unexpected inheritance of the earldom.

He wanted to tell her he understood, that he didn’t care a jot what her circumstances had been, nor what they were at present. As a wealthy earl with modest tastes, expenses, and social ambitions he could well afford to take an undowered bride. Unfortunately, he rather doubted, “I wouldn’t mind marrying a poor woman,” would serve to make her smile again. And he very much he wanted to see her smile again.

“I wager my nephew a worse case than your neighbor,” he offered.

“Unlikely,” she replied. “It was said even the dogs outside the butcher’s door wouldn’t go near her.”

“Did she ever draw blood?”

“On occasion.”

“But did she leave scars?”

She frowned thoughtfully, which he decided was an improvement over frowning with discomfort. “Not that I’m aware of,” she replied. “She was a very little girl.”

“No excuse.” He stopped walking to pull off the glove of his right hand, and held it up to reveal four small white crescents, two on each side of his index finger. “Courtesy of William Grant Higgs, my cannibalistic little namesake.”

To his great delight, her mouth fell open, then curved up as she reached out to take his hand and pull it toward her for a closer look. “Good heavens. They’re the perfect impressions of little teeth, aren’t they?”

Her fingers felt small and warm as they slid down to hold his palm. He had an image of what it would be like to have those small, warm fingers working to untie his cravat, sliding across his chest, his back, down his . . . He cleared his throat and shoved the image aside. They were on a public street for pity’s sake. “Ah, yes, unfortunately. There’s no lying about how I got them.”

She straightened again, her rediscovered smile firmly in place. It wavered a little when she glanced down to see their hands still joined. He felt a spark of awareness pass between them before she blushed and dropped his hand. “Why. . .Why should you want to lie about them?”

If they
hadn’t
been on a public street, and if he’d been the sort of man who acted on a whim, he might have recaptured her hand and pulled her in for a kiss. She was nearly irresistible with the hint of rose at her cheeks.