An Affair Before Christmas (32 page)

“Which young man?”

“The one who pretended to be in love with my mother.”

His face went utterly still. “Oh—”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “That young man. The one who defended my mother’s reputation so bravely. He obviously had a certain amount of dramatic talent.”

“Wouldn’t you rather picture your mother’s affection for a handsome young lad?”

Fletch smiled winningly, but Poppy just shook her head. “Is he here to night?”

“For goodness’ sake, no,” Fletch said, giving in. “He was, how shall I put it, a gentleman of the night. A night-walker.”

“Gentleman of the—” Poppy’s eyes went round. “
Really!
Where on earth did you find him?”

“I simply asked a woman who knows about that sort of thing.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And what woman might that be?”

“A young relative of Mrs. Armistead, Fox’s consort.”

“I wasn’t even aware you were acquainted with Mrs. Armistead.”

He swept her off the dance floor and then looked down at his own sweet wife. “You do realize how much I love you, don’t you?”

She frowned.

“Tell me you’re jealous. Her name is Cressida, and she is
very
beautiful.”

“I am not jealous,” she said instantly, wrinkling her nose at him. “So you have been consorting with night-walkers and day-walkers and Fox-walkers—”

“Very clever,” he said, reprehensibly kissing her right in the ballroom.

But Poppy had the sense that the Duchess of Beaumont’s Twelfth Night Ball would be the subject of gossip for years, and a marital kiss or two wouldn’t receive much attention.

Jemma threw her a lazy wink. “Do you doubt it?”

“Not after the way you have thrashed me in the last few days.”

“You took a very nice game off me last night,” Jemma pointed out. “That was a very cunning move with your castle. You utterly foxed me.”

“A rare victory,” Mrs. Patton said. “But none the less enjoyed for that! So you won the game with your husband…and finished the game with Villiers as well?”

“Alas,” Jemma said, frowning at herself.

“You didn’t win?”

“He sacrificed and sacrificed, a whole battlefield of them. Brilliant, ruthless and cunning.”

“So both matches continue to a third and final game,” Mrs. Patton said. “Fascinating!”

“And the final games are to be played blindfolded,” Jemma said, rubbing a bit of ruby color on her lips.

“And—or so I’ve heard,” Mrs. Patton said, pausing delicately.

“In bed,” Jemma confirmed.

“In bed with the Duke of Villiers,” Mrs. Patton said, rather dreamily. “There’s not a married woman in En gland who wouldn’t consider sacrificing her queen for the chance.”

“Villiers refuses to play the game until he is fully recovered. He says six months.”

Mrs. Patton laughed. “Will you play your husband immediately?”

“I don’t know,” Jemma said, tucking in an errant curl. “I won our game a while ago and we haven’t had time to discuss the topic. That’s a decision for another day…”

Then she squealed. People do that when they find themselves suddenly sailing through the air and landing on someone’s shoulders. Even if they are small people, who should be used to this kind of mishandling.

“Papa!” Clementina said, clutching the Duke of Fletcher’s hair. “You must stop doing that. Grandmère told me that I shouldn’t shriek because I’m a young lady. But you made me shriek. It wasn’t my fault.”

Her father obligingly dipped her upside down until she screamed even more loudly, so much so that they attracted attention from the other person in the room.

Before Fletch realized what was happening, plump little arms wrapped around his legs and a set of five sharp teeth, two on the top and three on the bottom, clamped together. “You let Clemmie go!” screamed a voice only slightly obscured by a mouthful of silk stocking. “You let Clemmie go, bad Papa!”

“
Not
my stockings, Alexander,” Fletch said, putting Clementina down on the ground so fast that her hair flew up around her shoulders like corn silk. “Oh dash it,” he groaned, unwinding his son from his leg, “that’s the death knell for another pair of stockings. Now what will poor Morton say?”

Alexander had no sympathy for the duke’s valet. He was too busy correcting the duke himself. “You’s not nice to Clemmie,” he said. Then: “Assander, up!”

Fletch swung his son up on his shoulders.

“Come on, Papa,” Clementina said, tugging his hand. “Let’s pretend we see three ships!”

She danced her way over to the window, dragging him behind. “I saw three ships come sailing in…” she started over. This time he let her sing it alone, standing there with her warm little hand clutching his, and Alexander’s plump knees next to his ears. Clementina swayed back and forth, obviously seeing tall sailing ships glide over the snowy lawn.

Then he turned around, because somehow he always knew when his wife was in a room. Their daughter kept singing, wildly off-key, so Fletch just smiled rather than interrupt her. Alexander made a cooing sound and started bouncing in a way that indicated either a wish to learn to fly—or a wish to be in his mother’s arms.

Poppy’s smile was so beautiful that Fletch felt his heart almost break from the joy of it all as he tucked her under his arm. Alexander put a hand on his mother’s curls and they all looked out the window as Clementina sang on. “On Christmas day in the morning!” she carrolled, coming to a stop.

Poppy looked as if she might move, so Fletch put his son down and snatched his wife into his arms instead. “Hello,” he said. She was as lovely as the moment he first saw her in Paris, and as delicious as the first time they made love under a fir tree.

The children were so used to their parents embracing that Alexander toddled away and Clementina picked up her doll and began crooning to her, a special rendition of—yes!—“Three Ships.”

“It’s Christmas,” Fletch said, dusting Poppy’s lips with a kiss. And then another one because she tasted good, and she smelled good, and she was his. “Do you remember when I first kissed you like this, on the tower of Saint Germain dés Pres?” He gave her a kiss to illustrate, a deep, possessive kiss.

“Be careful,” she said a little breathlessly. “I’ll smack you with my muff.”

Fletch let his hands slide over his wife’s derrière. “I love these new fashions,” he said dreamily. “I never want to see a pannier again in my life.”

“Christmas,” she said, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes, “is my favorite day of the year.”

“Your day…” he said, leaning closer, “to nibble gingerbread men.”

“Do you know what the chef made this year?” she asked, eyes wide and innocent.

“No, what?”

“Gingerbread ladies! Covered with gold and quite, quite edible.”

Fletch grinned. “Are you saying that it’s
my turn
?”

Poppy leaned in and gave him a kiss that suddenly turned into something sweeter and deeper, the way things did on Christmas Day. “We’ll have to fight for it,” she whispered, some time later.

“For what?” Fletch asked, having lost track of the situation. “Poppy, I’m—”

She craned her neck instantly. “What’s he doing?” Alexander was their darede vil, but no, he was busily banging a toy carriage against the brick hearth in a manner guaranteed to destroy its wheels.

“Not Alexander,” Fletch said, catching her face in his hands. “Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”

Never mind the fact that women all over London sighed when they caught a glimpse of Fletch. Nor the fact that his party in the House of Lords turned as one man to the Duke of Fletcher when they needed a brilliant speech—and a clear victory. And finally the fact that his wife gave every sign of being tremendously happy in bed and out…her own darling husband never quite believed that he was worth it.

“John,” she said, a grin curling her mouth. “Did you know that last night was Christmas Eve and that meant that donkeys were able to speak in human voices?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is this something my wife the naturalist has noticed? Have you written a letter to poor Loudan? Maybe this fact will be the one that finally gets him the university professorship he would never deserve without all your editing of his work. Although I’m sure the university would rather hire a certain P.F., author of a recent treatise on possums.”

“You may not have noticed,” she said lovingly, “but I’m pretty sure there’s a donkey in the room now and he’s not speaking English anymore. It almost sounds as if…as if he didn’t hear all those things I said last night.”

“I think the Duchess of Fletcher just called her husband an ass,” he observed. “I knew you took after your mother!” Then he ducked when she swatted at him.

“Those things I said last night…” She could feel herself getting a little pink, even all these years into their marriage. “Last night,” she whispered, “after—”

“After supper?” His eyes were laughing at her.

Despite their years together, Poppy wasn’t very good at saying things out loud, though she’d become very good indeed at doing them in private. So instead she just pulled his head down and kissed him with all her heart, with the joy that comes from being truly loved, and truly loving.

With the joy that comes from knowing one’s children are utterly convinced they are lovable, and never fear a harsh word or a blow.

With the joy that comes from having a secret.

But after a while she remembered that her secret was meant to be a Christmas present, so she whispered, “Merry Christmas, John,” and took his hand in hers.

There was no more than a graceful curve under Fletch’s hand. “A baby?” he said, incredulous. “A baby?”

She nodded, tears prickling her eyes. “Another baby.”

And then Fletch was swinging her around and around in a great laughing circle that swept Alexander into her arms, and Clementina wiggled between them, all of them shrieking and laughing and saying it over and over, “A baby! A baby!”

Which made sense. As it was a Baby’s birthday, after all.

In
An Affair Before Christmas
, Poppy and Jemma collect things that speak to their natures: so Poppy buys a statue of Eros and Psyche, only to later find that the boy interests her as much as the butterfly. And Jemma buys the ferociously frowning little chess queen, which will draw her to Lord Strange’s house party. But that’s material for another book…

If you have any questions—historical or otherwise—please don’t hesitate to stop by my website Bulletin Board, or send me an e-mail at
[email protected].

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.