The Duke's Christmas Greetings (Regency Christmas Summons Book 3) (16 page)

“I’m not worried about that,” she replied frankly, and it was true. She felt safe with Bexley, as though he could slay any dragon that came their way. It was a lovely feeling. “I just don’t want Frances and Helen to worry.”

He removed the strainer from his cup and took a careful sip of tea. “Thank goodness. The last thing I need is for my companion to have a fit of the vapors.”

“Come now,” she demanded, removing her strainer as well. “I’m a jolly good sport. Not once have I complained about my wet dress, or my mussed hair.” She sipped at her tea, which was strong and hearty and even a trifle bitter. The brew restored her spirit.

“True. I was very impressed with how well you handled the horses.” He glanced at her over the rim of his teacup. “Your hair isn’t mussed, though. It looks quite nice.”

She put her teacup aside and touched the tumbled locks of her hair. Every curl had come loose from their hairpins, and the hairpins themselves were long gone, torn away by the winter wind. There was nothing for it but to allow it to dry, and hope she didn’t look too much like Father’s toy poodle. “Nice of you to say it, but I’m quite certain I look a fright.”

“No.” With a sudden, swift movement, he reached out and grasped a lock of her hair, slowly twirling it around his finger.

She gasped. She didn’t mean to, but he was so close that he startled her. Her heart hammered in her chest, and a hot flush swept over her cheeks.

He was so close.

If he heard her swift intake of breath, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stared down at her lock of hair, twisted in a spiral around his finger.  “If I were clever I’d recite some line of poetry,” he murmured. “I can think of nothing to say. It is quite lovely, though.” He carefully unwound his finger and her curl bounced back into place.

She sat, unable to put her thoughts together. All she could think of was the closeness of his person, the touch of his hand in her hair. She should not consider Bexley in this way. Lord Richard was the boy she had always dreamed of. Lord Richard was the one she had set her cap for. If only her cheeks would stop glowing. Bother her weakness for blushing. Any man for miles would be able to read her embarrassment. She was supposed to practice flirting on him, but somehow he had turned the tables on her.

“Thank you.” She murmured the words and grabbed her cup of tea. Anything to keep her hands busy. Anything to hide the flush in her cheeks. She must keep talking. Silence, especially after a moment like that, could be dangerous. “When do you think we should try to journey back to the house?”

He looked momentarily confused, as though he hadn’t even thought of that. “I suppose as soon as the snowfall lessens,” he replied. “We have everything we need for the time being. I don’t want to put you in danger, and I don’t want to run the risk of hurting the horses. So, if you are content enough here, we shall just stay for a while.”

“Oh, no. There’s no need to rush. I appreciate all you have done to keep me safe,” she replied, taking another sip of tea. She simply must find some way to occupy herself until they were able to leave. Bexley had such strength in his hands. He was so much more real and vital and stronger than any other man she had met. All the boys she had danced with seemed just like that—boys. Even Lord Richard, her dashing and roguish Richard, seemed suddenly insignificant compared to the rough-hewn Bexley. “I have books.” She squeaked the words. “Books from Danby. We could read until it’s time to go.”

“Oh. Yes. I remember, the whole reason you came was for the duke’s library.” He reached for a biscuit. “Grandmother said she had recommended some books to you about farming. Are you interested in the land?”

“Yes.” She brought over the stack of books, which had remained surprisingly dry despite the weather. Tucking them in between herself and her cloak seemed to have protected them well enough. “Papa finds it all most unseemly, but I do like learning about the bloodlines of our stock. Your grandmother says these are excellent resources. Would you like one?” She held out a leather-bound volume.

“Yes. Thank you.” He accepted the book and put aside his teacup.

The volume she selected was large, too large to hold comfortably in her lap in a chair. She would have to read as she did at home, propped up on the floor. She laid the volume open on the floor and then arranged her slightly damp cloak over the wooden boards. Then, carefully arranging her skirts so she would not show a trace of ankle, she sank to her knees, and then lay onto her stomach. With her chin in her hands, she began to read. Or, at least, she tried.

The heat from the fire, coupled with the warm, slightly acrid scent of drying wool, made her sleepy. The snow made a shushing sound against the panes, and the fire crackled and popped merrily. Beside her, still in his chair, Bexley was silent. He was enveloped in his book. If she closed her eyes for just a moment, she could rest. She should not do so, of course. For one thing, it was rude to fall asleep when she was supposed to be keeping Bexley company. For another, she was supposed to be taking this valuable time to practice her feminine whiles on him. She should not be reading. She should not be sleeping.

But if she did press forward with flirting with Bexley, her feelings might come dangerously close to truth, and not to mere performance.

Lord Richard was supposed to be her beau.

Not Bexley.

Anthony re-read the same sentence in his book for the fifteenth time. He would not look down at Rosamond. He was not a love-struck swain, and she was not his beloved. He might have imagined her soft gasp when he touched her hair. She probably thought him far too old and too dour, and thanks to Genevieve, too much of a forlorn figure for romance. He could not resist the urge to look down at her, but did so on the pretense of picking up his now-empty teacup.

She had fallen asleep just moments ago, and was curled in her wool cloak, her chin resting on her folded hands. She was so small and so lovely. Never before had he noticed it. She had become a permanent fixture of their home, and he had always thought of her as Frances and Helen’s annoying little friend.

Why was he gazing at her? Why had he made the mistake of touching her? He was being a fool.

Grandmother and Danby wanted him to find a wife. Any young girl of good family would do. He had not relished the idea of picking a young woman as one did a horse. In fact, due in large part to Genevieve, the entire idea of matrimony had become repugnant to him. The careless way in which the whole proposition was made to him made him balk. If he was going to marry, he wanted a companion. He wanted someone who loved the things he loved. That woman seemed unlikely to exist. What young girl would prefer farming to a ball? And yet, here she was. Instead of flirting with him, or teasing him, or wanting to play games, Rosamond had started reading about the very subjects he held dear.

Would Rosamond be happy being a farmer’s wife? For that was all he desired to be.

No, no, of course not. He was being ridiculous. He rose and took the two teacups into the tiny kitchen. He glanced out of the kitchen window, where the snow had drifted against the windowpane. The storm had died down to an occasional flurry, and the moon was rising. They could easily make it home now. The moonlight, especially on the snow, would be as bright as day.

He should take her home now. There was no reason to linger.

He came back into the great room, where she still slept. He could let her continue sleeping, for she seemed so peaceful and comfortable. But the longer they waited, the more likely that he would have a great deal of explaining to do to his family.

There was nothing for it. He would have to awaken her.

He got to his knees beside her, and touched her arm gently. “Rosamond.”

“Hmmm.” She rolled over on her back, her eyes still closed.

He was close enough to be fully surrounded by her special scent of sandalwood. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

Enough of this. He was truly acting the fool. He would not touch her again.

“Rosamond. Miss Hughes.” He said it more sharply this time.

She sat up so abruptly that her curls rippled down her back. She gazed at him, wide-eyed, as if she were unaware of where they were, or why they were together.

“The storm has passed.” He spoke more gently this time. “We can go back to Graveleon Head now.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. Forgive me. I should not have fallen asleep.”

He held out his hand, and she clung to him as she scrambled to her feet. He was going to be all right. He could even help her up without behaving like an idiot.

Once he was sure she was awake and sensible enough to stand on her own, he banked the fire in the hearth so it would die away slowly and without danger. Tomorrow he would return and put everything back in order, cleaning out the ashes once they had cooled.

“I’ll go hitch up the horses,” he said, shrugging back into his greatcoat. “I’ll bring them to the back door in moments.”

“Yes. I’ll gather my things.” She stumbled around, picking up books.

He went out to the barn and found the horses well-rested and refreshed. They were reluctant to be harnessed, and he made sure to double-check the tightness of the leather bands once he walked them out of the barn.

Miss Hughes was waiting on the back step, her cloak hood concealing the bright glory of her hair. He helped her into the sleigh, and climbed in beside her. They pulled the rugs up, and then with a quick flick of the reins, they were off.

He was right about the weather. The sky was peppered with stars, while the moon cast an ethereal glow over the countryside. The sleigh bells pealed brightly as they sped along. Far more quickly than he would have liked—though of course, it was all for the best—they were back at Graveleon Head.

He glanced up at his sisters’ windows as he drew the horses around to the front portico. No light shone from within. “You’ll be able to go in and go right to bed without anyone even knowing,” he remarked, bringing the horses to a halt.

“Oh, that’s good.” She still had a remote look about her, as if she were still half-asleep, or dreaming.

He helped her out of the sleigh and presented her with the pile of books she borrowed. Then he touched his hat, and prepared to leave. The horses needed to be attended to, after their long day, even though they’d had a rest.

“Anthony.”

It was the first time she had spoken his given name. He glanced up, startled.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for the most wonderful afternoon I’ve ever had.” She bestowed upon him a lovely smile, and then turned and mounted the steps.

As he watched her disappear into the house, his heart gave a painful, suffocating bound.

“And I, too,” he muttered.

Rosamond sat at her bedroom window. After tossing and turning all night, she had arisen with the dawn to try to sort through her roiling emotions. She was dressed, but had no desire to join the family at breakfast. She must have peace and quiet for just a little while longer.

Her bedroom door opened. “Rosie! How did the visit go yesterday?” Helen ran into the room. “Did you spend the night at Danby? When did you return?”

Rosamond turned, her thoughts completely jumbled. What should she say? Somehow, she did not want to share the moments she spent with Anthony in the cottage. They were too private. If she mentioned the matter, Helen and Frances would want to pick over every detail, pumping her for information and critiquing her success—or lack thereof—as a coquette.