Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 22
When he offered her his hand, she shook her head. “I do have shopping to see to. Willa and I will walk back.”
He cast a glance at the sky. After wading through the Loughton accounts, he’d needed the cold walk into town, but the weather had grown even colder and the state of the clouds meant the snow—when it came—would be heavy and fast.
“I will accompany you.”
She blinked and opened her mouth.
“Your maid—Willa is it? Willa must ride back in the carriage. Willa, I shall see to your lady’s safe arrival home, no matter the weather.”
Lady Glanford cast a glance at the maid.
“I insist. Willa, you appear to be a woman of great good sense. I’m trusting you to keep my nodcock sisters and Miss Cartwright in hand.” He took the maid’s arm, helped her in, and closed the door.
“Now,” he said. “Your shopping. Gifts for Arthur and Ben, is it?”
“Sir, you needn’t trouble yourself—”
“I happen to know where to buy the best toys.”
“There is no need. Your sisters have led me through every shop on and off the high street.”
“Oh, but you’ll need someone to carry your packages.” He set her hand upon his arm. “Let us try to finish before the snow starts.”
As they left the village, the snow began falling in earnest, gathering on the brim of Mr. Lovelace’s hat and in the folds of Sophie’s red mantle, and cloaking the stark grays and browns of the winter landscape.
Elation bubbled up in her and she laughed. “The snow is magical, isn’t it? The boys will love this. But I suppose we’d best hurry.” She stepped out, and stumbled.
Strong arms caught her, steadying her against a firm chest, reminding her of the kiss under the mistletoe.
She took in a jittery breath and with it, the scent of clean starch and a man’s bergamot cologne that started her trembling.
“Come,” he said. “You’re cold. Let’s turn back. I’ll borrow a carriage.”
Chapter Eight
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut and eased in another breath. They’d spent a companionable hour in town. Mr. Lovelace, as it turned out, shopped the way she liked to, when she was able: quickly and decisively, haggling only as needed to reach a fair agreement for both parties.
For James and Edward, she’d bought carved flutes, Mr. Lovelace assuring her the nursery staff wouldn’t curse her for the noisy gifts. For little Mary, she’d found a tiny reticule; for the older girls and Lady Loughton, handkerchiefs she’d find time to embroider; for Willa, a skein of yarn for a scarf; for Ben, some toy soldiers; and for Artie, a spyglass.
Artie’s gift had been surprisingly affordable—suspiciously so. In the midst of negotiations, the shopkeeper’s proud wife had enticed Sophie away to see a chubby new grandbaby. Mr. Lovelace had concluded the transaction.
It had been kind of him. She would pay him back whatever extra he’d paid after she visited Papa’s jeweler in London.
Mr. Lovelace had also introduced her to other merchants and neighbors who’d greeted her warmly. No one pulled her aside asking when she would pay her bill or repair the fences. Though, she recollected, the chandler had scurried out of his shop for a whispered discussion with Mr. Lovelace. She wondered if Lady Loughton was in arrears, and if so, why? Were the Lovelaces in financial straits? If so, what might it mean for her boys? So many worries.
But the snow…the snow was magical, spreading a white blanket over broken bricks, ruts in the road, and overgrown hedges. The snow made everything beautiful.
“Are you well?” he murmured into her ear.
She blinked back sudden moisture. Lured her onto a balcony and one stumble later…
She’d stumbled into another man’s arms. Oh, but this man was so…so…solid. And warm.
He smoothed a hand down her back, sending her heart into a rapid tattoo.
No life there…Like bedding the dead…need to marry money…find you another bumbling long Meg with a purse…get her to stumble into you.
She stepped back. George Lovelace’s eyes were warm, and laugh lines crinkled his face, reminding her he’d come away laughing from that conversation with Glanford. He must have gone on laughing for many years.
She shook off the ugly memory. She’d made up her mind to forget. Through the weeks after Papa’s death, the months of her confinement, and the hours of childbirth, she’d churned over the words spoken that day. But with her first view of Artie, she set her mind to her fate.
She was a countess with a son who needed her. She’d tried harder. She’d found a circle of kind acquaintances. And when she’d finally allowed Glanford back into her bed, it was on her terms. Fortunately, after Ben’s birth, he’d mostly left her alone.
He touched her arm. “Have you twisted your ankle, my dear?”
The blasted man was too kind. “I’m fine.”
“Take my arm. We’ll go back to the inn and borrow horses.”
Her equestrian skills had been another marital disappointment.
“I’m not dressed for riding.”
“A carriage or cart then.”
She straightened her spine, determined to match his courtesy. “It’s not long until dinner. We can walk in less time than it will take to arrange transport.” She brushed snow from her bonnet. “And I do love the snow. Such a welcome change from rain. Run along and hire yourself a horse. I intend to walk.”
“A gentleman wouldn’t—”
“Don’t be silly. You’ve arranged for my purchases to be delivered, so I’m not lugging packages, and I’m perfectly capable of walking a mile by myself. Besides, I’d not wish to be the cause of ruining your boots.”
He gazed down at her feet. “And what of yours?”
“They’ve withstood worse.”
One dark eyebrow rose.
Fine. They were the worse for that wear, but never mind. Her boys’ boots were sturdy and new, and that was what mattered.
“Go then.” She shooed him and stepped out.
Footsteps crunched next to her as he caught up, pulling her hand over his arm.
“I take it you’re one of those country ladies who tramps about through the fields with her dogs.”
“I walk, certainly.” She’d escaped at every chance when Glanford was underfoot.
“Except when your coachman is driving you about. That is more my mother’s style.”
She focused on the road, ignoring the teasing kindness. They’d dispensed with the coach and the coachman even before Glanford’s death.
“Or you drive out in your own gig,” he mused.
“I’ve never been much of a whip.”
“No? Well then, you had the company of your dogs, perhaps. A great pack of them, like the Duchess of York?”
“Glanford had hounds.” He’d lavished more attention on them than his family.
“You had no lap dog?” he teased. “No giant mongrel standing guard?”
They’d reached the turn for Loughton Manor. She freed her hand and passed through the gate ahead of him.
“Neither,” she said. Much as Glanford loved his hounds, he’d banned the sort of pets that would have brought comfort to the boys or warmth to her bed…a dog or a cat or two.
He touched her arm, stopping her.
“I’ve offended you. Or…”
He gazed down at her, not quite frowning. She took a step back, quelling her rising anger.
Damn the man. She didn’t need his pity.
“I’ve raised bad memories. How thoughtless of me.” He stepped closer, backing her off the lane, into a sheltered patch between a large showy yew and the boundary wall.
“Lady Glanford. I’ve been wanting…want to…to apologize.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears. This close, she could see the spiky late afternoon stubble peppering his cheeks. She curled her fingers in, resisting the temptation to touch, gathering her composure.
“For the kiss, Mr. Lovelace? It was nothing.”
He blinked. “No. That is, I wanted to say how sorry I am about the scene in the Townsends’ garden so many years ago.”
A dull ache started up near her heart and she felt her color rising under his warm gaze.
Drat the man. She wasn’t that young girl anymore. She’d withstood the disgrace. She’d weathered the whispers. The past mustn’t matter. It was the present that must concern her.
“Apology accepted.” As she pushed by, he snatched her hand and the hard planes of his face softened.
“Thank you. I’ve always been ashamed I didn’t—”
“What? Confront Glanford?” She inched away, catching her breath as a branch poked her back.
“Defend you. Especially after I heard your father had just—”
“Stop.” She yanked her hand away and fought a surge of tears. For months she’d grieved Papa’s death and her miserable marriage. Her boys had saved her, and now she must save them. Noble they might be, like their father, but they’d have the good sense of common Englishmen.
Glanford had run through Papa’s hard-earned money at a dizzying pace and then somehow got his hands on her dower and Ben’s trust as well. If Papa had lived… But he hadn’t. And now she had only the boys’ guardian to help her, a man who wouldn’t answer her letters or speak to her.
“You have no need to take on my husband’s shame.” She gritted her teeth. “On the other hand, there’s the matter of your brother’s.”
His mouth turned down into a guarded frown. “He’s dishonored you?”
“Dishonored?” She blinked. Then scoffed. “Dishonored me? Fitz? No, he hasn’t dishonored me in that way.” Her hands curled into fists as she struggled for breath. “He’s been dishonorable in other ways. He’s dishonored his duty, to my sons. Fitz…Fitz is like Glanford. A…a ramshackle, cork-brained booby.”
His gaze narrowed on her, his lips firming into a white line. Indignation or anger?
At her?
She straightened her spine. Good. The stinger had hit home. He was too much the gentleman to strike her, but he’d defend his beastly brother. Didn’t she always tell her own sons to stand together?
“My brother,” he said in a tight voice, “lost his wife and newborn son. He’s not been the same since.”
And what of my boys?
She eased in a breath. “Yes. One must have an excuse.”
His eyes sparked. “He did love her. I’ve watched him struggle with the loss of a beloved spouse, just as my mother is struggling. Neither of us knows what that’s like.”
Her throat thickened again, her cheeks heating. “Touché, Mr. Lovelace.” She held his gaze, trying to master her rising anger. “However, we both know what it is to lose a parent. Surprising it might be, but my boys, like your brothers, loved their father. But they don’t have four older brothers to rely upon. They have only me, and a guardian who is a malingering shirker.”
She stepped to the side and he matched her, grasping her shoulders.
“You’re angry.” His voice shook, low and dangerous, and he tugged her into an embrace, her ear pressed to his pounding heart. “You’re not in this alone. I will help you.”
His hand smoothed along her back, stirring his words into mayhem within her. She wasn’t alone? He would help her? What was the cost? There was always a cost.
Would she mind paying it?
She lifted her head and stared up at him. “How?”
His gaze sent heat unfurling in tiny bursts along her skin, drawing her lips like a magnet.
A man has to make some effort. What does my pup of a brother know about bed sport? Lovelace had learned something over the years. He stirred her with no more than his essence and an effortless look.
It was intoxicating. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind… Oh.
His lips touched hers, and she yielded, head spinning, nerves heating and firing, heart pounding out of her chest. She bumped the stone wall, and he spun them around, bracing himself there and pulling her into him.
Her fingers threaded his thick hair and knocked off his hat, while she drowned in the feel of his hands sliding under her cloak, over her back, her breasts, her bottom. Pleasure flooded her, heady and potent, like nothing she’d ever felt before.
She heard herself moan, and he lifted his head.
“Sophie?” He whispered the question, his eyes dark as midnight.
She blinked, still befuddled. What was he asking?
The corner of his lip quirked, and he found a spot on her neck. His warm kiss sent shivers through her.
“Yes,” she said. Yes, yes, yes. Don’t stop.
Eyes glittering, he smiled and drew her impossibly, close, their hearts beating together. Abandoning her lips, he dropped kisses along her cheek, paused to savor her neck and moved on to the top of her bodice.
Her hand traveled over his wide shoulders and firm chest and down to his trousers until she felt the hard length of him.
And he froze.
“Shhh,” George said, more to his own pounding heart than to Lady Glanford. He’d heard a noise. They must take this somewhere more private.
Her bedchamber or his? She had a maid—so, his. Could they get past the gauntlet of family and servants? Could they stay there all night without being discovered?
A sound drifted again through the dense air: crunching footsteps, giggling, boys’ voices.
Sophie lifted her head and looked over her shoulder. “Oh dear.”
Gad, if the boys had discovered them… “We’re well-hidden,” he murmured.
She nodded and looked away. “I…I shouldn’t have allowed that. Not that you seemed to have minded.”
“Nor you, Sophie. May I call you that?”
She lifted a shoulder. “That was…well, I thank you, but we mustn’t go down this path again, Mr. Lovelace.”
“Call me George. You call my brother by his Christian name.”
“Only because he visited Glanford so often. I…I have to think of the boys.”
They would go down this path again. He’d make certain of it.
He set her back from him, straightened her bonnet and returned to the lane to fetch his own hat.
A hard mass of snow smacked his cheek like an icy cudgel and he heard Sophie’s gasp.
“Get back, Sophie.” He clamped his hat on. “Boys. Let Lady Glanford pass in peace.”
Loud giggling drifted through the dense air. Snow pelted his forehead knocking his hat askew.
Sophie’s cloak brushed him in passing. She ducked, scooping up great handfuls of snow. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she shouted.
A blizzard exploded against her red cloak. She launched her volleys in rapid succession, and a shriek pierced the air.
“You rapscallions won’t win this,” she taunted.
Another snowball struck the side of her head, and she gasped, laughing.
“Let the lady pass.” George swooped her behind a bush. “I’ve spotted four of them. I fear my brothers are corrupting your sons.”
“Nonsense.” She righted herself and scooped up more snow. “Artie and Ben love a good snowball fight. Come, George. We shall make a good team.”
He and Sophie, a team?
He laughed. “You’ll regret this, boys.”
“We won. We beat you, Mama.” Ben grinned as Sophie mopped his wet head.
“Four against two,” James said. “We were bound to win.”
George caught the twinkle in Sophie’s eye.
Like the others, she’d shed her wet cape and boots at the kitchen entrance. Her damp skirts clung enticingly, and locks of hair tumbled around her shoulders.
“We shall have a rematch,” George said. “But not today. It’s time for your dinner, and Lady Glanford is soaked to the bone.”
“I’m only a little damp,” she said. “As are you. Please go on up, Mr. Lovelace.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
She pulled a face at him. “A rematch is a fine idea, boys. We’ll ask your sisters and Charlotte and Mary to join in.”
That launched a debate about uneven teams, interrupted by the appearance of two nursery maids, who escorted the boys in a noisy cavalcade up the backstairs.
Sophie would have gone with them, but he pulled her aside. “We didn’t finish our conversation before the battle.”
Her cheeks flamed. “Best that we say no more on the subject, Mr. Lovelace.”
He glanced toward the servants’ hall. They were quite out of view. “George. And it’s not a conversation requiring words.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You are speaking of criminal conversation?”
“Of course not. Neither of us is married.”
A long moment ensued while she drew herself up and cloaked herself with icy composure. As the moment stretched, his spirits rose.
Her shoulders sagged and she let out a long breath. “No. There must be no distracting entanglements.”
She turned away, and he hurried after her. This wasn’t over. He’d only begun the siege. If she traveled to London, he’d find a way. If she returned to Lancashire, well, even better.
In the entry hall, they met the butler on his way to answer the front door.
“Visitors?” Sophie halted and patted her hair. “I look a fright. I’ll go back and make my way up by the servants’ stairs.”
He drew her aside into an alcove. “Nonsense. You look beautiful. Full of life. A countess lively enough to engage in a snow fight.”
“You’re talking flummery, Mr. Lovelace.”
“Call me ‘George’.”
“I only hope I don’t embarrass your mother with this caller.”
The man Biggs ushered in was a stranger. Of medium height and sturdy build, he handed a footman his caped greatcoat and beaver hat and gave orders about his trunk.
George approached and greeted him.
“Lord Loughton?” His gaze slid over the damp coats and trousers and down to his wet stocking-feet, then shifted to Sophie. He blinked, and frowned.
“No sir, I’m George Lovelace, Lord Loughton’s brother. And you are…?”
“Beg pardon.” He extended his hand. “I’m Cartwright, Charlotte’s father. Lady Loughton offered me hospitality, should I be able to get away for the Yuletide.”
