A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 11
“We are decorating the house for Christmas.” She resisted rolling her eyes at how ridiculous she sounded stating the obvious. Feeling like an utter fool, she started to climb down from the ladder.
Suddenly, he was there. “Allow me to offer my assistance, Lady Catherine?”
Her heart sank like a stone. What she wouldn’t give to hear him call her Kitty. At least then she would have a better sense of his feelings toward her, if only it weren’t so inappropriate. Still, when he offered his hand, she accepted, her heart jolting and her chest pounding in a disturbing way that left her weak-kneed. But she wasn’t quite done with the mantel and let go.
She tore her gaze from his face, finally finding her voice. “Would you be so kind as to hand me that candelabra?”
He glanced behind him, located the item, and picked it up. As he handed it to her, he helped her guide the heavy pewter to the mantel.
Lord, he was tall. The added height of the ladder brought them face-to-face.
“A little more to the left,” she said, swallowing back the catch in her voice. “There. That’s perfect.”
He didn’t withdraw his hand from hers. “I assume you shall need to arrange the other side, as well?”
Ambrose broke into motion. “Meg and I will arrange the other side.” He directed Meg back to her stool and lifted her into the air, laughing.
“Oh!” Meg cried as he placed her there.
Within moments, the decorations on the mantel were evenly distributed and Meg’s feet safely restored to the Axminster carpet. Laughter ensued, the sound a wonderful addition to the room. Kitty’s heart caught in her throat.
“I’ve been commissioned to relay a message to you,” he said in a whisper, “from the children at Field Lane.”
Her voice broke. “What message?”
“They’ve asked me to discover when you’ll be coming back.” His voice was thick and unsteady, as if he feared the answer she’d provide.
Ridiculous man. As if anyone could keep her away.
“Tell them . . .” She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “Tell them I will do everything in my power to visit Field Lane as soon as possible.”
“As you wish.” A satisfied light illuminated his eyes, and then he bowed his head. “I’m sure they eagerly await your return.”
Bart’s words wrapped around her like a blanket. “I dared not believe you would ever leave London,” she said, “especially this time of year.”
His eyes darkened. He knitted his brows, making her want to run her fingers along the furrowed lines and ease his cares. “I cannot fault that line of thinking. In all honesty, my being here also amazes me.”
“How so?” she asked, thoroughly intrigued.
Ambrose cleared his throat. “Come along, Kitty.” He glanced at Meg, who was happily giggling beside him. “We have much to do before our guests arrive.”
Bart stiffened. “Of course.”
At the thought of leaving him, her voice drifted into a hushed whisper. “If you’ll excuse me, my brother is correct.” Kitty started to climb the rest of the way down the ladder.
“Allow me.” Bart placed his hands under her arms to help her down before she could object.
Any protest she might have voiced vaporized in the fraction of time it took for her body to slide sensually against his. A rippling heat shot from her head to her toes, and she fought the audible sigh that, to her shock and bewilderment, escaped her. Breathlessly, she added, “Thank you,” as her feet touched the ground.
“The pleasure is all mine.” A wicked playfulness laced his tone, something she hadn’t heard from him before.
Curious, she tilted her head back to look at him, her knees nearly giving way at his nearness. His mustache and beard had been trimmed neatly and close to his face. His blue eyes sharpened with intensity, hiding a lifetime she yearned to uncover.
She didn’t want to be parted from him, and the thought startled her. She pulled away, trying to halt her escalating heartbeat, and chattered nervously. “I am grateful for your help, Mr. Fernsby. Truly, I am. Thank you.” She turned to Ambrose. “Dinner is at four, and we still have so much to do to prepare for the festivities.”
Ambrose grabbed several garlands of evergreen. “Well, let’s get started. Bart, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave the two of you to finish up the drawing room while Meg and I decorate the banister.”
Meg looked at Bart, then at Kitty before turning a vivid scarlet. “My lord, is that wise? That wouldn’t be proper.”
“We will just be outside the door in the hall,” Ambrose clarified, then looked at his sister. “But if you prefer it, Kitty, we can remain here. However, the staircase will not get done.”
What a quandary! Why would her brother put her in this position? Ambrose had known Meg since childhood so their familiarity wasn’t frowned upon, but propriety demanded that she and Bart never be left unchaperoned. And yet that is what her brother had just proposed. Oh, this was most unusual . . . Most unusual, indeed.
Kitty patted her hair, conscious of how this might appear to the servants. Though Bart was Ambrose’s closest friend, she barely knew him, and he had never been to Berkhamstead Place before. Ambrose knew how things were done in Society.
“Thank you for considering my reputation, Meg,” Kitty supplied. “But the morning is quickly slipping away. If we work together, four shall prove more efficient than two.”
“Very well,” Meg agreed. “I’m still not convinced—”
“I can call for Hatfield, if you desire,” Ambrose cut in.
What was he up to? He knew Hatfield was overseeing the arrangements for their party. Did her brother expect her to deny Meg’s good fortune? If decorating the halls for Christmas allowed Meg and Ambrose time alone together—the very thing Meg craved—surely, she must be a party to it. After all, that is what friends were for.
Kitty shook her head. “That won’t be necessary, Ambrose. Hatfield is otherwise engaged.”
Ambrose exchanged a smile with Kitty, then placed Meg’s arm through his. “If you’ll excuse us, we must add holly to cheer the halls.”
Meg stared happily at Ambrose as he guided them out of the parlor.
Kitty brushed a wisp of hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “Where shall we start?”
“If you are uncomfortable being alone with me, just say so.” The reservation in Bart’s tone immediately took her by surprise. “I promise not to be offended.”
“No.” She shook her head, then nodded. “You are most welcome here.” She glanced up at him and smiled. “I am happy you agreed to come to Berkhamstead Place at last. My brother must be over the moon.”
She grabbed several gilded apples and moved toward the Tannenbaum, which stood on a table in the corner by the hearth. She had to put a bit of distance between them.
In a trice, he was next to her, however. She handed him a gilded apple.
“What am I to do with this?” he asked. Their bare fingers briefly touched, and unbidden heat scorched her cheeks.
“You place it on the tree like so.” She draped the ornament on a branch, stepped back, and looked at him expectantly as he mimicked her motions. “Forgive me for asking. I know you said you don’t enjoy Christmas, but is this the first Tannenbaum you’ve ever seen?”
Slowly, seductively, his gaze slid from the tapered branches to her face. “I’ve read the Queen has a fir for each of her children at the palace and that Prince Albert brought the tradition here from Germany a few years ago. The papers are wrong, of course.”
“How so?” she asked.
“Ah,” he said, raising a finger. “Few know that Queen Charlotte set up a branch every Christmas for her children.” His smile faltered. “As for me, I’ve never encountered such a spectacle until now.”
She fought to access his unreadable features, her heart hitching. “Well, I am grateful I’m here to experience this first with you.”
“Are you?” he asked huskily.
A tingle began in the center of her stomach as he picked up two silver cornucopias, then handed one to her. Her heart danced with excitement, the kind she only felt when she was with Bart. “I am,” she confirmed.
Careful not to ruin the moment, Kitty wisely held her tongue as they adorned the tree. Finally, unable to withhold her joy, she stood back and glanced at Bart, sighing with delight. “I ask you, have you ever seen anything so magnificent in your life?”
Unspoken pain was alive and glowing in his eyes as he gazed at her. “Never.”
Her heart pounded, and the urge to learn more about this man ran stronger than her good sense. “May I ask—” She shook her head, her skin prickling with unease. “Never mind.”
He tilted his head in question. “I’d be happy to provide you with any information you want to know, Lady Catherine.”
Kitty. My name is Kitty.
Tormented by conflicting emotions, she didn’t dare correct him, not yet. “When was the last time you celebrated Christmas, Mr. Fernsby?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Eighteen years ago.”
Her mouth dropped open, and an overwhelming sadness misted her eyes. She chose her words carefully. “You were just a boy back then.”
“Ten years old,” he said.
Her throat constricted. If something had happened to ruin Bart’s impression of Christmas at such a young age, no wonder he found it so distasteful.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.” She busied herself rearranging a tinsel tassel, then moved to the decorating table where the rest of the ornaments waited to be placed. “I cannot wait to see how brilliant the room gets when the tapers are lit,” she said, changing the subject.
He cleared his throat suddenly. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“Yes.” The bowl of sugar-coated fruits created the only sound in the room as she set it on the sideboard. She pointed to a bundle of mistletoe and then to the entrance to the drawing room. “This needs to be hung in the doorway.” She lifted her arm and pointed. “There, if you please. You are quite tall, and I daresay it shouldn’t take you long. I, however, would need to move the ladder, and—” She stopped herself. “If you are agreeable, that is.”
Despite his feelings for Christmas, he reached for the bountiful evergreen ball. “Where exactly do you wish me to hang it?”
She followed him closely and pointed with particular care to the parlor doorway, his nearness making her head spin. “There will suffice.”
“Here?” He reached up, secured the ball, and then glanced down at her, his hands still elevated over his head. “What is it?”
“Mistletoe,” Ambrose said gleefully as he and Meg approached. “And you are standing under it . . . together.”
“What of it?” Bart asked with bewilderment.
Meg clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Kitty wanted to groan. She hadn’t planned this, though she was afraid Bart might think she had.
“Mistletoe holds mystical powers, my friend,” Ambrose said. “If you want your good luck to continue, you must kiss the one standing under it with you.”
Bart searched her face. “A man doesn’t rely on superstition. He makes his own luck.”
“It is just a silly parlor game,” she admitted, a stab of guilt buried in her chest.
“One I greatly approve of.” Ambrose laughed. “If you do not plan to make use of the mistletoe, step aside. Meg and I will show you how it is done.”
“My lord!” Meg giggled nervously. “Is this proper?”
Ambrose puffed out his chest and guffawed. “Why not?”
Kitty pressed her hand against her mouth to hide her smile, lest anyone suspect she was overjoyed by the idea of her brother kissing her dear friend. The months she’d entertained ways to put them in the same situations were finally paying off, unbeknownst to either of them. And this couldn’t be happening any better than if she’d planned it herself. She felt certain one kiss would seal their fates.
Ambrose led Meg to the doorway. Bart took hold of Kitty’s elbow, and together, they moved farther into the room, giving Meg and Ambrose more space.
“Observe.” Ambrose’s fingers spanned Meg’s neck. He tilted her head back ever so gently until she looked up at his face. “Do I have your permission to kiss you?” he asked.
At her nod, he bent down to claim her lips.
Kitty could barely contain her joy. The moment her dear friend had yearned for had finally arrived. And as she witnessed the two people she loved most in the world share a moment of bliss, her heart swelled in her breast, hoping that one day she would find a man who’d love her just as she was.
Time felt suspended, but not for long enough. The kiss ended, and Ambrose lifted his head. He gazed down at Meg, her head still tilted up toward his, and stared speechlessly at her before stepping away.
“That is how it is done.” He cleared his throat and straightened his lapels. “Now that you see how the game is played, my friend, let us be off. We have an appointment to keep with my father and General Finch.” The general and his wife were generous donors in Berkhamstead and could prove beneficial to Bart’s endeavors in London. “They look forward to discussing the Poor Law Union and Ragged Schools.”
“Ah yes,” Bart said, briskly stepping into motion. “The primary reason for my visit has arrived.”
Kitty’s heart clenched. She understood his purpose here, but for one moment, a spark of something altogether wicked and rewarding had reflected in his stare, making her wish he were present for another reason—herself. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? His mission was to locate funding for Field Lane, among other ventures.
“You will find Papa and General Finch,” she said, “quite amenable to conversation.”
“Thank you.” Bart took her hand and bent over it, his gaze trailing a path to her face. “About the mistletoe—”
“I appreciate your help restoring it to its proper place,” she said, hoping to ease any discomfort left between them. “You’ve come a long way to help the children at Field Lane. Please, waste no more time. Go speak with Papa. Meg and I will see you at dinner.”
He appraised her silently before dipping his head and kissing her hand, filling her with commanding heat. “Until dinner, then.” He turned to go, taking his warmth with him.
“Come along, old chap,” Ambrose said jovially. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
After they departed, Meg rushed to Kitty and grasped both of her hands, eyes wide. “Tell me that I didn’t dream that your brother just kissed me.”
“No, my sweet Meg.” She giggled and squeezed Meg’s hands. “That kiss was very real.”
Meg beamed, and her cheeks developed rosy buds. “I shall never forget it,” she said breathlessly. She gently pulled her hands out of Kitty’s grasp and placed one over her heart and one over her mouth. “Oh, to think of it!” She shot Kitty a mischievous glance. “I do not believe I shall ever wash my mouth again.”
Kitty’s nose crinkled in disgust. Her friend took enthusiasm too far. “I do not think that’s a good idea.”
Meg’s lips formed an O before she gave way to laughter. “And what of you, my dearest Kitty? Do you wish Mr. Fernsby had kissed you under the mistletoe?”
A wretched pang seized Kitty’s heart. “That would be silly, wouldn’t it? Things with myself and Mr. Fernsby are not as they are between you and Ambrose. You’ve known each other almost all of your lives. We . . . well, we hardly know each other.” Though each and every moment spent with Bart showed more and more of his character. What she had gleaned so far had not been a disappointment.
She turned to the table, busying herself with the decorations still waiting to be placed here and there. No matter what excuses she offered, an ache filled her chest. “Besides, he didn’t even know what mistletoe was for.”
“Kitty,” Meg said, frowning as she drew up alongside her.
She set a cornucopia down and gave Meg her full attention. “Yes?”
“Most people know what mistletoe is.” Meg leaned closer, conspiratorially. “Just because Mr. Fernsby doesn’t like Christmas, doesn’t mean he is ignorant of such things.”
She swiveled around slowly, a desire to defend Bart besetting her fiercely. “Mr. Fernsby is a complicated man,” she said. “I think it is more than disliking Christmas. I think something horrible happened to him as a child at Christmas.”
“How sad, and so very strange.” Meg frowned, tracing a finger over her chin. “Do you recall how he reacted to you singing Christmas music for the children?”
“Music is not for everyone,” she acknowledged. “It touches the heart, awakens unbidden thoughts and memories, washing over a person with lethal intensity.”
Is it possible that’s what happened to Bart?
Goodness, no! Had she been a party to causing him pain? She would have never done so willingly. “I wonder—”
“Do you not hear yourself? Ever ready with an excuse for his behavior?” Meg grabbed a baked ornament and placed it on the tree. “Is it possible you’ve developed feelings for him?”
“I have not.” She hated the lie as soon as it left her mouth. “I respect him. I think highly of him. I find him fascinating. I—”
“Ah.” Meg tented her hands and put them to her lips with a sigh. “You do like him!”
Was it true? Shivers of delight shot through her. Kitty hugged herself.
“I admit he’s a bit like Mr. Scrooge,” Meg went on, “but if you do like him, I support you fully, Kitty. You know I do.”
“He’s a good man, Meg,” she insisted. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
“Yes. I have.” She closed the distance between them and clasped Kitty’s hands. “And you needn’t worry, Kitty. Ambrose wouldn’t have invested years of friendship or invited him here, otherwise.”
“Yes, of course.” Her whole being vibrated with relief. “Ambrose is a good judge of character.”
She felt as if she were floating on air when Meg squeezed her hands. “This will be a wonderful Christmas, Kitty. You shall see.”
