Christmas Beau

Chapter 11

It did not feel particularly cold. There was no wind and the sky was clear and star-studded. They strolled rather than walked, by tacit consent letting everyone else outstrip them before they were even halfway home.

"Aunt Edith and Mrs. Webber will see to it that your son is put to bed," he said. "He will probably not even wake up."

"They very rarely have late nights," she said, "and the past two days have been unusually active and exciting ones for them."

They strolled on in silence.

"It is Christmas Day," she said. "It always feels quite different from any other day, does it not?"

"Yes." He breathed in deeply. "Even when one cannot smell the goose and the mince pies and the pudding. Happy Christmas, Judith."

"Happy Christmas, my lord," she said.

"Still not Max?" he asked.

She said nothing.

He was close to reaching his goal, he thought. He could sense it. She would not call him by his given name, perhaps, but there was none of the stiffness of manner, the anger even, that he had felt in her in London. She had accepted his escort to and from church without question, and he had not had to use any effort of will to force her to slow her steps on the return walk. The others had disappeared already around a distant bend in the tree-lined driveway.

Perhaps he would not even need the full week. There was triumph in the thought. She had resisted him eight years before, but then of course he had been a great deal more shy and inexperienced with women in those days. She would not resist him now. His revenge, he sensed, could be quite total and very sweet.

Sweet? Would it be? Satisfying, perhaps. But sweet? His triumph was tempered by the fact that he had just come from church on Christmas Eve and been filled with the holiness and joy of the season. He had wished the rector and all his neighbors a happy Christmas. He had just wished Judith a happy Christmas.

He wished suddenly that it were not Christmas. And he wished that his thoughts had not been confused by what he had heard that afternoon. He was so close to putting right a wrong that had haunted him for eight years. So close to getting even.

And another thought kept intruding. If he was so close to reaching his goal, then surely it would be possible to use his triumph in another way. It would be possible to secure a lifetime of happiness for himself.

For he had made a discovery that afternoon-or rather he had admitted something that had been nagging at his consciousness for some time, perhaps ever since he had set eyes on her at Nora's soirйe: He was still in love with her. The love that he had converted to hatred so long ago was still love at its core.

And yet the hatred was still there too. And the hurt. And the inability to trust again. He had trusted utterly before and been hurt almost beyond bearing. He would be a fool to trust her again-the same woman. He would be a fool.

Around the next bend in the driveway the house would come into sight.

Through all the years of her gradually deteriorating marriage, Judith thought, only one conviction had sustained her. Sometimes it had been almost unbearable to have Andrew at home, frequently drunk, often abusive, though he had never struck her. And yet it had been equally unbearable to be without him for weeks or months at a time, knowing mat he was living a life of debauchery, that he would be coming back to her after being with she knew not how many other women.

Only one thought had consoled her. If she had not married

Andrew, she had thought, she would have been forced to marry the Viscount Evendon, later the Marquess of Denbigh. And that would have been a thousand times worse.

She walked beside him along the driveway to his house, their boots crunching the snow beneath them, their breath clouds of vapor ahead of them, and held to his arm. And she was aware of him with every ounce of her being. And aware of the fact that they were alone, that they had allowed everyone else to get so far ahead that they were out of sight and earshot already.

If she had not been so naive at the age of eighteen, she thought, and had not misunderstood her physical reaction to him; if there had not been that stupid wager and Andrew had not turned his practiced charm on her; if several things had been different, would she have fallen in love with the viscount then? Or would she at least have accepted the marriage that her parents had arranged, prepared to like her husband and to grow to love him?

They were foolish questions. Things had happened as they had and there was no point in indulging in what-ifs.

His footsteps lagged even further as they approached the bend in the driveway and hers followed suit. She could feel the blood pulsing through her whole body, even her hands.

She turned to him when he stopped walking and fixed her eyes on the top button of his greatcoat as his gloved hands cupped her face. She lifted her hands and rested her palms against his chest. And she lifted her eyes to his and then closed them as his mouth came down to cover hers.

He was kissing her as he had the day before beneath the mistletoe, his lips slightly parted, the pressure light. And the wonder of it filled her. He was the man she had feared for so many years. She tried to remember the impression she had always had of his face until recent days-narrow, harsh-featured, the eyes steel-gray, the lips thin. It was he who was kissing her, she told herself.

The moan she heard must have come from her, she realized, startled. And then one of his arms came about her shoulders and the other about her waist, and he drew her against him. She sucked in her breath.

He must not overdo it, he told himself. He must not move too fast, must not frighten her. He must be patient, take it gradually. He wanted total victory, not a partial one. His motives might be confused, but he knew that he wanted victory.

And yet she tasted so sweet. And so warm. He set his arms about her and drew her against him and fought to keep his control. She was soft and yielding and shapely even through the thicknesses of his greatcoat and her cloak.

He had waited so long. So very long. An eternity. And here she was at last in his arms. He could not force his mind past the wonder of it. She was in his arms after an eternity of emptiness.

He lifted his head and looked down into her eyes in the darkness. They looked directly back into his and he read nothing there but acceptance and surrender. He was not going too far. She wanted this too. And in the faint light of the moon and stars through the branches of the trees she looked more beautiful than ever.

"Judith," he said.

"Yes," she whispered.

He did not know what his hands were doing until he looked down to see them undoing the buttons on her cloak. He left only the top one closed. And then he was undoing the buttons of his greatcoat, opening it, opening her cloak, and drawing her against him, wrapping his coat about the two of them.

And he brought his mouth down to hers again, open, demanding response, pushing at her lips with his tongue, exploring the warm soft flesh behind them when they trembled apart, demanding more, and sliding his tongue deep inside when she opened her mouth.

He wanted her. God, he wanted her. He loved her. He slid one hand down her back, drew her hard against him, chafed at the barrier of clothing between them, wanted to be inside her.

He wanted her. He had always wanted her. And he had waited so long. Judith.

"Judith."

She had never felt physical desire before. She realized that

now. She had been in love before, had had stars in her eyes, had been eager for the intimacy of marriage, had tolerated it while she had been in love. But she had never felt desire.

Never this bone-weakening need to be possessed. Never this aching desire to give herself. Her hands must have unbuttoned his evening coat and waistcoat, she thought dimly. They were at his back, beneath both, against the heat of his silk shirt.

She heard her name as his mouth moved from hers to her throat. He was holding her to him so that she could be in no doubt that his desire matched her own.

"Yes," she said. "Yes."

And then the side of her face was against the folds of his neckcloth, one of his hands holding it there, his fingers threaded in her hair. Where was her bonnet? she wondered vaguely. His other arm was about her waist and he was rocking her against him. She could hear the thumping of his heart. And she could feel him drawing deep and even breaths, imposing calm on himself. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax.

God, he thought, it was not easy. It was not easy to love the woman one hated. He held her, his eyes closed, and rested one cheek against the top of her head.

Judith. Perhaps he should not blame her. Not after what he had learned that afternoon. She had been very young, just a green girl in the hands of a rake intent on winning a wager. Perhaps he should forget, let go of all the hatred that had been in him so long that it was almost a part of him.

But how would he ever be able to trust her again? Even at the age of eighteen she should have behaved better than she had. She should not have sent her father. She should have told him herself. He did not believe he could ever forgive her for that even if he could excuse her for the rest.

"You should know better than to walk alone with a man on a dark driveway at night," he said.

"Yes." Her voice was low. She did not sound worried or sorry.

"You never know what might happen to you," he said.

"No."

“Judith.'' He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “Call me by name. Just once. Please?"

"Max," she said softly. She lifted her head and smiled up at him a little uncertainly.

. He set his hands at her waist and took a step back from her. He bent down and picked up her bonnet from the driveway, shook the snow from it, and handed it to her. And he buttoned up his greatcoat and drew his gloves from his pockets-he could not remember removing them or putting them there.

"I have been wanting to do that for a long time," he said.

She finished doing up her cloak and looked up at him. "I have wanted it too," she said. A smile touched her lips. "Max."

He leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips once more. "My aunts will be imagining that we have been caught and devoured by wolves if we do not appear soon," he said, and he held out a hand for hers.

A minute later they had rounded the bend in the driveway and were in sight of the house. They both chuckled at the surprising sight of a few of the older children with Spencer Cornwell, and Amy too, engaged in a fierce snowball fight close to the front doors.

Late nights seemed to make no difference to children on Christmas morning. There was always far too much excitement ahead to allow them to sleep until a decent hour.

Judith tried to pretend mat she was dreaming and burrowed her head beneam the blankets and pillows. But the chill little body that wormed its way beneath the covers next to her and laid cold feet against her thighs and encircled her neck with little arms was too persistent a dream. And the larger body that launched itself on top of her refused to be ignored.

"Wake up, Mama!" Rupert demanded.

"Are you awake, Mama?" Kate asked, kissing Judith's cheek.

She did not want to be awake. Having lain awake through much of the night reliving the evening, marveling at the wonder of it, dreaming about the consequences of it, she had

finally fallen asleep very late. And she had been having dreams that she wanted to cling to, dreams of strong arms about her and a warm mouth open over hers.

"I am now,'' she said with a sigh, and turned to wrap one arm about each child and pull them into a close hug. "What day is it? I have forgotten."

She laughed as they both answered her question, one in each ear. Of course it was. How could it be any day other than Christmas Day? There was a special feel about the day, as she had said on the way home from church the night before, something that made it different from any other day of the year.

"Oh, so it is," she said. "How silly of me to forget. What shall we do now? Go back to sleep for a while? Or shall we wash and dress and go in search of breakfast?"

She chuckled again at the chorus of protests that greeted her. Even Kate at the age of three knew very well that that was not the routine for Christmas morning.

"Presents first, Mama," Kate said, kissing her on the cheek again and looking at her with wide, pleading eyes.

"Please," Rupert added.

"Presents?" Judith frowned. "Ah, yes, presents. Now let me see, I believe there are a few here somewhere."

Rupert bounced on the bed.

"I tell you what," Judith said. "You two run along and wake Aunt Amy-gently, please-and bring her here while I see if I can find any presents."

"Silly Mama," Kate said, scrambling down from the bed. "You know where the presents are."

Judith reached out to ruffle her hair.

In truth, she thought-and felt guilty at the thought-she would have liked nothing better than to rush through washing and dressing and brushing and all the other tasks that would have to be completed before she could go downstairs to breakfast. She wanted to see him again.

She pushed her feet into a pair of slippers and drew on a dressing gown over her nightgown, then went in pursuit of the pile of parcels that were hidden at the botom of a wardrobe in her dressing room.

She still felt as if she were in something of a daze. She was a woman of twenty-six years, a widow, the mother of two children. And yet she was wildly, exuberantly, head over ears in love. Far more so, she thought with another stab of guilt, than she had ever been with Andrew.

And yet the object of her feelings was none other than the man she had jilted in order to marry Andrew. The man she had feared and disliked at the time and during all the years since until just a few days ago. Not even as long. Even as recently as two days before she had been wary of him, suspicious of his motives. There had been something about him that had made her uneasy.

She smiled to herself as she carried the parcels through to the bedroom and piled them beside the bed. It was herself she had been wary of. It had seemed just too strange to be true that she was attracted to him, that she was growing to like him and admire him, and that she was falling in love with him.

Amy had been right all along, she thought. He had been trying to fix his interest with her from the start. That was why he had arranged all those meetings and outings with her in London, and that was why he had invited her to Denbigh Park for Christmas.

He was in love with her too. If she had had any doubt, then it had been swept away the night before when he had kissed her. And afterward he had led her home, her hand in his, until they had come up to the others, and then liberally pounded her with snowballs as they joined in the battle that the others had started. He had laughed the whole time.

She loved to hear him laugh, to see his harsh features softened and made handsome.

When would he declare himself? she wondered. Today? It seemed likely. It was Christmas Day. And would she accept? She had two children whose security and happiness she must put first in her life. But he knew all about her children and was fond of them, she was sure. And they liked him and his home.

Was it possible that after all she was to be his wife? Eight years after she should have married him?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of the children, bringing Amy along with them.

"Ooh!" Kate said as she caught sight of the brightly wrapped gifts.

Rupert ran across the room and dived headlong onto the bed.

"How kind of you to invite me in," Amy said. "I have not been a part of a family gift opening for years."

Judith stared at her sister-in-law. Oh, yes, that must be true, she thought. It had always been the custom at Ammanlea for each family group to open gifts privately. But Amy had belonged to no family group. How cruel they had all been never to think of that.

"But you are an essential part of our family," Judith said. "We could not possibly begin without you."

There was a special glow about Amy, Judith thought as she handed the first parcel to Kate. And she was not convinced that Christmas morning and the gift opening could account for all of it. Amy and Mr. Cornwell had given up the snowball fight before everyone else the night before and had stood together on the steps of the house, watching the battle and laughing. His arm had been loosely about her shoulders.

Judith wondered if her sister-in-law was feeling as she was feeling that morning.

Was he at breakfast already? she wondered. Would he have left before they arrived there?

The morning was taken up almost entirely with gift giving. First the children were presented with their gifts in the morning room-books from Mrs. Harrison, balls from Mr. Cornwell, and watches from the marquess. The marquess's aunts too had something each for them: hand-knitted caps for the boys and mittens for the girls. The other guests all gave them some coins each so that Daniel declared loudly that they were all rich enough to join the ranks of the nobs.

Kate pulled at Rupert's hand until he went from the room and upstairs with her to drag down the box of Christmas bows they had made in London but not used after all. She gave one to each of the children. The two that remained she gave to the Misses Hannibal, each of whom insisted on hugging and kissing her.

"Come an' sit 'ere, nipper," Daniel said to her, "an' I'll let yer listen to my watch ticking."

The marquess smiled. If Kate were growing up in the same neighborhood as Daniel, she would have a powerful protector against all harm. The boy would probably grow into her devoted servant.

Lord Denbigh had small gifts to distribute to each of his guests after the children's excitement had begun to subside a little. He had given his aunts more precious gifts in private earlier that morning.

And after that there were the servants to call in and present with their gifts and Christmas bonuses and to serve with tea and dainties left in the kitchen by the cook and brought up by him and Nora and Judith and Miss Easton. That part of the day's ceremony had always used to be an unbearably embarrassing one for the servants as they had attempted to make conversation with their employers. Since the coming of the children, however, that had all changed.

Lily and Violet, awed to silence by their own gifts, sat on either side of Annie, one of the scullery maids, as she unwrapped hers and she smiled at them and appeared to feel quite at home even though she was in his lordship's morning room with his lordship present, standing in the middle of the room with a large silver tray in his hands.

The gift-opening was always, the marquess thought, one of the loveliest parts of Christmas. But then, every part of Christmas seemed the loveliest as it happened.

She was looking exceptionally lovely that morning, he thought, his eyes straying to Judith. She was wearing a simple wool dress of deep rose pink. Wool was flattering to a slender figure, he decided, his eyes passing over her. Slender, but very shapely too. He remembered again the feel of her in his arms the night before, when he had pushed back her cloak and drawn her inside his greatcoat and she had opened his evening coat and his waistcoat and put herself against the silk of his shirt.

Slender and shapely, warm, yielding, arched against him, making no resistance even when he had brought the lower half of her body intimately against him.

"Listen." It was Lily, looking shyly up at him, her watch held up toward him. Her eyes, gin-drugged but a few months before, were wide with Christmas.

He stooped down, put his ear obediently to the watch and listened for a few seconds.”It ticks as loudly as your heart,'' he said. "You must not forget to wind it up each night."

"Never," she whispered fervently. "Thank you."

He smiled and kissed her cheek. "Your smile is thanks enough, Lily," he said.

She turned abruptly away, suddenly anxious because she had left Violet's side for a moment.

He glanced to Judith again and caught her eye. She half smiled at him and returned her attention to his housekeeper, with whom she was conversing. It was hard to know what she was feeling. She looked remote, serene, as she had always looked when they were betrothed. Perhaps she was deliberately hiding her feelings?

As she had done then?

And what had those feelings been then? She had jilted him in order to marry a rake. She must have had no feelings for him at all. Or else her feelings must have been negative ones. Perhaps she had actively disliked him.

And now? She had responded to him with hunger the night before. But that might mean nothing. She had been a widow for longer than a year. Perhaps she was just ripe for a man's attentions. Any man's.

It was impossible to know. But her behavior this morning was warning enough of one thing. He might be in love with her again-or still in love with her-but he must never trust her again, never allow himself to hope for a future with her. For even if she was responding to his lovemaking now and would perhaps accept an offer of marriage from him, he would not be sure that it was not just loneliness for any man that drove her to accept. He would find out only after they were married, when it was too late.

She had broken his heart once. He was not going to allow it to happen again. He did not think he would be able to survive its happening again.

But for all that, he hoped that he was more to her than just any man. If he was to break her heart as she had broken his, and cause her even one fraction of the pain he had suffered, then it was important that she at least fancy herself in love with him.

Last night he had been sure. This morning he was uncertain again. But then he supposed he would always feel unsure of himself with Judith Easton.

"No, no," he said to his flustered cook. "I shall return the tea tray to the kitchen."

The children had eaten most of the food from the trays even though they had had a large breakfast. Judith took the three trays in a pile and followed the marquess with the tea tray from the room and down the back stairs to the kitchen.

She looked up at him as they set their trays down on the wide kitchen table. "The lace handkerchief is beautiful," she said. "I am sorry that I do not have a gift for you."

''Your presence here in my house is gift enough,'' he said and watched her cheeks glow with color. He laid the backs of two fingers against her jaw.

She smiled at him and he was sure again. There was a certain look in her eyes, an open and an unguarded look.

"Save some dances for me tonight," he said. "The opening set and at least one waltz?"

"Yes," she said.

There was no time to say anything else. The servants were coming back down the stairs.

But he was sure of her again and ready to move on to the final stages of his revenge, and he was wishing once more that it was not Christmas. He wanted to be happy, yet it was impossible to feel quite happy when plotting the misery of another human being. Even if it was right and just to do so. Even if she deserved it. Even if he owed it to himself to get even.

He wished he was not still in love with her. And he wished she had not told him what she had the afternoon before to shake his resolve and make him wonder if she had been quite as much to blame as he had always thought. He wished he could stop thinking. He wished that humans were not always plagued by thoughts. And by conscience.

He wished it was possible simply to love her. Simply to trust her.