Elisabeth Fairchild (5 page)

He did not want marriage at the moment, did he? What he wanted was simple, innocent,
a matter of the moment—a soft, frankincense-scented mistletoe kiss, because she thought
it a shame to cut life short. Christmas for his lips. Was it too much to hope for?
Too much to ask of life? She had to pass him, his arms full of greenery, hers full
of mistletoe.

She stopped as she came into his shadow’s shelter. Deep shone the light in the mystery
of her eyes, soft the look of her mouth. She brushed a straying lock out of her lashes,
the slender grace of her wrist entrancing. “Do you suffer a broken heart, my lord?”

The question shocked him, stopped him. How could she know? He looked for awareness
in her cool, gray eyes, for pity. What he found was understanding.

He asked warily—guessing. “As do you?”

She nodded. The braided weave of her hair caught the light, the sheen like satin.

“Is there no mending it?” she asked quietly, the golden fan of lowered lashes drawing
him in, though he did not know for the moment whose heart she referred to.

“Care to try?” Mistletoe tangling with yew, he leaned closer. No more than a breath
separated them, the bite of evergreens, the elusive musk of frankincense. His heart
thundered. Expectation took his breath away.

Her cheek brushed his. Her lips were within a hair’s breadth of his ear, as she said
quiet but firm, “I would warn you, my lord. I will not be seduced. It disagrees with
me as much as marriage did.”

Head high, completely in control of herself and the situation, she left him standing
there, stunned, heart thundering, pulse at the gallop.

Marriage? She had been married?

What could he do but follow? What could he do but wonder what she meant. Had she been
jilted? Widowed? How many ways could a heart be broken? Was he in error calling her
Miss
Walcott?

Curiosity and empathy consumed him. He found himself suddenly filled with a desire
to mend her broken heart. His Christmas gift to her, he decided, his last chivalrous
act, a mended heart from a man with a broken heart who intended to break the heart
of the woman he would marry—poetic irony. His spirits sank as soon as his decision
was made, for how could a dying man restore faith in the living when he had none himself?

Chapter Six

“We must make hearts.”

He caught up to her in the entryway, trailing greenery, unsure how his suggestion
would be met.

“Hearts?” She turned to stare at him, the look calm and enigmatic. “Man has the power
to break hearts, I know,” she said smoothly. “But make them?”

“Paper hearts.”

Belinda Walcott tipped her head, her heart-shaped chin distracting his attention all
over again.

The staff paused, looked up from their work.

“Hearts, my lord?”

“Red and white hearts.” His enthusiasm grew. “My mother’s mother used to make them
when I was a lad. A Danish Yuletide tradition, she told me. A bit of bright color
in the darkest hours of winter.”

Bolton nodded. “I remember, my lord. She spoke of sunless melancholy days in winter.
We shall require paper, Mr. Scott. From the master’s study. And scissors, Megan, if
you please, from my worktable.”

They ran to do his bidding, and arranged the paper before Copeland. It took a moment’s
thinking, back to a time when James had been alive, when three young brothers had
sat together with scissors and paper and pots of glue; before the memory of his hands
took over, and with a curving snip of the scissors there were suddenly two perfectly
matching hearts in his hands, one white, one red.

“How did you do that, then?” Maddie peered at them through her lenses. “A bit of magic?”

“Fold two sheets of paper like this,” he said. “One white and one red. Then cut your
hearts at the same time, so that they are exactly the same size and shape.”

With a rustling of paper and a noisy passing of the scissors, they followed his lead.

“Look at that!”

“If only it were that easy to match the hearts of men and women,” Belinda Walcott
murmured.

“Quite so.” He shot her a mischievous look. “Now I mean to weave them together, just
as two perfectly matched hearts ought to be.”

The footmen chuckled.

“Easier said than done, that,” Browne grumbled.

Copeland showed them how to snip one side of each heart into strips, the red vertically,
the white horizontally, and then, careful not to tear, he wove them together.

“Like basket weaving,” Megan decided.

“Two hearts inextricably bound.” Copeland won a smile from Belinda Walcott, who seemed
to prefer watching the process rather than taking up scissors or paper.

“String,” Bolton said. “We require string to hang our hearts.”

“Carry on.” Copeland smiled to see heads bent over hearts as they snipped and wove
paper. “I’ve some in my desk.”

He headed for his office, pleased to find that Miss Walcott followed as he rifled
through desk drawers.

“And so two broken hearts are mended in weaving them together?” She bent over the
paper heart on his blotter.

He looked into beautiful eyes, storm-tossed seas there, and clouded skies, and a darkness
that drew him ever deeper. He must plumb that darkness, though it left him dizzy,
light-headed, his heart thumping loudly in the sudden quiet between them.

His hand passed over the vial of tonic in his desk drawer. “Would that it were easy
to mend broken hearts.”

“Would that it was,” she said softly.

“Can you think of the perfect place for this heart?” The words came out more suggestively
than intended. He cleared his throat. “A dark place that needs brightening?”

Her lips twitched. “I know exactly the spot,” she said.

***

They used up all the red and white paper found, folded, cut, and woven.

Hearts hung everywhere. Cheerful chains enlivened the garlands and greenery, and dangled
from mistletoe balls in every doorway. It was not until later, much later, that Copeland
discovered where Belinda Walcott had hung that first red-and-white heart, the one
he gave her—the dark place that needed brightening.

Chapter Seven

That a man with a heart that was breaking should take such joy in weaving together
paper ones touched Belinda’s darker memories and made them ache anew. It surprised
her, disconcerted her, generated fresh anger, fresh resolve. She had believed herself
beyond tender emotion.

How could she be so stupid? She must not succumb to another endearing Copeland just
because he wore his heart on his sleeve—entirely unlike his kinsman.

Decorating finished, the servants returned to their work, voices cheerful, cheeks
pink with pleasure, mistletoe kisses shared in every doorway.

No kisses for Lord Copeland. None for Belinda Walcott.

She felt keenly the lost potential, lost chances. Too well she knew the winking out
of candles, the fading of stars. Of hope. She might have made opportunity work for
her—placed herself in a doorway in the same moment he passed through. And yet she
refrained, confused by the contradiction of desire and intent. She yearned too much
for touch. Such thoughts ill suited her purpose, her cool need to right a great wrong.

The Great Hall stood silently merry—doorways draped with mistletoe, picture frames
and mantel crowned as in years past. Swags of greenery topped the linen-fold paneling.
Lighthearted whimsy bedecked the heads and shoulders of the motionless figures in
the carved stone screen. She could not smile back at them.

Candles stood ready to bring golden light to every corner. The house smelled of roasting
capons, and baking bread, and something sugary with cinnamon and cloves. She could
taste memory in such a smell, the bitter and the sweet of Christmas—a time of past
kisses and mistletoe. She had given herself then, heart and soul, wanting love, pursuing
it.

She remembered kisses fondly. The touch of lips held no evil, just the intent behind
such contact. She wanted to be kissed again, to believe in love. She wanted to laugh
and be giddy. Foolish desire. Love had misled and deceived her. She had forever abandoned
kisses.

She remembered the warmth of embraces, the sound of gentle laughter in her ears, the
intensity of feelings roused. Desire flooded her, chilling her, forcing her to refocus
her intent. A bitter awakening had closed in around her—a suffocating darkness that
cut short her breath, and weighed heavy on her heart.

Like Copeland, with his failing heart—a paper heart—she had chosen a flimsy, paper-hearted
man, deceived by whispered words of love, and broken promises.

He had thought to kiss her—Copeland. No mistaking his intent. And she had considered
letting him. But kisses were not to be trusted, nor the heat of desire in a young
man’s eyes. One must determine first what was desired, and why. Motivation and intent
were key. She had learned the hard way.

She remembered the welling joy, the breathless feeling of fresh adventure that had
run like wine to her head. She had run toward the new year, her new life, open armed,
laughing, mistletoe in hand. Blind. Truth played hide-and-seek.

“You intrigue me, Miss Walcott.” Her host’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

Bright-eyed with curiosity—merry-mouthed, he stood arms crossed, shutting her out,
while the smile that played across his impish mouth drew her in. He believed she kept
no secrets from the keenness of his gaze. He seemed to recognize within her only that
which was worthy and charming.

Belinda thrilled to be met with such a look.

How wrong he was, the deceived become the deceiver. He did not know her at all.

“In what way do I intrigue, my lord?” She must know.

His smile warmed, as if he meant to tell her, “In every way, Miss Walcott”—as if he
found her attractive, interesting, even seductive. She must smile back at him in mutual
appreciation, for with such a display of interest, he rekindled in her embers long
gone cold, the embers of that long-ago Christmas when her heart was young and completely
in love with the wrong man.

He paused, dark eyes searching, dimples playing. “How do you know marriage does not
agree with you?”

His manner was light, playful, as if he meant to toy with her, and hoped she might
respond in kind. She laughed, willing to indulge him. “Love, life, and men have taught
me.”

Mischief lit his gaze. “Perhaps the wrong men?”

She allowed a smile freedom. No need to lock away her sense of humor. He was boyishly
irresistible.

“I will allow that much.” Her smile hid the ache of knowing too well the Copeland
lure. A Copeland, after all, had convinced her that charming smiles and boyish mischief
were not to be trusted.

Chapter Eight

Copeland peered out of a darkened window as he walked to the dining room surrounded
by the smells and sights of Christmas. Beyond the holly-draped windowsill night fell,
and with it more snow, hushing the landscape, hiding it.

His stranded guests weighed heavy on his mind. What snowbound lanes did Henrietta,
Edgar, Marcus and David wander? What crowded inns offered them a roof, and a fire?
He felt a pang of concern for each individual—Marcus and his wife, the lads riding
in from London, chilled to the bone, and Hen—especially dear Hen, trapped in a coach
with her sister, who complained of anything damp, or wet, or cold. Edgar Hooking could
survive anything without complaint, but his wife had a great disaffection for poor
roads, crowded inns, and unaired sheets, all of which gave her sneezing fits that
drove the poor man to distraction.

Quietly, Copeland mourned the death of well-laid plans. His Christmas was a shambles,
but for Miss Walcott. She had proven an unexpectedly pleasant surprise—a Christmas
gift from the sister who could not come.

Cook had prepared for a deluge of guests. Copeland entered the dining room to find
candles, silver, and fine china gleaming; the finest linens draped a table burdened
with an overabundance of food.

The table had been set for one.

“What of my guest!” he cried out, as he stared in dismay at the beautiful table.

Finch, the underbutler, stared at him stupidly, mouth agape.

Bolton sailed through the door from his pantry, where all of the service ware was
kept, where every dish had to pass his eagle-eyed inspection. “Whatever is the matter,
my lord?”

“A second place. There must be laid a second place.”

Bolton studied the table. “But, of course, my lord. See to it, Finch.”

“Yes, Mr. Bolton.”

“My guest has not taken ill, has she?” Copeland asked.

Bolton regarded him intently. “No such message has reached me, my lord.”

“Good. You will see to it she is not forgotten again?”

Bolton looked as if he meant to utter something more, but in the end, said only, “As
you wish, my lord.”

“Thank you, Bolton.”

Finch and the fresh place setting materialized in an instant, everything neatly arranged
without a single clatter or clink by white-gloved hands before Miss Belinda Walcott
arrived, just as the musicians made the air swim with a flurry of strings. She wore
gray, to match her eyes, the gingered gold of her hair like sunlight playing on a
troubled sea.

A man might drown in the deep waters of her eyes, but Copeland clung to the lyre-backed
chair as if to a lifeline, then seated himself, wondering if the music was too much—an
untoward suggestion of romance. It felt all wrong with just the two of them to sit
at the great, long, linen-covered table.

He wondered what sort of fare Henrietta met with along the way. Meat pies or boiled
mutton in a noisy inn that reeked of stale ale and pipe tobacco?

He and his guest could not talk over the violins. What were they to talk about, anyway?
Miss Walcott seemed deliberately enigmatic in answering his questions thus far—even
elusive. What had love, life, and men taught her, to bring such a wistful sadness
to her gaze? Did he want to know? To delve? Time was precious. Would he spend it on
a stranger’s problems? Copeland wanted his family near, his friends. Henrietta. There
were moments, as he fed fork to mouth, that he wished Miss Walcott, and the dither
of emotion she stirred in him, gone.

Damn it all! He was dying! Now was not the time to flirt, to fuel interest, desire,
even a passing interest in a young woman—especially a complete stranger. And yet,
what better time to live every moment to its fullest?

She commented favorably on the food but ate sparingly; seemed, in fact, to no more
than wave her silverware above the plate a bit. The trays, her plate, went back to
the kitchens almost as full as when they arrived. He wondered if Cook would take offense,
or if his guest did not find the meal to her liking. He wondered what a music teacher
ordinarily did in the way of providing meals. Did she rely on chop houses, bakers,
and pie men for sustenance? She hadn’t much flesh on her, and so pale, almost ethereal.
The lot of a husbandless young woman, making a living at music lessons, was at best
a meager existence. She should be cleaning her plate and stuffing rolls into her pockets.

He wondered how far the salary of a music teacher could stretch, and then felt uncharitable
for his earlier peevishness. What sort of a Christmas could a young woman with no
one but herself to rely on, celebrate? Who did she number among her friends other
than her pupils, their families, and old school chums, like his dear, thoughtful sister?

What would Margaret expect of him for her friend’s comfort and entertainment? She
was a very good girl at heart, his dear Maggs. He hoped she continued to make her
less-fortunate friends feel welcome at Broomhill after he was gone. He must mention
it to Marcus, let him know that all of Maggie’s friends should be welcomed. Especially
old school chums. Especially this school chum.

How well she fit into her surroundings. She deserved better than Christmases alone,
Miss Belinda Walcott. She deserved a Season of abundance and good cheer. Just as he
did.
One last Season.

After the soup and fish courses had been taken away, and he had tucked into the main
course and several removes were removed, he beckoned Bolton again, whispered a suggestion
in his ear, and before the custard could be brought in, a place setting was arranged,
with a minimum of fuss, to his immediate left. He would make the best of a bad situation.
It was his goal at this stage in life’s game.

No time for regrets.

No time for crying over spilled milk. No time to adhere to every niggling social convention.
Carpe diem!
Why should he care what people might think, when there were none here to judge? He
would do as he wished. He would seize the day, every day, as if it were his last.

Without flourish, he rose and held out his hand. “I beg your indulgence. Will you
move for the dessert course, that we might more easily converse?”

She tilted her head to look up at him, light catching in her hair, lashes candlelit,
shadow carving clean the hollow of her cheek.

Behind her chair, Bolton stood waiting, pretending not to listen.

With an elegant inclination of her head, she rose and took Copeland’s arm. “What shall
we discuss, my lord?”

He was ready for the question, had it all worked out in his mind what he wished to
know of her—nothing to do with ghosts, or death, or dying.

“Speak to me of music, Miss Walcott,” he said. “Christmas music. Perhaps you will
be so good as to make some suggestions of what tunes I should request for our Christmas
dances.”

She smiled, so sweet the curve of her lips he wondered what sort of symphony a composer
might write to capture some hint of the feelings she stirred.
Strings
, he thought. Yes, violins might begin to offer some sense of her, sweet, and high,
and achingly sad—resonating.

“Happily,” she said. “Though I do not know if I will think of any that have not already
occurred to you.”

It does not matter
, he thought. Very little really mattered when one came right down to it. Only the
moment, this moment, and holding on to the way her smile raced through him like the
dizziness of too much wine, leaving him breathless and bothered in such a wonderful
way he gladly offered her what breath was left in him. The musicians were playing
a familiar reel. “Do you like to dance, Miss Walcott?” he blurted.

The questioning eyebrows rose. “I do,” she said, her manner formal, almost ceremonial.

Why did he ask?
Oh, Henrietta! Why do I ask?

“Excellent!” He smoothly guided her to her chair. “When my party arrives, you will
not want for partners.”

“Ah.” She tipped her head as she looked at him, brow furrowed, as if the suggestion
was not what she had expected, or wanted to hear. She sank slowly into her chair.

“We shall have, of course, the foxhunter’s reel, ‘Good King Wenceslas,’ and ‘The Wexford
Carol.’” He ticked the songs on his fingers, wondering what stimulated such a confused
expression, wondering if she had thought he meant to ask her to dance on the spot,
before the custard was served.

He imagined Henrietta’s frown of concern at such a notion, and beside her, her sister,
with equally glowering countenance. Like ghosts they hovered in his imagination. Not
that Henrietta did not like to dance. She was, indeed, quite light on her feet. But
there was a time and place for everything, dictated by social expectation and decorum,
and Henrietta strictly adhered to such dictum. It was one of the things he counted
on in her, and admired.

Miss Walcott did not frown at all. In fact, a mischievous light gleamed in her eyes.
“You must not forget ‘Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day,’” she said.

Seize the moment. There are none here to frown.

His conscience seemed to be in an argumentative mood.

How can you ask any woman to dance with a dead man?

With a laugh he rose, silencing the insidious voice of his own doubt by bowing with
old-fashioned formality, holding out his hand to her, and asking—for of course he
had meant to ask her all along—“Would you care to dance, Miss Walcott, as the custard
is served?”

She could not help but smile at his suggestion.

It was laughable, after all, but now that he stood ready for her “yes,” hand out,
he could not bear to hear her answer in any other way. “There is no time like the
present, is there?”

She studied him, rose-gold hair glowing in the candlelight, rose-petal lips slightly
parted. “There is no time like the present,” she agreed with a nod. “Every instant
is unique, and completely unassailable once it is past.” A smile banished the seriousness
of her expression. “I would be happy to dance with you, my lord.”

***

He bowed, dark curls falling boyishly into mischievous dark eyes, dimples peeping.

He took her hand as formally as any courtier of old, as formally as another Copeland
had once taken her hand.

Such small contact, the touch of a man’s hand, and yet so rare a part was it of Belinda’s
existence that it ran through her like lightning, a fizzing sort of joining that threatened
to turn her head. Again.

No. Never again!

And yet she rose from her chair with the feeling she was a girl, limbs supple, sense
of adventure keen. His hand on hers was firm, warm. He led her confidently into the
steps. She could not help but think of the last time she had danced at Broomhill—the
giddy, elated whirl of it, like a leaf in the wind, a falling, dancing leaf. It had
been too long since she had abandoned herself to music and movement, and a man’s touch.

She tensed, staring at his feet, at hers, awkward at first, a bit fluttery. The hand
at her waist guided her. He was a superb partner. Every move, gesture and shifting
glance told her she might depend upon his lead. Their movements were as one, magical.
The stately pattern he led, around the dining table, and between the startled footmen
as they cleared the table, was sheer delight, her body fluid, her movements certain,
as if they had danced together for years, as if they were meant to gracefully dodge
the pop-eyed maid as she carried in the custard, and the butler as he bore aloft a
silver tray of crystal decanters without the slightest indication of alarm.

Their every step and twirl and clasping of hands seemed preordained. She was as light
as thistledown, graceful as a dust mote in a sunbeam, a snowflake caught on his sleeve.
The music, too, seemed extraordinarily well timed. It ended just as they reached her
chair in their third revolution of the room. He saw her seated with a formal flourish.

He sank into his chair beside her with a breathless grin, wayward hair curling provocatively
upon his forehead, drawing her gaze directly into the twinkling mischief of dark eyes
as he tackled his cup of custard with boyish enthusiasm. “You are an excellent dancer.”

“Thank you.” Her head whirled, her pulse raced in a manner most invigorating and entirely
unexpected. She had forgotten the joy of dancing. He had given that back to her. “Do
you often dance between courses?”

“You are my first.” His dimples flashed, his gaze undeniably flirtatious. “We must
do it again sometime.”

He spooned the sweet custard between smiling lips.

If he only knew the dance I mean to lead him.

She sent him a provocative smile. “Indeed.” She licked the taste of vanilla and nutmeg
from her spoon. “I should like that.”