'Twas the Night After Christmas (18 page)

Then belatedly he realized that he’d been left to accompany Mother into the drawing room. Bloody hell.

With a tightness in his throat, he offered her his arm. Only after she took it did he remember the last time he’d done so—at Father’s funeral. With so many eyes on him, he’d been unable to avoid it. He’d been angry about it, since the last thing he’d wanted was to escort the woman who’d abandoned him.

But now that his heart had thawed a little toward her, he realized how hard it must have been for her to lose her husband of nearly thirty years. Had she cried at the funeral? He didn’t know. He hadn’t been able to see beneath her veil.

She’d trembled, though. He remembered that. And she was trembling now, too, her small hand gripping his arm as if she never wanted to let go.

Trying to ignore the childhood memories that her touch roused, he stared ahead to Fowler and Camilla, who was laughing at something Fowler said, her pretty face animated as she stared up at him.

Pierce scowled. “Is Mrs. Stuart sweet on Fowler?” he asked Mother in a low voice, unable to help himself. She was the only person who might know.

“Not to my knowledge,” Mother said. “Why?”

He swiftly invented a reason. “Because if she marries him, he’ll expect her to bear him a passel of children, which means she won’t be around to keep you company anymore.”

“I don’t care about that,” she surprised him by saying. “I want her to be happy. I’d be thrilled to see her find a man who loves her and wants to marry her. She deserves better than to be sitting around playing cards with a middle-aged woman.”

She did; he just didn’t want it to be Fowler. Because then he would have to see her on the man’s arm at social affairs and be forced to endure them cooing at each other.

He snorted. Since he came here only when necessary, he would never see Fowler at social affairs. And somehow he couldn’t imagine either of them “cooing.” Though that didn’t make the thought of Fowler with her any less disturbing.

Mother narrowed her eyes on the pair as they walked into the drawing room ahead of them. “But I think Mr. Fowler would be wrong for her.”

So did Pierce, though he doubted his reasons would match Mother’s. “Why? Because he’s too old?”

She eyed him askance. “He’s not too old—he’s younger than I am.”

Not by much.
No, he’d better not say that.

“He’s too cautious,” she continued. “Not that Camilla is reckless, mind you, but she doesn’t always follow society’s dictates.”

That
was certainly an understatement.

She went on. “Mr. Fowler would hate that. He’s always so circumspect.”

“Not always,” Pierce pointed out. “You certainly had him going there for a while tonight.”

To his surprise, Mother looked ashamed. “I know. It was
very bad of me. I just get annoyed when men are so firm in their opinions.”

“I remember,” he said softly, thinking of the fierce arguments between her and his father.

Her gaze darted to him, then returned to Camilla and Fowler. “But Mr. Fowler deserves better from me. He’s generally a nice man.” Mother’s voice grew curiously taut. “Even if he is overly aware of what’s appropriate for his station.”

They’d reached the drawing room. It was only after Mother left Pierce’s side to go to the pianoforte that he realized he’d just had a fairly normal conversation with her without Camilla acting as a guide and buffer.

How had that happened?

“All right,” Mother said to Fowler as she sat down before the instrument and took out a piece of music. “I know how you scoff at it, sir, but the two of you
must
sing ‘The Gallant Hussar.’ Otherwise, I shall be very disappointed.”

Camilla laughed, then released Fowler’s arm to begin hunting through the music atop the pianoforte. “You’ll have your wish, madam, but only if I get mine. We must sing a few Christmas carols.” She smiled at Pierce. “That way his lordship can join in.”

“Not me.” Pierce dropped into a chair. “I make a better audience than I do performer.”

“Come now, my lord.” Camilla shoved up her spectacles. “It doesn’t matter how well you sing. It’s all in good fun.”

Fowler shot Pierce a quick, apologetic glance. “I think his lordship isn’t fond of Christmas carols.”

“Oh,” Camilla said, awareness dawning on her face. Obviously she was remembering that he’d spent all his holidays without his parents. “Well, then, in that case—”

“It’s fine,” Pierce ground out, chafing at being the object of her pity. “I enjoy hearing a carol as well as the next person. I just don’t want to sing any.” He glanced at Mother. “Besides, it’s been a while since I heard Mother play, and I can’t enjoy it if I’m up there caterwauling.”

Surprisingly, he really was looking forward to it. Now that he knew he’d misread so much of his parents’ relationship, he was finding a sort of pleasurable pain in reliving the past and trying to make out what he might have misunderstood. And part of that past had included Mother playing carols on the pianoforte.

Once the music started, however, it wasn’t Mother’s playing that he noticed but Camilla’s singing. Fowler had been wrong. She wasn’t a nightingale at all, a comparison often used for those preening sopranos at the opera house. No, Camilla was a siren . . . with a contralto so rich and sultry that it made those sopranos’ voices sound like screeching.

And expressive! She swept him up in the tale of a woman who begs her soldier love to let her go off to war with him. Fowler took the part of the Hussar and Camilla took the part of Jane, the maiden, and for the length of the song, Pierce could easily believe they were lovers.

Too easily. When Fowler gazed down into Camilla’s face as he sang of “her beautiful features,” Pierce wanted to throttle him. Nor did the song end tragically, as so many of the broadside ballads
did—this one had Jane and her gallant Hussar heading off to the war “united forever.”

It was churlish, but he wished Jane and her Hussar to the devil, especially when Camilla and Fowler blended their voices so splendidly for the final verse that anyone, even a man as jaded as himself, would want to weep from the beauty of it. Despite Mother’s opinion, it appeared to him that Fowler and Camilla made a perfect pair, damn them.

As the last notes died, he forced himself to applaud. They deserved it, even if he resented the fact that Fowler had gained so much enjoyment from joining his voice to hers.

Then Camilla smiled warmly at Pierce in response, and somehow that calmed his agitation. For the moment, anyway.

“So tell me, Fowler,” Pierce said, “why does my mother say you scoff at this particular song?”

“I don’t scoff at it,” Fowler protested. “I just think any soldier who contemplates taking his true love off to war with him is a fool. Don’t you agree?”

Pierce shrugged. “Depends on which war. If they’re just going to be marching up and down some Belgian town, he might do well having a woman to cook and clean for him.”

As Fowler laughed, Camilla frowned at Pierce. “Is that the only thing you think a woman is good for—cooking and cleaning?”

“And providing entertainment,” he drawled, thinking ahead to when she would come to his room later.
If
she would come, with Fowler hanging about. When she blushed, he added, in a tone of pure innocence, “As you’re doing here . . . with the singing.”

Camilla eyed him askance. “And where does love come in? Can’t the Hussar just want Jane with him because he loves her?”

Pierce snorted. “Love is for children and fools. No grown man with an ounce of sense makes monumental decisions based on some half-baked sentiment he read on a St. Valentine’s Day card.” He certainly didn’t give up everything for it.

“
I’m
a grown man,” Fowler put in solemnly. “And I spent many happy years in love with my wife.” He cast a furtive glance over to where Camilla stood beside Mother. “That’s why I would do almost anything for another chance at love.”

The bottom dropped out of Pierce’s stomach. At least now he had his answer from Fowler. “What about you, Mrs. Stuart?” he asked, fighting to ignore his visceral reaction. “You were married. Do
you
want another chance at love?”

Though she flinched at his veiled reference to her loveless marriage, she answered with great gravity. “Of course, my lord. A life without love is like a voice without a tune to sing. No grown
woman
with an ounce of sense wants to go on without love. Not if she can help it . . . not if she can catch that elusive tune. Sadly, not everyone can.”

Silence fell on the room as every eye turned to Pierce. But for once, he was at a loss for a snappy rejoinder.

To his surprise, it was Mother who jumped in to save him. “Are we going to sing Christmas carols, or not? I believe we should start with ‘The Cherry Tree Carol.’ Don’t you agree, Pierce?”

He demurred but didn’t hear the rest of the discussion, his mind whirling around Camilla’s words. A life without love. He’d
had that, and he’d once thought himself fortunate to escape the emotional dramatics that plagued a life
with
love.

Now he wasn’t so sure. And the fact that she made him doubt it irked him.

So did the possibility that she hoped to find love with Fowler. She didn’t belong with Fowler. It would be a mistake. And it was high time he made her see that.

H
er ladyship had retired at last, so Camilla went up to kiss the sleeping Jasper before heading for Pierce’s room. It was later than usual, so she wasn’t even sure that Pierce would want her there this evening. But she had to make sure, in case their bargain from the previous nights held firm.

She snorted. Right. Their bargain was why she couldn’t wait to see him alone, why she couldn’t breathe for the thought of being with him. What a fool she was. But she couldn’t help it. He’d looked so unsure of himself when they’d spoken of love; it broke her heart.

She quickened her steps, but as she reached the floor where the bedchambers were she heard a faint sound wafting up from the drawing room. It was the pianoforte.

Had the countess roused again in the brief time Camilla had darted up to kiss Jasper? Was she unable to sleep? If so, Camilla dared not go to Pierce. She couldn’t take the chance of her ladyship wanting her and not being able to find her.

She hurried down to the drawing room to investigate, then halted abruptly as she entered. The earl himself was playing the instrument. And doing it extremely well, too.

“I assume that Mother has gone to bed,” Pierce said without looking up from the music.

“Yes.” She closed the door. “Aren’t you worried she’ll hear you?”

“Not likely. This house is sturdy, and the master bedchambers are at the other end. When I was a boy, Mother used to play sometimes while Father was sleeping. He never heard.”

“Is that when you learned to play? While your father slept?”

His jaw went taut. “Occasionally.”

When he kept on playing, she edged behind the pianoforte so she could watch his fingering. “You’re very good.”

He shrugged. “It’s what I do to relax. I have an excellent instrument in my London town house.”

“Does this mean you’re planning to provide tonight’s entertainment?” she said lightly. “Or are we going upstairs?”

“Neither.” He stopped playing to stare up at her intently. “I want you to sing for me.”

That startled her. “Your mother will surely hear
that
.”

“If she does, she’ll figure that you’re playing and singing for yourself.”

“Or she’ll come to see why I’m still up and find us here together.”

“And what if she does?” A faint smile touched his lips. “Surely we can be allowed to entertain ourselves in the drawing room after she’s in bed.”

“Is there some reason you suddenly don’t mind if she finds us alone together?”

He stared steadily at her. “Is there some reason you suddenly
do
mind singing for me?”

“No. Why would there be?”

A shadow crossed his face, and his voice turned bitter. “Perhaps it’s something you only save for when Fowler is around.”

She blinked. He’d made a similar remark at dinner. At the time, she hadn’t thought much of it, but now . . . “Don’t be absurd. Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know.” Pushing the bench out, he rose to stand near her, his expression stormy. “Why did you never once offer to sing to me for our evenings together?”

“For obvious reasons.” She gazed up into his glittering eyes. “If I sang to you upstairs, your mother would definitely hear. Her room is near enough to yours for that.”

Her logic seemed to catch him off guard. Then he leaned against the pianoforte with a scowl. “Perhaps, but why didn’t you ever even mention that you could sing? That you could do it so well?”

Pleasure that he liked her singing warred with confusion over this peculiar conversation. “It never came up. Why didn’t
you
ever mention that you play the pianoforte?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s not the sort of thing a man admits. It’s not the sort of thing a man
does.
”

“Nonsense. Men play instruments all the time.” When he glanced away, a muscle ticking in his jaw, she added, “Ah, but not earls, I suppose. Not often, anyway.”