The Last Waltz Page 17

  “We certainly did.” The earl took her hand in his. “No one worked harder. I chose my team well. Shall we go back inside?”

  He offered his other arm to Lizzie Gaynor, who took it and chattered gaily all the way back to the house. But before Christina could come to claim her daughter and whisk her up to the nursery to remove her outdoor garments and comb her hair, he managed a private word with the child.

  “I will have an announcement to make in the drawing room while we are all warming up with chocolate and something to eat,” he said. “I shall see to it that you young people are all there to hear it. And then I have a suggestion to make to you. Just to you. It will be our secret.”

  “Even from Mama?” she asked him.

  “Especially from Mama,” he said and winked at her again.

  “It is not wrong?” she asked anxiously. “It is not evil?”

  He felt the old flash of annoyance for a moment against a mother—and a father—who could so have burdened a young child with a morbid conscience.

  “It is not wrong,” he said. “It is not evil. It is going to make Christmas happier for everyone. Are you interested?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, my lord,” she said.

  Christina came for her then while everyone else dripped melting snow onto the hall floor and stamped feet and rubbed hands and exclaimed loudly to one another that they had only just realized how cold they were.

  “Come,” she said, reaching out a hand for Rachel’s. “Let us go and tidy up quickly.”

  For just a moment she held the child’s one hand while he still held the other. And their eyes met. He relinquished his hold and she turned away, taking her daughter with her.

  Tall, slender, elegant even after vigorous outdoor exercise. And graceful and beautiful despite the gray of her garments. And perhaps, just perhaps, sheltering his child in her womb.

  “The widow grows lovelier and more animated with every passing day,” a voice said at his shoulder. It was languid, self-satisfied—Luttrell’s voice. “She is ripe for the picking, would you say, Gerard?”

  The earl’s immediate impulse was to swing around and plant his friend a facer. He raised his eyebrows instead.

  “You are the self-proclaimed expert on such matters, Harry,” he said. “Do you need to ask my opinion?”

  “It was a rhetorical question,” the viscount said with a chuckle. “Are we to be doomed to chocolate, Gerard, as the only beverage with which to warm ourselves?”

  “By no means,” his lordship said, striding off in the direction of the stairway arch. “Come with me.”

  Chapter 13

  THERE was to be a Christmas service in the village church during the evening. Most of the guests were planning to attend, Christina had learned, despite the snow and the absence of any sleighs in the carriage house. It would be a walk of more than a mile through the snow, but several of the gardeners and stable hands had made an attempt to clear the worst of the drifts from the driveway-—though apparently the prospect of walking to church on Christmas Eve through snow had its attraction for most of them.

  Between an early dinner and the service, they were expecting the village carolers to call, as they did every year. But this year fires would be lit in the large fireplaces in the hall. They would not give a great deal of heat, but they would take away the worst of the chill and they would at least make the hall look more cheerful than usual. Also this year there would be hot spiced wassail for everyone after the caroling, and mince pies and Christmas cake. Usually only lemonade was served. The carolers had not come at all the year before because the countess had been in mourning.

  The evening would be busy enough. And most of the guests had tired themselves considerably with the morning’s frolics. The afternoon, then, had been intended by most of them as a time for relaxation, perhaps even sleep. Until, that was, the Earl of Wanstead made his announcement in the drawing room after they had all come inside and assembled there.

  “Tomorrow is Christmas Day,” he said. “I have a notion that several of you will wish to be left to your own resources during the morning. I will be spending some time entertaining the servants in here. In the afternoon, if everyone is agreeable and if the weather cooperates, there will be skating on the lake—and doubtless a bonfire again.” He paused for the flurry of enthusiasm to die down. “But the evening might be a problem—the ball is not scheduled until the day after tomorrow.”

  “We can dance in here again tomorrow evening, Cousin Gerard,” Margaret suggested eagerly.

  “I have another idea.” He smiled about at them. “It will involve all of us in hard work.”

  There was a general groan.

  “We are going to have a Christmas concert in the ballroom,” he said. “I am putting Lady Hannah in charge of drawing up a program. She has already agreed to do it. She will see to it that there is some variety of items—one would hate to have twenty or so people stand up one after the other before the gathering in order to give a rendition of the same Christmas carol.”

  “Why not form a choir, sing the one carol—preferably one that does not have twelve verses—and get on with the dancing, Gerard?” Ralph Milchip suggested.

  “No, no.” The earl held up his hands to quell the laughter. “We are going to do this thing properly. We are going to entertain one another. We are going to enjoy ourselves.”

  “I think it a splendid idea, my lord,” Susan Gaynor said. “We will play our pianoforte duet, Lizzie, will we?”

  “There is only one rule,” his lordship added. “Everyone is to take part—with no exceptions. And anyone needing the ballroom or this room for rehearsals is to consult Lady Hannah, who will draw up a schedule. Now, if you will excuse me, Lady Rachel and I have a matter of importance to discuss.”

  “But we have only a little longer than twenty-four hours, Gerard,” Jeannette complained.

  “Ample time,” he said unsympathetically, taking Rachel by the hand.

  Christina was looking at him in surprise and some alarm. She got to her feet. But he held up a staying hand.

  “This does not concern you, my lady,” he said. “It concerns Rachel, Margaret, Aunt Hannah, and me. No one else.”

  She opened her mouth to protest.

  “It, is a secret, Mama,” Rachel said solemnly.

  She had a sweet singing voice. Meg and Aunt Hannah knew that. They were probably going to have her sing at the concert. The children were to take part too, then? Christina would not object to the secret, she decided, though she knew very well she would have done so just a few days before. There could be nothing wrong in it if Aunt Hannah approved.

  But any chance that the afternoon would be a time of relaxation was gone. Everyone looked inward, many with severe misgivings, to discover what talent, if any, they might display for the general entertainment the following evening. And then almost everyone looked outward to protest to one another that they had no talent. Lady Hannah went quietly about among them, making lists of items for the program and of rehearsal times and places—and even a few suggestions. If Mr. Campbell had a good singing voice but was too bashful to sing a solo, why did he not sing a duet with some lady who was too shy to sing alone? Might she suggest Miss Milchip? The ballroom and the drawing room were declared out of bounds to everyone except the person or persons whose rehearsal time it was.

  The children, Christina decided, would put on a Nativity play. But there were only six of them, and they would need a Mary and Joseph, an innkeeper and his wife, shepherds, kings, and angels. There were a few adults without any individual talent at all—or so they claimed—who would be only too glad to appear in the play, Laura Cannadine suggested. And she was right, of course. Lord and Lady Langan leaped at the chance to be the innkeeper and his wife. They would quarrel quite convincingly, they promised; she would box his ears; he would bluster and threaten all sorts of retaliation; they would offer the stable to the Holy Family with the most grudging reluctance.

  And Viscount Luttrell with
the Milchip brothers, after looking somewhat taken aback when Christina suggested it to them, agreed to be the shepherds, and disappeared in the direction of the conservatory to whip into shape a scene on the hillside in which they would feed one another comic lines appropriate for the ears of ladies and children.

  Laura agreed to form a heavenly host with Alice, singing offstage while her daughter stood in the stable and on the hillside looking angelic. Rachel and Paul Langan would be Mary and Joseph, and Tess, Matthew, and young Jonathan— if he could be persuaded not to exit stage right or stage left in the middle of his scene with his thumb in his mouth—-would be the Wise Men. After all, Laura said briskly, the play would not be ruined if he did wander off. Nowhere did the Bible specifically state that there had been three Wise Men— though it would be a shame if the casket of myrrh did not find its way to the foot of the manger.

  Rehearsals proceeded all over the house during the very time when everyone had hoped to relax. Christina was forced to admit, though, that despite the fact that many of them had done their share of grumbling, they had all thrown themselves into the preparations with a cheerful will.

  She went down to the conservatory while the younger children were having their afternoon nap to see how the shepherds’ part was progressing. It was funny, she was forced to admit. Jeremy Milchip was a shepherd who could not remain awake for longer than a minute at a stretch but nodded off and snored convincingly and believed nothing he was told when he was roused. His brother was a loud, superstitious complainer, who was quite convinced that the heavenly host was an army of extraterrestrials come to carry him off to the moon, and Viscount Luttrell was a gentle idiot who gazed vacantly about him and giggled whenever directly addressed.

  The children would love it, Christina concluded. And Gilbert would surely turn over in his grave at this attempt to inject humor into the Christmas story.

  “But you must, of course,” she reminded the shepherds, “realize the truth when you finally go down to Bethlehem, and be transformed by it.”

  “We plan to work on that after tea, ma’am,” Jeremy told her. He yawned hugely and noisily. “If I can stay awake long enough to go to Bethlehem, that is.”

  “Bethlehem, ha!” Ralph roared. He wagged one finger close to the side of his head and half closed one eye. “I were not born yesterday, I weren’t, fellers. I don’t trust no coves wot sings instead of talking like sensible folks and wot has wings sprouting from their shoulders and rings of light about their noggins. Stealing sheep they will be while we toddles off to see a babe wot ain’t there.”

  The viscount giggled.

  Christina laughed. “It is time for tea,” she said. “I am sure you must be ready to rest from your hard labors.”

  They did not need any further persuasion. The brothers went on ahead while Viscount Luttrell laid a staying hand on Christina’s arm. “I wonder if you could identify this plant for me, Lady Wanstead,” he said while there was still a chance that he might be overheard. But he grinned when they were alone together and drew a pathetically droopy sprig of mistletoe from his pocket. “This one. I was despairing of ever finding a private moment in which to ask you.”

  “It is mistletoe, I believe, my lord,” she said. “Shall we go up for tea?”

  “Let me see.” He reached up and rested it on the branch of an orange tree above their heads. “Yes, that will do nicely.” And he reached for her, drew her close with circling arms, and kissed her.

  She was a little more ready for his expertise today. She did not allow him to part her lips though he licked invitingly at them and murmured softly to her.

  “Christmas aside,” he said after he had lifted his head until his mouth was perhaps an inch from hers, “I suppose you must know you are the most beautiful, most alluring woman it has ever been my privilege to know.” His voice was low, seductive, not at all teasing.

  “And the most stupid or naive if I believe you,” she said, smiling at him.

  “I scarce know if I believe it myself,” he assured her. “It is, I confess, a line I have used before. But never have I used it with so little forethought. I want you, my dear. I do believe I have fallen in love with you. What a nasty ailment that may prove to be! I have not suffered from it before. Is it deadly, do you suppose? Is it a terminal illness?”

  She liked him, she realized. He was a rogue and a rake, but there was such a mingling of practiced gallantry and blatant teasing in his approach that it was impossible to be deceived and therefore hurt by him. He was not in love with her—he did not expect her to believe that he was. He wanted an affair with her, one in which he would make it clearly understood that there was to be no deep sentiment and no commitment. Only a shared enjoyment. And she would enjoy it, she thought. Or she would have if...

  She wondered, and was not at all sure of the answer, if she would have been tempted had the situation been different.

  “I like your silences,” he said. “I like that enigmatic smile. It would look even lovelier framed by a pillow behind your head. You would not remain silent for long, though. I do not permit my women to love in silence.” He grinned wickedly at her and kissed her again.

  After which, she decided, she must firmly declare that they had paid enough homage to one small sprig of mistletoe for this occasion.

  Someone cleared his throat from the open doorway of the conservatory.

  “One hates to interrupt,” the Earl of Wanstead said.

  “But—” Viscount Luttrell had lifted his head and was looking down into Christina’s eyes. “I hear a but about to be uttered. You cannot be persuaded to go away, Gerard?”

  If the floor had opened up beneath Christina’s feet, she would gladly have dropped through it. She resisted the urge to push violently away from the viscount and start trying to explain.

  “I need to talk to her ladyship,” the earl said. “About tomorrow’s concert. Ralph told me she was here a few minutes ago.”

  “I must have a friendly word with Milchip,” the viscount said with mock menace, stepping back. He bowed to Christina. “Until later, ma’am.”

  She turned away as he left the conservatory, and fingered the leaves of the orange tree.

  “Should I have allowed myself to be persuaded to go away?” the earl asked softly.

  “There was mistletoe,” she said, despising her own eagerness to justify herself. “It would have been ill-natured to refuse to be kissed beneath it.”

  “Your head does look lovely framed by a pillow,” he said.

  She whirled around to face him, her eyes flashing. “I would have you know,” she said, “that I am not your possession, my lord. Neither am I Viscount Luttrell’s. I am not answerable to either of you or to anyone else.” Which was a foolish thing to say, she knew even as she said it. She was this man’s dependent.

  “You are right,” he said curtly. His face had that hard-jawed, cold-eyed look she remembered from his arrival at Thornwood. “And this scene ought not to have been surprising to me even without the existence of the invisible mistletoe. I know from bitter experience how well you are to be trusted, after all, do I not?”

  Her eyes widened. “Trusted?” she said. “To do what, pray? To stay away from all other men for the rest of my life merely because of what happened yesterday? If you will remember, my lord, you yourself said that yesterday was an ending.” And perhaps a beginning, he had said—if there was a child.

  “If there should happen to be a child,” he said coldly, echoing her thoughts, “I would like to know whose exactly it is, my lady.”

  She swayed on her feet and only half heard him swear profanely.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said, running the fingers of one hand through his hair. “Devil take it, Christina, why am I always at my very worst with you? Do forgive me, I beg you. That was a—a filthy thing to say.”

  “If there should happen to be a child,” she said, “the whole world will know exactly whose it is. It will be mine, mine alone. And I will love it with all the lo
ve in my heart, just as I love my daughters. Fortunately children need not bear the stigma of their paternity, whether legitimate or illegitimate. They are precious in themselves. If I am with child, you need not ask who the father is or whether I even know. It will not matter who the father is, and none of you will ever know—you, Viscount Luttrell, any other man I may allow into my bed during the next month or so.”

  His face was very pale. She was glad of it.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “The words are inadequate, but I mean them. I am sorry.”

  “For making it possible that you might be the father?” she asked. “For lying with me yesterday?”

  “Yes, for that too,” he said quietly. “It should never have happened. I am sorry.”

  She had felt only angry until this moment—blindly, furiously angry. But now she felt unaccountably hurt too, and empty, and bereft. She turned her back on him again and took a few steps farther away from him.

  “Why did you come?” she asked him. “Just to ensure that Lord Luttrell did not enjoy today what you enjoyed yesterday?”

  She heard him draw a deep breath and hold it for a few moments. “It sounds trivial now,” he said. “I need your assistance—in a magic act I intend to put on at tomorrow’s concert.”

  “Magic?” she said.

  “A few things I have learned over the years,” he said. “Mostly objects vanishing and reappearing elsewhere. It will amuse the children and perhaps some of the adults too. I need a female assistant.”

  “And you think I may be willing.” She half turned to him.

  “I thought you might,” he said. “Now I think you probably will not. Will you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Why? Just to prove him wrong? Because she was intrigued? Because it would solve the problem of what she was to do for the concert? Because such an act must be rehearsed and they would have to spend some time alone together? They always quarreled bitterly when they were alone together—or they made love.

  “Thank you,” he said. He had taken the few steps to the branch of the orange tree, beneath which she and Viscount Luttrell had been kissing when he had arrived. He reached up one hand and smiled rather ruefully. “There really was mistletoe. I suppose he has been carrying it about with him in the hope of getting you alone.”