Christmas Joy Page 10

  He laughed. “Are you going to prove to be a managing female?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, pleased by the implied future together in his question.

  She led the way back to the drawing room from which he then retired rather early.

  When Justin had gone, Irene casually strolled over to where Meghan was standing, momentarily alone. “Hmm,” Irene said in a low, knowing voice. “I always did wonder what a ‘thoroughly kissed woman’ looked like.”

  Meghan rolled her eyes. “Irene—”

  The next morning, Meghan sat in the nursery with Joy in her lap as she read to the younger children, when Justin came into the room. She gave him a smile and finished the tale as he waited.

  “Read it again, Auntie Meg,” Becky demanded.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “Joy,” Justin said, “Papa needs to talk with you. Do you think you could leave Snowflake with Auntie Meg for a while?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  She dutifully climbed down from Meghan’s lap, and with a parting caress for the kitten, put her small hand in his. He turned to Meghan.

  “Will you join us in the library in—say—twenty minutes?”

  “Of course,” She was puzzled by his behavior, but as she made her way to her own chamber, she conjectured that his communication with Joy must have something to do with his hurried trip to the city.

  Twenty minutes later she and Snowflake arrived in the library to find not only Justin and Joy, but also Robert and Irene and their children all gathered there. Irene looked amused and Joy’s eyes fairly sparkled, but Robert and the other children looked as mystified as Meghan felt.

  She was directed to a wing-backed chair. Joy stood in front of her and reached for the kitten. Justin squatted on his heels, his arm around his daughter’s waist.

  “Go on. Ask her,” he prompted.

  “Auntie Meg,” Joy said, “will you marry us?”

  Meghan felt tears threaten. “You want me to marry you and Snowflake?” she asked, deliberately teasing Justin.

  “Me and Snowflake and Papa.”

  “Yes, darling, I will. I will marry your papa—and you and Snowflake.”

  Justin stood and drew her to her feet. “And you get the whole Wingate clan, as well.” He kissed her soundly as the “whole clan” erupted with joyful cheers.

  “The next question,” Justin said when the din had subsided, “is—will you do it tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” She felt her eyes widen in astonishment.

  “What better way to start a brand-new year?”

  “But . . . but—”

  “I made the trip to Doctor’s Commons for a special license,” he pleaded.

  “That was why you went to London?”

  “For that—and for this.” He reached into his pocket and presented her with a small box. Inside was a ring, a sapphire surrounded by diamonds.

  “Oh, Justin, how beautiful,” she murmured as he placed it on her finger. He kissed her again—to more cheers.

  Meghan looked at Irene. “You knew?”

  “I guessed—after Joy’s discussion with Lady Aetherada.”

  “Joy?” Meghan asked wonderingly.

  “The lady said you would be my mama, but it was a secret until Papa said I could tell.”

  “And Papa wants to shout it to the whole world,” Justin said. He picked up Joy and Snowflake to hold them in one arm as he returned the other to its proper place around Meghan’s waist. He looked into her eyes. “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” she agreed.

  Gleeful cries blended with Justin’s sneezes.

  CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

  Debbie Raleigh

  One

  “There, it is not so horrid, Grace,” the plump dowager chirped as she glanced about the cramped cottage.

  The slender maiden with a riot of fiery curls and brilliant emerald eyes slapped her hands onto her hips. Although not precisely pretty, there was a certain charm to Miss Grace Honeywell’s small features when she smiled. Her smile, however, was decidedly absent at the moment.

  Really, she thought in exasperation, her mother had always been one to seek the best in any situation, but this was absurd. Everything about the cottage was horrid, from the lingering stench of the dank darkness to the scurry of mice that could be heard with alarming frequency. It was hardly fit to house the livestock, let alone two gentle-born ladies.

  “It is ghastly,” Grace retorted, barely keeping herself from shivering as the November wind howled through the ill-fitted windows and door. “The chimneys smoke, the floor is damp, and the roof leaks. We might as well have been tossed into the stables.”

  A hint of sympathy entered Arlene’s eyes. “You will feel better when we have unpacked our belongings. It is never truly home without a few familiar things about.”

  Grace thought of the pristine beauty of Chalfried standing just beyond the woods. Until that morning it had been her home. Now, because of one arrogant command from Mr. Dalford they had been tossed out like so much garbage. “This will never be home.”

  “Grace, we must accept our circumstances, however unpleasant they might be.”

  “But it is so unfair,” Grace protested. “Mr. Dalford possesses a half dozen homes. Why must he force a poor widow into a decrepit cottage all because he wishes to spend a few days in the country?”

  “Because it is his right,” Arlene said softly.

  “Fah. You were married to Mr. Crosswald. It is your home.”

  “We both knew when I married Edward that Chalfried in time would go to Mr. Dalford. We were allowed to remain far longer than I dared hoped.”

  Of course Grace had known this day would come. Although Mr. Dalford was no more than a distant cousin to Mr. Crosswald, he had been given everything after the older gentleman’s death a year ago simply because he possessed the good sense to be born a male.

  “Oh, yes, so generous of Mr. Dalford.” Grace restlessly paced toward the tiny window. “He sits up there surrounded by comfort while we freeze to death.”

  “Grace.”

  Suddenly realizing she sounded more like a petulant child than a woman of nineteen, she abruptly turned with a rueful smile. “I am sorry, Mother. I just hate to see you in this place. It cannot be good for your health.”

  “I shall be just fine,” Arlene assured her, although she had to be as aware as Grace that her habit of succumbing to chills was bound to be worsened in such a drafty place. “Why do you not help Liza in the kitchen?”

  Grace stifled the urge to continue her complaints. Her mother was right. There was nothing to be gained by moaning at fate. For the moment all she could do was make them as comfortable as possible.

  “Very well.”

  Attempting to ignore the dust that was ruining her simple gray gown, Grace moved the short distance from the main room to the kitchen. She stifled a sneeze and rued her impetuous anger. She was not by nature a bitter or vengeful maiden. In fact, she possessed a generous heart and a desire to make others happy. But even her generosity had been sorely pressed over the past years. First by a father who had abandoned his family and managed to lose the family fortune at the gaming tables before his death, and now by a heartless Russian emigrant who had decided upon a whim to visit the estate he had not seen in years. Mr. Dalford was clearly indifferent to the knowledge that his fleeting visit had relegated an elderly widow to this squalid cottage.

  Entering the narrow room that passed as a kitchen Grace gave a violent shiver. Hardly surprising, she swiftly concluded, since the young maid was standing in an open doorway.

  “Liza.”

  Turning, the timid girl raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh . . .”

  Grace felt a twinge of unease at the obvious guilt etched on the spotted face. Liza might be a good-hearted girl, but she possessed a most distressing habit of creating catastrophes no matter how simple the task. That was the only reason the detestable Boswan, chief steward of Chalfried, had allowed her to come with his former m
istress.

  “Is something amiss?”

  “I was just out a moment, miss, I swear.”

  Grace’s foreboding deepened. “Did something happen?”

  “I fear the door did not latch properly.”

  Grace gave a relieved sigh, assuming the girl was simply referring to the frost in the air. At least the roof was still standing and nothing was on fire.

  “Do not fret. It could not be much colder with the door open or shut.”

  “It is not that, miss,” Liza confessed. “It is the kittens.”

  “Oh, no.” Grace’s heart twisted with distress. Only weeks before, her beloved cat had given birth to a litter of kittens. Now she moved to the corner where she had made a small bed.

  “I found all but one,” Liza stammered.

  It took Grace only a moment to account for all but one pure black kitten. “Byron . . .” she breathed. “Of course.”

  “I am so sorry, miss.”

  “It is fine, Liza.” With brisk motions Grace straightened and reached for the heavy cloak hanging on a peg. Byron had proven to be far more adventurous than the other kittens, with a habit of sneaking off when the opportunity presented itself. “I will find the rogue.”

  “But it is snowing.”

  “I shall soon return.”

  Stepping through the doorway Grace began her search. As Liza had warned, a soft snow was falling, but while Grace shivered at the cold, she discovered herself counting the snow as a blessing as she spotted the tiny tracks leading from the house to the woods. It would make discovering the kitten decidedly more simple.

  Keeping her gaze firmly on the trail, Grace hurried through the woods. It took little time for her to realize the kitten was headed directly for its former home. Her steps hurried as she felt a stirring of fear. Boswan had already threatened to have her pets drowned should he see them about, and Grace had no doubt the evil man would make good on his promise should he stumble across Byron.

  Breaking from the woods her heart sank as the tracks clearly continued across the parkland and into the square manor house. No doubt becoming lost in the woods, the kitten had returned to the only home he knew, and Grace very much feared he would even now be hidden in the master bedchamber where he had been born.

  “Oh . . . botheration.”

  Although a solidly built house with four towering columns topped by elegant statues and arched windows that flanked the double wooden doors, Chalfried made no pretensions to rival the more stately mansions throughout the neighborhood. Still, it was well tended, with a small parkland and elegant garden.

  Stepping out of his carriage, Mr. Alexander Dalford regarded his acquisition with a narrowed gaze. It had been years since his last visit to Chalfried, but not a stone or tree appeared to have been altered. Cousin Edward was nothing if not fiercely devoted to tradition.

  “Alexander, it is lovely,” Lady Falwell breathed, her astonishingly beautiful countenance wreathed with a smile.

  Alexander could not halt a smile of his own. He had known Rosalind since she was a child and had maintained a close friendship with her even after her marriage to the much older Lord Falwell.

  Not that it was a friendship without its trials, he acknowledged with a grimace. Especially of late, when their vast amount of time spent together had started viscious tongues wagging.

  Which was precisely why he had devised this excursion to the country. Bringing both Lord and Lady Falwell along with the ton’s most notorious rattle-monger, Mr. Wallace, he intended to prove over the next several weeks that the innuendoes were groundless.

  Almost on cue, the short, overly plump form of Mr. Wallace struggled from his carriage. Attired in a ridiculous velvet coat with a profusion of lace at his neck and wrists, he minced his way toward Alexander with a smirking smile.

  “Egad, how drearily rustic. Hardly the setting I would have expected for the Russian Fox.”

  Alexander gritted his teeth at the name he had acquired during the war. It had originated from his sly attacks and swift retreats that had driven Napoleon mad with rage. And with his Russian-born mother’s close relationship with the czar it had been an appropriate title. Unfortunately, it had followed him on his return to London, and even the prince regent was known to refer to him as Fox.

  It was not that Alexander was ashamed of his Russian heritage. Far from it. From his mother he had inherited his large stature, midnight-black hair, and brilliant blue eyes. Even his narrow countenance, high Slavic cheekbones, and strong nose showed little hint of his English father. But Alexander had swiftly learned that the London aristocrats held a hint of superiority over anyone with the ill fortune to possess foreign blood. It was only his large wealth and connections to the most noble families that allowed them to overlook his diluted blood.

  That, of course, and his undoubted success among the ladies.

  With an effort, he conjured a mocking smile. He would not allow the nasty twit to rile his temper. There was too much at stake.

  “That only proves how little you know me, Wally.”

  The shorter man thinned his lips, but at that moment the door was pulled open to reveal an ancient butler. “Welcome, sir.”

  “Thank you. Would you be so good as to show my guests to their rooms?”

  The servant gave a creaking bow. “Of course. This way, please.”

  The tall, silver-haired Lord Falwell readily escorted Rosalind up the steps, followed by a reluctant Mr. Wallace. Alexander waited for them to disappear into the house before he followed in their wake.

  It felt odd to realize that this estate now belonged to him. He had barely known Edward, except for the handful of occasions he had made his mandatory visits. But when he had sought a place to bring Mr. Wallace, Chalfried had seemed the perfect location. In part because it was the one spot no one knew him or Rosalind, and more importantly, it was far from the secret they kept at his family estate in Surrey.

  Hoping that the presence of Mr. Wallace did not forever taint the rather charming home, Alexander mounted the steps and entered the narrow foyer. He had just turned toward the curving staircase when a thin, beady-eyed gentleman suddenly appeared.

  “Mr. Dalford.” The stranger gave a rather awkward bow. “I am Boswan.”

  It took a moment for Alexander to place the name. “Ah . . . the steward.”

  “Yes, sir. I hope you find the estate in order.”

  There was something in the ingratiating smile and hard glitter in the deeply set eyes that Alexander instinctively disliked. “I am hardly in a position to say as of yet, although it appears to be in no danger of tumbling about my head.”

  The sharp features hardened, but the practiced smile remained intact. “No, indeed, sir.”

  “We will speak later, eh, Boswan?” Alexander dismissed the servant, inwardly deciding to spend a bit of his time discovering more of the man. There was something untrustworthy about him.

  “Very good.”

  With a decisive movement Alexander continued his path to the stairs, using his vague memories to lead him past the landing and to the door of the master chamber. He was in dire need of a bath and a change of clothing before facing Mr. Wallace once again. He shuddered. An entire month with the man would no doubt send him batty.

  Alexander pushed open the door and stepped into the shuttered room. He moved forward, then halted and bent slowly downward.

  He had seen many things in his eight-and-twenty years, but never had he entered his room to discover a most delightful posterior sticking from beneath his bed. Wide-eyed, he watched as the posterior wiggled in a most fascinating fashion, then began to move backward. At last he could determine the slender bottom was attached to a young woman who was carefully scooting from beneath the bed, clutching a black ball of fur.

  She slowly straightened; then noticing his tall frame, she gave a theatrical shriek.

  For a moment he could only gaze at the maiden in disbelief. At first glance there was nothing more remarkable about her than an untidy
halo of flame-red hair. Her eyes were fine enough, although her features plain and her cloak a hideous gray. But on closer inspection there was a decided character in the strong features and a hint of sweetness in the full lips.

  Abruptly shaking off the sense of disbelief, Alexander sharply reminded himself of the other women who had attempted just such a ploy. The supposedly demur debutante who had plotted like a seasoned general to compromise him into marriage, the widow who had crept into his bed in the dark of night, and the wife of his closest friend who arrived at his home attired as a servant.

  Good Lord, he had been hunted, lured, and mobbed since coming of age. Would they never cease to plague him?

  “What the devil do you think you are doing?” he rasped.

  Pretending to be startled by his appearance, she pressed the ball of fur to her bosom. “I came to get Byron.”

  Alexander blinked. Well, that was an unusual excuse in any event. Did she suppose that he kept dreary poets stored beneath his bed?

  “Byron?”

  “My kitten.”

  So, the ball of fur was explained, but Alexander was no fool. That cat was no more than a feeble reason to invade his home. “How very convenient.”

  She frowned at his mocking words. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do not suppose you are the first maiden to go to such shocking measures to be alone with me.” His nose flared with distaste. “Although I must admit not even the boldest tart possessed the audacity to hide beneath my bed.”

  He thought he heard her suck in a sharp breath. “You believe I wish to be alone with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why would I wish for such an absurd thing?”

  He was not amused by her pretense of innocence. Clearly a forward jade, even if she did have a delectable backside. “To trap me into marriage, of course.”

  “Marriage?”

  Surprisingly, a flush of color suddenly stained her pale cheeks, and her emerald eyes flashed with fire.

  “Why, I wouldn’t have you if you were the king of England.”