A Christmas Gone Perfectly Wrong: A Blackshear Family novella (B 0.5) (19 page)

She
was one of the young unmarried people, strictly speaking. It was easy to grow confused on that point, with a man’s hand so comfortably on one’s back, and the lines of a friendly husband-and-wife-ish conversation still echoing in one’s ears.

The piano trilled out a warning scale—last chance for people to join the dance—and she and Mr. Blackshear had just enough time to slip in at the end of the line. He bowed, as the opening figure demanded, and came up grinning. “Didn’t I tell you I would dance with you?” he said, and then it was time to dance in earnest.

The first thing she’d do, once settled in at Hatfield Hall, would be to thank Aunt Symond for having engaged Mr. Bedlington. She’d wished ill fates upon the man every time he’d criticized her gait or waxed dour about the chances of such a giantess ever being much sought after in a ballroom, but he’d nevertheless taught her the steps and she’d learned them. And now here she was, stepping and turning and joining hands with Mr. Blackshear, or occasionally with other men, when the progress of the dance reshuffled the pairings—but most often with Mr. Blackshear, who danced with muscular grace, and a musicality she would not have predicted, all while looking handsome enough to break a lady’s heart.

In the proper sequence of things, their bodies would be taking first notice of each other now. They’d clasp hands or link elbows and feel all the thrill of contact and nearness where there had been no contact or nearness before. One or both of them might steal glances at the mistletoe with a simmering of pleasant apprehension in the blood.

Certainly the mistletoe was an object of much interest to the other dancers. From time to time the jolly-looking girl at the piano would abruptly halt the tune, and whatever couple found themselves underneath the sprig at that juncture must kiss: the other dancers all teased and harassed them until they had done it, and then would come a riot of cheering and applause.

It lent intrigue and amusement to the dance, as certain couples dragged their feet going down the line in order to prolong their chance under the chandelier, while others hastened past it with looks of evident dread. One dapper young man found himself stopped under the plant so many times, with this partner or that, as must begin to raise suspicions.

“He greased the piano girl’s palm. Do you think so?” Mr. Blackshear stepped near to murmur this, as the dancing paused for the lucky—or shrewd—man to claim his kiss from a plump ginger-haired girl.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s the agreed-upon
beau ideal
of the village, and the pianist is doing a favor for her friends.” A real wife and husband would speak so, comparing observations and trading private opinions in the midst of every jovial crowd.

“I didn’t think of that. I was prepared to disapprove the young man, and now perhaps I must disapprove the young women instead.” But there was no disapproval in his voice. Rather, he spoke with an undercurrent of self-aware humor. She’d seen from the beginning he was excessively staid and severe; only later had she begun to see how well he recognized that fact himself.

Mr. Blackshear, I’ve changed my mind. I think you might suit me as a husband after all. I’d like to withdraw my rejection of your offer.

That was the wine talking, and the dance, that had made everything so corporeal and immediate; had made it easy to imagine that the harmony with which they tripped a measure could swell out like long and longer notes played on a violoncello until that harmony breached the walls of this parlor to reverberate in their everyday interactions, today and for years yet to come.

“It will be interesting to see whether and how she’s repaid for her generosity,” she said, instead of saying anything foolish. “Perhaps someone will spell her at the piano later, and we’ll see her be the one most often under the mistletoe.”

We
was the wrong word, though, because by the time there was any spelling at the piano, Mr. Blackshear would have long since left.

In fact some five or ten minutes later, when the set wound to a close, he had that look of leaving about him. He took her hand and bowed over it, and when he came back up he smiled at her, a softer, less mirthful smile than he’d worn before. “I’m glad I had the opportunity to dance with you, Miss Sharp.” His voice sank and hovered in a range too quiet for anyone but her to hear. “I think I’ll always remember this.”

Warmth went spiraling through her limbs, and this time it had nothing to do with the wine. She was glad, too, that they would each have this memory of innocent pleasure to overlay the awkward and disconcerting memories of last night. “I’ll remember it too.” She dropped her eyes to the hand he had not yet released. “I know I’ve already said this, but I’m so glad you decided to—”

“We don’t need a whole pantomime with a prologue!” The waggish shout came from a man somewhere to the right. “Just get to it and kiss her!”

The man might as well have stuck her with a pin. Her chin jerked up and she saw every couple to the left, every couple to the right, watching them with vulpine anticipation. And yes, she and Mr. Blackshear were the nearest couple to the mistletoe, but the music hadn’t been stopped
for
them. It had only come to its natural end.

She looked left and right again. “I don’t believe this counts as part of the game. I thought it was only if we were still dancing.” Lord, what a stupid thing to say—who was she, a stranger, to be correcting them on the rules to their game?—and now she must probably appear to all of them like a wife who didn’t want to kiss her husband.

“Are married people included as well?” Mr. Blackshear managed a bit more aplomb than she had, adopting a tone of polite curiosity. “We hadn’t realized.”

“Married people are included most of all!” Heaven help them, there was another wag off to the left, this one possessed of a ruddy complexion and a receding chin. “You’re the ones as have had practice, and can show the young men and maids how it’s done.”

Was that supposed to be good-natured fun? It wasn’t fun. It was vulgar, and presumptuous, and impertinent in the extreme, and all of a sudden she couldn’t seem to loosen her panicked grip on Mr. Blackshear’s hand.

She didn’t want to be kissed this way, with a crowd looking ghoulishly on and expecting to see the fruits of “practice.” She hadn’t any practice. She’d wager Mr. Blackshear hadn’t any either. She wouldn’t show these rude people even if she had.

But what could she do? She was drawing more suspicion to them with every second that she stood here, frozen and cowering like a rabbit cornered by a pack of hounds.

She forced her eyes to her partner’s. He watched her, poised to do something or nothing. He knew of her agitation—how could he miss it, with his hand clamped so hard in hers?—and he would not take this liberty without some sign of permission.

That made her feel a bit better. She gave a slight nod, and he worked his fingers free of hers and took hold of both her arms a little way below the shoulders. Her heart pounded so hard it must be audible even to the girl at the piano. Now that they’d come to this juncture, there seemed a hundred details of which she was utterly uncertain.

Ought they to step in closer to each other? Ought she to bring up her hands, and if so, where ought she to set them? His shoulders? His waist? What had the other couples done?

One thing they’d all done was close their eyes, but then how were you to find the other person’s mouth? Then at some point you must tilt your head to avoid bumping noses, but who was to tilt, and who to hold still, and how did you pass that knowledge between you?

His face came nearer; it seemed to take an eternity and a half, which gave her ample time to wonder if she was supposed to stay as she was, or if it wouldn’t be better to bring her own face forward and meet him in the middle.

She did the latter. Maybe not with consummate grace. Maybe with a motion reminiscent of a hen bobbing its head as it strolled through the barnyard, she pushed her face forward and tilted left, at the last instant, to avoid colliding with his nose.

And collided with it anyway when he tilted to his right in that same instant. Their mouths bumped, briefly. If there was a way to salvage matters from there, it was beyond her knowledge.

A hot flush raced up the back of her neck as she withdrew her face from his. None of the onlookers were cheering, as they’d done for everyone else. Now, too, she could see that her arms had come up of their own accord while she hadn’t been paying attention—however rather than settling her hands anywhere the arms had just stayed half-risen, elbows jutting to either side, which must have made a fine accompaniment to the hen-like jerking of her head.

She let her arms fall and dropped her gaze as well, down and down and down to the square foot of carpet between her toes and Mr. Blackshear’s. If the floor opened up and swallowed her right now, that would suit her very well.

“I believe I could do with a bit of air.” That was her not-very-convincing sham of a husband. At least one of them retained the power of speech. “Will you accompany me, my dear?”

She plastered a smile across her face and let him lead her the five hundred miles to the door, past endless ranks of Thornton Cross revelers who would no doubt break into gossip the instant they’d left the room. Well enough. To be gossiped about in one’s absence was surely better than to remain there, pelted with quizzical glances and speculative smirks.

He maintained an admirably steady pace until they were out into the hall, at which point he accelerated to a speed suitable for flight, and then abruptly dropped her hand from his arm and wheeled to face the wall—to lean on it, in fact, one arm braced above his head, his hand curled into a fist, his whole posture telling of the battle to keep his composure. He’d whirled away from her exactly thus at Downham Market, when she’d told him her maid would be staying behind.

This time she knew how he felt. She might lean against a wall too, and wish she could melt into it. “It would have been different if we’d been called upon to do that during the dance, as everyone else was.” She did go to the wall beside him as she spoke, in a solidarity of shame. “And if that dreadful man hadn’t made that remark about looking to us as an example.”

His only reply to this was a sound very like a snort. She looked harder. His shoulders were trembling. He tipped his head farther forward, face hidden behind the upraised arm.

“Are you…” It hardly seemed possible. “For Heaven’s sake, are you
laughing?
” Her voice must have scaled three octaves in that one question.

He snorted again, this time clapping a hand over his mouth. He turned, putting his back to the wall; and tears, actual tears, were running in undignified tracks down his face. “I’m sorry,” he managed on what breath he could spare, swabbing at the tears with the back of his hand, but another wave of hilarity broke over him and he had to bury his face in his hands altogether, bending halfway over for the purpose.

It was appalling. What was she to do? She couldn’t let anyone see him like this. She opened the nearest door, seized him by the elbow, and dragged him into what proved to be the breakfast room.

He staggered to the sideboard and slumped over it, head down on his folded arms, whole body quaking like an aspic carried by a drunken footman.

“How can you laugh? It isn’t funny in the least.” Her skin still felt scorched at the memory, but beyond mere humiliation was the graver concern. “Andrew, that was a disaster. No one who was in that parlor could possibly believe us to be husband and wife now.”

“I suppose not.” He pushed upright, one arm still propped on the sideboard as he fought to recover himself. “To our advantage, though, neither can they possibly suppose us to be a pair of illicit lovers.” His eyes sparked and his dimple danced with the laughter he was struggling to hold in.

“Don’t make a joke of it. Really, I could never have imagined you’d behave this way. I don’t know what’s come over you.”

“Oh, Lord. Everything.” He stood all the way up from the sideboard and dragged his hands over his face, wiping away the tears of mirth. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It’s been the most confounded three days, and I’ve scarcely slept, and with one calamity after another I suppose this latest was simply too much for me.” He steadied his gaze on her. “I oughtn’t to laugh. It’s very wrong of me. I’m appalled at myself. Lucy, come here.”

His voice shifted on the last three words, and so did all the gravity in the room. And she knew, with a certainty that wanted no evidence, what was going to happen now.

Three steps took her to him. She didn’t pause to consider whether it was wise, or to do any thinking of any kind. She met his eyes and waited; he lifted his hands and cradled her face, a greater intimacy than grasping her arms as he’d done under the mistletoe.

His gaze sank from her eyes to her mouth. He brought his thumb over to touch her lower lip, and traced its outline, one corner all the way to the other. “I wanted to do this the moment I first had a good look at your mouth.” This was the voice that would have her drunk and dizzy inside of a minute. Though his thumb was doing a fine job of that all on its own as it now traced the other way, climbing the slope of her upper lip. “I wanted to jump right down from my carriage and take this very liberty.”

“But you didn’t.” Speech had never been so magnificent. Every syllable made her more conscious of the hands at her jaw; the thumb on her lip. “No matter how you wanted to, you didn’t. I’m fairly sure that’s why you lingered in my thoughts.”

“I want that. To linger in your thoughts.” His voice dropped to something between a whisper and a growl. “I mean to give you every reason to think of me.” His thumb swept over her cheek, leaving her lips clear. He glanced once more at her eyes; then closed his own and tipped his head to the side while he brought his mouth to hers.