A Wallflower Christmas (11 page)

“It is real hair,” she said. “He just didn't happen to grow it himself.”

Bowman chuckled and guided her down another rung.

“Why isn't he happy?” Hannah dared to ask.

Bowman considered the question for so long that they had reached the floor by the time he answered. “That's the universal question. My father has spent his entire life pursuing success. And now that he's richer than Croesus, he's still not satisfied. He owns strings of
horses, stables filled with carriages, entire streets lined with buildings…and more female companionship than any one man should have. All of which leads me to believe that no one thing or person will ever be enough for him. And he'll never be happy.”

Once they were on the ground, Hannah turned to face him fully, standing in her stocking feet. “Is that your fate as well, Mr. Bowman?” she asked. “Never to be happy?”

He stared down at her, his expression difficult to interpret. “Probably.”

“I'm sorry,” she said gently.

For the first time since she had met Bowman, he seemed robbed of speech. His gaze was deep and dark and volatile, and she felt her toes curl against the bare floor. She experienced the feeling she sometimes had when she'd been out in the cold and damp, and came inside for a cup of sugared tea…when the tea was so hot that it almost hurt to drink it, and yet the combination of sweetness and searing heat was too exquisite to resist.

“My grandfather once told me,” she volunteered, “that the secret to happiness is merely to stop trying.”

Bowman continued to stare at her, as if he were intent on memorizing something, absorbing something. She felt an exquisite constriction between them, as if the air itself were pushing them together.

“Does that work for you?” he asked huskily. “The not trying?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I don't think I can stop.” His tone was reflective. “It's a popular belief among Americans, you know.
The pursuit of happiness. It's in our Declaration, as a matter of fact.”

“Then I suppose you have to obey it. Although I think it's a silly law.”

A swift grin crossed his face. “It's not a law, it's a right.”

“Well, whatever it is, you can't go looking for happiness as if it were a shoe you lost under the bed. You already have it, you see? You just have to let yourself
be
.” She paused and frowned. “Why are you shaking your head at me like that?”

“Because talking with you reminds me of those embroidered quotes they're always putting on parlor pillows.”

He was mocking her again. If she'd been wearing a pair of sturdy boots, she would probably have kicked him in the shins. After giving him a scowl, she turned to look for her discarded shoes.

Realizing what she wanted, Bowman bent to pick up her slippers. In a lithe movement he knelt on the floor, his thighs spread. “Let me help you.”

Hannah extended her foot, and he placed the slipper on her with care. She felt the light brush of his fingers on her ankle, the smooth fire racing from nerve to nerve until it seemed her entire body was alight. Her mouth went dry. She looked down at the broad span of his shoulders, the way the heavy locks of his hair lay, the shape of his head.

He lowered her foot to the floor and reached for the other. It surprised her to feel the softness of his touch. She had not thought a large man could be so gentle. He fitted the shoe onto her foot, discovered that the top
edge of the leather upper had folded under in the back, and ran his thumb inside the heel to adjust it.

At that moment, a few people entered the room. The sound of female chatter stopped abruptly.

It was Lady Westcliff, Hannah saw in consternation. How must the scene have appeared to them?

“Pardon us,” the countess said cheerfully, giving a look askance at her brother. “Are we interrupting something?”

“No,” Bowman replied, rising to his feet. “We were just playing Cinderella. Have you brought the rest of the decorations?”

“Loads of them,” came another voice, and Lord Westcliff and Mr. Swift entered the room, carrying large baskets.

Hannah realized she was in the middle of a private gathering…there was the other Bowman sister, Mrs. Swift, and Lady St. Vincent, and Annabelle.

“I've enlisted them all to help finish the decorating,” Lillian said with a grin. “It's too bad Mr. Hunt hasn't arrived yet…he would hardly need a ladder.”

“I'm nearly as tall as he is,” Bowman protested.

“Yes, but you don't take orders nearly so well.”

“That depends on who gives the orders,” he countered.

Hannah broke in uncomfortably. “I should go. Excuse me—”

But in her haste to leave, she forgot all about the A-frame ladder directly behind her. And as she turned, her foot caught on it.

In a lightning-fast reflex, Bowman grabbed her before she could fall, and pulled her against his solid
chest. She felt the flex of powerful muscle beneath his shirt. “If you wanted me to hold you,” he murmured in a teasing undertone, “you should have just asked.”

“Rafe Bowman,” Daisy Swift admonished playfully, “are you resorting to tripping women to gain their attention?”

“When my more subtle efforts fail, yes.” He released Hannah carefully. “You don't have to leave, Miss Appleton. In fact, we could use another pair of hands.”

“I shouldn't—”

“Oh, do stay!” Lillian said with enthusiasm, and then Annabelle joined in, and then it would have been churlish for Hannah to refuse.

“Thank you, I will,” she said with a sheepish smile. “And unlike Mr. Bowman, I take orders quite well.”

“Perfect,” Daisy exclaimed, handing Hannah a basket of handkerchief angels. “Because with the exception of the two of us, everyone else here loves to give them.”

 

It was the best afternoon Rafe had spent in a long time. Perhaps ever. Two more ladders were brought in. The men wired candles onto the branches and hung ornaments where directed, while the women passed decorations up to them. Friendly insults flew back and forth, not to mention flurries of laughter as they exchanged reminiscences of past holidays.

Climbing the tallest ladder, Rafe managed to snatch the dangling toupee before anyone else saw it. He glanced at Hannah, who was standing below. Surreptitiously he dropped it to her. She caught it and shoved it deep into a basket.

“What was that thing?” Lillian demanded.

“Bird's nest,” Rafe replied insouciantly, and he heard Hannah smother a laugh.

Westcliff poured an excellent red wine and passed glasses around, even pressing one on Hannah when she tried to refuse.

“Perhaps I should water it,” she told the earl.

Westcliff looked scandalized. “Dilute a Cossart Gordon '28? A sacrilege!” He grinned at her. “First try it just as it is, Miss Appleton. And tell me if you can't detect flavors of maple, fruit, and bonfire. As the Roman poet Horace once said, ‘Wine brings to light the hidden secrets of the soul.'”

Hannah smiled back at him and took a sip of the wine. Its rich, exquisite flavor brought an expression of bliss to her face. “Delicious,” she conceded. “But rather strong. And I may have secrets of the soul that should remain hidden.”

Rafe murmured to Hannah, “One glass won't overthrow all your virtues, much to my regret. Go ahead and have some.”

He smiled as she colored a little. It was a good thing, he thought, that Hannah had no idea how badly he wanted to taste the wine on her lips. And it was also fortunate that Hannah seemed to have no idea of how much he desired her.

What puzzled him was that she wasn't using any of the usual tricks women employed…no flirtatious glances, no discreet strokes or caresses, no suggestive comments. She dressed like a nun on holiday, and so far she hadn't once pretended to be impressed by him.

So the devil knew what had inspired all this lust.
And it wasn't the ordinary sort of lust, it was…spiced with something. It was a steady, ruthless warmth, like strong sunlight, and it filled every part of him. It almost made him dizzy.

It was rather like an illness, come to think of it.

As the wine was consumed and the decorating continued, the large room echoed with laughter, especially when Lillian and Daisy tried to harmonize a few lines of a popular Christmas carol.

“If that sound were produced by a pair of songbirds,” Rafe told his sisters, “I would shoot them at once to put them out of their misery.”

“Well,
you
sing like a wounded elephant,” Daisy retorted.

“She's lying,” Rafe told Hannah, who was stringing tinsel below him.

“You don't sing badly?” she asked.

“I don't sing at all.”

“Why not?”

“If one doesn't do something well, it shouldn't be done.”

“I don't agree,” she protested. “Sometimes the effort should be made even if the results aren't perfect.”

Smiling, Rafe descended the ladder for more candles, and stopped to look directly into her ocean-green eyes. “Do you really believe that?”

“Yes.”

“I dare you, then.”

“You dare me to what?”

“Sing something.”

“This moment?” Hannah gave a disconcerted laugh. “By myself?”

Aware that the others were observing the interaction with interest, Rafe nodded. He wondered if she would take the dare and sing in front of a group of people she barely knew. He didn't think so.

Flushing, Hannah protested, “I can't do it while you're looking at me.”

Rafe laughed. He took the bundle of wires and candles she handed to him, and obediently went up the ladder. He twisted a wire around a candle and began to fasten it to a branch.

His hands stilled as he heard a sweet, soft voice. Not at all distinguished or operatic. Just a pleasant, lovely feminine voice, perfect for lullabies or Christmas carols or nursery songs.

A voice one could listen to for a lifetime.

Rafe listened to her, barely aware of the two or three candles snapping in his grip. This was getting bloody ridiculous, he thought savagely. If she became any more adorable, endearing, or delectable, something was going to get broken.

Most likely his heart.

He kept his face calm even as he struggled with two irreconcilable truths—he couldn't have her, and he couldn't
not
have her. He focused on marshaling his breathing, stacking his thoughts into order, and pushing away the mass of unwanted feeling that kept flooding over him like ocean waves.

Finishing the verse, Hannah looked up at Rafe with a self-satisfied grin, while the others clapped and praised her. “There, I took your dare, Mr. Bowman. Now you owe me a forfeit.”

What a smile she had. It set off sparks of warmth all through him. And it took all his self-control to keep from staring at her like a lovestruck goat. “Would you like me to sing something?” he offered politely.

“
Please,
no,” Lillian cried, and Daisy added, “I
beg
you, don't ask him that!”

Descending the ladder, Rafe came to stand beside Hannah. “Name your forfeit,” he said. “I always pay my debts.”

“Make him pose like a Grecian statue,” Annabelle suggested.

“Demand that he give you a l-lovely compliment,” Evie said.

“Hmmm…” Hannah eyed him thoughtfully, and named a popular parlor-game forfeit. “I'll take a possession of yours. Anything you happen to be carrying right now. A handkerchief, or a coin, perhaps.”

“His wallet,” Daisy suggested with glee.

Rafe reached into his trouser pocket, where a small penknife and a few coins jingled. And one other object, a tiny metal figure not two inches in height. Casually he dropped it into Hannah's palm.

She regarded the offering closely. “A toy soldier?” Most of the paint had worn off, leaving only a few flecks of color to indicate its original hues. The tiny infantryman held a sword tucked at his side. Hannah's gaze lifted to his, her eyes clear and green. Somehow she seemed to understand that there was some secret meaning to the little soldier. Her fingers curved as if to protect it. “Is he for luck?” she asked.

Rafe shook his head slightly, hardly able to breathe as he felt himself suspended between an oddly pleasurable sense of surrender, and an ache of regret. He wanted to take it back. And he wanted to leave it there forever, safe in her possession.

“Rafe,” he heard Lillian say with an odd note in her voice. “Do you still carry that? After all these years?”

“It's just an old habit. Means nothing.” Stepping away from Hannah, Rafe said curtly, “Enough of this nonsense. Let's finish the blasted tree.”

In another quarter hour, the decorations were all up, and the tree was glittering and magnificent.

“Imagine when all the candles are lit,” Annabelle exclaimed, standing back to view it. “It will be a glorious sight.”

“Yes,” Westcliff rejoined dryly. “Not to mention the greatest fire hazard in Hampshire.”

“You were absolutely right to choose such a large tree,” Annabelle told Lillian.

“Yes, I think—” Lillian paused only briefly as she saw someone come into the room. A very tall and piratical-looking someone who could only be Simon Hunt, Annabelle's husband. Although Hunt had begun his career working in his father's butcher shop, he had eventually
become one of the wealthiest men in England, owning locomotive foundries and a large portion of the railway business. He was Lord Westcliff's closest friend, a man's man who appreciated good liquor and fine horses and demanding sports. But it was no secret that what Simon Hunt loved most in the world was Annabelle.