A Wallflower Christmas (14 page)

In Evie's opinion, the sleighing party had been enjoyable but too long. She was tired, her ears still ringing from all the noise and caroling. Evie had laughed and frolicked with the group, staying close to Daisy, whose husband had remained at the manor to discuss business matters with Rafe Bowman.

“Oh, I don't mind at all,” Daisy had said cheerfully, when Evie had asked if she was disappointed that Swift had not accompanied them. “It's better to let Matthew clear away his business concerns first, and then he'll be free to give me all his attention later.”

“Does he w-work very long hours?” Evie had asked with a touch of concern, knowing that the Bowman's enterprise in Bristol was a massive project involving great responsibility.

“There are days when he must,” Daisy had replied prosaically. “But there are other times when he stays home and we spend the day together.” A grin had crossed
her face. “I love being married to him, Evie. Although it's still all so new…sometimes it surprises me to wake up and find Matthew beside me.” She had leaned closer and whispered, “I have to tell you a secret, Evie: I complained one day that I'd read all the books in the house, and there was nothing new at the bookshop, and Matthew challenged me to try writing one of my own. So I've started one. I have a hundred pages written already.”

Evie had laughed in delight. “Daisy,” she had whispered back, “are you going to be a f-famous novelist?”

Daisy shrugged. “It doesn't matter to me whether it's published or not. I'm enjoying writing it.”

“Is it a respectable story or a naughty one?”

Daisy's brown eyes danced with mischief. “Evie, why would you even ask? Of
course
it's a naughty one.”

Now back in the comfort of her room at Stony Cross Manor, Evie bathed in a small portable tub by the hearth, sighing in relief at the feel of the hot water against her stiff, aching limbs. Sleigh rides, she reflected, were one of those activities that always sounded better in theory than they turned out to be in reality. The seats on the sleigh had been hard and lumpy, and her feet had been cold.

She heard a tap at the door, and the sound of someone entering the room. Since she was shielded from view by a standing fabric screen, Evie leaned back and peeked around the screen's wooden frame.

A housemaid was hefting a dripping metal can with rags tied at the handles. “More hot water, milady?” she asked.

“Y-yes, please.”

Carefully the maid poured the steaming water at the end near Evie's feet, and Evie sank deeper into the bath. “Oh, thank you.”

“Shall I come back with a warming pan to take the chill from the bed, milady?” The long-handled covered pan was filled with live coals and run between the sheets just before bedtime.

Evie nodded.

The maid left, and Evie stayed in the bath until the heat began to dissipate. Reluctantly she stepped from the tub and dried herself. The thought of going to bed alone—again—filled her with melancholy. She was trying not to pine for St. Vincent. But she woke up every morning searching for him, her arm stretched across the empty place beside her.

St. Vincent was the opposite of everything Evie was…elegant, dazzlingly articulate, cool and self-possessed…and so wicked that it had once been universally agreed he would be an absolutely terrible husband.

No one but Evie knew how tender and devoted he was in private. Of course, his friends such as Westcliff and Mr. Hunt were aware that St. Vincent had reformed his former villainous ways. And he was doing a remarkable job managing the gaming club she had inherited from her father, rebuilding a faltering empire while at the same time making light of the responsibilities he had assumed.

He was still a scoundrel, though, she thought with a private grin.

Standing from the bath, Evie dried herself and donned a velvet robe that buttoned along the front. She
heard the door open again. “Back to w-warm the bed?” she asked.

But the voice that answered wasn't the maid's.

“As a matter of fact…yes.”

Evie stilled at the sound of a deep, silky murmur.

“I passed the maid on the stairs and told her she wouldn't be needed tonight,” he continued. “‘If there's one thing I do well,' I told her, ‘it's warming my wife's bed.'”

By this time Evie was fumbling to push the screen aside, nearly pushing it over.

St. Vincent reached her in a few graceful strides, folding her in his arms. “Easy, love. No need for haste. Believe me, I'm not going anywhere.”

They stood together for a long, wordless moment, breathing, holding tight.

Eventually St. Vincent tilted Evie's head back and stared down at her. He was tawny and golden-haired, his pale blue eyes glittering like gems in the face of a fallen angel. He was a long, lean-framed man, always exquisitely dressed and groomed. But he had not been sleeping well, she saw. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and signs of weariness on his face. The touches of human vulnerability, however, only served to make him more handsome, softening what might otherwise have been a gleaming, godlike remoteness.

“Your f-father,” she began, staring at him in concern. “Is he…”

St. Vincent cast an exasperated glance heavenward. “He'll be fine. The doctors can't find a thing wrong with him, other than indigestion brought on by rich food and
wine. When I left, he was leering and pinching the housemaids, and welcoming a score of obsequious relations who want to sponge off him for Christmas.” His hands moved lightly over her velvet-covered back. His voice was very soft. “Have you been a good girl in my absence?”

“Yes, of course,” she said breathlessly.

St. Vincent gave her a disapproving glance and kissed her with a seductive gentleness that sent her pulse racing. “We'll have to remedy that immediately. I refuse to tolerate proper behavior from my wife.”

She touched his face, smiling as he nipped at her exploring fingertips. “I've missed you, Sebastian.”

“Have you, love?” He unfastened the buttons of her robe, the light eyes glittering with heat as her skin was revealed. “What part did you miss the most?”

“Your mind,” she said, and smiled at his expression.

“I was hoping for a far more depraved answer than that.”

“Your mind is depraved,” she told him solemnly.

He gave a husky laugh. “True.”

She gasped as his experienced hand slipped inside her robe. “What part of m-me did you miss the most?”

“I missed you from head to toe. I missed every freckle. I missed the taste of you…the feel of your hair in my hands…Evie, my love, you are shamefully overdressed.”

And he picked her up and carried her to bed. The velvet robe was stripped away, replaced by firelight and his caressing hands. He kissed the new rich curve of her stomach, fascinated by the changes in her fertile body. And then he kissed her everywhere else, and entered
her with teasing skill. Evie jolted a little at the feel of him, so hard and heavy inside her.

Pausing, St. Vincent smiled down at her, his face flushed with desire. “Sweet little wife,” he whispered. “What am I to do with you? Such a short time apart…and already you've forgotten how to accommodate me.” Evie shook her head, straining to take him in, and her husband laughed softly. “Let me help you, love…” And he courted her body with careful, wicked thoroughness, until he had entered her fully and brought her, sighing and trembling, into helpless rapture.

Afterward, as Evie reclined on her side and tried to catch her breath, St. Vincent left the bed and returned with a large, rattling leather case. He set it on the nearby table. “I brought the family jewels,” he told her.

“I know,” she said languidly, and he laughed as he saw what she was staring at.

“No, love. The other family jewels. They're entailed to the future Duchess of Kingston. But I told my father I'm giving them to you now, since he'll obviously live for a damned eternity.”

Her eyes widened. “Thank you, Sebastian. But I…I don't need jewelry…”

“You do. Let me see them on you.” He pulled out ropes of priceless pearls, sparkling necklaces and bracelets and earrings wrought of gold and every imaginable jewel. To Evie's squirmy, giggling embarrassment, he sat beside her and began to adorn her, clasping a sapphire bracelet around her ankle, tucking a diamond into her navel.

“Sebastian—” she protested, while he weighted her
naked body with enough gold and rare gemstones to purchase a small country.

“Be still.” His mouth searched between strands of pearls, pausing here and there to lick and bite gently at her skin. “I'm decorating for Christmas.”

Evie smiled and shivered. “You're not supposed to decorate
me
.”

“Don't discourage my holiday spirit, darling. Now let me show you something interesting about these pearls…” And before long, her protests had faded into pleasured moans.

“Hannah!” Natalie was in bed, drinking her morning tea. A housemaid was stirring the coals and lighting the grate, giggling as if she and Natalie had just shared an irresistibly funny joke.

Having come in from a long walk outside, Hannah entered the room and smiled at her cousin fondly. “Good morning, dear. Finally awake?”

“Yes, I stayed up much too late last night.” A group of the younger guests, including Natalie, had spent the evening playing parlor games. Hannah had neither asked nor wanted to know if Rafe…for that was how she now thought of Mr. Bowman…had been among them.

In the past few days since their astonishing interaction in the parlor, Hannah had avoided Rafe as much as possible, and she had tried not to speak to him directly. She had gone on many solitary walks and had done much soul-searching, unable to comprehend why Rafe
had engaged in such an intimate act with her, why she had allowed it, and what her feelings were toward him.

Although Hannah knew little about physical desire, she understood that it resonated more strongly between some people than others. She couldn't perceive whether Rafe felt the same desire toward Natalie. It made her miserable to contemplate it. But she felt certain he had not made
that
kind of advance to Natalie, at least not yet, or Natalie would have told her.

Above all, she understood that ultimately none of this mattered. For a man in Rafe's position, feelings of desire and attachment would make no difference regarding the course he would take. When he married Natalie, he would no longer be the black sheep of the family. In one fell swoop he would please his father, secure his rightful position, and garner a large fortune.

If he chose someone else, he would lose everything.

A woman who cared about him would never ask him to make such a choice.

That afternoon when Hannah had picked herself up from the library floor and painstakingly restored her clothing, she had acknowledged that she was falling in love with him, and the more she knew of him, the deeper the feelings cut. She had retrieved the little toy soldier, and she carried it in her pocket, a small and private weight. It was her token now—she would not offer it to Rafe again. In the future she would be able to close the piece in her hand and remember the dashing American scoundrel and the attraction that had exploded in a passion she would never forget.

I'm a woman with a past now,
she thought, amused and wistful.

Regarding Samuel Clark and his proposal…Rafe had been right. She did not love him. It would be unfair to Clark if she married him and forever compared him to someone else. Therefore Hannah resolved to write to Clark soon and turn down his offer of marriage, much as she was tempted by the safety of it.

Natalie's merry voice recalled her from her thoughts. “Hannah! Hannah, are you listening? I have something
delicious
to tell you…a few minutes ago, Polly brought the most astonishing little note—” Natalie waved a scorched and half-crumpled bit of parchment in front of her. “You'll blush when you read it. You'll
faint
.”

“What is it?” Hannah asked, slowly approaching the bedside.

The young dark-haired housemaid, Polly, answered sheepishly. “Well, miss, it's part of my chores to polish the grates and clean the hearths in the bachelor's house behind the manor—”

“That's where Mr. Bowman is staying,” Natalie interjected.

“—and after Mr. Bowman left this morning, I went to the hearth, and while I was sweeping out the ashes, I saw a bit of paper with writing on it. So I picked it up, and when I saw it was a love letter, I knew it was for Lady Natalie.”

“Why did you assume that?” Hannah asked, nettled that Rafe's privacy should have been invaded in such a way.

“Because he's courting me,” Natalie said, rolling her eyes, “and everyone knows it.”

Hannah turned an unsmiling gaze to the housemaid,
whose excitement had dimmed in the face of her disapproval. “You shouldn't snoop through the guests' things, Polly,” she said gently.

“But it was in the hearth, half burnt,” the maid protested, flushing. “He didn't want it. And I saw the words and thought it might be important.”

“Either you thought it was rubbish, or you thought it was important. Which was it?”

“Am I going to get in trouble?” Polly whispered, turning a beseeching gaze to Natalie.

“No, of course not,” Natalie said impatiently. “Now Hannah, don't turn all school ma'amish. You're missing the point entirely, which is that this is a love letter from Mr. Bowman to me. And it's a rather dirty-minded and odd letter—I've never received anything like it before, and it's
very
entertaining and—” She broke off with a gasp of laughter as Hannah snatched it from her.

The letter had been crumpled up and tossed onto the grate. It had burned all around the edges, so the names at the top and bottom had gone up in smoke. But there was enough of the bold black scrawl to reveal that it had indeed been a love letter. And as Hannah read the singed and half-destroyed parchment, she was forced to turn away to hide the trembling of her hand.

And there it stopped.

Aware of the silence in the room, Hannah endeavored to regulate her breathing. “Is there any more?” she asked in a controlled tone.

“I
knew
you would blush,” Natalie said triumphantly.

“The rest was ashes, miss,” Polly replied, more guarded.

“Did you show it to anyone else?” Hannah asked sharply, concerned for Rafe's sake. These words had not been meant for anyone to read. “Any of the servants?”

“No, miss,” the girl said, her lower lip trembling.

“Heavens, Hannah,” Natalie exclaimed, “there's no need to be so cross. I thought this would amuse you, not send you into a temper.”

“I'm not in a temper.” She was devastated, and aroused, and anguished. And most of all, confused. Hannah made her face expressionless as she continued. “But out of respect for Mr. Bowman, I don't think this should be put on display for others' amusement. If he is to be your husband, Natalie, you must protect his privacy.”

“I, protect
him
?” Natalie asked roguishly. “After reading that, I rather think I shall need protection
from
him.” She shook her head and laughed at Hannah's silence. “What a spoilsport you are. Go and burn what's left of it, if that will put you in a better mood.”

 

Some men, Rafe reflected grimly, wanted nothing more for their sons than to carry on the same life
they
were having.

After a long and vicious argument that morning, it had become clear to him that Thomas would not yield in any way. Rafe must step into the life that his father had planned for him and become, more or less, a reflection of Thomas Bowman. Anything less and his father would regard him as a failure, both as a son and as a man.

The argument had begun when Thomas had told Rafe that he was expected to propose to Lady Natalie by Christmas Eve. “Lord Blandford and I want to announce the betrothal of our children at the Christmas Eve ball.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Rafe had marveled sarcastically. “But I haven't yet decided whether or not I want to marry her.”

The predictable color had begun to rise in Thomas Bowman's face. “It's time to make a decision. You have all the necessary information. You've spent enough time with her to be able to assess her qualities. She's a daughter of the peerage. You know all the rewards that will come your way when you marry. Hell and damnation, why do you even hesitate?”

“I don't have any feelings for her.”

“So much the better! It will be a steady marriage. It is time to take your place in the world as a man, Rafe.” Thomas had made a visible effort to control his temper as he tried to make himself understood. “Love passes. Beauty fades. Life is not a romantic romp through a meadow.”

“My God, that's inspiring.”

“You've never done as I asked. You never even tried. I wanted a son who would be a help to me, who would understand the importance of what I was doing.”

“I understand that you want to build an empire,” Rafe had said quietly. “And I've tried to find a place for myself in your grand scheme. I could do a hell of a lot for the company, and you know it. What I don't understand is why you want me to prove myself this way first.”

“I want you to demonstrate your commitment to me. As Matthew Swift did.
He
married the woman I chose for him.”

“He happened to be in love with Daisy,” Rafe snapped.

“And so could you be, with Lady Natalie. But in the end, love doesn't matter. Men like us marry women who will either further our ambitions, or at least not hinder them. You see what a long and productive marriage your mother and I have had.”

“Thirty years,” Rafe agreed. “And you and Mother can barely stand to be in the same room together.” Sighing tautly, Rafe dragged his hand through his hair. He glanced at his father's round, obstinate face, with its bristling mustache, and he wondered why Thomas had always been compelled to exert such relentless control over the people around him. “What's all this for, Father? What reward do you have after all these years of building a fortune? You take no pleasure in your family. You have the temperament of a baited badger—and that's on your good days. You don't seem to enjoy much of anything.”

“I enjoy being Thomas Bowman.”

“I'm glad of it. But I don't think I would enjoy it.”

Thomas stared at him for a long moment. His face softened, and for once, he spoke in a near-fatherly
tone. “I'm trying to help you. I wouldn't ask you to do something I believed to be against your own interests. My judgment about Swift and Daisy was correct, wasn't it?”

“By some miracle of God, yes,” Rafe muttered.

“It will all get better, easier, once you start making the right choices. You must build a good life for yourself, Rafe. Take your place at the table. There is nothing wrong with Blandford's daughter. Everyone wants this match. Lady Natalie has made it clear to all and sundry that she is amenable. And you led me to believe that you would go through with it as long as the girl was acceptable!”

“You're right. At first it didn't matter whom I married. But now I find myself unwilling to pick a wife with no more care than I would exert in choosing a pair of shoes.”

Thomas had looked exasperated. “What has changed since you arrived in England?”

Rafe didn't answer.

“Is it that brown-haired girl?” his father prodded. “Lady Natalie's companion?”

He looked at his father alertly. “Why do you ask?”

“It seems you've gone more than once to listen to her read at night to a group of children. And you care nothing for children or Christmas stories.” The heavy mustache twitched contemptuously. “She's common, Rafe.”

“And we're not? Grandmother was a dockside wash-woman, and the devil knows who your father was. And that was just on your side of the—”

“I have spent my life trying to elevate this blighted family into something more! Don't use this girl as a
way to avoid your responsibilities. You can have as many of her kind as you desire after you've married Lady Natalie. No one would condemn you for it, especially in England. Seduce her. Make her your mistress. I'll even buy a house for her, if that will please you.”

“Thank you, but I can afford my own mistresses.” Rafe threw his father a glance of dark disgust. “You want this marriage so much that you're willing to finance the corruption of an innocent girl to accomplish it?”

“Everyone loses their innocence sooner or later.” As Thomas saw Rafe's expression, his eyes had turned cold. “If you foil everyone's expectations, and embarrass me in the bargain, I will cut you off. No more chances. You will be disinherited, and renounced.”

“Understood,” Rafe had said curtly.