Christmas Belles (17 page)

"Oh, Lucy," she quavered. "Do you really
think so? Is that what being in love is like? Are you sure?"

"As sure as anyone can ever be of such a thing. What is
more, I believe Charles also cares for me. There have been several times when I
feared him to be on the verge of speaking, but I have always stopped him."

Lucy thrust her hands more deeply into her muff and frowned.
"What a dreadful coil!"

Yet even as she said this, Lucy's expression became softer,
more tender than Chloe had ever seen her look before. She mused, "Though I
suppose it would not be so bad, marrying Charles. I never truly wanted to wed
an earl. Being called `my lady' all the time would become dreadfully tedious.
Of course, Charles and I think differently. I would want to go to London for
the Season, and he wouldn't. We'd have dreadful rows, but always in the end he
would take me in his arms and..." Lucy heaved a rapturous sigh. "It
would be quite divine."

Whirling suddenly, she enveloped Chloe in an impulsive hug.
"Oh, thank you, Chloe. I am so glad we had this little talk. It has made
everything so wonderfully clear."

Before Chloe could recover her wits, Lucy darted ahead of
her into the house. But Chloe remained frozen on the doorstep, unable to curb a
fluttering of resentment. Maybe everything was now crystal-clear to Lucy, but
certainly not to Chloe.

Still, if Lucy had fallen in love with Mr. Lathrop, if he
returned her regard, Chloe would certainly rejoice for both of them. It would be
a grand thing for Lucy, far more likely to bring her happiness than any of her
more worldly schemes. Mr. Lathrop was such a good-natured young man, charming
and very eligible.

Now, Will Trent, on the other hand, was not in the least
eligible. He was already betrothed to her oldest sister. It didn't matter that
theirs would be a marriage of convenience, not affection, that Emma by rights
should have been marrying someone else. The fact remained that the wedding
would take place in five days, and for Chloe to be harboring any notions about
Trent was downright treasonous.

It was absurd for Chloe to even imagine falling in love with
him. Had she not disliked him amazingly upon their first acquaintance? But that
all seemed such a long time ago. Days had intervened since then, days when she
seemed to be with him every waking moment until she knew almost everything
about him, all his dreams, all his fears, how generous he could be, how caring,
despite his gruff exterior. She even knew his flaws, and he did have them, she
reminded herself fiercely.

He could be so unbelievably obstinate, especially when he
was convinced he was right. Sometimes he was so stuffed with common sense that
he could not see beyond the end of his own nose.

But it was such a handsome nose, carved on the same strong
lines as the rest of his face. And his eyes—they were what Chloe had come to
think of as a deep-sea gray. She loved how they lightened those rare times when
Will realized even a captain was permitted to laugh.

Resting one arm along the stonework of the house, Chloe
buried her forehead against it, appalled by the direction of her thoughts but
totally powerless to check them. This was all Lucy's fault, forever rattling on
about being in love. It was as catching as a contagious disease.

But she was being most unfair to blame Lucy. Even if Lucy
had never breathed a word of her own romance, Chloe knew the realization would
have overtaken her eventually. She had simply been fighting it, but to no
avail.

She had fallen in love with Will Trent.

There—she had admitted it, if not aloud, then most certainly
to herself. Chloe held her breath, waiting. She had always imagined that the
day she acknowledged such a thing, there would be birds singing, rainbows in the
sky, springtime even in the midst of winter. But there was nothing but this
horrid burning ache in her chest just as though she had been shot through the
heart.

It was so disloyal to Emma, but Chloe could not help
pondering how different things might have been if Emma and Mr. Henry had only
set aside their scruples and eloped. Then when Will had come to Windhaven to do
his duty, he would have had to select another sister. Perhaps then …

No, he would have likely picked Lucy or even Agnes, both
more sensible creatures. Chloe knew she amused Trent sometimes, but never would
he have wanted to wed the sister whose head was oft so far in the clouds, she
tripped over her own two feet.

Tears stung her eyes, and she dashed them aside. The old
longing for her father came back to her, strong and fierce. Never had she stood
in such need of his comfort and advice. She could almost picture the sage way
he would have shaken his gray head, how gently he would have patted her cheek.
What was it he had once said to her?

Hearts can be broken, Chloe. But they do mend, and
oftentimes one is a little wiser for the wear.

She didn't feel any wiser at the moment, only completely
wretched. But she realized she could not spend the rest of her life moping by
the kitchen door. One of the new housemaids had come out and already given her
a very odd stare.

Her shoulders drooping, Chloe made her way into the kitchen.
Something warm and fragrant was bubbling in a huge kettle over the fire, but
Chloe had never had less of an appetite.

Mr. Doughty appeared in far different case. Hovering near
the larder, he was scooping up an entire loaf of bread. Or so Chloe thought at
first, then concluded she must be mistaken. Why on earth would Mr. Doughty
shove a loaf of bread inside a canvas sack?

Whatever he was doing, he had his back to her and seemed far
too absorbed to pay her any heed. Chloe heaved a deep sigh as she plunked down
on a three-legged stool to pull off her boots. Mr. Doughty whipped around with
a loud oath.

"Oh, Miss Chloe!"

"Sorry," she said, forcing a smile. "I didn't
mean to frighten you."

"You didn't. I---I was just so intent on polishin' up
the cap'n's boots, I fear I didn't notice ye come in "

That seemed an odd thing for Doughty to say. Will's high-top
boots, looking much the worse for a layering of mud, stood perched upon the
hearth untouched.

Doughty added with a sheepish grin, "I mean, I was just
lookin' about for some champagne. I heard tell it does wonders when added to
the blackin'."

"Well, you won't find any here. It has been a long time
since we have seen any champagne at Windhaven."

"Suppose I'll just have to make do without it."
 Doughty rubbed his hands together in hearty fashion. "The cap'n's
boots took quite a beatin' on yer last walk, Miss Chloe. He'll have my hide if I
don't do something to salvage 'em."

As he strode to the hearth to begin, Chloe rose hastily,
fearing the big seaman might want to engage her in one of their long, cozy
chats. She was in no mood for conversation with anyone. But Doughty appeared
just as somber as she felt. He commenced his task of polishing with a grim set
to his lips, for once even forgetting to whistle.

Chloe slipped past him and had nearly reached the door when
she heard him call, "Miss Chloe?"

Glancing back; she saw Doughty bending over the boots, the
exertion making him red in the face. He muttered, "After supper tonight,
ma'am, I'd be obliged if ye had a word with the cap'n for me. Tell him I said
that I was real sorry."

"Of course," Chloe agreed with a slight frown. How
strange that Doughty should want her to convey his apologies or that he should
imagine that Will would be in any kind of fret. Even if the boots were ruined,
they were only his second-best pair. Yet she was too consumed with her own
unhappiness to puzzle over Doughty's words for long. By the time she left the
kitchen, the odd conversation went right out of her head.

She was more worried about how she was ever going to face
Will again. She feared he might read her folly in her eyes. She had never been
good at the arts of concealment. If only she could somehow hide away in her
room until it was time for Will to go back to his ship. A ridiculous notion,
for there were five more days and the wedding itself to contend with.

For once, she simply must learn how to dissemble. Most of
all, she had to avoid being alone with Will, to hold him at a distance. But it
was one thing to form such a resolution, quite another to carry it out.

Chloe did not find it natural to turn a cold shoulder, to
withhold her smiles from anyone that she loved. And she was rapidly discovering
she had never loved anyone more than she did Will Trent.

She managed to scrape through supper by sitting at the
opposite end of the table from him. But the evening ahead presented a far
greater challenge, even more so because it was New Year's Eve. It was the one
night of the year they kept late hours at Windhaven, stayed up to watch the old
year fade, to welcome in the new.

When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the parlor, Will
tried to approach Chloe on several occasions, but she was quick to skitter
away. She conceived the happy notion of entertaining the others with a magic
lantern show. At least in the semi-darkness, she might better conceal her
feelings.

Agnes retired promptly, declaring herself too old for such
childish entertainments. But the rest gathered round while Chloe brought forth
the box of color transparencies and subjected them to an endless display of
scenes upon the parlor wall.

The magic lantern always used to delight Chloe as a child,
those light images of monarchs and maidens, knights and dragons, even a
terrifying specter or two.

But tonight the scenes flashed before her in a dull blur,
her hands moving almost mechanically to slide one transparency out, put another
one in.

At some point after much whispering and giggling, Lucy and
Lathrop escaped from the parlor. Chloe hardly noticed at first, only gradually
becoming aware of the silence. Daring a glance behind her, she could make out
Emma's form. Exhausted after a day of instructing the new laundry maid in her
duties, Emma had slumped down on the settee, fast asleep. As for Trent, he,
too, appeared to have vanished.

Chloe knew she should have been relieved at his absence, not
continuing to look about for him with a wistful ache in her heart. Then she
felt a light touch upon her hand.  She jumped, realizing that Trent had
stalked silently up beside her. He stood, his looming frame lost in shadow, the
angular lines of his profile cast into sharp relief by the lantern's glow.

"That is an enchanting castle, Chloe," he said.
"But I believe you have already shown it thrice."

"Have I? I am sorry." Chloe hastened to change the
transparency. He checked her movement, his fingers gently but firmly banding
about her wrist.

"Chloe, have I done something wrong?"

No, she wanted to cry. Unfortunately, he had done everything
right, right enough to make her want to cast herself into his arms forever. She
squirmed to free her hand, fearing he would feel the way her pulse thundered
beneath his touch.

"Nothing is wrong," she managed to say. "Why
do you ask?"

"You are so quiet tonight, and I feel as if you are
avoiding me.  Did I offend you earlier when I suggested the decorations
come down? That was only because when I touched up against the mantel, I came
away with a handful of pine needles."

"No, I am not angry about that. I daresay you had
forgotten what I said about the bad luck."

"Yes, ill fortune betide us if the holly is removed
before Twelfth Night, and I would not wish for any more bad luck. Somehow I
feel like the most misfortunate fellow alive because you have not smiled at me
all evening."

She tried to force a smile, a casual friendly one, but found
she couldn't. She busied herself changing the transparency even though she had
lost her audience. Striving for a lighter tone, she said, "You should be
especially careful about your omens, Captain. Doughty told me how you broke
your statue of Saint Nicholas. I am glad mine is made of wood."

"Yours? You pay homage to the patron saint of
sailors?"

"Not merely sailors." She told him of the legend
of Saint Nicholas and the unmarried ladies.

"The protector of both maidens and sailors?" Trent
said with a lift of his brow. "It would seem old Saint Nick spreads
himself a little thin."

"Saints often must do double duty. There are not so
many of them." Chloe scarce knew what nonsense she was talking. She was
only aware of Trent standing far too near her. Her heart beat with desires wild
and strange, and she felt overwhelmed with guilt, conscious as she was of Emma
slumbering behind her, so innocent and trusting. How wicked I am, Chloe thought
with despair. If she were to be boiled alive in one of Emma's puddings, it
would be no more than she deserved.

Nervously, she snatched up another transparency.
"Here's one we haven't seen yet. 'Tis one of my favorites, the wizard in
his lair."

But Trent stepped in front of the lantern, the colored light
spilling over the crisp white of his cravat and the lean contours of his face,
bathing him in a rainbow array at odds with the sorrow in his eyes.

"Something is making you most unhappy," he said.
"I almost thought I saw tears swimming in your eyes." He reached out
to cup her chin, his fingers firm and warm against her skin. "Can you not
tell me what troubles you? I thought we had become friends."

The tenderness in his voice almost proved her undoing. She
longed to catch his hand, pillow her cheek against its masculine strength. She
shied away, essaying an awkward laugh. "I am merely being foolish, just
because it is New Year's Eve. It always makes me a little melancholy. 'Tis
rather a strange night, you must admit. One tick of the clock and another year
slips silently away."

"I understand," he said. "I often feel that
way myself. The old year passing, and who knows what disasters the next might
bring?"