Chapter 32
Balancing the tea tray on one arm, Phoebe eased open the door to her husband's study. Her new pet, ensconced in a basket by the fire, tumbled out to greet her. Yipping with excitement, the dog frisked around her skirts, almost tripping her.
“Hush,” she scolded. “Behave yourself, Holly, or I'll put you out in the hall.”
The ragtag rescue from the woods gave her a doggie smile and trotted beside her as she carried the tray over to the desk. Lucas put down his book and stood to help her.
“I told you that animal would be trouble,” he said. “And whatever gave you the demented idea to call him
Holly
? I trust you noticed he's a male.”
Phoebe smiled at the dog. Though hardly handsome, with his dust-colored coat and floppy ears, he had a sweet, loyal temperament. Lucas had rolled his eyes when she insisted on keeping him, but had finally said to consider him an early Christmas present.
“Holly is a perfectly appropriate name,” she replied. “After all, I found him tangled up in a holly bush. Everyone else likes the name, too. Mrs. Christmas said it fit right in at Mistletoe Manor.”
“She would.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose at him as she fixed his tea, then sank into a chair to enjoy her own cup. Her feet hurt and her back ached from all the work of the last few days, but she was enjoying every minute of her first official Christmas holiday.
“I presume the festivities are still going on in the servant's hall?” Lucas asked.
“Yes. Quite vigorously, I might add.”
Lucas grinned. “Ah, that explains the charming blush on your cheeks. Who did you stumble across? Maggie and one of the footmen?”
Phoebe sighed. “How did you know? She and Philip were in the pantry when I went to fetch the tea tray, kissing under a sprig of mistletoe. Thank goodness, Christmas only comes once a year. I was not entirely aware how enthusiastically the younger servants would observe that particular tradition.”
“They're not the only ones,” her husband purred.
The sensual gleam in his eyeâand the memory of what had put it thereâbrought heat rushing to her cheeks. Earlier that afternoon, Lucas had pulled her into a window alcove in the east corridor that Mrs. Christmas had decorated with a large bough of mistletoe. Standing directly under the hanging cluster of berries, he had drawn her into a scandalous kiss. Things had quickly escalated, and he had soon reached out a hand to pull the drape over the alcove opening. Phoebe had put up a weak protest, but within seconds her husband had one hand up her skirt and the other hand down her bodice. If one of the servants had not come clattering up the stairs at that moment, goodness only knows what might have happened next.
“Perhaps we should not put up quite so much mistletoe next year,” she said pensively.
“There does seem to be an alarming amount of it around the manor. I'd say you outdid yourself with the decorations.”
Phoebe glanced around the study, which nearly resembled a forested bower. Swags of evergreen and ivy, interwoven with cuttings of holly, draped the mantelpiece. More ivy twined the bookshelves and up the bookcase ladder, and she had encircled the lamps with wreaths of evergreen dotted with small apples. More mistletoe, tied up with red and green satin ribbon, hung from every window frame. The rest of the house, including the bedrooms, had received much the same treatment. Even the entrance hall, where they had entertained the villagers today, was smothered in greenery, with gigantic garlands of fragrant laurel framing the great fireplace and twined around the columns of the old oak staircase.
She sighed. “Too much?”
Lucas smiled and shook his head. “It's perfect. You did a splendid job of upholding the old traditions. If the servants and villagers didn't already adore you, they will after today.”
She blushed again, but this time it was his praise that warmed her. “Thank you. But I had no idea it would require so much work. I will be better prepared next year.”
But despite the hard work, she had loved it, from the moment Lucas and the footmen dragged the gigantic Yule log into the hall last night, through the church service this morning, with its beautifully sung carols, to the merry feast in the afternoon with the villagers and farm tenants. She had found the large boar's head fairly alarming, but the villagers had roared their approval when the two strongest footmen carried it into the hall, resplendent on a silver platter.
Her favorite part, however, had been the children's rendition of
The Second Shepherd's Play
. There had been a few mistakes and some bungled lines, but also a great deal of merriment and enthusiastic applause from the audience. At the play's conclusion, young Sam Weston had stepped forward to recite the stanzas of an old Christmas hymn. All had fallen silent, as the words rang out in his clear voice.
“Come, let us join with Angels now,
Glory to God on high,
Peace upon Earth, Goodwill to men,
Amen, Amen, Amen, say I.”
Tears had filled Phoebe's eyes, both for the beauty of the hymn and for the lack of peace in Sam's life. Mr. Weston had not come for the festivities, which was not surprising given her ill-fated encounter with him in the woods. Sam had pretended not to be troubled by his father's absence, but Phoebe had noticed the lad casting his gaze about the hall, clearly expecting and hoping his father would appear.
“What's the matter, Phoebe?”
Startled, she glanced up to find Lucas studying her. “Oh, I was just thinking about poor Sam Weston. I do wish Mr. Weston had come today. He was noticeable by his absence.”
Not the whole truth, but close enough. Still, she hated keeping secrets from him, no matter how necessary.
He eyed her thoughtfully, and a whisper of unease drifted through her. “I imagine he was at the tavern, as usual,” he finally said.
“You mean the tavern was open on Christmas Day? That's dreadful!” The idea scandalized her.
“At least Sam has a father who works to keep a roof over his head.”
Lucas did not know the half of it, but the thought of what he would do when he found out made her stomach clench.
“Besides,” he continued, “Sam and the other children had you to watch over them. And give them presents. Very generous presents.”
She winced at his dry tone. Perhaps she had been a tad overgenerous, but the children had been so thrilledâboard games and tin soldiers for the boys, and dolls and puzzles for the girls. She had objected to the soldiers, but Lucas had insisted. “You do not really mind, do you? It made them so happy.”
He smiled. “One can never have too many presents, I always say. Which reminds me. I have another one for you.”
She stared at him, disconcerted. “Lucas, you have already given me too much. All the books and my new fur tippet, and that lovely silk workbox. Not to mention Holly, the best present of all.”
At the sound of his name, the dog thumped his tail.
Lucas snorted. “That seems more like a piece of bad luck than a present.”
“Oh, butâ”
“No,” he said, holding out his hand. “Come here and get your real present.”
Obediently, she went round the desk and stood by his chair. When he tugged her down into his lap, she gave a little laugh, very aware of his hard thighs under her bottom. And something else that was hard, too.
“Is that my present?” she asked shyly, putting her arms around his neck.
He nibbled beneath her ear, sending shivers racing across her skin. “That part comes later. For now . . .”
Leaving off, he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a black velvet bag tied with a red satin ribbon. Her stomach dropped. The bag reminded her of the jewels he had tried to force on her on the night of the Framingham ball. The memory was not pleasant.
“Go ahead and open it,” he urged.
She slowly untied the ribbon and tipped the contents into her hand. A gasp escaped her lips as a string of shimmering pearls fell into her palm, glowing with a pale, simple beauty.
“Your mother's,” he said, cuddling her against him. “A gift from the old earl on her eighteenth birthday. I understand she left most of her jewels here when she married your father.”
Phoebe swallowed, overcome with emotion. “She would have had nowhere to wear them.”
But as she fingered the smooth orbs, she knew her mother would have cherished those pearls. She could scarcely imagine how difficult it must have been to leave themâand everything elseâbehind. Her mother had sacrificed so much for her father.
For love.
Blinking back a rush of tears, she raised her eyes to meet her husband's gaze. He studied her, his features, as always, a bit stern. But his sea gray eyes smiled at her.
“Thank you, Lucas,” she whispered.
He took the strand from her shaking fingers and fastened it around her neck. She touched the pearls, loving the silky feel against her skin.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, brushing his mouth over her lips. “It's been a very successful holiday, don't you think? Silverton and I have stopped trying to kill each other, and the restoration of the manor is moving forward. And a very large part of all that is because of you.”
He kissed her again, lingering on her mouth. “You deserve these pearls, my sweet, along with everything else I can give you. No man could ask for a better wife.”
His affectionate words triggered a wave of guilt that almost overwhelmed her. Would he still feel that way if he knew she was hiding so many secrets? Worse than that, she had liedâto the man she loved. Although her motive had largely been to protect him, he would no doubt see it as a betrayal of his trust, and by his exacting code of honor, it surely was.
He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his somber gaze. “I know something's wrong, Phoebe,” he said quietly. “I've known it for the last few days. I haven't wanted to press you, but as your husband I have a right to know what troubles you.”
Startled, Phoebe choked down a gasp, dismayed at how easily he had read her thoughts. Then again, she had always been a terrible liar, and the secrets had been a dead weight on her soul.
She eyed him, longing to tell him but afraid how he might react. Not afraid for herself, but for the men of the village.
And for him. Who knew what could happen if he decided to confront the smugglers?
His gaze probed, but his quiet smile encouraged her. “You must trust me, my dear. Whatever it is, I'll listen and try to understand.”
A thousand conflicting emotions tumbled through her, but he patiently waited her out. She studied his calm face, searching for clues, trying to see her way. They often disagreed about important things, but she never doubted that Lucas was a good man. And he
had
reconciled with Cousin Stephen, relinquishing years of animosity because his family asked it of him. With her love and support, perhaps he might now be ready to make peace with the smugglers, too. Or at least show them mercy.
Regardless, she could not hold the secret inside any longer, not without doing damage to herself, and especially to her relationship with Lucas.
Taking a deep breath, she placed a hand on his chest. “Yes, I have been holding something back.” Her voice quavered a bit, and she stopped.
Lucas stroked her cheek. “It's all right. Go on.”
Although tempted to look anywhere but at him, she forced herself to meet his gaze.
“The day I found Holly in the woods, I encountered something else, too.”
“Yes?”
“I came upon the smuggling gang.”
His face went momentarily blank, but quickly his features seemed to turn to stone. “You mean you actually saw them making a run? On Merritt lands?”
“Ah, well, a bit more than that, actually.”
His wintery gaze froze her tongue to the roof of her mouth.
“Phoebe, stop beating around the bush and explain exactly what happened.”
She longed for a sip of tea to wet her parched lips, but she doubted Lucas would let her get up to do that. His body had tensed, and though his grip was gentle, it was also unyielding.
“Well, I spoke to them,” she said in a weak voice.
His pupils dilated. “Christ!”
She flinched. “There is no need to swear, or to raise your voice, Lucas. I can hear you very well.”
“Phoebe, why in God's name would you talk to a band of criminals? You could have been hurt!”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she sat ramrod straight, not an easy thing to do while perched on his thighs. “I did not have a choice,” she snapped. “I was in a clearing, freeing Holly from the bush, when they came upon me. There was no chance to run or hide. In fact, if I had tried to run, things might have gone much worse.”