One Perfect Christmas (Short Story) (5 page)

And when he’d finally put his lips to hers? Ah, he reflected with satisfaction, it
was confirmation that Jane was everything he’d searched the world for. She was his
missing piece, tucked away in Surrey, right beneath his nose, all this time.

He’d closed his eyes when they kissed, needing to experience Jane and nothing else.
The world had shrunk to just him and her. No family or visiting friends—and most definitely
no Lord Needles. The sounds of the holiday
celebration had all but vanished. There was just Lucas and Jane, together, as it should
be.

They’d not shared another moment together. Lord Needles and Lady Merriweather had
occupied Jane’s attention for the rest of the night until the vicar, on his seventh
cup of Christmas punch, had mistaken the harp for one of his parishioners and it had
been decided the party should end.

Lucas had done his duty and bid good night to all of the guests … save for one. Somehow
Jane had slipped by him and left for home without a word. Just as well, he’d thought,
certain he could not have hidden his feelings for her.

The vicar paused in his sermon and carefully rubbed his temples.

Poor bastard
, Lucas thought to himself, suspecting the vicar was feeling the effects of last evening’s
over-imbibing and knowing the same could be said of him.

He turned to smile down at his niece Charlotte and couldn’t resist glancing in Jane’s
direction. She didn’t return his gaze—didn’t see him, or was deliberately ignoring
him, offering not even the smallest of smiles or nod of recognition.

She’d done the same when he’d found her waiting just inside the church entryway, but
he’d assumed that she simply felt a sudden sense of shyness after last night.

But Jane had made it abundantly clear that he was mistaken in his assumption. She
was not rude, neither was she friendly. No, she’d been something altogether more irritating:
indifferent. As if he was no one of consequence to her.

And when Lord Needles had appeared and she’d greeted him with a sunny smile and an
invitation to join her family in their pew?

Lucas had felt physically ill. And angry. And confused. He took one last look at Jane
now, willing her to meet his gaze.

But she only stared straight ahead, at the vicar, her eyes showing no glimpse of emotion.

Charlotte tugged on his coat sleeve and Lucas turned his attention back to the child.
She pointed to the floor, where her doll lay, then looked at him with pleading eyes.

Lucas bent down to retrieve it, fighting the ridiculous urge to throttle the doll
until her head separated from the rest of her silk-and-lace-clad torso.

He carefully sat up and handed her toy to Charlotte, forcing a smile when the girl
hugged the doll close.

Lucas suddenly felt an intense desire to be away from … from his family. From bloody
Lord Needles. From the woman whose treatment of him made Lucas so angry he’d considered
unleashing his temper on a child’s precious toy.

He leaned toward his mother and whispered in her ear, “I’ve need of fresh air. I will
see you back at the house.”

She looked ready to argue but relented when Lucas glowered.

He took his beaver hat in hand and stood, stepping around his nieces, then striding
down the side aisle of the church, without looking at a single person as he did so.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door, pausing for a moment as the bright, clear light
reflected off the snow to greet him. Donning his hat and turning the collar of his
greatcoat up against the icy wind, he stepped out into the winter morning and let
the door blow shut behind him, the loud
thwack
as it met the church’s ancient frame barely registering in his ears.

Lucas breathed in deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs until they ached from
the effort. He repeated the act a second time, the cold crystalizing in his organs,
then smashing into a million sharp shards as he released it and attempted to push
the pain from his mind, body, and soul.

He clenched his jaw when the anger failed to dissipate.

Lucas strode swiftly away from the church, cutting across the cemetery and heading
for the vicarage stables just beyond.

He picked up his pace as he passed the vicar’s house, the wind in his face only urging
him to move faster.

His hat flew off and he turned his gaze to it, watching as it sailed on the frosty
air back toward the church.

I’m not going back. Not for a bloody hat. Not for anything
.

He reached the stable and slowed just as Colin, the stable boy, stepped out from behind
the large door, a bucket of mash in his hand. “Lord Cavanaugh, is everything all right?”

“Yes, fine. But I’ve need of my horse.”

The lad immediately set the bucket down and turned to go back inside. “Of course,
my lord. I’ll just tack him up for you. Won’t be but a minute.”

“No,” Lucas called out, desperate to be on the move again. “Just his bridle and reins,
Colin.”

“No saddle, my lord?”

“That’s right,” Lucas assured the boy, then gestured for him to hurry.

Colin shrugged his shoulders and disappeared into the stables.

Lucas paced, hoping the action would alleviate the storm brewing inside of him. But
he needed more than just movement. He needed speed. Anger roiled in his belly, demanding
release.

The stable door reopened and Colin appeared with Lucas’s gelding, Horatio, in tow.
“He was none too pleased to be separated from his oats, Lord Cavanaugh,” the stable
boy said warningly, handing the reins to Lucas. “I don’t think the storm that’s coming
will do much to improve his mood.”

Lucas looped the leather reins over Horatio’s neck and leapt astride. He sat straight
and gathered the reins, eyeing the snow as it began to fall. “I’m afraid that makes
two of us, Colin.”

Lucas kneed Horatio into a trot, the horse tossing his head in irritation.

“Lord Cavanaugh, happy Christmas!” Colin shouted, his voice fading in the growing
force of the wind.

Lucas tightened his thighs around the gelding and urged Horatio into a canter, Colin’s
cheery “happy” and “Christmas” quickly fading away into the chilled air.

Jane was absolutely chilled to the bone, but it had nothing to do with the weather
outside. She sat stone-still in the pew, Lord Needles on her left, her mother on her
right. Several minutes had passed since Lucas’s departure from the church, and still
her eyes remained focused ahead, concentrated on the vicar.

She didn’t hear a word the man imparted, though, and was only vaguely aware of his
presence as he bowed his head over the scripture.

Her entire being was consumed by the look in Lucas’s eyes as he’d stormed from the
church, the somber sound of each step on the stone floor driving a nail into her heart.

He’d been offended by her impersonal and distant behavior, which had been her intent,
of course. After last night’s kiss, Jane could no longer pretend that continuing on
as Lucas’s friend would ever be enough for her.

She loved him.

And because she did, she needed to keep as far away from him as possible.

The congregation stood and Jane automatically rose with them, covertly studying Lord
Needles while the vicar made his closing remarks.

He could take her far away from Surrey and Lucas. Encouraging his courtship might
make all of her problems dissolve into thin air. Her parents would be saved from
ruin. Jane could build a life with Lord Needles, start a family, and forget all about
Lucas Cavanaugh.

Her mother moved toward the end of the aisle and Jane followed, with Lord Needles
closely behind.

“Lady Cybil, might you and your nephew wish to join us for Christmas luncheon?” Lady
Merriweather inquired of Lord Needles’s aunt as they met at the back of the church.

Lady Pearson smiled graciously as she adjusted the velvet cloak about her shoulders.
“That would be lovely, Alice. Thank you for the invitation.”

They said their good-byes to the vicar and stepped outside, a bracing wind hitting
each in the face as they took their first steps into the storm.

“Best move quickly, before the snow overtakes us all,” Jane’s father suggested, offering
one arm to his wife and the other to Lady Pearson. “Ladies, hold tight. I would not
want you to blow away in this treacherous wind.”

All three laughed heartily, then set off toward Juniper Hall, Jane and Lord Needles
bringing up the rear.

“Well, it would seem they were right,” Lord Needles said, setting a brisk but comfortable
pace. “We’ll have more snow for Christmas than we’ll know what to do with.”

Jane smiled at him, attempting in earnest to forget everything that had occurred before.
“I must admit, I’m quite fond of the snow,” she replied, pulling the collar of her
fur-trimmed mantle higher about her neck. “It has the ability to magically transform
one’s surroundings—as if
you’d suddenly found yourself in the middle of a fairy tale.”

Lord Needles nodded in agreement and turned to take in the quiet beauty that surrounded
them. “Such a romantic notion, fairy tales, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes,” Jane replied without thinking as she watched her parents and Lady Pearson
disappear around a bend in the path. “Fairy tales are nothing without romance. I’d
go so far as to suggest their very foundation is built upon such things—after all,
one could not reach their happily ever after without romance.”

“And your happily ever after, Miss Merriweather?”

She looked directly at Lord Needles, her mind working to knit together a reasonable
response. “I’m sorry, my lord—and I don’t mean to be impertinent—but how, precisely,
did we arrive at such a topic?”

“Well,” he said simply, holding a hand out to capture snowflakes as they fell. “I
commented on the snow. And then you made the observation that the snow possessed transformative
powers—”

“You’re being coy, Lord Needles,” Jane interrupted, unsure of his endgame.

“My attempt at charm, I’m afraid,” he explained, an endearing smile forming on his
lips. “It could be argued that we botanists are much more skilled at the scientific
method as pertains to romance. First a hypothesis, which I
had the opportunity to work out during last night’s party when Mr. Cavanaugh kissed
you under the mistletoe.”

Jane’s stomach dropped at the words “kissed” and “mistletoe.” “Did you know mistletoe
is considered a parasitic plant?” she queried, the deepening snow becoming harder
to slog through with each step.

“I
am
a botanist, Jane.”

“Of course,” she answered, hitching up her skirts slightly in an effort to make the
going easier. “How silly of me.”

Lord Needles offered her his arm, but Jane refused, though why she did so she could
not exactly fathom.

“As for observation,” he continued, clasping his hands behind his back in a scholarly
manner. “This morning’s service was quite enlightening.”

Jane cringed at the mention of the Christmas message. “Yes, well, Vicar Jones does
have a way with words.”

“What was your favorite point from the sermon, Jane?”

She could have sworn the path between the vicarage and Juniper Hall contained nothing
that could be compared to a hill. And yet her body strained with effort, her mind
with panic. “Well, it is very hard to pick just one,” she began, looking at her companion.

Lord Needles appeared to be hanging on her every word.

Blast
. “If pressed, I would choose the donkey, near the manger. And his …” It appeared
lying was every bit
as exhausting as tromping through fresh snow. “And his humble, yet pure spirit.”

“You weren’t listening, were you?”

Jane stopped and released her skirts, resting her hands on her hips. “But there’s
always a donkey in the Christmas story.”

“The vicar spoke on chapter two of the book of Luke,” Lord Needles explained, offering
his arm a second time. “And the importance of the shepherds as messengers.”

Jane should have known the vicar would reuse last year’s Christmas sermon. She accepted
Lord Needles’s kindness this time, looping her arm through his and allowing herself
to rest against his bulk.

“You weren’t listening because you were far too busy pretending to
not
be in love with Mr. Cavanaugh,” Lord Needles continued, patting her hand with his.

All was not lost. It couldn’t be. Not yet. “A passing fancy, my lord.” Jane strove
to adopt a light, dismissive air. “Nothing more than an infatuation from our youth
that rears its ugly head from time to time.”

“I don’t believe you,” he replied, his hand warming hers. “I’ve seen a woman look
at a man like that. You love him. And if I’m not mistaken, he loves you.”

Jane stared at him, aghast, her mouth moving, though no words came forth. “Wh … I … Bu …”
She tugged Lord Needles to a stop and squared her shoulders. “You are mistaken, my
lord. As mistaken as one ever could be.”

“Jane,” he said in a kind tone. “I would like to court you—perhaps even marry you
one day. I am almost sure we would have a good life together—a splendid life, even.
But doing so would rob you of the greatest gift this life has to offer—love. Are you
willing to give up what you so greatly deserve? Forget everything else and think only
of your heart. And then give me your answer.”

Jane’s panic, so recently rising in her throat and threatening to make away with her
senses, suddenly cooled. Mild, relief-riddled acceptance took its place.

She looked at Lord Needles intently, imagining a life with him. There would be laughter
and companionship. Comfort and the blessing of children. A strong and true affection
born of genuine appreciation. But not love.

“Miss Jane!”

The cry carried from around the bend, followed closely by the appearance of Robby
astride Fickle, the draft gelding.

Jane and Lord Needles watched the elderly man draw near. He balanced precariously
upon the massive horse, his wiry frame bouncing up and down in time to Fickle’s hoofbeats.