A Gamble on Love (19 page)

Thomas watched with interest as his
wife retrieved clean cloths and a towel from one of the tall
cupboards. She pumped water into an earthenware basin, which she
laid on the table . . . and then she disappeared out the door,
leaving him wondering. Somehow he doubted she had gone to find
help, for she seemed surprisingly at home in this strange room with
its heady mixture of intriguing odors.
Stillroom
. He had never seen one before, but the
name popped into his head. A traditional part of country living. He
should bring the children here. They had no idea—

Relia interrupted his thoughts, dashing back
in, a steaming kettle held fast in huge pads that seemed much too
large for her hands. Thomas winced as the kettle wavered, the spout
all too close to his lap, then heaved an audible sigh of relief as
the boiling water made it into the basin. Relia set the kettle onto
the table, tested the temperature of the water in the basin, added
a bit more hot.

“
Well done,” Thomas murmured. “I had no
idea doctoring was among your skills.”

“
Lighting a lamp? Pouring water in a
bowl?” his wife scoffed.

“
Ah—but I suspect you will manage the
rest of it just as competently.”

“
If you did not have such soft hands,
this would not have happened,” she scolded as she dipped a cloth
into the warm water.

“
I must appear very feeble to a young
lady accustomed to hearty country gentlemen,” Thomas offered humbly
as his wife picked up his hand and began to wipe off the
blood.

“
If you’d ever done a day’s
work—”

“
As titled gentlemen do,” Mr. Lanning
supplied.

Relia dropped his hand a shade too swiftly
and took her time rinsing out the cloth before reaching for his
other hand. “Many go to Gentleman Jackson’s,” she countered primly.
“They fence, shoot, hunt.”

“
Make asses of themselves.”

“
Mr. Lanning!” Relia flung the bloody
cloth onto the table.

“
My apologies, my dear,” Thomas sighed.
“I could not resist. Please continue, for without the blood I can
now see some of the cuts are a trifle deeper than I had
thought.”

Somehow the devil to whom she was
married managed to assume a look so humble and woebegone that Relia
found it quite impossible to stay angry with him. Or at least
impossible to walk away and leave him to his own devices. But she
had to repress a wicked smile as she reached for a bar of yellow
soap that was far from the lavender-scented variety made for the
bedchambers upstairs. Dipping a fresh cloth in water, she applied
the soap liberally. This was going to
hurt
.

Blasted female!
Thomas grumbled to himself. This was going to hurt, and he
probably wouldn’t even notice, as he was so distracted by the feel
of Relia’s hands on his, the nearness of her—the two of them bathed
in a pool of light in the center of a dark room seemingly cut off
from the rest of the household. How strange that he should be alone
with his wife in such conditions of intimacy, and he had not even
planned it.

He could not quite repress a flinch as she
attacked his right hand with the cloth. Nor did he fail to notice
his wife’s grimace of satisfaction. But, still, he could not think
of a single place he would rather be. It was possible marriage had
advantages he had not yet considered.

Other than the obvious.

If his wife was nearly seven months into her
year of mourning when they had married, and he had stayed in London
for six weeks, then her period of mourning must be—

His other hand screamed in outrage, but
Thomas was too busy counting to pay attention. Three more months,
or close enough to make no difference, before . . .

He’d been a fool to make such a careless
promise. Trying to out-noble a nobleman, was he? Or had he truly
been so focused on what he would gain from this marriage that he
simply had not cared how soon he bedded his wife? Women had never
been more than a casual convenience, colorful beings to add grace
and beauty to his surroundings and occasional spice at nights.

But this one—his wife,
Mrs. Lanning
, there! he’d actually
said it—added spice even without warming his bed. If he weren’t
careful, he might actually like the arrogant little she-devil. As
well as desire her.

Thomas broke off his reverie to discover that
one hand was already covered in strips of cloth, and the other,
slick with some mysterious ointment, was fast disappearing under a
similar cover. “I won’t even be able to eat!” he protested.

“
Yes, you will. I’ve left your fingers
free. But the basilicum salve will not stay on without the cloth,
so you will simply have to make do.”

“
Yes, ma’am,” Thomas said, hunching his
broad shoulders and looking as if he had never thought to give an
order in his life. “I suppose I should have stayed home and tended
to my knitting—”

For a moment he thought the bowl of bloody
water was headed straight for his face. But, obviously, his wife
did not care to douse her handiwork along with his head, for she
dumped the contents into the cast iron sink instead. “I will send
Higgins to help you dress,” she told him. “If only you had a
valet!”

Another black mark against the vulgar Cit. Of
that accusation, at least, he could plead innocent. “I have a
valet,” he told her, “but I sent him home to his family for the
holidays. Oddly enough, I had thought our relationship might
benefit from a bit of privacy.” Thomas stood up. “I will welcome
Higgins, however. Obviously, I had not thought of doing something
so foolish as to injure myself bringing in a Yule Log.” He bowed
and left her there.

By the time Thomas made his appearance in the
festively decorated entry hall, he was once again himself.
Confidant, smiling, slapping backs in spite of his bandaged hands.
A man of the people, waving farewell to the last lingerers with a
grin on his face and strength in his step. His plans were all in
order, and tomorrow was another day—

Ah, no. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and the
lighting of the Yule Log for the twelve days of Christmas. Although
two footmen and a bevy of maids were already at work cleaning the
hall under Biddeford’s watchful eye, Thomas paused in the middle of
the tile floor, feeling very much alone. He was the stranger here.
He had taken a great gamble—nothing so unusual for Thomas Lanning,
of course—but this was the biggest risk he had ever allowed
himself. And only the good Lord—or was it the Devil?—knew how it
would turn out.

~ * ~

Relia knelt on the tiles before the cold
hearth of a hall almost as freezing as the winter night outside.
Behind her, and above on the gallery, stood every member of her
household, solemnly observing the first lighting of a Yule Log at
Pevensey Park in five long years. Biddeford stepped forward, proud
and erect, to hand her the hotly glowing brand that was the last
remains of the Yule Log her mother had lit the Christmas before her
illness had descended upon them all.

Relia’s breath caught in her throat.
Her grip tightened on the slim remnant of wood, even as her hand
shook.
Pevensey. Hers now.
Her
responsibility to maintain tradition, even while lighting a symbol
of the beginning of a new era at Pevensey Park.

Everyone was here. Watching. For, somehow,
from Biddeford to the youngest tweeny, they all seemed to care.
Gussie, Thomas, Olivia, Nicholas—gathered close in front of the
hearth, as if she were rekindling the heart of the house instead of
a huge green log that might be expected to catch and burn with
great reluctance.

Relia blinked, forced herself to concentrate
on the task at hand. With great care she set the brand to the piles
of shavings, twigs, and larger kindling that had been placed around
the great log. It must burn, and burn well. Fire—that age-old
symbol of warmth and light, prosperity and good fortune. A pagan
ritual adapted to the bright new world of the nineteenth century.
And still casting its spell, Relia thought, for it was plain all
present were caught up in the ancient magic, as huffing and puffing
could be heard from all around her, as nearly every last soul
joined the two footmen who were wielding bellows, coaxing the great
log into life. A peek at her husband revealed that Thomas Lanning
looked as eager as the rest, watching the softly licking flames
with an encouraging eye, as if, by sheer authority, he could help
the kindling do its job instead of being consumed to ashes, leaving
the giant log untouched.

A third footman rushed forward with an
armload of leftover greenery. Suddenly, Relia found herself swept
up and away from the fire as the greens the footman was laying on
top of the log burst into leaping flames. The pungent odor of pine
filled the room, but Mrs. Thomas Lanning was too disconcerted to
notice, for she was held hard against her husband’s chest, and he
showed not the slightest sign of letting her go.

Indeed, he was worse than The Terrible
Twyford. How dare he display such intimacy in front of her entire
household?

“
It’s a-catching, ma’am!” Tilly
cried.

“
I do believe she is correct, madam,”
Biddeford declared, but not before casting a minatory glance at the
outspoken maid.

“
See, there!” Nicholas pointed. “The
bark’s glowing—that little patch on the left.”

Olivia, completely forgetting the ladylike
manners Miss Aldershot had been attempting to instill, squealed
with delight. The circle of servants in the hall and those lining
the gallery leaned forward, nearly in unison, attempting to confirm
the good news.

“
Twelve days for sure,” proclaimed the
footman who had contributed the pine boughs. In triumph, he glanced
at his mistress, encountering Mr. Lanning’s eye instead. “Sir?” he
inquired, stepping close in response to the unspoken order from the
new owner of Pevensey Park.

“
Mills, is it?” Thomas asked in a tone
intended to be heard by as few people as possible.

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Mills, I hold you personally
responsible for seeing that this fire burns for all of its twelve
days. Do I make myself clear?”

The footman grinned. “Yes, Mr. Lanning, you
surely do. Twelve days it is. Watch it like a hawk, I will.”

“
Good man.” Thomas released his grip on
his wife. “Come, my dear. If we are to live without frivolity this
Christmas, let us at least remove ourselves so the servants may
enjoy their fun and games. Olivia, Nicholas, come
along!”

“
May we not have a glass of wassail?”
Livvy protested.

“
And I want to play games!” declared
Nicholas, reverting on the instant to the sullen, wilful boy who
had descended from the coach only a few days earlier.

“
Pevensey is still a house of
mourning,” Thomas informed him in the tone that reduced his junior
clerks to little more than grease puddles melting into the office
floorboards. “Your new sister has graciously allowed the servants
to enjoy the old customs for Christmas Eve, but
we
will join her and Miss Aldershot in a quiet
evening in the drawing room. You may, if you wish, Nicholas, retire
to your room.”

The younger Mr. Lanning, mumbling words Relia
was relieved she could not hear, bolted up the stairs, scattering
servants in his wake.

“
My apologies,” Thomas pronounced
stiffly to his wife and Miss Aldershot. “He has much to learn
yet.”

“
He, too, has lost his parents,” Relia
responded, surprising even herself. How odd. Instead of censuring
the boy, she had no difficulty understanding how lost he must feel.
His parents, his home, even his school taken away, only to be
thrust into a house of mourning when it was Christmas and he was
only twelve years old. “I think you should go to him . . . Thomas,”
she said, placing a hand on his arm. “There are, perhaps, things
you, as brothers, should know about each other. And tell him”—Relia
paused, her gaze drifting briefly toward the Yule Log—“Tell him I
will arrange a party for the young people in the neighborhood for
Twelfth Night. And he and Olivia may help me plan the games and
pantomimes and the food.”

“
It’s discipline he needs,” Thomas
declared grimly, “not cosseting!”

Relia peeped up at her husband with a look
that took his breath away. Intimate. No . . . wheedling, that’s
what it was. The wench!

“
But it is Christmas, Thomas. And he is
only a boy.”

Thomas threw up his hands in the classic
gesture of defeat. Not only was his wife being kind to his brother
and sister, she was calling him by his first name. Deliberately, of
course, manipulating him as easily as a puppet. Controlling little
chit that she was.

“
A party!” Olivia threw her arms around
Relia. “Oh, thank you, thank you!”

Disengaging herself from her sister-in-law’s
embrace, Relia smoothed her lavender satin gown while composing her
features. She had touched, and been touched, more times in the past
week than she could recall since she was a child. It was . . . not
unpleasant. There was surprising warmth in the human touch, like
the glow spreading from the great log in the fireplace, licking at
the icy edges of the frozen world of Pevensey Park. Yes . . .
lurking at the edges of her vision she could see the ice cave that
had formed around her. Like Merlin, she had been trapped inside.
Seemingly forever. Yet now, by her own doing, she had cracked a
chink, let in a breath of fresh air. A slice of light that
threatened to grow and spread until . . .