A Visit From Sir Nicholas (8 page)

"Of course," he murmured.

She had to escape his presence, now, before her resolve crumbled. Before she turned into a quivering mass of despair. Still, she could not allow this ill-advised meeting to destroy her life and her future. "I do hope you will not tell—"

"It shall be our secret," he said firmly. "You have my promise."

"And you are a man of honor, aren't you?"

He grinned. "Always about my word, if nothing else."

"Thank you." She cast him a relieved smile. "I must return to the ball. I daresay Charles will wonder where I've gone to."

"Yes, of course… Charles."

She turned to go, stifling the impulse to run, to flee as fast as she could. Lizzie stepped to the door, then drew a deep breath and turned back to Nicholas. "I suspect we shall not see each other again, at least not for a very long time. I do wish you well, Nicholas. I hope you get everything you've always wanted." The enigmatic half smile that did delightfully unpleasant things to her insides lifted the corner of his lips, and she steeled herself against it. "Ah, Elizabeth, I cannot possibly get everything I want. Some things were not meant to be."

Her breath caught, but she forced a smile to her face. "And some things were." She pulled open the door and started out.

"Thank you again. For the book, that is." His voice was soft behind her, and her heart twisted.

"Merry Christmas," she tossed over her shoulder. She couldn't bear to look back at him again. She stepped through the doorway and pulled the door closed, his final words lingering behind her.

"Merry Christmas, Elizabeth."

She leaned back against the closed door and struggled to catch her breath, fought to hold back tears. How could she have been so wrong? About him, and worse, about herself?

Obviously her feelings for him were no deeper than his were for her. How could they be otherwise, now that he had revealed his questionable character? He was right, of course. What simmered between them was nothing more than desire. Lust. She had never tasted it before and therefore had no defense against it. Nicholas was mysterious and handsome, and only a woman long dead and deeply buried would fail to succumb to his charms. And his kiss. No doubt nothing more than the result of his travels through the world and the guidance of his uncle, a delightful gentleman but one any respectable woman would be wise to stay far away from.

As humiliating as the last few minutes had been, at least she knew now. Nicholas Collingsworth might have been the biggest mistake of her life, and she should be—no—she was grateful to him for letting his true nature show. She could go on with her life now without doubt or regrets. She squared her shoulders and headed back to the ballroom.

And if there was a certain amount of pain involved, so be it. It was a small enough price to pay for peace of mind.

She slipped into the ballroom, the festive gathering a balm to her wounded feelings. Her wounded pride more than likely and absolutely nothing more than that. She would not allow it to be more than that from this moment forward.

"Lizzie." Without warning, Charles appeared at her side. "Wherever have you been? I have been looking for you everywhere."

"I was simply…" She looked into his clear blue eyes and shook her head. "It was hot, and I—"

"It scarcely matters." He grinned and grabbed her hand. "I must speak with you."

"Charles, I—"

"Privately," he said firmly and started off, pulling her along behind him.

"Where are we going?" She laughed in spite of herself. Of course, Charles could always make her laugh. Her heart lightened.

"Where we shan't be disturbed. And if there is mistletoe," he cast her a wicked smile, "so much the better."

"Charles!" She laughed again and realized that the simple fact that she could laugh at all was obviously an indication of where her true affection lay.

He pulled her into an alcove off the side of the ballroom, a fairly secluded spot for an intimate conversation, and drew her into his arms so quickly that she had no time to protest. His lips met hers in a kiss warm and tender. A kiss that spoke of an ease between them and long acquaintence and… love. Not the kind of passion that melted her knees and seared her senses but rather a gentler affection that warmed her heart and comforted her soul and promised to be true forever.

He pulled away, and she stared up at him with mock suspicion. "I see no mistletoe here, Charles. I fear you have taken inappropriate liberties."

"Not at all." He released her, reached into his waistcoat pocket, then drew forth a bedraggled twig of limp leaves and drooping berries, which he presented with a theatrical flourish. "I brought my own."

"I see." She raised a brow. "And do you carry it with you in the event an opportunity to use it presents itself? In which case I fear I shall have to warn every unsuspecting female in the house as to your wicked intentions."

"My intentions are indeed wicked." He laughed and tossed the withered twig onto a nearby bench. "But only in regards to you."

A teasing note sounded in her voice. "I'm not entirely sure if I should be shocked or flattered."

"You should be…" He paused, and his expression sobered. "Lizzie, your father wishes to make an announcement, and I…"

Her heart stilled. "An announcement?"

"You see, I… that is to say… I did speak to him but I haven't been able to… well the words, you see…

with you I can't seem…" He blew a long breath and took her hands in his. "Dash it all, Lizzie, I love you. I have always loved you and I wish to marry you."

She sucked in a sharp breath. She'd known this was inevitable. Still, she hadn't really thought his proposal would come tonight. Here. Now.

"Surely you know how I feel about you." His worried gaze searched hers. "I know we have never spoken of our feelings, not really, but I always thought you had some affection for me."

"Oh, Charles, I—"

"I shall get down on one knee if you like, or both if you prefer. I'd be happy to grovel at your feet if you wish."

"You needn't—"

"I know this is what everyone has always expected, but I'm not asking out of any sense of obligation or because this will make both our families happy but," his grip on her hands tightened, "I want this, or rather you, more than I have ever wanted anything. I cannot live without you, Lizzie. I vow I shall make you happy from this very day forward and I promise we shall have a wonderful life together. Will you make me the happiest man in the world? Will you agree to be my wife?"

"I…" She stared up at him for a long moment, and the oddest sense of pieces of a puzzle clicking smoothly into place filled her.

Some things were not meant to be.

And some things were.

"On one condition," she said slowly.

"Anything."

"Never again carry mistletoe in your pocket." She adopted a stern expression. "One never knows who might try to take advantage of such a thing, and if I am to be your wife, I should hate for other women—" He laughed and gathered her into his arms. "Mistletoe or not, there shall be no other women. There shall be one woman and one woman only for the rest of my days."

"The rest of our days," she echoed as her lips met his once again and she firmly set aside any lingering thoughts of dark, smoldering eyes and unrelenting longing and a kiss that melted her bones.
Some things were not meant to be.

And some things were.

This, Charles, was meant to be. He was her fate, her future, and for now and forever, he would be her life. And she would indeed make him happy for the rest of their days. He deserved no less. She deserved no less.

She would put all thoughts of Nicholas Collingsworth away with the other remnants of this Christmas and go on with her life. A good, full, happy life.

Exactly as it was meant to be.

Elizabeth was a terrible liar.

Nick stared unseeing at the library door.

Fortunately for them both, he was very good at deception. He had never suspected he had such a skill. No doubt it could come in handy in the future.

He had hurt her, he could see it in her eyes, but he'd had no choice. Any feelings that she thought she'd had for him couldn't possibly be anything of significance. She'd loved Charles and Charles had loved her all of their lives. Nick was nothing more than an intriguing moment of confusion in a young woman's mind, or possibly her heart.

Besides, while he knew in many ways the notion was ridiculous—his uncle was an earl after all—he couldn't escape the nagging suspicion that he was not entirely worthy of her. She was an Effington, one of England's most powerful families. Her father was the Duke of Roxborough, as had his father been before him, and her brother was a marquess. He was the son of the youngest son of an earl, a man who'd been scarcely better than a wastrel, really. A man who had professed to want to make his own way in the world yet had done little to achieve that goal. Certainly, he had had a fair amount of bad luck, but it had long bothered Nick that his father's failures hadn't seemed to bother his father at all. It was now Nick's duty to atone for his father's sins. And he would do so alone. But if he was wrong? If she indeed truly loved him?

Nick swept the question aside. Elizabeth's feelings would surely pass once he was gone from her life, and he would not do to her what his father had done to his mother. He would not take her from her home and her family and all she held dear for an insecure future regardless of love. And he would not betray his friend. No, this was the right thing to do. Nick knew it as strongly as he knew his own path in life. Elizabeth would be happy with the life she was always meant to have.

And what of your happiness?

He would be happy with success, he asked no more than that.

It was done then. He had made certain of it. Elizabeth would forget about any ill-advised affection she might have had for him and marry Charles. Her future was assured.

As for his future, Nick shrugged and started toward the door. He had no desire to return to the festivities. No desire to see Elizabeth in Charles's arms. He would return at once to his uncle's house, prepare for his departure, and pen brief notes of farewell to Jonathon and Charles complete with an apology for not bidding them adieu in person. Nick simply didn't know if he could keep up the charade of not caring for Elizabeth if he looked into her green eyes one more time.

Hurting her with his hateful comments had been the most difficult thing he had ever done. He was confident she would never forgive him and confident as well that he would never get over the look in her eyes and the unrelenting pain in his own heart.

Still, it was a small enough price to pay for doing what was right. Indeed, there was no better way to start his journeys than with the sure and certain knowledge that the woman he loved would be safe and happy and loved.

He gripped the book in his hand tighter. He needed no reminder of this night, this Christmas, but he would cherish the gift always as a token of her affection, no matter how misplaced it might have been. He would keep it close to his heart, as he would keep the memory of her laugh and her kindness and her

kiss, and it would warm him as he went on with his life. Alone. And that too was meant to be.
The moment Scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade
him enter. He obeyed.

It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising
transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect
grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly,
mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there;
and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petriftcation of a hearth had
never known in Scrooges time, or Marley's, or for many and many a winter season gone. Heaped
up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints
of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters,
red-hot chesnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes,
and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state
upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see: who bore a glowing torch, in shape not
unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping
round the door.

"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in and know me better, man!"
Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He was not the dogged Scrooge he
had been; and though the Spirit's eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit. "Look upon me!"
Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple green robe, or mantle, bordered with white
fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if
disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds
of the garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set
here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free: free as its genial face,
its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air.
Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath
was eaten up with rust.