Miss Featherton's Christmas Prince (The Marriage Game Book 9) (18 page)

They had reached the outskirts of the town and were not far from the church, when the party came to a halt. Slowly, the crowd attempting to enter the church allowed them through.

Fresh candles had been lit on the pews, and even though Meg could see her breath, the atmosphere was warm. Lord and Lady Bellamny led them to the manger at the front of the church, which now held a couple and an infant. He placed a purse in the basket set off to the side, and the other gentlemen followed suit.

When they reached their pew, Lady Bellamny whispered, “The money will go to the needy families in the area and to the school. We have found that when the townspeople contribute to the school, they are more likely to send their children.”

“Where did the idea of the figures in the manger come from?”

She shrugged. “Southern Europe, I believe.”

“It is common in Spain and Portugal,” Damon added. “As well as Greece.”

Meg watched as even the youngest boy placed a coin in the basket. “I wish my father would find a rector like this one.”

“Lady Bellamny told me that he is taking on a cleric. Someday I’ll be in a position to grant a living to one of his acolytes.” Frustration infused his voice. “However, that is not likely to be soon.”

Meg could well understand his annoyance. Not that she thought he wished for his father’s death, but having no occupation was unhealthy, and led to dissipation. She did not know how peers and other gentlemen of property could waste so much of it on gambling and other pursuits. “What will you do until you come into the title?”

“That depends.” His lips twisted wryly.

Heat rose up her neck. Naturally, what he would do if he were single was not the same as if he wed. Yet surely if she could not love him, he would marry some other lady. He moved his hand over hers, engulfing it, and the sudden thought that she might lose his attentions disturbed her more than she liked.

D
amon held Meg’s hand throughout the service, and began to feel as if the tide was turning in his favor. To a man used to action, his slow progress with her had been excruciating. This was the very reason soldiers hated sieges.

After the service, an icy breeze quickened their steps back to the house. He scanned the horizon, studying the cloud formation that appeared to have strengthened and darkened the sky. If they departed immediately after dinner, as the duchess had said they would, the worsening weather might miss them.

Until then, he would remain by Meg’s side and make as much progress as he could.

By the time they reached the staircase, they had outstripped the rest of their party. “Meet me back here after you have shed your outer garments. I have something I wish to give you.”

To his astonishment, she went up on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I won’t be long.”

He rounded the corner into the corridor where his bedroom was located and bumped into Smithson. “Still here?”

The other man scowled. “We shall depart after dinner, which we have been instructed to take in our chamber. I take it everyone knows?”

“It is a small house party,” Damon said, not wanting to be drawn into a discussion.

“It’s all that stupid bitch’s fault,” Smithson said, slurring his words.

Damon’s hands clenched. The cur had damn well better not be talking about Meg. Keeping a tight rein on his temper, he raised his brows. “Excuse me?”

“My wife.” The man raked a hand through his already disordered hair. “Tried to pay a groom to swive her, and Lady Bellamny found out.”

Bloody hell
. Damon was just glad he was not around when his godmother had been told. He said the only thing that came to mind. “Indeed.”

“I’ll never get my great-aunt’s money now.” Smithson looked up at Damon, hope in his eyes, and Damon prayed he wasn’t going to be asked to do what the groom would not. “Don’t happen to have a bottle of something in your room, do you?”

“I believe I do.” He shook out one fist, almost feeling sorry for the man.

“Thank you.” Smithson trotted after him down the corridor. “Word of advice, be careful which family you marry into. Thought because she was a virgin when I had her that she could be trusted. In the blood though.”

“Bad luck.” When they reached his room, Damon gave a bottle of brandy to the man. “I must leave you now. I am due to depart myself.”

Smithson wobbled a bit. “Must write to Tarlington. Promised him my help.”

What the devil?
“Tarlington? I did not know you were friends.”

“Since Cambridge.” The man’s overly bright eyes fixed on Damon’s face. “In dun territory, you know.”

“I thought he had his eye on some American heiress.”

“Fool took his mistress and brats with him to Paris, and the girl found him out. Back here now.” Smithson held up the bottle. “Thank you for this. Any time I can do you a turn, let me know.” He stumbled down the corridor and Damon heard a door open and shut.

He was not at all pleased to hear Meg’s last suitor was back in England. Fortunately, by the time she saw Tarlington again, she would be Damon’s wife.

He stripped off his gloves and greatcoat, took Meg’s gift out of the desk drawer, and arrived at the stairs as she emerged from her wing.

He held his breath as he gave her the package of green paper tied with silver ribbon. “I thought you might like these.”

She carefully untied the ribbon and laid open the wrapping. “Damon, thank you. The combs are beautiful.”

“Garnets.” Even to him his voice sounded gruff. He had never bought a woman such a trumpery gift. Then again, he had never bought a gift for a lady. Soon, if fate was kind, he would buy her rubies fit for a duchess, and emeralds to match the gown she wore.

Meg smiled, and he let the breath out. “I know. Wait here. I’m going to have my maid put them in my hair.” She took three steps, stopped, and turned. “Perhaps you would like to do it?”

As much as he wanted to, he had never done anything with a woman’s hair except take it down. “I’m not much of a hand at dressing a lady’s hair.”

She walked back to him. “There are pins in it as well. Simply take out one of the combs and replace it with one of yours. Then do the same with the other one. I will help hold my hair.”

To touch her shiny tresses was heaven. He couldn’t stop himself from twisting one of her thick, silky curls around his finger as he removed the comb. He half expected the mass of hair to fall down around her shoulders, where he would like to see it. “Exquisite.”

When he trailed the back of his hand down her long, swanlike neck, she sucked in a breath. Meg’s reaction was all he could have wished for. He toyed with the idea of kissing her neck, but he would not have her trapped into marriage with him.

She turned and reached into her reticule. “I have something for you as well. It is not nearly as fine as your gift.”

He took the handkerchiefs that had been meant for her brother, doing his best to appear happy to receive them. Then again, that wasn’t really fair to her. At the time of the fair, she had no idea he was interested in her, and she was trying to protect her friend from him. Next year she would select a gift just for him. “Thank you. I am always in need of more handkerchiefs.”

Something in his voice must have called to her. She lifted her eyes, searching his face. Her fine dark brows drew together for a few moments and he wished he knew what she saw.

The front door opened. A rush of cold air rose up the steps, causing her to shiver. If only he could take her in his arms, but Lady Bellamny’s voice from below put paid to any amorous desires.

“Will you wait here while I put your gift in my room?”

She gave a curt nod. “Gladly.”

“I won’t be long.” He strode off.

Before turning the corner to his chambers, he glanced behind him to make sure she was still there. She grinned, and Damon knew he could never let her leave him.

There was a way to make Meg love him, and he would find it.

 

Meg wanted to kick herself. Damon knew she had bought the handkerchiefs for her brother. He had been there when she made the purchase. Unfortunately, she had nothing else suitable for a gentleman, and what would she have got him? It had been a large fair; if she had been thinking of him at all, she could have found something. She remembered when they were at the stall where she had admired the combs. He must have bought them for her while she had been looking at the ribbons for her sister.

Devious man. A pleasant glow started to spread through her breast as she touched the combs. But devious in a good way.

“You must be having a
very
good Christmas,” Daphne said as she and her husband climbed the stairs.

Meg started, not understanding.

“Your smile,” her friend said. “It is radiant.”

Lord Bellamny winked at her as he passed. She had never been winked at in her life. “Merry Christmas, Miss Featherton.”

Damon joined her as Lady Culpepper reached the landing. She said nothing, but gave them another knowing look.

Once the rest of the guests had passed, Damon took her hand. “Shall we repair to the drawing room until their return?”

“Yes.” Meg curled her fingers around his large palm. “I hope they do not take too long.”

“Why is that?” His tone was soft but guarded.

“We cannot depart until we have had dinner.”

“Ah.” He raised her hand to his lips, and tingles raced along her fingers. “Very true.”

How had she been so dense not to have seen his attentions for what they were? If only Chuffy had not sent the flowers, she might have been more aware of Damon. Yet, if she had known his intent, she would not have spent so much time with him. After all, the only reason she had done that was to save Amanda.

In the drawing room, Damon handed Meg a glass of wine, and she took a sip.

Still, she did not understand why Chuffy would have sent her flowers. It was clear Amanda had been his interest from the start. Some piece of the puzzle was missing. If only Meg knew what it was.

“You are deep in thought.” Damon took her wineglass from her hand, setting it on a nearby table. “Come with me for a moment.”

Without waiting for her to reply, he opened the door and led her to where he had placed the kissing ball. There were only a few berries left.

“Not many, but enough,” he said, drawing her into his arms.

His mouth touched hers, nibbling and licking his way from one corner to the other. Meg wrapped her arms around his neck, winding her fingers in his fine wavy hair, then opened her lips, inviting him in. Despite the cold, heat curled through her body as he continued to play, ignoring her craving. Finally she cupped both his cheeks, angled her head, and possessed his mouth, stroking his tongue with hers until their breaths were ragged.

He clutched her to him, his fingers kneading her back from nape to waist. If this continued, her legs were going to give out, and she would melt into him. To her surprise, she found she didn’t care.

Voices broke through her haze of desire. If she continued to kiss him, they would be discovered and would have to marry, and she could have this all the time. But he needed to be loved.

Before she could act, he broke their kiss. “We should go back in.”

“I suppose we must.” Meg reached up, picking the rest of the berries. “I believe these are mine.”

Damon barked a laugh. “I believe they are.”

His eyes seemed darker, like the rich earth, as he gazed at her. Slowly, as if he did not wish to do it, he removed one hand from his cheek, then the other, kissing the center of her palms and closing her fingers around them. “Until we can be alone again.”

Who knew when that would be? Not soon enough. They would have to wait until they were at her home, and probably another day or so after that.

She did not want to leave, but new voices joined the first ones she had heard. She took his palms and kissed them, curling her fingers around them. “I will count the minutes.”

And she would. But was it for the right reasons?

 

Once again, Austin Smithson pulled a piece of Lady Bellamny’s elegant pressed paper out of the drawer. He used a penknife to sharpen the tip of a quill. The familiar process calmed his agitated nerves. He really needn’t have sharpened the pen. Like everything in the rest of the house, all the quill tips were in perfect condition and ready to be used. The knife slipped and blood welled from the shallow cut. He should know better than to use a knife when he was in his cups. He wrapped a handkerchief around his thumb, tied it off, and began to write.

He poured too much sand on the paper, shook it off, and sealed it. He would send it by special messenger from the next coaching house he came across.

“Come, Carola.” He shrugged into his greatcoat. “The coach is waiting.”

“Are we going to Paris?” She perched a fashionable bonnet on her head.

“I did promise you that treat.” Once they had arrived in London, he would make arrangements for her to live comfortably in France. After which he would travel to his estate and work on a way to get back in his great-aunt’s good graces. With Carola not in England to create talk, that should be easy enough.

 

Almeria stepped into the overly warm parlor she had given to her friends. “You missed a stirring sermon.”

“I have no doubt, but you know how the cold affects Constance. Even hot bricks in the pews cannot keep her warm enough. If only there was a way to heat churches.” Lucinda glanced at the duchess, who was talking with her lady’s maid. “We shall visit next summer.”

“Trust me, it is not much warmer.”

“I hear you are getting rid of the Smithsons.” Constance had finished her discussion with her servant. “Not surprising. They are bad
ton
. Why did you invite them and what did they do?”

That same question had probably been on the tip of everyone’s tongue, but Constance was the only one who would ask. Almeria sighed. “I did it as a favor to his great-aunt, Lady Bollingworth. She is quite elderly now and thought to leave her money to him, but she heard rumors about the way he and Lady Smithson conducted themselves. Well, mostly Lady Smithson. In any event, Lady Bollingworth knows that I will not put up with anyone bothering my servants, or anyone else, and asked if I would invite the couple.” She pulled a face. “My master of stables went to my husband yesterday and told him Lady Smithson was attempting to pay a young groom to bed her. They will be leaving shortly.”

“Such a shame,” Lucinda said.

Almeria stared at her friend. She could not imagine why Lucinda would feel sorry for the couple. “In what way?”

“It is not as if she can help herself,” Lucinda said in a patient tone. “Have you not noticed that there are some who suffer from uncontrollable lust? We turn our heads in the case of gentlemen, but ladies are made to suffer.”

“Very true.” Constance nodded. “Do you not remember Lady Elizabeth Wallingstone? Her parents had to ensure that some family member stayed close to her even when she was dancing. If not, she would whisper lewd invitations to her dance partner and attempt to make an assignation.”

Almeria cast her mind back. There was something. “She was barred from Almack’s.”

“Of course she was,” Constance said. “But not before she was betrothed to a Prussian duke.”