Chapter Four

Christmas Day

So far the Christmas party was going smoothly. The staff had served an excellent breakfast, the children had been delighted with their small gifts, and the adults, too, had exchanged little presents.

Beatrice had gifted each of her guests an embroidered handkerchief. The ladies had received lace-trimmed pieces embroidered with spring flowers—bluebells and daisies and primroses—while the gentlemen had each received a fine cotton square with their initials.

Nell—who, of course, had done all the work—had stayed up until almost two in the morning, embroidering Mr Beresford’s initials in fine blue silk.

The guests had all expressed their delight and gratitude, and Beatrice had taken their praise with equanimity.

Nell had kept her gaze on her clenched hands. When eventually she had managed to hide her hot temper enough to raise her eyes, Mr Beresford had been looking directly at her, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead.

So it was unsurprising now, when he sought her out as they walked to church. The carriages had dropped them in the village, and he took the opportunity to fall back until he was beside her.

‘Do you sew, Miss Godwin?’ he asked baldly.

She shrugged. ‘On occasion.’

He took a handkerchief from his sleeve. A sideways glance confirmed it was the one she had embroidered. ‘Did you sew this?’

What to do? She could not lie, and yet she did not wish to expose Beatrice. By doing so she would possibly reveal the misery of her current existence; her pride would not allow it.

Glancing at Beatrice, who was gliding ahead alongside Lady Fanny, she gestured airily. ‘Possibly. Beatrice and I often help each other on our sewing and embroidery projects.’

Beatrice’s assistance was generally limited to instructing, criticising and taking credit, but she did not say this.

‘Oh, look! They have added candles to the windows of the store!’

Candles in the window were a Yuletide tradition, barely worth commenting on, but she pretended to be interested in them long enough for Lady Cecily and Miss Bridgeton to join them. Thankfully Mr Beresford did not pursue the topic.

The day was crisp and clear, and people were generally in a jovial mood. Mr Beresford continued to walk with her and the other young ladies as far as the church—which meant, somehow, that they ended up beside one another for the service.

While singing one of the traditional carols, she sensed his head turning towards her. Unthinkingly, she turned to look at him, and their gazes collided. Ignoring her racing heart, she sang on, eyeing him steadily. He seemed to forget the words for an instant, and she flashed him a challenging grin. He smiled back, and her heart felt warmer than at any time since Papa’s death.

After nuncheon they played spillikins, at the request of the children, with the young ladies and some of the younger gentlemen taking part. Nell was surprised to find that Mr Beresford, showing the same good grace he had exhibited while helping with the greening yesterday, joined in the parlour games with enthusiasm.

At one point she caught him looking at little John, and there was sadness in his gaze.

Why?

He was charming to all the ladies in equal measure, and was already a favourite with the matrons. The gentlemen liked him too, with many seeking him out for advice on matters of business. Their comments had given Nell to understand that Mr Beresford and his brother Jack, the Earl of Hawkenden, were both wealthy and knowledgeable on such matters. He was somehow different when he was discussing matters of business, Nell observed. Sterner. Colder, even.

The children flocked around him like bees to nectar—which gave Nell the greatest trouble. Being herself drawn to him, and knowing she was as yet unsure whether to trust him, she was still to be convinced that there was true sincerity beneath his charming mask. But children, she had always found, were often more insightful than adults in the detection of falsity, and it confused her to see how much the little ones had warmed to Mr Beresford.

He will be gone soon, she reminded herself. It will not matter then who he is or what his reasons for being here are.

The thought was decidedly poignant.

Once the children had been taken away by their nursemaids to rest before dinner, Mr Beresford suggested a brief walk outside for those hardy enough to enjoy it. Most of the guests declined, but Lady Cecily, Miss Bridgeton and Mr Emerson all agreed with alacrity.

Lady Cecily pressed Nell into going along. Glad of the invitation—for she hated being cooped up indoors for long periods—Nell joined the others in donning cloaks, boots and hats, before they all stepped out into the quietness of a cold Christmas Day.

The day was midwinter-dark, the clouds steel-grey, heavy and portentous. Nell shuddered. Some whisper of fear had sent a cold shiver up her spine.

Ignoring it, she walked on with the others.

On reaching the copse they began to wander apart a little, collecting fresh holly boughs to brighten the older ones in the house. Unexpectedly Nell, with her arms full of greenery, came upon Mr Beresford, who was reaching up to snap off a leafy branch festooned with red berries and glossy green leaves.

‘Oh!’ She could not help but exclaim. He was in her thoughts at all times, so to see him suddenly alone was like a wish come true.

He turned and stilled when he saw who was there. His eyes pinned hers, and she was lost in her own longing—and his. Her heart was racing, her palms moist, and she could feel herself quiver. Who was he to have such an effect on her?

Unaccountably, they were now standing face to face. Had she stepped towards him or he towards her? It mattered not.

He lifted a hand to caress her cheek. She remained still, knowing what would happen next.

I want this! she thought fiercely. Good things never happen to me, so I shall kiss him, and never see him again after the party, and always remember this moment.

A moment later his lips touched hers, soft and warm, and she responded instantly, taking every ounce of pleasure she could.

Minutes later they drew apart, both breathing hard.

What a kiss!

Her heart was racing, desire was pooling in her stomach and her hands were trembling.

He had noticed, and was sliding his hands down her arms to claim both hands. Oh, how wonderful it was to feel the warmth of his hands on hers, his breath on her cheek, the heat of his body where it aligned with hers.

During their kiss snow had begun to fall softly, caressing them gently with whispering coolness. It was perfect.

His lips curved into a radiant smile, and she returned it with one of her own.

What on earth am I doing?

Some strange madness had taken hold of her, filling her with daring, exhilaration and, somewhere deep down, defiance.

Inside I am still me. I am alive yet.

Voices alerted them to the impending arrival of Lady Cecily and the rest of their party. Swiftly he turned, reaching again for a high holly bough.

Nell bent to pick up her own twigs and stems, which had been abandoned to the undergrowth during their kiss.

Praying her breathlessness and flushed cheeks would settle quickly, Nell hoped the others would think it due to the weather and her exertions. Thankfully, they seemed to notice nothing amiss, and amid excited chatter about the snow they all made their way back along the lane.

Tom’s head was awhirl, his body ached with need, and his heart—he simply could not work out what was happening with his heart.

When she had looked at him in church he had been overcome with a longing so intense it had closed his throat. Kissing her just now had been wonderful, inevitable—necessary. Never had another person, man or woman, disturbed him as much as Miss Nell Godwin was disturbing him. And he hated the discomfort of it even as his heart soared.

He walked on with the others through the gentle snowfall, but in all the world to him there was only one other person.

Nell.

Christmas Evening

Nell glanced around the salon. The Yule Log stretched right across the large hearth, barely touched by flames, so imposing was it. Around it smaller branches and blocks blazed merrily, ensuring the large room remained warm and bright. Branches of candles had been placed on most of the side tables, and the shutters had been closed to block out the darkness of the winter night.

Beatrice’s guests were grouped in twos and threes in different corners, chattering, laughing and sharing the fine selection of expensive wines that Jemett had prepared for this Christmas Day. The children were gone to bed, dinner had been a clear success, and the gentlemen had recently joined the ladies after their port in the dining room.

Christmas Day as a whole had gone well, Nell reflected with some satisfaction. The staff had outdone themselves in ensuring the comfort of all their guests, from the early breakfast before church, to the extravagant dinner tonight, when a fine fat goose had been the centrepiece, flanked by a range of well-prepared dishes including suet puddings, dumplings, vegetables in sauce and white soup, along with blancmanges, cakes and ices.

Throughout all the feasting, praying, singing and games Nell had remained intensely aware of Mr Beresford—and of the momentous kiss they had shared earlier.

Right now he was engaged in conversing with Beatrice, who was flirting outrageously with him using fan and eyes and—presumably—words. As she observed them it occurred to Nell that, while his attention seemed entirely devoted to her stepmama, in truth he was rather distracted.

Nell was old enough to understand that a widow was free to do things denied to an unmarried maid like she, but the thought that Beatrice wished to share Mr Beresford’s bed disturbed her more than it should. Much more.

There was no reason to believe he was returning Beatrice’s flirtatious intent. In truth, he might simply be interested in what Beatrice had to say. But that was unlikely, and therefore puzzling. Her stepmother’s conversation was rarely raised above a discussion of fashion and gossip—hardly the most interesting of topics. Yet no other explanation presented itself.

‘Thank you for a wonderful Christmas Day.’

It was Lady Cecily, a hint of embarrassed kindness in her eyes. Had Lady Cecily drawn the same conclusions about the conversation between Beatrice and her handsome guest?

‘Oh, but I did nothing!’ Nell replied airily, grateful to tear her eyes away from them.

Lady Cecily gave her a sceptical look. ‘My mama—whom I love dearly—has no more common sense than a kitten. I have been looking after her affairs for a number of years now.’

Nell understood perfectly. ‘My stepmama and Lady Fanny are great friends,’ she offered carefully.

‘They are so alike!’ declared Lady Cecily, with a grin.

Nell gave her an answering smile. ‘As young ladies, we must always be careful not to criticise our elders...’

‘But we may look after them when needed!’

In perfect charity with each other, they took a turn about the room, their shawls draped over their elbows in matching pose.

Nell was wearing an evening gown of pale gauze, worn over a daring cherry-coloured underdress, with Vandyke points edging both the neckline and hem. She had not worn it since last Christmas, having refashioned it from an old dress. New clothes were no longer a regular part of her life. Beatrice had taken away her allowance, deeming it unnecessary because, she had said, Nell’s requirements were all met without the need for coin. Since then Nell’s talents with a sewing needle had regularly been put to good use...

Lady Cecily’s gown was of blue silk, which emphasised her angelic beauty.

While it was good to walk, after nigh on two hours seated at dinner, it was also gratifying when they received a number of compliments from men and women alike as they sauntered around the large salon, chatting lightly. As they passed the corner where Beatrice and Mr Beresford were still conversing Nell was careful not to look in their direction. She felt as though his eyes were upon her, but of course that might be simply her imagination...

They regained their seats, and Nell began to inform Lady Cecily of their habits for the morrow—St Stephen’s Day.

‘We shall give the servants their gifts, and they will have the day off to visit their own families. Our guests’ personal servants will remain, of course—no doubt they will be given time off after they leave here—but apart from that we shall fend for ourselves.’ She grinned. ‘I shall take to the kitchen and serve the food, but it will be cold collations all day, I’m afraid.’

Lady Cecily shrugged. ‘We have the same tradition at home. I confess I enjoy invading the kitchen on that one day in the year.’

All the time Nell’s attention was partly on the far left corner—where he was. That feeling was still there...

Unable to resist, Nell stole a glance in Mr Beresford’s direction. His dark gaze met hers, sending a shocking thrill through her.

I was right—he is watching me!

She felt herself flush as she and Mr Beresford locked gazes. There was hunger in his expression—a hunger that matched her own.

With some difficulty, she tore her gaze away. Her insides were melting and her heart was pounding so loudly she feared others might notice.

She glanced at Beatrice. Oh, dear! Her stepmama looked most put out—presumably because Mr Beresford was no longer paying her any attention.

Did she see how he looked at me?

An entirely feminine wave of triumph rippled through Nell—followed by guilt at her own uncharitable thoughts. Still, to have disrupted Mr Beresford’s concentration in such a manner was rather gratifying.

‘Then let us take over the kitchen together!’ she suggested brightly.

‘An excellent notion!’ agreed Lady Cecily.

I like her so much!

Nell’s friendship with Lady Cecily was an excellent distraction from other, less clear connections that might possibly be made.

Mr Beresford was taking up too much of her attention. If something serious were to happen between them she would welcome it, but she did not wish to have her heart bruised by a gentleman set on a simple interlude.

Stop looking at her! Tom admonished himself silently, as his gaze drifted yet again to the place where Nell was.

Lord, she was beautiful! And bewitching. And intriguing. Memories of the intimate kiss they had shared had not faded, and his desire for her seemed to be increasing by the hour—fuelled not just by her beauty, but by her charm, and her kindness, and her lively mind.

This fixation was entirely outside his control, and it was not a feeling he welcomed.

Add to that the fact that old memories from his childhood were reawakening, and it seemed as though there were moments when his heart was being torn in two. It was to do with Nell, he knew, but also with his own family, and the little ones here at Wyatt House. He did not often find himself in the company of families.

Thankfully the children had now gone to bed. It was difficult to forget that little John was the exact age Tom had been when his own mama had died. Just before Christmas.

Yes, being with loving families at Christmastide was bringing back memories of long, long ago and leaving him feeling exposed, heartsore...almost frightened.

That lump was back in his throat.

Between inconvenient memories and raging desire, he knew he had, until tonight, somewhat stalled in his task of persuading the widow to sell him this beautiful house.

Business. Calmness. Certainty.

That is exactly what I need right now.

With some effort, he pasted a smile on his face and turned back to Mrs Godwin.

Nell eyed the mistletoe bough with disfavour. Seeing it suspended from the crystal and bronze chandelier in the small parlour that had become her own particular haven was bad enough. Noticing that not one but two of the pearly seeds had disappeared was bothering her enormously. She had sought refuge in the parlour before bedtime, believing she could have a half-hour’s peace before ascending to the tiny chamber she shared with some of the serving maids. Now, her peace was disturbed.

Tradition held it that each time a couple kissed under a mistletoe bough they had to remove one of the seeds. Earlier today there had been three; now there was but one. That meant people had been kissing each other right here, in her sanctuary, under the watchful eye of Mama’s portrait, and Nell was not at all happy about it.

She stood beneath the offending greenery, regarding it with a baleful eye. Who were the offenders? Some of the servants, perhaps? Or the guests?

She recalled the attention Mr Beresford had given Beatrice earlier tonight. Had he kissed Beatrice—or some other woman—in this very spot?

Of course he had not!

Yet it seemed unfair that others were sharing kisses while she was yearning for another kiss from a particular person. It would probably not happen, she knew. Mr Beresford, sadly, would be gone soon, and with him any chance of another romantic moment to lighten the dreariness of her existence.

She frowned.

No, it was more than that.

In truth, she admitted, she believed the kiss she had shared with Mr Beresford was different. Special. Magical. Yet he had made no attempt to seek her out today.

Oh, he looked at her. Constantly. She felt his eyes follow her any time they were in the same room, and the gossamer threads of an unseen connection grew between them each time they met. But he had made no obvious effort to fix her interest. Indeed, he had probably spoken with her less than he had the other ladies. This evening he had shared his attention equally among them all—save for Beatrice, who got more, and Nell, who got less. It almost seemed as though he were avoiding her.

Yet still she understood in her heart that the way Mr Beresford looked at her was different, somehow, from the way in which he engaged with the other ladies. There was fire in it. And it had lit an answering flame in her—one that had disturbed both her sleep and her waking thoughts since they had met.

At times it felt as though she burned for him—for a man she had only recently met. And the Christmas magic in the air seemed to be leading her to impossible thoughts, unachievable dreams. That kiss, the snow...all pointed towards something wonderful—something just out of reach.

Fleetingly she wondered if she, just like Mama, could know this early on that she had met the man who was her destiny.

Oh, how absurd!

Mama had been exceedingly romantical, and Nell had long since dismissed her mama’s description of her courtship with Papa as memories based on wishes rather than reality. And yet...

For heaven’s sake—what woman could deny the attraction of Mr Beresford’s handsome features, wicked smile and well-formed figure? For Nell, though, the attraction was much more complex than an earthy appeal—although that pulsed through her constantly. What she felt was more than a simple physical urge. It fired her heart and her mind as much as it did her body. And while he watched her, she also watched him...

Having succumbed in less than three days to this unanticipated obsession with Mr Beresford, she had become conscious of the certain sadness that crept into his expression from time to time—particularly when he was unaware of being observed. It was particularly apparent when he looked at the children.

Nell had no idea what was behind it, but her heart melted each time she noticed it. And, whatever his frailty was, it was not apparent to the others in their circle, who laughed and played and conversed with seeming ease. No, there was more to Mr Beresford than met the eye. He was, she understood now, a puzzle she needed to solve.

Despite the attraction and the obsession and the need he had created within her, she continued to remain wary of his effect on her and her lack of certainty about his motives. So when he suddenly entered her sanctuary via the red drawing room, real and immediate, her instinctive reaction was to take a step back.

He was no fool, and his eyes narrowed at her response. ‘Good evening, Miss Godwin,’ he declared formally.

‘Good—good evening, Mr Beresford.’ Her heart was pounding and her mouth suddenly dry with a disconcerting mix of excitement and nervousness.

The last time we were alone together we kissed.

‘I came to offer my services for tomorrow. As there are to be no servants, I thought you might need assistance in carrying trays to the dining room.’

His dark eyes fixed on hers, making her stomach tighten and her knees feel strangely soft.

‘That is kind of you. Thank you.’ Her voice sounded remarkably normal. ‘We shall dine at the usual time tomorrow, so I would appreciate your help—perhaps half an hour beforehand?’

‘Perfect!’ He grinned. ‘Like you, I enjoy peace and quiet at times.’

She smiled wryly. ‘I do hope you do not think me rude for disappearing now and again?’

‘Not at all! I believe we are similar in that regard.’

There was silence. A silence in which the air took on the heaviness and anticipation Nell associated with thunderstorms and lightning strikes. Their eyes locked. Nell’s heart was pounding so loudly she could almost hear it in the room, and the air prickled with suspense. In the background, the clock began to chime. It was midnight.

Nell gazed at him hungrily, drinking in the sight of him, unable in that moment to hide what she wanted.

‘Dash it all!’ The words exploded from him as he took three steps forward, taking her into his arms. ‘Kiss me, Nell!’

She did so, glorying in the passion between them.

Propriety, reason and common sense were abandoned as she devoured him and he her. Crushed against him, she pressed ever closer, seeking contact from chest to hip, his heat fanning the conflagration within her. Her hands were in his thick dark hair, while his were busy on her back, her bottom, her hips.

‘Nell!’ he groaned against her mouth, and she claimed him again, her desire for him the only reality.

Eventually they paused, forehead to forehead, both breathing noisily.

‘What are you doing to me?’ he murmured. ‘I have never felt anything like this!’

He feels it too! Her heart sang at his words. It is real!

Abruptly, he stepped back, his breathing still ragged. ‘I apologise. I should not have—’ His face had hardened. ‘I cannot offer you anything, Miss Godwin.’

She watched, agape, as he turned on his heel and left, the door closing behind him with an audible click.

What on earth...?

Nell put a hand to her head, trying to understand what was occurring. He wanted her—that much was clear. And there was no obvious barrier to a marriage between them. So why had he left her? Why was he trying to deny what was between them?

Mama’s portrait looked down upon her. Nell closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing, to calm her racing thoughts.

Mama would have approved of that kiss, I think.

She well remembered how affectionate Mama and Papa had been, and had no doubt that they had known passion in their marriage. And Mama had chosen Papa the first time they had ever met.

‘I want that one,’ she had apparently said to her friend, on first seeing the young Mr Godwin. ‘I knew, you see,’ she had told Nell. ‘I knew he was the man I should marry.’

Marriage. Never before had Nell seriously considered marriage with anyone. But if her instincts were right, and he was a man of good character, then it seemed her heart was well on the way to choosing Mr Beresford as her ideal husband. She had known him for only a few days, but already her gut was telling her he could be the right man for her. That midnight mistletoe kiss—and his response to it—confirmed it in her mind. This was more than lust. It went deeper than anything she had ever known.

Exhilaration rushed through her at the realisation, but she bit her lip. Judging by his hasty—one might say panicked—departure, Mr Beresford was not yet of the same view. That would have to be managed.

Reaching up, she plucked the last lustrous white seed from the mistletoe above her head and slipped it into her reticule with a secret smile. She had much to think about.

Tom made it to the safety of his chamber, his mind, heart and his body all in disorder.

What the hell is happening to me?

Never had he experienced anything like the attraction he felt for Nell Godwin. It consumed him.

He paced around the chamber, unable to think clearly, his mind overwhelmed by the instinct to return downstairs and kiss her again.

Damn it! I have known her only three days.

It felt much longer.

He disliked this feeling of not being in control of himself. Even the warmest of his affaires had never disturbed his equilibrium.

I must master this!

After quite half an hour of anguished pacing, he gradually began to feel more rational again, yet still he was not ready to sleep. Pulling open the drawer in the mahogany desk in the corner of the room, he removed his folio of papers. Focusing on matters of business for a while should further calm his spirit.

He sharpened a pen and began making notes, including his observations on Wyatt House as the location where he would entertain his contacts in future. The problem was that each time he tried to imagine how he might use the various spaces he saw Nell. Nell in the dining room. Nell in the salon. Nell in this bedchamber, he on top of her.

He groaned, then exclaimed with frustration as his pen snapped in two.

‘Hell, damn and blast it!’

He began flinging drawers open at random, sure there must be another pen somewhere. And in the bottom left drawer of the desk, at the back, he saw something which gave him pause. A book. And written in a neat hand on the cover were the words Miss Eleanor Godwin—a journal.

Knowing he should not, he lifted it out, his hand caressing the cover, lingering on her name. Opening it with what felt like reverence, he saw it was filled with multiple entries, dated between 1815 and 1817.

Nell’s journal.

Her handwriting called to him, being both mysterious and beautiful. The temptation to know her better was too strong to resist.

I must not read it, he told himself, opening it at random.

A moment later he shut the book with a snap. Here was just punishment for the sin of invading her privacy. He had happened upon the entry in which she wrote of her papa breaking to her the news that he was ill. Dangerously ill.

May 25th, 1816: Papa is returned from London, where he saw the doctor about the lump in his neck. It is, the doctor informs him, a malign growth, and it will before long obscure Papa’s windpipe.

There was no emotion expressed afterwards. The rest of the page remained empty.

Tom knew just how distressing the news would have been to Nell. He closed his eyes briefly as grief washed through him. But why should he feel grief for the loss of a man he had never met? Then he knew. It was grief for Nell’s sake.

And there were other shades in it too. For the first time in many years he felt again the bewilderment of a small boy whose mother had suddenly vanished, called to live in heaven, far away from home.

Mama.