Justinian found himself unaccountably depressed as Christmas drew near. He had yet to arrive at a workable solution on the levees, his mother seemed unusually agitated, and he had not had time to touch his novel outside of a short evening some days ago. All those things would have been enough to depress any gentleman, but he suspected that, in reality, the main problem was Norrie. His heart still stung from her abrupt response. His attempts to renew their acquaintance had only served to push her farther away. She seemed to be sensitive to his least remark, so confronting her would hardly prove a remedy. It seemed perhaps his father had been right all along. He was entirely too precipitous when it came to matters of the heart. Somehow, that thought was the most depressing of all.
Trying to ease his mind, he threw himself into his estate work, remaining closeted with the beleaguered steward from early in the morning until long after the sun had set. He was therefore surprised to find, when he left the library late one afternoon, that Faringil and three strapping footmen were busily draping evergreen boughs along the railing of the great stair. Glancing about, he found a similar swag festooning the doorways to the morning room, the withdrawing room, and the dining room.
“Are we having some sort of celebration?” he asked with a frown.
Faringil motioned the footmen to keep working and stepped down to Justinian’s side, dusting off his hands on the apron he wore tied about his waist. “I believe we may be doing so, my lord,” he replied.
Justinian waited, the no more answer was forthcoming. “Christmas?” he guessed.
“Just so, my lord,” Faringil agreed.
“How many days away now?” Justinian asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“Three days, my lord?” Faringil tried hopefully.
Justinian rolled his eyes. “Good God, man, it’s perfectly all right to have an opinion on something that is a matter of fact. Is it or is it not three days to Christmas?”
The footman paused in their work, throwing not-so-covert glances over their shoulders at the butler, who was reddening. “If his lordship thinks there are three days,” Faringil replied solemnly, “there are three days.”
“And if his lordship thinks it’s a balmy summer’s day?” Justinian countered, exasperated.
“Then,” Norrie replied, exiting the parlor with her arms filled with holly, “his lordship will be noted as having taken leave of his senses, and life will continue.”
The footmen’s eyes widened in amazement. Faringil choked on whatever he was going to say, covering it with a discrete cough behind his hand. Justinian found himself grinning.
He swept her a bow. “Ah, the sweet voice of reason at last. I take it this is all your idea.”
Her cheeks were beginning to resemble the red berries on the holly she held. “Actually, your mother suggested it. We thought we might decorate the house for Dottie. You will be going to get her the day after tomorrow, won’t you?”
Justinian nodded. “I will indeed. And by the looks of it, this will be a festive homecoming.”
“I hope so,” she said. “We’ve gathered greenery for all the rooms, and Mary and the other maids are making boughs for the mantles and doorways. Now, if I can just keep Jingles from helping with the decoration, all should be well.”
“How is your little charge?” he asked. Black was entirely wrong for her, and that dress hid most of her willowy figure. He should ask the school to change the teachers’ uniforms to something less somber, pink perhaps. He blinked the absurd thought away.
“He is well,” she replied. Suddenly, she raised her head. “That is, he is as well as I have been able to make him. I do hope, with Dottie coming home and me leaving right after Christmas, that someone will be given charge of him?”
“That’s right; you’re leaving.” Somehow that thought was the most important of any she’d voiced. The new year seemed to stretch on drearily.
She bowed her head. “That was my plan. I have been given no reason to change it.”
He started, but before he could question her, her gaze darted toward the dining room. “Oh, dear!”
“What?” Justinian asked.
She dropped a quick curtsey. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must see to the kitten.” She hurried around the stair toward the dining room.
For once, he would have wished the kitten had found a different home. Had he understood Norrie correctly? Was she actually encouraging him to offer? Why not say it straight out?
He watched her disappear into the darkened room. Around him, the footmen quickly busied themselves with their work, moving farther up the stair with each turn of the boughs. Well, that was reason enough to prevaricate. Four pairs of ears had been, no doubt, keenly listening to their conversation. Nonchalantly, Justinian crossed the entry and wandered down the corridor to the entrance to the dining room.
As his mother took her dinners in her room and he had been taking his in the library, the room hadn’t been used since his brother had died. He was surprised to find the long oval table polished, with a silver epergne of greenery in the center. More boughs draped the silk-hung walls, and ivy wreathed the back of the sideboard. The silver chandelier glittered brightly in the light from the corridor, and he thought each of the hundred-some candles were new.
“Miss Eleanor?” he ventured, his voice echoing to the ceiling high above. “Norrie?”
There was a muted thud and a muffled cry. They sounded from very near the floor. Frowning, he bent and peered under the table. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine,” came the response from somewhere down the table. “I’ll be out directly.”
He strolled along the row of lyre-backed chairs, head cocked to scan under the table. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, completely. If you’d just be so kind as to go away.”
Justinian paused raising an eyebrow. “Go away? Why?”
As if in answer, Jingles strutted out from under the table. He stalked past Justinian and paused impressively in the doorway, eyeing him with apparent disfavor. Then he turned his back on Justinian and began washing himself.
Justinian turned his gaze to the table in time to see Norrie backing out from under it on all fours. He was ashamed to admit it was a rather fetching picture, but when she turned and saw him, he suddenly wished he had found some other way to occupy his time. Her lips were compressed, and her eyes snapped fire.
“I distinctly told you to go away,” she clipped out, stalking past him every bit as stiffly as the kitten had done.
“Ah, but you see, this is my house,” Justinian replied, hurrying to catch up with her.
“And that should be your kitten,” she countered. “I fail to see why I must continually take care of him.”
“Simply because you’re so very good at it,” Justinian answered truthfully. He touched her shoulder, stopping her, then managed to secure her hands in his own. “You take care of everyone near you. I must thank you for being so kind to my mother. She has been rather gruff of late. She tells me she shall miss you greatly.”
“I’ll miss her too,” Eleanor said with sigh. “But I must move on. You understand, don’t you?”
Suddenly, he didn’t understand at all. Still, he tried to remain congenial. “As you have pointed out, we do seem to be different people these days. However, I have not forgotten my manners. I was trying to thank you, for doing this for my mother, and for Dottie.” He glanced about the room again, and his gaze lit on the bough that had been hung over the dining room door. The shape and make of the materials were unmistakable. He could feel the grin spreading. “And I must compliment Mary on her work as well. That is the finest kissing bough I have ever seen. It would be a shame to waste it.”
*
Eleanor glanced up, horrified. The mistletoe and apples stood out in the dim light. She glanced wildly out the door, but the footmen and Mr. Faringil must be nearly at the top of the stair, for they were nowhere in sight. She was quite alone, with Justinian. His smile was tender as he bent his head toward hers.
His kiss was like nothing she had dreamed. No poem he had ever read to her, no story she had imagined captured the sweet fire of it. The love she had felt for him all those years welled up inside her, adding to the warmth of his embrace, making her press herself against him, returning his kiss with all her heart. She willed the moment never to end, prayed that he would feel what she felt, for if he did, surely he would never let her go again.
But he did let her go, drawing a shaky breath and gazing down at her with a warmth in his eyes that took away what little breath she had remaining. Eleanor could only stare at him. His lips looked as warmed and swollen as hers felt.
“Norrie,” he started, voice husky. “Forgive me. I should never have…”
Her heart nearly broke at his words. She held up a hand and sealed his mouth, feeling the sweet pressure of his lips against her fingers. “No, please, don’t. I don’t want to hear apologies. I’ve always wished I knew what it was like to kiss you. Thank you for granting that wish. You needn’t worry I’ll read too much into it. I know my place.”
“Your place!” The force of his words pushed her hand away. “After a kiss like that, your only place is with me.”
Eleanor paled, stepping away from him. How could he, after what they had shared? Was her love so cheap that all she was worthy of was to be his mistress? She bent and scooped up Jingles, thrusting the kitten into Justinian’s arms. “My place,” she said clearly, “is below stairs, with the other servants. At least they have some dignity. I pray you’ll leave me a little of it and not mention that subject again.”
Head high, she stalked from the room. Her steps were stately, composed. So why did she feel as she were running for her life?