The last figure in the pattern of the dance was a turn by two hands, and then the whole sequence started again, as each couple advanced up or down the line. Cassie and Lord Forthhurst had reached the end of the line and the pattern, but he continued turning Cassie until they were directly under the mistletoe.
“No one is paying us the slightest heed,” he said softly, inclining his head back toward the line. “They are too busy dancing.”
Cassie wanted to believe him. Her anticipation had built so intensely that now she was so nervous her knees threatened to buckle. But not everyone in the room was dancing. She knew the eyes of others, including her father, were watching.
Lord Forthhhurst was still turning her, slowly. In a smooth motion he raised her right hand and stepped closer, releasing her other hand and sliding his arm beneath hers to place his hand at her waist. Just that easily, he closed the distance between them. They were in a waltz position now. The rhythm of the music was not in waltz time, but that didn’t seem to matter. As they continued turning, Cassie could not seem to keep control of her mind, or her body. All she could do was gaze up into his hypnotic green eyes.
Her mouth had gone dry. Unthinking, she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.
Lord Forthhurst groaned. “Don’t,” he said, staring at her. “Don’t do that when a man is already about to kiss you. Not unless you wish to be entirely ravished.”
The idea of being ravished had always appalled her–it was the horrible fate that befell victimized women in the annals of history. But the idea of being ravished by Lord Forthhurst was very different–exciting, actually appealing. That who did the ravishing could make such a huge difference was a revelation to her. She had not known one could want to be ravished. She answered his stare with astonishment, and that was the exact moment he moved in to kiss her.
He leaned his forehead down to touch hers, but then he angled his head and sought her lips. She thought she would turn her head to catch his kiss on her cheek, but she was no match for his expertise. He deftly swept her around with her back to the room so no one could quite see what happened between them, and he found her mouth before she had time to recover.
If she thought she had been on fire while they were dancing, it was nothing compared to the touch of his lips. Gentle yet insistent, tasting of the wine punch he had last sipped, his kiss sent a rush of sensation through her body that fanned her burning embers into a colossal column of flame. Cassie tipped her head up and opened her lips instinctively, answering his quest. How had she not known a kiss could be like this? As if his velvet lips on hers had a direct connection to her heart?
Cassie wasn’t sure how long the kiss lasted, how many times they circled under the kissing bough, or whose mouth searched whose. She wasn’t sure when she started to lean against him for support that her legs were no longer willing to offer. Nothing mattered except his lips joined with hers, and nothing needed to matter, since she was going to expire in a conflagration of lust and smoke.
“Lord Forthhurst. My lord.”
The voice of Squire Hammon cut through the hazy ecstasy that had enveloped Cassie. Lord Forthhurst stopped moving the instant the Squire spoke, then quickly released her.
“Ahem. I believe it was not your intention to take advantage of Miss Tamworth, my lord, but I think you must have been caught up in the mistletoe magic, for it appears you have forgotten the dance.”
As one Cassie and Lord Forthhurst turned to look out into the salon and discovered that the dance had halted and everyone in the room was looking at them.
Oh, sweet Lord in heaven. If Cassie could have disappeared in the flame and smoke she had felt like just moments earlier, it would have been a mercy. The kiss must have lasted much too long. They must have missed their turn to reenter the dance, causing a jam-up of extra couples at the end of the line. What had been meant as a quick, private moment had become instead a quite public spectacle. She was doomed. Ruined.
“The Lord of Misrule required a forfeit of Miss Tamworth,” Lord Forthhurst stated with his incorrigible grin. He stared out at the gathered crowd and swept a pointing finger across in front of him. “Beware ladies, for it may be your turn next!” He capped this performance with a wild crow of laughter.
A titter rippled through the ladies in the assembly in response. Nervous? Or perhaps edged with a tinge of anticipation? But then the young lord slumped, abruptly turned contrite. “It was not my intention to disrupt the dance, and for that I do beg forgiveness. I may have to charge myself a forfeit!”
That brought laughter, and Cassie thought the tension seemed to disperse, although that perception might only have been a reflection of her own immense relief. Apparently the devilish Lord Forthhurst had the soul of a jester–a perfect Lord of Misrule. And by making a joke he had rescued her honor.
People turned back to their own business as the next dance was announced. Cassie’s knees still felt weak, although she no longer knew if that was from the effect of Lord Forthhurst’s kiss itself or the near-disaster of their indiscretion. When he offered his elbow, she took his arm with gratitude.
He had managed to disarm a potentially volatile situation, and done so with charm. She had no doubt her father’s opinion of him would now be lower than ever, but given the starting point, what did it matter? She would hear a lecture on her own behavior later and perhaps some speculative gossip might circulate, but thanks to the Lord of Misrule she expected no real consequences.
“A cup of wine punch ought to restore us, Miss Tamworth,” Lord Forthhurst said. “Please allow me to escort you to the bowl in the dining room. I think for the moment we might be wise to avoid dancing.”
She thought she would be wise to avoid dancing–or doing anything else–with him ever again. Apparently she was not strong enough to resist his wickedness, despite her previous resolve. “I think you should return me to my father,” she said stiffly. As her senses returned, indignation at his brazen behavior began to overtake her gratitude. “What were you thinking?”
“Ah. I have to confess I was not thinking. Not thinking at all–you seem to have that effect on me.”
“So the blame is mine? I hardly think so.”
He had the oddest look in his eyes. “No, my dear Miss Tamworth, not yours. The fault is entirely mine. Please forgive me.”
He reached for her hand and tucked it into his elbow. “Even if you won’t forgive me, you would do well to at least pretend it, and come with me into the dining room anyway. Having just made the case that our behavior was nothing more than casual mischief, even if slightly overplayed, we would do well to act the part convincingly now.”
He was right, of course. Drat him. She didn’t resist as he started to move towards the other room.
Lowering his voice, he added, “You must bottle up that righteous indignation, at least for now. And I must tell you that I am not fooled by it. You were as lost in that kiss as I was.”
If he was expecting her to confess it, he would have a long wait. If she hadn’t enough strength to resist him, she could never let him know.
She avoided looking up at him. Instead she glanced out over the salon. Couples scurried into places for the next dance, and the musicians tested the starting chords. Everything seemed to have returned to normal–everything except for her.
She ought to be furious with him! But she could not berate him in front of everyone. She needed to shake off this bedazzlement and be ready if an opportunity presented itself.
As they crossed the passage to reach the dining room, however, David Pratt seemed to materialize out of nowhere. His expression was thunderous.
“I ought to challenge you for disrespecting Miss Tamworth! The Lord of Misrule may have fooled everyone else, but my eyes are open. And I see what you are!”
Cassie was astonished to hear the mild-mannered curate make this speech. To nearly challenge a dashing member of the ton–especially a lord–was reckless, if not fully dangerous. Such behavior was highly out of character for Mr. Pratt. She took a breath, preparing to soothe him before the situation could escalate, but before she could speak, Lord Forthhurst released her and stepped close to the man. He had a dangerous glitter in his eye.
“And what is it that you see, exactly?” he demanded.
Mr. Pratt at least had the sense to take a step back. Lord Forthhurst was the taller of the two men by only a little, but at this moment he exuded an impressive physical presence that made him seem very large and powerful.
To his credit, or perhaps merely in a sign of foolishness, Mr. Pratt attempted to muster a similar stance. Cassie pressed her clasped hands to her lips, afraid the men would come to blows. “Please,” she started to say, but they were posturing like two roosters in a barnyard, and neither was paying her the slightest attention.
“I see a cad who thinks women are playthings, and cares nothing for anyone but himself. I see a blackguard who would toss a woman’s reputation to the wind and think nothing of it.”
“Those are strong words, Mr. Pratt. Are you quite certain you don’t wish to retract them?”
“Quite certain. There is no reason to retract what is true.”
Lord Forthhurst’s reply to that was a growl, and Cassie feared he was about to strike Mr. Pratt. Both men were out of control.
“And how would you know what is true?” Lord Forthhurst ground out.
“Stop!” she shouted. At least that startled them and gained their attention.
Both men turned to look at her. “No one’s reputation has suffered here,” she added quickly. “Lord Forthhurst very gallantly made that right.”
“After causing the need to do so in the first place,” Mr. Pratt said sullenly. “Am I the only one who sees what is going on here?”
Cassie put her hand on his arm. “I know what you think you saw, but I can assure you that you are mistaken.”
The man just wouldn’t let it go. “He was kissing you! In front of everyone! He had no right.”
“He was, but only in a spirit of the holiday. We were under the mistletoe, you know. That does bestow a sort of right.” Annoyance was beginning to erode Cassie’s patience. “The Lord of Misrule is supposed to cause mischief. That is his job!”
“I don’t like him causing mischief with you.”
She removed her hand. “Why should I be immune? Squire Hammon clearly does not think it amiss, and apparently neither does anyone else. They all took it in stride except for you, Mr. Pratt.”
“And your father,” he said darkly.
Yes. Cassie’s heart sank a little, for she recognized that was undoubtedly true. If there had been any slight chance that the good Reverend could start to like Lord Forthhurst, that hope was destroyed now. She thought she had not cared, but the disappointment in the pit of her stomach said otherwise.
Her father, however, would wait until they were home before saying anything. He wouldn’t make a scene as Mr. Pratt was doing.
“Here now, what is this trouble?” Squire Hammon asked, joining them in the passage between the rooms. “Mr. Pratt? My lord?”
No doubt he had been alerted by Cassie’s cry, and noted the belligerent stance of the two men. He stepped between them and put a hand on each of their shoulders. “I’ll not have you coming to blows on Christmas! Are you fighting over Miss Tamworth? She may be flattered by it, but would not want you to act upon it. Cease, I must insist. Christmas is the time for peace and goodwill among men–all men, including you.”
Cassie released her pent-up breath. Thank heavens the squire had noticed them! She hadn’t any idea what she would have done if the men had started to fight.
Mr. Pratt pulled away from the squire’s hand. After glaring at Lord Forthhurst, Cassie, and the squire in turn, he stalked back into the salon.
Squire Hammon patted Lord Forthhurst’s shoulder. “Never mind him, my lord. He is too serious to understand a little playful flirtation in the spirit of celebration. He’ll calm down. Come, let us find the punchbowl. We’ll drink a toast to the mistletoe magic. No harm is done.”
The squire offered his arm to Cassie, standing quite purposefully between her and Lord Forthhurst, and gestured with his other hand for the viscount to precede them into the dining room. Cassie could not get a look at Lord Forthhurst’s face. She hoped sincerely that he was appeased. She hadn’t the slightest doubt that he could turn Mr. Pratt into mincemeat with very little effort.
Cassie leaned into the squire’s comforting bulk, grateful for his simple, sturdy presence. He could anchor her. She had seen him make peace countless times, despite the fact he was generally silent. She was so far out of her element now, she needed his tether. There would be no more untoward moments with Lord Forthhurst, no matter how tempted she might be.
If only she could put his kiss out of her mind.
Adam stayed in the dining room after Squire and Miss Tamworth left. He gulped the wine punch Squire Hammon had handed him, wishing it was something far stronger. Christopher charged in moments later.
“What in God’s name do you think you are doing?” he asked. “Obviously you are already in trouble here. How on earth did you become so embroiled in these people’s affairs so quickly?”
Adam shrugged. “You would have needed to be here to understand it,” he said. “Or, perhaps not even then. I’m not sure I understand it.” He looked at his friend, knowing he would sound perfectly crazed. “It feels as if some other-worldly power is at work.”
Christopher scoffed. “One that you have no way of resisting? It sounds to me much more like a lack of power–your own will-power, my friend. Your lack of resistance when you see a pretty face, and your penchant for mischief.”
Adam shook his head. How could he put into words his sense that something was changing, something inside him? Whether the events that had overtaken him were orchestrated by Lady Anne in some scheme, or in fact dictated by Fate or by some other power hardly mattered. It was his responses to those events that seemed directed by unexplainable forces. “It’s different this time.”
“You think so? I don’t believe it is,” Christopher said. “I believe the sooner we can remove you from this place the better off you will be. You already have trouble enough to face at home, do you not? Would you compound it with another scandal before you have had a chance to smooth over the last one?”
Would that he could smooth that one over.
Adam sent a small message of thanks into the universe that he and Mr. Pratt had not come to blows. Christopher was right. More scandal was the last thing he needed, and he had only narrowly headed off one already this evening when he had lost his head kissing Miss Tamworth.
The beautiful and delicious Miss Tamworth. The same Miss Tamworth he now knew for certain felt the same attraction that he felt, whether she admitted it or not. He had enough experience with women to have no doubt, despite her silence when he’d brought it up to her. She might not trust him (perhaps with good reason), she might not even like him, but by God, she was undeniably not indifferent to him physically.
The problem was that kissing her had been unlike any kiss he’d ever shared with a woman before. He hadn’t been prepared for the strength and depth of their connection, although perhaps he should have been. Everything else about her was different.
He’d spoken the truth when he admitted that she robbed him of his ability to think. That had never happened to him before, at least when sober. That such a connection had developed in the space of just two days was more cause for alarm. And now he hungered to kiss her again. He wasn’t sure any number of kisses would be enough to quench that desire.
He nodded at his friend. “We should leave. I concede that point, but I am persuaded that I must carry out my duties here tomorrow. I promise you I will be on my best behavior. Monday morning we can depart, once I have announced the day’s activity. If the smithy has returned by then, he still won’t have had a chance to fix my wheel. I shall return for my horses and carriage in a few days.”
“Promise me you will avoid Miss Tamworth?”
“I don’t expect our paths will cross.” But it was a very small village.
The street football race traditionally began as soon as the village men could gather. Since this year St. Stephens’ Day fell on a Sunday, the race could not begin until after the church service was over. Adam did not attend, choosing instead to have a relaxed early morning with a breakfast tray brought to his room. It was the only way he could be certain to avoid the vicar’s daughter.
He had spent a torturous night, through no fault of the bed or anyone’s actions but his own. His mind would not stop wrestling with thoughts of Miss Tamworth, and his traitorous body refused to give up the desire that kissing her had ignited. In his own defense, he could not have dreamed how deeply that kiss would affect him. But he had not found a way to reconcile the twin needs of carrying out his responsibilities and yet keeping away from Miss Tamworth.
He forced her image from his mind and sipped his coffee, listening for the telltale sounds of a crowd gathering outside. He checked his pocket watch. Christopher would not be up and about if it was still morning, which was just as well. Adam would have his hands full enough executing the Lord of Misrule’s duty to start the street ball game.
A vigorous knock on his door alerted him a short while later that his services were required. He quickly donned his greatcoat, tossed his scarf around his neck and scooped up his slightly too large hat and his scepter as he headed out.
The boisterous crowd outside the inn had already divided itself into opposing teams. As Mr. Frigg at the livery stables had promised, the men already knew what to do. Friendly ribbing and insults about each team’s abilities created a barely-contained buzz of voices.
“’Tis the north and south ends of the village that make up the teams, my lord,” Mr. Salsby explained, hovering close by Adam’s elbow. “You have the dubious and possibly risky task of throwing out the ball to start them.”
“Are we at the center of the village here, then?”
“Not that anyone’s ever measured it off. But by tradition and convenience, ’tis close enough. Now, mind you jump out of the way quick as soon as you throw out the ball, or like as not you’ll be trampled in the excitement to grab it. The task has its risks.”
“The object is for one team to gain the ball and bring it successfully to the designated safety space at their end of the village?”
“Aye, my lord. They’ll be chasing each other and fighting over it most of the day, working up a powerful thirst. My tap’ll be very busy later today.” He grinned. “You’re expected to lead off the toasts to the victors, by the way.”
Adam grinned back. Apparently he had a long night of drinking ahead of him. That suited him perfectly. “I’m glad I’ll have a very short journey to my bed at the end of it.”
The men were already jostling each other and trying to position themselves where they thought they could best take charge of the ball. Adam retreated to the topmost step at the inn’s entrance, where Mr. Salsby handed him the stitched leather ball. Apparently the innkeeper had custody of that revered item when it was not in use. It was large enough to require Adam to put both hands around it.
He handed Mr. Salsby his scepter. “Do I have to say any special words before the toss?”
“Just ‘have at it, lads’ or some such thing.”
“Good enough for me.” Adam held the ball in front of him, and looked out mischievously at the eager teams assembled before him. Calls of “toss it!” began to sound from within the impatient crowd. Taking a deep breath, Adam lowered the ball and then powered it into the air as high and straight upward as he could.
There. From the safety of the inn steps he watched the men begin to push each other in their attempts to get beneath where they thought the ball would come down. That should set up a fine free-for-all to start things off. “Have at it, lads!” he called, as if they needed any urging.
As he turned to follow Mr. Salsby back inside the safety of the Four Feathers, he thought he saw a couple of fists fly in the midst of the melee. Already? He imagined that by the time the game was declared finished hours from now, not a man would be left without a fine set of bruises to show for it.
Perhaps thirty minutes later, Adam emerged again from the inn, intent on walking up to Highfield to await Christopher. The rabble of street-ball players had faded away as the men wrestled at one end or another of the village, and Adam would not be needed again until they were finished. But he had duties to fulfill then, and it would be too late to depart, just as Lady Anne had said.
He hadn’t decided if he was truly offended by Christopher’s lack of faith in him, but it galled him. He was no prize, certainly. His parents would be first to point that out. Perhaps his misbehavior had earned this stranding in Little Macclow. But did he deserve to be tortured with a woman more tempting than Eve to test him?
Unlike other men he knew, he hadn’t left the countryside littered with his by-blows, nor had he ever, to his knowledge, cuckolded any man who truly cared about his wife. He had never taken a woman against her will, and would never. He wouldn’t turn his mother out of her home, nor mortgage family properties to pay off gambling debts even if he were in a position to do so. He felt quite certain that, similarly, as earl he would never refuse to support the vaguely-related collection of people who might one day depend upon his goodwill for their sustenance. He might call himself spawn of the devil, or even claim the full title for himself, but he knew many who deserved it more.
Lost in these thoughts while he absently adjusted his greatcoat collar and the folds of his long scarf twined about his neck, he failed to watch where he was going. How he missed seeing the bright red cloak enveloping Miss Tamworth he could not say, but he collided solidly with her not two paces beyond the inn steps, nearly knocking her off her feet. It was as if she had appeared out of nowhere. The large basket she had been carrying dropped to the ground with a thud. His hat, predictably, flew off into some snow.
“Miss Tamworth! I do beg your pardon. Are you quite all right?” He reached a hand towards her but she ignored it, having already regained her balance.
She nodded. He would have felt more reassured to hear spoken words, even if those vilified him. Had he winded her?
He stooped to retrieve his hat, which jingled ridiculously in his hand as he brushed off the snow. “I was so busy enumerating the sins I haven’t committed, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
She drew herself together. “Are there so many, then?”
It was crushing that she looked so skeptical. Perhaps he had done too good a job of convincing her he was a devil.
“Most people find it a shorter list to name the sins they have committed and seek forgiveness,” she added.
“Well, I did beg your pardon. Do you give it?’ He aimed a teasing grin in her direction.
“You may have it, along with my blessing, but I doubt that will get you very far. Absolution is more my father’s line of work.” Her sky-blue eyes shot him a sharp look. “And for that, you must attend service.”
How easily those eyes captured and held him! He chuckled to break the spell, positioning his hat back on his head. “Church three days in a row is a bit much to expect from one such as I. You truly do have great faith in the strength of those walls.” Time to shift topics. “You were on your way from somewhere to somewhere else at a goodly pace when I interrupted you.”
“That is one way to describe it. Yes, I took time to rehearse the children for their Epiphany pageant at the church after the service. Now I’m going to call on Mrs. Trumbull. She is too frail to attend dinner with the other elderly at the vicarage. Then I must return to help with that this afternoon.”
She had been in charge of decorating the village’s assembly room, also. Was there anything in Little Macclow that did not involve her? “You are a busy woman. Do you run the whole village? Perhaps they should make you the mayor.”
She tossed her head. “Don’t be silly. It’s just that there are certain responsibilities that have to be carried out.”
“By you, of course.”
“Yes.” Tight-lipped, she said no more but gathered up her basket. Her arms and shoulders strained under its weight. Uncertain of his welcome, he watched her struggle with it for a full minute before he moved forward to offer his assistance.
“Thank you, I can manage perfectly well by myself.” She tightened her grip on the handle. There it was, that pride he had noticed before. She was definitely a managing type. His mother was one, too. God save him!
“It seems to me that you needed someone to help you on Christmas Eve–someone tall, if I recall correctly.”
“For one small task,” she replied in a withering tone.
He ignored that jab at his ego. “Whether they need it or not, good managers know to take advantage of help when it is available, lest they spread themselves too thin.”
“Are you saying you are available to help? I thought you were leaving today –couldn’t wait to leave, in fact.”
“Well, it seems I am here at least until tomorrow, so I may as well be useful.” Now there was a sentence no one who knew him would have expected to hear him utter. He reached again for the basket and felt strangely gratified when she yielded it to him. “Good grief, what do you have in here, rocks? That seems a strange gift to bring an old woman.”
She flushed. He loved the way the pink color flooded into her pale cheeks. “You are being silly again. Not rocks, of course. Just a number of items she will find useful–a good-sized ham that is quite heavy, for instance.” She paused, and then finally smiled, as if she could no longer hold it back. “There might be a bit of coal in the bottom. I suppose those are rocks of a sort.”
He laughed, and she joined in.
“If you are quite sincere, I can put you to work.”
The dubious look in her eye made him question his sanity. What on earth did he think he was doing? Hadn’t he and Christopher both agreed he needed to stay away from her? Yet he followed her meekly, carrying the basket. Perhaps he was a gentleman after all, in some hidden corner of his soul that only she could uncover.
They walked along the village lane in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the crunch of their footsteps on the snow. The houses were spaced further apart here, with hedges lining the road. Finally he had to ask, “You do know the street-ball game could come rousing through this lane at any moment, do you not?”
“We’re nearly there,” she replied simply, shrugging her shoulders.
Well, if that rabble came their way, he would have a perfectly good reason to sweep her into his arms and out of harm’s way. At this spot the narrow lane had high banks along either side. He began to wish the teams would come tumbling through here. However, thinking of holding her in his arms revived the indelible memory of kissing her.
“I want you to know, what happened between us last night was not a prank,” he confessed in his most serious tone. Why was he telling her this? Wouldn’t it be better if she thought it had been?
“You already apologized. And you convinced everyone else that it was merely that.”
“It seemed best.”
“Yes.”
“I just wanted to be sure you knew it wasn’t that. Something special happened between us.”
She continued walking, but he could see her posture stiffen. “It doesn’t matter.”
What did he expect her to say? He pressed his point. “I know you felt it.”
Finally she replied, “Regardless of whether it was special or not, we must put it behind us, pretend it was nothing more than the innocent prank you claimed it was.”
Was it so easy? He caught her elbow and pulled her to a halt. Stepping in front of her, he looked down directly at her, but she would not meet his gaze. Gently he slipped two fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face up so he could see her luminous eyes. “In all honesty, can you?” he asked softly. He didn’t think he could.
She stared up at him. “Do you not understand I have to?”
Her eyes and the slightest trembling of her lip betrayed the turmoil she was feeling. More than anything he wanted to slide his hand along her cheek, cradle her face in his palm and lean in to taste her sweet lips again. As his fingertips lingered, sending sparks along his veins, she closed her eyes. He wanted to tell her all would be well. By Jove how he wanted that! But no. As lost as he was, he still knew he couldn’t do either thing, for so many reasons.
Where was the devil in him now? How and when had he begun to care? They were standing in the middle of a public lane, empty just now. His old self would have thought that perfect enough. But for how long? And who knew what eyes might be peering out through windows at this very moment? This was Miss Tamworth, not some London flirt. She made him want the kiss all the more, and at the same time made it impossible, simply by virtue of who she was. He could not.
The fact that he would be leaving–not temporarily, like tomorrow’s departure, but for good, after Twelfth Night–hovered in the air between them rather like his desire, unspoken yet nonetheless real.
As his hand dropped, she opened her eyes and turned from him. Shaking her head, she began to walk again. However, he thought he had seen the true answer to his question before she closed her eyes. Not easy. Not at all.
He waited a moment, then caught up to her using long strides. “Of course, you are right. We will both put it behind us, if we are wise. Mind you, that is not something I have ever claimed to be.”
She muttered something under her breath, words he was quite certain she did not intend him to hear. But his heart clenched, for he thought she said, “Nor have I.” Heaven help them both.