Mrs Trumbull was a tiny, bird-like widow whose face and hands were a mass of wrinkles. With child-like glee she carefully lifted each item out of the gift basket, exclaiming over them as if they were rare and precious. “Apples!” “Oh, my, the size of this loaf!”
The ham was heavy for her to lift, and Lord Forthhurst quickly assisted her. When she discovered the small rough sack of coals at the bottom, she clutched it to her bosom, crooning. But Cassie thought the elderly woman was even more excited by having the Lord of Misrule call at her home.
She did not introduce him by his actual title, fearing the fragile lady would be overwhelmed to find a true lord in her humble dwelling. Cassie had spent a long night reminding herself of who he was, how far beyond her reach, and how he would be leaving, trying not to be overwhelmed by the kiss they had shared.
She was fairly certain he had ruined her. Not in the conventional sense, for her body was intact and her reputation preserved. But oh, her innocence! She had never guessed that a single kiss could ignite such heat between two people or could make them feel like they had melted into one being. She hadn’t known it could trigger an unquenchable craving for the other person’s touch.
She shouldn’t have allowed him to accompany her on this visit. How could she fight her feelings when he was with her? Still, his presence seemed to infuse Mrs. Trumbull with energy Cassie had never seen the frail widow exhibit at any previous time, lighting up her face and making her look ten years younger.
Never too old to be affected by the charm of a handsome man. The thought made Cassie smile. Lord Forthhurst was indeed engaging, listening with apparently genuine attention to Mrs. Trumbull’s stories and quick to shower her with compliments. He charmed her with his London manners, bowing and kissing her hand, flirting with her. The woman flirted right back. No doubt he made her feel young and attractive, as she must have once been.
Cassie slowly fell under his spell as well, her heart warmed by the care Lord Forthhurst seemed to take to make the old widow feel special. How could he call himself a devil? At least, the spell lasted until a voice suspiciously similar to her father’s whispered in her mind that Lord Forthhurst could charm any female that walked the planet. Here was only more proof of it.
Her warm-hearted feeling evaporated in an instant.
“I am so sorry to cut our visit short,” she said. “I really must hurry back to the vicarage to finish preparations for the St. Stephen’s Day dinner.”
The spark of happiness in the old woman’s face faded. Still, she reached for Cassie’s hand and nodded. “Ye carry a great deal on yer shoulders, missy. An old crone like me is grateful for any crumb of time ye can spare.”
“I could stay,” Lord Forthhurst said to Cassie’s astonishment. “I don’t believe Miss Tamworth requires my escort since she is no longer burdened with a heavy basket. At least, as long as she looks out for rowdy street-ball teams careening about the village.”
He would do that to make a lonely old woman happy? Or was he simply trying to impress her? If the latter, his effort was succeeding. He had nothing to gain by staying to visit longer with Mrs. Trumbull.
The elderly lady released Cassie’s hand. Looking at both of them in turn, she smiled. “Such good young people. Thank ye for coming. Ye should both go along, however. A woman as old as I am tires easily, and frankly, my Lord of Misrule, I cannot hope to keep up with your flirtations. Such fustian, yet I thank ye for it.”
Like a grand lady, which she had never been, she offered Lord Forthhurst her hand. He obediently kissed it. As he straightened up, she winked. “Better protect Miss Tamworth from those ruffians in the streets.”
Adam would be heading back into the village anyway, so it simply made sense to accompany Miss Tamworth. They took their leave and headed back up the lane the way they had come.
“I would have stayed to visit longer with Mrs. Trumbull,” he said.
“You were very kind to her. I believe you.” She paused, then added, “It goes against your image, you know.”
“What image?”
“That you are a devil. You are a contradiction, or at least an enigma.”
He smiled. “Maybe that is all just part of my devilishness.”
“Perhaps. At any rate, I owe you an apology.”
“That seems unlikely. For what?”
“For misjudging you about the wagers during the sledding contest. What you did was very much in keeping with the spirit of these twelve days–a little mischief that was at the same time both honorable and generous.”
“Please. You will put me to the blush, Miss Tamworth. Let us think nothing more about it.”
“I believe I have misjudged you generally. I am sorry.”
“Given the influence of your father’s prejudice and also our very short acquaintance, how could I possibly blame you? You merely judged me by my own declarations.”
He stopped, and when she realized it after a step or two more, she turned back to face him. “I am not certain it is wise of you to discard your initial impressions,” he added.
He wasn’t certain he could handle Miss Tamworth being sweet to him. Where was the prickly Miss Tamworth he was accustomed to? His craving for her intensified with every kind word she spoke. The devil in him wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms. He curled his hands into fists in an effort to keep them straight at his sides.
Just at that moment a flying missile came from behind the hedge at one side of the lane, knocking his hat right off his head.
“What?” He looked in astonishment at the hedge, from which several giggles issued. A row of small heads popped up and a volley of several more snowballs followed, although only one or two actually reached their target, namely his person. Miss Tamworth had begun to laugh, her hand covering her mouth. He was glad she had not been hit.
Bending to retrieve his hat, he scooped up a handful of snow along with it. After restoring his hat to its rightful perch, he shaped the snow into a proper defensive weapon and, laughing, launched it at the hedge just as the row of heads popped up again. This resulted in cries of joy as well as a second barrage of snowballs. He quickly scooped up more and launched them, too.
“I give you my blessing,” he told his assailants in between taking hits. “Ooph. As Lord of Misrule, I hereby declare open season for snowball hunting, as long as the snow shall last. Just one rule–ladies are to be exempt. They are more delicate than we men.”
“At risk of a forfeit, I must disagree with the Lord of Misrule,” Miss Tamworth exclaimed. When he glanced back at her, he saw she was shaping a snowball as she spoke. It was clear from the snow on her cloak that a few of the children’s snowballs that missed him had found her instead. “Why should only gentlemen have all the fun? We women are not so delicate as all that.”
She ducked as a lone snowball arched in her direction, then threw her own at the hedge. She quickly bent to scoop up more snow and make another. As Adam turned towards the hedge again, he felt a snowball pelt him from behind. “Miss Tamworth! Did you aim that at me? I’ve no wish to be trapped in a cross-fire!”
She laughed, and as he scooped up some snow to retaliate, she turned and began to scurry up the lane away from the battle. He lobbed his missile and hit her elbow. Saluting the unseen children behind the hedge, he called, “Carry on!” and started up the lane again after her.
In between stops to scoop up snow, Miss Tamworth tried to run to stay ahead of him. He gained each time she paused to aim a snowball at him, although he also had to stop to make more ammunition. It seemed neither of them could stop laughing. His longer legs won out, catching up to her as they reached the heart of the village near the inn. But just as he did so, she slipped and went down. Lying there in the snow with her cape flung out to the sides and her cheeks reddened from the cold and from laughing, she couldn’t have looked more beautiful to him. It took every ounce of his willpower not to simply drop down into the snow beside her.
“Oh, dear,” she said, laughing some more. “Now I have become too easy a target.”
“Indeed. You put my deviltry to a test, Miss Tamworth.” He tossed the snowball in his hand up and down, as if debating the merits of throwing it. While he hesitated, she began to pull herself together and scramble to get up.
“Oh, devil take it,” he said, tossing the snowball away. “Allow me to assist you, Miss Tamworth.”
He held out his hand and was gratified that she took it. For an instant he was back at the bottom of the sled-run, helping her up. He had wanted to pull her into his arms then, and the desire to do so now was even stronger. It would be so easy to do, just a little extra tug to bring her against him. No.
She wasn’t laughing now, and neither was he. Standing less than an arms length apart, still joined by their covered hands, they stared, gazes locked in a moment of heart-deep connection. Dear God, what are we supposed to do?
She broke the spell by extricating her hand and turning her gaze away. Not a moment too soon, for cries of “Clear the way! Clear the way!” could suddenly be heard, coming from the center of the village along with the growing thunder of dozens of running, slipping feet.
Davey Green, a young man Adam had met Christmas Eve among the late night songsters, appeared, clutching the ball against his chest and running for all he was worth. Behind him followed a menacing crowd as intent on hobbling each other as they were on regaining the ball. Davey’s defending teammates were almost indistinguishable from the players opposing them. It seemed miraculous that those who slipped in the snow and fell were not trampled, but were able to rise again and continue on.
Adam hastily pushed Miss Tamworth out of the path of Davey and the mob chasing him, and threw himself heroically in front of her. “It doesn’t seem proper for the miscreants to run down their Lord of Misrule,” he growled. He stepped aside as soon as the crowd had passed.
She laughed. “I don’t believe they would have, but your gallantry is showing. Thank you for protecting me.”
As they both turned to look after the departing teams, Adam saw a hail of snowballs launch at the throng. “Ah,” he said with supreme satisfaction, “I believe I have sewn the seeds of something rather perfect. Er, perfectly chaotic, that is.”
“Congratulations?” Miss Tamworth managed to make it a question amidst her laughter. Then she sobered. “I really must not delay any longer–I am needed at home to finish preparations for the St Stephen’s Day dinner.”
“Is there anything I may do to assist you? I have time on my hands until the street-ball game ends.”
“That can take hours. I think they enjoy it so much they take pains to be certain it doesn’t end too soon. But I thank you, no. There’s nothing right now. Perhaps you might stop in at Highfield.”
“That was my original destination when I first ran into you, quite literally. I hope the rest of your day goes well.”
“Thank you. Good day to you, also.” She didn’t hold out her hand to him, but instead offered a kind of funny little salute with it and then resolutely turned and headed towards Church Street.
His route lay in that direction also, but clearly she did not intend for him to accompany her any further. He was supposed to be avoiding her, and had done a poor job of it so far. He could stop in at the livery stables to visit his horses before he walked up to Highfield.
At the vicarage Cassie hurried to hang up her cloak and get started on the work awaiting her. She brushed the telltale remains of a few snowballs off the cloak and rubbed her cold hands together to bring some warmth back into them. She had been gone longer than she’d meant to be–could she truly blame Lord Forthhurst? She had been as complicit as he, engaging in mischief. But she must try not to think about him now.
She hoped the steady flow of visits from villagers and the distribution of the vicar’s gifts during the afternoon would leave her with no time to think about anything else while she prepared for the vicar’s annual dinner. She loved seeing the happiness on the faces of all those who received the baskets, and she felt humbled to serve the poor who came to share dinner with her father. But even as she handed out gifts and carried on conversations in between her other tasks as the afternoon passed, her thoughts would not stay away from Lord Forthhurst.
How was it possible that Fate seemed to keep throwing them together? She had expected to escape him entirely today, not spend time so agreeably in his company. Every time she was with the man she seemed to see a different side of his character.
Despite his missteps–that kiss, for one!–her distrust had eroded almost completely. Coupled with her deep and persistent attraction to him, it was turning instead into something she could not afford to feel.
Lord Forthhurst made her want things she could not have. A relationship between them was impossible–they lived in different worlds, and he would soon be returning to his. That candle flame within her whenever she was near him flared into a much hotter blaze whenever he touched her, and he seemed to find moments to do that more and more often. He invaded her dreams and robbed her of sleep. To want, and not have, was agony. Perhaps he truly was the devil he claimed to be, when his mere presence in Little Macclow could bring on such torture.
Free of visitors at this moment, she spread a runner of bright red fabric down the center of her mother’s white damask cloth on the dining room table. She set a heavy silver candelabra, only used for such special occasions, at each end.
Ten of the village’s poorest residents would soon be seated around the table with her father to enjoy a modest feast, ending with Christmas pudding, of course. They looked forward to this annual treat, and every year she tried to make sure that they left with more than full bellies and gift hampers. She wanted them to also feel they had been treated with respect, something often lacking in their lives. She would fail if she could not keep her thoughts on them instead of the Lord of Misrule.
Finished, she lit a taper and used it to light all the candles. The effect was impressive. The table was set with the best china and silver her father had, gleaming now in the reflected candlelight. She took a last look, making sure all was ready. The guests would be arriving at any moment.
The candles flickered and she realized someone else had come into the room, disturbing the air. Her heart sank when she saw it was Mr. Pratt. He closed the door behind him, triggering a frisson of alarm. He was normally a paragon of propriety. What was he intending?
“I have been watching you all afternoon with the utmost admiration, Miss Tamworth.”
Oh, dear. She had been vaguely aware of his scrutiny. She hoped her state of distraction had not been outwardly notable, even under such intense study.
“Well, I thank you for the admiration, Mr. Pratt, but truly I have done nothing to earn it. I have only done the same things I do on St Stephen’s Day every year.”
“Ah, but you do them so well, with such grace and such an amiable spirit. Tis no wonder that the villagers are all so fond of you.”
He had a warm look in his eyes that she was unaccustomed to seeing. “Did you mean to close the door behind you? I trust that you simply weren’t thinking.”
“No, I quite meant to. I wanted some privacy for this conversation.” He moved a few steps closer to her. “I think you know that I am also very fond of you, Miss Tamworth. More than fond.”
Oh, dear. The conversation was leading somewhere she did not want to go. She had tried to imagine if kissing the curate could trigger passion like that she felt with Lord Forthhurst and failed utterly. Mr. Pratt was looking for a serviceable helpmate–would he even kiss his wife after they were married?
“We have a friendship which I value,” she said, choosing her words carefully and reaching for a calmness she wasn’t feeling. “A good friendship.”
“Ah, my dear, do you not know that what I feel for you is more than friendship? I know I have not spoken of it before now, but have you not been able to see the direction of my feelings?”
He advanced a few more steps, and before she realized what he was about and could move back, seized her hand. He dropped to one knee, his face alight with expectation. Her heart seemed to drop with him.
“Miss Tamworth, I believe there is no finer helpmate for me on this earth than you. No woman more beautiful nor more gracious nor more loving. Please would you do me the honor of becoming my wife? I am certain my asking cannot by now come as a surprise to you.”
It was silly, but she actually felt ill. Had she truly thought this moment might never come? No, his proposal was inevitable, but certainly she had hoped for more time. Time, and the chance for some other path to open for her. Surely this was not the change meant for her. Was it only three days ago the air had seemed rife with possibilities and magic? That all seemed foolish now.
“My goodness, Mr. Pratt. Do I seem rattlebrained to admit that in fact you have quite caught me by surprise? I am afraid I was not expecting this.” (At least, not now. That much was true.)
The light in his face dimmed, making her feel even worse. “I am sorry, Miss Tamworth. I felt certain you knew–in fact, might have been expecting–dare I say, hoping?–for me to speak.”
She didn’t dare refuse him outright, not without talking with her father first. The very fact the curate thought she might have been hoping for a proposal from him showed how little the man knew or understood her. Her choices were limited, yes, but spinsterhood, or teaching, or some other recourse seemed a far preferable future, even if uncertain.
She extracted her hand from his. “Please, Mr. Pratt, do get up. Would you grant me some time to think this over? And to discuss it with my father?”
His face brightened again even as he regained his feet. He still stood uncomfortably close to her. “Why, of course! I think a consultation with your father is very commendable on your part, although of course I had hoped for an instant response. At times your behavior can be quite, uh, shall we say spontaneous? But I suppose when your entire future is being decided, you show great wisdom and restraint not to treat the decision as one of those moments.”
Well, at least he had turned her delaying tactic into something he could comfortably digest. He was very good at revising or even reversing things to fit his view. She was quite certain she would go mad if she spent the rest of her life hearing him do that.
Out of nowhere, the thought of how Lord Forthhurst might have handled such a scene ambushed her, destroying her focus for a moment. Lord Forthhurst would have done it all differently, swooping in with a kiss and leaving no doubts.
She blinked, trying to clear her head. “You are very understanding, Mr. Pratt, and I thank you. I promise I will speak to my father at the earliest possible opportunity.” She waved a hand at the table. “I’m sorry to say there will be little chance of it tonight. I’m sure you understand.”
Lord Forthhurst would have declared himself with passion and words of love. For a man like that, she would have answered in an instant. Not Lord Forthhurst himself, of course. Had he ruined her, or simply opened her eyes–and her heart?