How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 6

  Perhaps James was right. She would always love London, but maybe she could benefit by expanding her horizons. Taking in a bit of the blue sky and fresh air he described with so much affection. She could picture a summer afternoon. Maggie helping Mama in a garden overflowing with flowers. Harold and William racing each other barefoot through green fields. Kat tucking a book under her arm and disappearing into the hayloft.

  Louisa might dip her toes in the sea.

  How ironic. She’d spent a full night trying to change his mind, and instead he’d succeeded in expanding hers.

  “My house is just up the way,” she said. “We should say our goodbyes here, I think.”

  He nodded gravely. “Yes, best to do that before I find myself staring down the barrel of your father’s rifle. We may not have another chance.”

  She stuck out her hand in game fashion. “Farewell, James. I wish you the best of luck with your drainage.”

  “Wait, I thought we were joking about the rifle. But you speak as though we’ll never see one another again.”

  “I don’t expect that we will.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Jersey’s quite a distance from Yorkshire.”

  He took her hand—not to shake it, but to hold it in his. “I need to see you again.”

  “But I’m—”

  “You’re clever. You’re warm. Lovely. Best of all, you’re honest. Genuine. That’s rare. I can’t let it go once I’ve found it.”

  Her heart wrenched. She would have loved nothing better than to see him again. To be able to call him friend, at least—if not something more. But it simply wasn’t possible.

  “Louisa! Louisa!” Kat waved at her from the bedroom window, before disappearing back inside. “Louisa’s back! And she’s brought a man!”

  She cringed. This was going to be a disaster.

  Louisa turned to James. “Please just go,” she said hurriedly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll explain everything, make some excuse.”

  He looked affronted. “No one’s going to make excuses for me. I’ll see you safely inside and introduce myself. To start.”

  He meant to introduce himself. To start. Oh Lord.

  “Really, I’m fine.” She put her hands on his shoulders, attempting to turn him about and send him off in the other direction before it was too late.

  But it was already too late.

  The whole family—or most of it—poured over the threshold. They mobbed her, chiding and hugging at the same time. Chaos.

  Once they’d let Louisa go, they all turned to stare at her companion.

  “I beg your pardon.” James cleared his throat. “I know this is all very untoward, bringing your daughter home at this hour. However, given the chance, I mean to make every explanation to Mr. Ward. Is he inside?”

  “No,” Mama said. “He’s out searching for you, Louisa. He went to the Carvilles’, and they were all in a flutter about Fiona, and then when you didn’t come home—”

  “I’m so sorry, Mama.”

  “The apologies are mine to make,” James said. “Mrs. Ward, might I take the liberty of waiting on Mr. Ward to return?”

  “Yes, of course. Of course.” Her mother waved him inside. “Do come in. There’s tea in the kitchen, and I’ll have Nancy bring it in to the parlor.”

  “Please don’t put yourself to the trouble. The kitchen is fine.”

  “That’s very accommodating of you, Mr. . . . ?”

  “James,” Louisa interjected. “His name is James.”

  “Thank you, Mr. James.” As she turned, Mama gave Louisa a questioning look and lifted an eyebrow.

  Kat, on the other hand, hopped up and down with poorly concealed glee. “You did it!”

  Louisa grabbed her sister by the elbow and yanked her aside.

  “Oh, I’m so happy,” Kat squealed. “We’re saved! I never thought you had it in you.”

  “We are not saved,” Louisa whispered. “He has not proposed.”

  “Well, I didn’t think he would have proposed yet. He’s waiting to speak with Father first.”

  “He is not going to propose.”

  “So he needs a bit of encouragement. Say no more.”

  Louisa set her teeth. “Kat. Your understanding of the situation is completely opposite of the truth, and if you do not hold your tongue, we will be in an even greater muddle.”

  “But—”

  “Hush. I mean it. One word, and I will march you upstairs to the attic. And lock you there.”

  Grumpily—but quietly—Kat followed her into the kitchen. James was already seated at the table, accepting a cup of tea with milk and sugar, talking with her mother and making no objection as Harold shamelessly emptied his pockets. William pulled the watch from James’s waistcoat, shook it, and held it to his ear.

  He looked so very . . . at home.

  Louisa slipped her arms free of his coat and draped the garment over the back of his chair, brushing his shoulder with her fingertips. Thank you for sharing your coat.

  Holding his teacup in one hand, he used the other to pull out the chair next to his. Sit next to me.

  She accepted with reluctance, edging her chair aside to create space between them. I don’t want to give my family ideas.

  Beneath the table, he caught her chair leg with his boot, dragging her close. Let them have their ideas.

  Her heart fluttered in her chest. They hadn’t shared a single word in the entire exchange. Not even so much as a glance. Yet as Louisa poured herself a cup of tea, he casually pushed the sugar in her direction, as though he’d been doing so every morning for years and years.

  “Tell me, Mr. James,” Mama said. “Have you been long in London?”

  “No, I only came to Town a fortnight ago. I hope to return to Yorkshire as soon as possible.”

  “So soon?”

  “Once my business is concluded. I’ve a few propert—”

  “Bread?” Louisa shoved a plate heaped with rolls at him.

  He stared at the plate with bemusement. “Thank you.”

  “Oh!” Kat hopped up from her chair. “If you’re hungry, you must try the shortbread. It’s divine.”

  Louisa choked on her dread. “Kat, no.”

  “Don’t you like shortbread, Mr. James?” Kat put on her best doe-eyed, guileless look. She could be angelic and charming when she wished to be.

  “I do like shortbread,” he answered.

  “I made it myself.” Kat beamed.

  “Then I wouldn’t dare decline.” He took a square of burned shortbread from the plate.

  Louisa ducked her head and put a hand to her brow. She didn’t want to watch.

  But she couldn’t help watching anyway. Within the hour, this pleasant scene would crumble into tragedy, one way or another. If he choked on a bit of shortbread, it might be the least painful ending possible.

  When James bit into the dreadful biscuit, his jaw froze. She could see the war going on inside him. His manners wouldn’t allow him to spit it out, but his mouth refused to chew.

  The conflict, however, was resolved before anyone else could notice.

  He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and then gave Kat a slight smile. “Delicious.”

  Oh Lord. Perhaps that Scottish sorcery worked after all. Maybe the shortbread truly did make a person irresistible to the opposite sex.

  Because when James swallowed that dreadful shortbread and smiled—that was the moment Louisa fell in love with him.

  Her father burst in, hair and clothing askew. “Louisa.”

  She rushed to him, stopping just short. “Papa, I’m so sorry. There was a mishap . . . then no cabs . . . and I’d no idea how much time had passed—” She slapped her palms to her gown. “It’s only wine.”

  “The explanations can wait, my dear. Let me look you over first. Are you here, and well, and safe?”

  She nodded.

  “Then that’s all that matters.”

  She flung her arms around his neck. Other fathers might have scolded, but Papa n
ever would.

  However, he wasn’t above a stern question or two. “Now. Where have you been?”

  James stepped to her side. “She was with me.”

  “And you are?”

  “He’s Mr. James,” Kat said.

  “It’s just James, actually.” He cleared his throat. “James Standish, Duke of Thorndale.”

  The kitchen went silent. And Louisa felt everything slipping away.

  “Oh, Louisa!” Kat flew across the room and hugged Louisa around the waist. “You’ve done it. You’ve convinced him not to take our house!”

  “The house?” James looked baffled.

  “Kat, hush.”

  Sadly, telling Kat to be quiet was like telling water to be dry.

  Her little sister twirled in circles. “Isn’t it wonderful? We won’t have to move to Jersey after all. He’ll let us stay, and Louisa didn’t even have to murder him.”

  William stood on his chair, jumped on Harold’s back, and the two of them galloped like horse and rider about the kitchen, whooping and cheering. Maggie caught a toppled teacup just before it met with the floor.

  Amid all the din, James looked at Louisa. “What did she say?”

  “Oh, that’s Kat. Never mind her.”

  “She said that I’ve changed my mind. That you can stay.” He looked around the kitchen. “Do I . . . Do I own this house?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. There was nothing left but to tell the truth. “Or you will own it, in a few weeks. Papa was in the old duke’s debt. You called it in, and he has no way to pay, and so . . .”

  “Jersey.”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded slowly. “I see.”

  The look in his eyes made her heart wrench. When he learned the truth, Louisa had expected he would be furious. But what she saw in his gaze was so much worse.

  He was hurt.

  “And so this was your aim,” he said quietly. “Manipulation. Getting what you want from me. Or, alternatively, murdering me. I suppose that explains the shortbread.” He stood, reached for his tailcoat, and pushed his arms through the sleeves. “I believe I must be going.”

  “James, wait. I know how it must look, but—”

  But he was already out the door.

  Drat. Louisa gathered her wrap from a peg by the door, threw it about her shoulders, and shoved her feet into Maggie’s boots. She caught up to him a few houses down.

  She clung to his coat sleeve, panting for breath. “Please, at least let me explain.”

  Anger and hurt mingled in his gaze. “And here I thought you were the first genuine person I’d met in London. How stupid I was. It was all a ruse. Switching dances with Miss Carville. That ‘accident’ with the mulled wine. Your insistence on walking home, traipsing all about London to while the night away. The park.”

  Louisa bristled. “Don’t you dare imply that what we shared in the park wasn’t real.”

  They squared off, staring at each other and huffing small thunderclouds of vapor.

  She closed her eyes and searched herself for a measure of calm. “Here is the truth. I hoped to catch a wealthy suitor last night. One who might pay Papa’s debts. It seemed the only way of saving our house. But I never had any thought of ensnaring you. I didn’t even know you would be at the ball.”

  “I find that difficult to believe. You’re friends with Miss Carville. It was her family’s ball. I’m her cousin.”

  She jerked with surprise. “You’re Fiona’s cousin?”

  “Third cousin, twice removed. Or second cousin, thrice removed. I can never remember which, but it doesn’t matter. The point is, you knew I’d be there. So you set your cunning little trap.”

  Louisa threw up her hands. “I declined a second dance with you! When you insisted on seeing me home, I tried to refuse!”

  “And then you led me on an hours-long walk through Mayfair. That is hardly the behavior of a woman eager to be rid of her companion.”

  “I know. But that came later. After you insisted on taking me home and speaking to Papa. I thought that if we spent a little time together first, perhaps you’d understand that I feel the same love for London as you feel for Yorkshire. That one’s home is one’s home. Maybe you could be persuaded to reconsider calling in the debt. But then you turned out to be so likable and decent, and to have such good reasons for needing the money. And . . . and somewhere along the way, I realized home wasn’t about this house, or this street, or this city—but about being with the people I love, and who love me.”

  He shook his head, ignoring her rambling confessions. “I nearly fell for it, too. God, what an idiot. I was ready to marry you.”

  Louisa’s eyebrows soared with disbelief. “What?”

  “We were out together all night, alone. I felt obliged to protect your honor. You must think me a fool.”

  “Not at all, I . . . I think you rather wonderful.”

  “Spare me the flattery.”

  “It’s not flattery. None of it was flattery. I swear, I had no expectations of a proposal. I wouldn’t even want you to offer for me. Not because I don’t like you. But because I like you a great deal, and it would be much too soon, and . . .” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “This is coming out all wrong. Come back inside and have a cup of tea, and I’ll explain it properly.”

  “I understand well enough, thank you.”

  “James—”

  “Don’t call me that. That degree of familiarity is reserved for friends.”

  She recoiled, stung.

  He made a curt bow. “Farewell, Miss Ward. I wish you and your family all due happiness on the Isle of Jersey.”

  So. That was that.

  Tears pricked at her eyes as she watched him leave. She followed his shrinking silhouette as he walked down the lane in brisk, furious paces—and then turned the wrong way at the corner.

  “Left,” she called out. “You want to make a left turning.”

  He stopped, made a resentful about-face, and stalked left.

  But he didn’t once look back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Lady Carville.” James bowed deeply as he entered the drawing room of the Carvilles’ residence later that day. “Forgive me for coming by unannounced.”

  Lady Carville paled. “Oh dear. Don’t tell me word is about already.”

  Puzzled by this greeting, he stood in place. “I have no word of anything. I expect to be leaving London soon, so I came to make my farewells. And to ask after Miss Fiona’s health, if I may.”

  “Oh no,” she moaned, pressing a handkerchief to her mouth. “I suppose it was the Waterfords who told you. I knew they couldn’t be trusted.”

  Trusted with what? The knowledge that Fiona went upstairs with a headache? Londoners loved their gossip, but surely a headache, whether real or feigned, wouldn’t merit notice.

  “I didn’t hear about her illness from the Waterfords. Miss Ward informed me.” As he spoke her name, his heart clenched like a fist.

  “Louisa Ward?” Lady Carville shifted in her seat like an agitated hen ruffling its wings. “Do not mention her name. I am excessively put out with that girl.”

  “You, as well?” James muttered.

  “That dreadful, dreadful girl. She ought to have told me.” Lady Carville blew her nose into a flowered handkerchief. “Fiona is my only daughter, and now it’s too late.”

  Too late? Even if the headache was real, surely it wasn’t that dire.

  He pulled a chair close and sat down. “Tell me what’s happened, precisely. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing to be done. Carville wanted to go after them, naturally, but I put a stop to that. They’ll be halfway to Scotland by now. He could never catch them in time.”

  “Halfway to Scotland. You can’t mean she’s eloped?”

  “You may as well know the truth. You are family, after all, and there won’t be any hiding it soon.”

  James was stunned. “I was told she left the ball with a headache. I
called to inquire after her health.”

  “Lies.” Lady Carville’s breath caught on a sob. “All lies, put about by that scheming Miss Ward.” She drew a crumpled paper from the depths of her bosom and passed it to him.

  He reluctantly accepted the thing, plucking it from her hand with a single finger and thumb. Laying the unpleasantly damp sheet of paper on his thigh, he managed to smooth the creases sufficiently to read its contents.

  Dear Mama,

  By the time you read this, I will be on the mail coach to Scotland with Ralph Bettany. We are in love and have been for years. I cannot be happy without him, and I can only hope that in time you will understand. Do not be concerned, and don’t let Papa make a useless journey in pursuit. The elopement is my decision, and I’ve gone willingly, with all my heart. You can ask Louisa if you doubt it—but don’t be severe with her, please. She is such a dear friend.

  Your loving daughter,

  Fiona

  James set aside the letter. “Good God. This Bettany fellow must be the worst sort of bounder.”

  “No, no. He’s the son of Carville’s land agent. He was brought up well. The Bettanys are a good Christian family.”

  “Is he after her dowry, then? Perhaps he’s in financial difficulty.”

  “If that were the case, he knows Carville would help.” She sniffed. “It’s not greed—it’s foolishness. The two were childhood friends. It was only natural that Ralph would be taken with her, but we thought Fiona would be more reasonable than this. She could have done so much better.”

  James wondered about that. Could she have done better, really? Or had she done what was best for herself? If this Ralph Bettany was a decent, honest man who loved her, Fiona certainly could have done worse. Naturally, her parents’ shock would be keen. For a baron’s daughter to marry the steward’s son was a bit of a scandal. But in time, James suspected the Carvilles would come to accept the match.

  At the moment, however, Lady Carville was a sobbing shambles. She jammed the letter back into her bosom and twisted her handkerchief in her lap. “Oh, that Louisa Ward. I will be as severe with her as I wish. This is all her fault.”

  “How is Miss Ward to blame?”

  “Why, she aided their escape! Fiona must have slipped away early in the evening. But no one noticed. Carville went to the card room, as always, and I conversed with the guests. And that dreadful Louisa Ward put about some tale of a headache and took Fiona’s dances so that no one would inquire. The impertinent girl. Her parents always were too indulgent.” She fluttered her hand on her breast. “Oh! Merely speaking of it sends me toward apoplexy.”