Home for the Holidays (16 page)

Yet he had to try. The fear washing over him that he had lost her was more than he could bear.

He said, “There is a letter that will at least explain my actions—”

“I don’t doubt you had good reasons for doing what
you
did,”
she cut in. “Does that excuse harming the innocent to gain your goal?”

“No,” he was forced to reply. “No, the goal became merely an excuse, once I met you.”

She blushed. He knew she understood he was saying her seduction had been personal, had nothing really to do with the revenge. But as he’d known, it made no difference. Nor was he allowed to explain further. Her father had recovered by then from his shock in hearing that his daughter had been compromised. He was quite straightforward in his reaction. No demand for marriage, just a very furious fist that caught Vincent by surprise. The Ascots were gone by the time he regained his senses.

“S
HE DIDN’T TAKE HER
C
HRISTMAS ORNAMENTS WITH HER
when she left? I wonder why, when they hold such great sentimental value for her.”

Vincent didn’t answer Jonathan Hale or acknowledge his presence. He didn’t want the company, but hadn’t thought to tell his butler that he wasn’t receiving visitors today. He’d been sitting there in his parlor, alone, staring at Larissa’s Christmas tree and recalling that day it was decorated, the enjoyment he’d had, the laughter …

He’d felt a part of something that day, rather than the outsider always looking in, as was usually the case for him.
That was Larissa’s doing. She shared with everyone, excluded no one. She’d made even his servants feel that her tree was their tree, got Jonathan involved in its decoration just because he happened to be there. For her it was an event that began the sharing of the season.

He didn’t answer Jonathan, because he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get any words out without their sounding as choked as he felt. But the viscount either didn’t notice his preoccupation or chose to overlook it.

Jonathan knew Larissa was gone, that her father had taken her away, and that their whereabouts were presently unknown. He wasn’t happy about that, and Vincent was surprised he hadn’t asked, “Have you found her yet?” which was his usual first inquiry when he stopped by each day now, and had been for the last week. The painting, his reason for coming there, was rarely mentioned anymore. It had become quite secondary in importance to his pursuit of Larissa.

“Some of them had been made by her mother, you know,” Jonathan continued. “A few were even made by her grandparents, and one, that she prized the most, a great-grandfather had whittled. Seems to be somewhat of a tradition in her family, the making of Christmas ornaments. Found that rather quaint myself. Even contemplated making an ornament and giving it to her as a Christmas present, but gave up that idea quick enough. Just ain’t talented in that way.”

Vincent sighed and finally glanced at his visitor. “There is no news to report,” he said, hoping that would send Jonathan on his way.

“Didn’t think there would be. I’m just in the habit of coming by daily now. Didn’t think you’d mind, and I’ve decided to take it upon myself to cheer you up.”

“I don’t need cheering.”

“Course you don’t,” Jonathan said dryly. “You aren’t the least bit sick to your guts with missing her. It’s too bad you didn’t realize sooner that you’d been lying to yourself all along about her.”

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a man to jump to false conclusions, Jon.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Still lying to yourself, or just to me?”

“Go home,” Vincent mumbled.

“And let you wallow in all this misery by yourself?” Jonathan said as he dropped down on the sofa beside Vincent. “Now, here I thought the old adage was that misery loves company. I know I ain’t enjoying wallowing in mine alone.”

“You know bloody well that Larissa would only have been another acquisition for you. You didn’t form any deep attachment to her.”

“True, which is why my misery is quite mild compared to yours.”

“I’m
not
miserable.”

Jonathan snorted over that denial. “You’re so deep in the doldrums you can no longer see daylight. ‘Fess up, man, you were an utter fool not to get the gel engaged to you while you had the chance.”

“You don’t understand what was going on here,” Vincent gritted out.

Jonathan raised a brow. “Apparently not,” he allowed, but added, “Did you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you realize that she was in love with you? I saw it, though I tried my damnedest to ignore it, of course. Didn’t fit with my plans, after all, for her to get so attached elsewhere that my millions wouldn’t tempt her. True love just don’t come with a price tag, unfortunately.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“Why not? Or don’t you plan to do things right, if given a second chance?”

A second chance? Vincent hadn’t thought that far ahead. He
was
making an effort to find Larissa. He
did
plan to lay the truth at her feet, all of it. But he wasn’t very hopeful that it would do any good, other than to clear his conscience. And after nearly a week had gone by, he wasn’t very hopeful that he’d ever see her again.

He didn’t expect her to personally come back to collect
what she’d left behind, but he had counted on at least someone, even if only a servant, showing up to do so. But she hadn’t sent anyone by to claim her jewels from him. She still didn’t even know where those furnishings of hers had been stored. Demanding one or the other would have given him someone to have followed to lead to her, but no one had come.

Hotels and inns had been searched. He had people scouring the whole town and watching Ascot’s office around the clock. The ship George had returned in was still in the harbor waiting for permission to dock, so at least he was still in the country. But there was simply no clue as to where he had taken his family off to.

Jonathan apparently got tired of waiting for an answer to his last question. With a sigh he said, “I have a confession to make.”

Vincent winced mentally. “Don’t. I’m not in the mood for confessions.”

“Too bad,” Jonathan grumbled. “Because this one is coming whether you listen or not. I came to you to find
La Nymph
for me, not just because I desire to own that painting. There are countless others I could have hired to find the painting, and for much less cost to me. I came to you in particular because I like you, Vincent, I like your style, like the fact that you’ve never tried to ingratiate yourself with me to get something out of me, as is the case with
most people I know. I have no friends, you know, no real friends, that is.”

“Nonsense, you don’t go anywhere that people don’t flock to your side—”

“Leeches, the lot of them,” Jonathan cut in, disgust in his tone. “They don’t care about me or what I’m feeling, they only care about how they can manage to get some of my money into their pockets. And that’s always been the case, even when I was a child. I was born rich, after all.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Vincent asked uncomfortably.

Jonathan’s cheeks bloomed with a bit of color, but he still admitted, “Because I had great hopes that you would become the close friend I’ve never had. And since nothing else has worked to accomplish that thus far, I’m falling back on the old premise that confidences are a sound basis for developing lasting friendships. And besides, you don’t seem to have any close friends yourself. Do you?”

Vincent saw no reason to deny it. “No.”

“Well then—”

“You haven’t gathered yet that I am rather reclusive?” Vincent pointed out.

“Course I have, which is one of the things I like about you. And just because I flit about here and there doesn’t mean I enjoy doing so, just that I’m so bloody lonely, I
crave companionship of any sort, even from sycophants, if that’s all that’s available.”

Vincent was beginning to get embarrassed over these “confidences,” not so much because Jonathan felt a sudden need to pour out his guts, but because his confession was sounding much too familiar. He hadn’t realized they had quite so much in common, neither of them willing to trust anyone enough to get close to them, neither of them willing to risk being hurt if anyone did.

“Are you feeling sorry for me yet?” Jonathan asked hopefully.

“No.”

“Bloody hell…”

“But you’re welcome to stay for dinner.”

The viscount laughed.

I
RONICALLY,
L
ARISSA WAS SITTING IN FRONT OF A
C
HRISTMAS
tree at the same time that Vincent was. She was also alone, also recalling the decoration of that other tree. This one wasn’t hers and hadn’t been preserved well, was mostly brown now, with pitifully broken branches and a pile of fallen needles beneath it that the servants couldn’t manage to keep up with. It belonged to the Applebees, good friends of her father’s who still lived in Portsmouth. He had taken her and Thomas straightaway there after they’d left Vincent’s town house.

Despite Larissa’s state of shock when they arrived
there, it wasn’t lost on her that she hadn’t once considered the Applebees as an option when she had agonized over where to take her brother when they lost their home. She would have thought of them eventually, because they really were very old friends of her father’s, and she
had
thought of them after she was already moved into Vincent’s house, as well as her many childhood friends in Portsmouth, any one of whom would have opened his or her door to her. But by then she had conveniently ignored their existence for the simple fact that she had
wanted
to stay in the baron’s home.

Of course, Thomas’s illness had been the deciding factor; at least she had convinced herself of that at the time. It was better for him not to make that long trip to Portsmouth while he still had that lingering fever. But they could have managed it, could have sealed up a coach against drafts and got him there as quickly as possible if it had been necessary. Vincent’s offered hospitality had made it unnecessary. And Larissa’s desire to get to know Vincent better had kept her from considering those other options, even if she hadn’t owned up to that at the time.

They had been staying with the Applebees now for nearly a week. It had taken that long for the shock to wear off completely for Larissa. The knowledge that she had been used in a plot for revenge had utterly crushed her. Everything she had supposed about Vincent Everett had
been wrong. She had fallen in love with someone who wasn’t real, who was a complete fake.

Her father had wanted to comfort her, but after her first outburst of tears when he tried, he had decided the best way to help her get over her heartache was to not discuss it at all, which meant not discussing Vincent. She was grateful for that. She really couldn’t bear to talk about him yet, when just thinking about him could start the tears flooding again. But she had been in such a state of despair that she hadn’t done much communicating with her father at all yet.

She still didn’t even know what had kept him from returning to London for so long. If he had mentioned it, and she supposed he probably had, she hadn’t been listening. When she was around, a lot of whispering tended to go on. The Applebees were kind, but if they had been told why she was mired in such misery, they no doubt pitied her.

They were a large family. William and Ethel’s four children had married and had young families of their own, and all came to visit their parents at this special time of the year. The house was full. It was a large house, though, so there had been plenty room for the Ascots, and Thomas had many youngsters to keep him quite occupied. A blessing that, because if her father might be kindly avoiding the subject of her unhappiness, her brother certainly wouldn’t
have if he could have found her alone. Fortunately, with so many people in the house, it was rare to find anyone alone—until today. The Applebees’ four married children had all left to go back to their respective homes that morning.

Because of that mass exodus, Larissa had had the parlor to herself for several hours now. No more pitying whispers. No more attempts to cheer her when she couldn’t be cheered. But no more relief either, with the numbness of her shock finally fading. And much too much introspection now and mental browbeating—and anger.