Brenda Hiatt (14 page)

He glanced at her, then away, his eyes shadowed. “If it pleases you, go. You need not ask my permission, you know.”

Holly bit her lip, hesitating, then sighed. “Thank you, my lord. Good morning, Grandmama.” With a quick curtsy, she left them.

After a moment, the dowager remarked to her grandson, “’Twill not hurt my feelings if you wish to go with them, you know. The accounts can wait.”

Hunt frowned, but then caught himself and smiled instead. He had not meant to speak so curtly to Holly, especially before his grandmother, but it had stung to see how eager she was to remove herself from his presence.

“No, I haven’t the patience to watch Reg at his dabbling, as you know very well. I would only make some disparaging remark and hurt his artistic feelings.”

The dowager nodded, though her eyes sparkled with comprehension. “Likely they will be back soon, anyway. The sky is remarkably dark for ten o’clock. I doubt the weather will hold much longer.”

Hunt agreed absently, glancing at the window. “But let us get back to the matter at hand.” He became suddenly brisk, ignoring the twinkle in his grandmother’s eyes. “You were going to tell me about the Bartons’ sheep, were you not?”

T
HE AIR WAS AS FRESH
as Holly could have asked for, but it was Reginald’s chatter more than the cold wind stinging her cheeks that she found soothing. As they walked, he expounded at length about various artists and styles, requiring nothing in the way of a response and leaving her free to marshal her thoughts.

Hunt had looked far less angry this morning. Perhaps it was merely his grandmother’s presence that held him in
check, but there had been something in his expression that gave her hope. And surely his refusal to implicate her over the letter was evidence that he still cared. She had to find a way to thank him for that.

A few flakes of snow drifted past as Reginald set up his easel, but he appeared not to notice. “This is the prospect I told you of,” he commented with a grandiose sweep of his arm. “I have painted it six times in as many weeks, in water and oil. Today I want to try charcoal. I saw an exhibition this autumn at the Academy that greatly inspired me.” He began to trace the contours of the landscape with quick sure strokes.

Holly watched with dawning respect as the panorama before them was duplicated in miniature in black and white. Really, Reginald had quite a gift. It was so easy to dismiss him, with his dandified dress and hyperbolic speech, that she had not before considered that he might truly be a talented artist.

But though he was now working in earnest, his whole attention apparently on the paper before him, Reginald continued to talk. “Grandmama told me last night that she feels better already with her family—her happy family—about her again.” The snow increased its pace, large flakes falling ever more thickly, but Reginald did not appear to notice. “I have found that happiness can be rather contagious, just as sorrow, or fear, can be.”

He spoke casually, almost absent-mindedly, but Holly darted a piercing look at his face. Not by the slightest sign did he betray that his words held any special meaning. “Yes, I can see how that might be,” she conceded quietly.

“Then you agree that we must surround Grandmama with as much happiness as possible. It is a strong tonic. Who knows but that with enough of it we may even prove the doctor’s prognosis wrong.”

“I pray that might be so.” Holly suspected even more strongly that Reginald was speaking of her situation with Hunt.

The snow was coming down harder now, but instead of pausing in his artwork, Reginald seemed to be experimenting with the different effects he could produce with his charcoal stick on the wet and dry areas of his drawing. Glancing down, Holly saw that her muff and cloak were nearly white. She stamped her feet to shake the accumulation from her boots, realizing that their time outdoors could not last much longer.

“How were our friends when you left London?” she asked as casually as she could manage. “I think often of the people I met there—Lady Castlereagh, Miss Simpson…” She could not quite bring herself to mention Teasdale by name.

“Oh, did you not know?” asked Reginald, still sketching busily. “I left a mere day after you did. I have been at Wickburn this month and more.”

“And you have not…corresponded with any of your particular friends? With Mr. Teasdale, for instance?” There! She had said it.

But Reginald shook his head. “Never been much of a letter writer, I’m afraid, and Teasdale’s no better. One reason we lost touch for so long. But why do you ask?”

A sudden clamour from the direction of the mansion saved her from answering. A carriage had drawn up and discharged its passengers before the main entrance and the high clear voices of children drifted up to them on the wintry air.

“Lady Anne and her family have arrived, I believe,” Holly said unnecessarily. Reginald had already lapsed back into his work, so she spoke softly, not wishing to startle the artist and risk ruining what looked to her inexperienced eye to be a remarkably good picture.

“Just as well.” Rather to her dismay, Reginald tore the paper roughly from the pad and folded it, with little regard for the artwork. “There is too much snow for the effect I wanted. I must try this again when it does not fall so thick. Come!”

He did not appear in least put out to have wasted three-quarters of an hour’s work and smiled as he offered her one arm, having tucked the easel and tablet under the other. Nor did he ask her again about her curiosity concerning Teasdale, for which she was grateful. Plainly, Reginald could give her no information, which left her again with the prospect of asking Hunt.

Their footing was slippery as they headed back, but not nearly so slippery, Holly thought, as the emotional path she had yet to tread. She only hoped she might manage to navigate that one as well as this.

H
UNT FOUND THE BUSTLE
attending the arrival of his sister and her family a welcome distraction. Despite his best intentions, he had been unable to focus on the estate business, and his grandmother had finally dismissed him with a wink that had only emphasized the gulf that still yawned between him and his wife.

In contrast, Lady Anne threw herself into his arms the moment she saw him.

“Oh, Hunt, my darling, I was never happier in my life than when I received word of your acquittal! I was frightened to death for you, I vow, for I have heard how these wartime trials are, with little regard for the evidence. Pray believe that were it not for the children I should have come to London myself to plead your case!”

He returned her embrace, trying to ignore the pain her words caused him. Holly had had no such excuse—and her pleading could have carried far more weight than Anne’s. “’Tis all over now, Annie, and I’m safe home again. I’ve nearly convinced myself ’twas no more than a hideous nightmare. The worst of it is that I missed the hunting season!”

She laughed at that, finally releasing him so that Sir Philip and the children could come forward to offer their congratulations on his release.

Five-year-old Alice’s eyes were very wide as she asked, “Did you meet many highwaymen in prison, Uncle Hunt?”

This drew a general chuckle, and Hunt assured her, along with six-year-old Michael and eight-year-old William, that he had not come into contact with any criminals whatsoever, as he had had a private room.

William, in particular, seemed quite disappointed at this news, but shook his uncle’s hand and said that he was happy he was free nonetheless. “For now you can show me how to hunt foxes, as you promised last Christmas you would when I was older.”

Hunt ruffled his nephew’s hair. “I meant a bit older than eight, Billy boy.” The lad’s face fell and he said quickly, “We could not hunt this year at any rate, with all this snow on the ground. But I can show you a capital hill for sledding.”

William grinned, and then within moments he and his younger siblings all began to beg to be allowed to sled before dinnertime that very day. Hunt and Anne were working out the details of the day’s outdoor activity schedule when Reginald and Holly came in to join the boisterous group.

Reginald was immediately pounced upon by his niece and nephews, for he had a reputation for concealing sweets in his pockets and was always a great favourite with them. Hunt scarcely noticed their defection, for his eyes were on his wife.

Holly’s eyes sparkled like emeralds and her cheeks and lips glowed from the cold, forcibly reminding him of the day he nicknamed her Holly Berry—their wedding day. Just now, her mouth looked so rosy and ripe for kissing that a shudder ran through him. Fortunately, she seemed to be finding the children as much of a distraction as he had, and did not immediately look in his direction.

“Why, you have grown half a foot since last Christmas, William, and so has Michael—what distinguished gentlemen you are both become. And Alice! Surely this beautiful young lady is never little Alice? Come give your Aunt Holly
a hug.” Without the least regard for dignity, Holly sat right down on the Aubusson carpet and pulled the little girl into her lap for an embrace.

Bemused, Hunt wondered why he had not noticed before how good Holly was with children. Of course, other than the few hectic days following their wedding, there had been little opportunity to observe her with any, he supposed. Somehow, though, the discovery did not surprise him.

The thought of Holly and children suddenly brought to mind the words he had spoken to her last night. His grandmother might not care greatly whether he and Holly produced an heir, but all at once he realized that he himself did. He very much wanted an heir—and from Holly. What a good mother she would be.

Unexpectedly, a lump formed in his throat, and Hunt hurriedly looked away—only to find the dowager regarding him with a most knowing expression in her twinkling blue eyes.

H
OLLY BURIED HER FACE
in Alice’s sweet-smelling brown hair as the little girl willingly gave her a hug, grateful for the excuse to keep her eyes averted from her husband’s. For just the barest moment she allowed herself the fantasy of pretending that this was her child, hers and Hunt’s. A sudden longing that she had never felt before sprang up within her—a void that clamoured to be filled.

“You look positively blooming, Holly!” exclaimed Lady Anne as Alice disengaged herself to join the boys at Reginald’s side. “Wintertime agrees with you, I must say—or perhaps it is Hunt’s release that has put you in such good looks!”

She accompanied her remark with a broad wink that reminded Holly of the dowager. Anne had her grandmother’s twinkling blue eyes, just as the duke and Hunt did, along with her brother’s golden brown hair. Though she was
not precisely a beauty, there was a vivacity about Lady Anne that gave her features a most attractive animation.

Holly returned her smile, though her sister-in-law’s words caused a twinge at her heart. “I have always loved the wintertime, it is true,” she admitted, “especially when it brings families together for Christmas.” She darted a shy glance at Hunt as she spoke and was startled to find his eyes on her. Before she could fathom his expression, he turned away.

“We’ve brought family and to spare along,” said Anne with a laugh. “Trust the children to make this Christmas a rollicking one, if not so gay as last year’s festivities. Is your family to join us from Derbyshire?”

“No, my mother preferred to remain at home,” replied Holly quickly, willing her colour not to change. For the first time, it occurred to her how odd it might look that they had not been invited.

Lady Anne continued, undaunted. “Is your brother not yet returned from Upper Canada, then? I should think your mother will find that event nearly as great a cause for rejoicing as we are finding this one.” She gazed fondly at her own brother. “Are you and he close?” she asked then, turning back to Holly.

For a wild moment, Holly thought Lady Anne meant she and Hunt. Luckily, before she could begin stammering a reply, the real meaning of the question filtered through to her. “Oh…yes. Noel and I are twins, you see.”

“Twins! I never knew that. How interesting. And with birthdays on Christmas Eve…ah, I see it now! Holly and Noel—how very clever of your parents, to be sure.”

Holly regarded Anne’s vivid face dubiously. She had always thought the compromise her parents had come to in their choice of names for them—one English, one French and both Christmassy—a bit trite. But Anne appeared sincere enough.

“Clever? I suppose so,” Holly managed to say, conscious of Hunt where he stood listening. “As twins, we spent
an inordinate amount of time together as children, especially during holidays. I must admit that I miss him more than ever at Christmas.”

“Yes, I would imagine so,” said Anne sympathetically. “But last I heard, much of the fighting there had moved south, so perhaps he is in no real danger now.”

Holly nodded, hoping that the sentiment might prove true. Indeed, the most recent news she had read of the war with France was far more encouraging than that from America. Even now, the papers said, peace negotiations were being discussed.

“I pray not,” she managed to say. “He was safe three months since, for he wrote to tell me so,” she began, then stopped, appalled at how close she had come to confiding in Lady Anne. “Ah, it looks as though everyone is moving into the drawing-room for hot punch, and I suspect the children would be glad of some chocolate or cider, would they not?” she asked, standing abruptly.

T
HE REMAINDER OF THAT DAY
was so filled with activity that Holly had no time to examine the disordered state of her emotions. With Christmas Day only a week away, the excitement of the children was contagious, and the adults entered into the preparations with enthusiasm. At Wickburn, Holly found, the decorating was by no means left to the servants, and she was glad of it.

Still, Christmases past occasionally intruded as she helped the dowager and Lady Anne to sort through the red velvet ribbons. Together, she and Anne placed candles throughout the mansion and showed the children how to tie holly and ivy onto wreaths. Instead of making her melancholy, the sense of ongoing tradition, unchanged through the years, gave Holly a comforting sense of being a part of that continuity. Her own problems seemed less overwhelming when set against that backdrop.

As she prepared for bed that night, Holly wondered when, or if, Hunt would come to her room to perform the “duty” he had spoken of the night before. She knew he had chosen his words deliberately to hurt her, but still she found herself hoping that he would fulfil them. Through the act of joining, surely she could make him understand that she loved him, that he could trust her.

Just then, she heard his footstep in the hall. Without giving herself time to think, she went swiftly to the door and opened it.

“My lord? Might…might I have a word with you?”

Hunt halted, his hand already on the handle of his own door. The guarded look was back, but she thought she detected a softening around his mouth as he took in her appearance. Suddenly realizing how she must look in her diaphanous wrapper, her hair already unbound, Holly fought down a belated surge of embarrassment.

“I, ah…that is, Duchess Aileen told me something of what you went through in London. I wished to thank you for what you did,” she said in a rush.

A spasm seemed to cross his face, but then his expression hardened, the shutters back in place. “I followed the only course open to me. To have done otherwise would have further damaged the family name.”

Though his voice was cold, his eyes seared her with his pain—pain that she had caused him. She suddenly realized that her thanks must have sounded to him like a confession of guilt. He turned back towards his room but she spoke again, desperately.

“I have not yet had an opportunity to ask after our acquaintances in London,” she said, striving for a casual a tone. “Have they all left Town by now?”

He frowned, not surprisingly. How inane she must have sounded! “I would expect most of them have, yes,” he replied.

“To include Reginald’s friend, Mr. Teasdale?” No matter how the question sounded to him, she had to know. Once Teasdale was gone she could safely tell him everything.

Hunt’s frown deepened, making her wonder nervously whether Reginald had mentioned her earlier questions to him. “Teasdale? I did not know you were particularly acquainted with him.”

“Oh, Reginald introduced us at one of my first diplomatic evenings and we struck up quite a friendship,” she improvised. “He said something about leaving for the country I believe…” She trailed off as inspiration left her.

“Teasdale has left the Foreign Office,” said Hunt, his features even more rigid than before. “The story he gave out was that his father needed him at the family estate. I saw no reason to doubt it at the time, but I believe I understand now why he might have found his position there…awkward. Thank you for enlightening me, madam.”

Holly gaped at him. “What? You think that Teasdale and I—? Oh! ’Tis too absurd!” Outraged and shocked though she was, she almost laughed.

“Absurd? Is it also absurd that I should expect an explanation for that damned letter, the one that sent me to prison? If it was not from Teasdale, who was it from?”

Her brief spurt of amusement evaporated. If she told him it was from Noel, he would want the particulars. Could she be certain that Teasdale had not planted information somewhere that would imply Noel was working for the French? Once she might have trusted Hunt’s affection for her to protect Noel in such a circumstance—but now?

She hesitated too long. Before she could decide how much to tell him, Hunt made her a stiff half bow and disappeared into his chamber. Impulsively, Holly started to follow him but stopped at the sound of the bell signalling his valet.

Quickly, she retreated into her room before his man came, cursing herself for the way she had bungled the interview. Still, she could not completely despair. Hunt’s very jealousy
showed that he yet cared for her, at least a little. In spite of her failure to clear the air between them, she slept better than she had expected.

T
HE NEXT DAY
was Sunday, which meant time out from the bustle and more opportunity for thought, but Holly tried hard to cling to the holiday spirit. The dowager, she noticed, had brightened visibly with the arrival of Lady Anne and her children, giving her a distinct illusion of health. She was determined to do all in her power to keep the old woman’s spirits up. As Reginald had said yesterday, happiness was a stronger tonic than any the doctor might prescribe.

Standing beside her husband in the same chapel where they had been married, joining their voices with those of family and villagers to sing “Joy to the World,” she found it surprisingly easy to pretend that all was well between them. Perhaps, she thought, just perhaps, if she and Hunt played their parts well enough to convince the dowager that they were in love, they might begin to persuade themselves, as well.

As the song ended, she dared a glance up at Hunt, standing so close beside her that his cloak brushed her shoulder. He slanted a look back at her with what might have been a ghost of a wink. Even though she had probably imagined it, Holly felt a delicious warmth spreading through her in response.

That warmth lasted through the rest of the day, despite the fact that after the service Hunt spoke no more to her than civility demanded.

“If the weather holds fair, ’twill be a cold night,” remarked the dowager at dinner. The addition of Lady Anne and Sir Philip to the party made for less empty space at the table. “Little William was asking me this afternoon about the prospects for skating.”

“Perhaps we might flood the low pasture behind the orchard as we did when we were children,” suggested Hunt.
“I doubt Annie will want him to try the pond, even if it freezes to the centre.”

His sister shuddered. “I should say not! I’ll never forget the time I fell through that ice as a child. Do you skate, Holly?”