“Dorothea, there you are!” Mother came into the Great Hall, smiling for once. “You must help put up holly and evergreens.”
This was almost like the time before Dorothea reached marriageable age, when Mother had planned the decorating and made the house beautiful, almost magical, for Christmas.
But now…Dorothea stifled a groan. Judging by the grin on Lord Wellough’s beefy countenance, there would be mistletoe. If she kissed one man under the odious bough, she would be obliged to kiss anyone who asked. “Thank you for showing me your sketches, Monsieur Dufair.” She cast about for help, but Cecil, bless him, was already beside her.
“I excel at decorating for Christmas.” Cecil moved her out of Lord Wellough’s eager reach. He lowered his voice. “And disposing of mistletoe.”
She grasped his arm like a shipwrecked sailor on a spar in a stormy sea. Perhaps, despite seeming oblivious, he’d been watching her all morning.
That was frequently his assignment, after all. She shouldn’t make too much of it.
Cecil escorted her to the drawing room, where piles of cuttings lay upon two side tables, along with an assortment of ribbons and wires. Lady Alice and the Contessa followed, and somehow, there was no mistletoe by the time the greenery was festooned around both the drawing room and the Great Hall.
“What, no mistletoe?” Lord Wellough cried.
“We’re short of it this year,” Restive lied. “It’s too high up in the oaks, and Lady Alice didn’t wish to risk the footmen’s necks for the sake of a few kisses.” Actually, there was plenty of accessible mistletoe in the orchard, but Restive had laughingly agreed to pretend there was none.
“Except this one tiny sprig, which I gathered myself,” Cecil said. He pulled Dorothea close, dangled it over their heads, and gave her a quick kiss. She blushed and laughed. He shoved the sprig of mistletoe into his pocket, dodging easily when Lord Wellough tried to grab it.
What a pity Mother then spoiled the fun with a gaze of fury. Dorothea felt a twinge of remorse—for she had also spoiled her mother’s enjoyment. Only a twinge, though; she shouldn’t be obliged to kiss anyone unless she chose to.
In the early afternoon, tea and substantial refreshments were served, for dinner would be only wassail and Christmas pie. The ladies retired to their bedchambers for a nap. Dorothea was pondering how to get a moment’s private talk with Cecil, when Mother stormed into the room.
“Dorothea, I know full well you kissed that—that nobody to annoy me. You must cease such folly at once. You cannot marry him, and well you know it.”
This was most likely true. Cecil showed no sign of anything more serious than a few kisses, and she’d been the one to start that.
Usually, it was men who made overtures and women who accepted or rejected them. Why shouldn’t it be the other way around? What was the worst that could happen?
For the first time, she felt a pang of sympathy for men who summoned their courage, only to suffer disappointment.
“I kissed him because I like him. He is charming and kind, and as I said before, we share many ideals.”
“Stuff and nonsense. He is a fortune hunter, and so is that Frenchman. They are beneath your notice. Henceforth, you will ignore them.”
“I can’t do that, Mother. It would be impolite, and it wouldn’t serve your purpose either. I have already said I won’t marry Lord Restive—who is enamored of the Contessa in any case.”
“His liaison with that foreign trollop means nothing,” Mother said. “However, if you feel obliged to encourage the company of those two nobodies, you must also encourage that of Lord Wellough. He’s a dear friend of your father and deserves especial respect.”
How typical of Mother to twist things her way. “Papa calls Lord Wellough a tedious old roué. I’m sorry, but I find him repugnant. I wish he would stop leering at me.”
She shut her ears to the tirade that followed, which had mostly to do with the shame she brought upon her long-suffering mother. She whiled away the time by contemplating kissing Cecil again.
The instant she was left to herself, she jumped up and ran to the door. She peeked out in time to see Mother’s door shut with a slam. Perfect…but where would she find Cecil? She hurried downstairs and peered into the empty drawing room, the billiards room, the library…
“Go in,” said a voice behind her. How did Cecil move so silently? He followed her into the library and shut the door.
“Oh, thank heavens.” She flung her arms around his neck. He pulled her against him and kissed her—briefly. As if his mind was elsewhere. As hers should be.
She didn’t care. “Kiss me again. And again.”
He laughed low and complied, and it occurred to her that their kisses were a kind of conversation. A nip here, a lick there, a tangling of tongues, and at times an invasion, a statement of…possession.
Previously, she had balked at the notion of belonging to a man. Now…she quite liked it, if the man were Cecil Hale. And if he in turn belonged to her.
At last he pulled away. “One might think you want to get caught with me.”
She rested her forehead on his chest. “I don’t seem to be able to help myself. Kissing you is such a joy.”
“It is indeed. Kissing you, that is.” He hugged her close, so warm, so strong.
“As long as it’s not my mother, I don’t care if we are caught. I don’t think anyone here would tattle on us, so it wouldn’t harm your reputation.”
“My reputation?”
“Yes, for you would either have to marry me or be shunned by society. You shouldn’t be obliged to make that sacrifice just because I want to kiss you.”
He kissed her hair. “My dear, marrying you would be an honor.”
She frowned up at him. “Don’t be absurd. You scarcely know me.”
“I’ve been watching you on and off for almost a year. I know a great deal about you, all of it impressive.” He took a deep breath, released her, and stepped back. “Kisses aside, I sense that you have information for me.”
She stifled a feeling of loss. Did he actually like the thought of marrying her? He’d said it would be an honor, but that was merely politeness. He enjoyed kissing her, but men were far less discriminating than women. Once again, she mustn’t make too much of it.
She sighed. “Yes, we must talk with Monsieur Dufair. He wants to tell me something about the medallion.” She explained about the drawing. “I don’t think he means any harm, but I prefer not to meet him alone.” She paused, then gave in to temptation. “Did you learn anything from the Contessa?”
“Not really. The only reason to suspect her is that she is here and so is the medallion. From Lady Alice, I learned that she and the Contessa have corresponded for years, that she has a standing invitation to visit here, and that she decided to come for Christmas several days ago—after Restive had won the medallion. If she was at the masquerade, I didn’t see her.”
They found Dufair in the breakfast parlor, sketching robins foraging in the kitchen garden. Cecil shut the door, and Dufair turned from the window with a polite smile.
“You wished to speak to me about the medallion,” Dorothea said.
Dufair frowned from her to Cecil, then nodded. “It is well that you brought Mr. Hale. I find myself on the horns of a dilemma, because you, as a female, might not understand the implications of what I am about to reveal.”