Gods bones. Even now… he was hard as stone over the memory… and what was worse, he knew she was plagued by those memories as well, and the blush in her cheeks… it made him yearn to give her another reason to burn.
Damn it, Claire.
The sound of music reverberated from within, and he tossed down his cheroot, stamping it out, realizing he couldn’t hide forever. It was bloody cold, and already, the snow was growing thick enough to cover the stone path. Blast and damn! It was going to be a long, long week, and if they ended up being housebound, he was going to go mad.
CHAPTER 6
Rule No. 6:
On Obligation.
Whatever you do, do NOT run away if you are asked for a kiss. Although you may, indeed, take strategic action to avoid it, once caught beneath a sprig, and a kiss has been requested, you simply must comply, or you will risk never receiving a marriage proposal for the duration of the year—worse yet, you might risk the fate of becoming a spinster! Remember, ladies: Every Season counts!
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,
On a cold winter’s night that was so deep…
It was true: Alexandra might still be impaired by the spirits she’d drunk, though it didn’t help matters very much that it had been so long since she’d practiced her piano—really, what was the point in practicing when there was no one about to entertain?
And regardless, no one seemed fazed by her blundering, and the more joyous everyone sang, the testier she became.
This was all Ben’s fault.
How dare he speak to her so rudely!
How dare he make her feel as though she were the one to blame for all his ills!
He was the one who’d courted ruin. Ben did—not her! He was the one who’d put himself at her father’s disposal.
Blast and damn. Alexandra didn’t feel like singing nor making merry, not even when Mr. Cameron and the brothers joined the chorus, belting out the words with voices that were perfectly in harmony. Their joy should have been infectious, but Alexandra felt only like shouting, bah, humbug!
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell
Born is the King of Israel!
Her emotions simmering just beneath the surface, she tapped out the keys, when, really, what she longed to do was give in to a rare fit of temper and pound angrily upon the keyboard. Bloody damnation! Ben had done this to her. He had made her feel like an undesirable—once again! Precisely the way she’d felt that night when Prince Merrick discarded her so rudely at her mother’s side. The disgrace of it all nearly choked away her breath and it didn’t help matters at all that she was still jug-bitten besides.
Together, they all sang…
…drawing nigh to the northwest,
O'er Bethlehem town took its rest;
But in Alexandra’s livid mind, she heard:
…drawing that nasty cheroot with his fingers.
Why, oh, why did I linger…
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell
Born is the King of Israel!
“Huzzah!” said Chloe.
“Beautiful,” said Claire.
And then the entire lot clapped generously despite all the many ways Alexandra’s piano playing must have sorely offended their ears.
One man clapped louder than the rest: Ben.
Rosy-cheeked from the weather, he’d come in from the garden, and was now standing beneath the arched entry, beneath a miserable sprig of mistletoe. Eyeing Alexandra very purposefully, he reached up, popped a drupe from the sprig, inspected it with disgust, then lifted a brow and tossed it away.
In that instant something mad came over Alexandra. Everyone faded from the room, and there was only her and Ben—miserable rotten cad that he was—and she longed so desperately to tell him exactly how she felt.
She hardly knew what possessed her, but whatever it was, it was a long, long time coming—every time she’d said yes when she’d rather say no, every smile she ever gave when she preferred to weep, every heartbreak she ever knew came rushing to the moment.
“I know a song!” she said sweetly. “An oldie but goodie—Welsh, I believe. Taught to me by my mother. Nos Galan. Here it is…” And before she could stop herself, she tapped out the keys, playing the pianoforte as loudly as you please, and then, tipsy though she was, she began to sing…
Cold is the man who cannot love
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
“I don’t believe I know that one,” said the entirely too delightful Lady Morrissey.
“Oh, Lexie,” said Claire, perhaps recognizing the New Year’s carol from their youth, warning of bills that followed the holidays and spending more than what was earned—a cautionary tale for wastrels, a jab from her mother to her father. And what better manner of delivery than to employ one’s own daughter to deliver it! Alexandra ignored everyone, desperate to sing the next verse.
Chilling are the bills
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Alexandra peered directly at Ben as she sang one final verse, not caring that she sang completely out of tune and her fingers were missing the keys.
Never spend more than you earn,
Fa. La. La. La. La! La. La! La! La!
She ended the song on a discordant note, realizing only belatedly how much sentiment she’d put into the last fa, la, las.
“My goodness. That certainly isn’t very cheerful,” said Lady Morrissey. “Someone should rewrite those atrocious lyrics.”
Surprised by her outburst, even Ben looked appalled. His brow furrowed, and he looked at her as though she were a viper that had slid out from beneath the settee and she suddenly felt like one too.
It was all too much!
Alexandra was suddenly ashamed.
“I… I… am sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.” She put a hand to her belly, and said, “I… I don’t feel very well.” And without another word, she rose up, pushing away from the pianoforte, nearly tripping over the bench in her hasty escape.
In all her life she had never dared succumb to such vociferousness, and in doing so now, she didn’t feel any better. To the contrary, she felt far worse than before, and so much as she’d tried to stay strong, she needed desperately to cry.
“There, there,” said Claire, patting Alexandra on the back.
How many times had they comforted each other just so? Ofttimes, it was Alexandra comforting Claire through some bit of outrage, most notably over the world’s many injustices. Claire was precisely the sort to hand out pamphlets in the park or scold a man for shouting at his wife. And really, Lexie had understood that inclination only too well, so she’d often told Claire all the same things she told herself in order to tamp down her own sense of outrage: Not everything in life was fair—this wasn’t: the simple fact that her father had effectively destroyed her two most cherished relationships, not to mention her relationship with her mother as well.