The older woman’s smile deepened as she hurried forward. “Isn’t my Patrina just splendid?” She glared over his shoulder at the loud snort emitted by Penelope.
Weston held Patrina’s stare. “Yes. She is just splendid,” he said quietly.
Her throat bobbed up and down.
“I insist you and your children join my family for Christmas.”
“Oh, Mother. No, the marquess doesn’t want to do that,” Patrina implored.
His mother and father had died when he’d been just a boy away at Eton; but for a handful of childhood memories of he and his parents during the Christmastide season, there were very few times he could recall of a festive, happy holiday. As a husband and then father, too many years he’d spent with a smile pasted upon his face for the benefit of his children, stirring the Yule log and partaking in mince pie while Charlotte and Daniel’s mother remained in London with her lover. He folded his arms across his chest. “Of course I do.”
“I imagine his family has already…” Patrina paused, angling her head. The lone strand of hair fell over her eye. “You do?” She blew it back.
The countess clapped her hands. “It is settled, then!”
It was settled.
There was no place he’d rather be than with Patrina.
CHAPTER 14
The noisy chatter of the Tidemore sisters filled the cavernous space of the parlor. They sat snipping bright clips of paper and pieces of evergreen.
“I have heard the Viscountess Redbrooke has a yew tree in her house,” Penelope said loudly, speaking of the young American woman recently wed to the Viscount Redbrooke, a friend of their brother. “Can you imagine a tree in one’s house?”
“I should dearly love a tree in my house,” Poppy said wistfully.
Penelope carried on with a wave of her hand. “She is an American, you know,” she said to no one in particular. “All very exotic. A custom brought to America by the Germans.” She wrinkled her nose. “That is what I’ve gathered from the papers.”
Patrina held up the paper flowers she’d snipped and studied her work a moment, ignoring her sisters’ prattling. A knock sounded at the door. She glanced over disinterestedly…and her heart kicked up a funny rhythm.
“The Marquess of Beaufort.”
The chatter died as her two sisters looked toward the doorway. The girls jumped up and hurried to stack their items. Their maid rushed forward to help tidy the mess.
Weston wandered over. He waved off their efforts. “Please, carry on as you were. I wouldn’t dare interrupt your pleasure.”
“We’re decorating for Christmas,” Poppy explained. Penelope stuck her elbow out. It connected with Poppy’s side. She winced. “Ow. Well, we were.” With a very mature flounce of her dark curls she looked to Weston. “Would you care to help, my lord?”
On a wave of embarrassment, Patrina spoke. “Oh Poppy, the marquess doesn’t…” her words trailed off as Weston slid into an empty seat and reached for a pair of scissors and a long red ribbon with gold trim. “What are you doing?” Patrina blurted.
He paused mid-snip and arched a golden brow. “I believed I was cutting ribbon for the…” He gestured to the array of items littering the table. “For the kissing bough, I presume?”
His mellifluous baritone washed over her as she recalled the taste of his lips, a blend of brandy and mint and she imagined she and Weston using that bough exactly as it was intended…
“Are you all right?” Poppy scratched at her brow.
“Fine.” Heat flared in her cheeks. She fanned her burning face. “We had it sent from Jonathan, my brother’s,” she clarified, “country seat in Surrey. Merely for the Christmas season.”
Poppy scratched her head. “Are you warm?”
“Of course not,” Patrina said. Her gaze skittered toward the window that overlooked the snowy scene outside.
“Then why are you fanning yourself?” Penelope shot back.
Patrina widened her eyes and stopped at the ghost of a grin upon Weston’s firm, knowing lips. She let her hand fall back to her side and smoothed her skirts. “I was merely…that is to say…it matters not.” She returned her focus to Weston. “I feel inclined to point out we’re not making a kissing bough, per se, but rather a mistletoe.”
Weston grinned; his even, pearl white teeth gleamed bright.
“A mistletoe that is not for kissing…” Hush, Patrina. Hush this instant.
Poppy snorted. “Well, isn’t that the point of the whole kissing bough, business?”
His smile deepened, revealing the hint of a dimple in his right cheek. Odd, she’d never noticed the faint indentation. It somehow made the hard, austere, handsome Lord Beaufort more…human. Human was good. She vastly preferred wedding someone who was human and not someone who was…well, far more beautiful than she ever could be.
Patrina cleared her throat, and striving for nonchalance, wandered over to claim the seat beside Weston. She picked up her forgotten scissors and the paper peonies.
“I have it!” Poppy exclaimed.
“What—?”
The youngest girl took Penelope by the arm and tugged her up. She proceeded to propel her toward the entrance of the room. “We shall search for my forgotten dolls.” She folded her hands at her waist and inclined her head much the way their mother had done when imparting her very countess-like lessons through the years. “I’m ever too old for dolls.”
“Undoubtedly,” he concurred with such somberness that Patrina suspected he’d learned the proper tone rearing two recalcitrant children.
“We shall include them in the arrangement. Come along, Mary,” she called to the maid. “You must help us.” The maid hesitated then hurried after the girls. Poppy stole a glance over her shoulder and winked. “We shall need the baby Jesus, his mother, Mary, and the shepherd…” The trio took their leave with determined steps.
“What of Joseph?” Penelope’s voice carried from the corridor. “I imagine he played a pivotal role in the Nat…”
Blessed silence reigned. The raging fire hissed and cracked. She’d known Weston but a handful of days and suspected any proper lady would feel a modicum of nervousness in being alone with him. Perhaps she was wicked and all things improper, for she craved the intimacy of this solitary, stolen moment.
“That was rather well-done of your sister.” He claimed her hand and raised it to his mouth. He placed his lips along the inner portion of her wrist.
She closed her eyes as shivers of awareness fanned out, her body responding to his gentle ministrations. “My m-mother would disagree,” she said. Her lashes fluttered.
“They are lively,” Weston murmured.
Those three words, an accurate testament to her sisters’ personalities pulled her back to the moment, reminding her that at one time she too had been like Poppy, Penelope, and Prudence. “They certainly are.” A wistful smile tugged at her lips. “I can hardly fathom I was ever so unrestrained.”
* * *
The hint of melancholy in Patrina’s tone gave Weston pause. His fingers tightened reflexively about his scissors as he carefully studied her. He tried to imagine her when she’d been Poppy and Penelope’s ages, with an unadulterated laugh and an unguarded smile. And he, who’d imagined his heart deadened, and had pledged to never turn himself over to the feckless emotion called love—was filled with a sudden desire to be more, for this woman—a woman who deserved more. He wanted to make her laugh once again, the carefree, unfettered sound pure and joyous.