Chapter 11

“H ot chocolate for everyone!” the dowager duchess cried as she began passing around beautifully painted porcelain cups filled to the brim with rich, dark liquid.

The dowager duchess thrust a cup at Gordon.

“Oh no, thank you,” he said.

“You don’t want one?” the dowager asked, quite surprised and with a rather remarkable amount of what seemed to be heartbreak in her still-stunning eyes.

He wondered if her eyes were full of honest emotion or if she was acting. But at that particular moment, Lord Zephyr entered the room and boomed, “Mama, hot chocolate? How perfect.”

She nodded, pleased, her elaborate coiffure bouncing. “Ah. I think Gordon here thinks it’s just for the ladies.”

Lord Zephyr let out a full laugh. “For the ladies? Well then, find me a gown and let me giggle because I could never turn the stuff down.”

“I’ve never giggled a day in my life,” his mother returned.

Zephyr winked, kissed his mother on the cheek, then took his hot chocolate and drank with aplomb before letting out a groan of sheer delight.

Gordon laughed, trying to imagine Zephyr in a skirt, but moreover he was taken by the interaction between mother and son.

His throat tightened for a moment, longing for his own mother, who had loved him dearly. Or at least, so he remembered.

So, he relented and took the offered cup. Truthfully speaking, hot chocolate was considered to be a lady’s morning beverage and sometimes a beverage for children.

Of course, he was neither of those things. He generally kept himself to coffee, tea, and sometimes brandy and wine.

But he was in a strange new world at Westleigh’s estate. He took the cup, lifted it to his lips, sipped, and then his eyes shot wide. His tongue burst at the flavor, and he swung his gaze back from the dowager duchess to Lord Zephyr.

Lord Zephyr was smirking. It was the only word for it.

“See,” Zephyr drawled. “The ladies know what they’re doing. We gentlemen should listen to them far more often.”

His mind bursting with pleasure at the delicious treat, Gordon replied, “I won’t argue with that. The ladies, especially in this house, do seem to be particularly wise.”

Zephyr waggled his brows. “I’m glad you have realized this.”

The dowager duchess gave him a mischievous smile. “I’ve noticed you’ve relented about a good many things.”

He arched a brow and nearly dropped his hot chocolate. She couldn’t possibly mean… Or did she?

Before he could think on it more, what seemed like a horde of children stormed into the salon.

Horde might have been a strong exaggeration, but there were several of them. So many that he wasn’t certain he could count them properly as they dashed about. And they were all extremely small, toddling about on little legs.

The children, a mix of boys and girls, all in the long curls and clothes of young children, ran to the dowager duchess as if she was the pied piper herself.

She knelt, not giving two thoughts for her embroidered silk skirts, and the children all ran about her, into her arms, forming a large embrace of bouncing enthusiasm.

“My darlings!” she cried joyfully. “My little chickens. How are you this morning?”

And there was a chorus of bright, excited voices which he could hardly understand.

Perdita glided into the room, her cat and crow with her. It was such an odd sight and yet, with her, she made it appear as if it was the most natural thing in all the world.

His heart, his very annoying heart, leapt. He shoved it right back down. His heart might be excited, but he had always been pragmatic. He couldn’t forget that they were oil and water. Even if he desperately wished that they were oil and fire.

He had no idea where she’d gone this morning, but she’d gotten up quite early and left him, which had been startling.

He’d expected that he would be the one to wake up and do the leaving, but no, she had clearly had other plans, or perhaps she had simply gone to take care of her animals.

Yes, that was it.

But wasn’t he one of her wounded creatures? Didn’t he deserve the same sort of treatment? He was being absolutely obtuse. After all, he didn’t want her to treat him like a wounded creature, did he? And try to make him better? No, of course not. He’d teased her about it. But did anyone want to be seen as wounded?

Though the idea of being healed…

He straightened, annoyed that he had cared at all that he’d woken alone.

Waking up on his own was how he had woken up all of his life. He should not mind it now. But as he watched the dowager duchess dote on the children, he found his heart doing the strangest things.

His bloody heart really was trying to start a rebellion.

Even when his parents had been alive, he had not had a great deal of childhood family. There had just been himself and, of course, his parents and the servants, his nanny, his tutors.

His grandparents on both sides had died when he was quite small. And the few aunts and uncles he’d had took no interest in him, most traveling abroad.

His parents’ house had never rung with laughter like this or with joy or the sound of small voices.

His had been the only small voice to ring against the halls of his family estate, and he found this to be both startling and a revelation.

No wonder he isolated himself, keeping himself busy in his work. It was what he knew.

He smiled despite himself and took another drink of hot chocolate. Heaven. Sheer, rich heaven.

Rather like Perdita.

And then he looked over to her.

The corners of her lips tilted in a bemused smile. “The hot chocolate has done you wonders. Excellent medicine, if I do say so myself. You look as if you have been picked up from the mundanity of this earth and put on a star.”

“Do I?” he asked, surprised his expression was so transparent. “I do feel a bit at sea.”

She linked her arm with his. Nothing scandalous, but still a closeness that slipped through them both as she assured, “That’s all right. You’ll get your footing soon, and I’ll be your compass.”

Would she? He thought to himself that she’d make a very fine compass if he would but allow it. But he didn’t know if he could. He certainly didn’t think he should. She deserved more than his bit of life. She was so vivacious, so full, so alive, and he’d burn out all those things.

Something ached deep within him at the idea that she might be his compass upon the seas of this life. But what if he wrecked her view of the world with his jaded one? The one that saw the poverty and the pain of the regular people in England, and the avarice of those that only cared about their gold and their pleasure, no matter the cost.

He did not have any of her unbridled hope in him anymore. And the truth was he felt it would be the greatest crime to condemn her to a life with him. He no longer aspired to change the world.

Some men might try to use her to reignite their passion, but he wasn’t that kind of man. He didn’t want to risk sapping her hope and enthusiasm dry.

But now…he had no idea how this would end because despite his sense of honor, he had chosen to make love to her last night. He longed to make love to her again.

He was like a man who had taken to wine and could no longer stop. Damn the consequences.

It was terrifying.

Just as he was about to take a last gulp, put the cup down, and head off as he always did, because after being with people for too long, he usually needed a few moments to himself, he heard her brothers in the hall and tensed.

Surely, they had given him permission to have an affair with their sister. They wouldn’t kill him on the spot. But now that the reality had occurred, he might actually find himself buried out in the woods or dropped in the lake. Or, knowing the brothers, chopped up into some strange kind of paté and served at dinner.

After all, they loved Shakespeare. Titus Andronicus was a masterclass in cooking up one’s enemies.

Still, what he found was not at all what he feared. There was a chorus of male voices shouting and laughing, and then suddenly they were bringing in a tree through the entry.

The green pine needles of it began dancing all over the floor.

He blinked at the evergreen.

It was not a common sight in England. In fact, an evergreen tree brought indoors was a rarity. He’d heard about it, of course.

“What the devil are they doing?” he blurted. “The poor tree was happier outside.”

Perdita laughed. “You are not mistaken. And I was very on the fence about it. But Mother convinced me that we would be honoring the old ways as well as the new with the tree. The older generations were much more in touch with nature, and they loved to bring nature into their abodes.”

He tilted his head to the side, considering this. “I can see this. After all, we’ve long brought in holly and ivy in this country. Where did your mother discover a love for Christmas trees?”

She grinned. “She witnessed Austria’s Christmas traditions last year. She adored Salzburg so much last winter that she went there again this year. Now, of course, she returned home in time for Christmas with us, but Mama had the most wonderful time, and she said that they do the most wonderful things there. Not just bringing in the tree. They decorate it with small wooden ornaments and all sorts of things.”

He looked at the tree and the brothers and wondered how the blazes they were going to keep it standing, and much to his amusement, it did take four of the Briarwood brothers.

Plus, it seemed the French cousin, Jean-Luc, who he’d spoken to briefly in London, was in the mix. For he could hear a French voice.

There were a few choice words that were not too foul, given the children present.

Most amusing, there were several Gallic gestures as the Frenchman clearly tried to convince the British people in the room that his way was the best way.

But the French would never be able to convince the English of such a thing. And pretty soon, Lord Hector, Lord Zephyr, Lord Ajax, and Lord Achilles, who he had spent very little time with, were all shoving the tree this way and that, arguing the best way to keep it anchored until, finally, it was indeed the Frenchman who got it straight.

Jean-Luc clapped his hands together, his embroidered waistcoat winking in the morning sunlight as he announced, “Voila.”

The Briarwood brothers let out a groan.

“Outdone by a Frenchman,” Lord Ajax groaned.

“I never would’ve thought it possible,” Lord Zephyr declared.

“Oh, the French have their ways,” Gordon observed, and with that, all eyes, especially the Frenchman’s, swung towards him.

Then Jean-Luc crossed forward, flung out his arms, and declared, “Ah! A smart man!”

And Jean-Luc boldly and soundly embraced Gordon before planting a kiss on each cheek.

Gordon stood stock-still.

“I will never give such a compliment again if it is to result in such affection,” he drawled.

“The Englishman is very…English,” Jean-Luc returned. “I have alarmed you. Never fear. It is simply the way of the French.”

“I know,” he said with a plaintive voice. “It’s just so very un-English.”

Jean-Luc leaned back. Gordon was just a touch shorter, and they were both big men. One might wonder if they would go from such an embrace to wrestling in the next moment.

“Exactly,” Jean-Luc said with a shrug. “You need to be exposed to things that aren’t English. The English are very capable, but they are so very stiff.”

He wanted to say that at least they hadn’t had a revolution. But it was a foolish thing to say because, truthfully, the Frenchman could say the English just hadn’t had one yet.

And the Americans had revolted.

Who knew when the next colony might try to give trouble. Quite frankly, Gordon was very worried about India. It was part of his many failures. The English did not do a good job with people in that particular area of the world, though they prospered from them.

Still, it was Christmas, and he didn’t want to think about another war, another rebellion, another failure on the part of the English to do their bit and do good work.

So, instead he smiled at the Frenchman. And quickly chose to return the subject to Christmas.

“The tree is magnificently placed, sir.”

“But of course,” Jean-Luc replied. “It takes a Frenchman to know a good design. The English, they’re always repeating what we do.” Jean-Luc gave a shudder of distaste. “That period where all the English furniture was so dark and bleak? Thank God, it is gone. Oui. It is the French style that everyone likes.”

Now, it was true, the French style was what everyone liked now, but sometimes Gordon craved the old ways, the dark wood, the nooks and crannies, the hard chairs, the cozy feeling of a crackling fire. The French style was like a glittered-up jewel box. And sometimes Gordon wanted things to be simple, but life was not simple.

The next thing he knew, the children were rushing forward and touching the tree needles, smelling it, pulling at it with their pudgy little hands.

“No, no, my darlings, we’re going to decorate it,” the dowager duchess said, striding forward. “But first you each must have your cup of hot chocolate.”

And she began pouring out little portions into small cups for them.

There were general cries of delight and enthusiasm. And not just from the small children.

Their parents, who were now all gathering into the room, seemed just as excited. Which was a shock to him. Was it possible to be so joyful as an adult?

And then a child slipped her hand into his, tilted her golden head back, and said in surprisingly wise tones, “Will you be decorating the tree too?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, his throat tightening at her upturned face and the scene unfolding around him. And then, before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Why do you ask?”

Her brow furrowed ever so slightly and she said, “You look a little sad, and I think decorating the tree could make you feel much better.”

His heart at those words… Oh God, his heart hurt so very much.

Was it so obvious that he felt so sad, despite everyone else’s joy? That he had not been able to slide out of such sadness except for with Perdita, with his… Well, he didn’t know what to call her. But Perdita had been the first light shining on his dismal life in a very long time, and now he wondered if he could allow himself to feel that warmth a little bit longer.

The little girl smiled up at him and asked confidently, “Will you lift me up?”

“I am almost as tall as the tree, aren’t I?” he teased.

She laughed, a beautiful bell-like sound, and nodded before she thrust up her arms towards him. Waiting.

Easily, he picked her up and walked to the tree. “Now, you tell me the best branches and I shall lift you to them,” he said.

She nodded and trustingly placed her arms about his neck.

For a moment, for the first time he could recall, he feared he might cry.

But this time, it was not out of sorrow…but out of awe.