Jonathan watched her face in suspense. If she’d hoped to see rolling Tuscan hills or Venetian canals, she’d be sorely disappointed. The painting he’d bought her was a still life, and could not be to everyone’s taste. It was, at first glance perhaps, a little dark and rather ordinary. But there was something of merit in its subject, Jonathan had thought (admittedly under the influence of grappa). That subject being a plump tabby cat perched on a kitchen table, looking caught out with a dead mackerel in its mouth.
At length Claire proclaimed, “Marvelous!”
Jonathan released the breath he’d been holding. “Truly? You like it?”
“I adore it! He looks just like my Kippers.”
“Upon my word, he does,” Noah agreed. “I’ve seen him in just that attitude on numerous occasions.”
“A toast to Kippers…” Jonathan tossed back a draught of eggnog. “Well, how relieved I am! It seemed a mad notion, but I just had a feeling…”
“Mad indeed,” Miss Harris confided to Elizabeth in a carrying whisper. “Who wants to look at a heap of rotting fish?”
Ignoring her, Claire gazed upon her painting fondly. “I admit I might not have picked it out of a gallery, having no eye for such things myself. But I cannot look at it without smiling, just as you said.” Turning to Jonathan, she skimmed back the lock of his hair that was forever falling forward. “You know me better than I know myself.”
“I don’t know about that.” Lowering his voice, Jonathan drew her aside. “But I mean never to disappoint you again.”
“Oh, dear!” Though wearing a smile for their audience (who were politely—if reluctantly—drifting away), she shook her head. “That will not do, my love. I’m afraid we shall disappoint each other many times over the years. Better to vow we’ll never doubt each other again. That, I think, we can carry off splendidly.”
“You do?” He searched her gaze. “Had you no doubts about me last night, when I left so abruptly?”
“None,” she said matter-of-factly.
He frowned. “I wouldn’t fault you if you had. And this morning you seemed rather out of sorts…”
Her smile slanted ruefully. “I slept poorly, but only from worry that some accident might befall you. Perhaps I still doubted that, one way or another, you wouldn’t be snatched away from me yet again. It all seemed too good to be true.” She laced her fingers with his. “But I didn’t doubt you. I’ve never doubted your heart—not really. Not even when I felt certain I should.”
His heart was too full for speech. There were no words to express the depth of his joy, his gratitude, his love for her. He wished he could gather her in his arms and show her.
But that would have to wait for later—and their long-overdue rendezvous.
For now, he swallowed his wishes with an upward glance. “I see we find ourselves under the mistletoe once again.”
“I think we might be permitted one chaste kiss, now that we are married.” Her sparkling eyes transfixed him. “Don’t you?”
Married. The word still doused him in warm shock.
Carefully, he leaned down to press the lightest of kisses upon her soft lips. Then, fighting every instinct in his body, he released her.
As the next round of gift-opening began, Jonathan called for more eggnog.
And for the first time in his life, wished Christmas would come to a very speedy end.
Twenty
“DID YOU DESIGN these stained-glass windows?” Jonathan asked Claire as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, stripping down to his shirt and trousers.
They had retired just after supper to her bedchamber—a room Jonathan had never seen before. It was a spacious apartment tastefully fitted up (of course: It was Claire’s) with a mix of antique and modern furnishings. The curtains and bed-hangings were purple damask and made a striking complement to the bank of mullioned windows, which were primarily amber and emerald green.
“Goodness, no,” Claire answered from her dressing table, where she was combing out her hair. “They’re seventeenth century. Made by a daughter of the first earl, I believe.”
Jonathan sat down in the window seat to remove his shoes and stockings. Examining the windows more closely, he found the three panels of colored glass formed one scene. On an amber-colored plane before rolling green hills, a knight holding a lance galloped toward a distant windmill. Small glass jewels were embedded along the edges, adding charm and flashes of light.
When he heard Claire rise, he turned from the window. She wore a modest, white lace-trimmed nightgown with her dark curls streaming down her back. She looked beautiful, angelic…and uneasy.
Was she nervous? That would surprise him. She was no virgin, after all, much as she looked the part.
“Are you—er—sore?” he asked, his face heating at the indelicate reference. “From yesterday?”
