But he smiled slowly, and the lazy, teasing look was back in his eyes. “Or perhaps,” he said, “you would like to slap my face without further ado.”
“The thought has crossed my mind, I must confess,” she said, smiling back.
“One hates,” he said, “to rush headlong through any game that is worth playing, though sometimes, of course, one is tempted to be gauche.”
He was not just flirting with her, she realized. He was bent on seducing her—just as Gerard had warned he might. It seemed rather incredible after the way she had lived for the past ten years. She should be both terrified and outraged. He wanted to go to bed with her! But she could feel only amusement and a guilty sort of pleasure in knowing that she was still desirable.
“I believe, my lord,” she said, “my best move in this game would be to effect a hasty retreat. I shall go and see that my children are safe.”
“And I believe, ma’am,” he said, “I shall allow you to evade my clutches—for now.”
Three or four servants could probably have done a far more efficient job than he and his guests did, and in half the time, the Earl of Wanstead reflected an hour or so after they had begun. The piles of holly and pine boughs on the bank of the lake had grown respectably high, but all the gatherers had done at least as much playing as working. And they accomplished whatever they did with a great deal of noise and laughter.
The earl himself did not set a good example. After setting down his second load of pine boughs, he paused to watch Jeremy Milchip and Samuel Radway make a long slide over the firm ice at the edge of the lake while Susan Gaynor and Winifred Milchip looked on, Susan squealing with mingled admiration and fright. And then his lordship, about to turn back to his work, spotted Rachel watching solemnly from a short distance away.
She was a strange child—grave and quiet and unnaturally self-contained. And yet on two occasions when she had come to the ballroom to watch the dancing lessons he had seen yearning in her eyes. The second time he had invited her to dance to the music while he practiced steps with Margaret. She had looked anxiously at her mother, but Christina, tight-lipped, had nodded her assent. The child had moved with spread arms and half-closed eyes perfectly in tune to the music just as if—as if she had been a free, graceful creature of the wild.
“It looks like fun?” he asked, strolling up to her now and nodding in the direction of the sliders on the lake.
She did not look away from them. “It must be the loveliest feeling in the world to move like the wind,” she said.
“Why do you not try it?” he suggested.
She shook her head slowly. “I would not be allowed.”
He did not believe Christina would forbid it. She had not forbidden the racing down the hill or the dancing in the ballroom, though she had given only reluctant acquiescence to that. But she had expected him to be angry about the hill incident. She had tried to protect her children from punishment. He frowned. What sort of a bastard had Gilbert been as a father and husband? What sort of a hold did he still have over his family?
“But I am the one who sets the rules here, remember?” the earl said. “I say youareallowed, and I will tell your mama so if she should wonder. Shall we try it together? I cannot seem to stay on my feet on hillsides, but perhaps I can do better on ice.”
She reached for his hand and walked solemnly with him to the long, shining slide the two men had made. The earl went first. He had had plenty of experience with ice and kept his balance with no trouble at all. Susan and Winifred clapped their hands while Jeremy whistled.
Rachel fell at the first two attempts, but she refused help and she would not give up. After a few more tries she was zooming along the ice, her arms outstretched, her face tight with concentration. But finally, after one particularly long run, she turned her head to look at the earl and smiled radiantly at him.
His heart turned over. She was like a butterfly being released from its cocoon, he thought. Perhaps just in time. Quietness and even solemnity were probably part of her nature. But so was her capacity for joy in the self-expression of movement. Plain as she was at the age of seven, he thought, she was going to grow into a beauty, just like her mother. And her beauty could be vibrant if she was allowed to be spontaneously herself and if she was secure in the love of those around her.
He had had very little to do with children. He had no experience with paternal feelings. He had never before felt a child tug at his heartstrings.
He lifted one hand in acknowledgment, grinned at her, and turned back to the task at hand, as did the other four truants, while Langan and his wife and children were approaching to find out what all the noise and excitement were about.
But finally a couple of gardeners arrived to build the promised bonfire, and everyone was quite happy to accept its lighting as a signal that the work was at an end. It looked, after all, Mr. Colin Stewart declared, as if they could decorate a dozen mansions with everything that was piled up waiting to be carried to the house. Several servants were on their way to the fire with steaming jugs of chocolate and enough cups for everyone.
“What a splendid idea, Wanstead,” Sir Michael Milchip said, rubbing his gloved hands together, “to bring a fire and warm drinks to us instead of leading us back to find both at the house. It prolongs the atmosphere of festivity.”
“Oh,” Lizzie Gaynor said, gazing upward and taking the earl’s arm so that he might lead her to the fire, “do you think it reallywillsnow, my lord? I can think of nothing more exciting for Christmas except that it might well confine me to the indoors. I never could discover how anyone can walk on snow without falling at every step. I would need a secure arm to which to cling.”
“I cannot imagine, Miss Gaynor,” he said, “that you will be confined to the indoors.” He patted her hand and looked into her eyes.
“How kind you are,” she murmured.
The cold air and exercise had brought a becoming sparkle of vitality to her face. She was a young lady who knew what she wanted of life, he thought, and was actively seeking it out. She wanted a good marriage—preferably not with a sixty-year-old duke who suffered from gout. At the moment she believed she wanted a marriage with him. She was pretty, accomplished, well-bred, good-natured. She would, if he decided to remain in England, be the perfect countess for him. She knew the world oftonfar better than he. She had been brought up to the kind of duties that would be required of her. He did not love her, but then love was no longer something he looked for in marriage.
He thought of Jeannette’s warning. He should not marry Lizzie Gaynor or anyone else, she had said, unless he was sure that she was the one he had been waiting for. There was a passion in his nature, she had told him, that needed to be satisfied. Was she right? He did not believe so. His life had been ruled by reason for the past ten years and longer, and he had been the happier for it.
“Itisgoing to snow,” he said, holding out one hand and looking at the dark surface of his glove. A white flake landed even as he watched. “Not even future tense, in fact.”
Everyone gazed upward.
Christina was not at the fire. The earl made as accurate a count as was possible with so many people milling about the servants and the chocolate pots. Everyone else was present except her and Tess. The child had been playing earlier with the other children. Christina had been gathering mistletoe with Luttrell, who was now flirting with Susan. Perhaps Tess had grown cold and Christina had taken her back to the house.
