He offered his other arm to Lizzie Gaynor, who took it and chattered gaily all the way back to the house. But before Christina could come to claim her daughter and whisk her up to the nursery to remove her outdoor garments and comb her hair, he managed a private word with the child.
“I will have an announcement to make in the drawing room while we are all warming up with chocolate and something to eat,” he said. “I shall see to it that you young people are all there to hear it. And then I have a suggestion to make to you. Just to you. It will be our secret.”
“Even from Mama?” she asked him.
“Especially from Mama,” he said and winked at her again.
“It is not wrong?” she asked anxiously. “It is not evil?”
He felt the old flash of annoyance for a moment against a mother—and a father—who could so have burdened a young child with a morbid conscience.
“It is not wrong,” he said. “It is not evil. It is going to make Christmas happier for everyone. Are you interested?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, my lord,” she said.
Christina came for her then while everyone else dripped melting snow onto the hall floor and stamped feet and rubbed hands and exclaimed loudly to one another that they had only just realized how cold they were.
“Come,” she said, reaching out a hand for Rachel’s. “Let us go and tidy up quickly.”
For just a moment she held the child’s one hand while he still held the other. And their eyes met. He relinquished his hold and she turned away, taking her daughter with her.
Tall, slender, elegant even after vigorous outdoor exercise. And graceful and beautiful despite the gray of her garments. And perhaps, just perhaps, sheltering his child in her womb.
“The widow grows lovelier and more animated with every passing day,” a voice said at his shoulder. It was languid, self-satisfied—Luttrell’s voice. “She is ripe for the picking, would you say, Gerard?”
The earl’s immediate impulse was to swing around and plant his friend a facer. He raised his eyebrows instead.
“You are the self-proclaimed expert on such matters, Harry,” he said. “Do you need to ask my opinion?”
“It was a rhetorical question,” the viscount said with a chuckle. “Are we to be doomed to chocolate, Gerard, as the only beverage with which to warm ourselves?”
“By no means,” his lordship said, striding off in the direction of the stairway arch. “Come with me.”
Chapter 13
THERE was to be a Christmas service in the village church during the evening. Most of the guests were planning to attend, Christina had learned, despite the snow and the absence of any sleighs in the carriage house. It would be a walk of more than a mile through the snow, but several of the gardeners and stable hands had made an attempt to clear the worst of the drifts from the driveway-—though apparently the prospect of walking to church on Christmas Eve through snow had its attraction for most of them.
Between an early dinner and the service, they were expecting the village carolers to call, as they did every year. But this year fires would be lit in the large fireplaces in the hall. They would not give a great deal of heat, but they would take away the worst of the chill and they would at least make the hall look more cheerful than usual. Also this year there would be hot spiced wassail for everyone after the caroling, and mince pies and Christmas cake. Usually only lemonade was served. The carolers had not come at all the year before because the countess had been in mourning.
The evening would be busy enough. And most of the guests had tired themselves considerably with the morning’s frolics. The afternoon, then, had been intended by most of them as a time for relaxation, perhaps even sleep. Until, that was, the Earl of Wanstead made his announcement in the drawing room after they had all come inside and assembled there.
“Tomorrow is Christmas Day,” he said. “I have a notion that several of you will wish to be left to your own resources during the morning. I will be spending some time entertaining the servants in here. In the afternoon, if everyone is agreeable and if the weather cooperates, there will be skating on the lake—and doubtless a bonfire again.” He paused for the flurry of enthusiasm to die down. “But the evening might be a problem—the ball is not scheduled until the day after tomorrow.”
“We can dance in here again tomorrow evening, Cousin Gerard,” Margaret suggested eagerly.
“I have another idea.” He smiled about at them. “It will involve all of us in hard work.”
There was a general groan.
“We are going to have a Christmas concert in the ballroom,” he said. “I am putting Lady Hannah in charge of drawing up a program. She has already agreed to do it. She will see to it that there is some variety of items—one would hate to have twenty or so people stand up one after the other before the gathering in order to give a rendition of the same Christmas carol.”
“Why not form a choir, sing the one carol—preferably one that does not have twelve verses—and get on with the dancing, Gerard?” Ralph Milchip suggested.
“No, no.” The earl held up his hands to quell the laughter. “We are going to do this thing properly. We are going to entertain one another. We are going to enjoy ourselves.”
“I think it a splendid idea, my lord,” Susan Gaynor said. “We will play our pianoforte duet, Lizzie, will we?”
“There is only one rule,” his lordship added. “Everyone is to take part—with no exceptions. And anyone needing the ballroom or this room for rehearsals is to consult Lady Hannah, who will draw up a schedule. Now, if you will excuse me, Lady Rachel and I have a matter of importance to discuss.”
