He smoothed the dress back over Winifred’s knee and covered her with the blanket.
“Should I have awakened you?” Miss Claywell asked with worry.
“No. I tend to lose my manners when one of my nieces is injured,” he explained. “It’s not a serious injury,” Preston admitted, though he would like the physician to examine Winifred so that they knew how to properly treat the injury. He then glanced at his nieces who were taking down the Christmas greenery. “I worry. Too much, I suppose.”
“You are still new at being a guardian,” she reminded him. “In time, it will get easier.”
“I sincerely doubt that, Miss Claywell. In three short years, I’ll be taking Delia to London, which scares me more than any battle I found myself in.”
She chuckled. “It won’t be so bad.”
It would be easier if Miss Claywell was by his side.
“Why are you stripping the greenery?” he finally asked. Preston always assumed the maids and footmen saw to returning the home to rights following the holidays.
“We’ve always seen to the parlor, library, entry, and dining room,” Matilda answered.
“It’s to keep us from getting underfoot while Cook and the others are busy making the feast,” Teddy added.
“And the cakes,” Winifred cried with happiness.
Now he remembered. When he was a child, the house wasn’t stripped of its greenery until Candlemas, but the year after Delia was born, some dried greenery had caught fire after a candle tipped. It had scared his sister-in-law enough that she ordered that greenery was now to be stripped on Twelfth Night. As the girls grew older, they started helping with the chore, as he had last year.
If Cook and the others were already working on the Twelfth Night meal, then it was unlikely they’d welcome him asking for something to break his fast.
“Coffee and scones, Lord Melcombe,” the butler announced, carrying in a tray. “I’m afraid this is all Cook can offer at this time.”
“Thank you, Jackson. It will suffice.”
He sat and poured a cup of coffee, then bit into a scone as he watched his nieces and Miss Claywell remove the greenery draped across the fireplace mantel and edged about the doors and windows. He really should help them, but he was also in need of sustenance.
Most of the evergreen around the entry was loosened, except at the very top. Beneath it stood Miss Claywell, hands on her hips as if she was trying to determine how to dislodge it as she was unable to reach it.
“I’ll get it down, Miss Claywell,” he said after taking another sip.
“No bother,” she dismissed and disappeared across the entry, only to return with a chair. As soon as he realized her intent, Preston was on his feet, moving in her direction, but it was too late. Miss Claywell had climbed up on the chair, was stretching, but upset the balance and was soon tumbling. He caught her just in time.
The shock of having her in his arms was quickly expelled as need arose. If possible, the desire for her was more powerful than that last waltz when he’d pulled her close to keep her from stumbling.
He simply stared at her, not certain what to do. He knew he should let her go, but Preston couldn’t make his arms obey the command. Nor did she pull away from him. Instead, she stared up, her green eyes wide with shock, then darkening as her hands tightened on his shoulders and her lips parted.
“Kiss her,” Winifred called.
“Winifred.” Delia’s hiss was sharp.
Yet, their words were enough to break the spell that Preston seemed to be under, and he slowly let go of Miss Claywell, making certain that she found her footing.
“You are under a kissing bough,” Lila exclaimed. “You are supposed to kiss.”
“What?” Preston asked and looked up. They were indeed standing beneath the mistletoe. He hadn’t even been aware it was there as it had been hidden behind the evergreen.
“Uncle Preston can’t kiss the governess. It simply isn’t done,” Matilda insisted.
“Of course not,” Miss Claywell agreed as she stepped away, smoothing her gown as her face grew pink.
Althea wished she could just disappear.
The moment she fell into Melcombe’s arms, everything else faded as sensations engulfed her.
