Snowbound Surrender Read online

  But that was before. He had come here to say goodbye to her and to assure himself that she would be all right without him. He was not here to rekindle a romance that should not have happened in the first place.

  He gave his head a small, firm shake, refusing her offer.

  Her eyes flashed again, this time in annoyance. Then she looked past him to catch the attention of the man she planned to marry, giving him the same come-hither look.

  Mr Thoroughgood stepped forward to take her hand, just as he might at the altar. Then, with a patronising smile, he pulled her out from under the kissing bough and murmured something that raised a blush of embarrassment on her cheek.

  Jack struggled to read the man’s lips and understood but a single word.

  Paganism.

  And his Lucy, who had been the bravest, most forthright girl he’d ever known, allowed him to lead her from the room.

  Jack turned away, back to the punchbowl.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, Lucy found her brother in his study, going through the month’s accounts. But she could tell by the way he flinched as she opened the door that, in truth, he had been hiding from her. ‘We need to speak,’ she said, and a guilty flush was added to his cringe.

  ‘I assume this is about you and Gascoyne,’ he said, squaring his shoulders and preparing for the worst.

  ‘Among other things,’ she agreed. ‘He told me what happened before he left for Portugal. You meddled in my life. You told me nothing of his offer.’

  ‘I did it for your own good,’ he said with an apologetic smile.

  ‘Still, you had no right.’

  ‘On the contrary. Once Father died, I had not just the right but the obligation to see that you made a good match.’

  ‘That does not mean you should not have consulted me as to my wishes,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I knew what you would have said,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘You followed Jack around like a puppy, from the moment you were out of leading strings.’

  ‘I adored him,’ she agreed.

  ‘And in return, he got you into no end of trouble,’ Fred replied. ‘Boosting you over fences to steal apples from his grandfather’s orchards.’

  ‘It was hardly stealing since they practically belonged to him,’ she replied.

  ‘Riding astride on the stallion.’

  ‘Side saddles are pointless things,’ she replied. ‘You would know it if you ever tried riding on one.’

  ‘Except the horse threw you,’ her brother reminded her.

  ‘He threw you as well and you did not think anything of it.’

  ‘He broke your arm.’

  ‘An unfortunate landing,’ she agreed. ‘But it healed as good as new.’

  ‘And that Christmas,’ he added, ‘Jack gave you a full cup of punch, not to mention port and cigars.’

  ‘Only one puff,’ she said. ‘I did not like tobacco. But the port was excellent. I do not understand why women are not allowed to drink it.’

  He ignored her perfectly reasonable statement. ‘Until he bought that commission, Jack Gascoyne led you into every scrape he could contrive, and you went willingly all the way.’

  ‘True,’ Lucy agreed with a smile.

  ‘I know you were infatuated with him. But at seventeen, you were far too old to be his partner in crime.’

  ‘But not too young to be his wife,’ she reminded him.

  ‘You might have been old enough to marry, but even at twenty-one, he was too young to be your husband. He had more debts than money and lived at the whim of a family that was constantly threatening to cut him off from what little they gave him. He could not have supported you. It was for the best that he went to war, for you had reached an age where he could no longer be trusted to behave like a gentleman around you. He admitted that himself.’

  Perhaps there was something in her expression that gave away the truth, for now he was staring at her as if he suspected what had happened. So, she hurried to return to the attack. ‘He wrote me a letter to that effect. He promised to return. I never received it.’

  Now Fred looked guilty again.

  ‘I went on for five years, heartbroken because I thought he’d left without saying goodbye.’

  ‘I had no idea that you still thought of him at all,’ Fred replied.

  ‘Because you did not want to know,’ she said. ‘You never asked me what future I wanted for myself. You have been too busy trying to match me with the likes of William Thoroughgood to see if I was happy or sad.’

  ‘The Vicar is a fine, upstanding man,’ her brother replied. ‘That is why I suggested he pay court to you.’

  ‘He is so upstanding that he is as stiff as a plank,’ she snapped. ‘Yesterday, he forbade me from standing under the kissing bough in my own home because mistletoe is a pagan plant that will jeopardise my immortal soul.’

  ‘What were you doing standing under it?’ Fred said, missing the point.

  ‘I can tell you what I was not doing,’ she said. ‘And that was waiting for the Vicar. And don’t you dare dictate to me over mistletoe. Our guests have been giving and collecting kisses all day and you have not said a word against it.’

  ‘They are not my sister,’ he said, as illogical as ever.

  ‘And your sister is no longer twelve,’ she said. ‘But if I was, I would still be standing under the kissing bough and hoping to be noticed. It is harmless fun, Fred. I have no intention of banishing it to the servants’ quarters as Mr Thoroughgood suggested.’

  ‘That does seem rather drastic,’ Fred agreed at last.

  ‘It is indicative of the future I will have if I marry him,’ she said.

  ‘You are of age, Lucy. Your future is your own,’ he said. ‘I just thought...’

  ‘That after years of pulling pranks and roving about the countryside with you and your friends, I would turn into a retiring flower when it was time to marry and become a parson’s wife.’

  ‘I did not think it would hurt to present the option,’ he said with a shrug.

  ‘If Thoroughgood is the best you can do, then please, do not think, any more,’ she said. ‘I will be nice to him while he is here, for your sake and to spare his feelings. But that is all.’

  Fred sighed dramatically. ‘I suppose you have your heart set on Gascoyne again.’

  ‘There has never been another man for me,’ she replied.

  ‘Then you are likely to be disappointed,’ he said. ‘When I encouraged him to renew his suit of you...’

  ‘You did not,’ she said, wincing in embarrassment.

  Fred held up his hands in surrender. ‘Just to tell him that there would be no resistance from me this time.’

  ‘If he wanted me, your opinion would not matter,’ she said, glum.

  ‘It is not that he does not want you,’ her brother said, gently. ‘He is in a worse way than I imagined. Last night, he was talking rot about ending his life.’

  In all the time he had been in mortal danger, she’d thought she was used to the idea that any day could bring news of his death. Since he’d returned, she had found small relief in knowing that, even if he was not with her, he was at least safe. She could not abide the idea that, now he was so close, she might lose him again in a way far more permanent than simple rejection.

  She would not allow it. ‘He might have felt thus last night,’ she said, firmly. ‘Tonight might be another matter entirely.’

  * * *

  That night was Christmas Eve and Jack was surprised to find that he was dressing for dinner with eager anticipation. Perhaps his mood was helped by a decent night’s rest. Or perhaps it was the snow that had fallen, steady and deep, since the moment he’d arrived. When he looked outside, the world was covered in a virginal white blanket, untouched by humankind.

  Or perhaps it was simply the prospect o
f seeing Lucy again. Even though he could not have her, his dark mood was not quite as black as it had been, knowing that she was close. It had been so long since he had looked forward with anything but dread, that the feeling of joyful expectation was as rare as a unicorn.

  Would there be roast beef or goose? Or perhaps a turkey? Or all the above? Would the Clifton pudding be as good as he remembered? Would Fred finally open the ancient port that his father insisted on saving for a special occasion?

  There was no question that Lucy would be hostess. But was it wrong to wonder what she might wear? The anticipation of seeing her again was rather like playing the electrifying machine that had been kept in his grandfather’s salon. Someone turned the crank and everyone else nervously joined hands and held their breaths, waiting for the jolt to travel through the party. Common sense said to let go. But some stronger urge demanded that one hang on and enjoy the shock.

  * * *

  Tonight, it was a shock to see her in her mother’s place, in a gown of ice-blue silk, with the family jewels at her throat. There was nothing unusual about her attire. In style and expense she looked none too different from the women he had courted in London while trying to forget her.

  But he had not found himself intrigued by the way the candlelight settled in the hollows of their shoulders, nor were his eyes drawn to the shadow between their breasts that disappeared into the bodice of their gowns. Sitting across from Lucy, he had to struggle not to stare at her like a starving man in front of a feast.

  Though he had loved her no less, he’d spent much of the last five years thinking of Lucy Clifton as a child, pretty but naïve, and in need of sheltering. But the woman at the table tonight was controlled, intelligent and beautiful. Worst of all, she intrigued him in a way that he hadn’t expected. He wanted to sit with her and have her tell him everything he had missed while he had been gone and how she had become even more wonderful than he remembered.

  ‘I swear, this dinner was the best we have had,’ said Fred, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Well done, Lucy. Well done.’ As the last of the pudding was taken away, her brother clapped his hands, beaming down the table at his sister.

  Lucy blushed prettily in response. ‘I hardly deserve credit for it. The menu is the same every year and Cook and the kitchen maids did all the work.’

  ‘All hail Cook, then,’ he said with another grin, raising his glass in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Perhaps it is simply the company we keep this year and that we are eating without the threat from France, thanks to our friend, the fearless Major Gascoyne.’ He applauded again, this time directing his approval to Jack.

  Jack’s feeling of contentment evaporated at this hyperbole. ‘Really, Fred. It is not as if I brought down Napoleon single-handed.’

  ‘Since Wellington is not here to receive it, you must accept the gratitude of the nation,’ Fred said with a shrug. ‘A toast to Major Gascoyne.’

  ‘Here, here!’

  Now the whole table was raising their glasses to him and he had to fight the desire to run.

  ‘Now you are embarrassing Jack instead of me,’ Lucy said, drawing the attention away from him as if she had sensed his discomfort.

  ‘I cannot help it,’ Fred replied. ‘I am simply glad to see that he has returned safely.’ Then he looked to Jack. ‘It is good to have you home, old friend.’

  ‘And good to see you, as well.’ Jack was surprised to find that it was not quite a lie. He had cursed the fellow often enough, while in Portugal, for without Fred’s impetus he’d have never gone to war. But now that he was home, he realised how much he had longed for his friendship.

  He took a hurried sip of his wine to fight a wave of sentimentality. Perhaps it was rich food, the smell of the yule log burning and the fresh greens brought into the house at the darkest time of the year that made one prone to such open displays of emotion. His throat closed as if in a prelude to tears. This, all of it, was what he had missed when he was away on the Peninsula, the homey familiarity of it.

  * * *

  After dinner, the parlour games did not seem as grating as they had on the previous evening. Against his better judgement, he bobbed for an apple, chasing the fruit around the basin in futility before submerging his head to trap it on the bottom. He came to the surface again, sputtering from this baptism, hair and neckcloth soaked, feeling younger than he’d felt in ages.

  Someone was handing him a flannel to dry himself and he took it without looking, taking a bite from the apple before wiping his face and sweeping his hair out of his eyes.

  ‘It is cheating to go to the bottom,’ Lucy said in a soft voice, linking her arm in his to pull him away from the others. ‘You are supposed to chase it about on the surface.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, unable to help his grin.

  ‘It is called bobbing for apples, not diving,’ she reminded him. When he turned to look, she was hiding her own smile behind her hand.

  ‘I prefer to think of it as fortune favouring the bold,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it requires an extraordinary effort to take the prize.’

  ‘Like going away to war in an attempt to win my hand?’

  That was not what he had meant at all. He had wanted to spar playfully with her, as they used to do. Now the present was interfering again and spoiling his mood.

  ‘Or cheating to win a child’s game,’ he said. ‘Do not make your brother’s mistake and turn me into some sort of paragon, Lucy. Believe me, I am no one’s hero.’ He turned to leave her, walking down the hall.

  ‘You were my hero, once,’ she said, following him.

  ‘People change,’ he said, trying to regain the reserve he had been using to keep her away.

  ‘And sometimes they change back,’ she agreed. ‘Tonight, you are taking part in the games that you scorned yesterday.’ Before he could correct her, she added, ‘And you are cheating, just as you used to.’

  ‘It is a wonder you put up with me, since both you and your brother have been quick to tell me what an ass I was,’ he replied.

  ‘Your tendency to reckless impulse was what made you fun,’ she said with a shrug. ‘You have obviously outgrown your worst habits, or you would not have survived the war.’

  ‘That shows how little you understand, about war and about me,’ he said, running a clawed hand through his hair.

  ‘Then explain it to me,’ she said, her voice soft and coaxing. It made him want to open for her, like a book, to see if she would erase the worst of what was written there or slam it shut and look away in disgust.

  ‘I did not live through these last years by learning restraint,’ he admitted. ‘I have indulged the worst impulses. I rode through the countryside, killing with impunity.’

  She was still smiling at him, as if she found his darkest admissions amusing. ‘Were you a bandit?’

  ‘I might as well have been,’ he said. ‘Before their blood had dried, I looted the enemy. My new house is built on money stolen from the dead at Vitoria.’

  ‘I am given to believe that the practice is common on battlefields,’ she said.

  ‘I murdered and I stole,’ he repeated, shaking his head in disgust.

  ‘At the orders of Wellington,’ she reminded him. ‘They made him a duke for it.’

  ‘That does not make it right,’ he insisted. ‘I have done things that render me unworthy of the company of any decent young lady. You deserve better.’

  ‘When you left, you were confident of your worth,’ she reminded him. ‘But now that all of England would honour you for your service, you have doubts.’

  ‘Because I was a better man, before the war,’ he argued.

  At this, she laughed. ‘When you left me, you were not a man. You were a boy. In that, I suppose my brother was right. It is probably for the best that we had not married. If I had run off with you after one impetuous night, I suspect you would have made me very unhappy.�
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  He looked around to be sure she had not been heard, then pulled her down the hall and into the parlour. Then he shut the door against eavesdroppers. ‘Be careful what you say. Anyone might hear.’

  ‘Once again, you are proving that you are more careful of my honour than we were before. Back then, you drank too much. You gambled. Your pockets were always to let. You fought with your family when they tried to correct your character. You took risks and encouraged me to do the same. You took my honour in this very room without a thought as to what might happen after or who might interrupt us.’

  ‘If I was so repellent, you should not have allowed me within ten feet of you,’ he said, indignant.

  ‘As I said before, I loved you,’ she said and he watched her expression soften.

  ‘Back then, you were all I could think about,’ he said, with an equally fond smile.

  ‘And now?’ She gave him an encouraging smile in return.

  ‘I want to protect you,’ he said. ‘And that means I should stay away from you.’

  ‘One thing has not changed,’ she said, looking at him carefully, as if she could read his soul by looking into his eyes. ‘You are as stubborn as ever. You seem to think that hardship has done you ill. You are more serious than you were. And more cautious as well. But I see nothing unworthy about you, if that is what you fear. You served your country well and have earned any peace you wish to have.’ Then she sighed. ‘But I am disappointed that you did not wish to have it with me.’

  Now he felt more ashamed than ever. ‘I told myself that you had found happiness in my absence. I was afraid to seek the truth, lest what we had done...what I had done to you had ruined your chances in some way.’

  ‘If I had died in the street because of you, I am sure my brother would have informed you of the fact,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘That is nothing to joke about. Suppose there had been a child? I was halfway to Lisbon before I considered the possibility. Only then did I realise what a fool I had been for leaving you.’