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  “There should be nothing but games and fun,” she said, smiling again. “We will be having a party in the theater, after the last show on Christmas Eve.” She glanced at him, as though trying to decide. “If you will cease shouting at me during rehearsals, I shall invite you to it. The rest of the company assures me that there is nothing more diverting than playing charades with actors. And I have promised to show them a bullet pudding.”

  “If you think pudding is made of bullets,” he said, “you are too daft to be let loose.”

  “It is another game,” she said, laughing at his ignorance. “You put a bullet on a pile of flour, and then we all take turns spooning away at the mound until the bullet falls. The loser must root about in it and catch the thing in their teeth and get all covered in flour…. It very comical. I have not played it in years. Not since before I met Edgar.” She frowned. “If I return home I will spend Christmas in mourning for Sconsbury. And I vowed that I would not spend another bleak holiday on his account, ever again.”

  That was good then. If she at least stayed in Covent Garden, he might not lose her altogether. He pretended to brood again. “I have no intention of moderating my behavior to gain admittance to a gathering in my own building. Nor will I give you a raise in pay, if that’s what you are after. I am not blind, you know. Grimaldi has been trying to steal you for his troupe.” He pointed dramatically at the door. “Go to him, if you mean to do so. You will not see another penny from me.”

  She dropped the paper and put her arms around his neck. “And where would that leave you?”

  Alone, as it always did. It was hardly a surprise. People died or they left. It was a fact of life. It happened so often that he must eventually grow used to it.

  Then she kissed him on the cheek. “Despite what you may expect for me, I am not going anywhere. I like things just as they are.”

  He turned his head and watched as the dressing gown slipped from her shoulder, revealing a tantalizing expanse of bare skin. “But now you are a widow. Free to do as you like. Do you not think to marry again?”

  “Not if it is likely to be as it was,” she said firmly. “I have no wish to sit waiting for my husband’s family to choose a man that is at all like Edgar was.” She considered. “And I do not think that the men crowding the stage door wish to offer me marriage. If any do, they are in love with an illusion, and too foolish for me to even consider.”

  “But if the right man were to ask me, I suspect I should be tempted.” She tightened her grip upon him as though prepared to shake sense into him, should he not take her hint.

  Danyl Fitzhugh had never thought of himself as being the right man for anything. Other than running a theater, of course. And training up actresses so that they could abandon him. He’d made a damn fine Othello as well. But of late the Moor seemed more foolish than tragic, and he was tired of playing the fool.

  He slipped his hands inside the robe and pushed it off her shoulders and to the floor. “I might know of just the fellow,” he said, burying his face in her shoulder and kissing her on the collarbone. “But for now, it is hours until curtain, and I have no desire to leave my bed. Perhaps, once I am rested, I shall remember his name.”

  “If you mean to sleep, you do not need me,” she said, pretending to be hurt.

  “And if you leave this bed, I will not give you your Christmas present.”

  Now he had her attention. Her eyes sparkled like a child’s, and she held out her hand. “You shall not have a moment’s peace until you give it to me.”

  “Very well then. Close your eyes.” When she did as he asked, he pulled the mistletoe from the drawer and set it in her hand.

  She opened her eyes and laughed.

  “I spoiled the last one,” he reminded her.

  “We used it up,” she corrected. She kissed him on the cheek again, then plucked a berry and threw it to the floor. “I suspect we shall need another fresh one after I am through with you this morning.”

  “I think I am learning to like Christmas,” Danyl said, settling back into the pillows as the former Countess of Sconsbury climbed into his lap. “And I have heard there are some countries where they bring a whole tree into the house for it. I wonder what you would do for me then?”

  “Anything you wish, Mr. Fitzhugh,” she said with a smile. “Anything at all.”

  * * * * *

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  ISBN: 978-14592-4555-6

  To Undo a Lady

  Copyright © 2012 by Christine Merrill

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