An Affair Before Christmas

“It’s all right,” she whispered to his chest.



He put her from him, just enough so he could look down in her face and said, “No, it’s not all right.”



Gill was sending the butler and the footmen scurrying in all directions. Then he whisked himself away into the library.



“I knew what she would do,” Poppy told him.



“You knew?”



“My mother has a temper. I knew that if she were pressed, she would strike me. She’s never been able to resist it in moments of greatest fury. I said something that made her furious.”



“I’m going to kill her.” Fletch’s face had utterly transformed. He didn’t look pretty, as her mother called him, now. He looked violent, like flame and gunpowder mixed, like a man who would take on a mob with his bare fists.



“No,” Poppy said, smiling at him although the motion made her wince as her cheek was starting to swell. “I caused it to happen, Fletch.”



“That’s absurd!”



“I’ve thought about it quite a bit in the past few months. I decided that I would be her daughter only if she never struck me again. Until I went to Jemma’s house, you see, I never had a chance to think about it.”



“How could you not tell me!” His voice was tight with rage. But not at her.



“Oh, she hasn’t struck me since our marriage began,” Jemma said. “And not for a considerable time before that. I’d become very good at appeasing her, you see. As long I had behaved well—”



“By marrying a duke.” His hands fell from her shoulders.



She nodded. “True. I married a duke. But I really thought I was in love with you, Fletch.”



“I can hardly believe that you were thinking clearly on the subject.”



“Perhaps not.”



Something came between them, the cold ugly truth of it. And still her mother’s grating sobs echoed through the door beside them.



“Your mother must leave my house,” Fletch said, and the level of barely controlled violence in his voice made Poppy shiver.



“She will. I humiliated her, you see. And I told her she had to leave. I’ve never given her instructions before.”



“I’ll see to it. I suppose—I suppose you don’t wish to stay?” And without giving her a chance to answer. “Why would you?” He lifted his head and bellowed, “Quince!”



“Your Grace,” the butler said, popping back out of the green baize door with an alacrity that suggested his ear had been pasted to the door.



“My coach waits outside. Her Grace will return to the Duchess of Beaumont’s house. And for God’s sake, could you send someone in there to stop that caterwauling?” He jerked his head toward the drawing room.



Poppy swallowed. “I would think that Mother will stay two or three days, just enough to show me that my command was not important. She holds a soirée tomorrow, and then she will leave shortly after that. I know her quite well, you see.”



“So do I,” Fletch said grimly. “Go home, Poppy. I am—” for a moment the rage dropped from his face and he looked starkly anguished. “I am just so damned sorry that my house wasn’t a safe place for you.”



“It hasn’t always been like this, Fletch. You are seeing my mother at her very worst.”



His mouth tightened again. “I don’t wish to see her again in any form, ever, Poppy. Is that all right with you?”



Guilt almost sapped her strength, but then she said, “Yes.” And then, “Yes.” It helped to say it twice. To live her own life, to cut free the puppet strings.



She turned and allowed the butler to wrap her in her pelisse and then walked to the carriage.



In Poppy’s mind, she turned her back on her mother. She walked proudly, without a backward look.



But to any story, there’s always another side. Had she looked backward, she would have seen her husband, standing with a look of absolute despair on his face. In Fletch’s mind, she had forgotten to say goodbye to him, but then, why would she?



The ugliness behind their marriage had solidified into something much worse than mere lack of desire on her part.



She walked away from him as if she never cared to see him again. Which made sense. He was nothing more than the man she was forced to marry by threat of violence.



He threw open the library door and Gill jerked his head up. “I’m going to St. Anne’s Hill, if you wish to come.”



Gill rose. “Where’s your wife?”



“Left.”



“St. Anne’s Hill? You mean Elizabeth Armistead’s residence? And—”



“I mean to pay a visit to the courtesan I told you about, Cressida. She’s charming. You’ll like her.”



Gill shot him a look. But a friend of the heart knows when the moment comes to hold his tongue, and there was something in Fletch’s face he’d never seen before, and he’d just as soon never see again.



If Cressida could make that look go away, Gill would happily throw her a purse himself.



Chapter 41



On the way to the Duke of Beaumont’s country seat December 15



“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Finchley asked for perhaps the five hundredth time.



Villiers ground his teeth and thought about whether pulling one of the side arms out of the carriage pocket and shooting himself would answer that question. But why bother?



He was no fool. He’d never felt worse in his life. Even lying flat during the whole damned carriage ride didn’t make any difference. A gun wasn’t really necessary.



“I’m dying,” he snarled at Finchley. “How in the bleeding hell do you think I feel?”



“Irritable,” Finchley rejoined. “You’re not dying, Your Grace.” His poor valet was one of the few who refused to accept the truth. “You’re on your way to a Christmas house party, just as you always do at this time of year.”



“More fool me,” he murmured. The fever was coming on again. He knew its calling card by now. It came in as inexorably as the tide of the ocean and swept him under. He tossed about in a red haze on the brink of succumbing, as undirected as a piece of jetsam.



“Where’s Miss Tatlock?”



“She’ll join us at the duke’s house.”



“Where’s Benjamin?”



There was no answer.



“Barnabe?”



“Who’s Barnabe?” Finchley said. “Your Grace?”



“Dautry?My cousin?”



“He’ll join us as well,” Finchley said soothingly.



But he was slipping away. One of these days he’d stay under, but at that moment the carriage lurched, and jolted his side. The pain was so excruciating that he woke up again with a cry.



“I’m sorry, Your Grace.” Finchley sounded close to tears and that sobered Villiers as much as the pain. “We’ll be there soon, I promise. Another hour or two, that’s all. I shouldn’t have let you do this.”



It was the right thing to do, though Villiers had no energy to explain it. He’d had two friends in his life, Benjamin and Elijah. Elijah had turned into the Duke of Beaumont, a pompous politician. Benjamin was gone.



He’d ask for Elijah’s forgiveness, politician or no. For what, he didn’t know. He couldn’t remember their quarrel now. It happened so many years ago, but it took place at Beaumont’s house, so it made sense to go there.