Chapter 6
A lady should only give her heart to a man she enjoys being with and who brings her joy.
Mrs. Matcher
A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
“You are shameful. Pathetic. Witless.” The accusations spilled from Emilia’s lips, and she stabbed a finger at her own guilty reflection in the bevel mirror. “And weak. You are weak, too. You were most certainly not supposed to enjoy yourself.”
Emilia let her arm fall to her side.
And yet… she had enjoyed herself.
She swiped her bonnet from the dressing table and jammed it atop her head. “And with a gentleman who wants nothing to do with you,” she muttered. Wasn’t that always her way?
Everything about her exchange with Heath had been unexpected. Why, the gentleman she’d taken him to be would have been suitably horrified at having a guest—and a lady at that—climb atop the breakfast table and reposition his mother’s floral arrangement. Instead, he’d met her challenge by collecting his plate and joining her at the opposite side of the table.
Emilia slowly looped the end of one velvet bonnet ribbon over the other. She’d set out to teach Lord Heath—Heath—a lesson, and at some point between last night and their time together in the breakfast room, she’d found that she rather liked being with him. She recoiled. There it was.
The pieces she’d taken as fact—his pompousness, his inability to jest, his unwillingness to have her around as a girl—had all proven erroneous on her part. The serious little boy she recalled, tucked away in his lessons while all the other children had played on his family’s grounds, had proven capable of levity, after all. What was more disconcerting was the truth that they’d not been unalike growing up. They were, in fact, more alike than she’d ever credited.
Some of it I enjoyed. Some of it I did not. But where you asserted some control over those expectations of you, I dutifully accepted each lesson and responsibility as my lot.
Heath, however, did not see it that way.
I remember you as the girl who talked circles around your father until he agreed to allow the gypsies to stay on his property and return each summer for the annual village fair.
He saw them as different because of her few moments of rebellion and her willingness to challenge her parents. Emilia, however, was not deserving of that praise. For in reality, they had been the same in those regards—ducal children who’d bowed to the expectations placed upon them.
Emilia finished tying off her bonnet.
She found herself enjoying someone who understood what being the child of one of those exalted figures had been—and was still—like.
Even if he was a gentleman who’d avoided her through the years and paid her attention now only at his mother’s bequest.
Suddenly looking forward to Lady Sutton’s house party, Emilia gathered her red velvet cloak and tossed it around her shoulders. Humming the cheerful, upbeat melody of “I Saw Three Ships,” Emilia next collected her leather gloves and started from her room. There was still a welcoming quiet in the halls while the other guests slept on. Part of the reason she’d taken to waking early each morn was so she could be assured she wouldn’t be bothered by gossips—her mother included. The early hours so hated by the ton belonged solely to Emilia.
Only… not all the ton were late to rise.
Heath was also awake.
That is because his mother ordered him awake and in the breakfast room, you nitwit.
She’d do well to remember that. All of this, any time they spent together, was a pretense. He was the dutiful son cheering up the brokenhearted spinster.
Strengthened by that reminder, Emilia hurried the remainder of the way until she neared the top of the stairwell, where voices drifted toward her.
“Is this where you want it?” Heath’s question was met with a child’s giggle.
“You are being silly. If it is there, no one will walk under it, Heath.”
“Being complicit in mischief I trust qualifies me to be called Uncle Heath,” he drawled.
Intrigued, Emilia drifted closer and then hovered at the top of the stairway. Two pairs of skates lay forgotten at the bottom step. Emilia inched closer, and hugging the wall, she stared at the unlikely trio below.
Already wearing his cloak and Oxonian hat, Heath stood with a bough of yellowish flowers and white berries.
Near an age of ten or eleven, a pair of girls stared expectantly at him. “You are being deliberately evasive, Uncle Heath,” one of the dark-haired girls said flatly. She jabbed a finger at the doorway. “There,” she directed, like a military commander at battle.
The little group looked as one at the area in question.
Her curiosity redoubled, and Emilia angled her head to better see the reason for Heath’s debate with his nieces.
“If you would, hang it there, please,” one of the children urged.
The slightly smaller of the pair sighed. “Yes, hang it there and be done with it already.”
“The front doorway. Uh… I trust that is… too obvious.” He gentled the rejection with a smile.
“That is the point of mistletoe,” one of the girls said with a toss of her head. “For people to find themselves caught under it.” She grunted as her sister jammed an elbow into her side.
“It is a silly tradition, Creda.”
“Silly? Silly is Uncle Heath attempting to affix it atop a mirror against a wall where no one will see it or walk under it.”
He frowned. “Beg pardon,” he said, with such a wounded expression that Emilia felt a smile tug her lips up.
The quarreling pair of sisters promptly ignored him. “If you find it silly, Iris, then you needn’t be here.” Creda gave a dismissive clap of her hands. “Where were we, Uncle Heath?”
Both girls stared expectantly at him.
“I was suggesting that we hang the ball—”
“The mistletoe,” Creda supplied for him.
“Here.” Heath hung the looped ribbon around the ornate work of a gilded mirror affixed to the wall.
Iris abandoned her negligent repose. “Well, who in blazes is going to walk under that?” she demanded, holding her palms up. “I mean, how would that even work? Would a person who looked in the mirror have to kiss their own reflection?”
“I… I…” He looked pained, and despite the particular glee she’d found in the whole endearing exchange, Emilia took mercy. She stepped out from the shadows and resumed her descent.
“Might I suggest a compromise?” she called down.
Three sets of eyes went whipping up.
Heath’s eyes lit, and she paused at the unexpectedness of that response. Heath, whose gaze had only ever been averted or aloof when she was near. Only… no… there could be no mistaking that unexpected light there because of… her. A little fluttering started low in her belly.
Silly. He is simply grateful for your intervention. That compelled her forward. Emilia reached the bottom of the staircase and stopped. “Hullo,” she greeted the twins.
“You are Lady Emilia, are you not?” Creda pressed, skipping over polite greetings.
It appeared Emilia’s name was infamous even with children. “I am,” she confirmed, turning her attention to the young girl.
Creda beamed. “Splendid! My mother speaks quite highly of you.” With that avowal, she darted over to her uncle’s side, snatched the bough from his fingers, and dashed back to Emilia.
“I believe this is where I’m doubly offended,” he muttered.
Emilia’s shoulders shook with silent mirth. “I trust you are searching for the ideal location for your mistletoe?” she asked, accepting the small holiday arrangement by the crimson ribbon. “The splendid thing about Lady Sutton’s…” She paused. These girls had recently become stepgrandchildren to the hostess. “Your grandmother’s household,” she neatly corrected, “is that there are clever little nooks and adornments where one can hang all manner of”—she winked—“anything.”
“Uncle Heath has spoken quite adamantly against the front doorway.”
“As much as it pains me to agree with Lord Heath, I must confess the front doorway is not the ideal location for mistletoe.”
Previously disengaged in the process, Iris, a shoulder propped against the wall, called over, “And why ever not?”
“Well, you see,” Emilia went on, moving deeper into the massive foyer, “everyone walks through the front doors, oftentimes in groups. Mothers and sons and fathers and daughters. Brothers and sisters.”
Both girls’ faces pulled in a grimace. “Kissing one’s brother?” they spoke in unison.
“I can see how I may have been incorrect about the placement, then,” Creda mumbled.
Emilia’s lips again twitched. “My point is not ‘who’ one”—she stole a glance from the corner of her eye at Heath—“meets under the mistletoe.” Her cheeks warmed. “But rather, the unexpectedness of that… that… meeting.”
“That kiss,” Iris said, rolling her eyes.
For one wistful moment, Emilia envied the girl her youth and innocence. It had been a lifetime since she herself had been that forthright. “Correct. The kiss,” she made herself say. “Not knowing who will find themselves under that doorjamb, at a given moment, accounts for the true excitement around the tradition.”
Both girls went silent as they seemed to be thinking on it.
Over the tops of their heads, Emilia and Heath shared a smile.
“Thank you,” he mouthed, touching a gloved palm to his chest.
Emilia gave her head an imperceptible shake, waving off the gratitude.
“Hmm,” Creda said, more to herself. “Very well. You have earned the rights.”
“The rights?” Emilia looked around at the assembled group.
Iris released an exaggerated sigh. “To select the placement.” She pointed to the Duke of Sutton’s leather library footstool.
“I’ve been stripped of my responsibilities, it would seem,” Heath said dryly.
Emilia bowed her head. “I am honored.” Doing a small circle, she took in the many options. She considered the arched entryways, parallel to one another. “Hmm.” She tapped a fingertip against her lip and then abruptly stopped. “I have it!”
Emilia and the twins looked to Heath, who still stood there with his arms folded at his chest, and he let his arms fall to his sides.
“The footstool, Uncle Heath,” Creda reminded in beleaguered tones.
Immediately springing into action, the marquess fetched the object in question.
“Over there, if you please.” Emilia pointed to the selected entryway, and as Heath carried the requested object over to the indicated spot, a memory trickled in of herself, near in age to Creda and Iris, sitting and giggling with her friends Aldora and Constance around a worktable at Lady Sutton’s. They were making garland and holly for the holiday party much the way these two little girls before her now did. Except…
Emilia frowned as another buried memory slipped forward.
“Do not look now, but Heath is in the doorway, Emilia,” Constance said from the corner of her mouth.
She glanced up and caught Lord Heath peeking from behind the doorframe, his somber stare on the revelries.
He’d slipped away, and just like that, she and her friends had continued on. She’d never given a thought to why he’d been there. Now, as a grown woman who’d heard him speak of the rigid existence he’d known as a duke’s son, she saw a possibility she’d not considered at the time—he’d wanted to take part in those festivities with the other children. A pang struck her chest.
“Lady Emilia?” one of the girls was saying, bringing Emilia back to the present.
“Hmm?” She blinked. “Oh, yes, uh… perfect,” she said, hurrying over to Heath. He held a hand out.
Emilia stared at his long fingers cased in fine Italian leather gloves. “What are you doing?” she blurted.
His palm faltered. “Offering you a hand up?” His was a question.
“It is the gentlemanly thing to do.” Iris imparted that advice like a seasoned finishing school instructor.
Except… it wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do. Gentlemen took on such tasks themselves, so as to ensure a lady wasn’t injured. Or that was what her former betrothed had said when they’d decorated her family’s townhouse the winter before they were to marry. As a young woman, she’d secretly chafed at his protectiveness, despising that he’d treated her like a cherished “object” to be guarded and not as a woman capable of hanging her own blasted mistletoe.
“Unless you’d rather I see to it?” Heath ventured.
“No,” she said quickly. “I have it. That is…” She brought her shoulders back. “I’ll see to it.” Resuming her supervisory role, Creda returned to the middle of the foyer. Emilia accepted Heath’s hand. “Do you know, the traditions around mistletoe go back thousands of years?”
Iris, who’d retreated to her place alongside the wall, straightened. “Really?”
“Really.” Emilia nodded. “In fact, Roman naturalist, Pliny the Elder, noted it could be used as a balm against epilepsy, ulcers, and poisons.”
Both sisters dissolved into another fit of giggling. “Holidays and poisonings are generally not two ideas that go together,” Creda said, smothering her mirth with her palm.
“That would depend. Some might prefer a poisoning to one of my parents’ house parties,” Heath said under his breath, startling a laugh from Emilia. She promptly missed a step.
Heath shot an arm out and immediately caught her around the waist, drawing her close.
The laughter froze on her lips, and she went absolutely still in his arms. One might underestimate the strength of this slender and wiry gentleman—as she herself had done before this moment—and yet, pressed together as they were, she felt every contour of his biceps and rock-hard stomach. Emilia’s mouth went dry as she lifted her gaze—
To Heath’s concerned one. “Are you all right?”
No. I’m not. She was ogling Heath Whitworth. Emilia stole a peek from the corner of her eye and found Creda and Iris lined up beside them. Worse, she was ogling him in front of his young nieces, no less. “Fine,” she squeaked. “I am fine.” My God, when was the last time she’d squeaked? She was no debutante but an almost thirty-year-old spinster. “I stumbled.” She stated the obvious for the trio staring back at her. What had they been talking about? Think. Think. The history of the mistletoe. Devoting her attentions to her task at hand, she climbed the last step. “The Greeks were also known to use mistletoe for menstrual cramps.” As Heath strangled on his swallow, Emilia schooled her features, hiding the perverse glee she found in teasing the straitlaced lord.
“Menstrual cramps, you say?” Iris asked, meandering to the middle of the foyer and taking up a spot alongside her sister. “I’d like to know more about th—”
“The Romans viewed it as a symbol of peace and friendship.” Heath spoke so quickly, his words rolled together as he effectively silenced the remainder of Creda’s request with a recitation that likely came verbatim from a textbook. “According to legend, enemies who met under mistletoe would lay down their weapons and embrace.”
His off-topic telling was met with several awkward beats of silence.
“I find I preferred Lady Emilia’s more interesting talk on monthly courses,” Iris muttered under her breath.
An endearing blush splotched Heath’s cheeks.
Despite her resolve, Emilia shook with amusement.
“I am so glad you find this amusing,” he said from the corner of his mouth.
“Very amusing,” she whispered. Alas, she took pity once more. “Perhaps we can meet later and speak all about mistletoe and menses when Lord Heath is not about.” She dropped her voice to a less-than-conspiratorial whisper. “You know how squeamish gentlemen can be.”
“Are,” Iris corrected, looking pointedly at Heath. “How squeamish gentlemen are.”
Winking in agreement with that opinion, Emilia returned to hanging the mistletoe. Stretching up on her tiptoes, she draped the red ribbon over the curved ornamentation at the center of the entryway. “There,” she murmured, and taking Heath’s hand once more, she started down the steps.
Creda giggled. “Well? Get on with it.”
Heath blanched and yanked his hand away from hers.
Emilia frowned. “Get on with what?”
“You’ve been trapped,” Iris said pityingly. “You’ve got to kiss squeamish Uncle Heath.”
Squeamish Uncle Heath who’d already retreated to the other side of the doorjamb. Emilia’s feet went out from under her. She gasped, throwing her arms wide for balance to no avail.
Heath, however, was across the foyer in three quick strides and caught under her knees and back. She glanced at the too-close white marble floor and then up at her unlikely savior.
Her heart hammered. Only, it wasn’t from the fall. It was his gaze. The intensity of those blue eyes seared her. Say something. Say anything… “I do not recall you being this swift of foot as a boy,” she whispered.
“I was.”
Their lives had intersected the moment she’d been born, so why didn’t she have more memories of him? Nay, of them together. “I did not notice,” she confessed, still faintly breathless from her second near fall. Nay, it was the weight of his arms wrapped around her. His body’s nearness.
“I know.”
With that faintly cryptic response, he set her on her feet. What did that mean? He had been the one who’d ignored her the whole of her existence. Hadn’t he? She searched her memory for every last interaction she’d had with Heath, but it was all tangled in her mind.
Her fingers shaking, Emilia smoothed her cloak and then straightened her bonnet.
“We should be going,” Heath said in the familiar austere tones she’d come to expect, so at odds with the ones he’d used in the breakfast room… or in the billiards room. Or moments ago, when they’d been hanging mistletoe.
“Yes. We should. Thank you, ladies, for allowing me—”
Creda and Iris slid into Emilia’s path, shoulder to shoulder. The young girls would have given the late Bonaparte nightmares.
“The kiss,” Creda reminded.
Oh, dear. They’d not forgotten. Why would they? Tales of kisses and any hint of romantic overtures were the manner of stuff to fascinate any girl. As such, they would expect the pair under the mistletoe to make good on that holiday promise. Emilia fanned her cheeks before realizing too late what she’d done. Stop. You’re no simpering miss.
In the end, it was Heath who answered for both of them. “I do not think that is a wise idea.”
An odd pang of disappointment stuck in her chest.
“It is the rule of the mistletoe,” Creda said in somber tones.
“It isn’t proper, however, for a gentleman to go about kissing a young lady.”
As uncle and nieces went back and forth debating the “law of the mistletoe,” Emilia frowned. Heath spoke of her as if she were one of those young debutantes a gentleman had to be delicate about. She’d not been that creature in more years than she cared to remember.
You have, however, become obnoxiously proper in the time since Connell threw you over.
As Heath continued to deliver a rather impressive—if insulting—list of all the reasons he should not kiss Emilia, her frown deepened… for altogether different reasons. Why, Heath’s lengthy list was really about all the reasons he did not want to kiss Emilia.
“And furthermore, we’re more like brother and—”
Oh, she’d had quite enough.
Catching him by the lapels of his cloak, Emilia pressed her mouth to his in a kiss that was to have been fleeting and, more important, would silence him and his blasted list. Only, it was neither of those things.
The blood roared in her ears at the absolute heat of his mouth on hers, his firm lips that were—
Good God.
Slightly out of breath, Emilia used the fabric of his cloak to propel him back. I kissed him.
More than half dazed, Heath stumbled away from her.
Iris and Creda stared on, wide-eyed. “I didn’t know ladies kissed men,” Creda whispered.
“Ladies can do anything a man can. I w-would argue even more, given that a woman can birth a babe.” How was her voice so steady? Unable to meet Heath’s gaze, she focused on the young twins. Managing a nonchalant toss of her curls, she turned to the young girls. “Creda, Iris, I look forward to speaking with you further.”
Then, gathering up the ladies skates forgotten until now on the step, she continued out the front door. Setting a brisk clip for herself, she tested whether Heath Whitworth was indeed as quick-footed as he’d professed.