Chapter 11
The Countess had excused herself with excessive charm before she could be drafted to help clean up. Nicola was not at all annoyed to be left alone with Jack to do the drudge work, and suspected the woman had an ulterior motive to absent herself besides reluctance to get her soft white bejeweled hands wet in soap suds.
Nicola had not missed the Countess’s shrewd, speculative glances and teasing repartee throughout the afternoon. No doubt by leaving, she thought she was facilitating an affair between Nicola and Jack.
Nicola had never contemplated having an affair in her life. Her future had been planned out since she was in her teens—an eventual marriage to Richard, a family if they were so blessed, a useful role as her husband’s helpmeet on the political trail.
All that was lost to her now, and apart from the children component, she couldn’t really say she was too broken up over it.
She had been hurt at first, of course, watching Richard step back inch by inch as she was so slow to recover. It had come as no real surprise when he finally withdrew his offer of marriage. To be truthful, her mother had been more devastated than she was. Nicola had seen his impatience and, yes, indifference long before he had come to her with nervous excuses.
Did things happen for a reason? A train accident resulting in fatalities was a rather dire way to break an engagement and be saved from a conventional existence.
Richard was a boring man, if she was to be honest.
Nicola imagined life with Jack would never be boring. He was so full of ideas and energy. Why, look at him scrub the pots and pans, as if he was trying to rub the enamel and copper off.
She couldn’t picture Richard washing dishes for any reason whatsoever. He would consider it all far beneath his dignity, even if he fashioned himself a champion of the working man. Lord knows, Richard had as much dignity as two or three men combined. Always aware of the impression he made, he was close to being humorless and smiled only when it was politically expedient. Nicola couldn’t even remember what his teeth looked like.
She mustn’t think uncharitably of her former fiancé—it was Christmas, a time for peace and forgiveness. Wonder. And the current man in her kitchen was creating a wonderful impression all by himself.
Jack’s sleeves were rolled up, exposing a light dusting of dark hair. One would not think wet bare forearms would be so appealing, but one would be wrong. He had seen at once that the tight fitted sleeves of her best dress were unsuitable for this kitchen task and had plunged right in, chattering away. Complimenting her on the lunch. Ruminating over the exact nature of the Countess’s dispute with her relations. Laughing over the undeniable over-soaking of the fruitcake—Nicola felt a little drunk from the two pieces she’d consumed.
Reminding her about the peaches. He must have a bottomless stomach. Nicola was so full she barely had the strength to dry the dishes and put them back in the Welsh dresser. She would send him home with a jar, her Christmas present to him.
“There! I think we’re done! Here, hold still.” His voice was cheerful, his hand warm from the hot water as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She felt her cheeks flame from the contact.
“Thank you again. It was quite the loveliest Christmas I’ve ever had.”
That couldn’t be true. Yes, the luncheon was filling, but all the usual trappings of Christmas were missing. There had been no paper hats and crackers, no pile of gaily-wrapped presents, no carols, no fir tree strung with cranberries and popcorn.
She was about to write her shortcomings down when he propelled her out of the kitchen and into her snug little sitting room. And there, in a dented bucket on her piano, was the oddest thing she’d ever seen. A raggedy shrub sported bits of builders’ wire and bent nails and loops of paper. Nicola looked at Jack in stupefaction.
“It’s meant to be a Christmas tree. Not my best effort, I admit. My resources were limited to what I swept up at the end of the day at Primrose Cottage. And I need to put the bush back into my garden before it dies or they fine me for stealing it. But I thought—” He shrugged. “I know it’s a poor substitute for the real thing.”
Nicola was so overcome she was stock still, then felt the tears form. She had stopped crying months ago, mostly—it was a worthless endeavor that solved nothing, just stuffed up her nose and made her eyes red. But she couldn’t stop the flow now and didn’t want to.
Jack had cared enough to bring a bit of Christmas to her, ungainly as it was. She thought back to the presents she’d received this year—the lush fur stole her parents had sent, her older nephew’s attempts to draw her terrier, Tippy, who had gone to Scotland with all of them, to her relief, and the shell-covered box Frannie had decorated herself. The tree beat them all.
She opened her mouth to say thank you, but of course no words came out.
She would just have to kiss Jack instead.
It was certainly not a difficult task. He stood close, his face a mix of pride, concern, and embarrassment. He was reaching for her face to wipe the tears away, so she kissed his work-roughened palm first. His brown eyes widened as her lips brushed against the web of lines.
Perhaps one’s fate was visible on one’s hand as the Travelers claimed. Jack had questioned the reason behind life events earlier. Could they be predicted? Avoided? What would a palm-reader say? Was the train accident a sharp branch on Nicola’s life line, a detour from a simple straight line that would have led to a normal life?
Such as a marriage to Richard. Her role as a political wife would have had neat boundaries. Expected duty and circumspection and virtue would fence her in, her own opinions unexpressed in the service to her husband’s career. No thoughts of women’s suffrage or questioning “this is the way we’ve always done it.” Nicola would have come second to his ambition, if that.
That second-place Nicola would not be thinking of kissing a man’s hand or imagining what he looked like without his shirt. But that Nicola had disappeared on the way to Bath on a gray March day.
She had no duty to anyone now but herself. She was free to make a mistake if she chose, and would live with the consequences.
Jack had teased her that it had been she who’d made all the advances between them. She would continue to do so. Even if she couldn’t speak, the man couldn’t miss her signals.
She stood up on tiptoe and cradled his face, his beard as smooth as her new fur stole. He gazed down, tiny wrinkles crinkling at the corner of his dark eyes.
“You like the tree that much, eh?”
She nodded, staring at his lips.
He focused on hers. “You are driving me mad.”
I do hope so.
She didn’t have to fish her notebook out of her pocket and write it to make her intentions plain. Drawing his face to hers, she licked the seam of his lips, sweeping from one upturned corner to the other. He groaned and opened, and she took control.
She couldn’t stand forever on her toes—she was no ballerina. Jack seemed to understand, holding her steady as the kiss took flight. Their tongues glided together in the slowest of dances, circling and swooping as if they had forever.
They almost did. Mrs. Grace wasn’t coming back until tomorrow morning, nor was Mrs. Feather returning to Jack’s cottage. The nosy neighbors should be preoccupied with their own Christmas festivities. Who was to know that Jack was still here?
Earlier, he had walked the Countess down to the front gate and then to her cottage a few doors away. As it was late afternoon, it was already dark. Maybe no one saw him come back up Honeywell Lane, through the path to Stonecrop, ducking beneath the bare branches. Nicola’s cottage was fairly private, set back high from the road by a long stone path through its neat front garden. They weren’t in the glass conservatory any longer, and no one could see through the parlor’s closed velvet drapes.
The couch was just a few steps behind her. A bed would be an even better place in which to explore the absence of Jack’s shirt, though Nicola was not sure she could make it upstairs without stumbling. Her head was spinning, her breath catching, her heart erratic beneath the black-frogged bodice of her best dress. The kiss was a dream, a solemn promise of an unknown journey that she was entirely willing to take.
So it came as a shock when Jack’s hands came to her shoulders to set her aside.
Don’t stop.
He blinked down at her. “What?”
Had she made another noise? The blood was rushing so loudly in her ears, she couldn’t tell.
Don’t stop.
Nothing. She stamped her foot in frustration.
“Yes, you spoke! Or sort of spoke. I take it you wish to resume kissing?”
Nicola nodded.
He walked over to the misbegotten Christmas tree and twirled a metal circle. “I don’t know if that’s wise. We are unchaperoned. The Puddling governors were perfectly correct to invite the Countess to join us to prevent anything untoward. I’m not sure I can be a gentleman.”
I don’t want you to be a gentleman, you idiot. Perhaps her phrasing was undiplomatic, but it was heartfelt.
He gave her a rueful smile. “You don’t know what you are saying. Writing, I mean.”
I do too! I am an adult woman, not a child.
“You are not a child, that much is true. You are…so lovely, a man cannot think around you. But someone has to. There are consequences to our actions if we keep kissing. I don’t want you to be sorry later.”
I won’t be sorry.
He shook his head as if she couldn’t possibly know her own mind. “You don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”
Exactly. I could slip on the ice again, roll down Honeywell Lane, and drown in the stream.
“Good God. I hope not. And anyway, I hear the stream has frozen solid. First time in a century, according to Tom. Do you skate?”
Nicola stamped her foot again. Do not avoid the subject.
“I’m not sure what the subject is.”
Take me to bed, Jack.
One could not be any plainer than that.