Chapter Six

“It was very good of you to join us, Mr. Godwin,” Mary said as they waited by the front door. He was the third to take his leave so early; Lady Eva and her chaperone had excused themselves, her friend with a look that warned Mary to do all she could to secure Julian’s regard. Her mother had wished them well, but she had insisted that Mary see Chester out personally. Now if only Mr. Cowls would bring the fellow’s greatcoat quickly so Mary could return to Julian.

“My duty,” Chester said, head up with pride and shoulders once more on straight. “I’m considered a leader in the area, you know. As such, I must be kind to widows and orphans. See? You’ve already inspired me to improve my character.”

Perhaps not enough if he thought to brag about the matter, but it was a beginning. “I’m glad I could be of assistance.”

“Of course, I had other reasons for attending,” he said, glancing down at his shuffling feet. “I can’t have the other fellows moving in on my girl.”

She could not have heard him correctly. “Your girl?”

He glanced up and about as if to make sure none of the other guests were approaching, then moved closer until his shoulder pad brushed her cheek. “You must know I admire you, Mary.”

Mary took a step back. “Thank you. And you must know I look on you as a dear friend of the family.”

He frowned. “You needn’t posture. There’s no one about.”

If Cowls would move a little faster, there would be.

“I am not playing coy, sir,” she informed him. “You spent time with me today. I believe I made my feelings clear.”

“Absolutely. Allow me to do the same.” He seized her by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her mouth.

Choking, Mary shoved him back. “Stop that!”

“Why?” He looked sincerely confused, face puckering. “I thought we had an understanding.”

Blood was pounding in her ears. “Not in the slightest. If you try that again, I will know you are no gentleman.”

“But the kissing bough,” he protested. “The new dress. The way you pursued me across the lawn.”

Hot tears built behind her eyes. “None of that was done with the hope of enticing you to offer, sir. Now, please excuse me. I must see to my other guests.”

He inclined his head, causing his shirt points to dig into his cheeks, just as Mr. Cowls appeared with his coat. Mary hurried back into the great hall.

All around her, people laughed, toasted the coming holiday, made plans for the twelve days of Christmas. The Yule log had been lit, and the scent of pine resin curled through the air. Normally she loved to sit in front of the log, bask in the light, the warmth, and dream of the year to come. But she couldn’t dream and be pleasant, not now. She went to the refreshment table, yanked off the door of the gingerbread house, and took a big bite. At least the heady spices wiped away the taste of the kiss.

She’d never been kissed before, not on the mouth. She’d wanted her first true kiss to come from Julian. Now that was spoiled, and she didn’t know whether to cry or shout. Her mother had wanted her to encourage Chester. She’d done the exact opposite, and still he’d thought her besotted. Oh, the ignominy of it. She took another bite.

“Your cook is talented,” her cousin said, sidling up to her. “Perhaps I’ll keep her on when I inherit.”

Mary’s free hand bunched. “Not now, Nigel. I am in no mood for your taunts.”

He put his hand on his chest. “Taunts? You wound me, Cousin.”

“Not yet, but give me a moment to find a knife.”

He stepped back as if he weren’t sure she was being sarcastic. “Now, now. I know it can hurt when the gentlemen take no notice of a lady as she is about to make her debut. But you need not worry. I doubt your mother will live to take you to London.”

The gingerbread felt like a rock in her throat. “We will prove you wrong, sir.”

“Perhaps.” The word had never held more doubt. “But you have other options. I understand your guardian’s sister, Lady Winhaven, is seeking a companion. She is not known for her patience or compassion, but at least she would give you a home.”

She had a home, the home she’d been raised in, the home in which she’d celebrated every Christmas. She could not stop him from taking it one day, but she could prevent him from doing so as long as possible.

“Your concern would be touching,” Mary told him, “if I didn’t know you couldn’t care less. Enjoy the party. If I have anything to say about the matter, it will be your last for a long time.” She shoved the remainder of the gingerbread into her mouth and strode away from him.

Julian moved to meet her. “Mary? Is everything all right?”

She wanted to collapse against him, feel his arms around her, hear him say he would be at her side through whatever was coming. But he hadn’t offered. He wasn’t hers. The burden fell on her shoulders, and though she knew herself grown, she very much feared she would sink under it.

* * *

He had never seen her like this. He remembered Mary at the local assembly, smile teasing and steps light, her muslin gown floating about her ankles. He recalled Mary at church, face turned up in wonder at the stained-glass window depicting the birth of the Savior. Then there was Mary in challenge, eyes narrowed, head forward, as she raced her horse down the lane. Mary was strong, fearless.

At the moment, she was pale and trembling, eyes haunted, and he wanted to gather her close and promise to protect her always. Failing that, he wanted to find the fellow who had sapped the joy from her and pound him flat. All he could do was wait for her response.

She sucked in a breath as if trying to find calm in the middle of a storm. “Chester Godwin tried to kiss me, and my cousin threatened to pack me off as a companion, and I’d very much like to knock them both down.”

So would he. Instead he touched her arm. “That’s my girl.”

She pulled away. “I’m not your girl. I’m not anyone’s girl. I’m not a girl at all. I thought we’d settled that.”

He could not deny her. He’d never been so aware of her as today. Her black hair was thick and rich; he could imagine it slipping through his fingers. Her skin would be warm and soft to the touch, and her lips . . .

“Quite settled,” he said, cringing at the catch in his voice. Where was the calculated tone he’d cultivated? The charm that had endeared him to those far above his station at Eton?

She glanced up at him, blinking tears from her sable lashes. He felt as if she’d pierced his heart.

“I see,” she said. “And you feel no call to elaborate?”

He managed to rally. “I could say nothing that would allow you to keep your good opinion of me.”

She slumped. “So, you have only bad things to say of me now.”

He felt ham handed and stutter tongued. “You mistake me.”

“Then pray explain yourself.” The request came out with a hint of desperation. He could not leave her so destitute. He took her hand and drew her into the farthest corner of the room, placing himself between her and the rest of her guests.

“I am in awe, Mary,” he said, careful to keep his other hand at his side when all he wanted to do was touch her, hold her. “You are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Your hair is dark as mystery, your eyes bright as the lilacs anointed with dew. I could pen poems about the curves of your figure, spin sonnets about the wonder of your smile. You are clever, compassionate. You are peerless, fearless. You will shortly be a power to be reckoned with. I find myself wanting to conquer some far off empire and lay the riches at your feet.”

She was staring at him.

“But I’m no one,” he continued, determined to make her understand. “I have no fame, no fortune to offer. You deserve a duke, a prince, not a would-be solicitor with years of toil ahead before he can make a name for himself. I have no business giving you expectations of a future together.”

“I don’t care.”

He shook his head, certain he had misunderstood. “Pardon me?”

Mary raised her head. “I don’t care. Fortune and fame mean nothing to me.”

“They should,” he insisted. “You need someone to protect you, from your cousin if nothing else. Your most logical choice is to marry.”

“My thoughts exactly,” she said, gazing up at him. “How can I encourage you to offer?”