A Holiday by Gaslight Read online

  “Er…yes. I’ll tell her.” Sophie smoothed a hand over her skirts as she walked to the door. She felt suddenly as if everyone in the room knew what she was about.

  She stepped out into the empty hall. There was no sign of Ned anywhere.

  Perhaps she’d misinterpreted his gesture? Perhaps he truly had gone up to his room to change?

  She lingered a moment, but there seemed no point in waiting. It would only make her conspicuous. She might as well go to the kitchens and see about tea.

  With that in mind, she descended the stairs to the first floor. She was nearly at the bottom before she heard him on the steps behind her.

  “Sophie.” He swiftly caught up with her.

  She stopped on the second step, feeling a little foolish when he moved to stand in front of her at the bottom of the stairs. He was still taller than her, but now she need only tilt her head back a fraction for them to see eye to eye.

  “Didn’t you understand my signal?” he asked.

  “I thought I did, but you weren’t there, so…”

  “You didn’t wait very long.”

  “Really, Ned. What did you expect? I’ve no experience with subterfuge.”

  “You seemed to fare all right the night you came to Fleet Street.”

  Sophie flushed. “That was different.”

  “Fair enough.” He extended a hand to her. “Come. I want to talk with you awhile.”

  She hesitated before sliding her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong. “Where? Outside? I’m not dressed for it.”

  “No. Inside. Or, more precisely, in the library. I’ve been investigating and I’ve discovered that it’s usually empty at this time of day.”

  Sophie allowed him to lead her across the entry hall and down the corridor to the set of dark, wood-paneled doors that led to the Appersett House library.

  The cavernous room, two floors high, was filled to bursting with leather-bound books from generations past. It smelled of beeswax and lemon polish, a fragrance that always reminded Sophie of the long winter days she’d spent as a girl, nestled in one of the oxblood leather chairs by the fire, reading.

  “Someone once told me that a well-used private library was the sign of a truly successful gentleman.” Ned shut the doors behind him. “A man in possession of one must not only have the ability to read, but the funds to purchase a surfeit of books, and the leisure time to enjoy them.”

  “I’d never thought of it that way before.”

  “You wouldn’t. You’ve always had access to this, haven’t you?”

  “My whole life.”

  He looked around. “Have you read all of these books?”

  She laughed. “Hardly. I can’t even claim to have read half of them. They’re mostly treatises on agriculture and natural philosophy.”

  “Not topics very much to your liking, then.”

  “Not entirely, no. Though I’ve recently purchased a new book which might qualify as both.” She moved to the high wooden shelves on the opposite wall and extracted a volume bound in green cloth. “It’s rather controversial,” she said as she extended it to him.

  Ned took it, his eyes sweeping over the gilt lettering on the spine. “Charles Darwin?”

  “Papa doesn’t know I purchased it. He wouldn’t approve.”

  “I’m not sure I approve.” Ned flipped through the pages.

  She moved to take it back from him. “Are you the sort of gentleman who’d restrict a lady’s reading?”

  He held it out of her reach. “Don’t be hasty. That isn’t what I meant. I simply don’t know if I agree with the man’s theories.”

  “And why not? You of all people should see the wisdom in his hypothesis. He believes that living creatures adapt and change in unique and interesting ways. That this very adaptation is what ensures their survival.”

  “He also believes that human beings derived from monkeys. Or, possibly, worms.”

  She gave him a look of mild reproof. “You’ve been reading Punch.”

  “I’ve seen the caricatures. They’re not very flattering to Darwin’s theories.”

  “Punch isn’t flattering to anyone. I wouldn’t put much stock in their opinions. Mr. Darwin’s theories on natural selection have been endorsed by countless men of science. And they seem perfectly reasonable to me. What I can understand of them.”

  He returned her book. His blue eyes grew serious. “Is that really what you think I’ve done? Adapted and changed to ensure my survival like some plant or animal on an island somewhere?”

  “Not exactly. Plants and animals have little in the way of free will. But the idea is the same, isn’t it? Adaptation and survival? Only for human beings there’s an element of choice involved.”

  “I’ve never considered it.”

  “I have. Indeed, it seems a particularly important point in our modern world. Every day there’s a new idea, a new invention. We can no longer be content to stay in the same place, doing the same things as generations before us. We must alter our behavior. We must adapt ourselves to the times or risk being left behind.”

  Ned looked at her for a long moment. And then, very slowly, an expression of understanding came over his face. But not just understanding, she realized. There was something else there as well. A brief glimmer of compassion. Of tenderness. “You’re seeking to rationalize your father’s obsession with modernization.”

  “No! It’s not that.” She wandered behind one of the leather chairs near the fireplace, her hand resting briefly on the tufted back. “At least, it’s not only that.”

  Ned regarded her from beneath lowered brows as she walked back to the bookcase. “I thought we agreed you were going to leave that particular burden with me.”

  “It’s not so easy to relinquish it. Not when I’ve been carrying it for as long as I can remember.”

  “Sophie…” He followed after her, slow and cautious. As if he were stalking one of the wild does in the woods outside Appersett House. “I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

  She turned to re-shelve Mr. Darwin’s book. “Yes?”

  “The morning we walked together, you said you hadn’t wished to marry when you were nineteen, nor when you were twenty, nor one-and-twenty. That it hadn’t mattered to you when your father took your dowry.” He came to stand behind her. “Why didn’t you wish to marry?”

  She stilled for an instant, her fingers frozen on the spine of the book. And then she turned back to look at him. “I suspect you already know the answer.”

  “You’re needed here.”

  “I’m needed here.”

  Ned’s face was grim. “You help to manage things for your family. To keep them from ruin.”

  “It isn’t so heroic as all that. My mother and I haven’t that much power. All we can do is make little economies. Carve up the household budget to trim away any fat. Dye our gowns, remake our old hats, that sort of thing. As for the rest…it all comes down to our powers of persuasion. We’ve been trying to convince Papa to sell his hunters. To retrench. But he’s disinclined to make any sacrifices at present.”

  “He makes no sacrifices at all, that I can see. Nor does your sister.”

  “We spare her the worst of it. She’d take it too much to heart. It matters so much to her how she looks and what people think of her.” Sophie’s gaze dropped. She didn’t have to look at Ned to know what he was thinking. “You believe she’s spoiled.”

  “Isn’t she?”

  “A little. But you must understand…Emily is the beauty of the family. The one most likely to marry well—and the one most likely to drain the family coffers if she remains. It only made sense to see her properly outfitted and given a season.”

  “The family beauty, you say.” Ned’s voice was deep and warm. “Yet she can’t hold a candle to you.”

  Her heart
fluttered. She tried her best to ignore it, even as she raised her eyes back to his. “Yours is the minority view, sir.”

  Ned rested his hand on the bookshelf at her side. He was so close that her skirts bunched against his legs. “When it comes to you, I’d like to think that, one day, my view will be the only one that matters.”

  “Second to my own, surely.”

  His mouth hitched in a fleeting half smile. “You’ll not find me a dictator.”

  It was so absurd, that she smiled, too. “You’re making light of it, but I’ve been independent for a very long while. I’m set in my ways and not likely to change anytime soon.”

  “You call it independence to live here with your family?”

  She lifted her shoulder in a delicate shrug, fully conscious of how his body caged hers against the shelves. It was almost protective the way he loomed over her, his head bent and his arm at her side, surrounding her in the subtle scent of lemon verbena, polished leather, and linen.

  One step and she’d be pressed to his chest, her frame engulfed by his much larger one. What might that feel like? Thrilling, she supposed. And dangerous, too. She really didn’t know. But the very idea of it made her pulse throb.

  “I read what I like and I’m free to come and go as I please,” she said. “Within reason.”

  “Books are important to you.”

  “Very much. I read whenever I can find a spare moment.”

  “There haven’t been many of those these past days. Since that morning in the woods, I’ve scarcely seen you outside of the company of the other guests. I’d begun to despair of ever catching you alone.”

  “You’ve been no more available than I have. My father commands all your time.”

  “And my mother, yours.”

  It was true. She’d been making a special effort to keep his mother entertained. To make her feel at home. Nevertheless…

  Sophie sighed. “I don’t think she approves of me.”

  His brows shot up. “Has she said so?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “In any words?”

  “She doesn’t have to say anything. I can tell, when she looks at me, that she finds me lacking.” She paused before adding, “Mr. Murray is no great admirer of mine either. After what happened in London, no doubt he thinks me fickle.”

  “At present, I wonder that Murray thinks anything at all. He seems to have lost his wits over your sister. I can’t imagine why.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever lost your wits over anyone.”

  He gave her a wry look. “I’m at a baronet’s Christmas house party in the wilds of Derbyshire. Frozen solid most nights and obliged to listen to Mrs. Lanyon lament the passing of Prince Albert most days. I think I’ve lost more than my wits.”

  Sophie ducked her head to conceal a smile.

  “I have another question for you,” Ned said.

  “Yes?”

  “When I kiss you under the mistletoe—and I am going to kiss you—would you rather it be in front of your parents and all of creation? Or would you rather it be somewhere private?”

  She met his eyes, fully conscious of the heat sweeping up her neck. It was impossible to remain composed under such circumstances. Not when he was looking at her so intently. Not when the butterflies in her stomach were unfurling their wings and soaring into flight.

  Good gracious. Was it possible to swoon from the mere mention of kissing?

  She moistened her lips. “The mistletoe is only in the drawing room, the doorways, and the main hall. We didn’t hang it anywhere else. Certainly nowhere that could be called private.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. And then another. She tried to ignore it, endeavoring to be sensible about the situation. Businesslike, even. “I’d rather you not kiss me in front of my parents if you can help it. But it’s Christmas, so I don’t see how—”

  “Look what I have.”

  Sophie watched, breathless, as he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a sprig of mistletoe adorned with three small white berries.

  “I’m going to place it just here.” He put it on the edge of the shelf above her head. “Unless you object?”

  She couldn’t seem to summon her voice. When she spoke, the words were the merest whisper. “I don’t object.”

  Ned withdrew his hand from the shelf, but he didn’t lower it back to his side. Instead he brought it to her cheek, the back of his fingers tracing a delicate path from her temple to the edge of her jaw. “How soft you are,” he murmured. “Even softer than I imagined.”

  “You’ve imagined…touching me?”

  He gave a dark chuckle. “Often,” he said. “Too much for my own good.”

  She inhaled a tremulous breath. His fingers were warm on her cheek, his touch almost reverent. She’d never dreamed he would handle her with so much care. Not that he’d ever been a brute, but he was so much bigger than her, so tall and strong. She marveled that such a man could be so gentle.

  He tipped her chin up on the edge of his hand. Then he bent his head and kissed her very softly on the mouth.

  Sophie’s eyes fluttered closed as his lips met hers. She’d been kissed beneath the mistletoe before. Childish pecks administered during the Christmases of her youth. But this was no childish peck. Ned’s lips were warm and firm, molding perfectly to hers. She listed against him, their mouths clinging together for an endless moment.

  And then it was over.

  She opened her eyes and blinked up at him, as if waking from a dream that had ended far too soon.

  His hand still cupped her chin. He was regarding her intently. “Was that all right?”

  She nodded, still incapable of speech. It was more than all right. It was a revelation. Every nerve ending in her body was humming with she knew not what. And all he’d done was caress her face and press a chaste kiss to her lips.

  “Do you think you can bear to repeat the experience when next we encounter a sprig of mistletoe?”

  Her cheeks burned. A more sophisticated lady might play coy. Might pretend that what had just happened hadn’t shaken her to her core. But Ned wasn’t blind. And they’d promised to be honest with each other. She saw no reason to prevaricate. “I can more than bear it.”

  A flash of triumph gleamed in the depths of his blue gaze. “It’s hanging in all the doorways, isn’t that what you said?”

  “And in the drawing room and the main hall. Everywhere in full public view.”

  He plucked the mistletoe from the shelf above her head and tucked it back into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Then I’d better keep this on hand. Just in case.”

  The next day the tree arrived. Some men from the estate drove it up to the front of the house in a long wooden cart. The tall, handsome fir had wide, full branches of deep green. It was so big that part of it dragged on the ground behind the cart, leaving a deep furrow through the snow.

  The servants wrestled it into the house and installed it in the main hall where the ceiling was high enough to accommodate its great size. The newly-mended tree skirt was draped round its bottom and then—fortified by cups of tea and glasses of mulled wine—Ned and the other guests were invited to help trim it.

  “I expect a woodland creature to crawl out of it,” Walter said under his breath. “It’s mad to have it in the house.”

  “Haven’t you ever had a Christmas tree, Mr. Murray?” Emily asked. She was established nearby on a straight-backed wooden chair, her injured ankle propped on a tufted footstool. A small wooden crutch leaned at her side. She’d been using it to hobble about.

  “Never one of such majestic proportions.”

  “It has to be big.” Sophie walked by carrying a crate of tinsel ornaments. “Anything less would be dwarfed by the size of the hall.”

  She w
as wearing an afternoon gown of claret-colored silk with embossed velvet ribbons and fine muslin undersleeves graced with delicate cuffs. The same delectable dress she’d worn to visit Ned in Fleet Street.

  He lifted the crate from her arms. “Where would you like it?”

  Sophie looked at him and quickly looked away. “Just there, by the tree skirt.”

  Ned wasn’t offended by her response. She’d had just such a reaction at dinner last evening, and then again at breakfast when he sat beside her and their arms had brushed. She was flustered by him. As skittish as a schoolgirl. And he knew why.

  It was that kiss.

  That brief, all-consuming kiss.

  It had been chaste. Respectful. And sweet as anything. All clinging lips and mingled breath. The memory of it had been tormenting him since the moment he’d drawn back from her mouth. He’d spent half the night thinking of it. And the other half dreaming of when he might kiss her again.

  “It was Prince Albert who started the tradition,” Mrs. Lanyon said. “When he came from Germany to marry the Queen. They always have Christmas trees in Germany.”

  “We didn’t get our first tree until many years after,” Ned’s father said, twining wire around a tree candle. “Seemed a foolish idea. But it did look fine when it was all decked out.”

  Lady Appersett smiled as she drifted through the hall. “I think it’s a lovely tradition. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Sharpe?”

  Ned’s mother paused in the act of unknotting a ribbon. Her expression was reserved to the point of coldness. “Lovely it is, my lady. And wasteful.”

  “Wasteful?” Emily echoed.

  “Aye. Wasteful, I call it, to cut down a tree merely to dispose of it days later.”

  “It’s tradition,” Walter said. “And like all traditions, often more trouble than it’s worth. Best to dispense with them all, I say.”

  “What a humbug you are, Mr. Murray,” Emily said. “And to think I cast Mr. Sharpe as Mr. Scrooge and you as Mr. Marley. I daresay it could be the reverse.”

  Ned exchanged a bewildered glance with Walter.

  “What’s this about Scrooge and Marley?” Walter asked.