Mary Balogh: Under the Mistletoe

“But you would have,” she said. “The intention was there. Tom showed me the ring you gave as a gift for the baby.”

He shrugged again. “I am very wealthy,” he said. “It was nothing.”

“No,” she said, still looking at him with her grave eyes, “it was something.”

“Ah,” he said, “then I have impressed you. I have achieved my goal.”

She stared at him silently. He expected her to turn to leave, but she did not do so.

“Do you know how you have affected me?” he asked. “I do not believe I have ever before refused an invitation to bed. That was an invitation you were issuing last night?”

She lowered her eyes for a moment, but she lifted them again and looked at him calmly. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose so.”

“Why?” he asked. “You are not in the habit of issuing such invitations, are you?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes,” she said, “I grow tired of the grayness of life. It was so full of color until a little more than a year ago, but there has been nothing but grayness since and nothing but grayness to look forward to. It is wrong of me to be dissatisfied with my lot, and normally I am not. But I thought this was going to be a disappointing Christmas.”

“And it has not been?” he asked.

“No.” She smiled slowly. “It has been the most wonderful Christmas of all.”

“Because of the baby,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “because of him. And for other reasons, too.”

He reached out a hand. “Come and sit beside me,” he said.

She looked at his hand and set her own in it. She sat down beside him and set her head on his shoulder when he put an arm about her.

“I wanted you last night,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? And why I left you, the deed undone?”

“Because you knew I was inexperienced,” she said. “Because you knew me to be incapable of giving you the pleasure you are accustomed to. I understood. It is all right.”

“Because I realized the immensity of the gift you were offering,” he said. “Because I knew I could not take momentary pleasure from you.

Because any greater commitment than that terrified me.”

“I expected no more,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “That was the greatness of your gift.”

She sighed and set an arm across his waist. “I am going to remember this Christmas for the rest of my life,” she said. “It will seem quite unreal when I get back to my post, but I will remember that it really did happen.”

He turned his head, found her lips with his own, and kissed her long and lingeringly. Her lips were soft and warm and willing to part for him. He nibbled at them, licked them, stroked them with his tongue. But he would not allow passion to grow. It was neither the time nor the place for passion.

“I am a dreadful rake, Pamela,” he said. “My debauched behavior has been notorious for several years. Decent women give me a wide berth.”

She raised one hand and touched her fingertips to his cheek.

“But I have never debauched a married woman,” he said. “I have always held marriage sacred. I have always known that if I ever married, it would have to be to a woman I loved more than life itself, for I could never be unfaithful to her.”

Her finger touched his lips and he kissed it.

“Would you find such a man trustworthy?” he asked her.

“Such a man?” she said. “I don’t know. You? Yes. I have seen today, and last night, too, that you are a man of conscience and compassion.”

He took her hand in his and brought her palm against his mouth. “How do you think your father would react,” he asked, “to the idea of his daughter marrying a rake? Would my title and fortune dazzle his judgment?”

Her eyes grew luminous. “No,” she said. “But he would be swayed by kindness and compassion-and by his daughter’s happiness.”

“Would you be happy, Pamela?” he asked. “Would you take a chance on me?”

She closed her eyes and turned her face to his shoulder.

“It is absurd, isn’t it?” he said. “How long have we known each other?

Forever, is it? I have known you forever, Pamela. I have just been waiting for you to appear in my life. I have loved you forever.”

Her face appeared again, smiling. “I would be happy,” she said. “I would take a chance, my lord.”

“Edward,” he said.

“Edward.”

“Will you marry me, my love?” he asked her.

She laughed softly and buried her face again. She hugged his waist tightly. “Yes,” she said.

He held her wordless for a while. Then he slid one hand beneath her knees and lifted her legs across his. He reached beside him, shook out the blanket, and spread it over both of them. He settled the pillow behind his head, against the high wooden backrest of the settle.

“Stay with me tonight?” he murmured into her ear. “Just like this, Pamela? It is not the most comfortable of beds, but I will not suggest taking you to your room. I would want to stay with you, you see, and if we were there, I would want to possess you. I want that to wait until our wedding night. I want our bodies to unite for the first time as a marriage commitment. Are these words coming from my mouth?” He chuckled softly. “Are these the words of a rake?”

“No.” She turned her face up to his, her eyes bright with merriment.

“They are the words of a former rake, Edward-and never to be again. Does that sound dreadfully dull to you?”

He grinned down at her. “It sounds dazzlingly wonderful actually,” he said. “Pamela and only Pamela forever after. Are you comfortable?”

“Mm,” she said and snuggled against him. “And you?”

“A feather bed could not compete with this settle for softness and ease,” he said. He kissed her again, his lips lingering on hers. “Happy Christmas, my love.”

“Happy Christmas, Edward,” she said, closing her eyes and sighing with warm contentment.

Upstairs, in the room the Marquess of Lytton had occupied the night before, Tom kept watch over the mother of his child, who slept peacefully, and over his newborn son, who fussed in his sleep but did not wake. Tom stood at the window, gazing upward.

A single star almost directly overhead bathed the inn with soft light and glistened off acres of mud. It was not a pretty scene. Not a noticeably Christmas-like scene. The inn, somewhere in Wiltshire, was neither large nor picturesque nor thriving. No one has ever mapped its exact location.