Margaret McPhee - A Magical Regency Christmas - Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel

She grimaced. ‘No.’

He didn’t believe her, but what could he do about it? He could hardly stay to defend her. The offer hovered on his lips—she could come back to the rectory for the night...Mrs Judd would be there, and— He stopped himself just in time. ‘Goodnight,’ he managed instead.

She went with him to the door and opened it. ‘Goodnight, sir. Thank you for your ideas about the scripture lesson. They were very useful.’

Hearing he’d said something useful about scripture amazed him. He couldn’t seem to think at all around her.

‘A pleasure. Goodnight.’

He breathed a sigh of relief that was near to a groan as the door closed behind him and he heard the bolts shoot home.

* * *

Halfway to the Rectory, he heard flying footsteps behind him.

‘Mr Martindale!’

He turned. She was running after him, holding the brace of woodcock.

He scowled. ‘Polly! What on earth are you doing? Where’s your cloak? You’ll catch your death!’

‘You forgot your birds.’

She held them out and his hands closed over hers. ‘No, I did not. They were for you. Now go back home to the warmth before you catch a chill.’

Before I kiss you.

Her mouth quivered and temptation beckoned. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said softly. ‘Thank you.’

He was an untrustworthy scoundrel apparently, because all he could think was how sweet her lips would taste, what it would be like to feel them tremble under his and, if they were at all cold, warm them for her. His hands tightened on hers, felt them tremble as he heard the soft, startled intake of breath...

‘Not at all, Miss Woodrowe. Goodnight.’ He released her, turned and walked away before he did something about finding out, right there in the dark village street.

Clutching the woodpigeon, Polly stared after the tall, lean figure. Her breath hitched, heart thudding against her ribs. For one startling, blinding moment, she had thought he was going to kiss her.

Chapter Four

Susan called the following afternoon, arriving in the carriage just as the children left. Polly greeted her politely and invited her in. Susan gave the living room a derisive glance, then swung around, a pitying expression on her face. ‘You poor thing, Hippolyta. I mean, living like this!’ She shuddered. ‘And you actually sleep in here, too? How can you? Really, you must be ready to see sense now. Mama says that Lady Littleworth is still looking for a companion, you know.’

Polly shrugged. ‘This is my home, Susan, and I’m perfectly happy here.’ She would be even happier if there wasn’t that sneaking suspicion that she looked forward to Alex Martindale’s daily visits far more than she ought to, that they had somehow become the high point of her day. And not because so often when he called, he had something for her. The woodcock yesterday, a pat of butter, or a small pot of jam that he claimed Mrs Judd had asked him to deliver.

Susan looked disbelieving. ‘Happy? Here? But it’s so—’ She waved her hands about. ‘It’s so squalid! I mean, there’s only that frightful settle, or whatever you call it, to sit on, and nothing to do except teach the village children! What on earth do you do in the evenings?’

Apart from wondering if Mr Martindale is going to kiss me?

Polly also refrained from telling her cousin that she went to bed early to save lamp oil. ‘I read. And any mending I do is my mending.’

‘Oh.’ Susan’s wrinkled nose suggested that she couldn’t think of anything more ghastly. Probably because she had never faced the thought of being Lady Littleworth’s companion, or mending the sheets.

‘Should you like a cup of tea, Susan?’ offered Polly, wondering if she could get away with re-using the breakfast tea leaves.

Susan looked slightly aghast as her gaze fell on Polly’s plain, earthenware cups. They were a far cry from Lady Eliot’s elegant tea service. ‘Oh, well. I shouldn’t like to put you to any trouble. It’s just, well, Tom is home, you know.’

‘No. I didn’t know.’ She didn’t much care, either. She’d see Tom at Christmas and that would be too soon.

Susan gave a conspiratorial smile and said, ‘Mama would be furious if she knew what I’m going to tell you, but I thought that it was only fair.’ She looked around, as though afraid her mother would pop up out of the floor, and went on. ‘Tom thought it better if I spoke to you first.’

Polly stared. ‘Tom thought what better?’ Surely he didn’t regret the way he had behaved two years ago?

Susan patted at her curls. ‘Well, you know he’s been staying with the Creeds? You remember the Creeds?’ Not bothering to let her answer, Susan rushed on. ‘He came home yesterday, terribly pleased. And you’ll never guess—he’s betrothed to Angelica! Mama is in alt, as you may guess!’

For a moment Polly was speechless, but Susan’s avid eyes, greedy for the least sign that her barbed news had struck home, stiffened her.

‘Oh. That is lovely news,’ she said. Susan’s slight frown gave her the impetus to forge a smile. ‘How nice for them. Aunt Eliot must be delighted.’

Susan stared at her. ‘You don’t mind, then?’

A little thread of amusement uncurled itself, mocking her. ‘Mind? Why ever should I? Please do wish Tom very happy for me. Although I suppose I shall be able to do that for myself next week.’ Christmas was so close now, and never had she looked forward to the festive season less.

Susan recovered somewhat. ‘You’ll still come for Christmas then?’

‘Why should I not?’ asked Polly. Was that it? Had Tom wanted her told, so that she might decide not to come, but not had the courage to tell her himself? To hell with him! If he had a guilty conscience, it was his problem.

Susan shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘Well, you see, Angelica and her parents are coming to stay. They arrive Christmas Eve.’

Which would make the manor uncomfortably crowded.

‘Oh. I dare say I shall only remain a couple of days, then,’ said Polly in very cheerful tones. ‘You might mention that to your mama for me.’

Susan glared at her and Polly tried hard not to smile. Her sweet little cousin wasn’t supposed to have told her anything.

‘You know everyone is talking about this, don’t you?’ burst out Susan.

‘About Tom and Angelica?’

‘No! About you! About how disgraceful it is that you’ve done this! You should have gone to Lady Littleworth!’

‘And not been paid,’ pointed out Polly. ‘Instead I have my independence.’

‘You would have been respectable!’ snapped Susan, as if it were a holy grail. She gestured at the room. ‘You think only of yourself! It’s selfish—living like this, you’re shaming all of us!’

‘How dreadful for you,’ said Polly sweetly. ‘Fancy not being able to hide the shame of a poor relation. And, yes, I am afraid that as a woman who must make her own way in the world, I do think of myself.’ No one else was going to do it for her.

Susan uttered a frustrated noise, turned on her heel and flounced out, banging the door.

With Susan gone, Polly sat slowly on the settle and stared into the glowing fire. Despite the warmth, a cold emptiness yawned inside her. Fool that she was to have thought even for a moment that Tom might have regretted his behaviour. All he regretted was her lost fortune. If she had married him, how long would it have taken her to see that? To see him for what he truly was? Would she have lied to herself day after day? Year after year? Pretended that all was well? That he was still the handsome, devil-may-care, big cousin of her childhood? How long could she have lied to herself and not become something beyond pity?

With a jolt, she realised that she didn’t care about Tom’s betrothal. That she had realised a long time ago what a lucky escape she’d had there. A queer thought came to her—if she could turn the clock back, regain her fortune, would it be worth the price of being married to Tom?