Page 129 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
It appeared that Tarkington now worked on the handle destined to be inserted in the horse's head.
"So what brings Miss Maybrey to a carpenter's workshop? Are you slumming, Miss Maybrey, or did you have some purpose?"
His sarcastic tone distressed Jocelyn for a moment. She'd not thought that to be his normal manner. Perhaps he just did not care to be caught at his manual labor? Or had she disturbed his concentration?
"My lord, the countess wishes you to know that Mrs. Bayne is joining us for dinner."
"Bound to happen."
"At five o'clock."
"Five!" The device faltered in its rhythm. "But it wants but four now!"
"Careful, my lord!" implored the carpenter.
The marquess released the treadle, stopped the lathe from turning, and stepped back. "No. I cannot do more." He scowled at the wood, though Jocelyn knew his scowl was more for the information she gave.
"It is my fault."
Tarkington looked up. "How do you deduce that?"
Jocelyn colored again. "It is because of Mr. Bayne's interest. I presume I'm to be examined like a horse at a fair: good teeth, sound of limb, no sway back or jarring paces."
The marquess laughed loudly, which brought out the light Jocelyn had come to look for in his eyes. "For someone who does not ride much herself, you have an understanding of the nature of horses."
She shrugged. "I'm a good listener."
He studied her a moment. "Yes," he said slowly, "I believe you would be. . . . But, Miss Maybrey," he continued briskly, "I shall never be able to finish this rocking horse before Christmas if I am continually interrupted!"
Jocelyn cocked her head. "Why not? From what I've seen, you have enough craftsmen. Together could they not make the toy in a day?"
Tarkington turned away, the set of his shoulders speaking eloquently of his disappointment in her response. Jocelyn clasped her hands together, not clearly understanding what she said that again had him coldly turning from her.
"Why can I not make my family, my peers, understand? What have we as a society become? A clamor of vain fribbles that must have everything done for us? Can we not enjoy laboring for others? Or is this some damned sin against society?" he railed.
"I beg your pardon, my lord?" Too late, Jocelyn heard the shrill self-righteousness in her voice.
Tarkington's face became still and coldly empty of expression. She might as well have just received a direct cut at the most fashionable social event of the season. It was as if the coldest winter wind had blown through the small carpenter's workshop. Jocelyn hugged her arms tightly against her body to ward off the chill. Nevertheless, it seeped into her heart and lay there like ice on a lake, growing, threatening to cover all.
She turned quickly to grab the door latch, her eyes blurring too much to see clearly. A sob caught in her throat. She swallowed hard, determined to hide her distress. Please let him believe it anger!
She yanked the door open to escape, but the marquess was faster than she. He caught her arm, halting her flight on the flagstone steps outside the workshop.
"Please, my lord!" She kept her head averted as she twisted her hand within his grasp, struggling to get free.
He pulled her toward him, anchoring her arm against his side, then with his free hand, he grabbed her chin and forced her to turn toward him. He looked down at her tear-streaked cheeks, and his expression twisted, cracking free of that cold stillness to reveal remorse. "I have made you cry," he said softly. "I forget too easily."
Jocelyn did not like him staring down at her like that. She was not comfortable with his nearness or the rapid pulse that throbbed in her neck. She searched her mind for some way to break the odd spell that surrounded them, to return each to their place. Another gust of wind blew one of her bonnet ribbons across her cheek. As she pushed it aside with her free hand, she realized the marquess had come after her without his coat.
"My lord! Your coat!"
"Damn the coat!"
"But you could take a chill!"
"Perhaps that would be a fitting punishment for my insensitivity, Miss Maybrey," the marquess said wryly, letting go of her arm.
Jocelyn stepped back. "Oh, no, my lord!"
