Page 133 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
To her relief, the breakfast room was empty, one setting already removed with only a trace of a drop of coffee on the white tablecloth to show anyone had sat there. The realization that the marquess had already eaten and left felt like a weight leaving her shoulders. With a lighter heart, she filled her plate, for this morning, she was sharp-set.
She was finishing a second rasher of ham when she heard a sound behind her. She turned to find large brown eyes looking up at her from under a plain, dark blue bonnet.
"Hurry!"
"Hurry?"
The little head bobbled, and a tiny gloved hand reached for hers. "Papa's getting my pony cart."
"That's nice, Lady Anne, but what...." Then Jocelyn remembered. She had promised to accompany Lady Anne today. But she couldn't. Not now, not after the way she'd made a fool of herself last evening. She wished she had fallen victim to Lady Mary's malady so she could keep to her room until after the holidays and it was time to leave. She could not face Tarkington what he must think of her! Her cheeks burned in memory.
"Oh, my dear, I can't . . ." Her voice trailed off helplessly as she stared into Lady Anne's guileless young eyes. A promise had been made. Lady Anne was too young to understand casually made and casually broken promises. Jocelyn would not begin her education.
"I forgot to bring down my outdoor garments. I shall have to fetch them first," Jocelyn told the child as she rose from her chair. She would use the time to gather her wits and secure some emotional mask to see her through the day.
"Emmie brung them."
"Brought them," Jocelyn corrected without thought, then started. "She did?"
Lady Anne's head bobbled again as she pulled Jocelyn out of the breakfast parlor. "See?" She pointed at Emmie standing near one of the pier glasses that flanked the front entrance. Worse, she was speaking with the marquess.
Jocelyn felt her heart descend into her stomach. There would be no reprieve, no chance to order her mind or adopt any mien that could see her through her embarrassment. She stared at him, vulnerable to the slightest look or word.
"Miss Maybrey, you should not have let Anne take you away from your breakfast."
Jocelyn blushed and looked wildly around, searching for inspiration for the right words to say.
"We would have waited," the marquess finished.
Jocelyn whipped her head back to look at him. He was smiling only slightly, but the expression reached his eyes. She blinked, bemused.
"That's quite all right. I was finished. Really."
The marquess nodded, took her cloak from Emmie, and held it out for her. Numbly Jocelyn walked toward him and allowed him to put her cloak around her. She only woke from her dazed state when it appeared he would take her hat from Emmie as well. The thought of his hands placing her hat on her head and tying the bow under her chin galvanized Jocelyn to action. She dived under his arm to seize the hat first, then turned toward the pier-glass to settle it on her head. The marquess stepped away, but through his reflection in the glass, Jocelyn saw the odd way he compressed his lips, and the light in his eyes glow brighter. He was laughing at her!
"Well, Lady Anne," she said briskly, "shall we go for a ride in your cart?"
"I'm afraid we won't be using the cart," the marquess said as they descended the stone steps before the manor.
"But, Papa!" protested Lady Anne.
"Hush. This is much better. See? I instructed the grooms to harness one of the small estate wagons. How else can we bring home the Christmas greens your grandmother wishes us to gather?"
"You, my lord?" Jocelyn heard herself ask.
Tarkington laughed. "Yes, Miss Maybrey. It seems the house servants are considered to have more important matters to attend to. I, as the most frivolous of the lot, am free for garland and boxwood and mistletoe gathering."
Jocelyn smiled despite herself. "Frivolous, my lord?"
"Decidedly frivolous." He stopped by the wagon. "You first, Miss Maybrey."
"What? Wait—"
The Marquess's hands were firm about her waist. He lifted her high as if she weighed no more than Lady Anne. Instinctively her hands grabbed his forearms for security. He set her on the worn padded wagon seat. He would have dropped his hands immediately if it were not for the firm grip Jocelyn maintained. Guiltily and flushing once again, she released her grip, her hands sliding self-consciously away.
Jocelyn's breath clouded against cold morning air, but inwardly she felt a new glowing warmth almost like banked coals. It was a curious feeling, not altogether unpleasant, though the thought of what might fan those banked coals to flames unsettled her.
Their eyes held a moment longer, and then the marquess turned to lift his little daughter for Jocelyn to settle between her and where the marquess would sit on the wagon bench seat. Afterward, Jocelyn's breathing felt tight, as if a band constricted her chest. She turned her attention toward Lady Anne, seeking some solace in the child's bright chatter as the marquess turned the wagon down a trail paralleling the river.
