Page 135 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
Jocelyn blinked and blushed. She opened her mouth and closed it several times in succession as she thought of, then quickly discarded, one answer after another. Ultimately she realized there was no direct answer to be given.
"Is something troubling you, Miss Maybrey? Aside from my Aunt Bayne, and I beg you not to let her trouble you. I believe she would try the patience of a saint," he said with a soft laugh. "But leaving that unfortunate situation aside, is there anything wrong? I know this is being forward, but I am concerned."
She shook her head. "What troubles me would not halt an ant. It is nothing, my lord. Merely my own silliness. Mother tells me I can be a goose at times."
"That I do not believe. I think you are far wiser than most. . . . There, Anne, do you see that bunch of green high in the oak tree ahead? That's your mistletoe."
"Up there? But how do we get it, Papa? It's too high!" Tarkington laughed. "I haven't done so in years, but I believe I still can climb a tree."
"My lord!" exclaimed Jocelyn.
"Don't you believe I can, Miss Maybrey?"
"Yes, yes, of course you can," Jocelyn stammered, "But what of your clothes?"
He glanced down at his immaculate fawn-colored greatcoat. "Yes, I see your point. Greatcoats are not conducive to climbing." He jumped down from the wagon seat, took off his coat, and slung it over the edge of the seat.
"My lord! You'll catch a chill!"
"Devil a'bit, Miss Maybrey. You fuss more than my mother," he teased. He reached for Lady Anne. "Come on, poppet, down you go. . . . I need you to help catch the mistletoe when it falls." He set his daughter down and wordlessly held out his hand for Jocelyn.
Jocelyn, flustered by his teasing, tripped over the end of the lap robe that had fallen to the floorboard. Tarkington caught her by the waist as she stumbled forward. As her color soared higher, the Marquess's grin grew broader. Never did he look less like the serious man of Lady Mary's description.
The intimate feel of his hands around her waist ricocheted tingling heat throughout her body. In shock, she raised questioning eyes to meet his, only to have their gazes lock. Slowly he set her on the ground, but his hands remained at her waist. The air grew thick between them. Jocelyn saw a pulse beat in his neck and knew he was as strangely affected as she. That knowledge calmed her fears, and the tingling heat grew, spreading throughout her body. Her lips parted in wonder at the sensations she felt, at the warmth of the expression in his gray eyes like sunlight reflecting on a still pond. The tips of his fingers pressed against her back to pull her closer while his muscles tensed, his head dipped, and the pulse in his neck quickened.
"Papa, can I climb the tree, too?"
Tarkington's hands dropped from Jocelyn's waist. He crossed to his daughter's side and swung her up in his arms, his expression shuttered and rigid. "No, poppet," he said in a strangled voice. He cleared his throat. "It's too high a climb for you."
Jocelyn gasped at the realization that he'd intended to kiss her! Red surged into her cheeks, and she turned away from Tarkington and Lady Anne—ostensibly to look out over the countryside, in reality, to hide the myriad emotions she knew to be chasing across her face. Vaguely she was aware of the marquess setting his daughter back down and instructing her where to stand.
The sound of boots scraping against the bark as he climbed the tree matched the emotions inside her. He'd been about to kiss her! And she'd wanted him to! Never had Mr. Bayne attempted more than to kiss her hand. Nor would she have allowed him further liberties. But she would have allowed Tarkington—would have welcomed them!
She brought a cold, gloved hand up against her flaming cheeks. What could have possessed her? She was acting the flirt. Was it because he was a marquess? Was she enamored with his title? She hoped not, for that would not allow her to think well of herself. Was it his widower circumstances?
Was it his country lifestyle? She acknowledged she did enjoy the different pace, the truth in nature, and the estate. Was it just some reaction of her disquiet, that curious dissatisfaction she'd felt with London and her season?
Why?
She glanced over her shoulder toward the tall oaks. Tarkington was on a high branch stretching to reach a clump of mistletoe. Jocelyn's heart constricted with fear. She closed her eyes tightly, afraid to see him fall.
"Good, Papa!" cheered Lady Anne, clapping gloved hands together.
Jocelyn opened her eyes to see Lady Anne jumping up and down. She looked up into the tree to see the marquess edging back toward the trunk, a large clump of mistletoe in one hand.
"Miss Maybrey!" he called out as he worked his way down the tree from branch to branch. "Can you come catch this, please? There is a spot here where I shall need both hands."
"Certainly, my lord."
She caught the bunch easily with only the loss of a few of its berries. She hurried to place it in the wagon, then climbed onto the seat before he could assist her. She didn't want him to touch her again. She was afraid if he touched her, she'd go up in flames.
Tarkington looked at her, a wry grin kicking up one corner of his lips, but he refrained from comment. He merely shrugged his greatcoat back on and swung Lady Anne up beside Jocelyn.
She didn't know what was wrong with her or how to control it. She came to Bayneville to celebrate Lady Mary's betrothal and possibly hear a proposal from Charles Bayne. She didn't come to Bayneville to fall in love with the marquess!
A small cry rose in her throat before she could stop it. In love! Where had that come from?
"Is something the matter, Miss Maybrey?"
