Page 38 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
The duke placed his hands behind his back, probably hoping the nonconfrontational stance would set Andrew at ease. “I thought perhaps there might be something I could do to help ease this for her,” Willyngham explained. “Certainly, I had no intention of wounding her so deeply.”
Andrew blinked again. “So you don’t wish to leave Emma with ill feelings?”
“Precisely,” Lucien allowed, nodding, and seemed relieved that Andrew understood.
Andrew scratched the back of his head, discomfited by the request. “Yes, well... but I should think you would simply wish to go now that she’s given you leave to.”
Willyngham seemed to have no response to that bit of logic. He simply stood there, waiting, looking as confounded as Andrew felt.
His father had once respected the man, despite his reputation—enough to offer Emma’s hand in wedlock—enough to sit for that damnable portrait in the bloody hot sun once he had barely been able to rouse himself from his bed—and in spite of his proclaimed fury over Willyngham’s broken betrothal.
He studied the duke a moment, and then after a long interval consented, though he was hardly at ease over the prospect. “Confound it,” he exclaimed. “Very well. Stay. But I am no damned fool.” He shot Willyngham a warning glare. “I may not be as adept with a pistol as my father, but dishonor my sister now, and you will as sure as death be eating grass before breakfast. Do you take my meaning?”
Willyngham nodded soberly. “I understand. You have my word. Thank you,” he said, and shook Andrew’s hand vigorously then left.
Andrew watched him go, his brows drawing together in stupefaction.
He hadn’t a bloody clue what had transpired between Willyngham and Emma in the library but whatever it was seemed to have changed the course of this once ill-fated betrothal. Like a fish on a hook, the duke was well and duly baited. The question remained: Did Emma wish to reel him in?
He decided not to tell his sister of the duke’s change of plans… not yet… just in case. But his lip curved into a bit of a grin, because he sensed exactly what was at hand here… and it had little to do with Willyngham’s desire to preserve his sister’s tender feelings.
Suddenly feeling rather mischievous, he chuckled to himself and walked away.
Perhaps their father knew something better of the man after all?
At the very least, this promised to be a very unconventional holiday celebration… which was precisely the way he enjoyed it.
* * *
“…The murderer was discovered and as a penance was ordered to give a tenor bell to the Dewsbury parish church, and to this day on Christmas that bell tolls once for each year that has passed since the birth of Christ. Heard ’em myself,” Andrew Peters swore.
“Oh, Papa!” the children rang out in chorus.
“Andrew!” Cecile admonished.
Andrew leaned forward, removing the pipe from between his teeth long enough to defend himself. “It’s a true story.”
“But Papa, who would kill a poor little boy?” Lettie asked, her eyes slanted sadly.
“Now, now,” her father soothed. “It happened hundreds of years ago. Never fear, my dear.” He replaced the pipe between his teeth.
Cecile sighed. “You shouldn’t terrorize the children with such horrific tales. In fact, why can you not simply let Emma read her stories and be done, if you please?”
“You won’t find that one in any book,” he objected, sounding for all the world like a crotchety old man, despite his youthful age.
Cecile shuddered, her pale blonde curls quivering with the gesture.
“That one is worse, even, than the one you told last year. Ashen fagots burned on Christmas Eve in commemoration of battles is quite horrific,” she said with conviction. “But the butchery of children is another matter entirely!”
“Poppycock. It is a venerable tradition to honor our heroes who died in battle, and what better time than on Christmas, when families will be missing them most?”
“Perhaps, but there is something most definitely wrong with the need to burn the ears of innocent children,” his wife scolded.
“We don’t mind mother!” the children cried in unison.
“Well, but itisa Christmas tale,” Andrew argued. “What could be unsuitable about that?”
“Daddy,” his son interjected. “What does poppycock mean?”
