Page 81 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
“Picture coming to London to appeal what can only be described as theft, only to have the entire lot of them turn against you, beat you senseless for daring to rise above your Irish station, throw you out on the street with nothing to your name but the clothes on your back.” Noel looked at the earl. “And then tell me what you would do to survive while you figured out what you were going to do to make things right.”
“I see,” said Brookhampton, rubbing at his eyes.
Lady Katharine found her voice. “I think, Perry, that you and I should both go to London and make an appeal on behalf of Mr. O’ Flaherty. They might not listen to him, but they’ll certainly listen to you.” She eyed him ruefully. “That is, if you can manage to leave off the drink for a few hours.”
Brookhampton looked dubious; whether it was from doubt that he could reunite Noel with his lost inheritance or that he could abandon the bottle for the time it would take to present his case, Noel didn’t know.
“I will see what I can do. The fact that you scored a hit against Blackheath wins some favor with me, but this is all highly irregular and too much for my head to absorb. I’ll be able to consider the matter further in the morning. In the meantime, I’m going back to bed. Good night.”
Noel bowed, conveyed his gratitude, and watched this broken man turn and trudge wearily up the long stairs; to watch him it seemed more that he was scaling the world’s highest mountain than the stairway of his own home. Good people, these Farnsleys. The best ones he’d met yet, in England. Things weren’t going so badly after all, even if his ribs hurt with every breath he took, his head ached and his bloodied back felt raw against his clothing. Maybe Brookhampton had friends in high places in London. Well, surely he did... He was an earl, after all.
Yes, a most fortuitous night this was turning out to be.
He was aware of Lady Katharine standing beside him and felt, as he so often could when others were quietly suffering, her pain and sorrow as she watched her brother disappear around the landing. A moment later a door thudded wearily upstairs and they were alone.
“I’m surprised he let you stay,” she murmured. “And that he left us alone. How improper. He doesn’t even know you.”
“Maybe the Christmas spirit has touched us all, tonight.”
“The only spirits that have touched my brother are the ones in a bottle,” she said sadly. “He doesn’t care about anything anymore.”
“He’s had much suffering in his life. I can feel it emanating from him.”
“That is fair to say, and all of it, caused by the doings of Lucien de Montforte.” She turned to him. Her eyes were soft in the gloom. He could lose himself in their depths, could lose himself in her pink, pretty mouth, the lower lip of which was as full and plush as a ripened strawberry. He thought of kissing it. Thought of—
“You really ought to be abed yourself, Mr. O’ Flaherty.”
He shrugged, thinking about beds, and this woman’s bed, and this womaninthat bed (preferably with him) and how that made such a warm and cozy thought on this cold and wintry night.
Lady Katharine. In a bed. With him.
No, nothing Christ-like about that now, was there?
She must have sensed his thoughts; she looked down, caught her hands together, and glanced up at him through her lashes. He took a step closer to her. He saw her eyes widen and even in the darkness, the color suffusing her cheeks.
He paused. She was a lady, not a strumpet. She had shown him kindness, and he wasn’t so coarse as to take advantage of that by seducing her.
“Let me see to my horse first.” He stepped back and the moment, fragile as it was, was lost. He turned toward the door.
“I’ll go with you.”
“’Tis nasty out there,” he said, and turned to find her following so close that she bumped into him and bounced back, her eyes widening with surprise. “You’ll catch your death of a cold.”
“You’re hurt. You shouldn’t be all alone.”
“I’m hurt, but not dying.”
“I still think I should go with you.”
“Don’t you have a reputation to protect?”
“And who is here to notice?”
He shrugged. “Very well, then.” He took off his coat, the heavy wool still damp but at least warmed by his own body, and draped it over her shoulders. A tendril of her soft golden hair brushed the back of his hand and his fingers lingered, taking longer to adjust the coat than needed. “But if you insist on accompanying me, at least come prepared.”
“But then you’ll have nothing.”
He moved toward the door. “I’ll survive.”
