Page 261 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

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Lucinda would have expected the harsh morning-lit hours following her first experience with clandestine, midnight kisses to be fraught with awkward hesitancy and uncomfortable moments. To her surprise, ’twas nothing of the sort.

Brier greeted her with a twine-tied, paper-wrapped package containing winter gloves for her healing hands, made of supple leather and fur lined; lengths of fabric—ones she’d admired when she hadn’t realized he paid attention—sufficient to make up three day dresses; and most surprising of all, walking boots! Smashing-fine leather boots with a tiny raised heel and laces that went all the way past her ankles.

Muddling through her astonishment, she’d hugged her thanks, the appreciation quickly turning to more stirring kisses. Stepping back—eager to try on the new boots, thanks to the stockings gifted by the neighbor, Mrs. Hurwell—Luce bit her lips against the instinctive retort prompting her to rail at him for providing such a bounty.

What? Does he think you will now be his kept paramour?some guilty part of her chastised.

While another, wicked part, rejoiced at the chance.

“For shame,” she finally said, losing her battle against the smile that curved lips and cheeks not quite as sore this morning. “For a stranger who had nothing to call her own mere hours ago, I have been indulged mightily.”

And what was she ever going to give him? How could she ever repay him for the safety and security—the kisses she couldn’t imagine doing without? How could she ever seek lonely employment outside of this haven he’d provided, the most agreeable accommodations she’d been blessed with since becoming an adult?

“I do not feelstrangerembodies what we are to each other, Luce,” he rumbled, all manner of heat brimming in his gaze, even as a light flush came upon his cheeks. “I am gratified you like what I managed to pull together.”

“Like?” She had trouble not squealing her joy. Holding up one of the boots between them, she gave it a light shake. “I love. Adore. Cannot fathom how you accomplished so much so quickly.”

The flush faded from his countenance, pride taking its place. “The gloves, I keep behind the counter, for patrons who inquire. The fabric, not-loose Luce…”

A gusty sigh escaped the mouth she couldn’t stop staring at. He had yet to shave this day, dark bristle above his lips and coating his jaw tempting her to explore him all over again. Last night’s kisses, even the few earlier this morning, seemed so very far away. “If you could have but seen the look upon your face when you chanced across those fabrics? ’Twas apparent they were meant to be yours, to swathe your frame, be fit and bound to lovingly grasp your form—” He coughed behind a fisted hand—as though the unexpected composition of his words surprised him as much as her.

He flicked the boot with one finger and sent it gently swinging within her grasp. “As to these? Consider yourself fortunate, indeed. For they were ordered—requested—by one of my sisters in her last letter, made and sized according to the drawing she sent. If they do not fit as you wish, we shall have others made up for you in a trice.”

Her heart fell to her stomach, her stomach to the floor. The boot now hung listlessly by its laces, tight around her fingers. “I cannot take something meant for another. How can I ever repay you? You have done so much.”

“I do not seek your money, nor repayment. Giving you these things elevates my spirits more than I would have fathomed mere days ago. That is all I need. As to my sister? It is a small matter to have another pair made for her—assuming these fit your feet as I hope they will.”

The laces strangled a little less. “It is no small matter for me. None of your kindnesses are.” She forced her gaze from his inviting mouth, from the endearing look he gave her. Then, resolution firming her tone, she announced, “I shall pay you back, reimburse you for all you have done. If not this companion job, then another I shall find. Or…or…”

“Lucinda. Stop.” He untangled the ties from her fingers and dropped the boot, taking her hands in his and giving a warm and solid clasp to both. “Hear me well. Is Christmas not the season of giving? Of pleasure and family? You are here with me now, while mine is not. I ask nothing more from you. Not cleaning, certainly not kisses if they are givenin exchange—”

“They have not been. Only given out ofwant.” Of yearning. Of hope.

“And these things?” He knelt, retrieved the fallen boot and its mate, the strewn paper and loose twine, along with the fabrics and gloves she’d set aside. Rising, he pushed the neat bundle toward her middle until she had no choice but to grasp it. “They were given out ofwantas well. Nothing more than that. Certainly not out of expectation, of debt. Selfishly though, I gave you things becauseIwanted to be the one to bring you joy.”

BRIARS, THORNS AND OTHER SHARPS

“Enlighten me about your siblings?You have mentioned sisters.”

The question shouldn’t have surprised Brier, but it did, coming as it did during the first lull of silence between them. Since sitting down—actually, standing—across from each other at the long service counter to consume the bulk of the food remaining in his abode mid-afternoon.

The foodstuffs he’d tucked away last evening, when he realized how ill-prepared he was to entertain—and had not once considered replenishing supplies when he should have, all of his attention the last two days focused either on his prime visitor or upon those annoying mistakes in the account journals.

Accounts?he could practically hear his older brother Sharpe guffawing.That’s what you claim owns half your attention today? If Mama heard that bounder, she’d wallop you but good.

Shoving aside the astute assessment, he studied his delightful Christmas companion.

Talk had flowed between them like a river, twisting and turning, soaring over rocks, abutting into banks, their blather flitting from topic to topic, lightly and laughingly—until her unexpected question dammed up that river faster than a quake, recalling to mind everything she’d shared the day before.

The misfortunes she’d endured far more serious than the more inconsequential topics they had touched upon while consuming a stew of chicken and vegetables, particular to each of their personal likes and dislikes: literature, composers, instruments, favored Bible verses, affinity for seasons, sites in and beyond London… They had conversed with ease upon it all.

And now they were to delve further intofamilies? Exceeding the tragedies she had already confided?

“’Tis a pathetic selection, eh?” He nudged the half-eaten boiled cabbage he’d thought to add at the last minute with his fork, gaining time, deciding how best to proceed. Then released it to place his second slice of bread—untouched, but at least buttered and toasted—upon her dwindling plate. “Eat that too. My stores are so meager, I should be contrite”—he grinned at her, taking up the utensil to scoop a substantial bite of carrots and potato—“for not serving you a more exalted holiday meal, but I confess, this tastes better than it should, thanks to the company, I am sure.” He toasted her with his fork before the contents disappeared down his gullet.

Hoped she didn’t notice him mincing his chicken and sneaking more than he should have to the feline who kept twining around ankles and leaning against calves.

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