Page 45 of The Marquis, the Minx, and the Mistletoe
He chuckled, the amusement coming away from him in a silver-gray puff. "Gideon asked me what my perfect world would be, a few days ago.What does your Utopia look like, he asked me."
She looked up at him curiously as he slowed their gait, turning to face her in the flurry of snowfall. He cupped his big hands around her face, warm and soft in their leather gloves, and looked searchingly over her face. She remained still, waiting for his gaze to settle, for his eyes to find hers, and lifted her chin when he lowered his mouth to meet hers, wrapping her fingers over his wrists as she tasted warmth in the cold dark.
When they broke away, he was wearing half a smile. In the low light of the moon, his eyes appeared to sparkle. "I think this might be my Utopia," he said, rubbing his thumbs softly over the curves of her cheeks. "I think you might be."
She was too stunned to say anything initially, but this only made him grin.
He stepped backward, taking her hand and nodding toward the path end. "Come on, it'll be warmer in the cold frame."
She chased after him, a flutter of disbelief escaping her throat in laughter as the landings of their boots sent snow drifts up into the air. She was able to keep stride with him, despite the heaviness of her skirts, and thought she might faint of giddiness as he swung her into the little shed, closing the door behind him, and kissed her once more, briefly and sweetly, before leading her to a small wooden bench near the cluster of lamps that kept the herbs warm this time of year.
It was a modest little arrangement, nothing at all like the enormous glass houses that she'd heard tell of on the Continent. This was not a wealthy botanist's play room, and perhaps its rustic air of necessity was what made it feel so cozy, even with the moon streaming in from the glass roof overhead.
She tilted her head back, fascinated by the way the snow fell and slid to the corners of each square pane above them, draining off into a central divot that seemed to empty onto the ground below. She thought that the stables ought to do something similar, before the next snowstorm came for Somerton.
She tugged her gloves off, tossing them onto an adjacent table with her fur muff, and stretched her fingers in the humid warmth of the little shed with a sigh of relief. Her sigh seemed to strike Lord Moorvale with an irresistible urge to yawn, a thing he attempted to suppress behind his fingers, turning his head away from her so that she might not see his exhaustion.
"Oh, you poor thing," she said, reaching up to stroke the hair over his ear, so thick and dark, soft to the touch, even when wet with snow. "Did you sleep at all last night?"
He shook his head with a wry smile, leaning into the comfort of her touch. "Those damned stables will be the death of me. First interrupting my business with you, and then wrenching me from bed before I'd even fallen completely to sleep."
"Well," she said sweetly, "I have not forgotten your debt, but am rather lenient on the timeline for collection. It is not as though we may move about freely."
"Oh, I will pay my debts, lassie," he assured her. "With ample interest."
"Is that so?"
"Mhm." He took a deep breath, letting his eyes flicker shut, and dropped himself onto his side, resting his head in her lap so that she might continue the soothing business of stroking his hair. "After I've slept, I think."
She chuckled, as surprised as she was charmed, and continued her attentions happily, enjoying the weight of him there against her legs. She wished he could just fall asleep here, in her arms. She would have liked that very much.
"You should come with me when I return to Scotland," he murmured into the soft folds of her cloak, his voice dropping away into a restful oblivion. "You could plant a garden."
"I would like that," she replied, even if he couldn’t hear her.
It was a pleasant fantasy, even if it was just a sliver of a dream. Still, she would very much like to see this castle of his someday. She thought it very sad that it had spent so long decomposing under the reign of one marquis only to be abandoned as a home by the next.
She thought of his ancestors in their dark cave, rescued by bats, and imagined they, too, would be very sad to know that the seat of their clan had so long been vacant or neglected. What sorts of flowers could one grow in Scotland, anyway?
He had fallen dead to sleep, she realized, listening to the evenness of his breathing, the soft rumble of each exhalation. It made her heart clench in her chest, so sweet and vulnerable he seemed like this. Did it mean a man trusted you when he fell asleep on your lap? It was an honor generally reserved for only the most intimate of connections, as far as Tia knew. She wanted so badly to believe she was special to him, that he felt this emotion almost akin to pain sometimes too, when near her.
Maybe shecouldgo back to Scotland with him, she thought.
If her parents chose to completely disown her, for which no one would blame them, she would have the freedom to go wherever she wished. She could find vocation near Hawk Hill, even, and perhaps retain the friendship of the marquis, even if he could not be seen with such a woman in polite company. She might even find a little cottage, like her Nana's, to live in and make her own.
Today she had helped the viscountess and the other Somers women in hanging garlands of holly and mistletoe around the estate. Rose had not mentioned her ruined wreath, and seemed in good spirits as they turned each mantle into a glossy altar of red and green, topped with wax candlesticks in polished golden bases.
That is how a titled woman ought to be. Rose Somers was, as ever, exemplary.
Had Hawk Hill ever been covered in green leaves and red berries, with a Yule log burning in the center of it all when this man in her lap had been a boy? Surely it hadn’t in Sheldon's time as marquis, but perhaps there had been a modicum of effort made by the last marchioness, in the final years of the former lord.
She did not know much of Sheldon's mother, only that he had said she was far too young to have been a good one. She assumed she had died when he was young, for most of his recollection seemed to center around his father, who by all accounts, was not a warm man. She understood. Her father could be prickly too.
It was with great reluctance, after allowing him some time to doze in peace, that she was forced to whisper in his ear and coax him awake.
He did not complain or grumble or sulk, but rather grinned up at her as though he had just enjoyed the most marvelous sleep of his life.
"Come on," she said, "let's get you into a warm bed."
