Page 21 of The Virtues of Christmas
“You have it all wrong, miss, which is understandable given your situation. What the men value, what they respect, is a reflection of what we value in ourselves. You did very well in London because after Lord Beltram played you so false, you never allowed another man to rule your heart or your household. Respect yourself, and devil take the hindmost. You told me that years ago. What are you doing with your hair?”
Henrietta’s hair was a bright red abundance she’d refused to cut once she’d arrived in London. She’d also refused to hide it under a cap, and her bonnets had been more feathers than straw.
“I’m braiding it for a coronet. I used to favor a coronet, though my father said that only accentuated my height.”
“He didn’t like having a daughter nearly as tall as he was,” Lucille said. “What will you do about the baron?”
Henrietta finished with her braid, circled the plait about her crown, then secured it with plain pins.
“I’d forgotten my little speech to you all those years ago, but I was right then, and you are right now. I respect myself and will regardless of how the baron regards me. I also respect the baron, though, and hope when we part, that’s still the case. With all the other men…”
Professional loyalty to past clients warred with the knowledge that Henrietta was no longer a professional. Society might never note the difference, but Henrietta suspected that six months ago, she would not have given Michael Brenner a second look. A mere baron, merely well-fixed,merely decent.
What a sorry creature she’d been.
“With all the others,” Lucille said, standing behind Henrietta at the vanity, “your respect was tempered by the knowledge that they paid for your favors. You were compensated for putting up with them, and they knew it, and still sought you out.”
The arrangement between man and mistress was as simple on the surface as it was complex beneath. The usual bargain was complex for the mistress and simple for the man. Henrietta finished with her coronet—adding a good two inches to her height—and draped a shawl about her shoulders.
“I know two things,” she said, facing the door. “I do not want his lordship paying me for anything, and I’d rather he spent tonight with me than in his library with his books. I’m not sure what that makes me, but breakfast awaits, and I’m hungry.”
“Desire for the company of a man you esteem makes younormal,” Lucille said, tidying up the discarded pearl-tipped pins. “I daresay he’s a normal sort of fellow himself. Be off with you, and if you need me, I might be back in bed, munching scones and swilling chocolate. Or I might suggest the staff do a bit of decorating. The holidays are approaching, after all.”
Many a day, Henrietta would have regarded lazing about in bed as a fine reward for her exertions the evening before. Today, she wanted to spend as much time with Michael Brenner as she could, either in bed or out of it.
Normal wasn’t so very complicated, though neither was it for the faint of heart.
* * *
“I think I’m in love,” Miss Whitlow said, taking another book from the stack on the table beside her.
She’d spent most of the day in Michael’s library, and he—with a growing sense of exasperation—had sat at his desk, watching her write letters or read. When she looked up, he made a pretense of scribbling away at correspondence or studying some ledger, but mostly, he’d been feasting on the simple sight of her.
When he ought to have been rummaging in her valise.
She wore gold-rimmed spectacles for reading. They gave her a scholarly air and gave him a mad desire to see her wearing only the spectacles while he readA Midsummer Night’s Dreamto her in bed. She favored shortbread and liked to slip off her shoes and tuck her feet beneath her when a book became truly engrossing.
Would she enjoy having her feet rubbed?
The worst part about this day of half torment/half delight was that Michael’s interest in the lady was only passingly erotic. He wanted to learn the shape of her feet and the unspoken wishes of her heart. He wanted to introduce her to his horses—which was pathetic—and memorize the names of her family members.
Heathgate would laugh himself to flinders to see his efficient man of business reduced to daydreaming and quill-twiddling.
Michael and his guest had taken a break after lunch, and he’d shown her about the house. Inglemere was a gorgeous Tudor manor, just large enough to be impressive, but small enough to be a home. The grounds were landscaped to show off the house to perfection, though, of course, snow blanketed the gardens and park.
Michael had shown Miss Whitlow his stables, his dairy, his laundry, and even the kitchen pantries, as if all was on offer for her approval.
Hewanted to be on offer for her approval, and yet, she never so much as batted her eyes at him. Smart woman.
“You are in love?” he asked, rising from his desk. He probably was too, but could not say for a certainty, never having endured that affliction before.
“You haven’t merely collected books for show,” she said, hugging his signed copy ofThe Italianto her chest. “You chose books that speak to you, and the result is… I love books. I could grow old reading my way through this library of yours, Michael Brenner.”
Notmy lord.“Have you no collection of your own?”
She set the novel aside and scooted around under the quilt he’d brought her. “I patronized lending libraries. They need the custom, and they never cared what I did for my coin. They cared only that I enjoyed the books and returned them in good condition. Perhaps, when I purchase a home, I’ll fill it with books.”
While her protectors—Michael was coming to hate that word—had treated her bedroom like a lending library. She’d been well compensated, but he still wished somebody had made her the centerpiece of a treasury that included children, shared memories, and smiles over the breakfast table.
