Page 28 of The Virtues of Christmas
“Then I won’t kill him.”
Michael stood beside her until the book was a charred heap, its ashes drifting up the flue, and then he stalked from the room.
Henrietta gathered up the pile of fine tailoring Michael had draped over the chair, brought it into bed with her, and watched the flames in the hearth far into the night while her nose was buried in the scent of lavender.
* * *
Michael rose to a house made brilliant by sunshine on freshly fallen snow, though his mood could not have been blacker.
He’d committed two wrongs. First, he’d agreed to thievery to settle his account with Beltram. Stealing was wrong, and neither starvation nor the security of the realm provided Michael any room to forgive himself.
Second, he’d made love with Henrietta Whitlow. Not for all the baronies in Ireland would he regret the hours he’d spent in her bed, but he’d go to his grave regretting that he’d betrayed her trust.
“You will notify me if there are consequences, Henrietta.”
He stood with her by the library window, waiting for the coach to be brought around. His house now sported wreaths on the front windows, cloved oranges dangling from curtain rods, red ribbons wrapped about bannisters, and an abundance of strategically placed mistletoe.
The holiday decorations Lucille had inspired were enough to restore Michael’s faith in a God of retribution.
“Last night, you called me Miss Whitlow, and I insist on that courtesy today, if you must annoy me with conversation.”
Last night, he’d called her his love. “I am annoying you with a demand. If taking me as your lover has consequences, you will inform me, and we will make appropriate accommodations.”
Had she grown taller overnight? She certainly seemed taller, while Michael felt once again like that grubby youth clawing his way up from the peat bogs.
She regarded him from blazing green eyes down a magnificent nose. “You must be one of those Irishmen who longs for death. I don’t fancy such melodrama myself, but I will cheerfully oblige you with a mortal blow to your cods if you don’t cease your nattering.”
He leaned closer. She smelled of neroli—orange blossoms—this morning rather than patch leaf, and he was daft for noticing.
“Kick me in the balls, Henrietta, if that will ease any of the hurt I’ve done you, but we shall marry if you’re carrying my child.”
She drew in a breath, as if filling her sails for another scathing retort, then her brows twitched down. “Not your child.Ourchild.”
The coach came jingling around the drive from the carriage house, for some fool had put harness bells on the conveyance.
“You’d marry me?” Henrietta asked as the vehicle halted at the bottom of the front steps.
“Of course I’d marry you.”
“Out of pity? Out of decency? Don’t think I’d ever allow you into my bed, Michael.”
“I’d marry you in hopes we might put the past behind us, Henrietta. I have wronged you, and I’m sorry for that, but I would not compound my error by also wronging my—our—child. If you closed your bedroom door to me, I’d respect that, for I respect you.”
“Perhaps you do,” she said, her gaze unbearably sad, “but your version of respect and mine differ significantly. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
“Henrietta,I’m sorry.”
She paused by the door, her hand on the latch. “Would you have stolen from me if I’d been Beltram’s sister rather than his ruined housemaid?”
“To get free of that man, I’d have stolen from the bishop of London on Christmas Eve.”
Henrietta crossed back to Michael’s side, kissed his cheek, and remained for one moment standing next to him. “If there’s a child, I’ll tell you.”
She hadn’t agreed to marry him, but Michael was grateful for small mercies.
* * *
“There’s no room at the inn,” Henrietta said, crossing her fingers behind her back. “I’ve come home for a visit, and you will either make me welcome, or take yourself off elsewhere.”
