Page 57 of The Virtues of Christmas
She stopped short and patted Dougal’s cheek. “You’ve been disporting under the mistletoe, Mr. MacHugh. Try to focus on the issue at hand.”
As he trailed Patience into his office, all Dougal could focus on was the twitch of her skirts. “Couplets aren’t a bad idea, but a whole chorus would be better.”
“One aimed mostly at the women.” She ensconced herself behind Dougal desk. “Let the professor sing to the men. I also think we should collect up the holiday columns and publish them as a pamphlet, Mrs. Horner’s Help for the Holidays. Has a nice ring to it. Let the printer know now, so ours will be ready to go days ahead of the professor’s feeble reprise. Toss in a bonus column on difficulties surrounding celebration of the new year.”
One kiss, and the woman was on fire.
One kiss, and Dougal had made a delicate situation impossible. “Patience, we’re alone here.”
She extracted a penknife from one of the desk drawers. “I know, else I shouldn’t have kissed you.” She pared a fresh point on his best quill pen, her movements economical and practiced.
“Youkissedme, did you?”
The penknife paused. “I thought I did a passably good job, for being out of practice.” A hint of vulnerability infused her words. She put the knife away and took a fresh sheet of foolscap.
Dougal banked the fire, though George’s tail dangled about his head all the while. “If that’s your idea of a passably good kiss, then heaven defend the man who’s on the receiving end of your polished efforts. I’m walking you home, Patience. Now.”
She brushed the quill across her mouth, and Dougal had to look away.
“I believe your nerves are overset, Mr. MacHugh. Perhaps it’s best if we do take some air. Based on your discourse regarding Mrs. Wollstonecraft, I’ve arrived at a few insights regarding the dictates of propriety.”
Yes. Frigid, fresh air. Just the thing. “Mrs. Woll—? Oh, her.”
“Does George go out?”
“I’ll come by on my way to services tomorrow and put him out for a bit. He guards the castle at night, or that’s the theory. Mice can do a lot of damage to paper and glue. Your cloak, madam.”
How could she do this? Maintain an animated focus on literary affairs while Dougal wanted to toss Mrs. Horner’s Corner, the professor, and the entire yuletide problem into the nearest bowl of Christmas punch.
So he could resume kissing Patience.
She prattled on for the length of three London streets about how the rules of propriety were a subtle scheme to protect not the young lady, but the fortune that accompanied her hand in marriage. Women of lesser station received much less protection, but their relative poverty also gave them more freedom.
This theory was just outlandish—and logical—enough that Dougal could pay some attention to it. Not as much attention as he gave to the way Patience spoke with her hands when impassioned by a topic, or to the memory of those hands smoothing down his back.
Next time, she might venture a bit farther south.
God help me.There must be nonext times.
“You’re not inclined to argue with me?” she demanded as they turned onto her street.
“I’ll consider your theories as we take our day of rest tomorrow.” Dougal would spend that day furiously drafting the professor’s last few columns, with apologies to the good Presbyterian pastor in Perthshire, who’d be horrified at such industry on the Sabbath. “Why has nobody lit a single lamp yet on your entire street?” London homeowners were subject to regulations requiring porch lights.
“We’re thrifty in this neighborhood,” Miss Friendly said as they approached her doorstep. Her building was fashioned so the first floor overhung the doorstep, creating an alcove protected from the elements and, at this gloomy hour, from the view of prying neighbors.
Dougal wrestled with the realization that he could kiss her again.
“I’ll wish you a peaceful Sunday,” Patience said, “and look forward to an industrious and lucrative two weeks.”
Industrious and lucrative. Dougal MacHugh, proprietor of MacHugh and Sons, Publishers, should have applauded those sentiments. They were exactly what he’d envisioned when he’d concocted this ludicrous twelve days of competing broadsheets.
Patience offered her hand, and Dougal bowed over it. “A peaceful Sabbath to you too. Miss Friendly.”
Before he could tug her closer, gaze longingly into her eyes, or otherwise make an ass of himself, she ducked through the door and left him alone in the freezing air. Dougal took himself back in the direction of the office, the wind stinging his cheeks and his toes going numb.
Which did nothing—not one thing—to get his mind off the question that had plagued him the whole way to Patience’s doorstep.
If one kiss sent the woman off into flights of cleverness—God rest ye merry, gentlemen, indeed—then Dougal marveled to think what a bout of passionate lovemaking might do for her creativity.
