Page 6 of The Virtues of Christmas
Chapter Two
…Seducing a housemaid ought to be the work of an evening, one doesn’t have to be a peer to grasp that fundamental truth. Henrietta had a deceptively strong will, however, and her morals did not yield easily to seduction. After much importuning and not a few stolen liberties, some of which might have borne a slight resemblance to threats to her livelihood, insight befell me.
What the poor thing wanted more than a good tumble was simple attention. She wanted my company, not my cock, for she’d been raised in the household of some selfish old Puritan and a pair of equally gormless brothers. For all her awkward height, her unfortunate red hair, and her Cyprian’s form, she thought herself invisible.
And thus, to many she was. But being a man of discernment, I saw her potential…
Baron Angelford did not conform to Henrietta’s expectations, though it took her half the soup and most of the bread to recognize the source of her annoyance. He was supposed to steal a glance at her breasts, then smile at her, as if his leering were not only a compliment, but a clever, original compliment.
He should have stolen a sip from her drink then treated her to a smug grin, as if in the history of the male gender, no other fellow had ever been so subtle in his overtures, or so worthy of her notice.
He might have at least accidentally brushed his boot against hers under the table.
Instead, he’d confided that he memorized Shakespearean insults in an effort to impress the English boys with whom he’d gone to school.
“Did that work?” Henrietta asked around a mouthful of plum tart.
“Not exactly. A two-hundred-year-old insult usually falls flat, but I gained a reputation for knowing the Bard, and thus earned extra coin tutoring those upperclassmen unequal to the subtleties ofHamletandOthello.”
“I would have given much to read those plays as a girl,” Henrietta said. “I bought myself a complete, bound edition when I’d been in London for less than a year. My first Christmas token to myself.”
She still had that gift and had spent many a night at the theater longing to be home with the Scottish play, rather than smiling at some randy earl.
“What would you like for Christmas this year?” his lordship asked.
What Henrietta wanted was impossible. A succession of titled, wealthy men and her own choices had seen to that.
“Books are always a good choice,” she said, “though they come dear. Good tea, and I’m perilously fond of warm stockings.” The toddy on top of the fatigue had pried that bit of honesty from her.
Or perhaps she could blame his lordship’s ability to truly listen to a conversational partner.
“We can agree on the stockings,” he said. “I have four sisters, and I value their knitting skills almost as much as their abilities in the kitchen. I’m fond of a good Irish whiskey, particularly in a cup of strong coffee with a healthy portion of cream.”
“Sounds like a waste of good cream.” Henrietta liked knowing his lordship had somebody to fuss over him and keep him in good stockings. Truly, she’d consumed her spirits too quickly. “You’re letting that plum tart go to waste, my lord.”
“I’m not fond of plums, while you appear to relish them.” He passed his bowl across the table, and for Henrietta, the moment became fraught with bewilderment. Men stole a bite of her sweets, they did not offer their own, whole and untouched.
“Take it,” his lordship said. “I cannot abide food going to waste or a smoking chimney.”
Henrietta took a bite of his tart. “What else can’t you abide?”
In the course of the meal, he’d become less the titled gentleman and more the hungry fellow enjoying good fare. How had he gone from bog Irish to baron? The journey had doubtless required calculation and daring, much like becoming a wealthy courtesan.
Henrietta had decided by the end of her first year in London that the appellation “successful courtesan” was a contradiction—what female could consider lost virtue a hallmark of success?—but “wealthy courtesan” ought to be a redundant term.
“I’m not fond of winter travel,” his lordship said. “For business reasons, I undertook many journeys on the Continent when wiser men would have remained at home, far from war or wintertime coach trips.”
Those journeys had doubtless been lucrative, but they’d clearly taken a toll as well.
“All of that is behind you,” Henrietta said. “You’re titled, wealthy, have all your teeth, and know some excellent insults. The holidays find you in possession of many blessings.”
Teasing men was the natural result of having grown up with an older brother and a younger one.Tease and be teased, lest Papa’s sternness suck all the joy from the marrow of life’s bones.Henrietta wasn’t teasing her companion, though. She was offering him the same philosophical comfort she offered herself.
It’s in the past. No use crying over spilled virtue. You’ll never know want or have to step and fetch for another man. Never.
“You look wistful,” the baron said. “My mother used to detest the holidays. I can’t say all the folderol is much to my taste either.”
“Is that why you’re repairing to your family seat rather than remaining in Town?”
