Page 17 of A Scoundrel Under the Mistletoe
A tender smile graced her lips as she recalled the snowman they had built together in the wintry garden, the spaniel’s jubilant barks mingling with the children’s laughter. There was purity in these moments, a simplicity that dulled the sharp edges of her longing. For now, she must find solace in the love she could give and receive within this role—a role that demanded her full attention and heart.
She allowed herself the luxury of imagining his strong hands, smudged with color, moving with purpose and passion across a canvas. How different they were from the hands that now guided young Susan and Anna through their letters and sums, her hands. Yet, in both worlds, there was a teaching of sorts, an exchange of knowledge—though the lessons Moses had offered were of a far more thrilling nature.
Tomorrow would bring more lessons, more games in the snow with the spaniel nipping at their heels, more moments of innocent delight that filled the void left by her late husband. But it would also bring another day without Moses’ gravelly voice and reticent smile.
Chapter 12
In the weeks that followed, Yuletide grace settled upon the stately home with a resplendent hush, weaving through the corridors and grand rooms like a silent carol. Within these walls, Joy found herself enveloped by the gentle embrace of the season, the air redolent with the scent of pine and a hint of cinnamon. Her hands moved with practiced ease, festooning the verdant boughs draped around the drawing room with gilded baubles and silken ribbons alongside her young charges, whose laughter chimed more sweetly than any silver bell.
“Mrs. Sinclair, place the angel just so,” urged Susan, her youthful eyes reflecting the flicker of candlelight.
“Yes, for it must watch over us all,” added Anna, her cherubic face aglow with the innocence of childhood.
Joy complied, setting the delicate figurine on the mantle beside an ormolu clock.
As she crossed to the table where more boughs awaited, a knock at the door rung out. A minute or two later, Mr. Carruthers stepped into the drawing room doorway. “Mrs. Sinclair, a Mr. Russell wishes to speak with you.”
Blinking in astonishment, Joy thought for a moment she thought she’d imagined the words. “I, uh…”
“With your permission,” Carruthers said, “I’ll show him to the morning room.”
“Thank you.” She exhaled in relief, but her thoughts scrambled in confusion. Why was he here? If she’d left behind a belonging, he would have sent it by post, surely.
“Mrs. Sinclair, I’ll watch the children for you,” said Jane, their nurse. “Just don’t be long. Lady Peasemore doesn’t allow us to have callers. Especially gentlemen.”
“Oh, no, he’s not—” Joy stopped herself. He was a gentleman, even if his purpose wasn’t to court her. She smoothed a hand over her gown and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Girls, you listen to Jane. I shall return quickly.”
She paused before entering the morning room, once again straightening her appearance. Turning into the room she saw the tall and imposing figure of Moses, his black hair and short beard framing a countenance that seemed eternally caught between a storm and calm seas. His eyes sought out Joy immediately, sparking an unnamed anticipation that fluttered in her chest.
“Mr. Russell,” she greeted. “What a surprise.”
In his hands, he held a parcel, wrapped in paper that shimmered like freshly fallen snow under moonlight, tied with a crimson ribbon.
Moses extended the gift toward Joy, his usual demeanor softening imperceptibly as he did so. “I brought you this,” he said simply.
“Thank you.” Her fingers grazed his as she accepted the offering, a spark shooting up her hand at the touch. “You honor me. I am most curious to discover what lies within.”
“Perhaps it will speak for itself,” Moses said, his words clipped but not unkind, a smile threatening the corners of his mouth. He was nervous, she could tell, the way his fingers brushed his short beard, a telltale sign she’d come to recognize in the brief time she’d spent with him.
With measured movements, Joy untied the crimson ribbon, her hands steady despite the fluttering in her heart. The paper fell away to reveal a sketchbook, its cover elegant in its simplicity—a deep burgundy leather embossed with intricate gold filigree that caught the light of the hearth. It was the size of the one at his house.
“Moses, it is exquisite,” she breathed, cradling the treasure in her hands.
“Open it,” he urged.
The first page contained a drawing of her face, one she’d not seen him draw. The next two were her in various poses, again new to her.
Joy turned the pages, her fingers trembling slightly with each unfolding image. Moses had captured her most mundane moments and infused them with a sense of wonder—her reading a book, or pouring tea—each sketch a vignette of everyday life seen through his eyes.
The sketches whispered secrets, telling tales without words. They held the softness of her laughter, echoes of their conversations woven into the lines. Each page revealed a layer of intimacy, familiarity. The artistry was undeniable, Moses had not merely rendered images but had imbued them with emotion, with an understanding that seemed to reach beyond the confines of paper.
Joy’s breath hitched, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the next sketch. There was raw emotion in pencil strokes both tender and fervent, the embodiment of their passion. Joy and Moses were immortalized in an embrace that spoke of a love not just whispered in the shadows but shouted from the rooftops.
In this single drawing, he had captured the essence of their passion—a tempest of sensation, each line imbuing the intimacy of their union with a sense of urgency and profound connection. Joy’s likeness was rendered with exquisite care, the arch of her back and the tilt of her head conveying a rapture so vivid it was as though she could step right into the scene. Moses’ form, powerful and intent, was sketched with an expression that suggested reverence in their actions.
The details were intimate and sensually charged, the way her hair cascaded like a waterfall across the pillow, the interlocking of their fingers as if even in the midst of desire, they were promising forever. The shadowing around them seemed to pulse with the rhythm of their hearts, the softness of the bed linens contrasting with the fervency of their intertwined bodies.
Below the drawing, in a scrawl that betrayed a tremor of emotion, lay the inscription that bridged the silent gap between them.
