Page 12 of A Christmas Love Redeemed
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Pardon, Hannah. That was presumptuous?—’
She shook her head. ‘No. Please kiss me again, Fabien. I want to remember you. I want to remember what this moment feels like.’
And he kissed her again, losing himself in his love for this woman.
Was it possible to fall in love in just nine days? The old Fabien Brassard would have laughed at such foolishness, but that Fabien had gone to the bottom of the English Channel. If there was one certainty in his life here and now, it was Hannah Linton.
When the war was over—and it would be over—he would return to England and win her heart again.
Chapter Seven
LONDON, 24 DECEMBER 1816
A late and unexpected invitation to Lady Darlington’s Christmas Ball had thrown Sophie into a tizz of excitement. Her gown was wrong, her ribbons were wrong, her gloves were wrong. In the end Hannah threw her hands in the air and braved the bustling London streets to undertake the last-minute shopping that Sophie required.
She arrived back at the Mayfair house with her arms full of parcels, to find Sophie reclining on a daybed in the parlour, reading a letter.
The girl looked up as Hannah entered, depositing the parcels on a table.
‘I have sent for tea,’ Hannah said. ‘The shops were busy and I am quite done in.’
Sophie wafted the paper in front of her face, a nasty, malicious little smile on her lips.
‘This came for you while you were out.’
Hannah froze.
‘For me?’ She frowned. ‘And you opened it? How dare you!’
‘My French is not very good, but I think it’s from that French Count we met the other day. Is his name Fabien? He seems awfully familiar for someone you just met.’
Hannah lunged for the paper in Sophie’s hand, but the girl was too quick, slipping from the day bed and dancing just out of Hannah’s reach.
‘Let me see… oh here’s the word amour, I know what that means. Have you been conducting a flirtation, Lady Maxwell?’
Hannah found herself unable to speak. ‘It is none of your concern,’ she managed at last.
‘Oh, but it is, Lady Maxwell. You are paid to be my companion. You are not paid to conduct your own sordid little affairs.’
Sophie crossed to the fireplace and held the paper over the flickering embers. As Hannah lunged, she let the paper go, and it fell to the coals where it lingered for a moment before catching alight.
Hannah knelt on the hearth, poker in hand, scrabbling through the embers but it was too late. The letter had been reduced to ash. She remained kneeling, her hands in her lap, too bereft for tears.
Sophie leaned over her.
‘I shall tell Grandpapa of your carrying on, and you will be dismissed without reference. In fact, you may leave the house now.’
Hannah looked up at her young tormentor. ‘It’s Christmas Eve and I have nowhere to go, and besides, who will chaperone you at the ball tonight?’
Sophie shrugged. ‘I will pen a note to Louise’s dear mama saying you are indisposed and asking if she will chaperone me. You are not required, Lady Maxwell. Now pack your bags and go.’
Hannah did not move. Even after Sophie left the room, she remained on her knees, staring at the coals, at the ashes of Fabien’s letter.
How long she stayed there, she couldn’t say, but Bet found her, helping her to her feet and putting her arms around her.
‘I heard what that nasty little piece did, my lady,’ Bet said.
‘I have been ordered to leave,’ she said. ‘What are we going to do, Bet?
