Page 9 of The Earl's Christmas Gift

Where would she go? What would she do? She hadn’t the faintest beginnings of an idea; all she knew was that she had to getout. Out of this home. Out of this marriage. Out of this present that held no possibility of a future.

Now that she’d spoken the words out loud, there was no taking them back. This season, her Christmas present would be to herself. The gift of freedom from a match she never should have made to a man who would never be capable of loving her the way that she needed to be loved. That shedeservedto be loved.

Duncan wanted to keep her trapped in a pretty little cage. Just as her mother had done. A bird trained to sing on command. But she was tired of singing for everyone but herself. She had done what she was supposed to. She had worn the gowns that poked, and the shoes that pinched, and the hairpins that pulled. She had doused herself in that terrible powder that left her sick for days afterward, and she had danced so many waltzes that she had a permanent blister on the back of her right heel. She had batted her lashes and flirted and cooed. She had done everything that was ever asked of her, and she’d done it with nary a complaint. Because she had been told that if she did, if she complied, if she obeyed, then she would have all that she ever wished for. But this…this barren house, and lonely marriage, and frigid bed…they weren’therwishes. She didn’t want them. She didn’t want any of it. Deep down, she suspected that she never really had.

“Here you are, my lady.” Helen appeared with a gray muff flecked with tan, and Alexandria gratefully slid her hands inside of it.

“Thank you,” she said as another servant opened the door, letting in a gust of chilly December air. When her gaze threatened to slip to the stairs in an unconscious search for Duncan, she ducked her chin and hurried out to the waiting carriage. The snow had stopped sometime during the night, and footmen had already been busy clearing the long, sloping, tree-lined drive. With a small jolt and twin plumes of frost spiraling from their nostrils, the team of matching bays took off in a high-stepping trot, and Alexandria turned her attention to the square window to watch as the wintery landscape passed her by…the rolling meadows of white as cold and sterile as her husband’s heart.

* * *

“What do you mean, she’s left already?” Duncan’s roar echoed from one end of the house to the other, or so it seemed to the two kitchen maids who immediately found somewhere else to be. “Why the hell didn’t anyone stop her?”

“Stop Lady Chesterfield from going to the village festival, my lord?” Johnson said blankly. “I, er, was not made aware that you would object to her attending. Had I known–”

“The village festival.” Duncan closed his eyes as his heart, lodged halfway in his throat, slid back down to its proper place. “She’s gone to the winter village festival.” He snapped open his eyes to glare accusingly at his valet. “Why didn’t you justsaythat, Johnson?”

The servant blinked, confused both by the question and his employer’s most unusual behavior. Since when did the earl care about the countess’s whereabouts? Aside from a general inquiry into her well-being after he returned from a trip, Duncan rarely asked after Alexandria. A true pity, as when they were first married, Johnson–along with the rest of the staff–had secretly hoped that a wife of the countess’s character and charm would be just what was needed to chip away at the earl’s hardened exterior.

Alas, while Duncan’s sharp cynical edges had appeared to temporarily soften, the staff’s hopes had been short-lived. It wasn’t more than a few weeks before he reverted to his old habits, and the countess became an unfortunate afterthought.

“I wasn’t aware that you cared, my lord.” The valet’s statement was blunt, but rang with truth. “About her whereabouts, that is.”

Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something you’d like to say, Johnson? We’ve known each other for too many years for you to start biting your tongue now.”

The loyal servant drew himself to his full height and stared over his employer’s left shoulder. “The staff, myself included, have been concerned about Lady Chesterfield’s health as of late. She hasn’t…seemed like herself.”

“Is she sick?” Duncan asked, and his countenance drained of color as he thought of his mother. He had no memory of her. How could he? But he had paintings. He even kept a miniature of her on his desk. And he had the rare instances that his father had spoken about her, often after a glass or three of brandy.

‘I knew your mother was frail from the first moment I met her. Shy and withering, she couldn’t even dance a full waltz without falling out of breath. I shouldn’t have married her. There were other women. Wider hips. Stronger constitutions. Better for childbearing.’Here his gaze would always turn wistful and even a tad weepy, though he’d blame a servant for not dusting properly.‘But I wanted Emma. She was…sweet. Kind. Gentle. Your grandfather warned me against the match. I didn’t heed his advice. We were able to manage her health, but it was never what it should have been. You were only six months old when she caught ill. The doctor didn’t have a proper diagnosis, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing to be done. She was gone in a fortnight, and I…”

‘You what, Father?’

‘I learned that it’s better to listen to your head than your heart. If I’d done that, you’d have a mother that was still alive. Now pass me the brandy.’

“What’s wrong with her?” Duncan demanded. “What’s wrong with Alexandria? Damnit, Johnson–”

“She is not sick,” said the valet hastily. “I did not mean to imply otherwise. It’s her overall demeanor. She’s…well…”

“Out with it, Johnson!”

“She’s sad, my lord.” The valet looked at him, and his normally stoic brown eyes were drenched with compassion. “Lady Chesterfield is drowning in sadness.”

Four

The winter festival was bigger than Alexandria had even seen it before. There were musicians on stringed instruments playing familiar Christmas carols. A man on enormous stilts swaggering around and handing out peppermint sticks. Colorful tents set up for merchants that were selling everything from intricately carved wooden ornaments to hang in the windowsill to thick wool scarves. More than two dozen people, children and adults alike, were braving the slick ice to varying degrees of success, while others gathered around a large cauldron of drinking chocolate.

A fire burning sticks of pine released the pleasant scent of evergreen into the frosty air and wreaths with red bows decorated nearly every door. There was even a shiny black sleigh draped in garland giving rides for a shilling a piece; Alexandria had seen it circle by several times since she’d arrived.

“It’s a grand afternoon to ye, my lady! What can I help ye find on this fine day?” Dressed in festive green, a storekeeper beamed at Alexandria from behind the counter of a lace and fabric shop. By the sheer amount of coins and paper banknotes stuffed into the pockets of her apron, it was clear why she was in such a good mood. And by the way she took notice of Alexandria’s garments, it was also clear that she anticipated another sale.

“I need a present for my mother.” Walking over to a circular table where silk handkerchiefs trimmed in beautiful Chantilly lace were artfully displayed, Alexandria chose the first one that caught her attention and brought it over to the shopkeeper, who packaged the gift in brown paper tied with a bit of red ribbon and bade her a happy farewell.

A golden bell rang as she opened the door, but the cheerful sound did little to raise her spirits. All around her, people were laughing, smiling, and celebrating. She’d come here to steal some of that holiday spirit for herself. But despite her best efforts, her mind was unable to detach from the dark reality of the dire circumstances that she found herself in.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, her gaze downcast as she moved to step around a trio of red-faced gentlemen passing around a silver flask. Either they didn’t hear her or they were ignoring her, but either way they did not clear a path, forcing her off the busy pavement and onto the street. She stepped down without looking first, a mistake born of distraction, and the wagon, piled high with crates, came out of nowhere.

“LOOK OUT!” the driver shouted, but it was too late.

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