Regency Christmas Wishes(27)

Alice stopped in her tracks. But when she turned, the old woman had disappeared into the wagon. Clarissa prodded her in the arm. “Do move your feet, Alice! I’m cold and ever so hungry. Do you suppose Cook has made an apple tart? I do so want my daughter to have rosy cheeks . . .” Apparently, she had already found her message in the gypsy’s words.

Alice carried the woman’s message to her through the rest of the evening, through dinner where Clarissa prattled away about dolls and dresses and their grandfather made no appearance, through an hour of cassino and another hour of reading Emma aloud, waiting for Clarissa to go to bed.

Fate sets us on our paths, cailín, before we’ve the way of guiding our feet.

Our characters are formed long before we have the will or ability to forge them.

But no, it was mere coincidence that the words were so similar. And only the time of year making her think of that letter. She hadn’t thought of it in ages and ages. Since last Christmas, surely . . .

The pounding of the front door knocker made her jump in her seat. She set aside the menus she hadn’t quite been perusing and hurried into the hall. About time, Grandfather, she scolded silently. He would grumble at his escort, whoever it might be this time, scowl at her, and demand something to eat. It would be the end of just another day in Kilcullen.

But it wasn’t her diminutive grandfather standing framed in the stone doorway. And Alice knew, as she stumbled to a halt a dozen steps from the tall figure in the dark, caped coat, that there would be no more predictable days at Kilcullen. More than that, her deepest, most fervent wish had been answered. Eight years too late.

“Alice.” The voice was the same: deep, rough, created by some mischievous angel to set women’s hearts thumping. And thump went Alice’s heart.

The face was the same, too, if harder. The same broad forehead and sea green eyes beneath a sleek sweep of night-dark hair, the same Roman nose and wide mouth. Unsmiling. He’d smiled so often, so easily in his youth.

“Gareth,” she whispered. Then, lifting her chin to meet his eyes, “I beg your pardon. Mr. Blackwell.”

They stood facing each other for a long moment. Then he smiled, finally. And it chilled her.

“I suppose that’s all the welcome I can expect.” He shrugged and stepped into the hall. “Well, here I am, Alice, home to await the blessed event.” He glanced around the foyer that had heard the patter of his first steps, the eager skipping of childhood, the impatient ring of a young man’s boot heels. “I trust there is plenty of whiskey around to get me through the anticipation.”





2


Gareth Blackwell had managed to stay away from home for eight years. At that moment—for every moment, actually, since hearing of his brother’s demise—he would gladly have given everything he possessed to make it nine.

Alice.

Perhaps he should have been surprised to find her there, but very little surprised him anymore. Alice. She had changed. Of course she had. This was a woman of twenty-six rather than a girl of eighteen. It was the same little form, the same little face: heart-shaped and so very pretty, surrounded by the same wild brown curls. But utterly different, somehow. It was, he decided, as if the girl he remembered in sunlight had stepped into the shade.

That was it. In the past, her face had lit each time she had seen him. It had, he realized now, made him feel ten feet tall. This Alice was regarding him with no expression whatsoever.

He waited for her to speak. Alice, his Alice, had never been one for silence. She’d been inclined toward strong opinions, fond teasing, the occasional blast of temper. Which, no doubt, was what he was in for now. She would think he deserved it. And while he might have mixed feelings on the matter, he was prepared to let her rant. It was the quickest way into the house and toward the whiskey. He waited. She blinked. Then, “I’ll go see to having a room prepared for you, sir. We did not anticipate your arrival.” With that, she turned her narrow little back on him and walked away.

She was nearly at the door to the back hall when he found his voice. “Alice!”

She stopped, faced him. “Yes?”

“I am not . . . I am . . . Well, hell.” He couldn’t be sure what he was. It was a new sensation, and not a pleasant one.

Whatever else he might have found to say to her was stalled by a cry from the stairs.

“Gareth!”

He blinked at the vision trundling toward him across the floor. The last time he had seen Clarissa Ashe, she’d been fifteen, unusually beautiful, and so slight that a goat sneeze would have blown her over. Now, at twenty-three, she was just as lovely, but she looked as if she’d swallowed the goat.