Regency Christmas Wishes(28)

“Gareth,” she said again, hands extended. “You’ve come. I’m so glad.”

“Clarissa. I’m so sorry, you know. I would have come sooner—”

“Yes, yes, of course. I did so hope you would be at my wedding, but Arthur didn’t mind overmuch, so I forgave you.”

Before he could reply, she rushed on, “We have missed you. At your dear father’s funeral . . .”

He’d been in the Indies then, recently sold out of the navy, wealthy and comfortable with the sun and spiced rum. By the time news of his father’s demise had reached him, it was winter and traveling had seemed an unnecessary exertion. He’d sent a letter to Arthur.

“And now, with Arthur gone . . .”

Greece. A little island full of olive trees and cool taverns. Ouzo and lush, black-eyed barmaids. He almost hadn’t come home. He’d mourned the brother he’d never really known with dry eyes and several bottles of wine. He’d tossed a handful of coins into a fountain, promising the stone Dionysus there half of his fortune if he would put in a good word with the rest of the gods about Arthur’s unborn child. Then he’d booked passage. To Turkey.

He had taken four months to return to Ireland.

“Well, now you’re here, and won’t we be a merry party this Christmas!” He realized Clarissa had been prattling the whole time. “Counting the days, of course.” She tugged on his hands, drawing him nearer. “And we must remember, you and I, to make the same wish on Christmas Eve.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“Why, for a girl, silly! That would quite settle things for both of us, would it not? You shall have the title, I shall be free to do as I please. Quite settled. Now, I’ve been trying to persuade Alice to play with me all day, but she simply will insist on doing the dullest chores. Backgammon, Gareth? Or perhaps piquet? I would be more than happy to wager.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Alice quietly talking to a maid. Completely ignoring him.

“A wager!” he announced loudly and saw her jump. “But not on a game.”

“No?” Clarissa clapped her hands eagerly. “On . . . ?”

“On the outcome of your blessed event. If it is a girl, I forfeit; if a boy, you do. Now, my dear, what do you wish for?”

Without a second’s hesitation, Clarissa announced, “I should like a strand of pink pearls. Not to speak ill of your mother, Gareth, but she was rather selfish when it came to her jewels. She took the very best pieces with her and the Kilcullen pearls are not at all to my taste.”

Yes, he agreed, his mother had been rather selfish. Always. And especially with her time. She’d had very little to spare for her sons. As for the jewels, she’d purchased a great many during his father’s lifetime. She’d had every right to take them with her when she remarried, a year almost to the day after the earl’s death. Her new husband was an age-old friend of her first, without a title, but with a fortune and estate in the neighboring county. Gareth had a very good idea that the attachment had predated the wedding by more than a few years. His mother, after all, had been a great one for seeing to her own pleasures.

“Pearls it is,” he agreed.

“And should I lose?”

“Should you lose, I claim Arthur’s gun collection as your forfeit.”

Clarissa blinked at him. “But you have always loathed hunting.”

“True.” Being forced by one’s sire to shoot small furry creatures at the age of seven could do that to a boy. “As a matter of fact, I should like to have a selection should I ever choose to dispatch myself.”

“Oh, Gareth, how you jest!”

Perhaps, he thought, but one never knew what the prospect of a lifetime tied to the estate would do to his sanity. He forced a smile. “Just look at it this way, madam. You win either way. Arthur’s guns are no loss to you.”

She laughed, but then sobered quickly. “Oh, no! You must ask for something more dear than that. You must!”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said earnestly, “I must be the one with the most to lose. The old Gypsy said so!”

Before he could begin to make sense of that pronouncement, there was a clatter of hooves on the stones outside. Even through the heavy wooden door, Gareth could hear the lurid stream of curses. He knew that voice.

A footman hurried to open the door. The scene there was enough to raise Gareth’s brows. Two young men, farmers by their clothing, both with the height and girth of the average ox, were carrying a much smaller man up the stairs. Each had a meaty fist around one of his upper arms and were supporting him effortlessly, his feet dangling a good foot above the floor. He was cursing with enough force and creativity to put a seasoned sailor to shame.