Regency Christmas Wishes(32)

He had left home as soon as he possibly could. Or, rather, when he’d come into a small inheritance left to him by his maternal grandmother. It had been just enough to buy him a military commission. His father had had more than enough money, but little interest. He’d brushed off Gareth’s requests with vague promises or curt dismissals. Go shoot something had been a frequent one.

Gareth was reminded of this as he reached the dining room. One of the earl’s favorite trophies was mounted above the fireplace just opposite the door: a massive buck with spreading antlers. The sight of the thing had always made Gareth rather sad. Now, it made him blink. Someone had looped a glittery strand of beads around the buck’s neck, draped a garland of holiday greenery over the antlers. The creature looked far more cheerful than it ever had.

Then Gareth stepped fully into the room and found both Alice and an abundance of food. He stopped in his tracks, amazed by the sight. She was in his father’s chair, only a pale forehead and halo of curls visible. Covering the table, end to end, was what looked to be the supplies for a crusade. There were several towering stacks of rush baskets, countless piles of rosy apples, endless wrapped hams, mounds of walnuts. As well as what appeared to be every fruitcake in Kildare.

“Good morning,” he said.

Startled, Alice bobbled an apple. It bumped to the floor, where it rolled slowly in Gareth’s direction. He bent to pick it up, rubbed it on his sleeve, and took a large bite. “Tasty.”

She had two rosy spots of color on her cheeks. “Good morning.” She ducked her head, hiding the appealing flush as she shuffled several papers. “I hope your rest was comfortable.”

So very polite. “It was, thank you.” He could do polite, too. “I fear I am interrupting your work.” Whatever the hell it was she was doing.

“Mmm.” Apparently politeness didn’t quite extend to false demurrals. “I am hoping to have the Christmas baskets delivered by next week.”

Gareth surveyed the mess as he polished off the rest of the apple. “A new tradition?”

“A very old one, actually, gift baskets at the holidays from the great house. One would almost think you weren’t Irish.”

“I daresay Ireland herself would have forgotten,” he said dryly, then, “I don’t recall my mother going to this effort.”

“Your mother,” Alice replied mildly, “was not an advocate of Irish tradition. The new lady is.”

“Bosh. Clarissa couldn’t care less. You, on the other hand, have green in your veins.” He leaned in, snared another apple. “Tell me, Alice. How long have you been shouldering your sister’s duties?”

“I have been helping since your brother’s death. Clarissa is unable—”

“Clarissa is unwilling. No, no, don’t scowl at me. She and I are of a kind. It was Arthur who was the dutiful one. To his king, to his land.” To himself, he murmured. “Even if I were so inclined, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“You might begin by not taking food from the mouths of babes.”

Gareth paused with the apple halfway to his mouth. “You are jesting.”

“Am I?” Alice raised a brow, then waved a sheet of paper. “Let’s see. That apple might have been intended for the Perrys. They have three little girls. Or Mary Sullivan had twins in February. Boys. The MacNeils have six children, the Haggertys nine.”

“Who on earth are all these people?”

“Kilcullen’s tenants, as it happens. Your tenants.”

He grunted and set the apple down, intact. “Don’t start with that, Alice. There will be ample time to prod me into due diligence should the worst come to pass.”

“Was I prodding you? Goodness, how uncomfortable that sounds. I shall endeavor not to prod.”

Gareth propped one hip against the table. “You know, you are not making this any easier.”

She regarded him calmly over a large ham. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Rot. Perhaps I deserve it. No doubt I do. But we were little more than children.” He closed his eyes wearily. “God, Alice. What is it that you want from me? It’s been eight years. I am sorry I hurt you—”

“You broke my heart.”

Alice watched his mouth open and close soundlessly. Well, if he was startled by her candor, she was even more so. If she had ever been so blunt, she’d lost the habit over the years. Compromise and diplomacy left little room for frankness.

He had broken her heart. It was the only time she’d said the words aloud. And the only time she would.

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