Regency Christmas Wishes(46)
“The partridge in the pear tree is Christ in the manger—or on the Cross. The turtle doves are the Old and New Testaments. The three hens are Faith, Hope, and Charity; the four birds the four Gospels.”
“Five golden rings . . .”
She ticked the rest off on her fingers. “The first five books of the Old Testament, the six days of creation, the seven sacraments, eight beatitudes, nine orders of angels. Ten commandments, eleven faithful apostles, and the twelve articles of the Apostles’ Creed.”
“Well, I’m impressed, Miss Ashe. You would have made a good Catholic.”
“No,” she shot back tartly, “I should probably have made a very poor one, but I like a good story as much as anyone.”
Once upon a time, there was an elf who lived in the ash tree woods near a great castle. She fell in love with the prince who lived there, but he left to go out into the world to seek his fortune . . .
Alice shook her head, annoyed with herself. It had been a great many years since she had thought to live a fairy tale. Since she’d lost her father, certainly. He had been the one for fairy tales. She had tried to carry on, to spin magical stories for Clarissa, who had expected her life to go happily ever after. Alice had grown pragmatic. Clarissa, she thought fondly, still believed.
“On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .”
If all went as expected, Clarissa would have her baby by Twelfth Night. By that twelfth day of Christmas, so much would be decided. Boy or girl, Kilcullen or London. Whether Gareth would stay a bit longer or leave as soon as the christening was done.
“Alice.”
She had grown so accustomed to having him about. Accustomed to the sight of him, tousled and not quite awake at breakfast, to the sound of his boot heels ringing in the hall as he hurried into the drawing room at night. Accustomed to him saying her name.
“Alice.”
“Hmm?” She blinked, then turned to find his face close enough to hers that she could see the faint lines that fanned from his eyes. Time in the sun, she thought, on board a ship or traversing a golden desert. Oh, yes, they were the eyes of a roving lad: sun-touched and bright and just a little wicked.
“Dance with me, elf,” he said softly, and Alice’s pulse thrummed.
“I . . . I don’t think—”
“No, don’t. If you do, you’ll recall that I have two left feet and no sense of timing. Just come along. Excuse us, sirs,” he said to their companions, both of whom were otherwise occupied with draining their tankards, and pulled Alice to her feet.
He danced very well indeed. Guiding her through the lilting country dance, he was graceful, confident, and a pleasure to behold. As Alice wove in and out of the set, returning again and again to the warmth of his grasp, she silently corrected half of his assertion. He had two perfectly good feet, suited for dancing—and for wandering the world. His sense of timing, however, was poor indeed. He had come back into her life after eight years out of it, come back when she was calm and content. He had swept out of her past like a mischievous wind and blown her serenity to pieces.
How could she ever have thought she wouldn’t fall in love with Gareth Blackwell a second time? She’d never stopped loving him in the first place.
Stunned, heart pounding in her chest, she missed a step, then another. Gareth grinned at her and clasped her hand more firmly in his. “Tired, elf?” he teased, and it was all she could do to stay in the set. She wanted to run. Instead, she concentrated on the movement of her feet—step, turn, slide, step, turn, slide—until the music ended.
She tugged her hand free. “Thank you,” she murmured, eyes on the floor. “I should . . . I must . . .” Then she fled.
Gareth watched her go, bemused. He hadn’t stepped on her toes. He hadn’t teased or even made a dull comment on the weather. One moment she’d been beside him, little hand warm and nearly lost in his, and then . . . “Well,” he muttered, and started off after her.
He didn’t get more than ten feet before the vicar’s wife appeared in his path. He’d met the woman twice. She prattled and, he suspected, used her impressively long nose to poke into everyone else’s affairs. Now she was nattering away and gesturing to a figure cowering behind her. “ . . . Miss Powers . . . without partner. Surely, sir, you would not shirk a gentleman’s duty . . .”
The very young Miss Powers looked both mortified and hopeful. Gareth sighed and forced a smile. “It would be my honor.”
By the time he had partnered Miss Powers, a Miss Skeffington, two Miss MacLeishes, and several giggling girls whose names he missed, an hour had passed. Alice, he saw, was seated in a far corner, flanked by two old ladies, a sleeping infant on her lap. He started briskly toward her, and nearly flattened little Mr. Dunleavy, the postmaster.