Regency Christmas Wishes(73)

“You know how, your aunt’s brigand of a magpie took it.”

“Exactly.” She could barely hold back her laughter.

Realization dawned, and at last Charles began to look higher than the furniture and floor. Sure enough, entangled amid the greenery on the chimneypiece was the purple ribbon and its precious band of gold. Without further ado he seized a nearby upright chair and dragged it in front of the fire.

Juliet was perturbed. “Oh, do be careful, Charles, for that chair is—”

But it was too late. He stepped up, and as he stretched out a hand to the purple ribbon, the chair collapsed. For a moment he flailed in midair, but managed to get hold of the ribbon before he, the chair, and the greenery crashed to the floor.

Winded, he lay in the wreckage of the chair, with sprigs of holly and pine scattered all over him, but he brandished the ring triumphantly aloft. “I have it! I have it!” he managed to gasp.

Helpless with laughter, Juliet knelt beside him. “Oh, Charles, what a catastrophe! Whatever next?”

He seized her left hand. “Whatever next? Why, this, my lady, this!” He pushed the ring, still entangled with the ribbon, onto her fourth finger. Then he enclosed her hand in both his, his eyes silently pleading.

She hesitated, and then with her other hand plucked a holly berry from his blond hair. “Do you really wish us to begin again?” she asked softly.

“How can you doubt it? You are the only woman for me.”

“Then the ring will stay on my finger,” she whispered.

The gold already felt as if it had never been removed at all; indeed, the terrible rift might almost never have been as Charles drew her down into his arms and her lips to his. Their first kiss for six years healed a great deal of the pain, although only time would repair the wound completely. This Christmas was the beginning, but already they both knew how very much they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together.



In Lady Marchwell’s bedroom, Jack snuggled cozily in his velvet nest in front of the fire. He was in a rosy glow of the highest order, the room swam pleasantly before his unfocused eye, and he was happily contented. Of course, if he had realized that sobriety was to be his lot in the coming year, he would probably not have been quite such a merry magpie. But for the time being . . . He gave a delicious sigh, closed his eye, and fell asleep.





Best Wishes



by Edith Layton





“I wish I’d never laid eyes on you!”

His head shot up. “Indeed?”

The nostrils on his long elegant nose pinched. That was the only outward sign of any emotion. His lean face was expressionless. He put his book down on the coverlet and stared at her.

“I might say the same, my dear,” he said after a second, picking up his book again. “But I am not histrionic. And I believe this is a tempest in a teapot. I think if you considered it, you would agree.”

All she could think was that he ought to be glad she didn’t have that teapot the tempest was in at hand. She’d throw it right at his head.

“I have thought about it,” she cried, stamping her foot. “It is not a tempest, it’s a reasonable request.”

He looked down and pretended to be reading again. She knew it. How could he read when she was standing by the bed, screaming at him? He was probably shamming it just because she was screaming, she realized. He never shouted and so doubtless thought she was beneath his contempt for raging the way she was. But the fact that he just sat there in bed, holding the cursed book, seemingly calm and deaf to her arguments, made her even wilder. He could at least tell her how shocked and disappointed he was with her. Then she could tell him exactly how shocked and disappointed she was in him.

She fought for composure.

“I do not wish to go to the Fanshawes’ for Christmas,” she said again, only this time woodenly. “I do not like them. I do not like their friends. And I do not want to spend my holidays with them.”

He turned a page. “We are promised to them.”

“You are promised to them!” she shouted, losing all pretense of composure. “And what’s more, I believe because you probably promised far more to her! I don’t want to go and I won’t. I will not!”

She thought she saw him wince, but it was likely only an illusion from the flaring of the lamplight. It was probably feeling a draft. She’d shouted loudly enough to crack the glass that sat over the candle.

“You are my wife. I have given my word. We are going,” he said, and turned the page again.

She was pleased to see that the pages were turning like leaves in a storm, and he didn’t seem to notice. That was the only thing that pleased her. She wondered if she’d actually have to throw something at him to get any other reaction. It was like fighting with a damp feather pillow. If he’d raise his voice, she’d know what he was really thinking. But he was too civilized. The hotter she got, the colder he grew. It just made her more frustrated, and so even angrier.