Christmas Beau

And yet she wanted him in a way she had never wanted any man, or expected to do. She wanted him in a way she had never wanted Andrew, even during those weeks when she had been falling in love with him and contemplating breaking a formally contracted betrothal. In a way she had never wanted him even after their marriage during that first year when she had been in love-the only good year.

And so if the Marquess of Denbigh was trying to punish her-and it had to be that-then he was succeeding. She was a puppet to his puppeteer. For the wanting him brought with it no pleasure, no longing to be in his company, but only a distress and a horror. Almost a fear.

Amy closed her arm more tightly about Kate and reached up for the strap by her shoulder. Rupert let out a whoop and bounced in his seat. The carriage was turning from the roadway onto a driveway and stopping outside a solid square lodge house for directions. But the coachman's guess appeared to have been right. The carriage continued on its way along a dark, tree-lined driveway that seemed to go on forever.

"Oh," Amy said, peering from her window eventually. "How very splendid indeed. This is no manor, Judith. This is a mansion. But then I suppose we might have expected it of a marquess. And then, Denbigh Park is always mentioned whenever the great showpieces of England are listed. Is that a temple among the trees? It looks ruined."

"I daresay it is a folly," Judith said.

The house-the mansion-must have been built within the past century, she thought. Or rebuilt, perhaps. It was a classical structure of perfect symmetry, built of gray stone. Even the gardens and grounds must be of recent design. There were no formal gardens, no parterres, but only rolling lawns and shrubberies, showing by their apparent artlessness the hand of a master landscaper.

Their approach had been noted. The front doors opened as the carriage rumbled over the cobbles before them, and two footmen ran down the steps. The marquess himself stood for a moment at the top of the steps and then descended them.

And if she had had any doubt, Judith thought, tying the ribbons of her bo

And angry. Very angry. With both him and herself. He looked as if he had just stepped out of his tailor's shop on Bond Street, and there was that dark hair, those harsh features, those thin lips, the piercing eyes and indolent eyelids. And she was feeling travel-weary and rumpled. She was feeling at a decided disadvantage.

The carriage door was opened and the steps set down and the marquess stepped forward. Rupert launched himself into his arms-just as if he were a long-lost uncle, Judith thought-and launched into speech too. The marquess set the boy's feet down on the ground, rumpled his hair, and told him to hurry inside where it was warm. And he reached up a hand to help Judith down.

"Ma'am?" he said. "Welcome to Denbigh Park. I hope your journey has not been too chill a one."

She was more travel-weary than she thought, she realized in utter dismay and mortification a moment later. She stepped on the hem of her cloak as she descended the steps so mat she fell heavily and clumsily into his hastily outstretched arms.

A footman made a choking sound and turned quickly away to lift down some baggage.

"I do beg your pardon," Judith said. "How very clumsy of me." There was probably not one square inch on her body that was not poppy red, or that was not tingling with awareness, she thought, pushing away from his strongly muscled chest.

"No harm done," he said quietly, "except perhaps to your pride. Is the little one sleeping?" He turned tactfully away to look up at Amy, who was still inside the carriage. "Hand her down to me, ma'am, if you will."

Judith watched as he took Kate into his arms and looked down at her. The child was fussing, half asleep, half awake.

"Sleeping Beauty," the marquess said, "there will be warm milk waiting for you in the nursery upstairs, not to mention a roaring fire and a rocking horse. But I daresay you are not interested."

Kate opened her eyes and stared blankly at him for a few moments. Then she smiled slowly and broadly up at him while Judith felt her teeth clamping together. A long-lost uncle again. How did he do it?

"Do let me take her, my lord," she said, and felt his eyes steady on her as she relieved him of his burden.

He turned to help Amy down to the cobbles.

"What a very splendid home you have, my lord," Amy said. "It has taken our breath quite away, has it not, Judith? Are we not all fortunate that there has been no more snow in the past week? Though of course it is cold enough to keep the ice on the lakes and rivers. I do declare, it must be the coldest winter in living memory. And it is only December yet."

"I have snow on order for tomorrow or Christmas Eve," Lord Denbigh said. "And plenty of it too. It ca

He had taken one lady on each arm and was leading them up the front steps and into the tiled and marbled great hall with its fluted pillars and marbled galleries. And if the approach to the house had not taken one's breath away, Judith thought, then this surely would. The hall was two stories high and dwarfed any person standing in it.

And yet it was unexpectedly warm. Fires blazed in two large marble fireplaces facing each other at either side of the hall.

The Marquess of Denbigh presented his housekeeper, who

was standing in the middle of the hall curtsying to them and smiling warmly from a face that must boast a thousand wrinkles, Judith thought, and turned them over to her care. Mrs. Hines smiled with motherly warmth at Rupert, clucked over Kate, and led them all upstairs to their rooms.

Tea would be served in the drawing room, she told them, after they had refreshed themselves. She would return to conduct mem there in half an hour's time.

The children had been put into the care of a very competent nurse, who had been provided by the marquess. Judith sank down onto a small daybed at the foot of the high four-poster bed in her room and blew out two cheekfuls of air.

So it had begun. A week's stay at Denbigh. The final week of her punishment, doubtless. There was a week to live through before she could make arrangements to return to her own home in Lincolnshire and try to begin normal life again.

A week was not an eternity. It was a shame that it had to be the week of Christmas so that her first Christmas free of Andrew's family was to be ruined after all. In fact, it was more than a shame, it was infuriating. But nonetheless it was only a week. She must fortify herself constantly with that thought.

She frowned suddenly. All his guests had arrived, he had said. Where, then, were all the children he had promised Rupert and Kate? Had he lied to them on top of everything else?

She straightened her shoulders suddenly as there was a tap on her door and Amy's head appeared around it.

"Are you going to change your frock, Judith?" she asked. "Or are you just going to wash your hands and face?"

"Oh, let us change by all means," Judith said, getting briskly to her feet. She had already made a disaster of an opening scene-her mind touched on her clumsy stumble and the firm security of his arms and chest, and veered away again. At least she would face the next one in a clean and fresh dress and with combed hair. "There is a maid in my dressing room, unpacking my things already."

"Yes, and in mine too," Amy said. "I shall see you shortly, then, Judith." She withdrew her head and closed the door again.