Christmas Beau

Amy had been right all along, she thought. He had been trying to fix his interest with her from the start. That was why he had arranged all those meetings and outings with her in London, and that was why he had invited her to Denbigh Park for Christmas.

He was in love with her too. If she had had any doubt, then it had been swept away the night before when he had kissed her. And afterward he had led her home, her hand in his, until they had come up to the others, and then liberally pounded her with snowballs as they joined in the battle that the others had started. He had laughed the whole time.

She loved to hear him laugh, to see his harsh features softened and made handsome.

When would he declare himself? she wondered. Today? It seemed likely. It was Christmas Day. And would she accept? She had two children whose security and happiness she must put first in her life. But he knew all about her children and was fond of them, she was sure. And they liked him and his home.

Was it possible that after all she was to be his wife? Eight years after she should have married him?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of the children, bringing Amy along with them.

"Ooh!" Kate said as she caught sight of the brightly wrapped gifts.

Rupert ran across the room and dived headlong onto the bed.

"How kind of you to invite me in," Amy said. "I have not been a part of a family gift opening for years."

Judith stared at her sister-in-law. Oh, yes, that must be true, she thought. It had always been the custom at Ammanlea for each family group to open gifts privately. But Amy had belonged to no family group. How cruel they had all been never to think of that.

"But you are an essential part of our family," Judith said. "We could not possibly begin without you."

There was a special glow about Amy, Judith thought as she handed the first parcel to Kate. And she was not convinced that Christmas morning and the gift opening could account for all of it. Amy and Mr. Cornwell had given up the snowball fight before everyone else the night before and had stood together on the steps of the house, watching the battle and laughing. His arm had been loosely about her shoulders.

Judith wondered if her sister-in-law was feeling as she was feeling that morning.

Was he at breakfast already? she wondered. Would he have left before they arrived there?

The morning was taken up almost entirely with gift giving. First the children were presented with their gifts in the morning room-books from Mrs. Harrison, balls from Mr. Cornwell, and watches from the marquess. The marquess's aunts too had something each for them: hand-knitted caps for the boys and mittens for the girls. The other guests all gave them some coins each so that Daniel declared loudly that they were all rich enough to join the ranks of the nobs.

Kate pulled at Rupert's hand until he went from the room and upstairs with her to drag down the box of Christmas bows they had made in London but not used after all. She gave one to each of the children. The two that remained she gave to the Misses Ha

"Come an' sit 'ere, nipper," Daniel said to her, "an' I'll let yer listen to my watch ticking."

The marquess smiled. If Kate were growing up in the same neighborhood as Daniel, she would have a powerful protector against all harm. The boy would probably grow into her devoted servant.

Lord Denbigh had small gifts to distribute to each of his guests after the children's excitement had begun to subside a little. He had given his aunts more precious gifts in private earlier that morning.

And after that there were the servants to call in and present with their gifts and Christmas bonuses and to serve with tea and dainties left in the kitchen by the cook and brought up by him and Nora and Judith and Miss Easton. That part of the day's ceremony had always used to be an unbearably embarrassing one for the servants as they had attempted to make conversation with their employers. Since the coming of the children, however, that had all changed.

Lily and Violet, awed to silence by their own gifts, sat on either side of A

The gift-opening was always, the marquess thought, one of the loveliest parts of Christmas. But then, every part of Christmas seemed the loveliest as it happened.

She was looking exceptionally lovely that morning, he thought, his eyes straying to Judith. She was wearing a simple wool dress of deep rose pink. Wool was flattering to a slender figure, he decided, his eyes passing over her. Slender, but very shapely too. He remembered again the feel of her in his arms the night before, when he had pushed back her cloak and drawn her inside his greatcoat and she had opened his evening coat and his waistcoat and put herself against the silk of his shirt.

Slender and shapely, warm, yielding, arched against him, making no resistance even when he had brought the lower half of her body intimately against him.

"Listen." It was Lily, looking shyly up at him, her watch held up toward him. Her eyes, gin-drugged but a few months before, were wide with Christmas.

He stooped down, put his ear obediently to the watch and listened for a few seconds.”It ticks as loudly as your heart,'' he said. "You must not forget to wind it up each night."

"Never," she whispered fervently. "Thank you."

He smiled and kissed her cheek. "Your smile is thanks enough, Lily," he said.

She turned abruptly away, suddenly anxious because she had left Violet's side for a moment.

He glanced to Judith again and caught her eye. She half smiled at him and returned her attention to his housekeeper, with whom she was conversing. It was hard to know what she was feeling. She looked remote, serene, as she had always looked when they were betrothed. Perhaps she was deliberately hiding her feelings?

As she had done then?

And what had those feelings been then? She had jilted him in order to marry a rake. She must have had no feelings for him at all. Or else her feelings must have been negative ones. Perhaps she had actively disliked him.

And now? She had responded to him with hunger the night before. But that might mean nothing. She had been a widow for longer than a year. Perhaps she was just ripe for a man's attentions. Any man's.

It was impossible to know. But her behavior this morning was warning enough of one thing. He might be in love with her again-or still in love with her-but he must never trust her again, never allow himself to hope for a future with her. For even if she was responding to his lovemaking now and would perhaps accept an offer of marriage from him, he would not be sure that it was not just loneliness for any man that drove her to accept. He would find out only after they were married, when it was too late.

She had broken his heart once. He was not going to allow it to happen again. He did not think he would be able to survive its happening again.

But for all that, he hoped that he was more to her than just any man. If he was to break her heart as she had broken his, and cause her even one fraction of the pain he had suffered, then it was important that she at least fancy herself in love with him.

Last night he had been sure. This morning he was uncertain again. But then he supposed he would always feel unsure of himself with Judith Easton.

"No, no," he said to his flustered cook. "I shall return the tea tray to the kitchen."