Page 35 of A Holiday By Gaslight

“Only the money, you say. As if money is a small concern. And even if it weren’t. I’m not worth half the sum.”

“And you accuse me of talking flummery?”

“It’s not flummery. It’s reality. I’m doing you the courtesy of being honest.”

“Permit me to do the same.” Ned caught her by the arm once again, obliging her to stop and look at him. His voice was low and fierce. “You say you know nothing about me. That you don’t know if you like me or not. Or whether we suit or not. But during those two months I courted you in London, I learned to like you very much. I watched you and listened to you. I saw how gracious you are. How kind and sweet and warm. How very much a lady. I don’t need the next eight days to determine how I feel about you. I already know how I feel. I admire you, Sophie. I want you for my own. If I have to modernize your father’s estate into the next millennium, it would be a small price to pay for the privilege of having you.”

Sophie gaze held his, a look of muted astonishment on her face. As if she were stunned by his words and trying very hard not to show it.

And then, just like that, her mouth trembled.

“You’re wrong,” she said. “I do like you. I like when you talk to me—and when you held my hands in the attic. I like that you don’t wish to lay a burden on me.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I’m being silly and stupid.”

“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.”

She brushed a gloved hand over her cheek. “Only yesterday I was wishing my sister would have some holiday cheer, and here I am like any watering pot. I beg your pardon, Ned.”

His heart turned over. He wanted to take her in his arms. Promise her the world, if only…

But it was too soon. And she was upset. Overwhelmed. He’d had no idea her father’s profligacy had affected her so much. Only a cad would take advantage.

“I want you to do something for me,” he said. “For the next eight days, I want you to let me shoulder this burden.”

She shook her head. “It’s not yours to bear.”

“Consider it a Christmas gift.” She began to object, but he anticipated her. “You needn’t fear that I’ll infer some kind of promise or commitment from it. What happens after the holidays is still entirely your choice. But while I’m here in Derbyshire, let me worry about your father’s ambitions for the estate. You can concern yourself with more important things.”

“Such as?”

“Good Lord, I don’t know. Decorating? Singing carols? Gathering mistletoe?” He looked in the direction that the others had gone. “Speaking of which, we seem to have become separated from our party.”

Sophie followed his gaze. “So much for our faithful chaperonage.”

“Let’s hope the vicar is doing a better job of it.”

“Shall we try and find them?” she asked.

“If you like,” he said. “Or we could search out some mistletoe for ourselves.”

Her cheeks were already flushed from the cold, but he could have sworn they turned a little redder. “There was some hereabouts last Christmas,” she admitted. “Emily and I found it by the—”

Her words were interrupted by an ungodly shriek. They both turned in the direction from whence it came. Another high-pitched shriek heralded the arrival of one of the aristocratic young ladies they’d left behind to gather pine boughs. She ran toward them through the woods, her skirts clutched in her hands.

“Miss Appersett! Miss Appersett!” She came to a sliding halt in the snow in front of Sophie.

Sophie moved to steady her. “Miss Tunstall, what on earth is the matter?”

“It’s your sister, ma’am,” Miss Tunstall panted. “She’s fallen on the ice and hurt her leg. She may have broken it. Or worse. Lady Barton mentioned amputation and Mr. Fortescue nearly fainted. Mrs. Fortescue said I was to fetch you straightaway.”

Sophie’s face drained of color. Ned moved to place a reassuring hand on her back. But she was already charging off, Miss Tunstall trotting at her side. “I must go to her,” she said. “Tell the others—”

“Damn the others.” Ned strode after her, ignoring Miss Tunstall’s scandalized gasp. “Here. Take my arm. It won’t help your sister if you injure yourself as well.”

Sophie looked at him blankly for a moment. Then she nodded, seeming to bring her emotions under some semblance of control. “Yes. You’re quite right.” She took his arm, her fingers pressing tight into his sleeve as they retraced their steps back through the snow.

They’d gone no more than a few yards when they crossed paths with Walter Murray. He was carrying Emily Appersett in his arms.

“Not to worry,” he said as he emerged from the woods. “Just a twisted ankle. She’ll be fine once we get her back to the house.”