Page 8 of Joy to the Earl

“Well, my head hurts,” he said eventually. “And I’ve a few bumps and bruises.”

“From the accident,” said Felicity, nodding solemnly. “Is that why your eyes are different colors?”

Christ.

Jack looked away, the familiar shame suffocating him. He hated his mismatched eyes so much, the main reason he’d been kept away from other people, that and his godawful limp. “No,” he replied woodenly. “My eyes have been like that since I was a baby.”

“Oh. I like them. They are pretty, like stars. I think you’re a wizard. Are you a wizard? Mama said you got pulled out of a ditch, though, so you need to practice magicing to places. Wizards shouldn’t magic into a ditch.”

“Quite right. Ditches are very cold and wet. So…Rosalind is your mother? How old are you?”

“Yes,” she replied, then held up her hand. “And I am one, two, three, four years old.”

“And in one, two, three, four kinds of trouble!” said a voice from the doorway, and they both looked up guiltily to see an exasperated Rosalind. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Fliss, Aunt May is waiting to give you your music lesson. And I told you not to bother Mr. Reynolds.”

“Wellington and I are allowed to call him Jack,” said Felicity with a haughty sniff as she scooped up the long-suffering kitten and limped toward the door. “Farewell, Jack. I have to go now. When I am a field marshal, no one will ever tell me what to do again.”

Jack swallowed hard when it was just Rosalind and him alone in the chamber. “What…what is wrong with Felicity’s leg?”

A shadow crossed her face, and he almost apologized for asking. Then she took a deep breath. “Did she tell you about her father?”

“Yes. That he fell from his horse.”

“Fliss was riding with Sir Markham when their horse reared at a barking dog. My husband fell and hit his head on a rock, and Fliss’ foot got tangled in the stirrup and was dragged along several feet. She was only two, and broke her leg in three places. It was the worst day of my life.”

Jack traced the quilt pattern with a fingertip. “Felicity has a sharp mind. I will admit to feeling sympathy for Wellington, although she handles her transportation method very stoically.”

“Wellington is the most British of kittens. Actually, I swear she is the most placid in the history of catdom,” said Rosalind with a laugh. “Do you know she was a stray? Felicity found her behind an old cart in the village, hid her under her coat, and smuggled her back into the kitchen, where a number of allies in her crimes work. It was a full two weeks before I discovered our new houseguest, and by then Fliss and Wellington were inseparable.”

He glanced across the room at Rosalind. God, she was beautiful, so perfectly formed it almost hurt to look at her. And her husky laugh, the way her whole face glowed when she spoke of her daughter…not to mention knowing what she looked like under the plain dark blue cambric gown she wore. The memory of those lush hips, full breasts, and the dark, crisp hair guarding the succulent pink flesh of her cunt was something he had gone to sleep and woken up with. Unfortunately swiftly followed by his humiliating failure at even the first step of lovemaking.

“Er,” he said gruffly, “do you happen to have some clothing I could borrow? I’ll be out of your way just as soon I’m dressed. If there is a mail coach that stops somewhere nearby I’ll get on it and return north.”

Rosalind stilled, the smile slipping from her face, and it was like the sun going behind a cloud. “You want to leave right away?”

“I don’t want to impose,” he replied, confused by her apparent hurt.

“For heaven’s sake, Jack. This is a large house. You have a head wound, and there is three feet of snow outside. You’re hardly imposing.”

“But I don’t have any money to pay you. I’m sorry, Rosalind, but I’m…not well off at all. I only have Northridge and that is in a sad state.”

Rosalind glared at him. “I don’t want your blasted money. In case it slipped your notice, it is nearly Christmas. You know, the season for goodwill and joy and sins forgiven. Everyone wants you to stay for the festivities. We will have holly boughs and a Yule log. Mulled wine. Plum pudding and gingerbread. Plus I always surprise Fliss with a new toy, rather than have her wait for the New Year. Then we’ll play music and sing until our throats hurt.”

Christmas.

When he was younger his mother had acknowledged the day, and they’d travelled by cart into the village to attend church, sitting at the very back, so he didn’t frighten the other parishioners. A few times the elderly reverend had laid hands on him to drive out the demon causing his eye deformity, but it had never worked, and eventually they had just stopped going. Luncheon had been bread and cheese, and supper a small cut of beef with vegetables made into a pie.

“It sounds nice,” he said slowly, trying to talk around the boulder in his throat.

She laughed. “It won’t be. Uncle Donald eats far too much plum pudding then climbs an oak tree to speak with the faeries and keep an eye out for Napoleon, from which we’ll have to rescue him. Aunt May tells bawdy jokes that only get worse as the mulled wine decanter empties, and Fliss will want to act out at least three Peninsular battles with her tin soldiers. I’ve no idea how the Vales behave at Christmas, so that will be like adding gunpowder to an explosion. You’d better warn me now. What do you do?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. We didn’t really celebrate Christmas at Northridge, not since I was a boy.”

“But…” Rosalind faltered, biting her lip. Then she smiled, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well then, this will be an experience for you. And if you are insistent on contributing, I know some of the wooden fences within the stables desperately need an expert’s hand.”

For the first time, he relaxed. That he could do. “Gladly. If you have some clothes, I’ll get started right away. I’m not used to being bedridden.”

“What about your head?”