Page 31 of A Daring Desire

“Well, we don’t have to sing. I think you’d regret it if I did. I couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket,” she said frankly, to which he gave a sudden shout of laughter.

“No!” he said, clearly entertained by this information. “Don’t say it! All those ladylike refinements, and you can’t sing?”

“No,” she said sadly, secretly delighted by his amusement. “Not a note. My brothers used to tell me our cat made more pleasing noises when he was fighting with interlopers.”

“Well, well, you’re not so perfect after all,” he mused.

Cat almost choked on her tea. “Me?” she spluttered. “Perfect? Good God, Kilbane, you of all people ought to know that much.”

He shrugged, looking away from her. “You’re surely close enough to perfection. Beautiful, talented, well-bred, and rich, what else is there? You just got a maggot in your head about me, Lord knows why, and it led you into trouble. If you’d never met me—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He turned back at the thread of anger in her voice. “I’m not being ridiculous. You ruined yourself, ruined your life, and for what?”

Cat set down her teacup, finding she was suddenly on the verge of tears and refusing to indulge them in front of him. “For you,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. “And if I had it to do over, I should do it again.”

Kilbane watched his wife hurry from the room, aware he had upset her. He would never understand her, not if he lived to be a hundred. She was lying, of course. What a fool she would be if she meant such a thing. If she had her life over, she would stay far, far away from him and marry a decent man. A better one than him, at least. One who had not ruined himself a dozen times over until he was too tainted by his past and his reputation to be fit for such a creature. And now she wanted him to celebrate Christmas with her! The idea made him uncomfortable. Did she expect them to re-enact some fictional merry scene, as though they were happily married? He didn’t even know what that looked like.

He suspected his memories of Christmas would find little in common with hers. His father had usually held a party on Christmas Eve, inviting all his cronies and as many trollops as he thought fit to go around. Kilbane had stayed out of the way, and the best Christmas present he ever got was when neither his father nor brother, nor the guests, stirred from the bedchambers for the next two days and he was left in peace. There were no family dinners, no presents, no wassailing or decking the halls. His abiding memory was living with the fervent hope he could get through the festive season unnoticed, and someone would invite his father and Ricky to stay with them, and they would go, leaving him by himself again.

As he got older, Christmas was only an irritation, for those friends he had—such as they were—would all disappear to make merry with their families, and he was left kicking his heels.

But Catherine wanted him to spend Christmas with her, and he supposed he owed his saintly wife that much. So, he must do his best to survive another Christmas, but this time with her.

Chapter 10

Lady Rose,

I saw a girl selling Christmas Roses and thought of you. So here they are. I expect you will be given many lavish gifts this festive season, but pray put them somewhere you can look upon them every day and think of me. Do not repine too much. You shall see me again soon.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Right Hon’ble Lady Rose Carmichael (daughter of the Right Hon’ble Maximillian and Phoebe Carmichael, Earl and Countess of Ellisborough) from The Right Hon’ble Pagan Bancroft, Viscount Marlowe.

24th December 1849, Connaught Place, London.

Cat regarded the Christmas tree with a critical gaze. “Turn it a little to the left,” she instructed Frank, who obliged her. “Yes, just there. Oh, perfect.”

The footman straightened and nodded at the fireplace. “Do you need any more greenery for the mantle? Any more holly?” he asked dubiously.

“Poor Frank,” she said, grinning at him. “No, no. Don’t fret. Your fight with the holly bush this morning was not in vain. Indeed, you deserve a commendation for such a mighty battle.”

Frank blushed and shot her a wry smile. “Well, it was a prickly little devil,” he admitted.

“Flirting with the staff, wife? Tut, tut.”

Cat turned with a gasp to see her husband in the open doorway.

“My lord!” she exclaimed, so surprised she couldn’t think of a sensible thing to say. “You’re up,” she observed stupidly.

“As you see, and not a moment too soon, if this fellow’s blushes are anything to go by,” he remarked dryly.

“My lord,” Cat replied reprovingly. “It is you making the poor man uncomfortable, as you well know. Frank, you may go, and thank you for your work.”

The footman practically ran from the room, hurrying past his lordship, who watched him with amusement.

“That was unnecessary,” she scolded.

“Perhaps. Amusing, though,” he replied, unrepentant.