Page 24 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

“I can understand that,” she said, closing her eyes and taking another deep breath. “It’s wonderful. That perfume is quite intoxicating, and it’s so… so peaceful.”

“It is,” Nat replied, though he was not feeling especially peaceful as he gazed upon her up-tilted face. The sinking sun burnished the windows with a last golden glow and lit up her profile, gilding the elegant line of her nose, the long, slender column of her neck.

He had a sudden, intense desire to press his lips to the tender spot beneath her ear, to kiss her and breathe in her scent to see if it was as sweet as the citrus blossom.

Shocked, Nat sprang to his feet and took several steps away to ensure he was not mad enough to act upon the impulse. She was ready to flee as it was; if she thought he had designs upon her person, he would not see her for dust.

Happily, she seemed oblivious to his agitation, too beguiled by the beautiful setting to notice his sudden retreat. Unnerved by his reckless impulse to ravish her, Nat did his best to give his mind a new, safer occupation.

“This is citrus sinensis, the sweet orange. There are many kinds, including navel oranges and blood oranges,” he said, gesturing to the various trees around them. “Then we have, on this side, Seville oranges, citrus aurantium, though there are many subdivisions, like citrus bergamia, and, of course, you’ll know they are only good for marmalade. Then this beautiful thing is citrus limon. The lemon tree arrived in Italy in the tenth century, I believe.”

She blinked, gazing at him. “You know a lot about citrus.”

Nat laughed. “No, I just remember what the head gardener taught me when I was a lad, probably hoping to get me to go away and stop stealing the oranges.”

Meg studied him for a moment and then turned away, smiling now, which was a relief.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, thankful to discover the sun had finally given way to twilight and his impulse for self-destruction also appeared to have passed.

She sighed and gave a weary nod. “Yes. I suppose so. I don’t feel like casting up my accounts, at any rate.”

“Well, that’s definitely an improvement,” he said, with rather overdone jollity.

Meg cast him an odd glance but squared her shoulders. “I apologise for my hysteria, it just all seemed rather overwhelming and… oh, and I liked the dowager duchess very much, and I feel utterly wretched about lying to her. It seems such a dastardly trick to play when she is offering me her hospitality.”

Nat smiled, delighted that she liked the old lady and refusing to consider the bit about it being a dastardly trick, for he felt that too keenly as it was. He’d known instinctively that Meg would like the dowager. Many people could not handle her acerbic wit and rather outrageous manners and would take offence or become tongue-tied; that Meg had not done so gave him hope they would both survive the coming weeks.

“She’s a wicked old termagant and I adore her,” he said simply.

Meg smiled. “I could tell. She adores you too, I think.”

Nat nodded. “We speak the same language, strange as it seems. She thinks I was born in the wrong century, for my manners aren’t quite nice and I get impatient with polite chitchat. In her view, men were men when she was a girl, despite dressing up with more lace and powder and high heels than the ladies.”

Meg contemplated him, looking him slowly up and down in a way that made Nat feel somewhat hot about the cravat, before tilting her head to one side. “Yes, I can see it. A powdered wig, patches, a suit of lilac silk with silver lacings, lace cuffs and diamond-studded heels. Oh, how splendid you would have looked,” she said, pressing her hand to her heart with mock admiration.

“Very droll,” Nat replied, and then made an extravagant leg, bowing theatrically. “Your servant, ma’am.”

She laughed, and the sound echoed around the orangery, as sweet as the perfume that surrounded them, making him glad for having done so.

“You won’t run away, then?” he asked softly, daring to walk closer to her and hold out his hand.

“I won’t run away,” she agreed, allowing him to help her up. “Though I’ve not met his grace yet. So I make no promises about changing my mind.”

“Oh, Hawkney,” Nat said dismissively, placing her arm on his sleeve and walking her back towards the door. “You’ll have no trouble with him.”

“How so?”

“Because you are clever. He admires intelligence and good manners. I have neither, which explains why we drive each other mad.”

He felt her gaze sharpen upon him and glanced down at her.

“Why do you do that?”

Nat frowned, not understanding. “Do what?”

“Pretend you aren’t clever.”

Nat frowned but did not look back at her. “I don’t, but I’m not, anyhow. There’s no use pretending I am, is there?”