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Chapter Seven
Later that evening
L
ynette sat stiffly next to her mother on one of the low sofas in the drawing room. Though the Ivy family and servants had done a spectacular job of decorating many of the rooms on the lower level of the castle, the holiday greenery failed to cheer her. Each time she caught sight of the tin bells and colored glass balls nestled in the evergreen branches or looked up the bright red ribbons woven through the boughs, unexpected sadness assailed her.
I miss my husband.
More than that, she missed the closeness and the romance of having an attentive man by her side during this time. There was a certain knowing when one had that, the keeping of secrets, the whispered conversations, the kisses one might steal while passing beneath mistletoe. Her husband had adored this time of year, and that had made their celebrations all the more special, but for so long it had been her and John that some of the magic had been lost along the way.
“Stop moping, girl. Soon we’ll retire upstairs then you can brood all you want,” her mother groused with a poke to her ribs from a bony finger.
“I won’t apologize for feeling maudlin. It’s when I miss Charles the most.” Her son and Lucy sat on the floor off to one side, studiously making chains out of strips of paper. Later, they would hang them in their respective bedchambers in an effort to extend the holiday cheer.
She glided her gaze over the other occupants of the room—the Ivy family plus Lord Hollingworth’s new fiancée. They either talked in small groups or sat by themselves. The Duke and Duchess of Whittington stood together near the fireplace, their heads together, whispering intensely.
What might it be like to have had such a lasting marriage over the years?
The youngest Ivy brother—Lord Bonham—suddenly perked up. “Why don’t we play the game Bullet Pudding?” His eyes twinkled, and from the way he held himself, he knew himself to be scandalously handsome. “We haven’t done that for years.”
The twins exchanged glances. Did Stephen understand what his brother wished without words? That relationship had always fascinated her over the years.
It was he who nodded. “That sounds like a capitol idea, Graham.” Was his smile sly or had she imagined too much into it as he looked about the room. “Any objections?”
Everyone shook their heads, but the word “game” had snagged the children’s’ interest. They bounded to their feet.
“What sort of game is Bullet Pudding?” John asked, for he liked nothing more than learning new things, and during the course of playing tin soldiers with Stephen earlier in the day, he’d had many of his newest questions about battlefields answered.
She was forever grateful for Stephen’s patience.
“Well, it’s when the players make a huge pile of flour. Usually, a bullet or a ball from a pistol is placed atop, but tonight we’ll use a marble. The point of the game is to have everyone slice a piece of the ‘cake’ without causing the marble to drop.” Stephen’s eyes sparkled as he talked with the boy. “When that happens, the player who let the marble fall has to retrieve it by using their lips only. And if they don’t, it’s declared a forfeit and that player has to do a dare or follow through with something else agreed upon.”
“That sounds like jolly good fun, Lord Tilbury. May we do it?”
“Yes, please, Uncle Stephen?” Lucy threw her pleading in with John’s.
The duke decided it. “Graham, run down to the kitchens and ask Cook for a wide serving platter as well as enough flour to play the game.”
“I’ll return shortly.” With that, the youngest Ivy brother ran from the drawing room as if he were lad of John’s age again.
“The rest of you, help me arrange the furniture so we can all gather ‘round one of these tables.”
Her mother stood. “Playing a game doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I’m going upstairs. There’s some embroidery work I’d like to finish.”
“If you’re certain?” Lynette murmured. It was probably for the best that her mother left the party, for she had the tendency to drag the uplifted atmosphere down.
“Oh, yes. The rest of you can cavort all you wish, but mind John doesn’t stay up too late.” She met Lynette’s eyes. “He doesn’t need to pick up the bad habits of indulgent lords.”
“He won’t, Mama, and the Ivy men are quite harmless.”
Her mother shook a finger at her. “I know men, and these three are full of mischief.” She dropped her voice. “To say nothing of the duke. He’s up to no good. I can tell.”
Too tired to debate with her mother, Lynette sighed. “Enjoy your evening then. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“If I don’t expire in my sleep. My room is overly drafty.”
With a sigh, she watched her mother exit the room, and when her gaze connected with that of Lady Whittington’s, she offered a slight smile and a shrug. The older woman flashed an encouraging grin, and the understanding in her eyes did more to make Lynette feel at ease than anything else.
