The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,57

rash and emotional and not make a great deal of sense if their pride had been the least bit dented. Also, it was true that Ross Moyle’s was devastatingly handsome and… and King had been jealous.

Livvy sat down on her bed with a thud, a little winded as she considered this. On pondering it further, her heart ceased its excited thudding as she realised it was only a case of possessiveness and there was nothing the least bit romantic about it. He had also been concerned for her welfare, as any friend might be, and no matter what he said, they did have a peculiar friendship of sorts, and naturally he would not like her kissing Ross so soon after she’d been kissing him. Not that she had been kissing Ross. If King had seen the kiss, he must have also seen that it was a chaste peck on the cheek, and nothing like the kisses they had shared. Nothing like. Not at all. Not even close. Like chalk and cheese. Really, a million miles away from anything she had experienced with….

Yes. Well. That was enough of that.

She let out a sigh of frustration. One thing was for certain, she could not stomp about in her room all morning. There was far too much to do. So, she took a deep breath, and headed down to the kitchen, resolved to put the Earl of Kingston out of her mind until such time as she could think sensibly about him. So possibly sometime in the next century. She’d put it in her diary.

Chapter Twelve

13th December 1818.

Things unsaid, a lot of silent longing, and stiff upper lips.

King gave himself a critical inspection in the looking-glass. Well, he looked a little less like he’d been dug up by body snatchers the week previous, but that was about the best he could say for himself. He thought perhaps he wasn’t so pallid as before, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were a tad less pronounced. He’d put back on a bit of weight too, but his clothes were still loose and… and he kept remembering the ruddy good looks of Ross Moyles.

“Don’t be an utter pillock,” he muttered under his breath.

A knock at the door sounded and Walsh went to open it, smiling as he saw Harry’s eager young face. “Ah, good morning, Mr Penrose, sir. I’ve some freshly starched cravats all ready and waiting for you.”

Harry beamed at Walsh and came in. “Thank you, Walsh. Are you sure I’m not bothering you, my lord… I mean, King?”

“No, no,” King said, smiling at the lad. “We didn’t quite get the hang of it last time, did we? Practise makes perfect and all that.”

King spent the next forty minutes going over the intricacies of tying the perfect cravat until Harry could do it himself with very tolerable results.

“Not bad. Not bad at all,” King said, giving the boy’s latest effort a slight tweak until it was just as it ought to be. “Keep practising, Harry. You’ll make all the fellows wild with envy when you go back to school in the New Year.”

The boy’s face fell, and he coloured a little. “Oh, well, I… I’m not sure I’ll be… that is, Father said I might stay at home this year, and—there’s a tutor, you see—and… anyway, I’d best not take up any more of your time. Thank you again for helping me. It was jolly decent of you.”

King watched him go, a heavy, impotent sensation sitting like lead in the pit of his stomach.

Walsh shook his head as he closed the door behind Harry. “Poor blighter. They ain’t got the money to send him back.”

“Yes, thank you, Walsh, I had figured that out myself,” King snapped, and then let out a breath. “Forgive me. I….”

He did not know what to say, for he did not understand what he was doing or feeling.

“S’alright,” Walsh replied gruffly. “It’s frustrating. Feel it meself, truth be told. It’s a nice place. Gelly’s a good sort and even Spargo is all right, though he don’t speak more’n two words at a time. The children are sweet natured and kind, and your Livvy….”

“She’s not my Livvy,” King said at once, stalking to the window.

He stood staring out with his hands behind his back as something twisted in his chest, and he accepted the truth of it.

“Aye, well. They don’t deserve the hand they’ve been dealt, is all I was going to say. ’Tis a pity no one can help them.