The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,76

with his free arm as he careened past.

George squealed and kicked, laughing and wriggling like an eel to get free as King carried him out of the room and back into the parlour.

“Pack that in, you little devil,” King said, lifting the boy to eye level.

“Ing!” George said, grinning at him unrepentantly.

“What have I told you about covering yourself up, young man?” King said gravely.

George snickered. “Naughty boy, George. Girls scream loud, Ing.”

King felt his lips twitch and fought not to laugh.

“Yes, I quite understand the urge to shock them, believe me, but it’s really not very gentlemanly.” He sat down and released George, who took the opportunity to make a break for it. “Oh, no you don’t.”

King was too quick and caught him again, tickling the child until he was screaming,

“No, no, no, lemme go, lemme go!” George protested breathlessly, cackling with laughter at the same time.

“There, see? That’s what you get, my lad. Now, then, I’m starving, and I want my dinner. Are you hungry?”

George nodded.

“Well, you’re not having dinner until you put these on, but if you’re a good boy and get dressed, you may sit next to me.”

Somewhat to King’s surprise, the boy subsided at once and submitted to being wrestled inexpertly into small clothes and trousers. Once all his buttons were buttoned, King looked him over, taking a moment to straighten the collar on the boy’s skeleton suit.

“Very smart, George. Now then, shall we dine with the ladies?”

“Es,” George replied, nodding. “George hungry. Ing wants dinner.”

“Yes, I do,” King confirmed, taking the boy’s hand.

“Barn’by hungry,” George said hopefully.

“He may well be, but pigs don’t eat at the dining table.”

“Barn’by gog. Oof, oof.”

King shook his head. “You know very well Barnaby is a pig, not a dog.”

George slanted him a mischievous look, but only murmured: “Oof, oof.”

When Livvy saw them walk back into the dining room, hand in hand, with George dressed and smiling, the look she gave King made something shift in his chest. He looked quickly away from her and lifted George into his seat, sitting down beside him.

The meal was simple but excellent, Gelly having a knack for making plain fare exceptionally well. A thick vegetable soup and good bread was followed with a mutton pie with a divine golden pastry that melted in the mouth, boiled potatoes with butter, carrots and—naturally—cabbage. Strangely enough, King was getting a taste for it.

For some reason, his mind returned to meals when he was Harry’s age. When he was old enough to be allowed to dine with his parents, on the rare occasions he was home from school, mealtimes had been anxious, stilted affairs. His mother often dined in her room rather than face the ordeal, for which he perhaps ought not to have blamed her, but he did, for it left him alone with his father. King would either scoff his food as fast as he could manage hoping to escape quicker and then getting reprimanded for his appalling manners, or barely be able to choke down a morsel as terror of his father’s moods made his throat tight. The table would be covered with dozens of dishes and a ridiculous number of courses, many of which would go untouched as his father prided himself on his restraint. Indulgence in any form was an abominable offence to the Marquess of Eynsham.

King was not so blind to his own nature that he did not recognise what had driven his horrendous behaviour and subsequent fall into dissipation.

He looked about the table now, at the animated conversation and the laughter, and smiled as George offered him a piece of carrot.

“Thank you, I have some. You eat it.”

George shrugged and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing happily.

Some fierce sense of urgency burned in King’s chest, a swell of protectiveness that was quite out of character. King had never cared for anyone but himself before now. He’d allowed no one close, allowed no one to know him. He wasn’t certain he’d even known himself before he’d arrived here, out of his mind with drink. He’d always held back, acting the charming devil, flirting and laughing but never really engaging with anyone, never really feeling anything fully. He hadn’t wanted to. That had been the marvellous thing about drinking, it had numbed him and made everything wonderfully simple, until it hadn’t.

Out of habit he reached for a glass of wine that wasn’t there and took a breath, taking up his water glass instead and downing it. Somehow, he must protect this,