mouth, then she wouldn’t be able to send him away.
“No.”
Argh! There was that hated word again.
“If you kiss me, I shall acquiesce,” she whispered.
“That’s my hope,” he muttered.
“At least I am honest,” she quipped and closed the door in his face.
“At least I am honest,” he mimicked in a sing-song tone, feeling childish but unable to help himself.
After a moment, he stopped staring at the smoothly painted door two inches from his nose and turned away, unable to help wishing she’d been a little less honest and a lot more wicked. Merry Christmas indeed!
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Mayfair is mad for any news of the ton’s various country house parties as nothing is happening in Town. Word has it that Lord M__ is having a small Twelfth Night country party after all. Quality folk are hoping for an invitation.”
-The Gazette
Julia felt prickly as a gooseberry, having tossed and turned all night, thinking of the earl and his blessed mouth and capable hands.
“You’re sighing,” Jasper snapped, having been less than friendly since entering the breakfast room a few minutes after her.
He wore a country outfit of leather breeches and a fuller coat than he wore in Town, as well as an unstarched neckcloth. She liked his comfortable country look yet the relaxed fashion didn’t seem to reflect his current disposition.
Moreover, he’d not bothered to remark on her outrageous gown, another fifty-year-old monstrosity with a tight, flat stomacher that seemed more Elizabethan than last century. She didn’t think there was room for much food, so she’d only taken two coddled eggs. Regardless, the dress fit her and was warm and a pretty shade of pumpkin with green and gold accents.
“Are we riding again today?” she asked, although she would probably have to change into her own dress so she could take a full breath.
“You didn’t want to ride last night,” he quipped sourly.
She wanted to stick her tongue out at his poor manners but was glad she hadn’t given in to temptation when his mother appeared.
“Good morning, I slept so well,” the dowager countess declared. “They say it’s the country air, but I think it’s the exercise. A good walk today or a ride or both?”
“I was just asking his lordship the same. I suppose if we are to gather greenery, mistletoe and such, we should walk.”
“Oh no, my dear. As my son said last night, I don’t—” Lady Marshfield stopped herself. Then she gave a small smile that grew.
“Yes, I say. Why not do it ourselves? It might be fun. I’ve also decided the party is back on, but on a small scale so as not to tax the stores we have in the cellar and pantry. I’ve already spoken with Cook, and she says we can put on a Twelfth Night feast for eight without embarrassing ourselves.”
Jasper stared miserably, looking as if he would rather eat dirt.
“How wonderful,” Julia said, since the dowager countess seemed so pleased. “Is that eight in addition to us?”
“Then it must be seven,” Jasper reminded his mother.
“True, eleven would be most unseemly. But we could invite nine.”
“Let’s invite seven,” he insisted and speared a piece of bacon.
“Very well. Nine and the three of us,” she said overriding him. “Twelve for Twelfth Night.” His mother clapped her hands. “Doesn’t it make everything feel more festive?”
“Festive,” Jasper muttered.
“What has got into you, dear boy?”
“Nothing that gathering boughs of holly won’t cure,” Julia remarked, earning a withering look from the earl.
“SO, I AM TO BE TEMPTED by you this entire week without relief?” Jasper demanded.
“Honestly, you’re behaving badly,” Julia said.
“That’s what I do,” he reminded her, as she snipped another piece of mistletoe and put it into the basket he carried. His mother, a few feet away, was humming to herself, handing sprigs of holly and long evergreen boughs to a footman.
“We’ve been out here for hours,” Jasper complained loud enough for the dowager countess to hear.
His mother stopped humming to laugh at him. “It’s only been thirty minutes, I believe.”
Julia heard him say something rude under his breath.
A thwarted rake was not a happy man. That was not her concern. It seemed the height of rudeness to abuse his mother’s hospitality by tupping her son in the guest room.
“Like I’m a trollop,” Julia muttered, viciously cutting another piece of holly and getting pricked by a barbed leaf, right through her glove.
“What did you say?” he asked, his tone interested. “It sounded as though you said you were like a trollop.”
His gaze was suddenly attentive, sliding from her eyes to her