Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,227

added another level of embarrassment and injury he wished he could’ve spared her. Therefore, he’d chosen not to dwell on the matter. She said it. He heard it. They were at peace.

If circumstances forced a union between them in a few weeks, he would adjust with little difficulty. Part of him thrilled at the prospect honestly. Bess was unlike any woman he had ever known. She was unpredictable, brazen, and passionate. That last kiss had nearly knocked him on his arse. He’d never been with a lover that initiated amorous interludes, and her boldness was a potent aphrodisiac.

Miss Price finished with the holly and was placing pinecones among the greenery. “Why not have a seat yourself, my lord?”

Chuckling, he raised his hands in surrender. “I understand. Leave the artistry to the ladies.”

The apples of Miss Price’s cheeks pinked, a telltale sign he’d been right about her motivation.

A glance in Bess’s direction reassured him that plying her with brandy was the right decision. She slouched in the chair, her eyes at half-mast and a half smile curving her plummy lips. The empty snifter sat on the side table.

“All better now, she-devil?” he asked.

“You promised Christmas carols.” She pronounced Christmas as Chrisht-mas. Whether it was from her swollen tongue or the effects of the liquor, he couldn’t say. It was endearing either way.

“Only if you sing along.” He sat at the polished pianoforte and ran through the scales to warm up his fingers. “Do you have a request?”

When she didn’t answer, he played one of three pieces he’d memorized. It was the only Christmas song in his repertoire. The other two were popular with a certain crowd he’d known at University, and inappropriate for present company. He attacked the stanza, belting out the first verse. “Joy to the world.”

Miss Price sang along, both of them serenading Bess, who struggled to keep her eyes open despite the lively performance. She did, however, applaud them at the end.

“You play beautifully,” Miss Price said. “Will you treat us to another?”

Julius admitted he hadn’t memorized any other Christmas pieces. Bess’s cousin solved the problem by retrieving a stack of sheet music from the bottom drawer of the sideboard. He scooted to one side of the bench, and she plopped beside him.

“We’ll have to look through these to find Christmas music,” she said. “Every year I intend to organize these, but I never do.”

“Don’t say that too loudly, or we will be locked in another battle to keep her in her seat.”

Bess had fallen asleep, her face soft like an angel in repose. One would never guess what a spitfire she was when she was conscious.

“I should take her to her chamber before she falls into a deep sleep and cannot be roused,” her cousin said.

Julius stopped her with a brief touch to her shoulder. “She is comfortable now. Allow her to rest. I will carry her to bed if need be.”

“Considering the contentious beginning of your association with my cousin”—Miss Price shuffled through the music sheets—“I find your offer magnanimous.”

“She would do the same for me. She did do the same.” He vaguely recalled Bess’s arm around him as they’d climbed the stairs his first night at Davensworth Cottage.

Her cousin presented the music for Silent Night; her golden brown eyebrows drifted toward her hairline, posing an unspoken question.

“A perfect choice,” he said.

She placed the sheet on the music rack, and he played softly. Lost in their own thoughts, they missed the cue after the intro. Miss Price didn’t seem to notice, so Julius kept playing. “I blame myself for her fall,” he said.

Her head snapped toward him. “Bess said it was an accident.”

“One that could have been avoided if I’d insisted on going alone.”

“Once Bess sets her mind to something, one would have more luck stopping a tempest.” Miss Price’s shoulders drooped as if defeated. “We should have stayed in London.”

His fingers froze over the keys. He didn’t know whether to look at her or pretend he hadn’t heard the sad undertones beneath her words. Her head was bowed, and she absently picked the edge of a fingernail. “I thought I would miss Papa less, but Davensworth Cottage isn’t the same without him.”

An unexpected lump formed in his throat. His own parents were the heart of Everly Manor. He couldn’t imagine the family home without picturing one or both of them in their favorite rooms. The young woman’s sorrow hung heavily on the air.

“I am sorry, Miss Price. Truly, I am.” The words themselves rang hollow,