Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,228

but the sentiment filled his heart.

“In London, there would have been parties to serve as a distraction,” she said. “Instead, we are stuck in this empty house, and no matter how hard Bess tries to make it feel like home, it is lonely without Papa.”

Fat tears splattered the sheet music in her lap.

Once again, he was faced with a lady’s tears, and he was no more prepared than he’d been in the past. He shot a wild look in Bess’s direction, but no help would be forthcoming. She’d slumped lower on the chair; a faint smile graced her lips as if she was wrapped in the arms of a pleasant dream.

Miss Price plucked an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve. “Forgive me. These waves of melancholy come over me without warning.”

He wet his dry lips and calculated the possible reactions he might receive if he voiced an idea.

Faith. It couldn’t get worse than tears. He stood and swiveled on his heel. “Return to Everly Manor with me—you and Bess. My parents are hosting a house party to celebrate Christmas, and it is sure to be as diverting as any party in London.”

“Oh!” She blinked and wiped her eyes again. “Wouldn’t it be impolite to arrive without an invitation?”

“I am extending an invitation, Miss Price.”

“But—"

“Is my word not good enough? I can put it in writing if you prefer,” he teased. “Retrieve a quill and paper.”

A reluctant smile tweaked her lips. “Your word is enough, my lord, but I cannot abandon Davensworth Cottage.”

“Are you worried about the young ones? Bess told me about their mother. It must be a difficult Christmas for them, too.” He smacked the top of the pianoforte as he made a decision. “We will bring them. The servants have their own celebration before leaving to visit family on Boxing Day. Robbie and Anne will have fun, and your cook will appreciate an extended holiday.”

When it appeared she might argue, he rushed to add, “If you will not agree for your own sake, do it for them.”

She cried out. “What a manipulative trick.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “When you have as many siblings as I, you learn to use whatever weapons are available to win an argument. Bess will run herself ragged to give you the perfect Christmas. Do it for her.”

“Oh, you are a rat!” She fluttered her arms like a cat trying to swipe him. He danced out of reach, both of them laughing.

“Do you call that fighting? Stand up. Every lady should know how to deliver a proper facer.”

She dropped the handkerchief on the piano keys and allowed him to drag her from the bench like he would one of his sisters.

“Raise your fists.”

She mirrored his movements. He corrected her stance. When he encouraged her to swing, her fist arched through the air.

“Put some strength behind it, Miss Price.”

She followed his instructions, throwing her fists in his direction repeatedly.

“Oof!” He pretended she landed each punch and made silly faces.

The sadness that had overtaken her earlier retreated. Her grief was still there, buried beneath her smiles, but he was pleased he could distract her from it, even temporarily. It seemed like something Bess would do.

“What happened to the music?” Her voice was husky from sleep, and she gazed at them in drowsy amusement.

“Miss Price disagreed with my song choice and challenged me to fisticuffs.”

Bess’s cousin doubled over with laughter. He didn’t think his comment deserved such a robust response, but Miss Price likely needed the release.

Bess’s jade green eyes emitted a soft warmth that penetrated his chest and infused his heart. Her gratitude was tangible, her pleasure a hard-won prize.

I could fall in love with this woman.

The thought stunned him. He needed to sit. He staggered to the settee and plopped on the cushion.

What madness is this? We are strangers.

Yet, when he looked at her, he couldn’t stop his subconscious from making another declaration. She could be the one.

“Faith,” he muttered and drove his fingers through his hair. Exhaustion was playing tricks with his mind. “Ladies, if you will excuse me, I am ready to retire for the evening.”

Miss Price squinted at the pendulum clock on the side table beside him. Lamplight reflected off the glass dome designed to protect the gears and inner workings of the clock. Four brass orbs twirled back and forth with mesmerizing grace.

“It is barely nine o’clock.”

“How odd.” Julius blinked, breaking the clock’s spell over him. “It feels later. I hope you can forgive me for being a dull guest.”

Bess adjusted her position