Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,81

of the clouds meant the snow—when it came—would be heavy and fast.

“I will accompany you.”

She blinked and opened her mouth.

“Your maid—Willa is it? Willa must ride back in the carriage. Willa, I shall see to your lady’s safe arrival home, no matter the weather.”

Lady Glanford cast a glance at the maid.

“I insist. Willa, you appear to be a woman of great good sense. I’m trusting you to keep my nodcock sisters and Miss Cartwright in hand.” He took the maid’s arm, helped her in, and closed the door.

“Now,” he said. “Your shopping. Gifts for Arthur and Ben, is it?”

“Sir, you needn’t trouble yourself—”

“I happen to know where to buy the best toys.”

“There is no need. Your sisters have led me through every shop on and off the high street.”

“Oh, but you’ll need someone to carry your packages.” He set her hand upon his arm. “Let us try to finish before the snow starts.”

As they left the village, the snow began falling in earnest, gathering on the brim of Mr. Lovelace’s hat and in the folds of Sophie’s red mantle, and cloaking the stark grays and browns of the winter landscape.

Elation bubbled up in her and she laughed. “The snow is magical, isn’t it? The boys will love this. But I suppose we’d best hurry.” She stepped out, and stumbled.

Strong arms caught her, steadying her against a firm chest, reminding her of the kiss under the mistletoe.

She took in a jittery breath and with it, the scent of clean starch and a man’s bergamot cologne that started her trembling.

“Come,” he said. “You’re cold. Let’s turn back. I’ll borrow a carriage.”

Chapter Eight

Sophie squeezed her eyes shut and eased in another breath. They’d spent a companionable hour in town. Mr. Lovelace, as it turned out, shopped the way she liked to, when she was able: quickly and decisively, haggling only as needed to reach a fair agreement for both parties.

For James and Edward, she’d bought carved flutes, Mr. Lovelace assuring her the nursery staff wouldn’t curse her for the noisy gifts. For little Mary, she’d found a tiny reticule; for the older girls and Lady Loughton, handkerchiefs she’d find time to embroider; for Willa, a skein of yarn for a scarf; for Ben, some toy soldiers; and for Artie, a spyglass.

Artie’s gift had been surprisingly affordable—suspiciously so. In the midst of negotiations, the shopkeeper’s proud wife had enticed Sophie away to see a chubby new grandbaby. Mr. Lovelace had concluded the transaction.

It had been kind of him. She would pay him back whatever extra he’d paid after she visited Papa’s jeweler in London.

Mr. Lovelace had also introduced her to other merchants and neighbors who’d greeted her warmly. No one pulled her aside asking when she would pay her bill or repair the fences. Though, she recollected, the chandler had scurried out of his shop for a whispered discussion with Mr. Lovelace. She wondered if Lady Loughton was in arrears, and if so, why? Were the Lovelaces in financial straits? If so, what might it mean for her boys? So many worries.

But the snow…the snow was magical, spreading a white blanket over broken bricks, ruts in the road, and overgrown hedges. The snow made everything beautiful.

“Are you well?” he murmured into her ear.

She blinked back sudden moisture. Lured her onto a balcony and one stumble later…

She’d stumbled into another man’s arms. Oh, but this man was so…so…solid. And warm.

He smoothed a hand down her back, sending her heart into a rapid tattoo.

No life there…Like bedding the dead…need to marry money…find you another bumbling long Meg with a purse…get her to stumble into you.

She stepped back. George Lovelace’s eyes were warm, and laugh lines crinkled his face, reminding her he’d come away laughing from that conversation with Glanford. He must have gone on laughing for many years.

She shook off the ugly memory. She’d made up her mind to forget. Through the weeks after Papa’s death, the months of her confinement, and the hours of childbirth, she’d churned over the words spoken that day. But with her first view of Artie, she set her mind to her fate.

She was a countess with a son who needed her. She’d tried harder. She’d found a circle of kind acquaintances. And when she’d finally allowed Glanford back into her bed, it was on her terms. Fortunately, after Ben’s birth, he’d mostly left her alone.

He touched her arm. “Have you twisted your ankle, my dear?”

The blasted man was too kind. “I’m fine.”

“Take my arm. We’ll go back to the inn