Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,84

pierced the air.

“You rapscallions won’t win this,” she taunted.

Another snowball struck the side of her head, and she gasped, laughing.

“Let the lady pass.” George swooped her behind a bush. “I’ve spotted four of them. I fear my brothers are corrupting your sons.”

“Nonsense.” She righted herself and scooped up more snow. “Artie and Ben love a good snowball fight. Come, George. We shall make a good team.”

He and Sophie, a team?

He laughed. “You’ll regret this, boys.”

“We won. We beat you, Mama.” Ben grinned as Sophie mopped his wet head.

“Four against two,” James said. “We were bound to win.”

George caught the twinkle in Sophie’s eye.

Like the others, she’d shed her wet cape and boots at the kitchen entrance. Her damp skirts clung enticingly, and locks of hair tumbled around her shoulders.

“We shall have a rematch,” George said. “But not today. It’s time for your dinner, and Lady Glanford is soaked to the bone.”

“I’m only a little damp,” she said. “As are you. Please go on up, Mr. Lovelace.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

She pulled a face at him. “A rematch is a fine idea, boys. We’ll ask your sisters and Charlotte and Mary to join in.”

That launched a debate about uneven teams, interrupted by the appearance of two nursery maids, who escorted the boys in a noisy cavalcade up the backstairs.

Sophie would have gone with them, but he pulled her aside. “We didn’t finish our conversation before the battle.”

Her cheeks flamed. “Best that we say no more on the subject, Mr. Lovelace.”

He glanced toward the servants’ hall. They were quite out of view. “George. And it’s not a conversation requiring words.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You are speaking of criminal conversation?”

“Of course not. Neither of us is married.”

A long moment ensued while she drew herself up and cloaked herself with icy composure. As the moment stretched, his spirits rose.

Her shoulders sagged and she let out a long breath. “No. There must be no distracting entanglements.”

She turned away, and he hurried after her. This wasn’t over. He’d only begun the siege. If she traveled to London, he’d find a way. If she returned to Lancashire, well, even better.

In the entry hall, they met the butler on his way to answer the front door.

“Visitors?” Sophie halted and patted her hair. “I look a fright. I’ll go back and make my way up by the servants’ stairs.”

He drew her aside into an alcove. “Nonsense. You look beautiful. Full of life. A countess lively enough to engage in a snow fight.”

“You’re talking flummery, Mr. Lovelace.”

“Call me ‘George’.”

“I only hope I don’t embarrass your mother with this caller.”

The man Biggs ushered in was a stranger. Of medium height and sturdy build, he handed a footman his caped greatcoat and beaver hat and gave orders about his trunk.

George approached and greeted him.

“Lord Loughton?” His gaze slid over the damp coats and trousers and down to his wet stocking-feet, then shifted to Sophie. He blinked, and frowned.

“No sir, I’m George Lovelace, Lord Loughton’s brother. And you are…?”

“Beg pardon.” He extended his hand. “I’m Cartwright, Charlotte’s father. Lady Loughton offered me hospitality, should I be able to get away for the Yuletide.”

Thus, the fine clothing, face like a prize-fighter’s, and direct manner.

“I see. Well, welcome. And, may I introduce another guest, Lady Glanford?”

Sophie executed a dignified curtsy.

“Lady Glanford.” He frowned. “Lady Loughton wrote to me about you.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And now, I fear I must go up directly. Mr. Lovelace and I were caught out in the snow. Good day to you, sir.”

Her words had been smooth, but she stumbled upon the second stair.

George bowed. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of our butler. It’s almost time to dress for dinner. I hope we may talk more then.”

He caught up with Sophie and they went up together.

At the landing, she glanced up at the kissing bough and stepped out of his reach. Her gaze slid to the stairs. “Well that is that,” she whispered.

“What is what? What are you talking about?”

She grimaced. “He doesn’t remember me. He called on my father once. I shall not be shepherding his daughter about London.”

“I haven’t understood why you would want to.”

“I have business in London.”

“So have your man see to it, or Fitz…”

Her lips firmed in a determined frown. “This business doesn’t involve Fitz.”

George rubbed his jaw. “Who has been no help to you anyway.” He stepped closer and took her hand. “As I said, I will help you. I can see to your business in London