Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,95

bedchamber. The room was toasty, the fire burning brightly.

Willa rubbed her eyes and stood. “What time is it?”

“Late. Thank you for waiting up. And good heavens, it’s hot in here.”

“Cozy, aye. Turn around then. Did all go well?”

“Yes.” And no. Her heart twisted. George was back to being the stuffy aristocrat. “Lord Loughton is granting me power of attorney over Arthur and the estate.”

Willa froze, and then laughed. “I want to be there when Burford hears that. He won’t like taking direction from a woman.”

George would be with her when that news was delivered. He hadn’t totally abandoned her. “And Burford won’t have to. We are sacking him.”

Willa whooped. “Praise the Almighty.”

She stepped out of the crimson gown and draped it over the chair. While Willa unlaced her stays, she yanked out hairpins.

“Stop wiggling,” Willa said. “I never did like the way Burford treated you. He did like your dowry though.”

“And sadly, my dowry is gone.” Sophie lifted the loosened stays over her head and studied them. “Except for the diamonds, of course. It’s time to take them out of hiding. I’m traveling to London this week.” And George would be with her for that journey as well.

“I wish you could wear them.” Willa carried the dress away. “Your da would have liked that.”

Memories rushed her, and she blinked away a surge of shame. She’d been less than gracious accepting the diamonds, astonished at their abundance and size, imagining the whispers about their vulgarity.

Papa had presented them privately, a gift to celebrate the news she’d conceived Glanford’s heir. Perhaps an unspoken atonement for what she’d had to endure since her nuptials.

They’re just for you, my Sophie. Put them away for a rainy day. Glanford had never known of them, else they’d have been lost in a wager, or draped on the bosom of one of his other women.

She dropped the stays on the bed and retrieved her hairbrush. Willa held out her heavy winter nightgown.

“I’m warm enough in my chemise, and I’m sure your dressing room will be warm now. Go on to bed, Willa.”

The maid moved behind her. “Let me just get these pins. There.” The last locks of hair brushed her shoulders.

They heard a tapping, and then the latch moved, and George Lovelace stepped into the room.

A fluttering started in the pit of her stomach and spread, sending tingles to the tips of her fingers and toes.

Unsmiling, he hesitated in the doorway, his gaze hooded, his mouth hard.

He turned and closed the door, and she let out a breath.

“Mr. Lovelace,” she said.

“Lady Glanford.” He stepped closer, and closer still, and swept a hot glance over her body. “Sophie.”

Her heart pounded fiercely, hope soaring in her. If he meant to begin a liaison…

What would she do?

She heard the rustle of Willa’s skirts.

“Stay, Willa.” He drew a small box from under his coat.

He was giving her jewelry?

“Sophie, I wanted to give you my Christmas gift tonight, privately.” He reached for her hand and pressed the box in it. “Open it. Please.”

“I have nothing for you.”

His blue eyes darkened to midnight, sending a shiver through her. Never, never, never had any man unsettled her so.

She summoned her composure. “Very well.” The lid snapped open and Willa crowded in.

“Oh,” Willa gasped.

Moisture thickened her throat. Her grandmother’s cross lay in a bed of white satin between two garnet studded earbobs.

“You b-bought it back.” Willa sniffed.

“Yes,” he said, his expression still unreadable.

Willa sniffed again and wiped her eyes. “The shopkeeper thought I pinched it. Mr. Lovelace came in and vouched for me.”

“And the earrings,” he said, “they matched so well, I…”

She flipped over the cross and let her fingertips linger on the faded engraving, the hesitation in his voice touching her. The ever-so-confident Mr. George Lovelace was feeling uncertain.

She eased in a breath. “They’re beautiful. But as I said, I have nothing for you.”

“About that.” George took her free hand and dropped to one knee.

Willa gasped again, and the sound of her sniffing faded as she shuffled away, until the snick of the dressing room door silenced her.

“Sophie. Would you give me your hand in marriage?”

Marriage? Yes, her heart cried.

But her mind picked through the events of the last hour. And the last few days. And the last decade, while she accustomed herself to the notion that George Lovelace was offering her—impoverished, low-born, encumbered with children, Sophie Clark—marriage.

Not a romp, not a brief liaison, but a lifetime of…of what? Respect, and…passion, she hoped. And love?

She blinked back tears. He’d gone mad. They both had.