She gave a rueful smile. "Vanity doesn't diminish with age, child. I wasn't well enough to go to the wedding so I've never met my daughter-in-law, but I do know that she's the daughter of a judge, and my cottage will appear poor to her. Still, I wanted everything to be as nice as possible. Emmy was going to help me with the baking and decorating, but she must have decided to stay home because of the weather." Mrs. Turner sighed and spread her hands, which were twisted with arthritis. "So much for vanity. I can't manage everything myself, so Georgette will just have to accept me the way I am."
"It is not vanity to wish to put one's best foot forward." After a moment's hesitation, Nicole offered shyly, "Will you allow me to help you? With a whole evening in front of us, together we can accomplish most of what you wish."
Mrs. Turner gave her guest a shocked glance. "It wouldn't be fitting lor you to do such humble work. You're gentry."
Thank heaven her, kind hostess didn't know what Nicole had been just the night before! "Preparing a home for Christmas is not work, but great pleasure."
While the older woman debated, Philip returned, accompanied by a gust of damp, icy air. He was carrying the baggage. As he hastily closed l lie door, Nicole said gaily, "We are in luck, Philip. Mrs. Turner is planning her Christmas preparations, and if we are very, very good, perhaps she will let us help her."
Mrs. Turner chuckled. "You're a clever minx. Very well, I'd be delighted to have your help, but first, you both need some tea and bread and soup. Take your coat and hat off, Sir Philip, and come warm yourself by the fire."
"You're very kind, Mrs. Turner." Holding his chilled hands toward the flames, he continued, "My sister and I are very grateful."
The older woman gave him a sharp look. "I thought you and Miss Chambord are cousins."
Without missing a beat, Philip said, "We are, but Nicole is so much a member of the family that I think of her as another little sister."
Nicole watched with admiration. If this was a sample of his skill at dissembling, he should have no trouble convincing his mother that the scandalous female he'd brought home was actually a respectable poor relation of Lord Masterson's.
Her levity faded as she perched on the oak settle and accepted a teacup from Mrs. Turner. Even if Sir Philip could lie like Lucifer, it simply wouldn't do. Nicole had done considerable thinking on the long drive from London and had reached the miserable conclusion that she must tell Lady Selbourne the truth, for it would be impossible to work for the woman under false pretenses. If Lady Selbourne was as tolerant as her son, perhaps she would riot mind Nicole's appalling lapse from grace . . . but more likely she would be outraged and refuse to have such a doxy under her roof.
Nicole knew she should tell the baronet of her determination to confess all, but he would try to change her mind and it would be difficult to resist his arguments. With a sigh, she stirred sugar and milk into her tea. At least when Lady Selbourne ordered her out of the house, Sir Philip probably wouldn't allow Nicole to be tossed into a snowbank. Likely he would consider it his duty to buy her a coach ticket back to London. She would be no worse off than she had been yesterday.
She gave Sir Philip a surreptitious glance from the corner of her eye. He was standing, his head almost touching the smoke-darkened beams of the ceiling as he smiled and chatted with their hostess. He seemed too large and energetic for such a small cottage. And as Mrs. Turner said, he was a handsome lad.
No, not a lad, a man, one who was kind and considerate and wonderfully solid. Returning her gaze to her tea, Nicole felt a small, dangerous twist deep inside her. As an emigree separated from her own class by poverty, she had resolved to build a life as an independent, respected businesswoman. There was no husband in that picture, for Nicole had never met a man for whom she could feel more than liking.
But it would be easy—so, so easy—to fall in love with Sir Philip Selbourne. He was very close to the dream husband she had imagined for herself when she was a child, before she realized that the Revolution had made it impossible for her to meet such a man as an equal.
Appalled at the thought, she swallowed a huge mouthful of tea, n scorching her tongue in the process. Mon Dieu! What a fool she was; her situation was quite difficult enough without developing a hopeless tendre for a man she could never have.
The baronet thought of her as a waif, a hapless female who reminded ;( him of his sister. From kindness he was helping her, but that was all there would ever be between them. When he was ready to marry, he would choose a wife of his own class who could bring him a dowry and an impeccable reputation; the sort of honorable female who would starve I rather than sell her virtue.
As Nicole sipped more cautiously at her tea, she realized with a bitter pang that she might have been better off braving the hazards of the London streets. Instead, by impulsively accepting Sir Philip's offer, she was risking her heart.
WORKING gingerly to keep from being stabbed by the needlepointed leaves, Philip used a length of dark thread to attach the last silver-paper ornament to the last branch of holly. Then he got to his feet and arranged the brightly decorated sprays of holly, pine, and ivy along the narrow lodge of an oak beam that ran across the wall a foot above the fireplace mantel.
After all of the greens had been tacked to the beam, he took a length of shining scarlet ribbon and twined it through the boughs, working from the left end to the right, then back again. When he was done, he stepped back and surveyed his efforts with great satisfaction. Mrs. Turner's new daughter-in-law would have to be very hard to please not to enjoy the results, for the mass of fragrant, brightly decorated greenery turned the whole cottage into a festive bower. "What do you think—should I use more ribbon?"
Mrs. Turner sniffed the pine-scented air with delight and touched a silver paper star that hung from a spray of holly. "No, it's perfect just the way it is. I only hope your mother won't mind that you gave away the ribbon and silver paper she ordered."
"There's still ample left for Winstead Hall." With an elaborate show of casualness, Philip sidled over to the table where Nicole was assembling the last batch of mince pies. "Can I have one?" he asked hopefully.
Nicole looked up just in time to swat his hand before he could snatch one of the three-inch-wide tarts cooling on the end of the table. Laughing, she said, "You are exactly like an impatient six-year-old, Sir Philip."
"In my family it's traditional to try to wheedle sweets from the cook." He made another attempt to steal one of the tarts, this time successfully eluding Nicole's not-very-determined effort to stop him. The warm, crumbly shortcrust pastry disappeared in two bites. "Mmm, delicious."
The same could be said of Nicole, he noticed as she slid the last tray of mince pies into the oven built into the wall by the fireplace. With a towel tied around her waist and a dab of flour on her nose, she was adorable. More than that, her bright good nature created happiness all around her.
Mrs. Turner chuckled as she watched her young guests. "Now that you're finished, Nicole, it's time for us to relax and enjoy the results of all our hard work. Besides, I want you to sample a Turner family tradition."
Their hostess lifted a poker that had heated to red-hot in the fire, then plunged it into a wide-mouthed jug of spiced cider. The cider hissed and bubbled around the glowing metal, releasing the rich scent of apples and nutmeg.
After Mrs. Turner had poured them each a mug of mulled cider, Nicole brought over a platter of baked tarts and they all took seats by the fire. Moggy, who had long since given up watching Merkle in favor of the more fascinating study of food preparation, promptly leaped onto Mrs. Turner's knees and raised her nose for a sniff of pastry.
Not to be outdone, Merkle slunk out from under the chest of drawers, darted across the rag rug, and hopped onto Nicole's lap, where she turned in a circle three times before settling down.
Outside, the freezing rain still fell, but in the old cottage, all was warmth and good fellowship. As they chatted back and forth, Philip had trouble remembering that he had kn
own Nicole less than a day, Mrs. Turner for only four hours. The chance that had brought them together and the time spent cooking, cleaning, and laughing had made them almost a family.
Halfway through her second mug of mulled cider, Mrs. Turner said, "All we need now is Christmas music. Do you both sing?"
"Willingly, but not well," Philip replied. Then he remembered the music box in his baggage. "But I have something that will get us started properly."
It took only a moment to retrieve the music box from his luggage and wind the key. As he carried the box across the room, the bright notes chimed through the cottage, easily rising above the sounds of crackling fire and spattering rain.
After the mechanism had slowed to a halt, Mrs. Turner reached out and touched the delicate porcelain angel, her lined face glowing with pleasure.
"Such a lovely thing." She glanced at her guests. "Shall we sing along with it?"
Philip wound the music box again, and together they sang "The First Noel." From there they moved into other carols. While none of them had an outstanding voice, all could carry a tune, and together they made a very decent set of carolers.
Eventually Mrs. Turner yawned, covering her mouth with one thin hand. Then she removed Moggy from her lap and got to her feet. "Gracious, but I'm tired. You'll find that when you reach my age, sleepiness comes on you very quickly. You young people can stay up late if you like, but I'm going to bed."
"Not quite yet." Philip stood and picked up the sprig of mistletoe that he had earlier tied with a loop of ribbon. It took only a moment to hang it from a hook on a beam in the center of the ceiling. With a smile, he said "I'll not let you go without a Christmas kiss."
Mrs. Turner laughed and joined him under the sprig. "You'll turn my head, Sir Philip. I can't remember the last time a handsome young man tried to lure me under the mistletoe."
When Philip started to give her a light kiss on the cheek, she firmly grasped his shoulders and pulled his face down for a solid buss. "I'm not going to waste this opportunity," she declared. Then she scooped up Moggy and retired to the tiny bedroom behind the main chamber.
Nicole followed Mrs. Turner with a hot brick for the older woman's bed, then returned to the main room. "I'm tired, too. It's been a long day."
"Stay until we've finished the mulled cider." Philip divided what was left into their two mugs. Then they took seats on opposite sides of the hearth.
After a few minutes of companionable silence, Philip mused, "I never would have guessed that I'd spend such a fine evening with two females I'd not even met twenty-four hours ago."
Nicole smiled. Curled up in Mrs. Turner's cushioned Windsor chair, she and Merkle were a picture of domestic bliss. "Moments like these are gifts, as lovely as they are fleeting."
"A pity that we can't stop time when we're happy, but life changes so suddenly and unexpectedly," Philip said. "A year ago at Christmas my father was alive and seemed in the best of health. Then he died, and nothing will ever be the same again." Perhaps it was the result of the alcoholic kick of the cider, but he found himself adding, "And change begets more changes. A year from now, my mother will probably have remarried."
Nicole's brows drew together. "She is planning to take another husband?"
"Not yet, but I think she will. The estate next to ours is owned by the Sloanes, who have been family friends forever. John Sloane was my father's best friend, just as Emily was my mother's. The children of both families grew up together. Emily died three years ago, and now my father is gone too."
Philip swallowed the last of his drink. "Just before I went to London, John Sloane spoke to me in my capacity as head of the family. He wanted to let me know his intentions for when Mother is out of mourning. He and she have always been very fond of each other. Now he hopes that in time she'll marry him." Philip smiled humorlessly. "It's an odd experience when a man who has been like an uncle asks one's blessing to marry one's mother."
"I can see where it would be," Nicole said gently. "How did you feel about it?"
Philip grimaced. "I felt a brief desire to hit him. Then I(shook his hand and said that if Mother accepted his proposal, I would wish them both happy."
"Well done." She gave him a warm smile. "But I think you still feel some guilt and resentment?"
"I'm afraid so. Not very admirable on my part. Yet I honestly want my mother to be happy and I'm sure she will be with John Sloane." He smiled with self-deprecating humor. "When I told my sister what John Sloane had said, Marguerite raised her brows and said that of course they would marry—that if John and my mother had died, my father would probably have married Emily after a decent interval had passed. Apparently my understanding is not very powerful."
"No, it's merely that women take a deeper interest in things like love and marriage." Nicole cocked her head to one side thoughtfully. "Will it help if I say that being possessive of your mother was a perfectly natural first impulse? I would have felt the same way if my mother surprised me with the announcement that she intended to take another husband. It's common for families to oppose the remarriage of a widowed parent. But your second impulse was generous, and that's the one you obeyed."
Philip let out a slow breath. "It does help to hear you say that. Though I don't quite understand why I've confessed such unworthy thoughts to someone I hardly know."
"It is precisely because we are almost strangers," Nicole said with a trace of sadness. "I am a safe repository of unworthy thoughts because I am transitory in your life."
"But if you become my mother's companion, you will be part of the household." At least, until his mother remarried. Then she would no longer need a companion, and Nicole would need a new position, Philip realized. Still, she would be safe at Winstead for at least a few months.
Nicole muffled a yawn. "Time I went to bed. If you wish to stay up longer, I'll take the bed in the loft and you can sleep down here."
Philip got to his feet. "No, I'll take the loft. It's drafty up there, and I wouldn't want you to take a chill." He smiled. "If I haven't given you lung fever yet today, I don't want to do it now."
Nicole picked up the empty mugs and placed them on the kitchen table. As she crossed the room toward the quilts that Mrs. Turner had provided, she passed under the mistletoe, an opportunity that Philip was not about to pass up.
Intercepting her under the sprig, he took her shoulders and said, laughing, "Happy Christmas, Nicole."
She looked up at him, lips parted and brown eyes wide, her delicate features framed in dusky curls. "Happy Christmas, Sir Philip," she replied in a husky whisper.
He bent his head and kissed her. Nicole melted against him, her arms sliding around his neck, her soft mouth spicy with apple and cloves. She felt as delicious as she had the night before in his bed, but this time she did not simply yield. Instead, she welcomed him, and what began as a Christmas kiss rapidly developed into an embrace for all seasons. It was a moment of fire and sweetness that Philip wanted to last forever.
With a shock, he realized that once again tears were running down Nicole's cheeks. He ended the embrace, using his hands to support her when she swayed. "Why are you crying?" he asked in bafflement. She had not been unwilling, he was absolutely certain of that. "This is not like last night."
"No," she whispered as she brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. "That's why I'm crying."
He looked at her a little helplessly. "I don't understand."
"It's better that you don't." She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, her manner matter-of-fact. "If I am going to be your mother's companion, we really mustn't kiss like that. It's . . . it's distracting. It lacks propriety."
Perhaps, but it didn't lack anything else. In fact, Philip very much wanted to kiss her again, so that he could savor the nuances more fully, but clearly the moment had passed.
More than a little confused, he lifted one of the lamps. "Good night, Nicole. I'll see you in the morning." The ladder to the loft was in a corner of the room, and he los
t no time climbing up, taking off his outer clothing, and crawling into the narrow bed that had once been used by Mrs. Turner's son.
However, in spite of a tiring day, it took Philip a long time to fall asleep. He kept wondering just what it was that he was better off not understanding.
CHRISTMAS Eve morning dawned clear and bright. Outside, ice sparkled on every surface and coated leaves and twigs with crystal brilliance, but the magical conditions were short-lived. By the time the inhabitants of the cottage had finished a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and apple muffins, most of the ice was gone and traveling conditions were safe again.
Nicole was grateful when Sir Philip left to go into Blisworth to make arrangements for repairing the curricle. She had made an absolute fool of herself last night, and this morning she could not look him in the eye. Thank heaven the dear, foolish man didn't understand how the female mind worked, or he'd realize how silly she was.
He had been quite right that last night's kiss was different from the one the night before. When she'd been hired to warm his bed, she had been frightened and stoic, but under the mistletoe she had been eager. She loved his touch, loved his taste, and wanted with all her heart to follow the kisses to their natural conclusion.
Sadly, her heart was the only one engaged. Perhaps Sir Philip did not think of her quite as a sister, but he had made it clear that he was not the least bit interested in acquiring a wife. And nothing less would do; Nicole had been willing to sell her virtue rather than starve, but she wasn't going to give it away to a man who didn't love her.
Years from now, when Philip was ready to marry, he would choose a bride whose family and fortune were similar to his own. It was ironic, really. Nicole was too wellborn to be Philip's mistress, but too poor, too declasse, to be his wife.
It was a depressing train of thought, so Nicole determinedly started decorating an old vine wreath that Philip had found in the shed. The addition of sprigs of holly, fragrant crab apples, and a flamboyant red bow made the wreath perfect for the outside of the front door. After it had been hung and admired, Mrs. Turner said, "You have a gift for making things pretty."