Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Eleanor had spent a wonderful afternoon at the modiste yesterday. She forgot all about Redington and his staid existence, and his pressure for her to be perfect, and ordered the latest fashions in many bright colors that showed off her hair and skin, loving the new French silks and velvets.

His Grace’s presence at the ice-skating made up her mind. If she was to find a man worthy of her heart, then she had to go looking. She’d hidden herself away for too long, scared of Redington.

No more.

Today, she’d responded to Redington’s missive, declining Harry’s visit. Her hands shook as she pressed the Claremont seal into the hot wax. What would Redington do at this blunt refusal to bow to his command?

“You look happy.” Harry and Lillian entered the drawing room.

She handed the missive to Joseph. "Deliver this note at once," she said to him. She wouldn’t likely hear the response for two more days or maybe she’d hear his roar from here, and the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders temporarily. She swung to face Harry, ruffling his hair. “Why shouldn’t I be happy? It’s coming toward Christmas and we will spend it together this year.”

“Will you help us gather mistletoe to hang in the house, and some to hang in Lillian’s house too?”

She laughed. “Why on earth would I want mistletoe in the house?”

Lillian stepped forward. “For the staff. To make it festive for them.” She looked at Lillian’s upturned face for signs of—what, exactly? She was only seven. The little girl continued. “Nanny Rosey likes Joseph. Maybe if they are under the mistletoe, he’ll kiss her.”

“She likes Joseph?” They were the same age and lived across from each other.

They both nodded. “I’m not really interested,” Harry said, “but you said I should do some things that Lillian wanted to do.”

She had said that. “Good boy. I’ll send Louise to buy some at the market.” Louise was one of the maids.

“Can’t we collect our own? That would be fun,” Harry’s eyes pleaded with her. She looked outside. It was a beautiful, crisp, clear day.

On a sigh, she said, “I wouldn’t know where to find any?”

A throat cleared. Cook was hopping from one foot to the other in the doorway. “I think there is some mistletoe growing on the trees in Hyde Park along the rotten row. You’ll have to take the groom with you, as the trees are quite tall.”

Harry and Lillian squealed with delight. “Can we collect some, mother?”

How could she refuse such eagerness? “I suppose there is no harm. Most of the men should have ridden by now. But you have to promise to stay in the carriage.”

Once all the cloaks and coats were on, the carriage organized, the small party made its way back to Hyde Park. It didn’t take long for them to spy a large clump of mistletoe on an old oak tree lining the rotten row bridleway.

They stopped the carriage but she couldn’t let the children out as there were men cantering along the path still. The groom was dispatched to retrieve enough mistletoe for both houses. They would have to fetch boughs from several trees along the pathway.

She leaned out the window and called, “Make sure you also select the bunches with the white berries. I think they are pretty.”

The children were chattering beside her when she spied a rider trotting along the bridleway. He sat well upon a horse, but something about him looked familiar. His hat was pulled low over his head and he wore a scarf so that only his eyes were showing. It looked as if the rider was going to turn back when he pulled his steed to a halt and ran his eyes over the carriage.

She watched him hesitate for a second before changing direction and riding straight for them. It was as he pulled up to her window that she recognized who it was. Those piercing blue eyes. Ambrose. Her body danced like his steed when he pulled it to a stop and tipped his hat. “Lady Eleanor. It’s unusual to see a carriage on the bridleway. Are you all right?”

Before she could respond, a voice beside her called, “Papa, is that you?” and a little face pushed hers out of the way.

“I hope you’re behaving yourself, poppet.”

“I am, father. I’m helping Harry and Lady Eleanor collect mistletoe so that Nanny Rose and Joseph might kiss.”

Her face reddened under Ambrose’s stunned gaze. “Not my idea, I assure you. But I didn’t see any harm in it.” She waited for him to respond, but he said nothing and just kept staring at her. “How is your party going?”

He started. “Oh, they won’t even know I’m not there. I just felt the need for some fresh air and Rocket needed a good run.”

“He’s a beautiful stallion,” Harry said as his face pushed forward to the window. “I want a horse like him one day.”

“You’ll have to learn to be a good rider to control a beast like Rocket. Do you know how to ride?”

Harry’s face fell. “No, Your Grace. Mother says I have to get older before I ride.”

Ambrose nodded. “When you get your first pony, let me know and I’ll happily teach you to ride.”

For some reason, she knew it wasn’t an empty promise. With the Duke of Hampton, his word was his bond. “That’s very kind of you, Your Grace,” she said.

“Ambrose, please. Friends help each other, don’t they?”

She was a friend? How did she become more than a friend? The thought couldn’t help but slip into her head.

“Papa, can you come over this afternoon and help me make a present for Lady Eleanor?”

His eyebrow went up at his daughter’s request. Lillian never wanted to see her father during her previous stays. Yet she’d asked him to come see her skating and now to help her with a present.

Eleanor eyed the little girl, but Lillian’s face was a mask of innocence. “Please,” the little girl begged.

“If Lady Eleanor doesn’t mind, then I shall attend at three.”

“Yippee!” both Harry and Lillian yelled. She felt like squealing herself. Something was definitely going on here. Ambrose seemed keen to be invited over, yet his house party was going on. Perhaps the granting of his divorce made him evaluate what was important in his life.

Was he thinking of remarrying? Was she being considered? Her heart skipped a beat.

“Three would be lovely. You can use my husband’s study to make your present, although it is totally unnecessary to gift me anything.”

Lillian flashed a look at Harry as she chewed her bottom lip. “I want to.”

“I shall leave you to your task and see you at three.” With a wave of his hat, Ambrose turned and galloped off.

“I’ll be riding like that one day,” Harry told Lillian. The little girl nodded. “Papa is teaching me to ride next summer at our estate. He says ladies should know how to ride properly in case of emergencies.”

“You’re so lucky to have him as your father,” Harry sighed.

“I know. And you are lucky to have such a wonderful mother.” Lillian slipped her hand in Harry’s and they started giggling together.

Once home, she left the children with some servants to help them hang the mistletoe while she took care of some of her usual tasks. She was on her way back to the drawing room from speaking with the cook about dinner when she glanced up to see a piece of mistletoe was hanging in the drawing-room doorway. There was no way Joseph and Nanny Rose would kiss in her drawing-room doorway. She hid a smile. The children put it there for her. But her inward smile turned to a frown. The only man likely to be entering her drawing room soon was Ambrose.

The little minxes.

She could kiss them! She wasn’t at all opposed to being kissed by a handsome duke. Now she just had to find a way to be standing in this doorway when he arrived.

And be dressed for the occasion. She made her way to her bedchamber and summoned Sarah, her lady’s maid.

Eleanor paced the drawing room as three o’clock approached. Even Sarah had been no help in deciding how on earth she’d get Ambrose and herself standing under the mistletoe at the same time? And even if they were, would he kiss her? And more importantly, would he want to kiss her?

Eleanor was totally consumed by the sprig of mistletoe, strategically placed by Lillian and Harry in the doorway, their innocent faces masking their mischievous intent. She knew what they were up to, and somehow she had to take advantage of their meddling.

She glanced out of the window. The sun dimmed as it did at this time of day in mid-winter. The faded light made the drawing-room shimmer with the glow of the Yule log, its crackling fire casting a warm, golden light that danced upon the garlands of holly and ivy placed along the mantle. The scent of pine filled the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of spiced cider and the freshly baked gingerbread she’d had the servants set up on the table.

Her cheeks felt hot from the warmth of the room and the festive spirit, as she stood admiring the decorations. For one moment, she forgot about Ambrose as she basked in the warmth of the knowledge her son would spend Christmas with her this year.

She’d changed into a deep green gown that complemented her auburn curls, which she’d purposely left to cascade down her back.

Just then, she heard the door below being opened and voices. He was here. Her hands trembled as she swallowed back the knowledge this was her moment.

And then he was there. Striding into the room with a smile on his handsome face and a warm hug for Lillian. Ambrose, ever the gentleman, looked dashing in his blue coat, setting his eyes off beautifully. A man should not be allowed to have such long, black eyelashes.

He stopped in front of her, where she stood before the fire. It wasn’t the flames behind her that almost had her combusting. It was Ambrose. As he took her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “You are looking decidedly beautiful today,” he whispered so the children couldn’t hear.

She almost couldn’t talk. “Thank you, Ambrose. Would you like some refreshment before Lillian drags you off to help her with my present? Not that she needs to give me a gift.”

“My daughter is rather fond of you. She has excellent taste.”

Was he flirting with her?

Just then Lillian slipped her hand into her father’s and said, “Come on, Papa. It won’t take long, and then I’m looking forward to coming back and having some of Cook’s amazing gingerbread.” As they turned to leave, Lillian, a vision of youthful exuberance, whispered to Harry, “Remember the plan.”

Harry nodded, his toy soldier clutched in his hand.

Once the pair had left to use the study for gift creation, Eleanor turned to look at her son. “What are you two up to?”

“Nothing.” But his eyes and smile spoke a different message.

“Whatever you are planning, I hope it’s not going to hurt anyone?” At her raise eyebrow, Harry shook his head.

“I think you’ll be pleased,” was all she could get out of her son. “I will admit I’ve searched the house with Lillian and we cannot find any presents for any of us. Have you bought my gift yet?”

“That is for me to know.”

“But you haven’t asked me what I want?”

She ruffled her son’s hair as she took a seat and he moved to sit on her lap. “I know what you want.”

“I bet you don’t,” he said smugly. She laughed.

“I wager I do.”

His face became quite serious. “If, on Christmas morning, the present you got me isn’t what I wanted, you have to grant me one wish.”

She tapped his nose. “How will I know that I didn’t guess your wish and you‘re merely tricking me?”

He shuffled off her knee to stand before her. “I am the Marquess of Claremont. I would never lie.”

Her heart melted at his solemn vow. “You are correct. I should never have doubted your word as a gentleman.”

His face broke into a smile. “So, you’ll accept my wager?”

She pulled him in for a hug and kissed his face as he squirmed in her arms. “Mother, please.”

“Would the young lord like a piece of gingerbread?”

“Yes, please!” And just like that, he was a young boy again, racing to grab a slice.

They enjoyed a relaxed half an hour sitting chatting and eating. It was moments like this she lived for. Her son, happy in her company, and the horrible threat of Lord Redington forgotten.

As she drank her third cup of tea, her mind wondered back to the mistletoe. How was she to use it to her advantage? So lost in her thoughts, she jumped when Harry suddenly bolted to his feet and ran to the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

Her son didn’t answer. He was soon back at her side. “It’s nothing, mother. I just wanted to check. I thought I heard Lillian returning,” and he reached for another gingerbread slice.

Eleanor had just put her cup back on the saucer when she heard Lillian running along the corridor outside the drawing room. Just as she reached the doorway, Lillian looked behind her, taking a deep breath and, with a dramatic flair, tumbled to the ground, her cries echoing through the room.

“I’m hurt,” she wailed, clutching her ankle.

Eleanor, her concern immediate, rushed to her side, just as Ambrose also arrived in the doorway, their paths converging directly beneath the mistletoe.

“Oh, Lillian, darling, are you hurt?” Eleanor's voice was a mixture of worry and tenderness as she knelt beside the girl.

Ambrose was right there, his strong arm gently supporting Lillian. “What happened, poppet?” he asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

Lillian's eyes sparkled with a mix of feigned pain and mischievous triumph. “I tripped over Harry's toy soldier,” she said, pointing to the innocent culprit.

Harry, playing his part to perfection, appeared at Eleanor's side, his face a mask of guilt. “I'm sorry, Lillian. I didn't mean for you to trip. I must have dropped it by mistake.”

Eleanor looked at her son. By mistake, I very much doubt it.

Ambrose sighed, looking up just as Eleanor did. Their eyes met, and the realization dawned simultaneously. The mistletoe above them seemed to glow with a life of its own, a silent witness to the children's clever ruse.

Ambrose let Lillian down to stand on an ankle that appeared to heal miraculously.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt a rush of warmth, not entirely because of the proximity of the fire roaring in the room behind her. “Well,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of nerves and excitement. “It seems we're under the mistletoe.”

Ambrose's eyes twinkled with a blend of amusement and hope. “Indeed, we are,” he replied, his voice equally soft. “And tradition does dictate...”

“That we should kiss,” Eleanor finished for him as he drew her from the floor, her cheeks now flaming.

Lillian and Harry exchanged triumphant glances. When with a mixture of shyness and anticipation, Eleanor leaned in and offered her lips.

Ambrose tipped up her chin with his fingers and angled her head so he could look in her eyes as if checking if this kiss was wanted.

It really was. She was silently thanking the children for their obvious meddling.

Eleanor felt a flutter in her chest, her heart racing as she looked up at Ambrose. His kind eyes, always so full of warmth, now held a spark of something more.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the world around them fading into the background. Ambrose took a small step closer, his presence comforting and steady. He moved his fingers lightly, brushing a stray curl from Eleanor's face, tucking it gently behind her ear. His touch was tender, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Eleanor,” Ambrose said, his voice low and sincere, “I've wanted to do this for so long.”

Eleanor's breath caught in her throat. “So have I,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly.

With a shared smile, they both leaned in. Her senses took over. For her, the kiss was sweet and delicate, a gentle meeting of lips that spoke volumes of unspoken feelings. It was a kiss filled with promise, warmth, and the beginning of something beautiful. Eleanor felt a rush of emotions—joy, relief, and an overwhelming sense of rightness.

As they slowly pulled away, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the space between them. Eleanor's eyes fluttered open, meeting Ambrose's tender gaze. She couldn't help but smile, a feeling of pure happiness washing over her.

“That was sweet,” she whispered, more to herself. Nice, but she wanted more. Her body strummed with tension. Wishing they didn’t have an audience and that he would pull her into his hard body and ravish her lips.

Ambrose chuckled softly, his thumb gently caressing her cheek, as if reading her mind. “It was,” he agreed. “Perhaps I could call on you later this evening?” He looked down at the children, “For grown up—time.”

“I think I’d like that. Your guests won’t mind?” she replied, already knowing the answer. To her joy, it would seem he was not at all interested in the party he held or the women he’d invited.

As he stepped back and let her out of his arms, she noted the children, watching from a distance, exchanged a look of triumph, their plan a resounding success. She wanted to hug them both.

It was going to be a wonderful Christmas this year. She just knew it.