Spending Christmas in Hell (Diamonds of London #8)

Chapter Ten

December 22, 1818

There were several things Tim wanted to do over and above decorating the drawing room with Christmastide finery, but Ashlynn seemed to be excited to engage in the task, so he gave her his whole support.

Besides, spending time with her was becoming a bit addictive. After the outing yesterday in Hyde Park and seeing how well she got on with Hugh’s wife, a certain image was taking shape in his mind of where he hoped his life would head, and to know it might prove possible with her had the ability to steal his breath.

To say nothing of the fact that every time he was in her company, awareness of her grew exponentially until all he wanted to do was throw her over his shoulder and spirit her upstairs to his bedchamber to have his wicked way with her.

But he wouldn’t, not until he could puzzle out a few things and she gave him permission.

“Woolgathering, Dashfield?” The sound of her voice coupled with the clove-studded orange she tossed at him wrenched Timothy from his musings.

“A bit, yes.” The strong scents of the spice and citrus wafted to his nose as he glanced over to where she sat on a low sofa, pushing whole cloves into another orange. “Sorry. Did you ask me a question?”

“Yes.” When she smiled, a dimple flashed in her left cheek that he’d not seen before. “I asked if you would be so kind as to either hang the wreath over the fireplace or ring for a footman to do it for you.” She pointed to the evergreen wreath she’d fashioned from evergreen boughs. It had red velvet ribbon wrapped about it with a large bow at the bottom. Somehow, she’d managed to stick large pinecones within the sprigs as well as twigs she’d painted white. And nestled on one side was a small, stuffed dove.

“Where the devil did you find the bird?” To be fair, the effect was stunning and reminded him of winter, and he was quite in awe of her talent.

When she giggled, he stared at her, for the sound went straight into his blood. “Mrs. Copeland gave it to me. She said her husband had caught it a few years ago. Apparently, he’d cleaned and stuffed it himself so she could wear it on a bonnet, but she told me, she was always self-conscious of having a bird on her hat that she pulled it off and put it into storage.”

Why didn’t I know that? Because he’d never taken an in-depth notice of any of his staff beyond his valet. “Well, I think it’s a fine addition to your wreath. Well done.”

A blush stained her cheeks, and he stared once again. “Thank you. I just put together what I thought might look pretty.”

He raised the orange to his nose and took a deep breath. “What will you do with these?”

“Some I’ll decorate with ribbons, but they will all go within fir boughs that sit on windowsills or the mantel. I can put one in your bedchamber if you’d like.”

After another sniff, he put the orange onto the tray of other such fruits. “I would enjoy that.” And it would remind him of her before he drifted off into sleep. “What did you find in the boxes Hopewell brought down?” he asked as he darted his gaze to a collection of boxes that rested on a sofa a bit farther away from this arrangement of furniture.

“All sorts of lovely bits and bobs. Tin bells that still chime. Glass ball and cones. A few were broken but there are enough left to use. There were some dried fruits strung together. Some of the strands are still viable that I’ll use on the mantel. I also found some ribbons, some lovely and blown-glass hummingbirds.” Enjoyment danced in her emerald eyes. “There were some tiny brass candleholders. We can fit some of them to the boughs on the mantel or…”

“Or?” He couldn’t look away from her face. There was a glow in her expression that he envied. How could she adore a holiday that reminded a person of what they’d lost in life? That only showed them how alone they truly were?

“Or you can find a smallish evergreen tree that we can put into a pot and leave in this room.” Her grin grew and it reflected in her eyes. “I’m told they do this quite often in Bavarian and throughout the German provinces. We can make it our own tradition and decorate it together.”

There was such hope in her eyes, his willpower in denying her dissolved like sugar in tea. Though he had never wanted an evergreen tree in his house, he suddenly desperately wished he had one nearby—for her. “I think we can arrange that,” he heard himself saying if only to see that smile once more.

“Truly?” Ashlynn’s eyes rounded as if she were a young girl and he’d just presented her with a puppy. “You would do that?”

“Yes.”

“May I go out with you to pick it out?”

Why did it matter to her so much? “I suppose.”

“I can hardly wait.” Then she pointed to the wreath resting on the chair beside his. “Will you hang that now?”

“I’ll have to ring for footmen to bring in a ladder.” When one of her eyebrows rose, he sighed. Apparently, his life was no longer his own. “You are quite the managing baggage, aren’t you?” He stood up from his chair and then crossed the room to the bell pull.

Another giggle issued from her. “Would you rather your wife prove meek and mild?”

Would he? He couldn’t imagine wedding a woman who had no fight or spirit. “God, no. How dull that would be.” As he spoke, he yanked on the brocade pull.

“If you would rather not hang the wreath, I can ask one of the footmen. I seem to recall there is one on your staff who is quite easy on the eyes,” she said without looking up from the orange she pressed cloves into.

Minx.

But he couldn’t tamp his own grin. “I will do it.” A queer sort of flutter went through his heart that gave him pause. Surely, he wasn’t contracting romantic feelings for her? It was much too soon, wasn’t it? And that wasn’t something he wished to have so soon in their marriage not quite in name only any longer. Cold fear twisted up his spine. If he fell in love with Ashlynn, what would that mean for his future?

Would everything change? As it was, she’d proved a lovely companion, and he looked forward to the evenings after dinner when they would closet themselves in the drawing room for reading, conversation and lively debate, as well as cards and chess. He hadn’t kissed or embraced her since the night they’d coupled, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t always thinking about it.

Finally, a footman arrived—not the one she apparently fancied—and Timothy told him he required a ladder and one of them to assist him in hanging decorations as Lady Dashfield saw fit.

After the footman went off to procure the ladder, Tim turned back to gaze at his wife. The implications of being leg-shackled were beginning to sink in, and where he’d married in haste for a set of engaging emerald eyes and a spark between him and her now became an opportunity for repentance. Is this what he truly wanted? This sudden cessation of his freedom? To remain true to one woman for the remainder of his existence?

Panic set in, for he suspected there was more at play for him than mere desire and enjoying the possibility of having a bedmate in his wife. Did he want to be a family man? Did he want to have an adoring wife who clung to him? Dear God, he needed to keep her on the offense like she’d been when they’d met, keep her half-angry with him and drive a wedge between them to stop the quick slide down that slippery slope into something he hadn’t given enough to.

“By the by, after Christmas, I will have my man-of-affairs go ahead and list your father’s townhouse and shop for sale. Along with all the contents.”

A tiny gasp left her throat as her head came up. “So soon?”

“Yes, why not?”

Slight annoyance went through her expression, just as he’d hoped. “You could at least wait until Twelfth Night.”

“What difference does it make? I’d asked you the other day to collect the things you wanted from the shop.”

“Yes, but I haven’t gone through his personal things from our living quarters.”

“That isn’t any of my concern.” His chest tightened horribly at the shock on her face, so he trained his gaze on the wreath as he moved slowly toward the fireplace. “You should have boxed his effects earlier.”

She set aside her handiwork, and one of the oranges rolled off her lap as she stood. It came to rest beneath the table. “You are quite the bastard, aren’t you,” she said in a quiet voice. “Why did you wait until we were having a lovely time together before mentioning this?”

Well, damn.

The arrival of two footmen with a wooden ladder between them circumvented whatever response he would have made, but when he happened to glance at her, he nearly stopped breathing to see betrayal reflected in her eyes.

I went too far.

“What would you have us do, Sir Timothy?” the footman named Jack asked.

At least the attractive one hadn’t come. “Set the ladder up at the fireplace. The lady wishes for me to hang the wreath.”

Ashlynn snorted. “I have half a mind to toss everything into the fire, you bloody prick.”

“You wanted the damned wreath hung, so that is what I’ll do.” He feared the argument was too far gone into personal territory, and not in a way he’d wished. In all honesty, he’d probably hurt her, and he hadn’t wanted that, but he could do nothing at the moment. Turning his back to her, he watched as the footmen followed instructions.

“So that is all you have to say for yourself, you great nodcock?” Anger wove through the words of her inquiry, and when he risked a glance over his shoulder, mottled shades of red filled her cheeks and chest. “Things that once belonged to my mother are still in that house,” she continued in a low voice that echoed with annoyance. “Things I can’t bear to part with but didn’t have time to pack before we wed. There are a few things of my brother’s as well.” Her voice broke. “You would be so heartless as to toss it out or sell it?”

The footmen exchanged looks. Clearly, they were enjoying the fight.

Damn, damn, damn.

“We shall discuss it later,” he said around clenched teeth. And he would need to do something spectacular to regain her good graces. With annoyance of his own crawling through his veins, Timothy climbed the rungs of the ladder while the footmen held it in place. When he reached the height of a couple feet above the mantel, he glanced at his wife. “The wreath, please.” And he held out his hand.

“I swear, men are all the same,” she muttered as she took up the wreath with the stuffed bird amidst the greenery. “ Go mbrise an diabhal cnámh do dhroma .”

“What the hell does that mean?” He was both afraid but oddly consumed with desire at the same time.

She snorted. “Roughly translated, it means may the devil break your spine.” Yet she hadn’t managed to lose the irritation in her tone.

“Ah, good. I wouldn’t want you to actually bless our union.” For a few moments, he assumed she would, indeed, toss the results of her handiwork into the flames of the fireplace, but then she came forward and put it into his waiting hand. “Thank you.” As he peered at the wall where a large painting used to hang when it wasn’t Christmastide, his mind clouded with worry. What should he do to restore the goodwill between them? Stretching, he set the wreath on the stout nail already in the wall. “Is this how you wish for it to hang?”

Ashlynn moved beyond the grouping of furniture as she assessed the situation. “Will you move it slightly around so the bow is flush to the mantel?”

In silence, Timothy arranged the wreath on the nail. “There?”

“Um… slightly more to the right.”

Was she doing this to get back at him? He kept silent, and when he moved his right foot to the right, he didn’t realize his boot was no longer connecting with a wooden rung of the ladder. For one wild moment, he teetered on the ladder, but he couldn’t scrabble for purchase or grip with his hands in time. With a cry of dismay, he fell backward, spent a few seconds weightless while pinwheeling his arms, and then landed hard on his back. The only saving grace was the fact that the Aubusson carpeting was of the thicker sort, but he still cracked the back of his head enough that it smarted. And the wind had been slammed out of his lungs.

“Timothy!” Ashlynn rushed over and threw herself onto her knees at his side. “Dear God, I didn’t think fate would take my curse seriously.” Then she began meticulously examining his neck, head, and shoulders with her fingers, presumably to check for injuries. When he moaned, some of the color leeched from her face. She implored the footmen, “Go fetch Mrs. Copeland as fast as you can!”

All the while, he gasped for breath, but at the same time was amused by her concern. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t force the first part of her name from his mouth. “Lynnie…”

Shock reflected in her eyes and expression. Had he once again offended her without knowing it? “How did you…?” Then she shook her head. “Are you hurt? Can you move?”

Again, he gasped for breath, but at least his lungs didn’t labor as much. “My head…” As he lifted a hand to indicate the back of it, she batted it away and inspected the area herself.

“Just a bump and no blood. You were quite lucky.”

While he concentrated on breathing, he noted she wore a bracelet that featured a Claddagh knot. Where had she gotten that, and did it hold special significance to her? There was so much he didn’t know about her but wanted to. “My back aches,” he managed to wheeze out. Would she undress him to examine the area?

“I’ll wager it does. That was quite a fall.” Fear shadowed her eyes, but she looked up when Mrs. Copeland arrived in the room with the two footmen following.

“Oh, my stars,” the housekeeper said as she took in the situation. “What happened?” she asked of Ashlynn.

In a quiet tone, his wife explained with the footmen providing insight every so often. “And now he says his back hurts. I hope he’s not damaged himself or suffered a concussion.”

He lifted a hand. “Truly, I am all right.” But his voice was still quite wheezy.

Clearly, they didn’t believe him, for all four ignored him as he stared up at them from lying prone on the floor.

Damn it all. This is highly embarrassing!

“Look,” he said in a stronger tone. When he had their attention, he gestured toward the wall above the fireplace. “I hung the wreath, didn’t I?”

Ashlynn frowned. “Out of spite.”

“You provoked me,” he couldn’t help but joke, but when he tried to laugh, his back ached.

With a shake of her head and fire flashing in her eyes, she addressed Mrs. Copeland. “I don’t know whether we should move him or not. What if his back is broken?”

“That is a concern,” the older woman agreed.

“My back isn’t broken. Look, I can move my legs.” Which he did, much to the protest of his back and head. He blew out a weak breath. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just lie here for a bit. Quite cozy on the carpeting.”

Again, they ignored him.

Then Ashlynn took control, and his admiration for her went up. “Bring up some strong tea with a few mince pies. They are his favorite, and this has been a trying afternoon. Perhaps he should have some sort of comfort.” She glanced at him, and this time there was a soft emotion in the depths of her eyes he couldn’t quite read. “Also bring some cloths soaked in cool water and a peppermint salve if you have it. If he’s able, I’ll patch him up before guiding him abovestairs.”

“Of course, Lady Dashfield.” The housekeeper nodded, and with worry in her expression, she left the room.

To the footmen, Ashlynn said, “I will finish the remainder of this room, but if you will do the downstairs parlor, the library, and perhaps the lower-level newel posts, I would appreciate the assistance.”

“We would be happy to, Lady Dashfield,” one of the footmen responded.

Between the two of them, they removed the ladder then exited the room.

Left alone, his wife glared down at him with her hands on her hips. “You are quite a stupid man, do you know that? But then, you are English, so I suppose that is a big enough excuse.” When he tried to speak, she shook her head. “You could have broken your neck, Timothy, could have killed yourself if you’d hit the edge of the table.” A bit of panic rose in her voice as did her Irish lilt. “Do not frighten me like that again.”

“But I—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. Especially after what you said to me earlier.”

Dear God, I’m in hell.

Then a new thought occurred to him. Did that mean she was coming to care for him? She wouldn’t be this distressed if she didn’t, right? Warmth went through his insides to further break down the walls he’d put up to separate himself from his emotions. “I will try not to,” he finally managed to say. Confusion clouded his mind. He wouldn’t have started the bloody argument if he was coming to have feelings for her.

Entering into the world of love and romance was beyond terrifying.

“Well then.” She sniffed, and remarkably, tears welled in her eyes, making them luminous. “Do you think you can move to the sofa, or do you wish to remain on the floor?”

“I won’t know until I try.” With her help, Timothy stood awkwardly to his feet, moved a few inches and then gratefully sprawled on the sofa with his back against the few decorative pillows she put behind him. Though there was a twinge of pain that ran through his back, it wasn’t serious. Neither was the blow to the head, even if it did throb. “Thank you. And for what it’s worth, I regret saying that about your father’s belongings. I promise I won’t do anything with them until after Twelfth Night to give you time.”

That was the truth.

“I appreciate the understanding.” Barely had she perched on the edge of the chair nearest to him than Mrs. Copeland came bustling in with a silver tea tray.

“I brought everything you asked for, my lady.”

“Thank you.” She waited until the housekeeper laid the tray on the low table before speaking again. “I’ll ring if I need your assistance. Otherwise assume the baronet will yet live. After tea, I’ll help him upstairs.”

“Of course.” The older woman bounced her gaze between them, then apparently seeing that he wouldn’t be an invalid, she nodded and then left the room.

Quickly, Ashlynn bustled about to fix him a plate with a pie on it as well as a cup of tea made exactly how he took it. He watched her, and realized how attractive she was and how her curves stoked his desire. It was rather nice to have someone to care about him. Perhaps being a married man wasn’t all that bad.

“I’m sorry you are in pain.”

“So am I.” He winced as he sat up as far as he could then took the offerings from her. “It’s not exactly something I wish to repeat.” As much as he wished to sink his teeth into that pie, he set the plate and cup on the small round table near his head.

Since his wife still hovered nearby, she frowned. “Do you want me to put the salve on your back? It might help with the pain.”

“No.”

“Oh? Then what do you want?”

Timothy couldn’t help but grin. She was so easy to tease. “I want you to kiss me.”

“And why should I?” That Irish accent was quite pronounced as she propped her hands on her hips again.

“I fell off a ladder for you.”

“No, you fell off a ladder due to lack of attention and being a prick.”

“Ah, Ashlynn.” He couldn’t help but chuckle. She really was becoming a decent companion even when he wanted to be left alone. “Then you won’t kiss me? My back does ache.”

“Whose fault is that?” But she bent and bussed his cheek.

“Mmm.” Wanting so much more, he tugged her downward into his lap. Cheeky man that he was, he plied her with a string of leisurely kisses that had them both winded in a few moments. His hardened shaft pressed painfully against the front of his breeches, for he desired her even if his back and head ached.

“Oh,” she murmured when she pulled a bit away. Red color blazed in her cheeks, but her expression had softened. At least the tears had vanished from her eyes. “You truly are a bastard.”

“I know but then you aren’t a properly decorous lady.”

Thank God for that.

“My father would be disappointed.”

“He shouldn’t, for if he were alive, I’d be the first one there to sing your praises… and I can’t sing all that well.”

Their laughter blended together, but he was rewarded with her eyes sparkling like jewels.

“Now, give me my tea, woman. It has been quite the horrid afternoon.”

With a faint smile, she put the plate and cup back into his hands. “Don’t tax yourself.” While he had his repast, she puttered around and finished the decorating. “Well?” she asked twenty minutes later. “Did I do it well enough?”

“It’s wonderful.” The evergreen swags she’d placed on the mantel provided a much-needed swatch of color and fragrance to the room. The greenery was dotted with the oranges, tin bells, and glass balls. Somewhere, she’d even found silver stars that she’d stuck within the branches. Truly, he adored what she’d done. “I can’t remember the last time this room looked so festive.” She had even decorated the windowsills as well as the sideboard. “We are only missing mistletoe.”

Another blush stole into her cheeks. “There is a ball of it, but I left it in the library. I wove some sprigs of it with evergreen scraps in the library earlier today.”

How interesting. “No matter. We can retrieve it later.” Or make use of it.

She smiled, and that mysterious dimple winked. “Come upstairs. You really should have some of this salve rubbed into your back else you won’t be able to move for dinner.”

As much as he wanted to joke about his injury, he nodded. “You are probably correct.” He winced again as he struggled into a standing position. “Will you sit with me?”

“Yes, but I’ll wager you’ll fall asleep from the lavender in the salve.” She stood with him and offered him her shoulder then slipped an arm about his waist.

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll be there.”

Down, down, down he slipped, only this time, he didn’t do anything to stop the breakneck slide. If that made him a nodcock, so be it. Oddly, being with her like this—minus the pain—was quite welcoming and gave him a sense of contentment he hadn’t had in far too long.