The Girl is Not For Christmas: A Christmas Regency Romance Novel Read online

  He chuckled, tilting his head to one side. “Did you have ears?”

  “Yes, out of paper. In fact….” Livvy searched about the chest for a moment. “Ah, yes, here we are.”

  She had fashioned the ears onto a headband and they were a little bent, but otherwise none the worse for wear. For some reason that escaped her, she put them on.

  King beamed at her. “Adorable. Did you black your nose, too, and add whiskers?”

  “As it happens, yes,” she replied, feeling ridiculous.

  “Such a pretty kitty,” he murmured, and there was that predatory gleam again.

  He grinned, and Livvy could think of nothing besides pet crocodiles. He held out his hand to her.

  “Come here, puss.”

  Livvy swallowed and shook her head.

  “Ah, don’t be shy now. I won’t bite.”

  Crocodile. Crocodile. Croco….

  Livvy looked down, wondering at what point she’d put her hand in his. She frowned at her fingers, perplexed, and then squeaked as he gave a tug and she tumbled onto the bed and into his lap.

  “There, now. That’s more comfortable, isn’t it, kitten?”

  “I am not a kitten,” Livvy retorted. “And it’s not the least bit comfortable.”

  She was definitely getting better at dissembling. Her bottom was nestled perfectly in his lap and he was big and warm, and she wanted nothing more than to rest her head on his shoulder and close her eyes.

  “But didn’t you want some practical experience? Don’t you want to make a man desperate to marry you?”

  “Y-Yes,” she said doubtfully.

  “Well, then. There are many men who like to think of their sweethearts as delicate creatures, kittens, or birds. It brings out our protective instincts.”

  Livvy stared at him. “You’re not suggesting I wear ears and a tail to the ball, I hope?”

  King snorted. “Well, it would certainly gain you attention, but perhaps not of the kind you are hoping for.”

  “I should say not.” Livvy replied, trying to sound tart, but his hand rested on the small of her back and her spine was melting beneath his touch. Just to make things worse, he rubbed it up and down in a soothing motion, and it took every ounce of willpower not to purr.

  “I think, all things considered, that we need to investigate your sister-in-law’s wardrobe.”

  “We?”

  He nodded. “Judging on what I’ve seen so far, I dread to think what crimes against sartorial elegance you would commit if I left you to your own devices. No. This must be a team effort.”

  Once again, he’d distracted her from the implied insult, this time by the use of the word team. He was suggesting they were a team. The two of them, in it together. Something warm and fuzzy wrapped about her, like a snuggly blanket. It took her a moment to realise King had put his arms about her. She had never been a part of a team. It had always been her, by herself. Oh, there were the children, who were always on her side, except for when she was trying her best to instil discipline and they were cross with her. But the few friends she’d grown up with had long since married and moved away, and anyone else her age in the area had their own family and children. She was always at odds with her brother and Ceci barely distinguished between her and Gelly most of the time. Of late, her sister-in-law vacillated between seeing her as an unpaid governess or a drain on the family coffers when she refused to do the sensible thing and marry Mr Skewes.

  The last remaining bit of spine she had wilted under King’s caressing hand, and she leaned into him with a sigh.

  “There,” he said, and this time he didn’t sound the least bit smug, only content. “That’s comfy, isn’t it?”

  “Mmmm, marvellous,” she said. “You are even more comfortable than my bed.”

  “I am at your service.” His voice had gone all deep and gravelly and she didn’t doubt it was the tone he used for seduction, but it only made her smile. “Are you going to sleep?”

  There was a hint of outrage in the demand.

  “Hmmm? Oh, no. Just… just resting my eyes.”

  “Miss Penrose, you are in the arms of a notorious rake and libertine. Your virtue is in grave peril.”

  “Is it?” Livvy replied, smothering a yawn. “That’s nice.”

  “Livvy! You ought to be flustered and breathless, drat you. I swear you are the most unnatural female.”

  “It’s true. I am. I’m so sorry, King. It’s not your fault, though, so don’t feel bad. Only it’s been a dreadfully long day and… and you have the most splendid shoulders and you’re so warm and cosy. I can’t think when I have ever felt so… so… snug.”

  Livvy sighed, wondering why it was she felt so at peace. The little voice of her conscience yelled at her, but it was so faint and annoying it was hardly worth the trouble of paying attention to it.

  Chapter Nine

  Almost the 10th December 1818.

  Dogs, crows, pegos and cravats, plus a terrifying suspicion.

  King glowered at the woman in his arms. Well! The nerve of the creature. Here he was primed for a little jaunt down the road to perdition with a pleasurable detour via the abyss and a look in at damnation, and the blasted creature used him as a pillow.

  “Snug,” he muttered wrathfully. “Your maiden aunt’s shawl is snug. The King of Sin is not snug, damn you.”

  “Hmm?” Livvy murmured sleepily. Her hand came up to his neck and she wriggled closer, her warm breath fluttering against his skin.

  “Nothing, love,” he murmured, frowning down at her. There was a peculiar sensation in his chest. Most likely the calves’ feet kicking at his innards. “Go to sleep.”

  She sighed, and the gust of damp warmth stirred the attention of his flesh, already awakened by the proximity of a lovely female arse in his lap.

  “Stand down,” he grumbled. “We’ll go to perdition another night. The wooden hill to Bedfordshire is as far as we are getting, it seems.”

  Bedfordshire. He snorted inwardly. Bloody Bedlam, more like. What the devil was he playing at? Had he just arranged to rifle her sister-in-law’s wardrobe with her? For it very much sounded like he had. He must have taken leave of his senses. Yet then his senses remembered the girl asleep in his lap, her head upon his shoulder, her rather sharp features serene in repose, sweet and trusting. Trusting in him. Good God. Livvy might think she was up to all the tricks, and beyond falling for his particular brand of wickedness, but she did not understand. She was too delicious, all spiky on the outside, but once you navigated past those thorns….

  Oh, hell. He was in a world of trouble.

  Though he could not for the life of him fathom why, he stayed until dawn. His neck ached and left leg went to sleep sometime after midnight, which was more than the rest of him managed, but… but he was too tired to move. Besides, he’d only wake Miss Prickly Penrose, and she’d probably shriek on finding him still there and wake the house, and then they’d all be in the basket. That was what he told himself. When he finally moved, she didn’t wake, though. She barely stirred and he stood staring down at her and her crumpled cat ears for far too long before he made himself walk away.

  He managed an hour in his own bed before he faced the daily effort of not ransacking the entire house for a bottle of anything remotely intoxicating and getting dressed instead. By the time he was presentable, his hands were shaking.

  I am not drinking. I am not drinking. I. Am. Not. Drinking.

  It occurred to him then that he hadn’t thought about drinking the entire time he was with Livvy last night. It next occurred to him that was a terrifying thought and one he’d do well not to dwell on. Which naturally meant he spent the next half hour staring blindly out of the window and dwelling on it. He fought down the anxious fidgety sensation in his belly and told himself to grow up, though if he’d not managed that in the past five and thirty years, it seemed unlikely to happen at this late stage. His one consolation was the fact that she would have to face him over the breakfast table, knowing she�
��d fallen asleep in his arms. With him in her bed. Well, on her bed. Which was still making it sound a lot more salacious and exciting than it had been, but still… Perhaps it hadn’t been salacious or exciting, but it had been rather… he hunted about for an appropriate description. Pleasant? No. Peaceful? No. Lovely? Well….

  “There’ll be nothing left if you don’t go now. Them children are like a ravening horde if you put bread and jam in front of them.”

  King nodded, more than a little distracted, but allowed Walsh to chivvy him down the stairs. He brightened on approaching the breakfast parlour, remembering he was about to see Miss Penrose blush and stammer and….

  “Oh, there you are, King. Look who’s come to see us.”

  Livvy beamed at him and held her hand aloft. A sleek black crow turned one beady eye on him and tilted his head to one side in a move King found mildly disturbing. The massive beak opened, and the bird gave an ear-splitting and, to King’s mind, disapproving, caw. Marvellous, judged and found wanting by a bird.

  “Isn’t he handsome?”

  King regarded the crow, who in turn looked him over as if he was something dead that may or may not be worth picking at.

  “Yes, he is,” Livvy crooned. Apparently, that had been a rhetorical question. “Mr Moon is a handsome fellow.”

  She stroked her finger over the crow’s head, and he preened, giving King a look he could only describe as smug.

  “Gog,” said George.

  “No, George, it’s a crow,” Livvy corrected gently. “A bird called a crow. Say birdie, George.”

  “Gog.”

  King sighed and shook his head.

  “He has an affinity for dogs and is somewhat fixated at present,” Livvy said, sounding a touch defensive. “It’s a bird, George. A pretty birdie. Good morning, pretty birdie.”

  “He’s probably confused.” King observed. “His sister is called Birdie, isn’t she?”

  “No, she’s called Henrietta, but yes, her pet name is Birdie. Perhaps you have a point.”

  Livvy gestured to Mr Moon. “George, this is a crow. Can you say crow, sweetheart? Ke re oh.”

  “Gog.”

  “Why do you have a pet crow?” King asked, not irritated in the least that Livvy was not blushing and stammering, and was more interested in a blasted bird and an obstinate child than him.

  He was not jealous of a bird. Nor a small boy. No. Under no circumstances.

  “I found him in the wood after a storm about three years ago. He was tiny and cold, and there were no parents about. So I fed him and kept him warm until he was ready to leave, but he never did. He stays close to the house and often comes back to visit. Here, you take him.”

  Livvy held out her hand, gesturing for King to do the same. Reluctantly, King did as she suggested, and the bloody bird cawed and pecked at his fingers.

  “Ouch!” King yelled, which sent Mr Moon off in a flurry of wings.

  He swooped about the breakfast table, to the delighted shrieks of the children, before settling on the back of Livvy’s chair.

  “Oh, you frightened him,” she said with reproach.

  “He attacked me!” King held out his finger, which had a savage red mark on it, though the skin had not been broken.

  “Don’t be such a baby, it’s barely a scratch.”

  “It’s a sight more than a scratch. That thing is vicious. You should keep it away from the children.”

  Livvy gestured to where George was feeding the bird pieces of bread and jam. Mr Moon was taking the tasty morsels with a delicate, fastidious beak, and looked as if butter wouldn’t melt, or whatever the crow equivalent was…worms wouldn’t dissolve?

  “Yes, he’s a danger to society,” she said dryly.

  King glared at her and pulled out a chair, sitting down in it whilst keeping the monstrous bird in his line of sight.

  “Is that an Obaldeston, my lord?” the oldest of the children asked him, regarding King’s cravat with a covetous eye.

  King dared tear his gaze from the attack bird for a moment to look at… Henry? Harvey? No… Harry. That was it.

  “Certainly not. Far too fussy. It’s a barrel knot.”

  “Father says you’re the most stylish man in the ton and that everyone in town copies you.”

  Though the why of it escaped him, King felt a stab of discomfort at being described thus before Miss Penrose. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know he was a fribble and a fearful waste of space, after all. It was just, if one was committed to going to the devil, King didn’t see why one ought not do the thing in style. Except, now he’d changed his mind about destroying his life through dissipation and vice, he felt rather a fool for having got so close to doing so.

  Harry gave a wistful sigh. “I’ve almost mastered the Trone d’amour.”

  King gave the boy’s mangled neckcloth a doubtful glance, but kept his mouth shut. “I shouldn’t bother. It’ll make you look a right pillock. All you need is the barrel knot, the ballroom and, perhaps for a change of scene, the oriental.”

  King saw the slump of Harry’s shoulders and had a vivid and unwelcome recollection of being fourteen, in awe of everyone who seemed to be far better at being a man than he was, and living in utter terror of his father. Some sense of fellow feeling prompted him.

  “If you come to my room before dinner tonight, I’ll show you. If you like.”

  The boy’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. “Oh, would you, sir? I… Oh, goodness, that… that would be marvellous.”

  King nodded, experiencing a strange little glow of pleasure at the boy’s enthusiasm and gratitude.

  Harry pushed to his feet, breakfast forgotten. “I’ll see how many cravats I can muster. They… well, they aren’t starched or… or terribly….”

  King waved him off. “It’s of no matter. I’ll give you a couple of mine to practise with. Walsh always brings more than I could possibly need.”

  “Gosh,” the boy said, his ears growing pink with pleasure. “I say… Thank you, my lord.”

  “Call me King,” King said, smiling at the lad. “Everyone does.”

  Harry seemed to grow about a foot in height, his shoulders going back. “I should be honoured to, my lor… King.”

  He walked out of the breakfast parlour with his head held high, only spoiling the effect once out of sight with an audible yip of excitement that echoed down the hallway.

  “Thank you.”

  King turned to see Livvy regarding him with a rather unsettling misty expression.

  He shrugged, concentrating on buttering the roll he’d taken, and wished his hands were steadier this morning.

  “No, really, King. Poor Harry, he’s… he’s such a lovely young man, but painfully aware of… oh, of everything. Of the way his cuffs are fraying and he’s growing out of his clothes, and… and his father doesn’t seem to notice.”

  There was a bitter note to her words and a great deal of obvious frustration.

  King hesitated, not knowing what to say. It was apparent the family were in financial difficulties, but one did not discuss such things, certainly not over breakfast.

  And yet….

  “Are things very bad?”

  Livvy shrugged and lowered her voice so the children did not hear her words. “The house is entailed, at least but… Oh, well, you can see for yourself the place is falling down around us. My brother made some… unwise investments, but… but he has debts too, and….”

  To his horror, her voice quavered, and she closed her mouth, blinking rapidly.

  “Liv… Miss Penrose,” he began, horrified to think she might cry at the breakfast table.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, forcing a laugh. “How horrid of me to subject you to such a scene before you’ve even broken your fast. No wonder you think me such a trial.”

  I don’t think you’re a trial. I think you’re….

  Thankfully, he stopped himself before he said the words out loud, or even in his head, but the effort left him shakier than ever and all on edge.
What was happening to him? God, he needed a bloody drink.

  No.

  No.

  I am not drinking.

  “Gog.”

  “N-No, dear,” Livvy said, sniffling a little and smiling at George. “That’s Lord Kingston.”

  “Gog.”

  “King,” King said to the child, his voice firm. “I am many things, young man, but I draw the line at being described as a dog.”

  “Ooof, ooof.”

  “King.”

  George got a sly look in his eyes and said, carefully and deliberately: “Pego.”

  “George!” Livvy exclaimed. “Wherever….”

  She turned an accusing eye upon King.

  “It was an accident,” he said defensively.

  “What manner of accident results in you teaching the child that word?” she demanded.

  King cleared his throat.

  “He was walking about in the buff! I merely pointed out that ladies took exception to….” He waved his hand in an expressive manner. “That being on display.”

  “Oh, King,” Livvy said, and put her head in her hands.

  Her shoulders shook and King felt a wave of shame at being the fellow who had finally broken the indomitable Miss Penrose.

  “Oh, Liv… Miss Penrose, please…. Don’t… Don’t…. I’m terribly sorry. Truly. I swear I’ll try to teach him something else….”

  Livvy raised her head, tears running down her face, and went off in a peal of laughter.

  “Oh, you ridiculous creature,” she said, gasping for breath. “I’m not crying. It’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in… oh… oh….”

  She clutched at her sides while the children stared at her, wide-eyed.

  “Pego?” George enquired with interest.

  Livvy went off in whoops again as the girls snickered and whispered behind their hands.

  King sighed and got to his feet.

  “Ladies,” he said to the girls gravely. “Would you excuse us? Your aunt is a little… overwrought. I think perhaps she needs some air.”

  Somehow, he got Livvy to her feet and steered her, still spluttering and wheezing, out of the room, wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, and guided her outside. It was a beautiful winter’s morning, with a sky the colour of the Madonna’s cloak, and air so sweet and crisp it hurt his lungs.