The Girl is Not For Christmas: A Christmas Regency Romance Novel Page 20

  “Livvy,” he murmured. “Oh, God, Livvy….”

  “Ing?”

  Oh good Lord.

  George.

  King yelped and simultaneously threw the covers over Livvy’s head and sat up to face the small, shadowy figure in the doorway.

  “George!” King said, breathless and horrified. Bloody hell. “Y-You gave me a turn. What is it? Is something the matter?”

  George sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Livvy not there.”

  King’s experienced a surge of such shame he wanted to fall to his knees and beg the child’s forgiveness. Oh god. Poor George had been frightened and wanting Livvy and he… and they…. He felt sick.

  “Oh, George, I….” King swallowed, gathering himself. “I… I expect she’s… er… in the kitchen. Gone to get some milk, perhaps? Did you have a bad dream?”

  “’Es.” George nodded, his bottom lip quivering a little.

  “Well, that’s rotten luck,” King said, utterly wretched now. “I’ll take you back to bed and I expect Livvy will come and look in on you before she goes back to bed. You… er… just hold on while I put some clothes on.”

  “’Es. Ing, must wear clothes. Girls scream loud. No pego,” George said solemnly.

  A choked sound escaped King, somewhere between a laugh and a moan. He was an utter bastard, a selfish, wicked man who would have taken from Livvy when he had nothing of any worth to give her. Christ, what if George had come into his room just a little later? King went hot and cold, appalled. Once he was decently attired, King lifted George into his arms, hesitating in the doorway.

  “Let’s get you back to bed then, young man. I bet your aunt will have gone to get you a glass of milk, that’s why you couldn’t find her.”

  Hopefully, Livvy would take the hint. He could not face returning to his bed with her still in it.

  “Come along, young man.”

  King carried George down the hall and up the stairs to the nursery and padded into the room. Little Birdie was snoring softly, arms and legs akimbo. Susan must have the benefit of a room of her own now, but Lydia and Rebecca were here, sleeping neatly, tucked under their blankets. Jane, however, had kicked the covers off, sleeping on her stomach with one leg and one arm hanging off the side of the bed. King experienced another wave of heat and humiliation as he considered what he’d been doing. God, he was despicable. That he could think to have a love affair with Livvy and then just walk away, that she would accept that….

  “Here we are,” he said, his voice sounding odd, too loud, in the darkness of the nursery. He felt too big among all the child-sized furniture, too wicked and tainted, to be anywhere near this… this remarkable, beautiful family. He lay George down in his bed and pulled up the covers, tucking the boy in tight and picking up a rather odd looking fabric dog from the floor. It was made from ticking, one of its legs was longer than the other, and the ears and tail were out of proportion, far too big for its body, but it was definitely a dog.

  “Gog, oof, oof,” George said softly, reaching for the toy.

  “He’s a very handsome fellow,” King said, sitting down gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Did Livvy make him for you?”

  George nodded.

  “What’s he called?”

  “Bob,” George said, holding the dog out again to King.

  King inspected it critically. “Yes,” he said, smiling at George. “He’s definitely a Bob. A good strong name. Fierce enough to chase bad dreams away.”

  George nodded and drew Bob under the covers with him before tucking his thumb into his mouth.

  “I have a dog,” King said then, the words blurted out before he could think about it.

  George sat up, his thumb leaving his mouth with a soft pop, wide-eyed with interest now. “Ing, you got gog?”

  King nodded. It was too late to take it back now, though it had been a stupid thing to say. Now George would want to see it.

  “Is big? Ing’s gog big?”

  “Yes. He’s a Newfoundland. His fur is black and white and he’s very brave, very loyal. His name is Argos, like Odysseus’ dog.”

  “Arrrgos,” George repeated, pronouncing the word perfectly.

  King smiled. “Yes.”

  “Want see Argos,” George said, reaching out and grasping King’s hand. “Morrow, we go? See Argos?”

  King swallowed, cursing himself. Emotion surged in his chest and he wasn’t certain why. Perhaps thinking of poor Argos sitting on the steps that rose to the massive front door of the castle, waiting for him to come home again after being abandoned for so long. King had missed him horribly, but London was no place for a dog like that. Argos had boundless energy, he needed the fields and open spaces, and besides, the housekeeper and her husband, Mr and Mrs Dibben, doted on him. It wasn’t as if he’d been neglected. He was better off there, away from King and his wicked lifestyle. Everyone was better off away from him. He ought to leave, ought to go away before he could do this family any more harm. God knew they had troubles enough already.

  “Ing?”

  King shook his head, his throat tight. “No, George. Not… Not tomorrow. My home is a long way away.”

  “’Nother day?”

  King did not want to tell the boy falsehoods, but it was late, and he did not know what to say, could not think past his own misery and self-loathing.

  “We’ll see,” he said, forcing a smile. “We’ll see.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  15th December 1818.

  A rude awakening.

  Once King had gone, Livvy dressed hurriedly and went to fetch a glass of milk. How stupid of her not to have checked on George first, though he hadn’t woken in the night in an age, so it hadn’t occurred to her. No doubt the whole incident would have horrified King. She could almost imagine his train of thought, something along the lines of debauching innocents and bringing immorality into the children’s lives. It was bound to be something of the sort. She knew him well enough now to know he had a very low opinion of himself and that he would instinctively take the blame. Why was that? Weren’t noblemen supposed to be arrogant and full of themselves with an unshakeable belief in their superiority? Yes, there were certainly glimpses of arrogance in King, but only when he was playing the rogue, like he was wearing the role of the Earl of Kingston in the way an actor would Hamlet or King Lear. Goodness, but he was an enigma, and she wanted so badly to unravel him and put him back together again in a way that meant he might realise just how wonderful he truly was. She paused in the doorway to the nursery as she heard King’s voice speaking low. She peered around the door to see him sitting down on George’s bed.

  “He’s a very handsome fellow. Did Livvy make him for you?” he asked, inspecting the ridiculous dog she’d sewn. It was a dreadful thing, barely dog-like at all, but poor George had wanted one so badly after having seen one in the village. “What’s he called?” King asked George.

  “Bob.”

  Livvy smothered a grin as King made a show of inspecting the strange creature.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling at George. “He’s definitely a Bob. A good strong name. Fierce enough to chase bad dreams away.”

  Stop it, Livvy told her idiotic heart as it fluttered in her chest. Oh, who was she trying to fool? She was a lost cause.

  “I have a dog.”

  King’s words surprised her, and she bit her lip, knowing this information would have George demanding to meet the animal.

  “Ing, you got gog?” George demanded, breathless with excitement. “Is big? Ing’s gog big?”

  “Yes. He’s a Newfoundland. His fur is black and white and he’s very brave, very loyal. His name is Argos, like Odysseus’ dog.”

  “Arrrgos,” George repeated, and Livvy felt a burst of pride in him for grasping it so quickly.

  “Yes.”

  “Want see Argos,” George said, reaching out and grasping King’s hand. “Morrow, we go? See Argos?”

  Oh, dear. Livvy watched King, watched the way his broad
shoulders slumped, and he shook his head, the picture of misery.

  “Ing?”

  “No, George. Not… Not tomorrow. My home is a long way away.”

  Livvy’s heart clenched. There was too much emotion behind the words, sorrow and longing and… oh, King.

  “’Nother day?” George asked, such a plaintive question that Livvy wanted to cry, for him and for King. Oh, why was life so bloody cruel?

  “We’ll see,” King said, a catch in his voice that made tears prick at Livvy’s eyes. They both knew it would never happen. “We’ll see.”

  Livvy cleared her throat and bustled into the room.

  “Oh, George, you’ve fetched King. I was down in the kitchens getting you some warm milk. Here you are.”

  Livvy sat down on the other side of the bed as King got to his feet.

  “I’ll… er….” he said awkwardly, waving at the door.

  “Oh, there’s no need,” Livvy said at once, hoping to make him stay.

  King made a low sound of disgust. “Yes, there is. Night night, George. Goodnight, Miss Penrose. I shall see you both in the morning.”

  Livvy sighed as she watched King go, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “Ing, got big gog, Libby,” George said. “I like Ing.”

  “Yes,” Livvy said, stroking George’s hair as he sipped his milk. “I like King too.”

  King did not sleep, tormented by the scent of Livvy on his sheets and the memory of her warm skin against his. He forced the images away, self-loathing for his actions giving him the strength to think of other things, for short periods anyway. Then the hopelessness of his life would stir the desire to get himself a bloody drink, and he’d grasp hold of anything that would distract him. Naturally, he ended up thinking of Livvy again as his heart ached in his chest and he went full circle, over and again. Sometime after dawn he fell into a fitful sleep and then woke with a jolt of alarm as a tremendous crash echoed through the house.

  “Bloody hell!”

  He scrambled out of bed, gritty eyed and stiff and slung on his clothes in a haphazard fashion that would give Walsh a nervous collapse when he saw. Surely, though, there had been some manner of disaster? The roof falling in, a wall coming down? Oh, God, the children!

  King bolted for the door as he heard a female scream and ran pell mell down the corridor only to come up short as he discovered Ceci at the top of the stairs with her head in her hands, weeping.

  “What is it?” he demanded, so terrified he could hardly get the words out. “Are you hurt? Is it the children? What…?”

  Ceci pointed a trembling hand towards the bottom of the stairs and King turned his unwilling eyes in that direction, expecting to see a crumpled body. There she was, little Jane in a tumble of skirts and petticoats, laying in a heap.

  “Oh, God. No!” King cried, taking the stairs two at a time but not getting to the poor child before Livvy.

  King stared at her, helpless, wanting to save her from the pain, to shield her from….

  “Jane Penrose, you little devil!” Livvy said, clearly extremely cross as she hauled Jane to her feet. “How many times have I told you that our best silver tray is not a toboggan!”

  “Oh, they’ll be the death of me,” Ceci wailed from the top of the stairs. “My poor heart! I thought she was dead.”

  The child’s mother put her head in her hands and wailed. For once, King thought she had a point. His heart was still hammering in his ears and he felt sick.

  “There, see?” Livvy said, pointing past King to Ceci. “You’ve made your poor mama cry, not to mention giving Lord Kingston a terrible fright. Oh, and, Jane… Oh… oh, Jane….”

  Livvy paused as her gaze landed on the silver tray. King watched, truly horrified this time as Livvy pressed her fingers to her mouth, trying not to cry.

  He saw what she saw. A family heirloom, no doubt, but something that had been beautiful, and valuable, and was now scratched and dented and… well, there was still the price of the silver to be had but… Oh, Livvy. His heart ached, not knowing who to comfort first. Jane did not understand perhaps the full extent of what she had done, but seeing her indomitable auntie struggling not to cry was clearly a shock. The girl’s bottom lip trembled, not helped by Ceci still sobbing piteously at the top of the stairs.

  King took a proper look at Livvy to see she was soaked through, the hem of her gown muddy. She’d been with Ross, then. Rain droplets clung to her hair and her cheeks and nose were red from the cold, redder still as she fought the tears that were forcing strange little hiccoughing noises from her. It was too much, though. The emotion got the better of her and she stood, sobbing and crying, clutching her arms about herself as her eyes and nose ran. She certainly wasn’t an attractive sight when she cried, which was the oddest thing to realise, as King only wanted her more than ever. He wanted to hold her tight and comfort her and make everything all right, but he could not. Still, he could manage this mess. Weeping females were surely not too much for the King of Sin’s legendary charm.

  “What the devil is going on?” Harry said, appearing in the hallway with Susan in tow.

  “Oh, good Lord,” King murmured as the crying ratcheted up a notch.

  Birdie, who was in Susan’s arms, had looked up at her mother—now sunk to the floor at the top of the stairs and sobbing noisily—and promptly decided she needed to join in too. At this point the piglet trotted through the hallway with a pink bow around its neck. George followed, shedding clothes as he went.

  “H’lo, Ing,” he said, waving cheerfully as he kicked his breeches free and wandered off after the pig.

  King took a deep breath.

  “Harry, handkerchief,” he commanded, nodding his thanks as Harry gave his over.

  King was still only in his shirt and breeches and had nothing so useful to hand. He pressed it into Livvy’s fingers, relieved when she used it to wipe her eyes and give her nose an enthusiastic blow.

  “Right,” he said, moving to pick up the silver tray.

  He turned to Jane, who looked wretched too, fat tears rolling down her pink cheeks.

  “Now, then, Miss Jane. I think you owe your aunt and your mother an apology for giving them a horrid fright, and a promise never to do such dreadful a thing again,” he said gently, reaching for her hand and giving it an encouraging squeeze.

  “I… I am s-sorry, L-Livvy,” the girl stammered. “I won’t do it again, Mama. N-Not ever. Promise.”

  Livvy said nothing, all her energy and concentration focused on not falling to pieces in front of everyone again.

  “You’re not hurt?” King said, crouching down to meet the girl’s eyes.

  “My knee hurts a b-bit,” Jane stammered, sniffling now. “And I scraped my hand.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, be a brave girl, and Harry will take you and your sisters to the kitchen and Gelly will patch you up. Harry, give this tray to Spargo and see what can be done with it. And your mama needs the sal volatile and a nice strong cup of tea in her room, please.”

  “Yes, King, at once,” Harry said, snapping to attention like King was Wellington commanding the troops. “Come along, Jane, you silly goose,” he said, with all the tender sympathy of a male sibling as he took his little sister’s arm and hauled her off to Gelly with Lydia and Rebecca tailing behind them.

  “Susan, give Birdie to me and get George dressed again, then see that piglet back to where it belongs.”

  “Yes, King,” Susan said, fluttering her eyelashes at him and sighing heavily. She gazed adoringly at him as he took Birdie from her. King cleared his throat.

  “Ahem, er… yes, well, run along then before George is completely bare ar… around the house.”

  Susan giggled, blushed, and then ran after her brother.

  King turned back to Livvy and took a moment to squeeze her hand. She had stopped crying now at least, though the blank expression on her face was somehow worse.

  “Deep breaths. I’ll be back in just a moment,” he promised.

 
Livvy didn’t so much as blink, just stared into some place in the far distance, her arms clutched about her middle.

  King hurried up the stairs, carrying the wailing baby.

  “There, there, now,” he soothed the child, feeling like an idiot. Had there, there now, ever made anyone feel remotely better? Though, strangely, the child soothed a little, staring up at him with watery eyes, her eyelashes all spiky as she sniffled. King stroked the baby’s head and kissed her silky cheek. “There’s a good girl.”

  When he reached Lady Boscawen, he reached down a hand to help her up. “Come now, my lady. No one was hurt and Jane is sorry for giving you such a horrid scare, but poor Birdie is frightened by all the upset and needs her mama.”

  “Oh,” Ceci said, wiping her cheeks. “My poor baby.”

  She cried much more prettily than Livvy it had to be said, but then Livvy only cried when she was feeling defeated, and very little defeated Olivia Penrose. She didn’t cry over trifles like he suspected Ceci did, and so she could not disguise the depths of her misery. Her tears were ugly because the emotion was so heartfelt, so raw that there was no hiding it.

  King escorted Ceci back to her room with Birdie and promised that her ladyship’s smelling salts, and a good hot cup of tea were coming soon and so she wasn’t to upset herself further. This suggestion, given with King’s most solicitous tone, seemed to go a long way to calming her and the lady settled in a chair with Birdie who was now all smiles for her pretty mama and the crisis appeared to have been averted. Here, at least.

  King closed the door and hurried back to Livvy, uncertain whether he was relieved or alarmed to discover she hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “Come now, love,” he said, taking her by the arm and guiding her back up the stairs. Though he had promised himself to stay away from her, she was in no fit state to be by herself and everyone else was occupied. King took her to her room and began undoing the ties on her clothes. That at least got her attention. Her cheeks flushed, and she lifted her gaze to his, her expression one of such naked longing that King’s heart stuttered.