A Magical Regency Christmas: Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel. Margaret McPhee
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frown gave her the impetus to forge a smile. ‘How nice for them. Aunt Eliot must be delighted.’
Susan stared at her. ‘You don’t mind, then?’
A little thread of amusement uncurled itself, mocking her. ‘Mind? Why ever should I? Please do wish Tom very happy for me. Although I suppose I shall be able to do that for myself next week.’ Christmas was so close now, and never had she looked forward to the festive season less.
Susan recovered somewhat. ‘You’ll still come for Christmas then?’
‘Why should I not?’ asked Polly. Was that it? Had Tom wanted her told, so that she might decide not to come, but not had the courage to tell her himself? To hell with him! If he had a guilty conscience, it was his problem.
Susan shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘Well, you see, Angelica and her parents are coming to stay. They arrive Christmas Eve.’
Which would make the manor uncomfortably crowded.
‘Oh. I dare say I shall only remain a couple of days, then,’ said Polly in very cheerful tones. ‘You might mention that to your mama for me.’
Susan glared at her and Polly tried hard not to smile. Her sweet little cousin wasn’t supposed to have told her anything.
‘You know everyone is talking about this, don’t you?’ burst out Susan.
‘About Tom and Angelica?’
‘No! About you! About how disgraceful it is that you’ve done this! You should have gone to Lady Littleworth!’
‘And not been paid,’ pointed out Polly. ‘Instead I have my independence.’
‘You would have been respectable!’ snapped Susan, as if it were a holy grail. She gestured at the room. ‘You think only of yourself! It’s selfish—living like this, you’re shaming all of us!’
‘How dreadful for you,’ said Polly sweetly. ‘Fancy not being able to hide the shame of a poor relation. And, yes, I am afraid that as a woman who must make her own way in the world, I do think of myself.’ No one else was going to do it for her.
Susan uttered a frustrated noise, turned on her heel and flounced out, banging the door.
With Susan gone, Polly sat slowly on the settle and stared into the glowing fire. Despite the warmth, a cold emptiness yawned inside her. Fool that she was to have thought even for a moment that Tom might have regretted his behaviour. All he regretted was her lost fortune. If she had married him, how long would it have taken her to see that? To see him for what he truly was? Would she have lied to herself day after day? Year after year? Pretended that all was well? That he was still the handsome, devil-may-care, big cousin of her childhood? How long could she have lied to herself and not become something beyond pity?
With a jolt, she realised that she didn’t care about Tom’s betrothal. That she had realised a long time ago what a lucky escape she’d had there. A queer thought came to her—if she could turn the clock back, regain her fortune, would it be worth the price of being married to Tom?
* * *
Alex winced at the yowl emanating from the basket as he walked through the village that evening. How such a tiny creature could make so much noise was beyond him. And what on earth was he thinking giving Polly—Miss Woodrowe, he corrected himself—a kitten without even asking her if she would like a cat. Although he doubted that she would like a cat less than that blasted great rat.
And even a cat would be company for her. He glanced down at the pup trotting politely at his heels. Not as good as a dog, of course, but better than nothing, and a great deal cheaper to feed. Especially if it dined largely on rats and mice. Still, if she preferred not to have the kitten, she could always say so. He didn’t much like cats himself, but he thought he could survive one more cat at the rectory if Polly declined.
Serve his housekeeper right! He still wanted to know how on earth Mrs Judd had known he’d visited Polly last night. The dratted woman had asked after Miss Polly when he’d come in, quite as if she had no doubt as to where he’d been, and before he’d known what he was doing, he’d told her about the rat. She’d produced the kitten at breakfast, informing him that it was from the smithy, its immediate antecedents renowned and celebrated ratters.
He should have come earlier, but he’d had to recite the Office and he’d had a sermon to write, not to mention adding up the various parish bills for the month. So there was no question of lingering to talk to Polly now. Quite apart from Mrs Judd’s ire if he were late to supper, there was Polly’s reputation to consider. There was no doubt that Mrs Judd knew exactly where he was this time. He squashed the flicker of regret.
The little cottage was nearly lost in the darkness, but a faint light crept out from behind the shutters, and the odour of wood smoke and something savoury drifted to him, reminding him that he was hungry. Another yowl from the basket suggested that someone else was hungry. Bonny gave the basket a wary sniff and backed off when it hissed.
Alex grinned. ‘Very wise of you.’ He’d back a cat, even one this size, against a setter any day. He rapped on the back door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s just me. Alex.’ Too familiar. ‘Alex Martindale.’
Inside the bolts were shot back and the key screeched in the lock. He tried to steel himself, but at the first sight of her, the tawny hair spun to a golden nimbus in the lamplight, heat rose in his blood, and his heart and stomach twisted and clenched. Rather like his tongue.
‘Er, Miss Woodrowe.’ It was all he could manage. Wonderful. He’d told the woman her own name. He’d never understood that desire could tie a man in knots. Bonny apparently saw nothing in the least awkward in calling at this hour. She shoved past him up the steps and reared up, planting muddy paws firmly on Polly’s gown. Nor was her tongue in the least affected by shyness as she licked enthusiastically at Polly’s hands. Which weren’t trying to push her down, but rather were petting the silly creature, rubbing her ears and under her muzzle. His breath shortened and his mind seized. Such soft, gentle hands...
His voice came out as a croak. ‘Bonny—down.’
The pup sat, casting a sheepish look up at him, as her tail swept the step.
‘It’s all right, sir. I don’t mind.’
He snorted. ‘You will when she’s bigger.’
The basket gave another indignant wail.
Polly stared at it. ‘Your supper, sir?’
‘What? Good God, no!’ He held the basket out to her. ‘It’s a cat, a kitten really. For you.’
Silence spread out around them as she took the basket.
‘You brought me a kitten.’ There was a queer note of disbelief in her voice.
A stray curl had tumbled over her brow and he had to exert his will against the urge to stroke it back for her. Everything in him clenched as he imagined her silky hair sliding through his fingers, the velvet softness of her cheek under his touch...
Ignoring the rising beat of his blood, he said, ‘I thought...it must be lonely by yourself. And the rat yesterday—well, that can’t be pleasant.’
‘No. Will you come in, sir?’
He shouldn’t. Not at this hour. Not after dark when she was living quite alone.
Who on earth is going to know? Apart from Mrs Judd and she seems to like Polly...
He would know and he ought not to do this, but his feet were already over the threshold and she was closing the door behind them. The warmth of the little room enclosed them. Dancing firelight and the fragrance of her supper, her counterpane tossed over the back of the settle with a book propped in the folds.
Don’t think of her wrapped in bedclothes!
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.