Chapter Five
CHARLOTTE HAD EXPECTED to feel lonely spending Christmas away from her family in Lincolnshire, but the prospect of sharing Christmas Eve supper with the Comte de Roche rather softened the blow of being overlooked by her own relations.
As she, her aunt, and her uncle arrived at Crabb Hall, she felt a giddy flutter of anticipation—one that was, she suspected, entirely misplaced.
What use could a wealthy French Comte have for an aged penniless spinster?
Very little, she guessed. Still, she was a practical girl at heart, and even if it was a one-sided infatuation, at least it lent a pleasant sparkle to the Christmas festivities.
The trio were greeted at the door by Mr Allen, the Crabbs’ butler, who—even at Christmas—did not allow the faintest hint of emotion to disturb his lined and dignified face.
“Lord and Lady Crabb are in the drawing room, awaiting your arrival,” he informed them gravely, ushering the party into the entrance hall while gesturing for a maid and footman to relieve them of their coats.
“And Michael?” Mrs Mifford demanded, afraid she would not be afforded a moment with her grandson.
“Possibly hanging from the chandelier, madam—or preparing to mount an attack on the scullery maids,” Mr Allen replied, the mention of the baby’s name causing a distinct chink in his armour of discretion.
“He gets that from his father’s side,” Mrs Mifford assured the butler, lest he imagine she might take a notion to swing from a light fixture herself.
She bestowed upon Mr Allen a dazzling smile—just to reassure him of her goodness—then swept toward the drawing room without waiting for her companions.
“After you,” Mr Mifford said gallantly, waving Charlotte forward as they followed Mr Allen down the hall.
Charlotte, who had spent the walk over carefully preparing her fluttering stomach for her first glimpse of the Comte, realised that nothing could have prepared her for the sight that greeted her as she stepped into the room.
Hunkered down on the rug before the fire was the giant Comte de Roche, who appeared all the larger beside baby Michael, scooching determinedly toward him with outstretched arms.
The Comte leaned forward, caught the child with effortless ease, and lifted him high into the air. Michael squealed with laughter, his tiny fists clutching at the Comte’s cravat.
Charlotte had never thought it possible to envy an infant, and yet… here she was.
She was not the only one suffering a pang of envy; Mrs Mifford’s glare at the Comte was so hot it threatened to ignite the Christmas garlands—and that would have been a shame, for the decorations were quite charming.
Holly and laurel were twined along the mantel, their bright berries gleaming between red ribbons and sprigs of ivy.
Charlotte smiled as her gaze landed on two familiar candles standing proudly atop the mantelpiece.
“These are charming,” she remarked to Jane, moving nearer the fire’s glow.
“Yes—they were a gift from the Comte,” Jane said, smiling over at de Roche.
“I had a little help in choosing them,” the Comte confessed. “From someone with… how do you say? A beautiful eye.”
“A good eye,” Jane corrected him absently.
“The eyes that picked them were beautiful,” he replied with a faint shrug and a mischievous look toward Charlotte, who did her best to hide her blushes.
All the talk of eyes seemed to inspire Michael, for he promptly reached out and jabbed one pudgy finger straight into the Comte’s. The Frenchman barely flinched, though the act made Jane sigh and declare that it was bedtime for her son.
After goodnight kisses from the entire room, the baby was whisked away by the nursery maid, leaving the guests free to make their way to the dining room for supper.
“Shall we?” the Comte asked, offering Charlotte his arm, one dark brow raised in invitation.
“I don’t see why not,” she replied—though her voice came out rather faint.
The moment her fingers brushed the fine wool of his sleeve, her composure deserted her entirely.
There were, she realised, a thousand reasons why she should not touch him—the most pressing being that she feared she might faint.
Not from any missish sensibility; quite the opposite.
The feel of granite-hard muscle beneath his sleeve, and the warmth of his great frame beside hers, stirred a longing so fierce that it could not, by any stretch, be described as missish — far from it.
“I am told we should expect snow,” the Comte said after a moment.
Charlotte tried not to let her disappointment show.
The weather? It was hardly the most romantic of topics.
Still, she reminded herself firmly, she ought not to expect sweet nothings from the Comte—French or not.
She had known from the start that her infatuation was entirely one-sided.
The faint strain in his voice, the stiffness of his posture, and his choice of topic were all the evidence she needed to confirm it.
“It’s the calm before the drizzle, I dare say,” she murmured in agreement, glad that they had reached the dining table and she could stop touching him.
As there were only six for supper, the party were to occupy a single end of the vast dining table. There were no place cards, no ceremony; everyone simply took the nearest chair as they arrived.
Which was how Charlotte found herself with the Comte seated beside her.
Her stomach gave a most unladylike flip. She would never be able to eat a morsel with him so near—and she was ravenous. Something had upset Nora earlier, and tea-time at the Miffords’ had consisted entirely of burnt offerings.
“I ‘ope you don’t mind,” de Roche said politely as he slipped into the seat beside her.
As she could hardly admit that she did—that every nerve in her body hummed when he was near—Charlotte merely smiled and reached for her wine glass. The crystal felt cool against her fingers; she, decidedly, did not.
Luckily, she was saved from having to engage in small talk with the man, by Mrs Mifford, who was very fond of monopolising conversations.
“Aside from Mr Postlethwaite’s unfortunate accident,” Mrs Mifford began — somehow managing to make the postmaster’s collapse sound both his own fault and something she had merely witnessed — “It looks as though we’re going to have a most enjoyable Christmas.
And perhaps, after the New Year, a birthday to celebrate. ”
Charlotte glanced up, scarcely daring to believe that someone had remembered that Twelfth Night was also her birthday.
“My eldest, Mary, and my youngest, Eudora, are both expected to deliver after New Year,” Mrs Mifford explained helpfully to the Comte, beaming at the prospect of two new grandchildren.
Charlotte’s faint spark of pleasure was swiftly extinguished, but she recovered with a polite smile and took a determined sip of wine. As she set her glass down, she noted that the Comte watching her strangely.
“I will gladly drink to the safe arrival of your grandchildren,” de Roche said, lifting his glass in toast. As the others clinked glasses, he turned to Charlotte and demanded in a whisper, “And when is your birthday, Miss Mifford?”
“Oh, in a few days,” she said airily, lifting her glass again to toast the fact.
Slightly abashed—for she knew it wasn’t good ton to toast oneself—she took a large sip of wine, then nervously set the glass back down.
If she took a sip every time he made her nervous, she’d be in her cups by the first course.
The Comte gave a small sound of displeasure, though Charlotte had no chance to analyse its meaning, for Mrs Mifford had already begun to speak again.
“I have three grandsons, dear Comte; can you believe that I’m a grandmother of three? Few can credit it with my compexion! And while we hope the next two arrive hale and hearty, I should dearly like one of them to be a girl.”
Charlotte hid a smile - for she knew that her aunt was not the only one hoping for a girl.
The Mifford sisters had so far produced nothing but sons, each one more boisterous than the last. Only Eudora—the youngest—was still waiting to become a mother, and she was determined to deliver the family’s first daughter.
Though, she had a little competition from Mary, the eldest, who liked to be first in all things.
“Well then,” said Lord Crabb, lifting his glass, “I think that calls for a proper toast. To Christmas, to friendship”—he gave the Comte a genial nod—“and to family, both here and those soon to join us.”
A murmur of agreement rippled around the table as glasses were raised. Though Charlotte noted the Comte hesitate a moment before following suit.
“And,” he said quietly, his accent softening the edges of his words, “We must not forget to toast those who have gone before us.”
“Indeed,” Mr Mifford said solemnly, his gaze sympathetic across the table.
Charlotte felt a slight stab of shame. She had been so enjoying the evening—the warmth of the company, the soft glow of candlelight, and the promise of a midnight walk through the snow—that it had not occurred to her the Comte was not spending Christmas with his own family.
She did not even know if he had family left to spend it with.
She snuck a glance at him, hoping to glimpse what sorrow might lie beneath his polished—if rather enormous—exterior. She found nothing. His expression was as imperious as ever—perhaps even a little more so.
“Is this wine Portugese?” he inquired of Lord Crabb as he set his glass down.
“I’m afraid so,” the viscount apologised. “Though that’s only because I instructed the footmen to hide all the Bordeaux away for you. Unfortunately, they appear to have taken me too literally and are now hiding it from you instead.”
“Graham,” Lord Crabb called to one of the footmen, “Fetch a bottle of the Bordeaux for the Comte, will you?”
“For the table,” the Comte corrected quickly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “I cannot hoard the best wine in the world to myself at Noel. Though I do admire you patriotism, my lord.”
Charlotte laughed along with the others, though she could not shake the feeling that the Comte’s grumbling about the wine had been nothing more than a ploy to distract from his unguarded moment of emotion.
There was more to him, she was certain—the facade he presented to the world, aloof and faintly intimidating, came easily to a man of his formidable size.
And yet, beneath it, she sensed a softness: the way he had cradled the robin in the haberdashery, his gentleness with baby Michael, even the care with which he now held the stem of his wine glass—almost like a caress.
Charlotte promptly took another sip of her own wine. Thinking of the Comte caressing anything at all was quite enough to make her lose her composure entirely.
This infatuation is entirely one-sided, she reminded herself sternly—something to add sparkle to a Christmas spent with a family that was not her own.
Just like the Comte…
She shook her head to banish the scandalous thought that she and the Frenchman might share anything in common—rather too emphatically, as it turned out, for said Frenchman could not help but notice.
“Are you quite well, Miss Mifford?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice.
“Perfectly,” Charlotte assured him—then, catching his sceptical glance, gestured toward her glass, taking a leaf from his own book in obfuscation. “Only that the wine is not quite…”
“Satisfying,” he supplied smoothly. “You should wait for the Bordeaux. It is lush, rich, and—if I may say so—as full-bodied as one could desire.”
“Indeed,” Charlotte managed faintly. Dash it, but everything the man said sounded hopelessly suggestive.
It’s one-sided, she reminded herself sternly as she awaited the footman and the promised Bordeaux wine.
Oh, if only Mr Postlethwaite’s poisoning had turned out to be something more sinister than an accident—for only a murder, she thought wryly, could possibly distract her from the lush, rich, and full-bodied Comte de Roche.