Chapter Thirteen #2
Irene’s face did not know whether to laugh at Mrs. Lymington’s wrath, smile at her friend Mrs. Howarth’s clear embarrassment, sigh with happiness at the way Wilfred had taken charge of the situation, or wince inwardly at how…how brotherly he was being.
I don’t want you to be my brother, she cried from the sanctity and privacy of her own mind. I want you to be my—
But she did not know what. As Mrs. Lymington hmphed and harrumphed her way out of Don Saltero’s Chelsea Coffee House, accompanied by the scurrying Mrs. Howarth behind her, Irene tried to smile at the man she adored without letting him know, obviously, that she adored him.
It was mortifying enough to fall in love with a man whom you had previously considered your brother. It was even more shameful to do so mere weeks after discovering that he had fallen in love with another.
“I am sorry you had to endure that,” Wilfred said quietly, sipping his coffee with the unflustered mien of a gentleman who had encountered a small hillock in his path, and had merely stepped around it. “Society has a lot to answer for.”
Irene tried to smile. “Yes. Yes, it does.”
A great many things, she could have said.
Such as, why is it only now that I realize how unusual it is that we spend so much time together without becoming the subject of gossip sooner?
Mrs. Lymington may not have put her query in such polite terms, but the woman surely could not be the only one in London or Bath to have noticed about us without a chaperone in plain sight.
Lady Romeril seemed to allude to such gossip. So why hasn’t it appeared in the papers?
It was odd to the extreme, how Irene had never realized just how unusual it was that Wilfred and herself were alone together so much.
Alone! Without a chaperone! And yet she did not, at least before now, appear to be ruined in Society’s eyes.
Had she really been so clever until now not to be caught?
What had changed? What had made her forget herself and boldly walk into this coffee house without Wharton trailing behind her?
And yet nothing Society might have assumed had happened had actually happened.
Well, except that kiss. That kiss that kept her up at night.
That kiss that had transfixed all her attentions and raised such confusion.
That kiss that she had hoped at the time had been a mere accident, and now she cursed herself for not launching herself back into Wilfred’s arms and accepting every kiss he had been willing to—mistakenly, and in his cups—bestow.
“Shall we have another?” Wilfred did not wait for her response but turned his eyes to one of the servers.
The serving man responded instantly. It was a common occurrence, Irene knew, when one was a duke. Her father was an illegitimate viscount and she bore no title; she did not receive this sort of service.
“Another hot chocolate, another coffee, and can we have a plate of those delicious-looking biscuits? I simply must try one. Or three,” Wilfred was saying to the serving man. “But not strawberry. Nothing with strawberry. Or raspberry. Thank you.”
Irene took the opportunity to stare at the man who had captured her heart and had not even realized it.
How was it that this man became more handsome every time she looked at him? It was most unfair. The lilt of his smile, that little nod as he thanked the serving man…had anyone ever been so alluring?
Then her mind caught up with her. “‘No strawberry’?”
Wilfred leaned back in his seat with a smile. “No.”
“But you love strawberry,” Irene said, bewildered.
“And you hate it,” Wilfred said softly, smile broadening. “You think I would forget?”
Do not, Irene told herself firmly, declare your undying love for this man in the middle of Don Saltero’s Chelsea Coffee House like a wild woman.
But she had to admit that was sort of what she was. Always “losing” her chaperones or pretending one was out of sight.
Would it really be so bad to take it one step further, especially now that they had been, effectively, caught?
“Oh. Thank you,” was all she squeaked out despite her growing boldness, which wasn’t nearly enough, she knew. But it would have to do.
“Have you finished all your Christmas shopping?” her best friend asked. “You only have today and perhaps tomorrow to complete it, if not.”
Irene swallowed. She had, in fact, though the gift she had purchased for Wilfred felt trite now that she sat opposite him. “Yes. Yes, I have. And you?”
Wilfred shrugged. “Mrs. Ansley, it appears, did not like the idea that she would have that responsibility taken from her, so I have left the gifts for the servants in her capable hands.”
“But what about m—” Irene caught herself just in time. “There must be other people. Friends, I mean, for whom you wish to purchase presents.”
His dark gaze caught hers and threatened to never let her go. She didn’t want to be let go. She wanted to be held by this man forever.
“I have bought all the presents that I wish to give,” was all that he said, though Irene could see the additional unsaid words teasing across his lips.
His immensely kissable lips.
Get a hold of yourself, woman!
“I have wrapped all of mine, though some of them with great difficulty,” Irene said in a rush, hoping to goodness that forcing herself to speak would distract her from how close Wilfred’s hand was, resting on the table about six inches from her own. “I had to ask Dempster to help me, in the end.”
“And was he much help?”
“Not at all.” Irene smiled. “Despite that, considering all he does for us, and how long he’s been with us, we really should offer him a promotion to butler, but we can’t because…”
Her voice trailed off.
Wilfred’s expression was caring, considerate, kind. “Because?”
She swallowed. It was not the sort of thing her father would want talked about, she knew, but with Wilfred… Well, that was different. Wilfred was family.
Parts of her ached for him to become her actual family.
But he wasn’t. But he was.
Oh, goodness, this is far too confusing.
Irene inhaled deeply and plastered a smile across her face. “Because we are not rich, Wilfred. Not compared to most of the ton.”
The little puckering frown between his brows was one she knew so well. “I do not see how that signifies. You can afford a housekeeper, can you not?”
“But we cannot afford the wages of a senior manservant. That is,” Irene amended, “Mrs. Kinley does deserve her senior position. Her mother had it before her. Many households have both housekeeper and butler. Still, manservants are more expensive. My father’s income, it…
Well. We do not have a country estate, where we hire a second household of servants, as my uncles do. We can barely afford the ones we have…”
Her voice trailed away, as she became suddenly conscious again that they were in public. She probably should not have spoken so candidly about her father’s business where anyone—another Mrs. Lymington, for example—could hear her.
But Wilfred smiled and nodded slowly, as though he truly understood her concerns.
“I can see how that would be troublesome. But it is a fine coincidence. My steward wrote to me just a few weeks ago suggesting I find a butler for my country estate, as the one I employed there has recently enjoyed retirement. If… Well, if you ever could bring yourself to part with Dempster, I would be honored to employ him myself.”
Irene’s lips parted in astonishment. “You—You would… But you…you owe him no obligation, no great regard.”
“And that is where you are wrong,” Wilfred said steadily.
“Ah, thank you,” he said to the serving man who deposited a tray on their table.
“Look,” he continued as the serving man departed and the duke himself picked up her hot chocolate and pushed it toward her.
“Your family footman has been kind to me for…oh, twenty years?”
It was impossible to do anything but stare, but Irene managed, just about, to nod.
“Twenty years of kindness, and excellent service to the people who matter most to me in the world… I would say that those actions garner not just obligation, but a great deal of regard,” Wilfred said with a shrug as he placed a biscuit decorated with chocolate onto a small plate, which he placed before her. “Don’t you think?”
Thinking was, at this time, entirely impossible. Irene had heeded every word the man had said and could not help but admit to herself that there were clearly new depths of Wilfred’s character to love…but speak? She could not find the words.
“You make no remark,” Wilfred said quietly. “You disapprove of my suggestion. I suppose, then, your own household would need a new footman, but with the money you save on Dempster, then…”
“No!” Irene spoke so hastily, she almost shouted. Her smile was awkward as she continued. “No, it’s just… I had never thought of it in that manner.”
“Your family is the closest thing to family I will ever have,” her best friend and the man with whom she was irrevocably in love said, with more than a small amount of emotion. “I admit I shall miss you all until next week.”
Miss us?
Evidently, her confusion was visible, for Wilfred chuckled and helped himself to a biscuit.
“Christmas, Irene. You and your parents, your siblings, you have such wonderful Christmases—but we are past that age now. One Pernrith Chance sister is married, and I’m no longer an orphaned waif in need of company for the holiday season.
It’s… It is high past time I stop taking advantage of you all.
I shall hold my own festivities, if only a modest celebration for my household servants, this year. ”
Christmas? Without Wilfred?
Or did he mean…he had plans with Miss Fletcher?
Irene was not sure what made her do it.
Well, fine, she knew. It was her love for him. Falling in love with a person, Irene was slowly discovering, was to devote every minute of your day, your life, to bettering their life. It may only be in a small way, but something that was small to you may be of great significance to them.
And it was precisely because it was small that she said it. “You can’t! You absolutely must spend Christmas with us. Wilfred, how could you ever think otherwise? It simply isn’t Christmas without you!”
Wilfred blinked. Irene blinked, astonished to hear the words that had come out of her own mouth.
“What do you… Do you mean that?” Wilfred said slowly.
“In fact, though I know the commute is a short one, and you usually excuse yourself at the end of each day, this year, you should stay. Spend the entire week—from Christmas to New Year’s.
Yes, yes, you’ll have to. It’s the best way to experience a Pernrith Chance Christmas.
” Irene cleared her throat. She was sure her parents would not object to him spending the week.
It was true, with everyone growing older, Christmases had become more cramped.
There was little room at the Pernrith Chance Bath townhouse, but with Jessica spending the holidays with her husband’s family, Teddy and Gwen could share a room.
Instinct led her to reach out and take his hand.
She could feel his pulse and a searing heat of something roared up her arm, and Irene flushed and saw the flush in his face and thought, Is this it?
Was this the moment, perhaps, that Wilfred fell out of love with Miss Fletcher, and into love with her?
Surely, he could not go the entire week of Christmas without seeing Miss Fletcher if he was seriously considering marrying her.
“But wouldn’t it be a great inconvenience to spend the night, particularly for an entire week?” Wilfred asked, squeezing her hand and further warming her—until his next words threw a chill over her. “Though I suppose I am almost already family.”
It took a great deal of self-control not to withdraw her hand.
‘Almost already family’? No, no, that was not who he was at all. He was not her brother. Wilfred could not have been less like her brother if he tried.
Irene swallowed. She wanted Wilfred as a man wanted a woman, craving his touch, needing his affection…and now, though he’d once, in his cups, said otherwise, he saw himself as only her brother.
She withdrew her hand. “It will not be an inconvenience. We are a large family, after all. One additional cousin, or person, it makes no difference.”
Her intention had been to reflect back to him essentially what he had said to her, and yet for some reason Wilfred now looked crestfallen, a hitch suddenly catching his breath. He stretched his hand, the hand she had so recently been holding, as though it ached.
What did it mean?
The trouble with falling in love, Irene thought darkly, is that it makes one look for signs and signals everywhere!
The door to the coffee house opened and in stepped Wharton, her beady eyes narrowing in on Irene almost at once.
At least no one would witness Irene and Wilfred leaving the coffee house alone together.
Perhaps they could stave off gossip and ruin for another day.
As if giving her blessing to save Irene from the worst of it, Lady Romeril nodded at the sight of the maid weaving her way through the tables.
“And as I said,” Irene added, picking up a biscuit and trying to think calm and dull thoughts before Wharton reached them to give her an earful, “I want you there.”
Wilfred’s smile made her think the very opposite of calm and dull thoughts. “Good. In that case, I gratefully I accept and spend the week at your townhouse. I will spend Christmas with you.”
Heat sparked down to Irene’s thighs, heat that had nothing to do with the gingerbread in the biscuit.
“And your family,” Wilfred added.
Irene tried to smile. Hell’s bells. What had she let herself in for?