Chapter 5
Grace examined the small orb gently pinched between her two fingers. It had split and the gooey substance from inside stuck to her glove. Strange that a plant could produce fruit during the cold of winter, but here was proof.
She glanced up and caught Lord Gladsby staring at her, his eyebrows lowered and his lips compressed. Was he upset or just concentrating? His focus was more on the berry than on her, so perhaps the latter.
His gaze shifted to the others as they cut branches, and she wondered what he was thinking. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I suppose my clumsiness has ruined a kiss for some unlucky chap.”
Grace laughed at the unexpected supposition. “Perhaps, or maybe someone has already put this berry to good use.”
His bright blue eyes twinkled with mirth. “I like your way of viewing it. That way, I’m absolved of guilt for destroying someone’s happy Christmas.”
The smirk he cast her sent giddy energy all the way to her fingertips. Worried she might blush again, she glanced around to see where the berry might have originated from, but the area was far too shaded. Odd that this little berry had made its way into this part of the grove.
“Probably carried here by a bird,” Lord Gladsby said, scanning the trees as she did.
“It must be, for it’s too dark for mistletoe to thrive here. Maybe it fell on you from one of the trees near the gardener’s shed.”
“I certainly hope not. Mr. Lovell will be quite distressed if he finds it growing in his garden. Says it is similar to a leech because it sucks out the blood of the tree.”
The imagery made Grace shiver. She’d seen leeches used once when her father was ill. Disgusting little black creatures that resembled worms. It was odd to think of mistletoe serving the same purpose on trees.
“Nevertheless,” she said, “I don’t believe there are any trees here that get the right amount of sun for them to grow, so it must be from somewhere else you visited today.”
“Well then, we must root it out if it has invaded the Engalworth gardens. When we return we’ll go in search of the source.”
He procured a small hatchet from the hand sled, and Grace wondered—and perhaps hoped more than she ought—that his we might not include everyone in the group.
The conversation between them turned to Christmases past as they helped the others. Parlor games were again brought up, Bradley declaring there was nothing quite as entertaining as Hot Cockles.
“We’re a bit old for that one,” Lord Gladsby said.
Anthony snickered. “Emma will be glad to hear you say it.”
Grace’s curiosity peaked. “There is a story to that statement.”
Lord Gladsby narrowed his eyes at Anthony.
Anthony only grinned and waggled his brows at him. “Do you want to tell her or shall I?”
The contrition on Lord Gladsby’s face as he turned was at odds with his rigid stance and the tiniest twinkle in his eyes. Whatever regret he was trying to show was not coming across as he intended, and somehow it made her like him more.
“I like to win,” he admitted.
Anthony laughed. “That is putting it delicately. What he is trying to say is he and his cousins like to cheat.”
The smirk that pulled at the edge of Lord Gladsby’s lips brought a smile to her own. He was competitive, then. That was a good piece of information to know before they met for parlor games.
“I used to cheat,” Lord Gladsby said. “I am much more civilized now.”
Anthony sidled close to Grace and made a show of lowering his voice. “It must be your good influence, Grace, because I can confirm that he and Alfred did in fact cheat at Buffy Gruffy last year.”
A blush warmed her cheeks. The implication that she had anything to do with Lord Gladsby amending his ways was far too bold of a statement. It connected them in a way that felt too intimate for the light-hearted conversation.
Lord Gladsby lowered his hands in a comically obvious gesture, inserting himself between them as he snipped at a branch.
She couldn’t see the exchange between him and Anthony, but the laughter in Anthony’s eyes as he held up his hands in defeat made her giggle.
There was no malice in the interchange, just good-natured teasing.
“Hamdon is inflating things,” Lord Gladsby said when he finally turned to look at her. “It is not illegal to switch seats in Buffy Gruffy.”
“It is when the person asking has already posed the question,” Anthony called from his spot by a holly bush.
Lord Gladsby’s shoulders slumped before he glared over his shoulder at his brother-in-law. Grace loved every bit of the playful interchange. They were at ease with each other, the playful banter lightening the expressions of both gentlemen.
Anthony was one to speak, however, considering what she knew of him as a youth. So she secretly imparted a few of her own stories to Lord Gladsby, his smile growing with each new bit of contraband information.
After a half hour of chopping, cutting, and clipping, they’d nearly filled the small sled, and she’d filled Lord Gladsby in on Anthony’s tomfoolery, giving him the upper hand in their playful battle.
Anthony called for a bit of sport and Grace retreated a step.
Competitions of skill were not her forte, but Lord Gladsby and Bradley readily accepted the challenge.
Each one chose a bough to chop or saw; whoever’s limb fell first would be declared the winner.
At first, they all focused on their individual branches, but when Bradley grew close to finishing, Anthony took the opportunity to bump him with his hip, quite the feat while balanced mainly on one leg.
Her brother, of course, retaliated with a bump of his own.
Anthony hopped to the side in order to stay upright without the use of his cane to steady him.
Grace laughed at their antics, remembering how they’d goaded each other as boys. In the end, Lord Gladsby easily won.
He turned with a triumphant smirk, and she cast him a conspiratorial smile. The other two men groaned, but at least they were good natured enough not to let it hold them up for long.
“A race for second?” Anthony asked.
“I accept,” Bradley agreed, “but no more tomfoolery.”
“Aww, but that is what I do best.”
Bradley pointed his saw at Anthony as if he were sighting in big game with a rifle. “Mark my word, Hamdon, you will lose this time.”
Anthony just grinned as Diana gave the signal and they both set to sawing.
Lord Gladsby moved to Grace’s side. “What should be my forfeit for winning first?”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Was he insinuating what she thought? No, her silly lovesick brain was simply adding meaning where it ought not.
A cheer went up when Anthony’s branch fell first, and her brother dropped his head in defeat.
Bradley picked up the branch he’d just cut and held it like a sword toward his friend. “You know I would have walloped you the first time, had you not played dirty.”
Anthony grabbed his cane, picked up his own branch, and an impromptu fencing match commenced. Prudence and Owen danced about, cheering them on while Diana quietly watched, a smile on her lips.
Lord Gladsby leaned toward Grace and quietly said, “Perhaps we should go back and acquire the mistletoe now. At this rate, it will be hours before they’ve spent enough energy to be finished here.
And if your summation is correct, I’d like to alert Mr. Lovell before the plant can spread any more seeds. ”
The warmth of his face close to hers permeated her cold skin and made it exceedingly hard not to lean in further and allow her cheek to touch his. With her brain so muddled, all she could do was nod and make a sound that hopefully implied consent.
He offered his arm, and she took it relishing the contact. Diana glanced at them and must have read their intent, for she walked away from the spectacle in front of her to join them.
“Forgive us,” Grace said, “but Lord Gladsby is in need of a moment to speak with his gardener.”
Diana’s green-blue eyes sparkled with interest. “I see. When should we plan to meet you back at the house?”
Grace tipped her head, surprised her sister-in-law had not suggested they take Prudence or herself along for propriety.
“My cook is preparing hot cider and sandwiches for when we return,” Lord Gladsby offered. “I told her to expect us near one. We’ll plan to meet you in the drawing room at that time. That is, if you think Hamdon and Lenning will be finished pestering each other by then.”
Diana glanced at the pair, still sparring. “I can make no promises, Lord Gladsby, but I shall try to remind them they are grown men and not Eton boys by the time we are expected at the house.”
Her smile was one of long suffering, but Grace did not miss the indulgent way she watched Bradley.
Lord Gladsby chuckled. “Excellent.”
Taking their leave, they picked their way back through the snow, careful to avoid the area of their previous fall. As they reached the clearing, the sun shone brightly. Not two steps out, Grace noticed a hawthorn tree that was separate from all the rest.
She pulled Lord Gladsby to a stop. “Before we continue on, might we check that tree just there?”
He glanced in the direction she’d gestured. “I suppose.” He drew out the words, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on the tree.
“Hawthorn trees are a favorite of mistletoe and if you look at our tracks, we traversed quite close to it on our way in.”
It was completely possible the berry had fallen from the limbs, and the closer they got to the tree, the more convinced she was of its occurrence, for little green round tufts still clung to the tree’s bare branches.
Lord Gladsby shifted more fully to appraise her, his features lifting. “How do you know so much about mistletoe, Miss Lenning?”
“My father taught me,” she said softly. “We used to hunt for mistletoe together every year.”
A memory, sweet and clear, washed over her. She was twelve again, sitting on her father’s shoulders, holding a pair of shears so she might cut the bunch of mistletoe for their family home.
“Just a little higher, Papa, I can almost reach it.” She stretched as far as she could and with a very precise snip cut the shoot of the plant that contained the most berries.
Prudence, dancing below them, deftly caught the falling mistletoe. “I’ve got it,” she squealed.
Papa chuckled as he lowered Grace to the ground. “Well done, Gracie. You get better and better at that each year.”
“Next year it will be my turn,” Prudence chirped.
But there had not been a next year. Papa had become too sick.
“Are you well, Miss Lenning?”
Her eyes focused on Lord Gladsby, confused by his question. “Yes.”
“You appeared distressed.”
She forced a smile to her lips. “It is nothing.” Glancing up into the tree she discovered a grouping of mistletoe that Lord Gladsby might reach with ease. The ones just higher had more berries, but there would be no sitting on shoulders to reach them. The mere thought made her blush.
She handed him the shears. “I believe that one just there will do nicely.”
He reached up and snipped off a generous portion, catching it in his hand as it fell. Carefully, he presented it to her. “I shall leave this in your safekeeping. You seem to be better on your feet today than I. When we reach the house, you shall be the one to determine where it shall be hung.”
Taking the little grouping of leaves and berries, she smiled to herself. Did Lord Gladsby know what kind of power he had just bestowed upon her? Probably not, for even now she was trying to decide which doorway would be most likely to get him to use one of the white berries for a kiss.
When her gaze met his, her cheeks warmed. He looked at her intently and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing, but a yelp followed by a cheer of success from the grove drew his attention away.
Her shoulders rounded. It was for the best. She could barely breathe when his gaze was so intense. It made her think all kinds of inappropriate thoughts, considering her station in life.
She was a mere miss with a small dowry; he was a baron with a large estate, maybe two. It really would not do to keep entertaining such fanciful dreams. Perhaps she should turn over the mistletoe hanging to Pru. She was the one who’d mentioned it.
Grace took a few steps back, widening the distance between herself and Lord Gladsby. Her movement caught his attention.
“I wonder who won?” she asked, forcing a smile.
“The greater question should be, will this be the last of their contests, or will they spend the rest of the day exchanging wins?”
She started to chuckle, but a cold breeze stole her breath. Her laugh turned into a cough.
“Are you well?”
She nodded. “It is getting colder.”
He glanced up at the sky. “I believe it will snow again before the day is through. Come, let’s get you to the house.”