Chapter 2
It didn’t take long for Douglas to pack up his small valise and make himself scarce from his one-time room so Joy could have it. Not that she would ever thank him for it.
Douglas could not stomach the look that Joy had given him when she saw him in the foyer: complete disdain.
He never dreamed that he’d encounter her again, let alone in this strange out-of-the-way place where he hadn’t even planned on being at all.
When he stepped through the doorway and saw her standing there, with her disheveled but still lovely pale blonde hair, and the sky-blue eyes above those prominent cheekbones that were so often pink with exertion or laughter or the blush of love, he knew it had to be her.
Well, certainly there were other women in England with pale blue eyes and light blonde hair.
But there could not be another woman who possessed those features and also was so smothered in freckles that truly more of her skin seemed to be freckled than unfreckled.
While freckles were often considered unfashionable or unsophisticated, and many women tried dubious remedies to make them fade away, Joy had never done so, probably because she had immediately recognized it as a lost cause.
He remembered having told her that he would personally punish any shopkeeper who sold her a freckle remedy, because he thought they enhanced her charm.
What he did not say then, and now would never have a chance to say, was that he was obsessed with her freckled skin.
He often wondered what the total number of the freckles on her body was, and if it would be possible to kiss every single one individually.
He wondered if the expanse of freckles continued past the neckline of her gowns and covered the parts of her that were hidden as thickly as they did on the parts he could see.
He had an almost unholy need to have that question answered, but there was absolutely no legal or honorable way to do so, and thus he remained in frustrated ignorance.
He wanted that lack resolved that if he was ever in a position to do so.
He would begin by kissing every freckle he could discern, starting with the tip of her left big toe and proceeding up and then down her body until he came to the end on the littlest toe of her right foot.
He was quite sure that he would lose count numerous times and have to start over.
He didn’t have the concentration that counting her freckles would require.
However, he did believe that he possessed the stamina to begin the work anew as often as would be needed.
But that was before, before he’d allowed himself to be convinced by the arguments of his parents and his circle of so-called friends, and abruptly shifted his focus in courtship to another woman considered more suitable for his station and ambitions.
The woman who would become his wife did not have a single freckle, not even on her face or hands, which was all he’d seen before the wedding.
Surely that was the warning sign he should have heeded a decade ago. But he did not.
And now they were under the same roof, Joy with all of her freckles, and him with all his regrets. They were together once again, after ten years. And she obviously still despised him.
She was even more beautiful than she had been the last time he saw her, though that beauty was tinged with a sort of careworn veneer, not to mention the icy resentment that she still harbored for him.
Her contempt pierced his soul, sticking in exactly that same place where he concealed his own shame at how he treated her all those years ago.
He’d been an absolute coward, not having the spine to confront her and explain himself.
Society said he had no need to, for until a couple became engaged, there was no understanding between them and no commitment.
But that was just nonsense made up by those who did not like to explain themselves.
When would the storm allow everyone to leave this inn?
After he’d moved his things, Douglas retreated to the tavern room, where he nursed an ale for a long time, brooding.
The brooding was briefly interrupted when a small group of people entered, and Joy’s maid practically threw herself at the newly arrived coachman before he even got his snow-crusted greatcoat off.
Douglas wished a woman would greet him with even a fraction of that enthusiasm.
From the way several other men watched the couple in the foyer, he was not alone in his thinking.
Especially when those same men cast covert, longing glances at the young ladies working at the inn.
The innkeeper of the Boar’s Head had three daughters, and their comeliness and good humor doubtless contributed to the success of the inn.
They were each perfect examples of that most excellent breed: the English country miss.
Amelia and Beatrice had dark brown hair, but Clara, the youngest, was a fiery ginger.
They all had a habit of singing as they worked, and since there was always work to do at an inn, it meant that the guests were liable to hear little snippets of song at virtually any waking hour.
This being Yuletide, the girls’ choices leaned toward carols and the traditional songs of winter.
Beatrice was currently pulling ale from a cask and serving each full glass to a customer in the tavern, and as she did so, she sang, “Wassail, wassail, all over the town. Our toast it is white, our ale it is brown…” with a wide smile.
Several of the guests hummed along with the familiar melody.
One white-haired gentleman joined in and continued the tune to the end of the verse before he resumed his seat in the snug little booth in the corner of the tavern.
Douglas decided that good cheer went a considerable way when it came to making intolerable situations more tolerable.
Douglas got more ale and continued to brood. Living under the same roof with Joy would be painful for both of them. Perhaps he could leave after all. How bad could the weather possibly be? Walking to the front door, he opened it and peeked outside.
Dense swirling snow turned the normally dim night white.
The lanterns remained lit on the off chance that a stray traveler might yet be trekking on the road in desperate need of shelter.
But with drifts so thick, who could make any progress?
Even a draughthorse wouldn’t be able to wade through these white waves.
The sign of the Boar’s Head swung to and fro in the wind, squeaky on its hinges, not unlike the pig that was its namesake. He noted in mild surprise that the sign had been adorned with holly and mistletoe and these greens yet clung to the top of the sign, despite the storm.
Even as he thought that, a bunch of mistletoe was torn off in a gust, blowing directly toward the doorway of the inn. By instinct, he reached out and caught the sprig of greenery.
He quickly closed the door…and bumped into none other than Joy Plummer…no, Whitfield. He wondered where her husband was, and why he’d let her travel alone in the middle of winter.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Sterling,” Joy said with no joy at all in her expression. Then she frowned. “Or should I now address you as my lo—?”
He understood immediately, for when they’d been courting, he was the next in line for the title of Earl of Hollis, and his father passed away a few years ago—it had been in all the papers.
“Mr. Sterling is fine,” he interrupted hurriedly. “Douglas was fine too, actually.”
“I shall remain with Mr. Sterling,” she said primly. “I never should have spoken your Christian name among others.”
“I’m just glad you remembered it,” he said, only half joking. He missed her saying his given name. The fact that she’d used it before was proof of how startled she’d been.
She refused to soften. “So am I to understand that your father is still well?”
“Oh, no, he’s well dead,” Douglas replied honestly. (Joy knew they’d never got on.)
She looked puzzled. “Then why…?”
He lowered his voice. “Sometimes it’s easier to move about if no one knows my title. You know.”
“I don’t, actually. I suppose I shall have to take your word for it.”
She didn’t add: Not that your word has proved reliable in the past, for which he was grateful.
“Your parents are well?” he asked, falling back on formula. What he wanted to ask was for her forgiveness.
“Yes, last I heard. But they are in Canada, living with some of my mother’s family. Hence my not visiting them for Christmas.”
“Canada?”
“It’s complicated, but not interesting to you.”
It was interesting to him, but before he could say anything more, she saw the mistletoe in his hand, and raised an eyebrow.
“Whatever your plans for the evening are, Mr. Sterling, I must remind you that the only female guests here are Wren and me, and that the innkeeper’s daughters are surely too busy for games. ”
“And Wren has an admirer in your coachman,” he said. “That leaves me with…you.”
“It leaves you with no one, sir.”
“’Tis the season for miracles,” he said hopefully.
She rolled her eyes. “’Tis the season for mulled wine.”
And then she turned her back and walked away.