Merry Christmas, Mrs. Robinson Read online

  His one hand suddenly tightened around her calf, those large fingers possessively molding against it. They slid up.

  Her eyes widened. She glanced down at him, her heart pounding in a way it hadn’t pounded in years.

  Though he was working diligently to pry the nail out, and his hand was innocently anchoring him, he kept glancing toward her exposed wool stocking, which peered out from beneath her raised skirt.

  She almost kicked him. “I’ll mind you not to look!”

  He glanced up at her, his hand instantly releasing her calf. “Forgive me.”

  Her face and every inch of her prickled in awareness. She could sense that his apology was genuine. “Rip the skirt if you must.”

  Still kneeling before her in the snow, he held her gaze. “If I rip your skirt, your stockings will be on display.”

  Her chest tightened. “Point well taken. Don’t rip the skirt.”

  “I won’t.” Lowering his gaze, he shoved aside a curtain of her skirts from his shoulder, yanked the nail out completely, and tossed it. “There.”

  She stepped away, relieved to be free again. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and slowly rose to his full height of over six feet. He readjusted his winter coat and lingered before finally asking, “Might I ask when you last saw your father?”

  She lapsed into silence, thinking of her father. She missed him. More than she cared to admit to herself. “Almost ten years ago. When I first left the house to sing.” She tried to strike the misery from her tone.

  “I always felt responsible for the rift between you and him. I led you astray those years ago by giving you the wrong advice. I should have never told you to leave.”

  Her heart squeezed, knowing what he meant. Martin had been the first person she had entrusted her secret to by telling him she was going to cast aside getting engaged to the man her father had in mind for her and become an independent woman: an opera singer. Instead of Martin being startled or trying to dissuade her, he had merely fingered his book of poetry, which he always carried with him like a shield, and quietly offered, “You have a gift, Jane. You should share it with the world.”

  And she did just that. “You didn’t lead me astray, Martin. Your encouragement opened my eyes to a world few women ever get a chance to see. I regret nothing.”

  “Even though it came at a very high price?”

  She shrugged. “Dreams usually do.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Yes, I suppose they do.” As if wanting to veer past the point, he gestured to the largest tiered spice cakes in the window, which were supported by marzipan columns and candied fruits. “My mother always served spice cake whenever you visited. Do you remember?”

  Jane pinched her lips together, noting the way his voice had softened in reminiscence. She knew how close he and the duchess had been. Jane, herself, had felt blessed to say she knew the dear woman for almost a year before she had succumbed to a fever. In many ways, Jane knew Martin had never recovered from his mother’s death. Already quiet in nature, he had grown more withdrawn. Except around her.

  Jane intently observed the way his dark brows had come together as he continued to survey the four-tier cake. Aside from those soulful dark eyes, she had to admit she hardly recognized him.

  That regal profile and the set of his shaven chin against his red silk cravat bespoke of a man who rarely took the time to stare at display windows. He had been seventeen when she had last seen him. He then took off on tour and didn’t bother to even say farewell for reasons she never understood. He had to be about five and twenty now. Hardly a boy. The gap between them had faded with the years.

  He paused, recapturing her gaze. “Is something wrong?”

  Her heart almost popped up into her throat, knowing she had been caught watching him. “No.” Tightening her shawl around her shoulders, she managed, “I should go. It was a pleasure seeing you again.”

  “I was hoping you and I could find time to talk.” He glanced toward the people passing them. “I have a carriage waiting at the curb. Was there anywhere in particular you needed to go?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. I don’t wish to be a burden.”

  “It wouldn’t be a burden.”

  “I intend to walk.”

  “Walk? To Foley Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “From here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s more than two miles.”

  “It’s less than two miles, actually.”

  “Factor in that it’s also cold and the snow is burying everything and you might as well be walking fourteen miles.”

  “It’s the first winter snow.” She spread her arms up into the frosty air of whirling snow. “I’m very much enjoying it.”

  He snorted. “Only because your nose hasn’t frozen off quite yet. Never mind the weather, you shouldn’t be walking home alone. It’s dark.”

  “Is it?” Lowering her arms, she arched a brow. “And here I thought it was morning.”

  He gave her a withering look as snow whirled in around them. “I don’t like being teased when I’m trying to be helpful.”

  She sighed and reached out, patting his arm, remembering all too well how serious he always was. “You should go. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” She paused from her patting, noting the arm beneath his great coat was rather well muscled. That was new.

  He stiffened and stared down at her as if she had slapped him, not patted him. “Enjoying yourself?”

  She quickly withdrew her hand, knowing she had overstepped her bounds. He was a man, not a boy of seventeen. Her cheeks blazed against the cold wind. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to—”

  “There is nothing to forgive, I assure you.” He set his shoulders. “Though I will admit it has been some time since I was patted by a woman as if I were ten.”

  “I have no doubt of that. No doubt at all.” Trying to break the awkwardness, she thumbed toward the direction of the shop beside them. “I should go. I have a cake to purchase for your aunt.”

  “Nonsense. Allow me to buy it for you.” He pointed to the window. “Which one did you want? I’ll have the shop deliver it to her in the morning with a note saying it’s from you.”

  She shook her head. “No. I have more than enough to buy it myself, thank you.”

  “Jane. Please don’t pretend we don’t know each other.”

  Something about the way he said it made her fully aware that everything between them had long since changed. She huddled against her cloak and shawl, the cold getting the best of her. “I’m tired is all. It was lovely seeing you again. Good night.” She lowered her gaze and tried to move around him, lest she linger or stupidly inquire as to whether he had married. She didn’t even know why she wanted to know.

  He stepped before her, preventing her from leaving with his large frame. “Years ago, I would have let you walk by. But I’m not that man anymore. Do you understand?”

  She glanced up, her heart pounding as he moved his broad, heated body even closer. Close enough for her skirts to touch his great coat and fine wool trousers.

  She edged back, fully aware her toes wanted to curl in her boots in response to the way he had maneuvered his heat and his body into hers. This had trouble scraped all over it. Because her toes only ever curled when she was ready to kiss. “Please don’t do this.”

  He eyed her. “Do what?”

  “You’re standing too close. Step back.”

  He slowly put his hands up but didn’t break their gaze. “I’m not touching you.”

  She edged back again. “You might as well be.”

  He lowered his chin and his hands. “But I’m not.”

  She pointed. “Your trousers were touching my skirts.”

  His expression was one of pained tolerance. “Forgive me. I simply don’t want you walking home alone in this weather or buying anything.”

  She pointed at him again. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

  “Then don’t.” He sea
rched her face. “I’m about to change your life, Jane. All I ask is that you let me.”

  A pulsing knot overtook her throat. He was serious.

  His aloofness showed on his rugged face. “We used to be close, you and I. We used to be incredibly good friends. Before the opera swept you away.”

  Why did everything feel so different between them? “Yes. I know.”

  He shifted closer, the crisp scent of mint wafting in the cold air between them again. “Share a brandy with me at my house. Will you?”

  Was he insinuating that they…? “No. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not interested in…” Her voice trailed off. To say it meant that she would have been thinking it.

  He stared. “Not interested in what?”

  She swallowed. It was like he wanted her to say it. It was like he needed her to say it. “Don’t make me say anything I oughtn’t.”

  He continued to stare. “Brandy,” he obliged in a low tone. “Nothing more. Because I need to speak to you.”

  She swallowed again. This reminded her of her days back at the opera house. Men insisting she join them “for brandy.” “I would rather you not complicate this.”

  “Jane—”

  “It’s Mrs. Robinson. Now please. Leave. I have had my fair share of invitations at night and don’t need any more.”

  He shifted his jaw, as if anything but pleased with her, and stepped back. “Very well.” Inclining his head, he turned and strode with a determined booted step toward the carriage, his greatcoat billowing against the snow. “Buy the entire display in the window, Harding,” he called out through the wind. “Then have every delivery boy take that display and follow Mrs. Robinson to Foley Street. That way, she doesn’t have to walk alone or buy anything.”

  “Yes, Your Grace!” one of the footmen called back, dutifully holding open the black lacquered door leading into the carriage.

  Her lips parted as she jerked toward the display. There were at least twenty-eight cakes in the window. Not including all the pastries. What would the neighbors say if half the bakery and all of its delivery boys arrived at her door at this time at night? She knew full well what they would say. By the end of the week, all of her students would be going to her competitors thinking she was whoring herself to the confectioner.

  Gathering her skirts from around her now icy cold booted feet, she scrambled after him, trying to maneuver past people. “Please don’t buy the display!” she called out, moving steadily faster toward him.

  He halted right before the open door of the carriage and turned to her, just as she alighted before him.

  He widened his stance, his boots matting the snow. “Decide whatever suits you best. Fourteen delivery boys or me. Either way, you’re not walking home alone. My decision in this is final. We don’t have to talk or have brandy, but I am not allowing you to have such blatant disregard for your own safety.”

  She huffed out a breath. He most certainly wasn’t the Martin she remembered. This man was more to the point and she honestly didn’t know what to make of him or this. “So be it. Buy the cake and take me home.”

  He searched her face. “Join me for brandy. One glass. Then I will take you home.”

  She shook her head. “No, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this isn’t right. Going to your home and having brandy past respectable calling hours isn’t right.”

  His expression faded into disappointment. “I understand. Would you rather I call on you tomorrow?” He sounded hopeful. “In the afternoon?”

  She tightened her lips. “No. I would rather you not call at all.”

  “But—”

  “My neighbors like to gossip. Which isn’t good for business. Please try to understand.”

  “I see.” He fell into silence and didn’t meet her gaze. He quietly lingered as if fully comprehending that she wanted nothing more to do with him.

  It twisted her heart. For it reminded her all too well of the Martin she once knew. The one who preferred to stand against the wall and watch as opposed to participate.

  She sighed. What was one glass of brandy? “Are your neighbors in the country right now? Or are they in town?”

  He paused. “In the country. Why?”

  This she could manage. “If they are all in the country, it means there won’t be any gossip about you and I having a brandy until spring. And I’m more than fine with that.”

  He stared. “So you will join me?”

  She smiled. “Yes. I will join you. Though only for an hour. I have lessons across town in the morning.”

  His brows flickered. “An hour would be splendid.” He stepped aside and snapped out his hand for her to take. “And should you require any assurance of my intentions, there is a pistol inside the carriage seat I can place into your hand.”

  A small laugh escaped her. “The pistol won’t be necessary, Martin. I know you well enough to say you would need the pistol, not I.”

  He smiled. “Right you are in that.”

  “One glass of brandy. And then you take me home.”

  “And then I take you home.”

  “Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “It better be a small glass, Martin.”

  “It will be whatever size you want it to be.”

  “Good. Because brandy goes straight to my legs and then I digress and babble.”

  “And we wouldn’t want that. Would we?”

  “No. We wouldn’t. In fact, I will confess, with the season being what it is, people are forever inviting me to—”

  “Jane.” He wagged his gloved fingers. “I suggest you take my hand. Before the snow covers it and you can’t find it.”

  “I don’t remember you having a sense of humor.”

  “And I don’t remember you lacking one.” He waved his gloved hand. “Now take the hand. You and I can talk on the way.”

  She pointed at him. “I rather like that you have learned to be more direct. It suits you.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  Setting her hand in his, she gathered up her skirts that had been dampened by the snow.

  His large gloved hand possessively tightened around hers, making it pulse. She paused. Their gazes locked, their frosting breaths mingling in the air dividing them.

  His eyes drifted toward her lips before searching her face.

  She didn’t know why, but she felt as if a clock were ticking toward something she was destined to embrace. The tingling in her stomach and the pulsing of his hand against hers warned her of a complication. “Martin?”

  “Yes?” he breathed, lingering closer. His hand tightened around hers.

  She felt faint. “I’m trusting you.”

  His jaw tightened. “I know.”

  Averting her gaze, she stepped up and into the carriage. Releasing his hand, she settled into the upholstered seat. Why did she feel like they were already involved?

  She paused, realizing her booted feet were resting on a coal warmer; the metal grate released a burst of heat that pulsed straight through the leather of her boots. She almost melted from the unexpected pleasure. She remembered these.

  “Harding,” Martin called out. “Change of order. Purchase the four-tiered spice cake in the window. Have them deliver it to my aunt on Foley Street in the morning and ensure there is a note stating it’s from Mrs. Robinson.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Martin climbed in, his weight shaking the vehicle as he sat the upholstered seat opposite her.

  The footman folded up the stairs, slammed the door shut, and jumped up onto the backside of the carriage as another footman hurried past the crowds and into the shop.

  Jane’s gaze veered toward Martin.

  The glow from the carriage lamps barely shone enough to light the side of his face. “I saw your father this afternoon.”

  “Did you?” Sadness pinched her. It would have been easier to cast aside thou
ghts of her father if he had been a cold and wretched man. Only…he’d never been that. Even on the day she had left, with a carpetbag in hand, he hadn’t shouted or screamed or barred the door. He had merely gently tucked a hundred pounds into her hand and went on to linger by the window, watching her to the end as if waiting for her to change her mind. She even thought she had glimpsed him once or twice in the crowds at the opera house after a performance. Whoever it had really been disappeared before she could approach. It haunted her to know that he might have been there even though he refused to see her in any other way.

  She shifted in her seat. “Is he in good health?”

  “Excellent health.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I think of him often.” The last she saw of her father, he had wanted her to be the wife of a Marquis twice her age. And sometimes, just sometimes, she regretted following her dreams as opposed to his. Hers, after all, hadn’t turned out. The fantasy of being a famous opera singer had died a pathetic death that had destroyed every aspect of her life.

  “Have you tried to see him throughout the years?” Martin asked. “Since you left?”

  She shook her head. “No. I haven’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know he wouldn’t see me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. I hurt him terribly with my own ambitions and, in turn, publicly shamed him. I recognize that.” And after everything she had endured, the last thing she wanted was to be rejected by the one man whose memory she didn’t want to taint.

  His voice softened. “How little you know. I spoke to him. He wants to see you. I hope you don’t have any plans for Christmas. Because he is expecting you to call.”

  Her eyes widened as her heart popped. “He wants to see me? Truly? He said that?”

  Martin smiled. “Yes. I wanted to deliver the news to you in person. Which is why I had to find you.”

  She clasped her hands together in disbelief, tears overwhelming her. “Oh, Martin, I—” An astounded laugh escaped her lips as she tried to swipe away whatever tears were escaping. “I didn’t think he—” She almost sobbed knowing her father had forgiven her. Blinking rapidly, she managed, “Thank you for speaking to him. He always adored you. He always thought so highly of you.”