And Lord Denbigh knew mat she shared his mood.
They paid eight visits in all and were invited inside each of the eight cottages. Lord Denbigh found himself living out an unplanned fantasy. What if she had not broken off their engagement? They would have been married now for eight years. They would be paying these calls together as man and wife, the ease of years of acquaintance and intimacy between them. And they would be going home together afterward to their guests and their children and a shared Christmas. And when it was all over they would stand together on the steps of Denbigh and wave good-bye to their departing guests. And they would be alone together again, with their family. Perhaps she would be with child again.
Mrs. Richards had delivered her fourth child less than two weeks before. The child was awake and fussing, though Mrs. Richards insisted that they come inside for refreshments. The baby had been fed already, she assured them.
"Oh, may I?" Judith asked, smiling at Mrs. Richards and leaning over the baby's crude cradle.
Mrs. Richards was flustered, but she assured Mrs. Easton that the baby had had a clean nappy only a few minutes before.
And Judith lifted the child from the cradle and held it gently to her shoulder. The fussing stopped and the baby wriggled its head into a comfortable position and sucked loudly on a fist. Judith closed her eyes, smiling, and rubbed a cheek against the soft down on the baby's head.
"Oh," she said, "one forgets so quickly how tiny newborn babies are. How I envy you."
Lord Denbigh turned his head away sharply and addressed a remark to Mr. Richards. He felt as if he had a leaden weight in his stomach. For some reason he felt almost as if he were about to cry. Steady, he told himself. Steady. He should not have let down his guard for even a moment. Had he not learned his lesson long ago?
"Was that the last one, sir?" Rupert asked when they emerged from the Richardses' cottage and took their places in the sleigh again. "Are we going home now? Will the carolers be coming soon?"
The marquess laughed. "Not for several hours yet," he said. "But I tell you what we will do, with your mother's permission, of course. We are close to the village, and your aunt is with Mrs. Harrison and Mr. Cornwell and the children. Doubtless they have all sung carols until they are blue in the face. We will take you there and leave you in your aunt's charge. How does that sound?"
Rupert shouted out a hurrah.
"Is that all right with you, ma'am?" the marquess asked. "This lad could well drive you to insanity within the next few hours if we do not rid ourselves of him."
Judith laughed. "They will probably make you sing, Rupert," she warned.
"I can sing," Rupert said indignantly.
Five minutes later he was admitted to the house where all the children and adults were gathered and swallowed up into the noise and cheerful chaos.
"Amazingly," Mr. Cornwell told them, "we have had not a single casualty all day even though Mary tried to box the ears of all the kings for setting down their gifts closer to Joseph than to her. The heavenly host are beginning to sound almost like a choir with Miss Easton to provide the accompaniment and to sing along to keep them in tune. And sometime within the next few hours we will have to decide how twelve volunteers are to carry five lanterns-a minor problem. I can confidently predict, Mrs. Easton, that we will be able to deliver your son to you this evening all in one piece."
And so, Lord Denbigh discovered, quite without planning to be, he was alone with Judith Easton, a mile-long drive between them and home. He drove his team in silence, and decided on the spur of the moment to take a long route home. He turned along a little-used lane that led uphill until it was above a grove of trees and looking down on the house from behind. He had always loved the view from up there. He eased his horses to a halt.
"I used to come up here a great deal as a boy," he said, "and imagine that I was lord of all I surveyed."
"And now you are," she said.
"And now I am."
The silence between them was companionable. Strangely so, considering what had happened between them in the past, considering his reason for having her at Denbigh Park, and considering the fact that she did not trust him-she had told him so the day before.
"You are very different from what I have always thought you to be," she said quietly.
"Am I?" He turned to look at her.
"You care," she said. "All your house guests are people who would have spent a lonely Christmas without your invitation, are they not? And you are generous to your people. I expected that you would wait outside each cottage until someone came outside to take a basket from your hands. But you visited and made conversation. And there are the children in the village. You have far more than just a financial commitment to them."
"Perhaps it is all selfishness after all," he said. "I have found that I can secure my own happiness by trying to bring some to other people. Perhaps I am not so very different from what you thought, Judith."
She frowned. "You used to be different," she said. "You used to be cold, unfeeling. But then, of course, our betrothal was forced on you. Perhaps I was unfair to judge you just on that short acquaintance."
Cold? Unfeeling? Had she not known? Had she not realized? Cold? He remembered how he had used to toss and turn in his bed, living for the next time he would see her, wondering if he would have the opportunity to touch her, perhaps to kiss her hand. Unfeeling? He remembered the pain of his love for her even before she left him and his fear that he would not be able to give her all she desired from life.
A forced betrothal? He had gone to his father the morning after his first meeting with her and begged to have the marriage with her arranged as soon as possible. Although he had been apprehensive at the prospect of allowing his father to choose his bride, he had forgotten his misgivings as soon as he had met her. The betrothal, the wedding could not be soon enough for him.
Poor naive fool that he had been. Twenty-six years old and entrusting his heart, his dreams, all his future hopes to a young girl he did not even know. A young girl who had preferred charm and flirtation and the apparent glamor of a near elopement. A young girl who had broken his heart without one thought to his feelings-because she had believed him cold and unfeeling. Had she ever tried to see beyond his shyness? Had she ever tried to get to know him?
And now she sat calmly beside him telling him that that was the way he had been. She still did not understand.
But she would. Oh, yes, my lady, he told her silently and bitterly, you will know what it feels like.
Chapter 10
The Marquess of Denbigh turned sideways, rested one arm on the back of the seat behind her, and slid his free hand inside her muff to rest on top of her hand.
"Perhaps," he said. "It is always difficult to know what goes on in another's mind. I thought you were content with our betrothal, Judith, but apparently you wanted something different. Well, you had it-for a while. And you have your children."
She was looking down at her muff. Her hand was warm and still beneath his own.
"Yes," she said.
There was a silence between them again, not so comfortable as before. There was an awareness, a tension between them. Her hand stirred. He looked at her, his face hardening.
"Did you love him?" he asked.
"Yes." She answered him without hesitation.
"Always?" he asked. "To the end?"
"He was my husband," she said, "and the father of my children."