Elisabeth Fairchild by The Christmas Spirit Read Free Book Online Page A

my lord.”
    And so the fourth Earl of Copeland rolled up his sleeves and, with his guest beside
     him, stood shoulder to shoulder with the footmen and the maids in the main drawing
     room, snipping greenery. They wound it into swags, tied off with twine, brightening
     paneling, picture frames, and mantelpiece. The perfume of Christmas filled nose, head,
     and lungs—stung his eyes. Aromatic resin stickied his hands. Evergreen needles pricked
     arms and fingers, the outdoors come in, life arranged, shaped, and tacked on a wall,
     cool and springy, twig, branch and garland.
    When had he outgrown the joy of this? It seemed he had left the holiday garlands to
     the servants for the better part of his adult life. Better things to do with his time.
    What better things? Odd, how he could not remember.
    The musicians joined them, full of tunes and good cheer. The footmen sang along to
     “Good King Wenceslas” and “I Saw Three Ships” and “The Holly and the Ivy.” Copeland
     joyfully added his voice, words conjured out of memory, the Christmas spirit warming
     him, filling his heart—his poor, uneven-tempered heart.
    Good cheer took Copeland’s mind off the weather and his guests. He forgot to listen
     for an unruly heartbeat—even forgot to think of James.
    He laughed and chatted with the footmen in a manner most unusual. It occurred to him
     as he stood atop a ladder, mistletoe in hand, that these people, his people, who daily
     saw to his needs and comfort, had not the option of going home for Christmas. The
     Earl of Copeland’s residence, wherever that might be, was their home for the holidays.
    His best Christmas ever, should be for them! He had made provisions in his will, seen
     to it that they had references and the means to survive, left instructions that Marcus
     was to keep them on at Broomhill. But Christmas, this perfect Christmas he planned,
     should be theirs above all others.
    One of the maids called out, “Mistletoe, Mr. Scott.”
    A tall, gawky lad, youngest of the footmen, blushed to find himself beneath a sprig
     in the company of the prettiest maid, Megan.
    Oh, to be young again, and flustered by life’s potential!
Copeland thought.
Dear Henrietta, how shall I tell you that we have none?
    Maid Megan stood tiptoe and kissed Scott’s crimsoned cheek.
    “It begins to look like Christmas,” Belinda Walcott said from the foot of his ladder.
    He turned.
    She held a length of ivy ready for hanging, her eyes gone strangely green in watching
     him. Was it interest he detected? Rather gratifying, really, that this lively lass
     found a dead man interesting.
    Dearest Henrietta,
he thought.
Would that we might share such a moment. Where are you, my love? Have you found warmth
     and shelter for the night?
    He came down two steps, his eyes drinking in another young woman’s face, the captivating
     eyes, the golden aura of her hair, the touchable smoothness of her cheek. Again came
     the cry, “Mistletoe!”
    This time the giggling maids pointed at him. He glanced up at mistletoe just hung,
     then at Belinda Walcott, and felt an unexpected rush of youth’s flushed anticipation.
     He was a lad again and the potential of budding love stood waiting.
    “Who will take advantage of me, then?” He waggled his brows, ready to make a game
     of it, a jest. He laughed along as the maids shrieked with laughter.
    Belinda’s eyelashes fluttered like candle flame in a breeze, but she did not look
     away. For a moment, it seemed they two were alone in the room, caught in a heartbeat,
     she trapped in his eyes, he in hers. His head filled with the evergreen perfume of
     Christmas, and his arms longed to hold her, his lips to kiss hers.
    “Oh-ho-ho!” The footmen murmured in anticipation.
    Belinda’s lips stirred, pale lips, he thought, and yet he would test their petal softness.
     Her eyes brightened, as if she found the prospect of this very public mistletoe kiss
     rather enticing—and yet there was a wariness to