Marian's Christmas Wish by Carla Kelly Read Free Book Online Page B

apologized so prettily
afterward. I do believe, sir, that there were tears in her eyes.”
    Sir William choked over his soup and Lord Ingraham retreated
to the safety of his napkin again.
    Her mother sat in stupefied silence as Marian daintily
cut her sandwich into tiny bites and ate them delicately off her fork. Sir
William continued to cough and sputter as Marian put down her knife and fork
and wiped her fingers neatly.
    “Sir William, if you will raise both arms over your
head and breathe deeply, you will feel quite the thing again,” she advised
serenely.
    “Marian,” said Lady Wynswich, her tone glacial. “That
is quite enough.”
    “And so I was telling Sir William,” Marian continued.
    Recovering sufficiently to draw a breath, Sir William
stared at Marian, who gave him her sunniest smile and took knife and fork to
the other half of her sandwich. He opened his mouth to speak, when Lord
Ingraham intervened.
    “Lady Wynswich, these are charming watercolors on your
walls. How well they suit,” he said.
    “Do they not?” agreed Lady Wynswich, eager to put
Marian’s food behind her. She would not look at Lord Ingraham, but cast her
eyes instead upon the paintings. “Ariadne painted those only this summer. She
is highly accomplished. Do you not agree, Sir William?”
    Sir William gave the paintings only the briefest
scrutiny. “I, madam, am partial to oils,” he said, and then tittered. “Of
course, one becomes used to such delights in the great galleries of Europe, which, I am sad to say, have been so long closed to our fair isle by the
machinations of that evil beast Napoleon. Thank God he now resides on Elba.”
    Marian stared at him in admiration. She opened her
mouth to compliment him on the grandeur of that sentence, when Lord Ingraham
trod upon her foot. The napkin came to his lips again. “Hush, brat,” he ordered
behind it.
    “You should see Ariadne’s oils,” Lady Wynswich prevaricated,
and had the grace not to look in Marian’s direction, even though her next
comment was directed to her younger daughter. “Whatever is keeping our dear . .
. Elaine?”
    “Ariadne has the headache and will not be down,” said
Marian calmly as she extracted her foot from under Lord Ingraham’s and crossed
her ankles.
    Her mother paused with her fork in midair, smiled, but
did not look in Marian’s direction. “Then why did you not tell me, dear? I
would have seen to her at once.”
    Marian chewed and swallowed. “Mama, it was never my
wish to interrupt your conversation. And I know you would not wish me to call
attention to myself.” Lady Wynswich was left with nothing to say. Lord Ingraham
filled in the gap with all the skill of the treaty table in Ghent. “Lady
Wynswich, such excellent soup! I do not know when I have had better.”
    “It is but a simple fish soup, Lord Ingraham,” she
said, her eyes looking everywhere but at the diplomat.
    Marian watched her mother, a frown on her face, and
then glanced at Gilbert Ingraham. She could see only his profile because she
sat on his right side. Her mother had the full effect of his scar, and she
would not look. Marian thought of Lord Ingraham’s words in the library, and she
burned with shame for her mother.
    Lady Wynswich’s attention was drawn then to a commonplace
from Sir William.
    Without thinking, Marian touched Lord Ingraham’s sleeve
and leaned toward him. “Thank you for your valiant rally,” she whispered, and
then lowered her eyes. “And please, please forgive my mother.”
    “Forgiven already,” he whispered back. “One does become
inured, or so I am discovering.”
    “Discovering what?” asked Lady Wynswich, her attention
drawn across the table again, even though she gave Lord Ingraham only the
briefest glance. “Marian,” she chided, “you know what Papa used to say: ‘Out
loud, or not at all.’”
    “That is my doing,” apologized Lord Ingraham. “I merely
commented I am discovering what a thoroughly charming family you