Page 121 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Setting his jaw, he turned and made his way to his chamber.

He shut the door with a sense of finality.

He would continue to allow Miss Meyer to administer to him, but he intended to keep things strictly cool and polite.

There would be no more subtle seductions.

If he wished to have his lust sated, then he would send for one of his usual village wenches to service him.

It was all he deserved for thinking that he could obtain someone like Miss Meyer and not have to answer for his actions when he arrived at hell, because he had no doubt that would be his final destination.

He’d made too many mistakes in his life, killed too many men on the battlefield to be offered a place in Heaven next to God.

For someone with a damned soul, he refused to drag Claire down into the depths with him.

He gripped his cane and thought about smashing a few things around him, but he declined the temptation in the end. Instead, he tossed down the wooden stick and sat down on his mattress with a grim outlook.

Tomorrow was just another miserable day.

The next morning, as butterflies were still beating wildly in her stomach at the prospect of seeing the earl once again, Claire pinched her cheeks to gain some color, although the plain, gray woolen gown she’d donned was far from pleasing to the eye.

It would be impossible to gain a compliment from Lord Darville when she descended the steps looking like a servant, but since she had brought serviceable gowns and not anything appropriate for casual conversation that might lead to more, she had no other choice but to leave her room and head down to the great hall.

She was smiling when she crossed the mezzanine, but the moment she spied the earl slouched in his chair, a decanter at his side, she could feel some of her happiness start to slip.

Fearing that he’d had trouble with his leg the night before, she made her way to his side with a frown of concern. “Is your leg bothering you, my lord?”

“Surprisingly, no,” he returned blandly, without looking in her direction. “It appears your exercises are actually working.”

Her relief was short-lived when he took another steady drink. It was obvious that something had occurred, because when she had left him in the Oak Room his spirits had been particularly calm and easy. That was not the case today. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but has something happened?”

This time his eyes shifted to her. A bit bleary eyed, he narrowed his gaze slightly, as if trying to bring her into better focus. “Not at all. Why do you ask?”

She wasn’t sure how to approach the subject without insulting him. She glanced at the decanter. “It’s just that you seem… overset.”

He snorted and lifted the bottle. “Oh, you mean this? I was merely missing an old friend.”

“Oh. I see.” Still confused, Claire decided that she would let the matter drop for now. She didn’t want to cross words with him or put him in a more sour mood than he already was. She just wished she knew the root to all this discord. “Are we breaking our fast in the Oak Room?”

He lifted a finger. “About that, I failed to send Tobin up to tell you that I have decided to forgo the morning meal in favor of my faithful spirits.” Again, he indicated the bottle. “It is my constant companion, you know.”

Claire set her hands on her hips. She sat down opposite him and demanded, “I want to know what has you at such a crossroads. Last night you—”

“I was pretending to be something I’m not,” he snapped. His gaze finally penetrating her with the ferocity of the man she’d met when she’d first arrived. “If you don’t care for who I really am, then I’m afraid you are doomed to disappointment of the most acute kind. This is who I really am.”

She was already shaking her head. “No, it’s not.”

He leaned forward, his breath warm and caressing at the same time the strong scent of brandy wafted over her.

“Whether you want to believe it or not, I am nothing but a wastrel, a licentious ne’er-do-well who should have never made it off that French battlefield alive.

It would have done the world a favor had I perished at the hands of those frogs.

” His green eyes were swirling with a mix of furious indignation.

“The Brazen Belle missed her opportunity to write her torrid column about me, because I am worthy of every slash of her detestable pen.”

Claire could feel his words cut her to the quick as if he were speaking of her instead of himself.

Instead, all she could feel was the determination to villainize himself in her eyes, for whatever reason.

She lifted her chin slightly. “While I cannot agree with your assessment, I will not argue the matter with you.”

“You would not win,” he returned evenly.

“Not when you are in this mood, I daresay no one wins. Least of all, you.” She reached for his leg and she almost expected him to brush her away. “For now, I’m going to concentrate on our exercises.”

She began to massage the injured area while he continued to nurse his brandy in stilted silence.

The entire time she worked all she could think of was how she might repair this sudden rift.

She was already missing the earl from last night.

She was not pleased to see that Lord “Darkville” had returned to take his place.

She was determined that it wouldn’t last and the gentleman she’d glimpsed the night before would return.

For the rest of that day and several days afterward, Claire kept the same confidence, but she admitted that it was starting to wane slightly.

Thus far, the earl was tolerant of her presence and the exercises she ensured he did at least three times a day.

She had implored more difficult tasks and although he grimaced at times, at least he kept his complaints to himself.

They did not dine together again, nor did they engage in billiards, or share an intimate night talking together in the Oak Room. Everything was done in the open in the great hall where he sat with his preferred drink of choice.

At this point, Claire was worried that her earlier desire to return to London by Christmas would become reality.

The winter storm that had been so fierce had cleared and although the air was still brusque outside, it would likely not be much longer before the roads were cleared enough so she could depart the earl’s residence.

She hadn’t really told Lady Mimbley how long she would attend to her nephew, but with the good progress that he seemed to be making, at least physically, Claire knew that she wouldn’t be needed much longer.

Once he was capable of doing things on his own, he could continue to improve at his solitary pace.

And she supposed that if that was what he preferred, to be alone, she couldn’t press the issue.

She had achieved what she’d been sent here to do.

Mission accomplished. She should be celebrating in victory.

Instead, she was disheartened that the familiar camaraderie hadn’t returned.

She had enjoyed her earlier interactions with the earl very much.

She still didn’t know what had made him revert to his older habits so rapidly.

When she asked Tobin, he had merely shrugged his shoulders, offering no insight into the reasons behind the earl’s crass behavior.

All he said was, “The master has always been thus. I thought he might have improved some when you arrived, but alas, it was fleeting, as is any spark of light that inhabits the interior of the walls these days.”

That is when a possible solution had struck Claire.

Although she had not been inclined to celebrate the holiday season, she was determined that this house would ring with Christmas cheer and not suffer the usual fate of a mausoleum.

With the servants’ assistance, she set out to turn Darville House into a magnificent wonderland.

Evergreen boughs were brought in and wound about the staircase railings and the top of the mezzanine and across each of the mantels.

They concentrated most of their efforts in the great hall before the earl had risen for the day, wanting to surprise him with the joy they hoped might fill his heart once more.