A Christmas Gone Perfectly Wrong: A Blackshear Family novella (B 0.5) by Cecilia Grant Page B

“But I don’t see what we can do about any of it, particularly in the short time we’ll be here.”
    “I don’t want to be a burden to them.” She folded her arms and scowled down at the fire. “Can I not tell them I’d rather wait in the kitchen? That would spare them having to heat this room.”
    “I wouldn’t advise it.” Her charitable impulses were admirable—again, he had to admit her father had brought her up very well in some respects—but she doubtless had too little experience of the world to understand every hazard in acting on such impulses. “No matter what you might tell them, they’ll suspect you’ve noticed their circumstances and want to spare them the expense of firewood.”
    “They’ll be embarrassed.” She nodded, still eyeing the fire. “They’ll think I pity them for being poor.”
    “One has to tread carefully around matters of hospitality, I find. Especially so when the hospitality is offered by people who can’t offer it lightly. I’ll be as quick as I can about my errand to the village, and with luck you won’t be here long enough for them to have to add much more wood to this fire.”
    She nodded again, this time angling her head to meet his eyes. “Can I at least refuse dinner, if they try to share theirs with me? Can I tell them I dined already on the road?”
    “That seems an excellent idea.” When had she begun to care for his opinion on what she should do? At Downham Market she’d bluntly dismissed all his arguments in regard to their traveling alone. Was it merely the exercise of being Mrs. Blackshear that had her believing he might have worthwhile advice to offer? “I fear it may be a good while before you’ve reached Hatfield Hall and a proper meal, though. I’ll see whether I can’t find a meat pie or some such in the village, and bring it back for you.”
    “I wish you’d find something for the Porters instead. Something for their Christmas dinner, maybe? I brought along some money for gratuities at the house party, but I doubt I’ll need it all. I’d be happy to—”
    “Keep your money. You’ll be having to borrow someone else’s maid, and I expect you’ll want to give her an especially large gratuity.” He tapped the pocket that held his purse. “Let me manage the gift. I’m the one whose carriage they pulled from the ditch. Maybe I can find them a fat goose.”
    “Oh, I hope you can.” Her eyes widened and went incandescent with her pleasure at the idea. “I’d feel so much better about the trouble we’ve put them to.”
    “Well, then, I’ll make it my mission. And may I say I’m glad to see I chose so thoughtful and generous a bride.” It wasn’t quite distant or formal, that remark. But why shouldn’t he encourage her better qualities when they showed themselves? “Now what did you tell Mrs. Porter of our married life, that I must be careful to not contradict? Among the men there was very little talking on any subject as we brought the carriage back, so I won’t have crossed your facts on anything.”
    “Likewise have I protected you.” Now the pleasure in her eyes took on a distinctly mischievous glint. “I told her all about the falcon, and from there I spoke generally and at great length on the practices of falconry. I believe Mrs. Porter learned more on the subject than she ever cared to know.”
    “Well done, Mrs. Blackshear.” He felt for his watch, and busied himself in consulting it. Really, he oughtn’t to be enjoying this so. Deceiving an honest husband and wife. Conferring in private with the same girl he’d taken to task mere hours ago for her indifference to the forms of propriety. He oughtn’t to be cataloguing the qualities of pleasure expressed in her eyes.
    All the more reason to be out of here and back on the road as soon as he could. He snapped his watch closed. “I’ll be off now. Wish me luck.”
    “Of course.” She put out her hand for the cup he still held. “Good luck, Andrew,” she said in