Cheeks heated, he stood and fetched her robe from the trunk at the foot of her bed. “Shall we, milady? Christmas awaits.” Anything to bring them back to safer ground.
Ellen smiled and set her empty cup beside the gold frame of their daughter’s photo. “I saw the wreaths on the doors when I came in last night.”
“Yes, but did you see the garland I had the servants put on the bannisters?”
“Yes.” Ellen slid her arms through the dressing gown as he held it up to her.
Mark resisted the urge to kiss the nape of her neck, but did spin her around to face him. He gripped her waist in both hands. “Now. March downstairs, milady, and you’ll find tea and a cold breakfast and maybe even a present or two.”
Ellen laughed, and the joy that shot through him at the soundleft him breathless. With an impish grin thrown over her shoulder, she darted out of her room.
Surprised, Mark raced after her. Delight fizzed in his chest. They raced downstairs like children, Ellen holding the newel post to swing around and propel her toward the parlor. Her dressing gown flapped behind her, and Mark stumbled in his own dark orange dressing gown, his bare feet pounding the cold, hardwood floor. Cold air rushed in, cutting through the thin linen nightshirt and the trousers he’d donned an hour ago.
Ellen halted in the doorway of the parlor, hand gripping the doorframe. Mark plowed into her, unable to stop in time. He grabbed her around the waist to keep her from sprawling on the green and gold rug, his other hand groping for the door frame. He missed.
They fell together, tangled arms and legs and night clothes. Mark’s forearm and knee burned where he’d rubbed it against the rug, but he laughed and laughed. Ellen sputtered as she twisted in his arms, her hair fanning over her shoulders and draping across his face. Finally she found purchase on the floor and pushed herself over, so she knelt by his chest and laughed down at him. “What wasthat,you great oaf?”
Mark laughed harder, stretched out on the floor. He didn’t even know why he was laughing. “I wasn’t the one who stopped like a statue in the hall! What was I supposed to do?”
Ellen attempted a mock-severe expression to scold him, but couldn’t keep it. “I was surprised by the decorations! I didn’t know we’d gotten a tree.” She glanced up at the tall fir in the center of the room. The chaises and chairs had been moved to the corners to make space for it, and the gold velvet skirt spread across the rug, several gifts sprawled across it.
Mark gently brushed the strands of hair off her face.I adore your laugh,he wanted to say. But didn’t.
“Sorry.”
He reached up and tucked the locks behind an ear. He cupped the shell of her ear, testing the waters. She bit her lip andlooked at him, and his arousal grew. With his other hand, Mark tucked his dressing gown across his front to hide the bulge in his trousers.
“Mark,” she began reluctantly.
Mark let his hand fall away, recognizing the signs of her confusion and uncertainty.I will never pressure her.He rolled to his feet and faced the tree. It was a good foot taller than him and covered in paper snowflakes, crimson velvet bows, painted gold balls, and unlit candles wired to the sturdier boughs. “Shall we light the tree?” He turned to smile at Ellen, who’d also stood to join him at his side.
“Mark,” she said apologetically, grasping at his hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to spoil the?—”
Mark squeezed her hand, then let go. “It’s fine. Truly.” He grinned. “There’s time. Right now, I just want to enjoy my Christmas tree with you.”
Ellen looked at the tree admiringly. “When did this happen?”
“Last night, before the servants left. You were so exhausted you didn’t hear the clatter they made putting it all up. Poor Gaye tried to set up the tree himself, but Dryden stepped in before he gave himself a heart attack.” Mark pointed to the envelopes hiding among the branches. “I’ve put the servants’ Christmas bonuses there. They can collect them tonight.”
Ellen grimaced. “That’s my job, isn’t it? As lady of the house.”
“I didn’t mind. I’m used to having people scurrying underfoot and telling them what to do.” He walked to the fireplace mantle, decorated in pinecones and cedar boughs, and swiped the matchbox. “I’ve been dying to see it lit up.” He carefully lit each miniature taper on the tree, all three dozen of them, as Ellen went to the kitchen and brought back mulled wine, bread, and jam. They toasted the bread together in the fireplace in companionable silence.
Ellen glided around the room, admiring each holly bunch and pinecone arrangement as Mark started on a second piece of toast. “Next year I’ll be a part of preparations,” she promised, and Mark’s chest swelled at the thought.
She paused at the writing desk shoved in the corner, littered with Mark’s correspondence. “What’s this?” She held up several opened letters from acquaintances and former classmates at Oxford.
“I’ve been catching up with old friends, letting them know I’m done with the Navy.”
“Did you tell them you’re writing again?” Ellen set the letters down and walked back to him, sitting so close he could reach over and kiss her temple. Could. But didn’t.
“I did. They’re interested in it as a way to read for my master’s, perhaps become a don afterward. I picked up my old project from years ago, the translation of Apollonius’sArgonautica,and—” He broke off, embarrassed.
“And?” Ellen prompted, tugging the cuff of his robe.
Mark pulled a freshly toasted slice of bread from the prongs and handed it to her to be buttered. “Nothing, it’s not important.”
“I see.” She picked up the butter knife. “You don’t think I can understand the classics.”