and then, careful not to tear, he wove them together.
“Like basket weaving,” Megan decided.
“Two hearts inextricably bound.” Copeland won a smile from Belinda Walcott, who seemed
to prefer watching the process rather than taking up scissors or paper.
“String,” Bolton said. “We require string to hang our hearts.”
“Carry on.” Copeland smiled to see heads bent over hearts as they snipped and wove
paper. “I’ve some in my desk.”
He headed for his office, pleased to find that Miss Walcott followed as he rifled
through desk drawers.
“And so two broken hearts are mended in weaving them together?” She bent over the
paper heart on his blotter.
He looked into beautiful eyes, storm-tossed seas there, and clouded skies, and a darkness
that drew him ever deeper. He must plumb that darkness, though it left him dizzy,
light-headed, his heart thumping loudly in the sudden quiet between them.
His hand passed over the vial of tonic in his desk drawer. “Would that it were easy
to mend broken hearts.”
“Would that it was,” she said softly.
“Can you think of the perfect place for this heart?” The words came out more suggestively
than intended. He cleared his throat. “A dark place that needs brightening?”
Her lips twitched. “I know exactly the spot,” she said.
***
They used up all the red and white paper found, folded, cut, and woven.
Hearts hung everywhere. Cheerful chains enlivened the garlands and greenery, and dangled
from mistletoe balls in every doorway. It was not until later, much later, that Copeland
discovered where Belinda Walcott had hung that first red-and-white heart, the one
he gave her—the dark place that needed brightening.
Chapter Seven
That a man with a heart that was breaking should take such joy in weaving together
paper ones touched Belinda’s darker memories and made them ache anew. It surprised
her, disconcerted her, generated fresh anger, fresh resolve. She had believed herself
beyond tender emotion.
How could she be so stupid? She must not succumb to another endearing Copeland just
because he wore his heart on his sleeve—entirely unlike his kinsman.
Decorating finished, the servants returned to their work, voices cheerful, cheeks
pink with pleasure, mistletoe kisses shared in every doorway.
No kisses for Lord Copeland. None for Belinda Walcott.
She felt keenly the lost potential, lost chances. Too well she knew the winking out
of candles, the fading of stars. Of hope. She might have made opportunity work for
her—placed herself in a doorway in the same moment he passed through. And yet she
refrained, confused by the contradiction of desire and intent. She yearned too much
for touch. Such thoughts ill suited her purpose, her cool need to right a great wrong.
The Great Hall stood silently merry—doorways draped with mistletoe, picture frames
and mantel crowned as in years past. Swags of greenery topped the linen-fold paneling.
Lighthearted whimsy bedecked the heads and shoulders of the motionless figures in
the carved stone screen. She could not smile back at them.
Candles stood ready to bring golden light to every corner. The house smelled of roasting
capons, and baking bread, and something sugary with cinnamon and cloves. She could
taste memory in such a smell, the bitter and the sweet of Christmas—a time of past
kisses and mistletoe. She had given herself then, heart and soul, wanting love, pursuing
it.
She remembered kisses fondly. The touch of lips held no evil, just the intent behind
such contact. She wanted to be kissed again, to believe in love. She wanted to laugh
and be giddy. Foolish desire. Love had misled and deceived her. She had forever abandoned
kisses.
She remembered the warmth of embraces, the sound of gentle laughter in her ears, the
intensity of feelings roused. Desire flooded her, chilling her, forcing her to refocus
her intent. A bitter awakening had closed in
“Like basket weaving,” Megan decided.
“Two hearts inextricably bound.” Copeland won a smile from Belinda Walcott, who seemed
to prefer watching the process rather than taking up scissors or paper.
“String,” Bolton said. “We require string to hang our hearts.”
“Carry on.” Copeland smiled to see heads bent over hearts as they snipped and wove
paper. “I’ve some in my desk.”
He headed for his office, pleased to find that Miss Walcott followed as he rifled
through desk drawers.
“And so two broken hearts are mended in weaving them together?” She bent over the
paper heart on his blotter.
He looked into beautiful eyes, storm-tossed seas there, and clouded skies, and a darkness
that drew him ever deeper. He must plumb that darkness, though it left him dizzy,
light-headed, his heart thumping loudly in the sudden quiet between them.
His hand passed over the vial of tonic in his desk drawer. “Would that it were easy
to mend broken hearts.”
“Would that it was,” she said softly.
“Can you think of the perfect place for this heart?” The words came out more suggestively
than intended. He cleared his throat. “A dark place that needs brightening?”
Her lips twitched. “I know exactly the spot,” she said.
***
They used up all the red and white paper found, folded, cut, and woven.
Hearts hung everywhere. Cheerful chains enlivened the garlands and greenery, and dangled
from mistletoe balls in every doorway. It was not until later, much later, that Copeland
discovered where Belinda Walcott had hung that first red-and-white heart, the one
he gave her—the dark place that needed brightening.
Chapter Seven
That a man with a heart that was breaking should take such joy in weaving together
paper ones touched Belinda’s darker memories and made them ache anew. It surprised
her, disconcerted her, generated fresh anger, fresh resolve. She had believed herself
beyond tender emotion.
How could she be so stupid? She must not succumb to another endearing Copeland just
because he wore his heart on his sleeve—entirely unlike his kinsman.
Decorating finished, the servants returned to their work, voices cheerful, cheeks
pink with pleasure, mistletoe kisses shared in every doorway.
No kisses for Lord Copeland. None for Belinda Walcott.
She felt keenly the lost potential, lost chances. Too well she knew the winking out
of candles, the fading of stars. Of hope. She might have made opportunity work for
her—placed herself in a doorway in the same moment he passed through. And yet she
refrained, confused by the contradiction of desire and intent. She yearned too much
for touch. Such thoughts ill suited her purpose, her cool need to right a great wrong.
The Great Hall stood silently merry—doorways draped with mistletoe, picture frames
and mantel crowned as in years past. Swags of greenery topped the linen-fold paneling.
Lighthearted whimsy bedecked the heads and shoulders of the motionless figures in
the carved stone screen. She could not smile back at them.
Candles stood ready to bring golden light to every corner. The house smelled of roasting
capons, and baking bread, and something sugary with cinnamon and cloves. She could
taste memory in such a smell, the bitter and the sweet of Christmas—a time of past
kisses and mistletoe. She had given herself then, heart and soul, wanting love, pursuing
it.
She remembered kisses fondly. The touch of lips held no evil, just the intent behind
such contact. She wanted to be kissed again, to believe in love. She wanted to laugh
and be giddy. Foolish desire. Love had misled and deceived her. She had forever abandoned
kisses.
She remembered the warmth of embraces, the sound of gentle laughter in her ears, the
intensity of feelings roused. Desire flooded her, chilling her, forcing her to refocus
her intent. A bitter awakening had closed in
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