A Wallflower Christmas (Wallflowers 4.5)

Hannah went willingly. “Where are we going?”

“The Christmas tree.”

“Oh, good. I was just heading there.”

Arthur led her to the ballroom, which, fortunately for both their sakes, was empty. The Christmas tree was quite large, glittering with decorations and treats on the bottom half, but still unadorned on the upper half.

“Something has stuck in the tree?” Hannah asked, perplexed.

“Yes, miss, right there.” He pointed to a branch well over their heads.

“I don’t see any…Oh, good Lord, what is that?”

Something dark and furry hung from the branch, something that resembled a nest. Or a dead rodent.

“It’s Mr. Bowman’s hair.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “His toupee? But why…how …”

“Well,” Arthur explained reasonably, “I saw him taking a nap on the settee in the library, and his hair was dangling off him, and I thought it might be fun to play with. So I’ve been shooting it with my toy catapult, but then it went too high, up into the Christmas tree, and I can’t reach it. I was going to put it back on Mr. Bowman before he woke, I truly was!” He looked at her hopefully. “Can you get it down?”

By this time Hannah had turned away and covered her face in her hands, and she was laughing too hard to breathe. “I shouldn’t laugh,” she gasped, “oh, I shouldn’t …”

But the more she tried to stifle her amusement the worse it got, until she was forced to blot her eyes on her sleeve. When she had calmed herself a bit, she glanced at Arthur, who was frowning at her, and that nearly set her off again. With a potential thrashing in store, he didn’t find the situation nearly as amusing as she did. “I’m sorry,” she managed to say. “Poor Arthur. Poor Mr. Bowman! Yes, I’ll fetch it down, no matter what I have to do.”

The hairpiece had to be retrieved, not only for Arthur’s sake, but also to save Mr. Bowman from embarrassment.

“I already tried the ladder,” Arthur said. “But even when I got to the top, I still couldn’t reach it.”

Hannah viewed the nearby ladder appraisingly. It was an extending ladder, an A-frame made of two sets of steps with a third, extendable ladder braced between them. One would slide the middle ladder up or down to adjust the overall elevation. It had already been raised to full height.

“You’re not very big,” Arthur said doubtfully. “I don’t think you can reach it, either.”

Hannah smiled at him. “At least I can give it a try.”

Together they repositioned the ladder close to one of the seating niches in the wall. Hannah took off her shoes. Taking care not to step on the hem of her own skirts, she gamely climbed the ladder in her stocking feet, hesitating only briefly before continuing up the extension. Higher and higher, until she had reached the top of the ladder. She reached for the toupee, only to discover with chagrin that it was approximately six inches out of her reach.

“Blast,” she muttered. “It’s almost within my grasp.”

“Don’t fall, miss,” Arthur called up to her. “Maybe you should come down now.”

“I can’t give up yet.” Hannah looked from the ladder to the overhanging ledge that surmounted the wall niche. It was about a foot higher than the top rung of the ladder. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “if I were standing on that ledge, I think I could reach Mr. Bowman’s hairpiece.” Carefully she levered herself up and crawled onto the ledge, pulling the mass of her skirts along with her.

“I didn’t know ladies as old as you could climb,” Arthur commented, looking impressed.

Hannah gave him a rueful grin. Minding her footing, she stood and reached for the drooping locks of the unfortunate toupee. To her disappointment, it was still too high. “Well, Arthur, the bad news is that I still can’t reach it. The good news is, you have a very effective catapult.”

The boy heaved a sigh. “I’m going to get a thrashing.”

“Not necessarily. I’ll think of some way to retrieve it. In the meantime”

“Arthur!” Another boy appeared at the ballroom entrance. “Everyone’s looking for you,” he said breathlessly. “Your tutor says you’re late for your lessons, and he’s getting crosser and crosser by the second!”

“Oh, thunderbolts,” Arthur muttered. “I have to go, miss. Can you get down from there?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” Hannah called down to him. “Go on, Arthur. Don’t be late for your lessons.”

“Thank you,” he cried, and hurried from the room. His companion’s voice floated in from the hallway. “Why is she up there…?”

Hannah inched toward the ladder slowly. Before she climbed back onto it, however, the middle extension collapsed, a loud clack-clack-clack echoing through the ballroom. Dumbfounded, Hannah stared at the A-frame stepladder, which was now far, far below her.

“Arthur?” she called, but there was no response.

It dawned on Hannah that she was in a fix.

How had her peaceful morning come to this, that she was stuck halfway up the side of the ballroom with no way to get down, and the manor mostly empty? In trying to save Mr. Bowman from embarrassment, she had brought no end of it on herself. Because whoever found her was certainly not going to be quiet about it, and the story would be repeated endlessly until she was the laughingstock of the entire holiday gathering.

Hannah heaved a sigh. “Hello?” she called hopefully. “Can anyone hear me?”

No response.

“Bollocks,” she said vehemently. It was the absolute worst word she knew.

Since it appeared she might be in for a long wait before someone came to rescue her, she considered lowering herself to sit on the ledge. But it was rather narrow. If she lost her balance, she was undoubtedly going to break something.

Bored and mortified and anxious, she waited, and waited, until she was certain that at least a quarter hour had passed. Every few minutes she called for help, but the manor was deadly silent.

Just as she felt the gnawing of acute self-pity and frustration, someone came to the doorway. She thought it was a servant at first. He was dressed with shocking informality in black trousers and his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. But as he entered the room with a relaxed saunter, she recognized the way he moved, and she closed her eyes sickly.

“It would be you,” she muttered.

She heard her name spoken in a quizzical tone, and opened her eyes to view Rafe Bowman standing below her. There was an odd expression on his face, a mixture of amusement and bafflement and something that looked like concern.

“Hannah, what the devil are you doing up there?”

She was too distressed to reprove him for using her first name. “I was fetching something,” she said shortly. “The ladder collapsed. What are you doing here?”

“I was recruited by the wallflowers to help decorate the tree. Since the footmen are all occupied, they had need of tall people who could climb ladders.” A deft pause. “You don’t seem to qualify on either account, sweetheart.”

“I climbed up perfectly well.” Hannah was red everywhere, from her hairline to her toes. “It’s merely coming down that poses a problem. And don’t call me ‘sweetheart,’ and…what do you mean, wallflowers?”

Bowman had gone to the ladder and had begun to ratchet up the middle extension. “A silly name my sisters and their friends call their little group. What were you fetching?”

“Nothing of importance.”

He grinned. “I’m afraid I can’t help you down until you tell me.”

Hannah longed to tell him to go away, she would prefer to wait for days before accepting his help. But she was getting tired of standing on the blasted ledge.

Seeing her indecision, Bowman said casually, “The others will be coming in here momentarily. And I should probably mention that I have an excellent view up your skirts.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Hannah tried to gather her dress more closely around her, and her balance wobbled.

Bowman cursed, his amusement vanishing. “Hannah, stop. I’m not looking. Be still, damn it. I’m coming up there to get you.”

“I can do it by myself. Just set the ladder close to me.”

“Like hell. I’m not going to risk you breaking your neck.” Having extended the ladder to full length, Bowman ascended it with astonishing swiftness.

“It might collapse again,” Hannah said nervously.

“No, it won’t. There’s an iron locking bracket on either side of the middle ladder. They probably weren’t snapped into place before you climbed up. You should always make certain both brackets are locked before using one of these things.”

“I don’t plan to climb anything ever again,” she said with vehement sincerity.

Bowman smiled. He was at the top of the ladder now, one hand extended. “Slowly, now. Take my hand and move carefully. You’re going to put your foot on that rung and turn and face the wall. I’ll help you.”

As Hannah complied, it occurred to her that the logistics of getting down were a bit more difficult than going up had been. She felt a rush of gratitude toward him, especially since he was being far nicer than she would have expected.

His hand was very strong as it closed around hers, and his voice was deep and reassuring. “It’s all right. I have you. Now step toward me and put your footno, not there, higheryes. There we are.”

Hannah went fully onto the ladder, and he guided her down until his arms closed on either side of her, his body a hard, warm cage. She was facing away from him, staring through the rungs of the ladder, while he was pressed all along her from behind. As he spoke, his breath was warm against her cheek. “You’re safe. Rest a moment.” He must have felt the shiver that went through her. “Easy. I won’t let you fall.”

She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t at all afraid of heights. It was just the strange sensation of being suspended and yet held, and the delicious scent of him, so clean and male, and the brace of muscles she could feel through the thin linen of his shirt. A curious heat began to unfold inside her, spreading slowly.

“Will the ladder hold both of us?” she managed to ask.

“Yes, it could easily hold a half-dozen people.” His voice was quietly comforting, the words a soft caress against her ear. “We’ll go down one step at a time.”

“I smell peppermint,” she said wonderingly, twisting enough to look at him more fully.

A mistake.

His face was level with hers, those eyes so hot and dark, his lashes like black silk. Such a strong-featured face, perhaps the slightest bit too angular, like an artist’s line sketch that had not yet been softened and blurred. She couldn’t help wondering what lay beneath the tough, invulnerable fa?ade, what he might be like in a tender moment.

“They’re making candy ribbons in the kitchen.” His breath was a warm, sweet rush of mint against her lips. “I ate a few of the broken pieces.”

“You like sweets?” she asked unsteadily.

“Not usually. But I’m fond of peppermint.” He stepped to a lower rung, and coaxed her to follow.

“The hairpiece,” Hannah protested, even as she descended with him.

“The what?” Rafe followed her gaze, saw his father’s toupee dangling from a branch, and made a choked sound. Pausing in his descent, he lowered his head to Hannah’s shoulder and fought to suppress a burst of laughter that threatened to topple them both from the ladder. “Is that what you were trying to reach? Good God.” He steadied her with one of his hands as she searched for her footing. “Putting aside the question of how it got there in the first place, why were you risking your pretty neck for a wad of dead hair?”

“I wanted to save your father from embarrassment.”

“What a sweet little soul you are,” he said softly.

Fearing he was mocking her, Hannah stopped and twisted around. But he was smiling at her, his gaze caressing, and his expression set off a series of hot flutters in her midriff. “Hannah, the only way to spare my father embarrassment is to keep him from finding that damned toupee again.”

“It’s not very flattering,” she admitted. “Has anyone told him?”

“Yes, but he refuses to accept the fact that there are two things money can’t buy. Happiness, and real hair.”

“It is real hair,” she said. “He just didn’t happen to grow it himself.”

Bowman chuckled and guided her down another rung.

“Why isn’t he happy?” Hannah dared to ask.

Bowman considered the question for so long that they had reached the floor by the time he answered. “That’s the universal question. My father has spent his entire life pursuing success. And now that he’s richer than Croesus, he’s still not satisfied. He owns strings of horses, stables filled with carriages, entire streets lined with buildings…and more female companionship than any one man should have. All of which leads me to believe that no one thing or person will ever be enough for him. And he’ll never be happy.”

Once they were on the ground, Hannah turned to face him fully, standing in her stocking feet. “Is that your fate as well, Mr. Bowman?” she asked. “Never to be happy?”

He stared down at her, his expression difficult to interpret. “Probably.”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently.

For the first time since she had met Bowman, he seemed robbed of speech. His gaze was deep and dark and volatile, and she felt her toes curl against the bare floor. She experienced the feeling she sometimes had when she’d been out in the cold and damp, and came inside for a cup of sugared tea…when the tea was so hot that it almost hurt to drink it, and yet the combination of sweetness and searing heat was too exquisite to resist.

“My grandfather once told me,” she volunteered, “that the secret to happiness is merely to stop trying.”

Bowman continued to stare at her, as if he were intent on memorizing something, absorbing something. She felt an exquisite constriction between them, as if the air itself were pushing them together.

“Does that work for you?” he asked huskily. “The not trying?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I don’t think I can stop.” His tone was reflective. “It’s a popular belief among Americans, you know. The pursuit of happiness. It’s in our Declaration, as a matter of fact.”