Christmas Betrothals: Mistletoe Magic

‘If he is here and not languishing in a London gaol, my guess would be the police thought him to have no knowledge of Lord Paget’s death.’

Anne Weatherby at her side laughed at the summation. ‘You are becoming quite the defender of the man, Lillian. I heard it was your testimony at the St Auburns that had the Pagets fleeing in the first place.’

‘And for that I now feel guilty.’

‘Well, your husband-to-be seems to have no such thoughts. He looks positively radiant this evening.’

John crossed the room towards them, Eleanor on his arm, and indeed he did look very pleased with himself.

‘I have it on good authority that Golden Boy is set to run a cracking first at Epsom this year and as he is a steed I have a financial stake in the news is more than pleasing. Is your father here, Lillian? I must go and impart the news to him.’

Eleanor watched as her brother chased off again across the room and entwined her arm through Lillian’s.

‘I do believe that John loves your father almost as much as he loves you. He is always telling me that Ernest Davenport says this and Ernest Davenport says that. My own papa must be getting increasingly tired of having the endless comparisons, I fear, though in all honesty John hasn’t seen eye to eye with him for a very long time. The inherent competition, I suspect, between generations so closely bound. I often wonder if a spell in India or in the army might have finished my brother off well? Pity, perhaps, that that avenue is no longer available.’

Lillian tried to imagine John in the wilds of the Far East and found that she just could not. He was a man who seemed more suited to the ease of the drawing room.

Lucas Clairmont on the other hand never looked comfortable confined in the small spaces of London society. Oh, granted, he had a sort of languid unconcern written across him here as he conversed with his friends, but he never relaxed, a sense of animated vitality not quite extinguished. He also always stood with his back against the wall, a trait that gave the impression of constant guardedness. The guise of a soldier, perhaps, or something darker. She had read the stories of Colquhoun Grant and there was something in the character of Wellington’s head of intelligence that was familiar in the personality of the man who stood opposite her.

As if he sensed her looking at him, his eyes turned to meet her own, dark gold glinting with humour. Quickly she looked away and made much of adjusting the pin on her bodice. When she glanced back, he no longer watched her and she squashed the ridiculous feeling of disappointment.

Turning the ring John had given her on her betrothal finger, she tried to take courage from it as she listened to the conversation between Anne and Eleanor.

‘I hear that congratulations are in order,’ he said in a quiet tone as they met an hour later by one of the pillars in a largely deserted supper room. ‘Your groom-to-be must have made great strides in the art of kissing a woman.’

‘Indeed, Mr Clairmont,’ Lillian replied, ‘and although you may not credit it, there are, in truth, other things that are of much more importance.’

‘There are?’ His surprise made it difficult to maintain her sense of decorum.

‘A man’s reputation for one,’ she bit back, ‘is considered by a careful bride to be essential.’