Under a New Year's Enchantment

He let out a breath. This was just the sort of thing Theodora Southern would do, but if he made his presence known, it would only serve to confirm their absurd suspicions. Best to pretend he’d never been outdoors at all. He wouldn’t have been if his friend Lord Valiant hadn’t spotted a lantern bobbing its way toward the ruins. Garrick didn’t want anyone messing about up here, so he’d followed straightaway.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Concord said. “No respectable woman would venture out alone at night to look at a bunch of mouldy old stones.”

“They’re not stones, but pillars of tile for an under-the-floor heating system,” Theodora said. Garrick had forgotten that she knew something about the Romans, thanks to her scholarly father.

Mrs. Concord made a rude noise. “Surely you don’t expect us to believe that. It’s obvious why you were here.”

“Everyone knows I decided long ago to marry only for love, so your supposition is absurd,” Theodora said. “However, believe what you like. I certainly don’t care what you think of me.”

Miss Concord muttered something which Garrick didn’t catch.

Theodora’s voice came clear and crisp on the night breeze. “You are entitled to your opinion, Miss Concord. Now it’s your turn to listen to mine. Stop angling for Lord Westerly. He is a rude, unpleasant man who has made it clear that he doesn’t wish to marry you or any of the others. If you ruin your reputation trying to catch him, you will suffer the consequences. He simply doesn’t care.”

That this was true didn’t make it any more palatable from the lips of Dora Southern, who had once been his friend.

* * *

Theodora felt the repercussions of her unwise comment almost immediately after returning to the great hall. Mrs. and Miss Concord had arrived a little earlier and set the gossip in motion. Several heads turned to stare at her. Someone pointed at her gown. When Theodora glanced down, she saw to her dismay that she had acquired a sizeable mud stain, no doubt when she’d fumbled her way out of the pit. One young woman giggled behind her fan. Maynard Buxton leered, but since he always did so, that was no surprise.

Her heart was thumping unhappily by the time she reached the wassail bowl, where Lucille Beaulieu ladled spiced ale to a queue of amorous villagers. Something about Lucille made men clamour for her, and it wasn’t merely her exotic appearance and violet eyes. Lucille fended them off with aplomb; she didn’t seem to mind being leered at.

Theodora minded very much and noticed to her alarm that Maynard Buxton wasn’t the only one doing it. The notorious Lord Valiant Oakenhurst, who had spent the war as a spy and assassin, was the only man with kindly rather than curious eyes. No doubt he sympathized, because although the women sighed over his sensual beauty, most of the gentlemen avoided him.

“What are they saying about me?” Theodora whispered in French.

Lucille shrugged in her typically languid way, and the queue of wassailers breathed a collective sigh. “There are two stories going about. Which would you like to hear, the bad or the worse?”

“Don’t tease me, Lucille. What are they saying?”

“That you tupped Lord Westerly in the ruins. That was Miss Concord’s story.”

Theodora felt herself go as red as the holly berries on the table decoration.

“You are now a scarlet woman, both literally and figuratively,” Lucille said with a little chuckle.

“It’s not funny,” Theodora said, as a visitor who had been the soul of politeness in the past glanced knowingly down the bodice of her gown.

Lucille smiled at the man, whose attention fixed immediately on her instead. “Miss Concord is a fool. Does she not realize that if Lord Westerly had really taken your virginity, he would feel obliged to marry you? Her mother shushed her, saying that your only folly was setting your cap at a man who doesn’t want you. She said that when you went to the ruins, he spurned you immediately.”

Theodora groaned. Either way, the consequences were likely to be unpleasant, but she would almost rather be seen as a wanton than a desperate spinster. She had inherited a small fortune from her godmother and therefore didn’t need to wed. After a brief engagement, forced upon her by family members and terminated when her betrothed died in a hunting accident, she had decided to marry only if she fell in love. Her family had accepted this decision, but most others, such as Mrs. Concord, refused to take her seriously. To them, marrying only for love made no sense at all.

“What do you care what these obnoxious Concord people think of you?” Lucille said.

“I don’t, but I shouldn’t have said so when they accused me of setting my cap at Lord Westerly. A mistake, but I was already overset, and my tongue took over for my common sense.”

“You were upset? Why?”

“Because when Lord Westerly found me at the ruins, he did accuse me of trying to trap him into marriage.”

“With so many women wishing to marry him, what else is he to think?”

“He should know me better than that! He used to be my friend, but it never even crossed his mind that I might be there for scholarly reasons. It is so mortifying.”

Lucille gave a very Gallic shrug. “What he thinks of you is his problem, not yours. Why let it disturb you?”

Theodora’s face heated again. “Because once upon a time it was true.” At Lucille’s inquiring look, she added, “I fell madly in love with him at fifteen—almost sixteen. He was twenty and about to go off to war. I asked him to marry me before he left, and—”

“You asked him to marry you?”

Theodora nodded shamefacedly. She swallowed her embarrassment. It was ridiculous to mind so much after more than ten years.

“How delightfully forward of you,” Lucille said.

* * *

Garrick made his way through the throng of villagers, tossing a few jests this way and that, bidding them good-night one by one. He would be more cordial from now on if it killed him.

If rage could kill, it might well do so. Since his return from the war, he’d found himself infuriated at everyone—at their smug indifference to anything but their petty concerns. At their utter lack of gratitude for the sacrifices made by thousands of soldiers. At their unwillingness to lend even a helping fingertip to those who had survived.

Theodora wasn’t like the others. He must apologize to her and would do so when the opportunity arose, but for the moment her indictment of him rang in his head like a death knell: rude, unpleasant, doesn’t care.

He had returned to Westerly three months after the battle of Waterloo, weary and sick at heart, to take up his inheritance. Instead of the peace and quiet he’d longed for, he’d been plagued by a recurring nightmare and his aunt, Lady Westerly, with her plans for the rest of his life.

She had advised him ceaselessly on how to run the estate. She had planned a Christmas house party against not only his wishes but his express orders. She had invited several eligible young ladies, even though he didn’t intend to marry anytime soon, if ever. She’d had the servants put up an ungodly amount of mistletoe in the hope that he would sample the kisses of all the prospective brides.

Strangely enough, he’d remained patient through all the nagging and unwanted advice. He’d even put up with her flagrant disregard for his wishes, but the mistletoe was the last straw.

To hell with civilized behavior, which several years of horrors had taught him was merely a facade. If war had rendered him unfit for polite society, so be it. He ordered all the mistletoe taken down, and when the notorious Lord Valiant Oakenhurst arrived unexpectedly, he asked him to stay. If his aunt’s guests didn’t like Oakenhurst, they were welcome to leave, and some had done so. If the young women compromised themselves trying to trap Garrick, they would indeed suffer the consequences, just as Theodora had said.

Now that he’d made his point and his aunt had learned her lesson, he must strive to reacquire a civilized front, but how? He seemed to have utterly forsaken the tenets of his upbringing. One needn’t be rude to get across a point, but he didn’t seem capable of anything else. The mere thought of pretending to be as asinine as his guests aroused his simmering rage.

And yet, good friends were rare; he’d already lost too many to war, and he couldn’t afford to lose Dora, as well.

* * *

“More women should do the asking,” Lucille said.

Theodora stared. She spoke French quite well, but surely she had misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”

“The prevailing method is so inefficient, with women obliged to wait and hint and wait some more until men get up their courage.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Theodora said. “Any man you asked would jump at the chance.”

Lucille snorted. “Most of them want to bed me, not wed me.” She ladled wassail for another amorous guest. “I gather he declined.”

“Yes, very kindly, but it was mortifying all the same. I did it out of desperation, because I was so afraid he would be killed. I wanted to be...to be truly his before he went away.” She sighed, as the memory of that grief whispered through her. “I accepted his refusal and said farewell with a good grace.” She’d cried her heart out afterward, alone in her bed.

“You were very young,” Lucille said. “Even if he had agreed, your parents would most likely have refused permission.”