Regency Mistletoe & Marriages: A Countess by Christmas / The Earl's Mistletoe Bride

Aunt Bella nodded, her air outwardly gracious, but beneath her hand Helen could feel her trembling.

‘I have seated you beside General Forrest this evening,’ said Mr Cadwallader to her aunt, ‘since I believe he is your brother.’ He consulted the sheet of paper he held in his hand at that moment, thus missing the look of utter horror that flitted across Aunt Bella’s face.

Helen gave her aunt’s arm a comforting squeeze. As if this whole situation was not painful enough, now it appeared that the most odious of her brothers was here to witness her humiliation. And from what she remembered of him, coupled with her aunt’s pithy observations over the years, he would be only too delighted to have the opportunity to crow over her downfall.

‘And he will be escorting you in to dine.’

‘He will?’ Aunt Bella gasped. ‘Does he know about this?’

For she had not spoken to either of her brothers for years. Twelve years, to be precise. And it was entirely because of this breach with her brothers that Aunt Bella had no recourse but to turn to the head of the extended family now she had lost all her money.

The secretary shot her a baffled look, before turning to Helen and saying hastily, ‘And I have placed you opposite your aunt, between Sir Mortimer Hawkshaw and Lord Cleobury. Sir Mortimer will escort you into the dining room…’ He trailed off, looking over their shoulders at the next person to arrive, and they felt obliged to move further into the room.

They had not advanced more than a couple of yards before Helen spotted the arrogant footman. One of the groups of gentlemen was breaking up, and he was moving from them towards the dining room doors, which the butler had just flung open. She supposed his duties would include circulating with drinks, and serving at the table.

Suddenly she became aware that the boat-shaped neckline of her gown was particularly flattering to her figure. And felt her cheeks heating at the realisation that he would have an exceptionally good view of her feminine attributes should he reach over her to pour wine.

What on earth had come over her? It had never occurred to her that a footman might look at her during the course of performing his duties. She did not think she was a complete snob, but never before had she thought of any servant as…well…as a man! What was more, she had never been the sort of girl who craved male attention. Her aunt was not of the opinion that it was every young lady’s duty to marry as soon as possible, so had not encouraged her to mix with the so-called eligible young men of their district. And what she had observed of masculine behaviour, from a decorous distance, had given her no reason to kick against her aunt’s prejudice against the entire sex.

Yet every time she saw this footman her thoughts began to wander into most improper territory!

Full of chagrin, she plucked up her shawl and settled it over her shoulders, making sure that it covered her bosom.

‘Cold, love?’ her aunt asked.

‘Um…a little,’ she said. Then, because she hated being untruthful, ‘Though I think it is mainly nerves that are making me shiver.’

‘I know what you mean,’ her aunt murmured.

She glanced once more at the footman, warily. He was standing in the doorway, tugging his wristbands into place as, wooden-faced, he watched the assembled ladies rise to their feet and begin to gravitate towards the dining room.

‘So, Bella, you have decided to show your face in society again, have you?’

The booming voice of the ruddy-faced man who stood glaring down at her aunt jerked Helen’s attention away from the fascinating footman. General Forrest was, naturally, older than Helen remembered him, though not a whit less intimidating.

He had not stopped shouting, so far as she could recall, from the moment she had arrived on his doorstep until the moment she’d left. ‘The girl’s mother has plenty of other sisters!’ was the first thing she could remember him bellowing at his wife, who had shivered like an aspen leaf under the force of his fury. ‘Pack her off to one of them!’

He had then slammed back into his study, where he’d carried on shouting at whoever was inside. When Isabella had eventually emerged, head high, lips pressed tightly together and a suspicious sheen in her eyes, the ten-year-old Helen had immediately felt a strong sense of kinship with her.

She had knelt down in the hall, looked the tearful Helen in the eye, and said, ‘Would you like to come home with me? I should love to have a little girl to call my own. Without—’ and she had glared darkly up at her glowering brother ‘—having to go through the horrid experience of having to marry some repulsive man to get one.’

Since the General had already made it perfectly clear he did not want to be saddled with a half-French brat, she had slipped her hand into that of the older woman.

‘If you insist on taking on my wife’s niece, on top of all the other outrageous things you have done, then you will have only yourself to blame if I cut you out of my life!’ he had bellowed.

They had not looked back. And, just before slamming the door shut on them, the last words he had uttered were, ‘That’s it! I wash my hands of you, Bella!’

As a child, General Forrest had seemed enormous to her. And, though Helen no longer had to crane her neck to look up at him, the years had added to his bulk, so that he still seemed like a very big man.

But he did not intimidate her aunt, who lifted her chin and glared straight back.

‘Needs must when the devil drives.’

‘Harrumph!’ he replied, holding out his arm for her to take.

He completely ignored Helen. She battened down her sense of affront. Not only was she going to have to inure herself to a lifetime of snubs once she became a governess, but General Forrest had never thought much of her in the first place.

Helen looked beyond the General’s bulk and saw, hovering in his shadow, the thin, anxious woman Helen dimly remembered as her real aunt.

A bored-looking man materialised at Helen’s side, led her into the dining room, and showed her to a seat about halfway along the table. She assumed he must be Sir Mortimer Hawkshaw, though he did not deign to introduce himself or attempt to make conversation. It was galling to think that even he looked down his nose at her, she reflected bitterly. Though they both occupied the lowest social position, so he could only be another of the Earl’s poor relations.

They all stood in silence behind their chairs, heads bowed, while an absurdly young clergyman said grace.

Helen could not help glancing down to the foot of the table, where an extremely haughty-looking woman who was dripping in diamonds and sapphires was taking her seat, and then turning to take her first look at her host, the head of her aunt’s extended family. The man who held her aunt’s entire future in his hands.

And felt her jaw drop.

Because, just being eased into the chair at the head of the table by the stately elderly butler who had earlier thrown open the doors to the dining room and declared dinner was served, was…

The man she had assumed from the first moment she had clapped eyes on him to be nothing more than a footman!

Chapter Three

How could he be so young?

When her aunt had spoken of her nephew, the head of her family, she had made him sound like a curmudgeonly old misanthrope of at least fifty years. Lord Bridgemere could not be a day over thirty.

And why did he not dress like an earl?

He was one of the wealthiest men in the country! She would have thought he’d be the most finely dressed man in the place. Whereas he was the most plainly, soberly attired of all the men at table. He did not so much as sport a signet ring.

Well, now she knew exactly what foreign visitors to England meant when they complained that it was hard to tell the difference between upper servants and their masters, because of the similarity of dress. Not that she was a foreigner. Just a stranger to the ways of grand houses like this.

And he did not act like an earl, either! What had he been about, carting her aunt upstairs, when there was a perfectly genuine footman on hand to perform that office? And as for loitering about on the backstairs…well, she simply could not account for it!

The Earl turned his head and looked directly at her. And she realised she was the only person still standing. And, what was more, staring at the Earl of Bridgemere with her mouth hanging open.

She sat down swiftly, her cheeks flushing hot. Oh, heavens, what must everyone think?

And what did he think? Did he find it amusing to masquerade as a servant and humiliate his guests? What an odious, unkind…If he was laughing at her, she did not care what anyone else thought of her, she would…she would…

She darted him an inimical glare. Only to find that he was talking to the lady on his left-hand side, a completely bland expression on his face, as though nothing untoward had occurred.

She felt deflated. And foolish.

But at least he had not exposed her to ridicule by any look, or word, or…

No, she groaned inwardly. She had managed to make herself look ridiculous all on her own!