His Mistletoe Marchioness

‘You needn’t remind me.’ He was the reason she’d already devoted too much time to preparing for dinner. Her inability to find an appropriate dress reminded her of the many times she’d stood before this mirror six years ago, feeling heavy and uncomfortable in all her country finery and inherited jewels, the reflection staring back at her one of a young lady who used to turn down dances for fear that she would step on toes and embarrass herself. Every evening before dinner, she would try on all her dresses, lamenting to Mary about her inability to look like a refined London lady. She’d once thought this was the key to securing Hugh’s heart. Instead, the way into his affection had been through more pounds and political influence than her family had possessed.

‘I think you should consider yourself very lucky,’ Anne said, drawing Clara back to the conversation.

‘Lucky? I am far from lucky.’ If she were lucky, then Hugh wouldn’t be here and she wouldn’t feel the need to prove herself to the likes of him or Lady Fulton. She had changed a great deal since the last time she’d been here—now the trick was proving it to everyone else, including herself at times.

‘Of course you are. If you forgive him, then there are no barriers to anything happening between the two of you this Christmas.’

Clara gaped at her sister-in-law, unable to believe the words that had just come out of her mouth while Clara was standing in her shift and chemise of all things. Clara stepped into her green dress, yanked it up and stuck her arms in the sleeves. ‘Life in the country has become quite dull if you’re suggesting something between me and Lord Delamare, a man who is nothing more than a fortune hunter who’d go through my money faster than he does actresses in London.’

‘He isn’t as bad as you and so many others think,’ Anne responded with surprising seriousness, having seen and heard a great deal more of Hugh than Clara had when she’d followed Adam to London every Season. But while she’d been discreet with her tales of him, others had not and a very different picture of him had emerged for Clara.

When Hugh had been a student at the Reverend’s school with Adam he hadn’t been so bad, but it wasn’t the case any more as she sadly knew from experience. During Hugh’s many visits to Winsome when she was a girl, he’d seemed so friendly, straightforward and predictable, enjoying riding and hunting like any young gentleman, but the candlelight had never caught in his eyes or his smile been as wide or charming as it had during that Christmas week. Some time between their meeting in the sitting room on the first day and the snowball fight in the garden, Hugh had stopped being simply her elder brother’s friend and had become very much more.

It wasn’t until the morning that he’d told her he would marry another that he’d suddenly become someone Clara didn’t recognise. After that disastrous Christmas, Adam and others had tried to convince her that Hugh wasn’t the rake Clara believed him to be. Hugh’s behaviour in London had proven them all wrong, making her brother’s continued faith in his old friend perplexing. Adam had always had their father’s gift of seeing the best in even the worst people. It was a trait she didn’t often share and Clara wondered what Hugh hid from Adam and Anne to keep them so enamoured of him. ‘What about the duel he fought? Only a true wastrel resorts to that kind of theatrics to resolve a dispute.’

‘You know how men are when it comes to their honour. Even the best of them can lose their heads at times.’

‘He isn’t the best of them, as proven by the tale of him and Miss Palmer at the theatre, the one that was in all the London papers that Lady Bellworth was kind enough to send us as if I’d wanted to hear news of Hugh, good or bad.’

‘According to Adam, the story is quite overblown. I think once you speak with him at dinner you’ll see that he isn’t the rake those rumours make him out to be.’

‘I doubt it.’ Clara peered at Anne while Mary did up the back buttons, amazed, after her earlier show of concern downstairs, that she would be this cavalier about Clara and Hugh. ‘Even if he is, I don’t care. I learned the hard way about him once before. It’s all I need to know about his character.’

She viewed herself in the mirror, silently admitting that the green dress did suit her better. Good. It would make her diamond and emerald necklace stand out and help banish the old self-consciousness nipping at her. While Hugh’s rejection had wounded her burgeoning confidence years ago, Alfred had made her certain of it, but he was gone and it was up to her to maintain her belief in herself.

She glanced at the door to her room and at the shiny knob reflecting the firelight. Just on the other side of it was where she and Alfred had truly met for the first time, on that Christmas morning after she’d come upstairs from meeting Hugh for the last time.

She’d struggled to remain composed until she’d been able to reach this side of the door and cry, but Alfred had been there to help soothe her broken heart...

* * *

‘Lady Exton, are you well?’

Genuine concern and not just the nicety of manners had driven Lord Kingston’s question. It had been there in his blue eyes with their faint lines at the corners.

He was older than her—thirty-five, perhaps—with dark hair touched with grey at the temples and the regal air of his class. He stood straight and tall, his strong features making him more debonair than a man like Lord Westbook, but there was a kindness about him that called to Clara.

‘Since the passing of my parents I sometimes find the holidays difficult to endure.’

If she’d known him better she might have wailed on his shoulder, as she wished she could still do with her mother who would have rushed to comfort her. But her mother was no longer there to offer her love or wisdom or even the strength to face the other guests.

All day today she’d have to sit beside everyone in church and across the table at dinner and pretend to be cheerful while her heart continued to break. Everyone had seen her and Hugh walking and playing cards and spending almost every moment they could in one another’s company. His having left and her looking more like it was All Hallows’ Eve than Christmas morning would make it obvious to everyone what had happened.

Hugh hadn’t just trifled with her and jilted her, he’d done it in the most public way imaginable, making the pain even more deep.

‘I understand. It was a great many years before I could enjoy Christmas after my wife passed. I assure you, Lady Exton, it does get easier with time.’

‘Does it?’ she whispered.

Her mother would have seen Hugh for the fortune hunter he really was and she would have warned Clara off him as she had the other fortune hunters in London. The lack of her mother’s love and guidance further tarnished an already clouded morning.

He reached into the pocket of his coat and took out a white handkerchief and handed it to her. ‘It does.’

She took his handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, embarrassed for almost losing her poise. ‘I’m sorry to cast a shadow over the merry day.’

‘Don’t be. A pretty young lady like you is allowed to be sad from time to time. If you weren’t, one would think you didn’t have a heart. May I escort you down to breakfast?’

He’d held out his arm to her, the tenderness in his eyes difficult to abandon for the cold emptiness of her room. There’d been enough of those sorts of mornings in the last two years, between her father’s death and then her mother’s passing. That Christmas had been supposed to be better—and it had been until that morning.

It could be again. She refused to make a pitying spectacle of herself in front of the other guests. Here was a man offering her genuine regard when she needed it, there was no reason not to accept.

She slid her hand over his arm and stood confidently beside him. ‘Yes, Lord Kingston, you may.’

* * *

The clang of the gong echoed up from the main hall and pulled her away from the sweet memory and back into the reality of the present. It was time to go down for dinner and Alfred wasn’t here to walk with her tonight. She must face whatever awaited her alone and deal with it as best she could. It made her wish she had packed up and gone back to Winsome.

No. I won’t be so weak. She took the gloves that Mary held out to her, cursing the tremor in her hands while she tugged them on. She shouldn’t be this nervous. Hugh meant nothing to her and what had happened was a long time ago. Except he did mean something, he represented everything Clara had been before she’d become a marchioness, an ill-at-ease girl who, despite a respectable inheritance, had been unable to catch or hold a gentleman’s attention long enough to secure a proposal. She was no longer that woman, but echoes of that girl dogged her steps as she escorted Anne out of her room and down the hall towards the stairs.

The old awkwardness was especially potent when they spied the end of the line of people waiting to queue up for dinner. A number of them smiled and nodded appreciatively, but it wasn’t them that Clara fixed on, but Lord Westbook and Lady Fulton. They stood one step apart, with Lord Fulton too engrossed in conversation with Lord Worth above him to care if his wife spent her time whispering to Lord Westbook. Lady Fulton’s small eyes widened at the sight of Clara, and Lord Westbook stopped his incessant talking to take Clara in.

Clara’s awkwardness melted away and she held her head high and strode forward with purpose, thankful Anne had suggested she change. Clara hadn’t forgotten Lady Fulton’s derisive remarks about her six years ago and the way they’d revealed her true opinion of Clara. She was not a girl in a simple dress and wearing her jewellery as if it were nothing better than an old chandelier chain that she’d decided to drape around her neck. Clara’s gown might be muted, but it was fine, and the emeralds she wore spoke of her increased status. She was no longer a plain country mouse, but a refined lady.

‘Lady Kingston, there you are. Come now, you must take your place beside Lord Delamare so we may all go in,’ Lady Tillman called out, moving up through the parting guests to reach Clara and take her by the hand.

Clara did her best to concentrate on the stairs and not trip over Lady Tillman’s short train as her hostess pulled her down the stairs. Around her, the line had gone silent and she could almost hear people wondering if they would be treated to the same show of courting and rejection that they’d witnessed six years ago. They would not enjoy any sort of amusement from her, assuming Hugh decided to behave with dignity when she reached him. If he wished to give a little of what he’d got from her in the library, this was a perfect opportunity to do it. She didn’t think him so petty, but after what she’d heard of him in London, it was a possibility. It made her want to twist out of Lady Tillman’s grip and run back to her room, but she would not look like a coward in front of the other guests, especially Lady Fulton. Instead, she would sit next to Hugh at dinner with all the bearing and dignity of a marchioness and everyone else could get their entertainment elsewhere.

Lady Tillman and Clara finally reached the bottom of the stairs and Clara stopped before Hugh, her heart racing from both the quick descent and her nerves. If Clara’s attire had changed in six years, then so had Hugh’s. He was taller than the gentlemen on the step above him and his broad shoulders did more credit to the wool covering them than the talents of his Jermyn Street tailor. His dark trousers hugged his trim middle and thighs, and he wore his hair combed back off his strong face, the knot of his white cravat tucked neatly beneath his square chin. If she hadn’t heard the rumours, she would have thought he’d spent the last three years at Everburgh riding and engaging in other sports, not in debauchery at the theatres and clubs of London.

‘Good evening, Lord Delamare,’ she greeted, trying to convince everyone, including herself, that it made no difference to her if she was seated next to him and that she could be gracious and friendly to an old flame with the poise expected of a woman of her standing.

‘Good evening, Lady Kingston. You look lovely tonight.’ His unstudied words raised Clara’s confidence higher than when she’d approached Lady Fulton at the top of the stairs and allowed her to breathe again. She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d descended, but she hadn’t expected this compliment and it almost rattled her surety, especially when Lady Tillman laid Clara’s hand on Hugh’s arm.

The sight of her satin-covered fingers against the black fabric of his coat brought back a hundred memories. They were of Alfred escorting her into dinner or a ballroom, the two of them chatting and laughing while they walked. It’d been two years since she’d stood beside a man like this and loneliness and loss overwhelmed her. It should be Alfred beside her, but it wasn’t and it never would be again.

‘Are you all right, Lady Kingston?’ Hugh laid his hand comfortingly over hers.

She raised her face to his, having forgotten for a moment to keep her chin up. She offered him a weak smile, trying to be regain her composure, but it was difficult with his warm hand covering hers. If she could let down her guard long enough to tell him the truth, she would, but she couldn’t, not here and certainly not with him. ‘Yes, only sometimes I find it difficult at this time of year.’

It was the most she could say.

‘I understand.’ He squeezed her fingers, his thumb lightly brushing hers, the steady motion soothing her. There was nothing calculated in the gesture or his words, only a desire to ease her pain in a way very few had tried to do since the weeks surrounding the funeral.

‘Are you ready to lead them in?’ Lady Tillman asked, drawing Clara’s attention away from Hugh.

‘Yes, of course,’ Clara stammered, everything she’d intended to do tonight from walking regally like a queen to ignoring Hugh thrown into confusion. For a long time, her grief had been hers alone to bear, expected by all to grow fainter as time passed, but he’d seen it and for a moment he’d helped her to shoulder it. This was a greater comfort to her than all the showing up of Lady Fulton and Lord Westbook, and it stunned her that it should come from him. After the way she’d spoken to him in the library, she’d expected derision instead of kindness.

They started off down the hall and she raised her head high, concentrating on the pearls woven in their hostess’s coiffure and not Hugh’s steady steps or the shift of his arm beneath her palm. His hand remained covering hers, the pressure of his fingers distracting. She wished he’d acted like a rake instead of a gentleman. It would make it so much easier to decide how to behave with him tonight. While his kind words were appreciated, it didn’t change their past or her opinion of him and this unfortunate seating arrangement.