Regency Christmas Proposals: Christmas at Mulberry Hall / The Soldier's Christmas Miracle / Snowbound and Seduced

The problem of servants well in hand, as well as a locksmith to deal with the front door, it was Gray’s intention to ride over to Wycliffe Hall this morning to offer his apologies to the Earl of Stanford for not having believed the sincerity of the concerns voiced in the other man’s letter to him. It was the least Gray could do when he considered the terse reply he had sent two weeks ago!

It was also Gray’s hope that by his visiting Wycliffe in person the Earl’s bride of less than a year might be of some help in the problem of what Gray was to do with Amelia …

Something Gray did not feel the need to share with his overly curious ward! ‘I am not in the habit of having my movements questioned in this way, Amelia.’ He eyed her haughtily.

‘I was merely curious, My Lord.’

‘Then might I advise a little less curiosity and a little more discretion?’ Gray eyed her coldly. ‘It is time, Amelia—past time!—that you resumed your proper place in this household.’

‘My proper place, My Lord …?’

Exactly what was Amelia’s ‘proper place’ in his household? Gray considered. At nineteen, she perhaps believed herself too old to be referred to merely as his ward. But she certainly could not be referred to as the mistress of the house!

She raised curious blue eyes at Gray’s frowning silence. ‘My Lord?’

Gray’s irritation with this conversation grew. Along with his inability to find a suitable answer to her previous question …

‘Or perhaps I might call you Uncle now that we have finally met?’

‘Certainly not!’ Gray gave a shiver of revulsion at the mere idea of being addressed as ‘Uncle’ by this young lady. Damn it, it made him sound as old as Methuselah! ‘If you feel you must call me something else, then my associates usually refer to me simply as Gray,’ he invited stiffly.

‘If you please, My Lord, I believe I would rather call you Gideon …’

Gray stiffened. ‘No!’

Amelia eyes snapped mutinously at his obvious coldness. ‘I do not understand why not, when you call me Amelia …?’

‘I refer to you as Amelia because that is your name.’

‘And is Gideon not your own name …?’

It may well be, but no one ever called him by it. Not any more. Not since his brother Perry had died …

Amelia eyed Lord Grayson from beneath lowered lashes, aware that she must have said or done something to bring about that grimly bleak expression upon his rakishly handsome face. Simply because she had asked if she might call him Gideon …?

It had seemed like such a small thing to ask—especially as he had already given her permission to address him as Gray. ‘I had not meant to offend you, My Lord …’

He eyed her impatiently. ‘I am not in the least offended, Amelia, merely impatient to be about my business without further hindrance from you or anyone else!’

‘But should you not stay and have breakfast first—?’

‘Mrs Burdock supplied me with an ample breakfast several hours ago,’ he assured her quickly.

This did not fit in at all with Amelia’s image of Gideon Grayson as an inveterate rake and a gambler, either. Was it not the habit of rakes to remain out at their clubs or with their mistresses all night, before spending the day in bed sleeping off their excesses?

Perhaps rakes behaved differently when in the country?

Or perhaps Lord Gideon Grayson was not the rake and gambler he was reputed to be, after all …? His earlier mockery on the subject certainly seemed to indicate he was not.

Then what was he? How had he spent these last years in London? And could those pursuits possibly have something to do with the scars Amelia had discovered the evening before …?

Chapter Five

Gray was not in the best of moods as he handed the reins of his grey to the groom who had thankfully appeared as soon as he rode into the snow-covered stableyard on his return to Steadley Manor. Evidence that Ned, and hopefully Mr Davies, too, had been successful in persuading some of the servants into returning to the estate. As Gray strode purposefully towards the house he could only wish his own day had been spent as fruitfully.

To give the Earl of Stanford his due, the man had been only too happy to accept Gray’s apology—both for doubting the truth of his information and for Gray’s terse letter of response. And Alice, Stanford’s wife, had been warm in her sympathy. So warm and sympathetic, in fact, that after eating a delicious luncheon and imbibing far too much of a first-class wine Gray had felt comfortable enough in her company to broach the subject of Amelia. Most especially Gray’s immediate problem as to what to do with her whilst he spent Christmas at Mulberry Hall with the St Claire family.

A subject which in retrospect, Gray now accepted grimly, would have been far better left unsaid.

‘Will you join me for tea, Gideon …?’

Gray stiffened in the act of handing his hat and coat to the footman who had—again, thankfully—appeared as soon as Gray entered the house, slowly turning to face Amelia as she stood in the doorway of the Blue Salon. As usual she looked charmingly enticing, in a gown of cream silk, and the colour of her eyes was bright as she returned his gaze with innocent enquiry.

An innocence Gray would do well to remember in the future, he admonished himself firmly. ‘Tea?’ he repeated, with a delicate curl of his top lip.

‘Tea.’ Amelia gave a gracious inclination of her head. ‘Now that you are returned, I thought we might talk together as you suggested earlier …?’

The ride home had helped to dull some of the effects of the wine Gray had imbibed over lunch, but certainly not all of it. Neither was he any further forward—having totally dismissed Alice Wycliffe’s solution to the problem—in knowing what to do about Amelia whilst he travelled into Gloucestershire for Christmas.

‘We will only discuss how you wish to decorate the house for Christmas, if you would prefer, My Lord …?’ Amelia suggested tentatively as she obviously saw his frown of displeasure.

Gray’s scowl deepened just at the mention of Christmas, and he felt the beginnings of a headache pounding at his temple. ‘I have absolutely no interest in the subject of Christmas decorations!’

Amelia gave a lightly teasing laugh. ‘But we must at least bring in some holly and mistletoe! It will smell so wonderful, and—You had realised that Christmas is only a week away, Gideon?’

Of course Gray had realised. In truth, it had been part of his reason for visiting the Wycliffes. In the hope that they might offer to have Amelia with them at Wycliffe Hall for the holiday …

A hope that had been completely dashed once Daniel Wycliffe, a close friend of Hawk St Claire, Duke of Stourbridge, had informed Gray that he and his wife had also received and accepted an invitation to spend Christmas at Mulberry Hall. In fact it was their plan, due to Alice Wycliffe’s ‘delicate condition’, to begin a slow and leisurely four-day journey there on the morrow, in order that the Countess did not overtire herself.

‘You do intend being here for Christmas, Gideon …?’ Amelia looked uncertain at Gray’s continued silence.

That was a question Gray no longer had a straightforward answer to. His initial decision to come to Steadley Manor, deal with whatever needed dealing with here, ensure that his ward was being cared for, and then depart to Mulberry Hall for the Christmas holiday was no longer as clear-cut and decisive as it had once been.

Obviously some of the servants had returned to Steadley Manor whilst Gray had been with the Wycliffes, which would ensure Amelia’s comfort whilst he was away. But could Gray really just up and leave her here alone, apart from the servants, over Christmas? The warm and sympathetic Alice Wycliffe had not seemed to think it even a possibility.

The Countess’s solution to the problem?

Why, that Gray take Amelia to Mulberry Hall with him, of course! Which was utterly unacceptable!

‘Gideon …?’ Amelia prompted at his continued silence.

He did look wickedly handsome today, she acknowledged as a delicious shiver ran the length of her spine. So tall and darkly rakish, his hair slightly windswept from his ride, and his elegantly tailored clothes emphasising the width of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist, and the long length of his muscled legs.

Elegantly tailored clothes that ably concealed that scarred chest and back …

And, of course, the bandage upon his arm, where Amelia had shot him the previous evening!

He gave her an impatient glance as he strode purposefully across the entrance hall. ‘I suggest we retire to the privacy of the Blue Salon for this discussion, Amelia.’