Music and Mistletoe: A Ridlington Christmas Novella

by Sahara Kelly

  She sighed, squared her shoulders and set about bidding a final farewell to the unexpected guests.

  There were hands shaken, heads rubbed, a hug from little Elizabeth, and more grateful thanks from the Muirs. Finally, after retrieving a missing mitten, and ensuring that Jonathan had taken care of personal matters before getting into their carriage, they were ready to leave.

  “Have a safe journey,” called Perry, as hands emerged from the windows and began to wave.

  “Goodbye. Happy Christmas.” Grace waved back, catching her breath as one lead horse lost his footing for a brief instant, then quickly got back into step with his fellows. “Will they be all right?” She glanced at Perry.

  He smiled back. “Yes, I’m sure they will. If the roads are not paved, then the worst that can happen is they’ll arrive home with a very dirty coach. If the roads are paved, they’ll make excellent time.” He pointed at a shrub just outside the steps. The leaves were shiny and dripping. “See? The ice is almost gone.”

  She nodded and walked back into the hall. “Then I must tidy up and gather my belongings.”

  He gave her an odd look, then closed the door. “Yes, we must be on our way too.”

  *~~*~~*

  All too soon they were tucked into Perry’s travelling carriage and casting last looks at the house where they had encountered such unexpected events.

  Perry sighed and leaned back against the squabs, watching the countryside roll past. “Well, what do you think, Grace…should I purchase the place? Rename it Hawkesbury Hall or some such thing?”

  She turned to him, her expression calm. “It would seem to be a solid building, and as we noticed, the rooms are well arranged. I would expect there to be some outlay for repairs and renovations, or whatever you felt might suit you better, but the location is convenient and the property most attractive.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Far be it from me to advise you on such things, but you could do a lot worse.”

  “I agree,” he nodded. “It has the additional charm of already housing a skeleton staff which has proved itself amazingly capable. For that alone, it would be worth the purchase price.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You liked it, then?” He watched her hands as her fingers moved restlessly inside her kid gloves.

  “I did. It has all the makings of an excellent country home, and I can only imagine the pleasant vistas once spring comes. If it ever does,” she added.

  Perry wasn’t sure what to say. This conversation was quite proper, their tones modulated, the subject matter appropriate to the moment.

  Yet behind the civilised facade, he wanted to seize her, pull her onto his knees and delve beneath her skirts. Or under her travelling cloak. Or anywhere he could feel skin, because she was the softest thing he’d ever felt and he craved more. Much more.

  But instead they sat side by side, chatting about nothing in particular, passing comments on the weather, and presenting the appearance of two acquaintances sharing a journey, rather than two lovers who had passed some heated hours the night before twined around each other in deliciously disgraceful nudity.

  If she’d given him some hint, some indication that she was willing to discuss matters of import to them both, he’d have welcomed it.

  But something in her demeanour kept him silent. As if she’d thrown up a wall, through which he could not pass.

  He took a breath, determined to broach the subject as best he could, only to be rocked roughly as the carriage swerved to avoid a mail coach, horn blasting, going the other way.

  Grace hung on to her bonnet and Perry found he was holding her tightly without even realising he’d put his arms around her. It just seemed second nature to want to protect her in every way.

  She straightened herself and he had no choice but to let her go. “Thank you, Perry. That was quite a bump, wasn’t it?” A brief smile followed her words. “Oh…look. We’re already at the outskirts of London. Not far now.” She managed to slide closer to the window, putting a slight distance between them.

  He felt awkward, which was very unlike him, and made him uncomfortable.

  “Grace, we should discuss matters.”

  She did not turn to him. “Oh, I don’t think there’s much to say, really, other than to thank you for a delightful little adventure.” Her fingers tugged at the light scarf beneath her bonnet, pulling it over the scars on her cheek. “I believe you asked the driver to take me directly to Mowbray House?”

  “I did, yes.”

  He was angry now. A ball of worry had formed in his gut, and the fact she could avoid any conversation of a personal nature, when he felt it was so important, annoyed the hell out of him. And he did not regard their activities as a delightful little adventure.

  But he had no idea how to broach the subject, if she truly believed what she had just said.

  *~~*~~*

  He was angry.

  Grace could almost feel waves of it rolling from his body to hers, but held to her commitment. The one she’d made to herself as the door of the country house had closed behind them.

  Their idyll had been just that—an idyll.

  And it was now over.

  She hoped they could continue to be friends since she’d come to enjoy their occasional meetings. He was an attractive man with a sharp mind, the latter especially appealing to Grace, who had learned to value intellect every bit as much as charm and appearances.

  But as far as becoming his mistress…well, she really wasn’t interested in that at all. Her life was quiet, well ordered, and—she confessed to herself—occasionally quite dull. But that didn’t mean she was about to run to the other end of the scale and become the possession of an affluent man.

  Max and Kitty had already done that in their own unique way. She would not be so mundane as to follow in their footsteps.

  It had been difficult, without a doubt. His brief kiss in the morning had surprised her with how familiar and natural it felt. And as she dressed, she chided herself for thinking it could be anything more than just a casual moment of weakness between them.

  Well, several moments of weakness. Long moments.

  That line of thought quickly took her down a path to a place she knew she did not belong—in Perry’s life. Nor he in hers. They were disparate people, on different levels of society and marriage would be out of the question.

  She was the scarred widow of an insane husband.

  He the elegant and influential definition of a London gentleman of the Ton.

  Grace knew all too well the value placed on such things when it came to a life in London Society. Perry might have been on the reclusive side of London life, but his range of acquaintances covered the town from St. James’s Palace to the Horse Guards to who knew where.

  He wore his power and his knowledge discreetly, but they were there nevertheless. She had sensed them, heard glimmers in his conversations, and respected his brilliant mind and intricate thought processes. He would have been an asset to Whitehall during the Napoleonic war, and might well have done something in that capacity back in the early days, when Lord Nelson was heading to Egypt and those notorious battles.

  There was no link, no commonality to be found between Sir Peregrine and shy, quiet, damaged Grace Chaney.

  Nor could there ever be more than the few hours of pleasure they’d encountered in each other’s arms.

  So it was with a calm exterior and a firmly clenched jaw that Grace dismounted from the carriage, takings Deery’s hand as he welcomed her back to Mowbray House.

  Perry came around to bid her farewell.

  “Thank you, Sir Peregrine. You have been everything that is kind and gracious. This will be an outing I shall long remember as one of the most pleasant interludes.” She dipped him a tiny curtsey, ignoring his frown as best she could. “May I wish you Happy Christmas?”

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Of course, and I shall return those wishes. In person. Very soon.”

  There were words she wanted
to say, but knew she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. They were trapped in her throat by that lump of painful determination.

  She had no other choice. She had to turn away, to leave him standing there, knowing he was watching her enter and then seeing the door close behind her.

  As it did so, she had the strangest urge to burst into tears.

  “Mrs. Chaney, welcome back. We were a little concerned, but since you were with Sir Peregrine, we assumed all would be well. Mr. Max and Mrs. Kitty left for Ridlington early this morning, once they saw the roads were clearing.” Deery’s voice was a familiar and comforting sound. “Would you care for a cup of tea or something to eat after your journey?”

  She looked around, lost for a second or two. Then she shook her head. “Thank you Deery, but no. Could you have the horses put to? I must be on my way home now.” She sighed. “There’s nothing for me here anymore.”

  Within half an hour, Grace was on the road to Seton Hall, staring from the carriage window but blind to the passing scenery. She was warmly tucked up in furs and muffler, but that was superficial at best.

  Inside she felt cold and empty. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation.

  Chapter Eleven

  Perry’s carriage seemed sombre and silent once Grace had gone. Her fragrance lingered though, something light and floral mixed with the scent of woman.

  He frowned, trying to understand why he was alone, and why the woman with whom he’d spent some highly erotic and passionate hours had walked away from him with nary a backward glance.

  Had she not felt anything at all? That was absurd. He had held her body as she exploded, and he would bet his last groat that she’d not pretended any of her pleasures.

  Perhaps she had simply used him? She was tight; so tight he knew she’d not taken lovers lightly or often, if at all. It would not surprise him to learn he was the first since her husband died.

  But no, that approach brought him around to her own self-perception—those damned scars of hers.

  He could not imagine what she had suffered, the attack and the consequent horror of her husband’s suicide right in front of her.

  Being an intelligent and well-read man, he was fairly confident that she would have tried to blame herself for everything, and perhaps even believed her scars might have been well-deserved. Horribly wrong thinking, but understandable. Her self-imposed seclusion of so many years had contributed to her introspective manner, and he could only be glad that Kitty Ridlington had come along to upend the Seton-Mowbray household and encourage Grace back into the edges of Society, at least.

  The arrival of the carriage at his own front door interrupted Perry’s cogitations, and he walked in, thankful to find Morris, efficient as always, waiting for him in the hall.

  “Welcome home, Sir Peregrine.” He bowed and helped his master remove his travelling garments. “A productive trip one hopes?”

  “In a way,” muttered Perry, stripping off his gloves.

  “There was some concern about your person after the ice storm began, but we were reassured that your native intellect would keep you safe and sound.”

  Perry raised an eyebrow. “My native intellect?”

  “Your natural brilliance, sir.”

  “Ah. I see.” Somewhat embarrassed by the encomium, Perry gave a small shrug and then walked into the parlour. A fine fire warmed the room, there was a table by his favourite chair designed for the tea tray Cook was doubtless putting together at this very moment, and his books—his beloved books—were exactly where he left them.

  “Tea is on the way, sir, along with your favourite scones. Cook felt that after such a trip you would be what she calls a mite peckish?”

  Perry paused. He looked around once more at his home, the place where he’d spent so much time in the last few years. It had made him…content.

  Awareness crept up his spine with a clawing chill.

  Yes, it had made him content, but it hadn’t made him happy. Grace had made him happy.

  “I’ll take the tea, Morris, but upstairs in my chamber. I need to bathe and change. And while I’m doing that, can you arrange for a horse? I’ll be going back out immediately, and since the weather’s cleared, I won’t need a carriage.

  “But…but you only returned a moment ago, sir.”

  “I know.” He beamed at the man as he hurried past him and into the hall. “But I just realised that I forgot something.”

  And within the hour, a cleaned, refreshed, determined Sir Peregrine—fortified by several excellent hot buttered scones—dashed from the house, mumbling something about Christmas around the last mouthful.

  “And happy Christmas to you too, sir,” answered Morris, guessing at the sentiments.

  Watching the master almost leap onto the back of his horse in his hurry to leave, Morris shook his head and closed the front door. “There’s a woman behind this,” he muttered. “Mark my words. A woman.”

  *~~*~~*

  Grace welcomed the sight of her own front door as her carriage pulled up and lurched to a halt.

  “Here we are then, Ma’am.” Michael, the postilion, was already at the door and opening it to lower the steps.

  “Thank you, Michael,” she smiled. “Are you still liking your schooling?”

  “Oh very much, Ma’am,” he nodded enthusiastically and helped her to the ground. “When Mr. Walker allows me to take the reins—well it’s beyond wonderful.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it. Do keep it up. There will always be a need for good drivers.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” He touched his cap as she walked past him and up the steps into Seton Hall, where her butler and housekeeper awaited her.

  The latter was wringing her hands. “Mrs. Chaney, we’re that glad to see you home at last.”

  Grace held back a sigh. “And I’m happy to be here. I know you must have worried, but the weather turned bad so quickly that there was no chance to get a message to you all.”

  “We guessed that might be it, Ma’am,” responded Tortle, her butler. “And since you would not venture out in such inclement weather, we tried not to be unduly concerned.” He shot a reproving look at the housekeeper.

  “Well actually I was out of town. Marooned, as it were,” she smiled. “But since I was with Sir Peregrine Hawkesbury, and a delightful family with five children, being isolated for a day was not a hardship.”

  “But you had no change of clothing, Ma’am,” exclaimed the scandalised housekeeper. “However did you manage?” The woman’s eyes were wide as she took Grace’s bonnet and nervously straightened the ribbons.

  “Quite well, as it happens.” I took them off and slept naked.

  The memory of that occurrence made Grace shiver, and she moved away from the door and into her own front hall.

  “Well you just come right into the parlour and tea will be here before you know it. You must be chilled, and ready for a bath too, I’ll be bound.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Heathers.”

  Her response to the housekeeper was routine, since the comforting familiarity of her surroundings began to soothe her mind. The fire in the small parlour was blazing, and everything was where she had left it a few weeks ago. Her trip to see Max and Kitty had been an impulsive pleasure; what it led to had been unexpected and wonderful.

  Now it was over.

  She took a breath. The window showed sunlight against leafless branches, and dull evergreens recovering from their icy bath. The view was as familiar as her own face, since she’d called this house home as a child, and again as a widow.

  So why wasn’t she more delighted to be here? Where was the sense of peace, of serenity, that usually flooded her after being away?

  Walking out of the parlour, she crossed the hall to the music room. There was no fire burning in here, but it wasn’t cold enough to make her shiver. She moved to the piano and sat, opening the lid and staring at the keys. They had become her friends and the music she made with them had become both her parties and her pleasures. But now, sitting there, h
er hands hovering…she realised there was something very wrong.

  Something missing.

  Abruptly she rose and closed the piano.

  “Mrs. Heathers,” she called as she walked back into the hall.

  “Yes, Ma’am?” The woman hurried from a side door. “Your tea isn’t quite ready…just a few more moments.”

  “I’ll have it in my room. I want a bath, a change of clothes—the blue riding habit I think, because it’s warm—and a horse.”

  “A…a…horse?”

  “Yes, a horse. I have to ride somewhere. Please have Susan lay out my things?” She began to mount the stairs, then glanced back. “You did understand all that, right?”

  The housekeeper closed her mouth with a snap and nodded. “Of course, Ma’am. Only…are you sure you want to go back out? It’s Christmas Eve, don’t forget.”

  “I haven’t,” chuckled Grace. “Believe me, I haven’t.”

  “But…but…” The woman was clearly struggling and Grace took pity on her.

  “Where am I going?”

  “Yes…”

  “I have to collect something, Mrs. Heathers. In fact…” she grinned. “It’s my Christmas gift.”

  *~~*~~*

  Perry relished the feel of the horse between his knees, even thought it had been sometime since he’d indulged in the pleasure of riding.

  Far too long, he realised, as it took him several minutes to adjust to the gait of his mount.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have a great distance to travel, since Mowbray House was only a couple of miles from his own, and he hoped to make good time.

  He’d not considered the amount of traffic he might encounter, of course. And it was Christmas Eve, so many of London’s residents had decided to emerge from their homes and share the greetings of the season with each other.

  There was music now and again, several fires with the scent of roasting chestnuts in the air, and people—everywhere people—wrapped up warmly and walking arm-in-arm with rosy cheeks and smiling faces. What the hell was going on?