by Grace Austen
Perching rather precariously while he stretched up his arm, he pulled the bunch of mistletoe free from the rough bark. He found getting back down was much easier than climbing up had been, since gravity helped him along the way. And if it was more of a falling descent than anything else more intentional on his part, Modesty was kind enough to not remark upon it.
Once he had his feet planted firmly under him on the damp ground, he held the mistletoe up triumphantly in his hand. Modesty stepped closer to take the small branch from him, putting herself directly beneath it. And Felton couldn’t resist leaning down and pressing his mouth to hers.
He felt a moment of guilt for stealing a kiss when she had just been lamenting the gentlemen who would seek to win her favor in pursuit of her dowry. Not that Felton cared a wit about her father’s money, since he no longer had a desperate need to wed an heiress.
Then Modesty’s eager response sent heat rushing through his body, burning up all rational thought.
Her lips were soft against his, her skin cool from the frosty, mist-shrouded air. Her hands came up to grip his overcoat as he drew her closer and wrapped his arms around her, the mistletoe slipping from his fingers to lay forgotten on the ground.
It was sheer heaven—until his senses returned, forcing him to pull away from her.
“Pray, forgive me, Miss Gibbs. I forgot myself for a moment.” He put more distance between them, allowing the chill air to cool his raising ardor. “We should seek out your maids.”
The light dimmed from Modesty’s eyes as she nodded in agreement and turned back the way they’d come. Felton bent over to pick up the sprig of mistletoe, then followed behind her.
As much as he wanted Modesty for himself, he would never bring dishonor to her and her family—her father especially—by attempting to convince her to go against her parents’ wishes and elope with him instead.
Chapter 4
“You’ll be doing a tremendous favor for me, Felton, if you consent to join us at tonight’s dinner party,” Reginald Gibbs stated. “There was a late minute addition to the guest list—a young woman who is a friend of Modesty’s—and Mrs. Gibbs is all atwitter that the numbers will not be even. She has put much effort into this evening, as she’s invited several unattached gentlemen who we hope might prove to be a suitable match for Modesty.”
“Of course. I’d be delighted,” Felton answered, no matter that it wasn’t strictly the truth.
However, he felt under obligation to accept since the older man had just agreed to help fund Felton’s latest business venture, after much heated and long-drawn-out debate regarding the potential risks.
Though the very last thing Felton desired to do was to watch other men vie for Modesty’s notice in the hope of gaining her hand in marriage—and the large dowry which came with it.
He bowed to the older man. “I shall return at half past four,” he promised. “Does that suit?”
“Yes, yes, that’s fine. I’ll look for you then.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as though his head pained him greatly. “Mrs. Gibbs is at her wits ends—and has not given me a moment’s peace, besides—Modesty has some unreasonable notion to refuse anything save a love match. But I fear some title-less jackanapes will seek to compromise her to gain her dowry, and she shall suffer for her imprudently idealistic outlook. Then, I would be compelled to do something truly drastic.”
The older man sounded as though he expected that some unscrupulous man might try to force himself on Modesty against her will. The very idea was abhorrent to Felton.
Yet, he couldn’t help but think that the older man was referring to Felton himself with such remarks. Was Reginald Gibbs none-too-subtlety warning him off?
But Modesty’s father could not have known about the kiss they had shared in the woods near Felton’s estate a few days before. Could he? If he did, that would explain why he’d agreed to fund Felton’s latest venture, at last, in order to protect his daughter from what he perceived as Felton’s dishonorable intentions toward her dowry. But an innocent mistletoe kiss was something altogether different.
Felton hadn’t forced his attentions on Modesty. He would never. Though he might have taken her by surprise, she’d been a willing partner in their kiss.
And while his behavior toward the Duke of Kilmerstan’s sister had been reprehensible, Felton had merely tried to convince her to elope with him to Gretna Green. And very nearly succeeded. His method had not been seduction, however. She’d had stars in her eyes and been swept away by the romance of it all, and a few meaningless romantic gestures.
To discover now, that the man he admired above all others was calling his honor into question? It was beyond what Felton wished to endure.
“I shall see myself out.”
The mere thought of the older man’s possible lack of faith in him left an ill feeling in the pit of Felton’s stomach as he left Stonebridge Manor.
Nonetheless, he returned later that evening, as promised.
When he entered the house, Mrs. Gibbs seemed surprised by his arrival. Had her husband failed to mention that there would be one more guest at dinner? No matter.
Felton was there now, and he intended to get through the next few hours by whatever means necessary, until he could reasonably take his leave once more without giving rise to gossip. Hopefully, those means would not require him to fight another duel after calling out one of Modesty’s would-be suitors. But the night was still young.
Despite the delicious food placed before him, he lost all appetite as he watched the other men present make utter fools of themselves in an attempt to gain Modesty’s favor.
One mortifyingly forward young gentleman proved to be a particular thorn in Felton’s side. Remembering Reginald Gibbs’s remarks earlier that day in his study, Felton felt his anger raise.
Obviously, a fortune-hunting future Viscount was more than acceptable to Modesty’s parents, so long as the young man stood to inherit a title. Of good family, but impoverished means, Morgan Mead’s grandfather, the former Viscount of Laxenburg, had proved to be a very poor estate manager, allowing the ancestral lands and grand manor house in nearby Wasterham to fall into a regrettable state of disrepair.
The meal was only made tolerable for Felton by Modesty’s friend, Eleanor Cranshaw, seated on his right. An amiable young woman, with light brown hair and pale gray eyes, she was a pleasant companion as she engaged him in quiet, banal conversation. As one course was removed and the next brought out, it seemed almost as though he and Miss Cranshaw resided inside their own little bubble, apart from the majority of the dinner guests vying for Modesty’s attention.
But as pleasing as Eleanor Cranshaw was, she did not affect Felton in the way that Modesty seemed able to without effort or intent. Nor could Miss Cranshaw hope to hold his full focus when Modesty sat across the table from him.
The dinner party proved to be a comedy of errors, in Modesty’s estimation. Though she could find little humor in the situation since she had been forced to play one of the leading roles in this evening’s farce. Perhaps, she should have likened it to a tragedy instead.
Eleanor’s presence had not had the desired effect, since she possessed neither name nor fortune to recommend her as a marriage prospect for the assembled gentleman. And the only man Modesty had an interest in had been seated across the table while she suffered through the other males’ attentions, as they highlighted their dubious attractions through word and deed.
The aged, rail-thin Earl of Markham had almost come to grief when he’d tripped over the edge of the Aubusson rug in the front parlor when he’d shuffled forward to bow over Modesty’s hand.
Then he had fallen asleep in his soup during the first course, accompanied by loud snores, only to jerk awake a short while later and demand to know “what so many people are doing in my bedchamber at this time of the night.”
The Marquis of Sedgewick, in his middle years and with a considerable girth, had spent more than three-quarters of an hour relating stories abo
ut what holy terrors his eight sons were, aged seventeen to two.
Though he claimed, “The twins were merely showing their cleverness by hiding a snake in their governess’s bed.” Little wonder why the poor woman had quit without notice.
But worse of all, Morgan Mead, heir to the Viscount of Laxenburg, had spent the whole of the dessert course detailing the deteriorated state of his family’s entailed properties, and giving an accounting down to the last ha’penny of how much money would be required to complete all the needed repairs—making no bones about the fact that the size of Modesty’s dowry served as her greatest enticement for him.
“The refurbishments to Laxenburg House alone will run in the tens of thousands of pounds,” he felt no compunction in divulging. “You must see why I am in want of a wealthy wife to refill the family coffers.”
Yet, he seemed to be the one Georgina Gibbs favored, for some unfathomable reason utterly unknown to Modesty. True, he was young and handsome, with a full head of light blond hair, all his own teeth, no unruly dependents, and a dashing air—when his pompous pretensions didn’t get in the way.
But Modesty required more than superficial charm and a fair face in a potential husband. Especially when the gentleman in question was penniless, as well. By the end of the evening, she was even more determined than ever to find a way to escape her mother’s horrid attempts at matchmaking.
Particularly, since she’d passed a miserable hour following dinner, when the assembled guests had repaired to the parlor, dodging countless attempts by a certain gentleman to catch her underneath the copious sprigs of mistletoe, which her mother had scattered about the room. Just when Modesty had thought she’d discovered all the areas best avoided, it seemed the parasitic plant spread to a new spot in order to catch her unawares.
She would have felt much merrier about the dratted Christmas tradition, if Felton had been the one endeavoring to steal a kiss.
A few evenings later at Baron Ockley’s country dance, Modesty was again at great pains to evade the persistent pursuit of Morgan Mead, future Viscount of Laxenburg.
He cornered her near a small potted evergreen tree she had hoped would screen her, thus sparing her from further interactions with unwanted suitors.
“I intend to speak to your father,” Mr. Mead informed her after a few minutes of tiresome banalities.
She wished she could tell him to not bother, but her mother would have a fit of apoplexy if she heard Modesty discouraging a future Viscount’s suit.
Modesty had to bite her tongue to hold back the words she yearned to utter.
She longed for the freedoms she’d enjoyed in Paris. And she missed her Grandmamma dreadfully. The English gentry were so much more rigid and stuffy than the French.
“After we’re married—” Laxenburg’s heir started.
Modesty stopped listening then, however.
If she had any say in the matter, they would never marry. But it likely wasn’t up to her to decide…alas, she feared her wants mattered not a whit, since her mother and father were determined to see her wed to a member of the aristocracy.
“Shall I partner you during the next set, Miss Gibbs?”
Modesty found this gentleman’s fervent forwardness terribly off-putting, and she opened her mouth to demur. “In truth, I’m in need of some refreshment, Mr. Mead.”
“Of course. I shall procure a glass of punch for you and return in a trice.”
She accepted gratefully, breathing a relieved sigh as he departed and made his way to the far side of the large ballroom.
“I believe this dance is mine, is it not, Miss Gibbs?”
Modesty turned at the sound of Felton’s voice, grateful for his timely rescue. She did not care to be standing around like a bump on a log upon Mr. Mead’s inevitable return.
“Yes, it is, Mr. Banfield,” she agreed, though, in truth, her dance card had no name written down next to this dance.
As Felton led her out to the center of the ballroom floor, the candlelight glinted on his red hair, making it blaze like the flickering flames overhead. His blue eyes lit with what appeared to be joy when she placed her hand in his.
Or was she allowing her foolish heart to run away with her, imagining things that were not there?
They joined the line of dancers forming, Felton’s gaze taking in Modesty’s loveliness. Her silky, dark hair was swept up at the back of her head with a few curls left loose to caress her bared shoulders. She wore a gown in a light bluish-green shade with a silver net overlay.
The orchestra began playing a lively tune, and Felton and Modesty moved through the figures of a quadrille. They parted for a moment as the steps of the dance drew them apart, then they came back together again.
“How goes the husband hunting?” he asked, disregarding the fact that he did not truly desire to know whether Modesty was shortly to be betrothed.
“According to Mother? Splendidly. Unfortunately.” Her velvet brown eyes seemed darker, her skin a shade paler than usual. “I’m certain Papa expects to receive an offer for my hand any day soon.”
It felt every bit as painful to hear her say the words as he had imagined. So, he didn’t ask if Morgan Mead was the gentleman in question. Felton didn’t wish to know the particulars. He especially didn’t wish to picture her and Mead together.
He remained silent until the quadrille had come to an end.
As they left the dance floor, Mead stepped forward to meet Modesty, a cup of punch in hand. Felton bumped into him, causing several drops to splash on the other man’s pristine white waistcoat.
“My apologies, old chap,” Felton said, as the liquid seeped into the fabric, looking like tiny spots of blood.
With a glare at Felton, Mead handed Modesty the glass of punch and excused himself, dabbing at his front with a napkin.
It might have been a petty act on Felton’s part, but at least the accident had served to send the other man into retreat to repair the damage.
Thus, freeing Modesty from Mead’s odious presence for a short time, at least.
Chapter 5
“Be still, Modesty!” her mother admonished, as the seamstress pinned the hem of the dark green ball gown, an elaborate creation containing yards of heavy velvet and satin.
Hundreds of sparkling jewels were sown onto the rich fabric, catching the light from the leaded-glass window with Modesty’s every fidget.
The final dress fitting was taking much longer than Modesty had expected. The seamstress from Upper Nettlefold had arrived at Stonebridge Manor with Modesty’s new gown well over three-quarters of an hour ago.
Or perhaps Modesty simply lacked the patience to stand docilely like a tussled-up Christmas goose ready for roasting. Though, all in all, she might well prefer the goose’s fate over the one her parents had planned for her.
Nonetheless, she straightened her posture and made a valiant effort to remain motionless.
Although a week had passed since Baron Ockley’s county dance, her feet still ached. Her mother had refused to allow her to sit out even one dance, no matter how Modesty’s jewel-encrusted slippers had pinched her toes and rubbed her skin raw. By the end of that night, her poor abused feet had been crying for relief. To say nothing of her poor beleaguered spirit, having been forced to suffer through Mr. Mead’s idea of courtship for much of the evening.
“The future Viscount of Laxenburg has spoken with your father, and Mr. Gibbs is inclined to give his consent to the match,” her mother remarked, as though she’d heard Modesty’s thoughts.
Modesty could scarcely take in the older woman’s words, and her heart jumped into her throat, making any reply impossible in that moment.
It was simply beyond bearing that Modesty should be forced to wed a man not of her choosing. Especially one she found as detestable as Morgan Mead.
Once an engagement was announced, her parents would never allow her to cry off, however. Something must be done posthaste. Before Modesty found herself trapped in a union with a man she could n
ever hope to love—and with no means of escape.
At dinner that evening, she informed her mother and father that she intended to visit Eleanor at the vicarage in Lower Nettlefold the next day. “But I will return home on the following morning, in plenty of time to attend the Duke’s ball three days hence,” she assured them. Though that was not her true intent.
She planned to visit Eleanor, as she’d said. However, she would not return home until after it was too late to attend the ball.
Not that she truly believed missing the Duke’s Christmas Ball would make much difference in the ultimate outcome of her parents’ bid to buy her a title—other than to delay it a bit. But she’d snatch at any sort of reprieve open to her.
Given enough time, Modesty might yet find a way out of this predicament. It was the season of miracles, after all.
Perhaps if she put up enough impediments, Mr. Mead would change his mind. Though she feared it was too much to hope…unless another vastly-wealthy heiress was close at hand to stumble conveniently into his path.
Upon Modesty’s arrival at the vicar’s house in Lower Nettlefold the following day, she sent her father’s coach and coachman back to Stonebridge Manor, excusing her actions by saying that her mother might wish to make use of the carriage for a trip into Upper Nettlefold, in order to purchase some last-minute odds or ends for the Duke’s ball. The servant had departed without demur.
“We must pay a call on Miss Henning while I am here,” Modesty suggested midway through the afternoon, after spending several cozy hours with Eleanor in front of a blazing fire at the vicarage.
“I don’t know.” Eleanor glanced doubtfully at the window. “It looks as though it might snow.”
“Nonsense,” Modesty replied. “That’s no reason to forego a visit with our favorite former teacher from our time together at St. Bernadette’s School for Girls.
After a bit more urging on Modesty’s part, she and Eleanor, accompanied by the vicar and his wife, headed out under lowering skies to walk the half mile to Miss Henning’s cottage.
