by Carrie Lomax
Lunt’s thick eyebrows crawled together like wooly caterpillars. “But I have reached a settlement with your uncle.”
Anger flashed through Amity. “My uncle does not speak for me. My mother does.”
“Amity, love.”
Oh, not this again. She hated the way Lunt had taken to using the endearment over the past four days. He used it strategically to make it more difficult for her to break off with him. As though she wasn’t finding it difficult enough.
A few feet away, Holly pretended not to eavesdrop as she smiled and nodded at the Mayweather aunts and cousins who had arrived that morning. They could not stop complaining about having been delayed by the heavy snowfall. Mrs. Mayweather had agreed to host the new arrivals until well after Twelfth Night in recompense. Amity’s uncle had taken to worrying openly about the expense of hosting so many visitors for so long, in a year when their income had been devastated by the blanket of cold that covered England.
“Mr. Lunt, I beg you refrain from calling me by that term,” Amity said a little more sharply than she had intended to.
“We are to be married,” Lunt pointed out. “He shall settle one hundred pounds upon you upon marriage, and another fifty pounds per annum for five years thereafter.”
“Am I to be sold so cheaply?” Amity inhaled deeply, her breasts pressing hard against the bodice of the day dress she had borrowed from Holly. “If I am to sign away my life to a man, it will be one for whom I have feelings. Not one who used an injury to play upon my sympathies and press me into making a public announcement before securing my affections. How could I feel anything but resentment toward you under the circumstances, Mr. Lunt?”
A shocked silence fell over the room. Mrs. Mayweather’s expression turned serious, then exasperated. Holly, alone, beamed at her.
“I cannot have a second marriage rejected in my own parlor in the space of a week, Amity Mayweather.” Her aunt advanced upon her. The many offshoots of the Mayweather clan dispersed in every direction, only to fill the path behind her, craning their necks in curiosity. “The world will think Wells House is where love goes to die.”
“Mama,” Holly interjected, popping up to stand next to Amity. “Perhaps you should have considered our wishes before pressing us to marry where our hearts were not given, if you wished to guard your reputation as matchmaker.”
Amity gathered her courage, though slick anxiety turned her skin clammy. “I thank you and my uncle not to interfere where you have not been asked to help. Was my mother not to be consulted in my decision to marry?”
“Your mother is too soft-hearted to be trusted with your future, Amity. Can’t you see that?” Mr. Mayweather declared. “We offered to bring her to London, where she might find a suitable new husband. But no, Laura Mayweather was too enamored of my brother to ever countenance remarriage.”
The scorn in his voice made Amity see red. “Is this what you do to everyone? Arrange their lives for them without regard to their feelings or consent?”
“Yes,” interjected Holly. Her parents glared.
“You, of all people, need more direction than most,” huffed Mrs. Mayweather. “As though Lord Stockton will ever offer for you.”
“I cannot tell you how greatly I appreciate your confidence in my prospects, Mother. Besides which, it is better than marriage to a man who is in love with my cousin,” Holly shot back. Tears glimmered in her eyes, but judging from the stubborn tilt of her chin, her cousin would be damned before letting them fall.
“At least Mr. Weston possesses a fortune and the cool head to manage it properly,” shouted Mr. Mayweather.
In that moment, she chose to forgive her cousin’s manipulations. Holly had been instructed in the social art of deviousness from the cradle—and without her cousin’s intervention, Amity might never have fought for Finlay’s love. “That is no reason to bargain me away,” Amity pointed out with all the calmness she could muster. Standing up to Lunt had not come naturally, but she had done it, and pride blossomed in her bosom.
“Bargain you away?” Mr. Lunt interjected, pulling himself awkwardly onto the crutch he was using until his leg healed enough to walk on. “Some bargain. I have never been so insulted as to be dismissed by a young woman with no fortune, a middling-fair face and no future prospects to speak of. Mr. Weston may have you, Amity,” Lunt said bitterly as he crutched toward the doorway as rapidly as he could maneuver through the crowd of Mayweather relatives. “That is, if he ever comes back.”
11
Thus, the Mayweather’s Twelfth Night ball commenced with an edge of unease—at least for Amity and Holly, who huddled near the fireplace, pariahs, as other young ladies played the pianoforte. Nobody asked them to dance.
“I never meant to cause such a scandal,” Amity whispered, horrified at the part she had played in the debacle of the evening.
“The scandal is not you. It isn’t me, either. It is my parents,” Holly replied darkly. “We are only bit players in this family drama.” She had dressed in pale cream silk embroidered with pink and beaded with tiny seed pearls. Larger pearls decorated the fashionable curls that dangled to her shoulders like fat sausages. Her expression was one of determined good cheer, but when she spoke, her face fell, and tiny crescents formed at the corners of her mouth. She clutched the reticule Amity had made for her in one hand as if preparing to swing it at the first person to mention marriage.
Everyone apart from Holly and Amity appeared to be having a fine time. The extravagant Twelfth Cake stood regally in the center of a small, round table placed in the empty sitting room just off the parlor. Rather than destroy the lovely creation too early, Mr. and Mrs. Mayweather had passed out small cards with roles printed upon them. To everyone’s great amusement, the butler had drawn the King card and must be treated accordingly through endless games of charades.
Neither Holly nor Amity had been offered a card.
Where is Finlay?
Thoughts of marriage had flown straight out of Amity’s head once Lunt had spoken the unthinkable words that Finlay Weston was gone. The brewing scandal had begun to coalesce around the notion that he had been devastated by Holly’s spurning of his suit and retreated into hiding. Holly, as practical-minded as she was independent, rolled her eyes at this.
But Amity could not stop her the sense of unease. It would be just like Finlay Weston to disappear on some great errand and die in a snowbank, alone—without her there to save him, all because she had lost courage at the wrong moment. In retrospect, Lunt’s proposal had been as repulsive as his kiss beneath the mistletoe. Ill-timed. Undesired. Overbearing.
He had played upon her sympathies to push her into a marriage and, worse, Amity had let him. Her eyes darted to the door with greater and greater frequency as the night dragged on.
“He’s not coming,” Holly whispered sympathetically. “Between me and my parents, I doubt Mr. Weston will ever set foot in Wells House again.”
Amity sipped her wassail, which had grown cold and tasted of old apples. “I cannot blame him. I may never return to Wells House, either. Not even for you.”
“We must remain here slapping away children’s hands until the Twelfth Cake is served,” Holly observed grimly, a smile pasted over her face. “After that, I shall help you pack. I don’t suppose you’d consider bringing me with you?”
“Are you fond of raising chickens?” Amity asked skeptically. Curls bouncing, Holly shook her head in a mute no. “It won’t get you back to London and your Lord Stockton, either.”
“At least you shall have an ending to this painful mess, unlike myself. I am certain he cares for me. I only need to see him—”
A gust of cold air made the roaring fire sputter.
“Mrs. Mayweather, Miss Charity Mayweather, Miss Mary Anne Mayweather, Miss Leticia Mayweather,” announced a servant.
Blood drained from Amity’s face. “Mother,” she whispered. What on earth had possessed her family to come all this way in such horrid weather?
“And Mr. F
inlay Weston,” continued the servant.
Amity froze midrush toward her family. The room stilled. Her heart lurched into her throat. She fell into his dark gaze. “Finn,” she whispered.
“Am I too late, Amity?” he asked, chagrined. “I have come to take you to Weston Manor, if you wish it, after your mother has paid her respects to your uncle and aunt.”
“Yes, Finlay, I want to go with you.” Her feet flew, and suddenly Amity was in his arms, pressed against his chest so hard that the cold metal of his jacket buttons burned her bare skin. His mouth was cold, but when he parted to admit her wholly inappropriate and excessively enthusiastic kiss, she found warmth. Amity felt weightless with joy even after her feet touched the floor again.
“I see.” Her mother grinned at her from behind him. “You have had a very successful Christmas visit indeed.”
After a frosty reunion between the Mayweather woman who had once ruled Wells House and the present occupants, the sisters bundled back into the sleigh for a final night journey over the snowbound fields to Weston Manor.
Holly, who had dispatched her maid to assist Amity with gathering her few belongings, waved wistfully from beneath the portico, her crimson shawl visible long after she and Finlay swept away over the winter landscape in a second sleigh with her trunk in the front seat next to the driver. Stars twinkled overheat like millions of knowing eyes. Bells on the horses’ tack jingled merrily in the dark night. But best of all, Amity was tucked next to Finlay. Contentedness spread through her limbs. Amity yawned.
“Is that where you went for all this time? To Kearny?” she asked in a puff of steam, although she already knew the answer. How else would her mother and sisters have arrived here?
“I realized, Amity, that I have been a poor friend to ever since Ellis…passed.” He squeezed her shoulder and turned serious. “I thought it was more than I could bear to see anyone affiliated with your brother—most especially, you. But instead, the opposite happened.”
“How do you mean?” asked Amity, bewildered.
“I couldn’t understand at first why you disliked me so. Then, I thought, ‘why should Amity care for me?’” He swallowed. “I realized I had disappeared from your life when you needed me most. I had no idea what had happened to you, apart from your mother’s decision to move the family to a village where…”
“You can say it. Kearny is all charm and no opportunity.”
Finlay squeezed her hand. “It occurred to me that your mother’s jointure might have been insufficient to support a family of five women, but no one had ever thought to inquire after your welfare.”
“I don’t understand why this affects you now.” Amity didn’t want to ruminate upon the past. Yet, they needed to put this behind them. A future as bright as the stars beckoned.
“My own feelings about returning to my childhood home had been complicated. But my feelings about you, Amity Mayweather, are not.” Finn cupped her chin with one gloved hand. Amity had believed there could be no more perfect kiss than the one he had graced her with beneath the mistletoe. She was wrong. This kiss surpassed that by far. When they paused for breath, he whispered, “The moment I fell on you in a snow fort, I knew you were the beacon whose light I had been missing for ages. You fill a hollow ache I can hardly describe. The moment you pledged yourself to another man, I wanted to take revenge.”
Finlay’s grip tightened fractionally. Amity clutched his forearm and whispered, “I never meant to. I felt sorry for Lunt, and for myself. My attempt to be noble by standing aside while you courted Holly caused more heartache this Christmas than any of my aunt and uncle’s cold attempts to play matchmaker. Know this, Finlay Weston. I will fight tooth and nail against anyone who attempts to come between us again. I am honored that you came back for me.”
Amity kissed him this time, sliding her gloved hand up the front of his wool coat. They continued this way for the half-hour ride to Weston Manor. By the time they arrived at Weston Manor, the time was well past midnight and the state of their clothing was disreputable. Apart from a sidelong glance as them, Amity’s mother said nothing.
“Mary Anne fell asleep,” Leticia said the instant the sleighs pulled up to the grand, snow-caked edifice.
Mrs. Mayweather scanned his face. “Can you carry her?”
“Yes.” Finlay lifted Mary Anne as though the gangly, nearsighted girl weighed nothing. The six of them trooped into the house expecting emptiness, only to find…
A fire dancing in the parlor grate. The scent of curing plaster, mixed with beeswax from the candles along the hallway, permeated the air.
“The ladies’ rooms are ready and waiting,” said a bowing bewigged man whom Amity presumed to be the butler. “If I may show you the way.”
Finlay carried Mary Anne’s inelegantly sleeping form after his servant, taking great care not to knock her head or feet against the wall. Amity exchanged a smile with her mother.
“There are only two guest rooms prepared, sir,” explained the butler apologetically, unlocking a freshly stained oak door that swung open on silent hinges. Inside was a large four-poster bed hung with gold-fringed ivory brocade. Amity could smell the freshly hung wallpaper. Mary Anne barely stirred as Finlay laid her gently onto the bed.
“We can manage from here, Mr. Weston,” her mother said quietly. Beside her, Charity yawned. “Thank you for brightening our holidays.”
“It is a pleasure to reacquaint myself with the family. If I can bring a bit of merriment to my former neighbors at this bleak time of year, I am grateful for it.” Finlay bowed.
“I don’t know how Amity is to fit in the bed with us,” complained Charity. “Your snoring is bad enough, Letty.”
“I do not snore,” replied Leticia, who absolutely snored in the most unladylike fashion.
Amity tried to suppress a smile, but it took her mouth hostage anyway. “I can sleep in the—”
“In my bedroom,” Finlay interjected. “I shall rest on the chaise lounge in the antechamber. I had it moved out of storage for this purpose.” He bowed to Mrs. Mayweather. “Amity shall have the key. Her virtue is safe.”
Years of careworn toil fell away from her mother’s face as she smirked up at Finlay Weston. “If she wants it to be.”
“Mother,” Amity chided, her cheeks heating. “Finlay and I have much to discuss, as do we. I shall see you in the morning.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and smelled the comforting scent of rosewater. Amity’s throat closed.
“We have all had a long Twelfth night,” Finlay said gently. Gently he tugged her
“Thank you, Finn,” Amity whispered. She trailed him down the hall, past the foyer.
“It is nothing I ought to have done much sooner,” Finlay replied, keeping his hands crossed behind his back. “Amity, I know this is not the proper time to ask you, but my feelings will not be stopped. Will you do me the honor of consenting to be my bride?”
“Finn,” Amity whispered into the darkness. Her gloved hand sought and found his as they ambled slowly up the stairs to the second floor and down a hallway cluttered with workmen’s tools. Ladders. Buckets. Shadowy objects she couldn’t identify. “You know the answer is yes. A thousand times, yes.”
“I ask because I know how much you resented your aunt’s interference. I do not wish to repeat the same mistake. I have asked your mother’s permission. I believe in taking the proper—”
Amity cut him off with a kiss. Her foot connected with a bucket, which tipped and rolled, but Finlay caught her in his arms to lift her against his chest. “You are annoyingly proper at the most inconvenient moments, Finlay Weston.”
He grimaced. “Indeed. Had I been a measure less devoted to doing the honorable thing toward your cousin, we might have come to an agreement sooner. I have learned my lesson, however, and I intend to be utterly improper with you for as often as possible.”
Amity laughed, and the sound echoed through the empty hall as Finlay fumbled with the door to his chambers. She tumbled onto the crimson bedsp
read, playing with the embroidered flowers at her bodice.
He tumbled onto the bed beside her, lengthwise across the width of the bed. “In one sense, the Mayweathers have achieved one of their objectives. Their twelve nights of hosting will surely be the talk of many a Hertfordshire Christmas to come.” Finlay traced the indent of her waist through too many layers of wool and linen. “Do you want me to retreat to the antechamber, Amity?”
“No, Finn. I wish for you to stay here with me.”
He stroked her hair and cupped her cheek. “I have taken the liberty of securing a special license. Should we wish to exercise it.”
“You have been busy, Mr. Weston,” Amity whispered against his cheek.
He turned to kiss her, open-mouthed. A long moment passed as they explored the contours of one another’s bodies, close beside one another in the cold room. Amity unwound his cravat and flipped the buttons of his waistcoat free. She found hard muscles beneath unthinkably soft skin, contrasting with a whorl of rough hair. Delighted, she moved her hand south.
“Amity,” he groaned as she teased the hard ridge of his arousal.
“Finn,” she whispered against his warm bulk. “Make me yours. Forever.”
And he did.
Will Holly wed Lord Stockton, or is she on the path to ruin?
Find out in the Haute Ton Reader Society’s Christmas novella anthology, coming Summer 2020.
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Acknowledgments
I am ever grateful to my husband, Mr. Lomax, and my children for tolerating the amount of time I devote to writing. Without the help of Jamie S. and Karla Kratovil, this manuscript would not deserve to reach your e-reader. Rhonda Merwarth provided much-needed line edits and proofreading. To my co-authors at the Haute Ton Reader Society on Facebook, I can’t wait to for our Christmas anthology and Holly’s story!
