by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews
“You were thinking about it, though. Weren’t you?” he asked curiously. “You were really thinking of accepting carte blanche from me?”
“I didn’t want you to leave me—ever,” she said. “I don’t know that I could have,” she confessed, “but, oh, Ian, I so wanted to!”
“Ah. I see,” he said. “And here I proposed marriage, and I didn’t have to.”
She stopped smiling. Until she saw his face.
But she didn’t see it very long, because he pulled her into his arms and kissed her ruthlessly, and then tenderly, and then as though he would never let her go. She kissed him back, and held fast to his hard shoulders, because she knew she never had to let him go.
A footman glanced out the window and saw them, and gaped. A guest saw the direction of his openmouthed stare. Soon all the guests at Moon Manor were hanging at the windows, looking out at the rake and his lady. The men grinned as the ladies sighed. Because they knew how their world worked. And knew no rake of good breeding would let the polite world see him taking his latest mistress so blatantly. But only a dark and dashing rake such as Hunt would let the world see him choosing his wife that way.
Lord Shelton arrived the next day. He stepped out of his carriage in the drive and stood looking at Moon Manor. The first thing he saw after his host was the couple holding hands as they came out of the house to greet him. He smiled. The footman he’d paid to contact him had told no less than the truth he could see with his own eyes.
Eve broke from her beloved’s side and ran lightly to him.
“Uncle!” she cried as he received her in his arms, and hugged her hard.
“Not really,” Shelton said over her head to her sardonically smiling fiancé. “As she’s likely told you by now, it’s merely a courtesy title, my dear boy. She should have been mine—but not in the way the polite world imagined. Her mother was the lady I wanted to wive, you see. But my best friend wed her and I was left to roam the world searching for a substitute—who—I have never found.”
“Fudge!” Eve exclaimed as she extricated herself from his fond embrace. “A tidy excuse, and so everyone knows, Mother and Father most of all. It’s good to see you, sir. What kept you so long?”
“Plots and plans,” Ian said as he came forward to take the older man’s hand in his, “strategies and stratagems. Am I right?”
“Who am I to contradict an army man?” Lord Shelton shrugged. “But I never lied, did I? I said I had my reasons for wanting to be here, didn’t I? And so I did. I described my girl as lovingly as I think of her, as well. Fortunately, you jumped to all the wrong conclusions. Well, so then, lad,” he said in a soft voice, “how do you like your Christmas gift?”
Ian laughed, and Lord Shelton was interested to see how young he looked, and how merry.
“It was her Christmas gift, as well,” Lord Shelton commented. “I studied you before I set my plans. Other men might look to the cream of society to find a suitor for a girl he holds dear. I know men too well for that. A fair name often covers a bad man. But I know my rakes, and there’s no husband more relentlessly dependable and ruthlessly constant than a reformed rake. You were young enough, wealthy enough, and just possibly clever enough for Eve. Nothing less than the best for my girl.
“And how else could I bring you together? Not at her house, nor mine, to be sure. Not with my reputation. But it’s not only that. You see, her father’s too proud to take anything from me, always was, and always shall be. Then, too, I suspect he still thinks I mean to take his lady away; he discourages my visits—and he may well be right to. That’s why I usually only see this little dear at other people’s homes.” He laughed. “I shall love to see his face when he sees I’ve given his daughter something he cannot refuse.”
“Can he not?” Ian asked, suddenly grave again.
“Never fear,” the older man answered. “He cannot. He will not. He dare not. Just look at her. And know that like myself, his only aim is to see her happy—stiff-necked though he is. He will be very well pleased with you, as what sane father would not be? Once he gets over his chagrin at my having been matchmaker.”
“I think you only introduced us to ruffle his feathers, Uncle,” Eve said on a giggle. He smiled at her, because she glowed.
“Just so,” he said lightly. “And so, have you had a merry old Christmas, Eve?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said.
“But not so good as next year’s,” Ian promised.
“Good,” Lord Shelton said.
“Thank you, sir,” Ian said sincerely.
“No,” the older man answered. “Thank you for clearing the field, and leaving it to me. You were bidding fair to being formidable competition before you found your own lady. The best Christmas gift is one that suits the giver as much as the recipient,” he added merrily.
“Father’s right—what a rascal you are,” Eve teased, laughing, and Ian joined in.
The rake watched as Eve looked up into her dark viscount’s face, and he sighed before he tore his gaze away from them. Because as a rake, he knew very well what they were saying wordlessly to each other, and knew it was a very private matter. And because in that moment she looked so much like her mother that his heart twisted. She was the only other woman on earth who resembled her so vividly. He knew, because he passed his whole life looking.
“Merry Christmas, children,” he murmured softly. “And now, if you will, let us get on to a whole new year,” he said, smoothing his hair as he prepared to enter the salon. “Now, for my gift, just kindly tell me: just who is that shockingly lovely lady over there—the one with the welcoming smile, those magnetic eyes, and all that dark hair?”
“Some things never change,” Ian murmured to Eve.
She smiled in acknowledgment.
But, having overheard them, so too did the last rake at Moon Manor.
Lady Bountiful
by Laura Matthews
Enacting her version of a young lady fainting, the irrepressible Drucilla Carruthers fell back against her chair, her listless hand allowing the distressing letter to flutter to the floor amidst the feathers. Her companion and former governess, Miss Script, shook her graying head with vigorous disapproval.
“It is no laughing matter, Drucilla,” she protested. “You know very well why Lord Meacham is coming, despite his sweetly couched phrases of concern for your father. He’s heard what’s going forward here, no doubt from Sir Lawrence’s attorney.”
“Yes, he must have been severely provoked if he’s willing to travel two hundred miles this close to Christmas,” Drucilla said thoughtfully as she retrieved the boldly penned missive from the worn Axminster carpet and tucked it carelessly into the second volume of the novel she was currently reading.
“He can bring the matter up before a magistrate,” Miss Script warned, her thin hands nervously gripping the pillowcase in her lap.
Drucilla’s smile made her blue eyes dance. “Fortunately, it is Sir Edward who would have to act, and I believe him gone to visit his son in Somerset for the Christmas holidays. I should be very surprised if Lord Meacham were able to accomplish much before the next assizes. But really, it was too bad of Mr. Wicker to have told him.”
Miss Script, however, could not agree, since she was well aware of the tactics Drucilla had used to divert the elderly solicitor. From the time Drucilla was a small child, fair and angelic looking with her blond curls and wide azure eyes, she had been perfectly capable of disturbing Miss Script’s nice sense of propriety.
“I’m sure Mr. Wicker only saw it as his duty, Drucilla. He has, after all, like his father before him, been the solicitor for the baronets of Tarnlea for close to fifty years. My understanding of solicitors is that they are constitutionally suspicious men. Mr. Wicker has been urging you for three years to make plain the situation here, and you’ve managed to avoid every query. You must have known he would eventually relate everything to Lord Meacham.”
“Certainly I did. I only hoped that I would be able to preven
t him doing so until the work was completely finished. Still, we’ve accomplished a great deal these last years, May, haven’t we?”
Her companion stretched the muslin pillowcase she was stuffing from a sack of clean goose down and feathers. “I worry that you’ve taken too much upon yourself. Not that your father’s tenants don’t deserve it!” she hastened to add. “But you have surely invited trouble upon yourself. Lord Meacham will hardly be complaisant about the expense.”
“It did turn out to cost considerably more than I’d anticipated,” Drucilla admitted. “But the necessity was surely there. My father...” With a sigh she shrugged and said only, “I won’t have anyone disrupting his peace, or making him a byword in the neighborhood.”
“Lord Meacham may have some legitimate complaints, though, since he is heir to Tarnlea.”
Drucilla’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “I daresay. I remember meeting him once as a child. It was just after my mother’s death, so I must have been five and he couldn’t have been less than twelve at the time. What does that make him now—twenty-eight? He was already a very stuffy fellow.”
“When a boy must take over his father’s dignities at a young age, I believe he usually has a tendency to be stiff and overresponsible. You know it was true of Lady Nibthwaite’s son.”
“Heavens, yes,” Drucilla agreed, her dimples peeking out. None of her acquaintance was more officious than Lord Nibthwaite. “I recall thinking Lord Meacham was full of his own consequence. Odious boy. It would serve him right if I bankrupted Tarnlea. He has sufficient property of his own.”
Miss Script, though the most amiable of companions, was not just at present prepared to hear her former charge discourse on the inequities of fate with particular regard to the inheritance practices of the British Isles. “I’m sure you are very well provided for under your dear mama’s will, though it will indeed mean wrenching yourself from the only home you’ve known when the time comes. But pray recall that young ladies who marry do so all the time.”
“Which just proves what milk-and-water misses they are!”
“Never mind that now,” Miss Script admonished. “We must consider how best to prepare for Lord Meacham’s arrival. When does he come?”
Drucilla did not need to consult the short letter. “He should be here in a matter of hours. He seemed to think the letter would reach us yesterday.”
“Hours!” squeaked the poor woman opposite, hastily rising from her chair. “Today? He’s coming today?”
“So he says.” Drucilla staunchly retained her seat. “We are to make no preparation for him, he insists. He was very clear about that, May. Let him find us exactly as we are every day. That is precisely what he wishes.”
“Well, he may wish it, but we most certainly cannot allow it. To find us here stuffing feathers into pillowcases as though we were pinched for pennies. And look at what you’re wearing! Quickly. Upstairs! Change into the blue muslin with the golden ribbons. It’s very attractive and just the sort of thing you might have been wearing, if, for instance, we’d been expecting Lady Nibthwaite to tea.”
“But we weren’t expecting Lady Nibthwaite to tea and I have no intention of changing,” retorted the recalcitrant young lady.
“But, my dear, the only reason you’re wearing that washed-out sprig muslin is because we were working with the feathers. It’s not what you would ordinarily wear.”
Drucilla dismissed her companion’s patient reasoning. “What does it matter? Come, May, let’s not make a fuss. People probably fawn over his lordship all the time; we will be a refreshing change, treating him as just another member of the family.”
“You’re purposely being contrary, Drucilla. There is also the matter of showing the proper respect for one of his position.”
“Oh, very well. But not the blue gown. Lady Nibthwaite is coming to tea tomorrow and I plan to wear it then. Lord Meacham can wait a day to see my very best day dress.”
As Drucilla rose to follow Miss Script out of the room, there was the sound of horses drawing a light vehicle on the gravel outside the parlor window.
Drucilla grinned at her companion. “Too late. His lordship has obviously made very good time.”
Curious, she moved quickly to a slight gap in the heavy winter draperies where she could not be seen by their visitor. The two horses, astonishingly well matched grays, were being deftly pulled to a plunging stop. Gravel flew from under their hooves and the gleaming black curricle with its red trim and gold crest slid to an abrupt halt. Drucilla might have faulted his lordship’s driving, except for her witnessing the cause of the emergency stoppage—a loose goat had wandered across the courtyard.
Chagrined, she turned to Miss Script to say, “Teddy’s managed to get loose again and nearly had herself run over. It’s probably frightened the wits out of her and now the milk will be curdled and Papa will take one of his pets.”
“Oh, dear, how awkward. Perhaps we should say that your father is indisposed and can’t be visited until tomorrow.”
“I doubt his lordship would accept such a rebuff, since he has clearly come this distance to ascertain my father’s condition. A curse on all solicitors. We could have used another few weeks.”
A peremptory knocking on the entry door reminded Drucilla that she hadn’t actually prepared the staff for Lord Meacham’s visit. Not that he’d given her the time. She hurried to the parlor door and hastily peeped out into the hall, hissing to the venerable Hastings that he should put on his very best face, for it would be Lord Meacham come for a visit.
The butler Hastings regarded her with astonishment, but only for a moment. There had, after all, been any number of surprises for him during his tenure at Tarnlea, and he had grown accustomed to them. With a stolid dignity he said, “Yes, miss. I will direct that a bedchamber be prepared for him.”
Drucilla drew back into the room and shook her head at Miss Script’s attempts to tidy the disorganized scene. Perhaps stuffing pillows in the winter parlor had not, after all, been such a fine idea. Though the pillowcases which had already been filled looked plump and inviting, the feathers for the remainder had gotten a bit out of hand. White bits of fluff decorated the carpet, the furniture, and even the clothing of the two women.
Drucilla shrugged and regained her seat. “Let it be, May,” she urged. “There’s not a thing we can do that will make the place look presentable. It’s his own fault for giving so little notice.”
Miss Script’s lips tightened, as they did when she was distressed, but she did as she was bid. She said gloomily, “The whole was bound to be discovered eventually. I’m sure I should have given you more guidance these two years past.”
Drucilla heard the sounds of voices in the hall, and the stamp of booted feet. “Pooh! We’ve done no more nor less than our duty. And you would not have been able to dissuade me from my course, no matter how persuasive you might have been.”
“I am well aware of it,” her companion sighed. There was a discreet tap on the door and Hastings entered to say, “Lord Meacham has arrived, Miss Carruthers.”
“Please show him in, Hastings.”
The man who strode through the meager portal seemed to dwarf it, and Drucilla could scarcely connect him with the skinny twelve-year-old she’d had in her mind for sixteen years. Though he had been driving an open carriage, his many-caped driving coat had been removed to display a flawless appearance, as though he had just left the hands of his valet. His thick black hair curled close to his head in an elegant if unfashionable cut; his cravat fell in pristine white folds; his boots gleamed with a high polish; his coat and pantaloons fit superbly. But the feature that most struck Drucilla was his eyes. From a distance they appeared almost black, so dark were their indecipherable depths. They suggested a keen intelligence, which she had not expected.
“Miss Carruthers? I’m your cousin Julian Winslow. I doubt you remember me from our one short encounter so long ago. I must beg your pardon for only a day’s warning, but my time is constrained. I a
m due within a sennight at Meacham Court.”
Drucilla made a gentle curtsy to him, which caused Miss Script to stare at her in astonishment. “We’re honored to have you here. Your room has not as yet been prepared, because your letter reached us scarce half an hour ago.”
Lord Meacham’s brows rose. “How is this? It should have been here yesterday. You’ve hardly had time to accustom yourselves to the idea of my visit. I do apologize.”
“There’s no necessity,” she assured him. “Please let me make you known to my companion, Miss Script.”
“How do you do, ma’am?” He offered a polite bow in Miss Script’s direction, but he seemed slightly taken aback by the condition of the room around her. “I’m afraid I’ve interrupted some ... domestic chore.”
Drucilla laughed. “Just the stuffing of some pillows for Boxing Day gifts to various needy parishioners. Miss Script and I do it every year at this time, don’t we, May?”
“Why, yes, but never before in the winter parlor. His lordship must think us a ramshackle lot with feathers floating about in this distracting way.” One had just landed on Meacham’s hair, but he had yet to realize it. “Why don’t I see to a fire being laid in the salon? We can sit there in great comfort.”
As Miss Script rose, Drucilla said, “And perhaps you would bespeak us a luncheon as well, my dear. I imagine my cousin must be famished after his long drive.”
Miss Script hurried from the room and his lordship was left facing his cousin in her worn muslin gown dotted with feathers. He wore an expression of interest and perhaps the shadow of amusement in his eyes.
“Please, have a seat,” she urged. “Though I’m afraid you’ll get feathers on your clothing.”
“I have brought my valet, Fallot, who will be vastly diverted. He was not at all certain we had missed that goat and fully expected to be cleaning goat hair from my driving coat.” Without inspecting his chair for escaped feathers, he calmly seated himself opposite her and said kindly, “I trust I find you well, Miss Carruthers.”
