A Christmas Bride / A Christmas Beau

by Mary Balogh

  For the first time she saw a gleam of something that might be amusement in his eyes—for the merest moment. “But I have no wish to quarrel with you,” he said softly, twirling her about one corner of the ballroom. “We are not adversaries, ma’am.”

  “And we are not friends either,” she said. “Or lovers. Are we nothing, then? Nothing at all to each other?”

  He gave her another of those long stares—even longer this time. He opened his mouth and drew breath at one moment, but said nothing. He half smiled at last—he looked younger, more human when he smiled. “We are nothing,” he said. “We cannot be. Because there was that night.”

  She almost lost her knees. She was looking back into his eyes and unexpectedly had a shockingly vivid memory of that night—of his face this close, above hers.…

  “Do you understand the etiquette of such sets as this, Mr. Downes?” she asked. “It is the supper dance. It would be unmannerly indeed if you did not take me in to supper and seat yourself beside me and converse with me. What shall we converse about? Let me see. Some safe topic on which people who are nothing to each other can natter quite happily. Shall I tell you about my dreadful experiences in Greece? I am an amusing storyteller, or so my listeners always assure me.”

  “I believe I would like that,” he said gravely.

  She almost believed him. And she almost wanted to cry. How absurd! She felt like crying.

  She never cried.

  6

  IT WAS AMAZING HOW FEW CHOICES COULD BE LEFT one sometimes, Edgar discovered even more forcefully over the following month. He tried very hard not to fix his choice with any finality, simply because he did not meet that one certain lady of whom he could feel confident of saying in his heart that, yes, she was one he wished to have as his life’s companion, as his lover, as the mother of his children.

  Miss Turner was of a suitable age, but he found her dull and physically unappealing. Miss Warrington was also of suitable age, and she was livelier and prettier. But her conversation centered almost entirely upon horses, a topic that was of no particular interest to him. Miss Crawley was very young—she even lisped like a child—and had a tendency to giggle at almost any remark uttered in her hearing. Miss Avery-Hill was equally young and very pretty and appealingly vivacious. She made very clear to Edgar that she would accept his courtship. She made equally clear the fact that it would be a major condescension on her part if she stooped to marry him.

  That left Miss Grainger—and the Grainger parents. He liked the girl. She was pretty, modest, quiet without being mute, pleasant-natured. She was biddable. She would doubtless be a good wife. She would surely be a good mother. She would be a good enough companion. She would be attractive enough in bed. Cora liked her. His father would, too.

  There was something missing. Not love, although that was definitely missing. He did not worry about it. If he chose a bride with care, affection would grow and even love, given time. He was not sure quite what it was that was missing with Miss Grainger. Actually there was nothing missing except fortune, and that certainly was of no concern to him. He did not need a wealthy wife. If there was something wrong, it was in himself. He was too old to be choosing a wife, perhaps. He was too set in his ways.

  Perhaps he would even have considered reneging on his promise to his father if matters had not appeared to have moved beyond his control. He found that at every entertainment he attended—and they were almost daily—he was paired with Miss Grainger for at least a part of the time. At dinners and suppers he found himself seated next to her more often than not. He escorted her and her mother to the library one day because Sir Webster was to be busy at something else. He went driving in the park with the three of them on two separate occasions. He was invited one evening to dinner at the Graingers’, followed by some informal musical entertainment. There were only four other guests, all of them from a generation slightly older than his own.

  Cora spoke often of Christmas and began to assume that the Graingers would be coming to Mobley. She was working on persuading all her particular friends—hers and Francis’s—to spend the holiday there, too.

  “Papa will be delighted,” she said at breakfast one morning after the topic had been introduced. “Will he not, Edgar?” Francis had just suggested to her that she write to her father before issuing myriad invitations in his name.

  “He will,” Edgar agreed. “But it might be a good idea to fire off a note to warn him, Cora. He might consider it somewhat disconcerting to find a whole gaggle of guests and their milling offspring descending upon him and demanding a portion of a lone Christmas goose.”

  Lord Francis chuckled.

  “Well, of course I intend to inform Papa,” Cora said. “The very idea that I might neglect to do so, Edgar. Do you think me quite addle-brained?”

  Lord Francis was unwise enough to chuckle again.

  “And everyone knows that my main function in life is to provide you with amusement, Francis,” she said crossly.

  “Quite so, my love,” he agreed, eliciting a short bark of inelegant laughter from his spouse.

  “And I daresay Miss Grainger will be more comfortable with Jennifer and Samantha and Stephanie there as well as me,” Cora said. “She is familiar with them and they with her. But she is rather shy and may find the combination of you and Papa together rather formidable, Edgar.”

  “Nonsense,” her brother said.

  “I did, Edgar,” Lord Francis said. “When I dashed down to Mobley that time to ask if I might pay my addresses to Cora, I took one look at your father and one look at you and had vivid mental images of my bones all mashed to powder. You had me shaking in my Hessians. You might have noticed the tassels swaying if you had glanced down.”

  “And what gives you the idea,” Edgar asked his sister, “that Miss Grainger will be at Mobley for Christmas? Have I missed something? Have you invited her?” He had a horrid suspicion for one moment that perhaps she had and had forced his hand quite irretrievably.

  “Of course I have not,” she said. “I would never do such a thing. That is for you to do, Edgar. But you will do it, will you not? She is your favorite and eligible in every way. I love her quite like a sister already. And you did promise Papa.”

  “And it is Edgar’s life, my love,” Lord Francis said, getting to his feet. “We had better go up and rescue Nurse from our offspring. They are doubtless chafing at the bit and impatiently awaiting their daily energy-letting in the park. Is it Andrew’s turn to ride on my shoulders or Paul’s?”

  “Annabelle’s,” she said as they left the room.

  But Cora came very close that very evening to doing what she had said she would never do. They were at a party in which she made up a group with the Graingers; Edgar; Stephanie, Duchess of Bridgwater; and the Marquess of Carew. The duchess had commented on the fact that the shops on Oxford Street and Bond Street were filled with Christmas wares already despite the fact that December had not even arrived. The marquess had added that he and his wife had been shopping for gifts that very day in the hope of avoiding any last-minute panic. Cora mentioned Mobley and hoped there would be some snow for Christmas. All their children, she declared—if she could persuade her friends to come—would be ecstatic if they could skate and ride the sleighs and engage in snowball fights.

  “There are skates of all sizes,” she said, “and the sleighs are large enough for adults as well as children. Do you like snow, Miss Grainger?”

  Edgar felt a twinge of alarm and looked pointedly at his sister. But she was too well launched on enthusiasm to notice.

  “Good,” Cora said when the girl had replied that indeed she did. “Then you will have a marvelous time.” She reacted quite in character when she realized that she had opened her mouth and stuffed her rather large slipper inside, Edgar noticed, wishing rather uncharitably that she might choke on it. She blushed and talked and laughed. “That is, if it snows. If it snows where you happen to be spending Christmas, that is. That is, if … Oh dear. Hartley, do tell
me what I am trying to say.”

  “You are hoping there will be snow to make Christmas a more festive occasion, Cora,” the Marquess of Carew said kindly. “And that it will fall all over England for everyone’s delight.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you. That is exactly what I meant. How warm it is in here.” She opened her fan and plied it vigorously before her face.

  Sir Webster and Lady Grainger, Edgar saw, were looking very smug indeed.

  AND THEN AT the very end of November, when the noose seemed to have settled quite firmly about his neck, he discovered the existence of the ineligible lover—the one Lady Stapleton had mentioned.

  Edgar was walking along Oxford Street, huddled inside his heavy greatcoat, avoiding the puddles left by the rain that had just stopped, wondering if the sun would ever shine again and if he would ever find suitable gifts for everyone on his list—he had expected London to make for easier shopping than Bristol—when he ran almost headlong into Miss Grainger, who was standing quite still in the middle of the pavement, impeding pedestrian traffic.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said, his hand going to the brim of his hat even before he recognized her. “Ah, Miss Grainger. Your servant.” He made her a slight bow and realized two things. Neither of her parents was with her—but a young man was.

  She did not behave with any wisdom. Her eyes grew wide with horror, she opened her mouth and held it open before snapping it shut again. Then she smiled broadly, though she forgot to adjust her eyes accordingly, and proceeded to chatter.

  “Mr. Downes,” she said. “Oh, good morning. Fancy meeting you here. Is it not a beautiful morning? I have come to change my book at the library. Mama could not come with me, but I have brought my maid—you see?” She gestured behind her with one hand to the young person standing a short distance away. “How lovely it is to see you. By a very strange coincidence I have run into another acquaintance, too. Mr. Sperling. May I present you? Mr. Sperling, sir. Jack, this is Mr. Downes. I-I m-mean Mr. Sperling, this is Mr. Downes.”

  Edgar inclined his head to the slender, good-looking, very young man, who was looking back coldly. “Sperling?” he said.

  A few things were clear. This particular spot on Oxford Street was not between the Grainger lodgings and the library. The doorway to a coffee shop that sported high-backed seats and secluded booths was just to their right. The maid was not doing a very good job as watchdog. Jack Sperling was more than a chance acquaintance and the meeting between him and Miss Grainger was no coincidence. Sperling knew who he was and would put a dagger through his heart if he dared—and if he had one about his person. Miss Grainger herself was terrified. And he, Edgar, felt at least a century old.

  He would have moved on and left his prospective bride to her clandestine half hour or so—he doubted they would allow themselves longer—with the slight acquaintance she happened to call by his first name. But she forestalled him.

  “Jack,” she said. She was still flustered. “I m-mean Mr. Sperling, it was pleasant to meet you. G-good morning.”

  And Jack Sperling, pale and murderous of countenance, had no choice but to bow, touch the brim of his hat, bid them a good morning, and continue on his way down the street as if he had never so much as heard of coffee shops.

  Fanny Grainger smiled dazzlingly at Edgar—with terrified eyes. “Was not that a happy chance?” she said. “He is a neighbor of ours. I have not seen him for years.” Edgar guessed that beneath the rosy glow the cold had whipped into her cheeks she was blushing just as rosily.

  “May I offer my escort?” he asked her. “Are you on your way to or from the library?”

  “Oh,” she said. “To.” She indicated her maid, who held a book clasped against her bosom. “Y-yes, please, Mr. Downes, if it is not too much trouble.”

  He felt like apologizing to her. But of course he could not do so. He should be feeling sternly disapproving. He should be feeling injured proprietorship. He felt—still—a century old. She took his arm.

  “Mr. Downes,” she said before he had decided upon a topic of conversation, “p-please, will you—? That is, could I ask you please— Please, sir—”

  He wanted to set a reassuring hand over hers. He wanted to pat it. He wanted to tell her that it was nothing to him if she chose to arrange clandestine meetings with her lover. But of course it was something to him. There was one month to Christmas and he had every intention—he had thought it through finally just last evening and had come to a firm decision—of inviting her and her parents to Mobley Abbey for the holiday, though he had thought he would not make his offer until they had all been there for a few days and he could be quite sure before taking the final step.

  “I believe, my dear,” he said, and then wished he had not called her that, as if she were a favored niece, “my size and demeanor and—age sometimes inspire awe or even fear in those who do not know me well. At least, I have been told as much by those who do know me. I have no wish either to hurt or distress you. What is it?”

  He noticed that she closed her eyes briefly before answering. “Please,” she said, “will you refrain from mentioning to Mama and Papa that I ran into Mr. Sperling by chance this morning? They do not like him, you see, and perhaps would scold me for not giving him the cut direct. I could not do that. Or at least I did not think of doing it until it was too late.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I have already forgotten the young man’s name and indeed his very existence.”

  “Thank you.” Some of the terror had waned from her eyes when she looked up at him. “Though I w-wish I had done so. It was disagreeable to have to acknowledge him. I was very relieved when you came along.”

  “It is a quite impossible situation?” he found himself asking when he should have been content to play along with her game.

  There was fright in her eyes again. She bit her lip and tears sprang to her eyes. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “Please do not be angry with me. It was the last time. That is—It will not happen again. Oh, please do not be angry with me. I am so frightened of you.” And then the fright escalated to terror once more when she realized what she had said, what she had admitted, both about him and about Jack Sperling.

  This time he did set his hand over hers—quite firmly. “That at least you need not be,” he said. “What is the objection? Lack of fortune?”

  But she was biting hard on her upper lip and fighting both tears and terror—despite his words. The library was before them.

  “I shall leave you to your maid’s chaperonage,” he said, stopping on the pavement outside it and relinquishing her arm. “We will forget about this morning, Miss Grainger. It never happened.”

  But she did not immediately scurry away, as he rather expected she would. She looked earnestly into his face. “I have always been obedient to Mama and Papa,” she said, “except in very little things. I will be obedient—I would be obedient to a husband, sir. I would never need to be beaten. I—Good morning.” And she turned to hurry into the library, her maid behind her.

  Good Lord! Did she imagine—? Did he look that formidable? And what a coil, he thought. He could not possibly marry her now, of course. But perhaps it would appear that he had gone rather too far to retreat without good cause. There was excellent cause, but nothing he could express to another living soul. He could not marry a young lady who loved another man. Or one who feared him so much that she imagined he would be a wife-beater.

  Whatever was he going to do?

  But he was not fated to think of an answer while he stood there on the pavement, staring at the library doors. They opened and Lady Stapleton stepped out with Mrs. Cross.

  He forgot about his problem—the one that concerned Miss Grainger, anyway. He always forgot about everything and everyone whenever his eyes alighted on Lady Stapleton. They had avoided each other for the past month. They attended almost all the same social events and it was frequently necessary to be part of the same group and even to exchange a few words. But they had not been alone
together since that evening when they had waltzed and then taken supper together. The evening when he had told her they could be nothing to each other because there had been that night.

  That night. It stayed stubbornly in his memory, it wove itself into his dreams as none other like it had ever done. Not that there had been another night like that. Perhaps, he thought sometimes, he would forget it sooner if he tried less hard to do so. He did not want to remember. The memories disturbed him. He was not a man of passion but one of cool reason. He had been rather alarmed at the passionate self that had emerged during that particular encounter. He looked forward to returning to Mobley and then Bristol. After that, he hoped, he would never see her again. The memories would fade.

  He made his bow and would have hastened away, but Mrs. Cross called to him.

  “Mr. Downes,” she cried. “Oh, Mr. Downes, might we impose upon you for a few minutes, I wonder? My niece is unwell.”

  He could see when he looked more closely at Lady Stapleton that she was leaning rather heavily on her aunt’s arm and that her face and even her lips were ashen pale and her eyes half closed—and that until her aunt spoke his name, she had been quite unaware of his presence.

  Her eyes jolted open and her glance locked with his.

  THE POVISES HAD already left for the Continent with a group of friends and acquaintances. They intended to wander south at a leisurely pace and spend Christmas in Italy. Helena might have gone with them. Indeed, they had urged her to do so, and so had Mr. Crutchley, who had had designs on her for a number of years past, though she had never given him any encouragement. It was sure to be a gay party. She would have enjoyed herself immensely if she had gone along. She would have avoided this dreariest of dreary winters in England—and it was still only November. She could have stayed away until spring or even longer. Perhaps she could even have persuaded her aunt to go with her if she had set her mind to it.