A Christmas Bride / A Christmas Beau

by Mary Balogh

  Perhaps, Edgar thought, it was as well to have his hand forced. He had only two weeks left in which to keep his promise. There was no one more suitable—or more available—than Miss Grainger. There was that young man of hers, of course—he should have found a way of dealing with that problem by now. And there was that other problem, too—but no. She appeared to have recovered from her indisposition whatever it had been, though she still seemed paler than he remembered her to have looked. He could not do better than Miss Grainger—not in the time allowed, at least. And perhaps he had carried the courtship rather too far to back off now without humiliating the girl and her family. Certainly the father seemed to expect a declaration.

  “But my father would be delighted to entertain you and your wife and daughter at Mobley, sir,” Edgar said, releasing the man from his well-deserved embarrassment. “And my sister and I would be delighted, too, if you would join us and other of our friends there for Christmas. If you have no other plans, that is. I realize that this is rather short notice.”

  “No,” Sir Webster said quickly, “we have no other plans, sir. We were thinking of staying in town to enjoy the festivities. That was our plan when we came here. We were undecided whether to stay, too, for the Season. Fanny would enjoy it and it is time to bring her out, I suppose. It is difficult to part with a daughter, Mr. Downes. Very difficult. One wants all that is the best for her. We will accept your gracious invitation, sir. Thank you. And we will decide later about the Season.”

  There would be no Season if he came up to scratch, Edgar understood. And probably no Season if he did not, either. The Graingers were said to be too poor to afford such an expense. But he was not going to pick up the cue this time. He merely smiled and bowed and informed Sir Webster that Cora would write to their father tomorrow.

  His father would read eagerly between the lines of that particular letter, he thought. Or perhaps not between the lines either. Cora would surely inform him that Miss Grainger was the one, that he might prepare to meet his future daughter-in-law within the fortnight.

  Edgar felt half robbed of breath. But it was a deed that must be done. It was time to stop dragging his feet. Young Jack Sperling could not be helped. This was the real world. And the girl’s age could not be helped. Young ladies were married to older men all the time. He would be kind to her and generous to her. He would treat her with affection. So would his father and Cora. She would be taken to the bosom of their family with enthusiasm, he did not doubt. She would learn to settle to a marriage that could be no worse than thousands of marriages that were contracted every year. And he would settle, too. He would enjoy having children of his own. Like his father, he was fond of children.

  Children of his own. There—that thought again. That nagging suspicion. His eyes found out Lady Stapleton. She was at the other side of the room—without ever looking at each other for any length of time, they always seemed to maneuver matters so—talking and laughing with Mr. Parmeter and the Earl of Thornhill. She was wearing the scarlet gown she had worn that first night—the one with all the tiny buttons down the back. It must have taken him all of five minutes.…

  She looked healthy enough and cheerful enough. She looked pale. She did not look as if she felt nauseated. But this was the evening rather than the morning. Besides, Cora had said that the feeling passed after a couple of months. It was two months since … Well, it was two months. She did not look larger. But it was only two months.

  It could not possibly be. Beautiful and alluring as she looked, it was a mature beauty and a mature allure. But she was only six-and-thirty. She was still in her fertile years. She had never had a child before—at least he did not believe so. Why would she conceive now? But why not?

  Such conflicting thoughts had teemed in his head for the past two weeks. They had woven themselves into his dreams—when he had been able to sleep. They had kept him awake.

  He caught her eye across the room, something that rarely happened. But instead of looking away from each other, both continued to look as if daring the other to be the first to lose courage. She raised one mocking eyebrow.

  He despised indecisiveness. If there was one single factor that could keep a man from success in the business world, he had always found, it was just that—being indecisive, allowing misplaced caution and unformed worries to hold one back from action that one knew must be taken. He knew he must talk with her. And time was running out. He should already have left for Mobley. He must do so within the next few days.

  He must talk to Lady Stapleton first. He did not want to—he would do almost anything to get out of doing so if he could. But he could not. Not if he was to know any peace of mind over Christmas. He walked across the center of the drawing room, empty now between sets, and she smiled that smile of hers to see him come. She did not turn away or even look away from him.

  “Ma’am?” He bowed to her. “May I have the honor of dancing the next set with you?”

  “But of course, Mr. Downes,” she said. That low velvet voice of hers always jolted him, no matter how often he heard it. “It is a waltz, and I know you perform the steps well.” She set her hand in his. It was quite cold.

  “And how do you do, ma’am?” he asked her when they had taken their positions on the floor and waited for the music to begin.

  “Very well, thank you, Mr. Downes.” Her perfume brought back memories.

  There was no dodging around it, he decided as the pianist began playing and he set his hand at the back of her waist and took her other in his own. And so he simply asked the question.

  “Are you with child?” His voice was so low that he was not sure the sound of it would carry to her ears.

  Clearly it did. She mastered her surprise almost instantly and smiled with brutal contempt. “You must think yourself one devil of a fine lover, Mr. Downes,” she said. “Is it the factor by which you measure your success? Have you peopled Bristol with bastard children?”

  But not quite instantly enough. For the merest fraction of a second—had he not been looking for it he would certainly have missed it—there had been something other than contempt in her eyes. There had been fright, panic.

  “No,” he said. “But I believe I have got you with child.” Now that the words were out, now that he had seen that fleeting reaction, he felt curiously calm. Almost cold.

  “Do you?” she said. “And do you realize how absurd your assumption is, sir? Do you know how old I am?”

  “You told me once,” he said. “I do not believe you are past your childbearing years. Are you?”

  “You are impertinent, sir,” she said. “You dare ask such a question of a lady, of a virtual stranger?”

  “A stranger whom I bedded two months ago,” he said. “One who is to bear my child seven months from now, if I am not much mistaken.”

  She smiled at him—a bright social smile, as much for the benefit of the other dancers and watchers as for his, he guessed. “You, Mr. Downes,” she said, “may go to hell.”

  “But I notice,” he said, “that you have not said no, it is not true. I notice such things, ma’am. I have been and still am a lawyer. Is it that you are afraid to lie? Let me hear it. Yes or no. Are you with child?”

  “But I am not on the witness stand, Mr. Downes,” she said. “I do not have to answer your questions. And I scorn to react to your charge that I am afraid to answer. I will not answer. I choose not to.”

  “Have you seen a physician?” he asked her.

  She looked into his eyes and smiled. “You are a divine waltzer, Mr. Downes,” she said. “I believe it is because you are so large. One instinctively trusts your lead.”

  “Do you still suffer from morning sickness?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said, “it is not just your size, is it? One cannot imagine enjoying a waltz with an ox. You have a superior sense of rhythm.” Her smile turned wicked.

  “I shall find out for myself tomorrow,” he said. “You once invited me to escort you to one of the galleries. I acc
ept. Tomorrow morning will be the time. We have arranged it this evening. You may tell Mrs. Cross that if you will. If you will not, I will tell her when I come for you that I have come to discuss your pregnancy.”

  “Damn you, Mr. Downes,” she said sharply. “You have the manners of an ox even if not the dancing skills of one.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” he said. “And if you have any idea of bringing your aunt with you, be warned that we will have our frank talk anyway. I assume she does not know?”

  “Damn you to hell,” she said.

  “Since we are dancing for pleasure,” he said, “we might as well concentrate on our enjoyment in silence for the rest of the set. I believe we have nothing further to say to each other until tomorrow.”

  “How your underlings must hate you,” she said. “I am not your underling, Mr. Downes. I will not be overborne by you. And I will not be blackmailed by you.”

  “Will you not?” he said. “You will tell Mrs. Cross the truth, then, and have that servant of yours refuse me admittance tomorrow morning? I believe I might enjoy pitting my strength against his.”

  “Damn you,” she said again. “Damn you. Damn you.”

  Neither of them spoke after that. When the music drew to an end, he escorted her to her aunt, stayed to exchange civilities with that lady for a few minutes, and then took himself off to the other side of the room.

  He felt rather as if he had been tossed into the air by that ox she had spoken of and then trodden into the ground by it after landing. It was true, then. He could no longer lull himself with the conviction that his suspicions were absurd. She had not admitted the truth, but the very absence of such an admission was confirmation enough.

  She was with child. By him. He felt as dizzy, as disoriented, as if the idea had only now been planted in his brain.

  What the devil were they going to do?

  And why the devil did he need to pose that question to himself?

  SHE DAMNED HIM to hell and back throughout a sleepless night. She broke a favorite trinket dish when she picked it up from her dressing table and hurled it against the door. She considered calling his bluff and telling her aunt the truth, though she had hoped to go away somewhere alone so that no one need know, and then instructing Hobbes to deny him entry.

  But he would come tomorrow morning even if she told her aunt and even if Hobbes tried to prevent him. She had great faith in Hobbes’s strength and determination, but she had a nasty feeling that neither would prevail against Edgar Downes. He would come and drag the truth from her and proceed to take charge of the situation no matter what she did.

  She would not dance to his tune. Oh, she would not. She did not doubt that he would plan everything down to the smallest detail. She did not doubt that he would find her a safe and comfortable nest in which to hide during the remainder of her confinement and that he would find the child a respectable home afterward. He would do it all with professional efficiency and confidentiality. No one would ever suspect the truth. No one would ever know that the two of them had been more to each other than casual social acquaintances. And he would pay for everything. She did not doubt that either. Every bill would be sent to him.

  She would not allow it to happen. She would shout the truth from the rooftops before she would allow him to protect her reputation and her safety. She would keep her child and take it with her wherever she went rather than allow him neatly to hide its very existence.

  And yet, she thought, mocking herself, she did not even have the courage to tell her aunt. She would go out with him tomorrow morning, two acquaintances visiting a gallery together, a perfectly respectable thing to do, and she would allow herself to be browbeaten.

  Never!

  She would fight Edgar Downes to the death if necessary. The melodramatic thought had her lip curling in scorn again.

  She mentioned to her aunt at the breakfast table that Mr. Downes would be calling later to escort her to the Royal Academy. He had mentioned wanting to go there while they had danced the evening before and she had commented that it was one of her favorite places. And so he had asked to escort her there this morning.

  “I have promised to show him all the best paintings,” she said.

  Mrs. Cross looked closely at her. “Are you feeling well enough, Helena?” she asked. “I have become so accustomed to your staying at home in the mornings that I have arranged to go out myself.”

  “Splendid,” Helena said. “You are going shopping?”

  “With a few other ladies,” Mrs. Cross said. “Will you mind?”

  “I hardly need a chaperone at my age, Letty,” Helena said. “I believe Mr. Downes is a trustworthy escort.”

  “Absolutely,” her aunt agreed. “He is an exceedingly pleasant man. I was quite sharp with Mrs. Parmeter last evening when she remarked on his background as if she expected all of us to begin to tear him apart. Mr. Downes is more the gentleman than many born to the rank, I told her. I believe he has a soft spot for you, Helena. It is a shame that as his father’s only son he feels duty bound to marry a young lady so that he may set up his nursery and get an heir for that estate near Bristol. The Grainger girl will not suit him, though she is pretty and has a sweet enough nature. She has not had the time or opportunity to develop enough character.”

  “And I have?” Helena smiled. “You think he would be better off with me, Letty? Poor Mr. Downes.”

  “You would lead him a merry dance, I daresay,” Mrs. Cross said. “But I believe he would be equal to the task. However, he must choose a young lady.”

  “How lowering,” Helena said with a laugh. “But I would not be young again for a million pounds, Letty. I shudder to remember the girl I was.”

  She would gain one advantage over Mr. Edgar Downes this morning at least, she thought while she began to talk about other things with her aunt. She would confront him on home ground. Her aunt was going out for the morning. That would mean that she and Mr. Downes need not leave the house. She would not have to be smilingly polite lest other people in the streets or at the gallery take note. She could shout and scream and throw things to her heart’s content. She could use whatever language suited her mood.

  Only one thing she seemed incapable of doing—at least she had been last night. She could not seem to lie to Edgar Downes. She could get rid of him in a moment if only she could do that. But she scorned to lie. She would withhold the truth if she could, but she would not lie.

  She went upstairs after breakfast to change her dress and have her hair restyled. She wanted to look and feel her very best before it came time to cope with her visitor.

  She waited for an hour in the drawing room before he came. She had instructed Hobbes to show him up when he arrived.

  9

  EDGAR WAS RATHER SURPRISED TO BE ADMITTED TO her house without question. The manservant, his face quite impassive, led the way upstairs, knocked on the drawing room door, opened it, and announced him.

  She was there alone, standing by the fireplace, looking remarkably handsome in a dark green morning gown of simple, classic design. Her chin was lifted proudly. She was unsmiling, the customary mocking expression absent from her face. She was not ready for the outdoors.

  “Thank you, Hobbes,” she said. “Good morning, Mr. Downes.”

  Her face was pale. There were shadows beneath her eyes. Perhaps, he thought, she had slept as little as he. The thought that this proud, elegant woman was pregnant with his child was still dizzying. It still threatened to rob him of breath.

  “I suppose it was too much to expect,” he said, “that you would not somehow twist the situation to impose some sort of command over it. We are not to view portraits and landscapes?”

  “Not today or any other day, Mr. Downes,” she said. “Not together at least. My aunt is from home. I would have had Hobbes deny you admittance but you would have made a scene. You are so ungenteel. If you have something to say that is more sensible than what you were saying last evening, please say it and then leave. I have other
plans.”

  He could not help but admire her coolness even while he was irritated by it. Most women in her situation would be distraught and clinging and demanding to know his intentions.

  “Thank you for offering,” he said, walking farther into the room after removing his greatcoat—the servant had not offered to take it downstairs—and tossing it onto a chair. “I believe I will sit down. But do have a seat yourself, ma’am. I am gentleman enough to know that I may not sit until you do.”

  “You are impertinent, Mr. Downes,” she said.

  “But then I am also, of course,” he said, gesturing toward the chair closest to her, “quite bourgeois, ma’am.”

  She sat and so did he. She was furious, he saw, though she would, of course, scorn to glare. She sat with her back ramrod straight and her jaw set in a hard line.

  “You are with child,” he said.

  She said nothing.

  “It is a reality that will not go away,” he said. It had taken the whole of a sleepless night finally to admit that to himself. “It must be dealt with.”

  “Nothing in my life will be dealt with by you, Mr. Downes,” she said. “I deal with my own problems, thank you very much. I believe this visit is at an end.”

  “I believe, ma’am,” he said, “it is our problem.”

  “No!” Her nostrils flared and both her hands curled into fists in her lap. “You will not treat this as a piece of business, Mr. Downes, to be dealt with coldly and efficiently and then forgotten about. I will not have a quiet hideaway found for me or a discreet midwife. I will not have a decent, respectable home found for the child so that I may return to my usual life with no one the wiser. You may be expert at dominating your subordinates with that confident, commanding air of yours. You will not dominate me.”

  Good Lord!

  He leaned back in his chair, set his elbows on the arms, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He stared at her for a long time before speaking.