A Christmas Bride / A Christmas Beau

by Mary Balogh

  “Stand back, if you please, Rupert,” she said firmly.

  “He is a prime goer,” the marquess agreed. “And I am afraid he is likely to kick, or at least to sidle restlessly away if you reach out to him in that timid manner and then snatch your hand away. You will convey your nervousness to him.”

  Rupert stepped back, snubbed.

  “However, you may ride on his back, if you wish,” the marquess said, “and show him that you are not at all afraid of him despite his great size.”

  Judith reached out a hand as Rupert’s eyes grew as wide as saucers.

  “Really, sir?” he asked. “Up in front of you?”

  The marquess looked down at the boy without smiling so that Judith felt herself inhaling and reaching down a hand to cover Kate’s head protectively.

  “I don’t believe a big boy like you need ride in front of anyone,” Lord Denbigh said. And he swung down from the saddle, dwarfing them all in the progress. He looked rather like a rider from hell, Judith thought, with his black cloak swinging down over the tops of his boots, and his immense height.

  “I can ride in the saddle?” Rupert gazed worshipfully up at the marquess. “Uncle Maurice says I am a half pint and must not ride anything larger than a pony until I am ten or eleven.”

  “Perhaps Uncle Maurice was thinking of your riding alone,” the marquess said. “It would indeed not be advisable at your age to ride a spirited horse on your own. I shall assist you, sir.”

  And he stooped down, lifted the boy into the saddle, kept one arm at the back of the saddle to catch him if he should begin to slide off, and handed the boy the reins with the other.

  “Just a short distance,” he said, “if your mama has no objection.”

  Judith said nothing.

  “Oh, how splendid,” Amy said. “How kind of you, my lord. I am sure you have made a friend for life.”

  They did not go far, merely along the path for a short distance and back again. Judith stood very still and watched tensely. Her son’s auburn curls—he was very like Andrew—glowed in marked contrast to the blackness of the man who walked at the side of the horse. She was terrified for some unaccountable reason. It was not for her son’s safety. The horse was walking at a quite sedate pace, and the man’s arm was ready to save the child from any fall.

  She did not know what terrified her.

  “There,” the marquess said, lifting Rupert down to the ground again, “you will be a famous horseman when you grow up.”

  “Will I? Did you see, Mama?” Rupert screeched, his face alight with excitement and triumph. “I was riding him all alone.”

  “Yes.” Judith smiled at him. “You were very clever, Rupert.”

  “Do you think so?” he asked. “Will I be able to have a horse this summer, Mama, instead of a stupid pony? I will be almost seven by then. Will you tell Uncle Maurice?”

  She cupped his face briefly with her hands and looked up to thank the marquess. And then she froze in horror as she saw him looking down at a tiny auburn-haired little figure who was tugging at his cloak.

  “Me, too,” Kate was saying.

  “No,” Judith said sharply. And then, more calmly, “We have taken enough of his lordship’s time, Kate. We must thank him and allow him to be on his way.”

  “Pegasus does not have a saddle for a lady,” the marquess said. “But if you ask your mama and she says yes, I will take you up before me for a short distance.”

  “Please, Mama.” Large brown eyes—also Andrew’s—looked pleadingly up at her.

  But was Kate not terrified of the man? Judith thought in wonder and panic. How could she bear the thought of being taken up before him on the great horse and led away from her mother and her aunt and brother? Kate was not normally the boldest of children.

  “Very well,” she said. She fixed her eyes on his chin. “If it is no great inconvenience to you, my lord.”

  He swung back up into the saddle again and reached down for the child, whom Judith lifted toward him. His hands touched her own briefly and she felt that she must surely suffocate. She stepped back as he settled Kate on the horse’s back before him, and her daughter stared down at her with eyes that seemed as large as her face.

  “How very kind of him,” Amy said quietly as they rode away along the path. “There are not many gentlemen who would have such patience with children, Judith—including these children’s own uncles.”

  “Yes,” Judith said. “It is kind of him. And also unutterably embarrassing.”

  He took his leave of them and rode away as soon as he had returned with Kate and handed her down into Judith’s waiting arms.

  “What a very unfortunate meeting,” she said when he had ridden out of earshot and the children’s excitement had died down enough that they rushed ahead along the path again.

  “Unfortunate?” Amy said. “Oh, no, Judith. You must not feel embarrassed. He was under no compulsion to be so kind to the children. But where did you make his acquaintance? At Lady Clancy’s?”

  “Yes,” Judith said. “And before, Amy. He was—and I suppose still is—the Viscount Evendon.”

  “Evendon?” Amy was quiet for a moment. “The man to whom you were betrothed, Judith? Really? It is very good of him to be so civil, then.” She stared back along the path at the disappearing figure of the marquess.

  “Yes,” Judith said.

  And it was good of him. He had been remarkably civil to take such notice of her children. Why, then, did she feel frightened, almost as if he had attempted to kidnap them? Why did she not feel at all that an olive branch had been extended?

  Was it just her guilt? Or was it something else?

  IT HAD BEEN impossible to discover if she intended to go to the Mumford ball short of asking the question of Mumford himself. And even he probably would not know since he had expressed a certain distaste for all the elaborate preparations Lady Mumford was making and a determination to stay within the safe walls of White’s until he could stay there no longer.

  The Marquess of Denbigh did not ask Mumford. He merely spent his days at White’s and kept his ears open. It was amazing what gossip passed within the walls of the club. The story of his coming face-to-face with Judith Easton at Nora’s had become common knowledge, of course. Some men avoided the topic in his presence, assuming that he would be embarrassed by a reminder of the way he had been jilted eight years before.

  Fortunately, some gentlemen considered that he needed consoling.

  “I hear you ran into Mrs. Easton at Clancy’s,” Bertie Levin said. “Unfortunate that, old chap.”

  The marquess shrugged. “Ancient history has no particular interest for me,” he said.

  “Too bad that you had to return at just the time when she is here,” Bertie said. “Easton never brought her, you know.”

  “Is that so?” The marquess polished his quizzing glass.

  “She might have interfered with his other pleasures,” Bertie said with a chuckle.

  “Yes,” the marquess said. “They were well known.”

  “Though why he would want to get into the muslin company when he had such a looker for a wife eludes my understanding,” Bertie said. “She is well rid of him, if you were to ask me.”

  “To be uncharitable,” the marquess said, “I would have to say that perhaps the world is well rid of him.”

  “She don’t go about much, by all accounts,” Bertie said. “It was unfortunate that you ran into her at Clancy’s. Especially since you don’t go about much yourself.” He laughed heartily.

  “Yes,” Lord Denbigh said.

  “She is a model mother, according to Freeman,” Bertie said. “Cannot be pried from her children and all that. Walks them in the park every afternoon despite the weather. That would certainly not suit Freeman.” He chuckled again. “At least you can be warned about that, Denbigh, and avoid the place.”

  “Yes,” the marquess said, dropping his quizzing glass on its black ribbon. “Though ancient history, as I said before, does n
ot excite me.”

  “Well,” Bertie said, getting to his feet, “I never could understand why she dropped you for Easton, Denbigh. Most females would kill for a chance at you. Maybe money and titles and all that did not interest the chit. And Easton was a handsome devil, one must admit. I have to fetch my mother from my aunt’s. She will shoot me with a dueling pistol if I am late.”

  The marquess inclined his head and watched Bertie leave the room. Then he consulted his watch. Scarcely past luncheon time. At what time during the afternoons? he wondered. Early or late? He supposed that the only way he would find out was to ride to the park himself both early and late. He got to his feet.

  He was fortunate enough not to have to ride there for longer than an hour. Obviously, early afternoon was the time for their walk. Four of them. Judith Easton herself, the two children, who both resembled Easton to a remarkable degree, and the little bird of a woman who was introduced to him as Easton’s sister.

  He rode away after giving each of the children a brief ride, well satisfied with the encounter. He knew now for certain that she was indeed planning to attend the Mumford ball. And he knew something else, too, something about her children and something about her sister-in-law.

  And something about her, too. Clearly, her children were everything in the world to her.

  Perhaps he could make something of those facts. The desire for revenge had burned in him with increased fervor since he had seen her again at Nora’s.

  Since the park was empty at that time of the day and of the year, he increased his horse’s speed to a canter. Fortunately, he would not have to sit around any longer, wondering how he was to come upon her again. He would see her again that evening.

  He could scarcely wait for the hours to pass.

  THE MUMFORD BALL was not what might be called a great squeeze—not of the kind, anyway, that Judith had known in her come-out Season. But then, as Lady Mumford explained to her almost apologetically before the dancing began, it was the wrong time of year for grand ton events. Even those people who spent the winter in town were beginning to take themselves off for Christmas parties in the country.

  Judith did not lament the lack of crowds. There were quite enough guests present to make it a pleasant occasion. Claude led her into the opening quadrille, and Lord Clancy was waiting to dance with her the set of country dances that followed.

  And he was not there, she thought with some relief as the second set began. The Marquess of Denbigh was not there. Perhaps it was as well that Amy had mentioned her own plans in his hearing that afternoon, though she had been alarmed at the time. If he had intended to come, surely he would have changed his mind after that.

  But her early pleasure in the evening dissipated halfway through the second set while she was laughing at something Lord Clancy said as he twirled her down the set.

  He was standing alone in the doorway of the ballroom, dressed in black evening clothes and immaculately white linen and lace. He was the only gentleman clad in black. He looked more than ever like a hawk or some other bird of prey.

  He would be as intent on ignoring her, she told herself as another gentleman twirled her back down the set, as she would be on ignoring him. She was not going to let him spoil her evening. She looked very deliberately across the ballroom at him just to prove her theory to herself.

  He was staring back, his eyes hooded and intent.

  She whisked her eyes away from him and made some remark to Lord Clancy and smiled broadly at him. And she kept her attention on the dance for all of five more minutes without giving in to the urge to look back to the doorway.

  He would have moved away from there, she persuaded herself at last. He would have found a group of people with whom to converse. She turned her head to look.

  He stood in exactly the same place. And he was still looking steadily at her.

  By the time the set came to an end almost ten minutes later, Judith felt quite unnerved. She could not walk without feeling that her movements were jerky. She could not smile without feeling as if she were behaving artificially. She could not laugh without hearing the trill of her own voice. And she could not talk without losing the trend of her own words or listen without suddenly realizing that she was not hearing a word.

  And each time she turned her head, sometimes deliberately, sometimes under the pretense of looking elsewhere close by, he was standing in the same place. Lady Mumford joined him there, but still he looked quite steadily at her, Judith found.

  She had not realized that the ballroom was quite so hot and stuffy.

  3

  SHE WAS WEARING AN APRICOT-COLORED GOWN OF simple but elegant design. It was neither too low nor too high at the bosom, and it was fashionably high-waisted, falling in soft folds to the scalloped hemline. She wore white lace gloves and white slippers. Her hair was dressed as it had been at the soirée.

  She looked beautiful, as she had looked in the park that afternoon with reddened cheeks and nose and hair somewhat windblown beneath her bonnet.

  The Marquess of Denbigh stood in the doorway of Lord Mumford’s ballroom looking at her. If she had been grief-stricken at the death of her husband, then she had recovered her spirits in the year since. She was laughing quite merrily.

  He watched her until he knew she was aware of his presence. And then he continued to watch her, knowing that his gaze would disconcert her. He knew that even when she was not darting glances at him she was aware of his steady scrutiny. And he knew that when she looked at people or objects close to him, smiling in apparent enjoyment of the evening, she was really seeing him out of the corner of her eye. He knew that when she looked full at him it was in the hope that his attention had been taken by someone or something else.

  He watched her even when he knew that other people must be noticing the focus of his attention and even when Lady Mumford came to speak with him to apologize for the fact that she and Mumford had not been at the door to greet him. He knew he was late, he explained to her. He did not expect them to stand at the door all evening merely in order to greet latecomers.

  Finally, after he had stood in the doorway for well over half an hour, a set ended and Judith Easton joined a group of guests and deliberately turned her back on him. It was a very straight back. If she was uncomfortable—and he knew very well that she was—then she was going to do nothing outwardly to show it.

  She had always had that control over her emotions even as a girl. Unfortunately, at that time he had mistaken control for sweetness and shyness.

  He strolled toward her. Nothing in her posture suggested that she knew he had moved from his position in the doorway. But as he approached another lady said something to her and she turned her head sharply just as he came up to her. He nodded a greeting to the whole group and turned to her.

  “Mrs. Easton,” he said, “will you do me the honor of waltzing with me?”

  She inhaled visibly as she lifted her eyes to him.

  “Oh, I say,” said a florid-faced gentleman with whom the marquess was not acquainted, “I was just about to ask you myself, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” she said, ignoring the florid-faced gentleman, seeming in fact not even to have heard him. She stepped away from the group. He felt himself also inhaling slowly when the music started and he touched her for the first time in almost eight years. Her waist was still small and supple beneath the folds of her gown—even after two children. Her hand was still slim and soft. She wore the same perfume. He could not identify it, but he knew instantly that he had not smelled it since he had last been close to her. Long eyelashes, darker than her hair, still fanned her cheeks.

  He had never waltzed with her before. The waltz had come into fashion since their betrothal. But she danced it as well and as daintily as she had used to dance the quadrille or the minuet.

  She looked up to his chin. “I want to thank you for letting my children ride your horse this afternoon, my lord,” she said. “You gave them a great deal of pleasure.”

  “I am
fond of children,” he said, and watched her raise her eyes briefly to his.

  Perhaps she did not believe him. Probably she did not. And of course he had not been motivated chiefly by his love for children that afternoon, though he had liked the boy’s enthusiasm and the girl’s quiet trust.

  What had he done wrong? he wondered as he had wondered hundreds—thousands—of times years before. Why had she preferred Easton to him? He had had the rank and the wealth and the prospects. It was true that Easton had been good-looking and charming with the ladies. But the man had also had a reputation as something of a rake.

  Probably that had been it, he had concluded long ago. Perhaps it had been the eternal attraction of the rake. He on the other hand had always behaved toward her with perfect decorum and restraint. Perhaps she would have liked him better if he had displayed his feelings on occasion. But he had thought a display of feelings inappropriate before their wedding night. A night that had never come. Besides, he had never been easy with women of his own class.

  “You are planning to make London your home?” he asked.

  “For a while,” she said.

  “You are joining your husband’s family for Christmas?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “No,” she said. “We are going to be quiet here alone for a change. My parents went to Millicent’s in Scotland, but I decided that my daughter is too young for the lengthy journey. We are not going to stay with Andrew’s family this year.”

  “Ah,” he said. “London can be sparsely populated and a little lonely at Christmas.”

  “I have two young children and a sister-in-law,” she said. “We will not be lonely.”

  That was the end of their conversation. He had found out what he wanted to know, and he had no wish to entertain her. He watched her as they waltzed, not taking his eyes from her face, totally unconcerned by the attention he must be drawing from the other guests—or by the embarrassment he must be causing her.

  She remained calm, though he could feel a certain tightening of muscles beneath his hand at her waist.