“You have been specifically requested, my lord.”
“Did they bring a card?”
Finch shook his head. “A Mr. Harold Pinnegar and a Mr. Francis Jacobs, my lord.”
“Ah, of course. Tell them I’ll be right down.”
Finch nodded before retreating to the tune of Caroline’s disappointment. “But we have yet to practice, Andrew.”
“I’ll see what they need and send them on their way. It should only be a moment.”
Anne sat up in her seat. “Should we not invite them to stay for a visit?”
Andrew paused, sweeping his gaze over his sister. At fifteen she was already too eager to form a connection, and it was dangerous. She was too beautiful to be ignored by London men and too naive to understand them.
She was trouble now, and she was likely going to become more so by the time she came of age. “If you are hoping to sneak in a meeting with one of them under the kissing bough, you are bound to become disappointed, Anne.”
She scrunched her nose, and Mary chuckled beside her. Andrew shot Mary a knowing grin before quitting the room, the sound of feminine laughter trailing behind his hurried steps. He hadn’t seen his friends since the day of the Frost Fair, and he was fairly certain they’d only sought him out now because they were bored and knew his cook made an incredible roast duck.
Finch stood in the corridor, directing Andrew to where his friends awaited him in the library. He found them settled comfortably, Francis leaning an elbow on the fireplace mantel and Harold reclining in a leather wingback chair, his legs stretched forward and crossed at the ankles.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
They both dipped their heads in acknowledgment. “My sofa has been empty these last few nights,” Harold said. “Needed to make sure your mother wasn’t holding you here against your will.”
“How generous of you.” Andrew stepped around Harold’s feet and dropped into the chair beside his. “But no one has that sort of authority over me.”
“Not even your mama?” Francis asked, crossing his arms over his chest and moving toward the settee on the other side of the rug. “Was it not her letter that forced you home just a few days ago?”
“I am spending Christmas with my family.”
Harold and Francis shared a look.
“What is it?” Andrew asked, glancing between his friends. “There is nothing wrong with that.”
“No, of course not,” Harold agreed.
Francis rubbed his chin. “And when was the last time you spent any length of time with your mother?”
His jaw clenched, his gut reminding him that his friends were only being playful—that they did not know the depth of his guilt. But still, he could not refrain from arguing his case. “I go to Brightly Court every summer for her house party.”
Francis lifted his hands in surrender. “Just doing my best to vex you, my good man. No need to get your hackles up.”
Andrew leaned back against the cushion, hoping to appear at ease, the scent of the evergreen needles on the mantel wafting to his nose. “What do you men have planned this evening?”
“That depends entirely upon you, my friend,” Francis said, grinning. “We’ve heard tell of a little place in Cheapside that just opened. A faro club. Interested?”
In faro? No. In attending any gaming house with his friends? No. “Is it respectable?”
Francis nodded toward Harold. “Heard of it from Fairbanks.”
Andrew nodded. Mr. Fairbanks was a mutual acquaintance of theirs from their years spent at school. The man was something of an idiot, but Andrew owned that he trusted the man’s discretion. Fairbanks had too high an opinion of himself to step foot in a gaming house that would not pass muster.
Not that it mattered. Andrew had promised the evening to his sisters. To Mary.
“Perhaps another night, gentlemen.”
“Ha!” Harold said, pushing to his feet. He held out a hand toward Francis as the man fished around his pocket and pulled out a coin, a wry smile on his lips as he dropped it in Harold’s hand. The men exchanged money so often in bets and wagers that Andrew wondered if the same few coins moved back and forth each time.
“You wagered on my willingness to gamble?”
“On your willingness to come out with us,” Francis clarified, annoyed. “I thought gambling was the way to win.”
Harold took his seat again before leaning across the small table between their chairs and gripping Andrew’s elbow. “And I knew there would be no way to pull you from your mother’s house on Christmas. What does the old dragon have planned for the evening?”
“You call my mother a dragon again, and I’ll see you out into the snow.” Andrew pointed to the bubbled glass window at the end of the room, the fading sunlight making it appear orange. “Through that window.”
“Forgive me,” Harold said, though his amusement betrayed a lack of contrition.
“No special plans.” Andrew swallowed against the lie. He wasn’t about to tell his friends about the caroling puppet show. They would demand to remain in order to witness the spectacle, and he didn’t want them ruining a nice family evening.
If he would have agreed to spend Christmas at Brightly Court like his mother had wished, they would have been able to go out together in search of a yule log—but things were different here. There was no convenient forest, only stalls from which to purchase things. And the more his mother was forced to sacrifice for this frosty London holiday, the more Andrew’s guilt grew.
“Tomorrow, then?” Harold asked.
“I’m not sure what my mother has planned for tomorrow. If I am free, I will come in search of you.”
Francis laughed, shaking his head, but Harold’s face only grew serious. His eyes narrowed, regarding Andrew as though he could tell something was different but could not quite figure out what it was.
Andrew liked his friends, but he could not tell them of the turmoil that flew about him like a determined raven, pecking at him constantly. He couldn’t explain that whenever he found some other thing to funnel his focus into, thoughts of Mary or his failure as his father’s heir swooped in on him again, unrelenting.
If his good friend Alverton was nearby, Andrew would have been able to confide in him—to beg advice. But Alverton lived up north with his bride now. There was no one else in London he trusted to hear him unburden his fears and concerns, so Andrew was forced to turn to others for distraction. Though they had honorable intentions, that’s all Harold and Francis were.
Perhaps he ought to visit Alverton when the snow melted, and the roads became passable. Harold and Francis were entertaining, but Andrew craved the steadying, reasonable nature of his closest friend.
“Be glad Almack’s is not yet open, or I’m certain you’d be squiring your sisters there next,” Francis said.
“They are not out yet,” Andrew reminded them. “I have a year or two before that will be a concern. Except…” Hadn’t Mary mentioned a Twelfth Night ball? Surely it would only be a small affair if Mother was going to allow Anne to attend.
“Yes?”
“Nothing. But I will do my duty by my sisters, whatever that may be. There is no one else to do it.”
Harold nodded. He got to his feet, stretching his arms before him. “Well, if we cannot convince you to come along, I suppose we ought to go.”
“You are welcome to stay,” Andrew offered, his mouth going dry. He hoped they would deny the invitation. It had only been a formality.
“That sounds—”
“No,” Harold said, cutting Francis off. “We don’t wish to interrupt your evening. We’ll be off.”
Francis looked as though he was about to argue, but Andrew relaxed when he relented, following Harold from the room.
The blessed silence fell upon Andrew as he listened to his friends’ footsteps trail down the stairs, out of the house, and onto the snowy London street. Melancholy descended on him, and he shut his eyes to the room, the crackling of the fire pulli
ng a memory from his childhood—his father, sitting near a fire and speaking to his mother about what they could do to help their uncle, who’d lost his fortune and had nowhere to turn. Mother had wanted to wait in the case that someone else would offer the man a place in their home, but Father had disagreed. He believed helping his uncle to create independence for himself would be most beneficial for the man in the long run.
Andrew had sat on the floor between their chairs, the fire roaring and spitting behind him as he played with small tin soldiers on the rug and listened to the points his father made. Even then he had noted how Father’s wish was, above all, to help.
Such selflessness and humility were traits Andrew could never himself claim. He was not the giant of giving and kindness his father had been. He would never be the earl his father was.
“Oh, forgive me!”
Mary’s voice pulled him from his melancholy musings as swiftly as if she had shaken him with her hands instead of her words. Opening his eyes, he found the woman standing across the room from him, her round eyes widened, her hand resting against the bookcase.
“I did not know you were here, my lord. We finished with the puppets and I only wanted to select a new book to read. I hadn’t realized the room was occupied.”
He’d heard those words before from other women, women who’d claimed to be innocent—accidentally stumbling upon him alone in a room. But this time he believed it. When Mary appeared to be looking for a book, he knew she was absolutely looking for a book.
The misfortune was that this time he almost wished she had come in here with malintent. He wouldn’t mind being caught alone with her.
Shaking that inappropriate thought away, Andrew tried to smile. “You are forgiven, Miss Hatcher.” He rose, dipping his head in acknowledgment. “Might I help you find something?”
“Perhaps. Though I will warn you, there aren’t many books I haven’t yet read.”
So she was an avid reader? The idea did not surprise him. It filled him with a greater understanding of her character. “Consider this a challenge I will gladly accept.”
Her mouth turned up, a slight chuckle escaping her lips. She pulled away from the bookcase. “Are you a well-read man?”
“I like to think so.”
“Funny, I would have—”
Andrew waited for her to continue, but her lips remained closed, a blush staining her cheeks.
“Yes?” he pressed.
She shook her head.
Andrew crossed the room, coming to a stop just before her. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned one shoulder against the bookcase on the wall. “You cannot blush so prettily and refuse to tell me why. It is unfair.”
Her eyebrow arched, and she mimicked his position, a case of books separating them. “Are you suggesting that I am not allowed my secrets?”
“On the contrary. You may keep your secrets. I’m only begging to be admitted into your confidence.”
The room dimmed along with the setting sun, but the firelight behind them and the lamps on the table glowed against Mary’s face, making her green eyes shine. They reminded him of the jade stick pin his father used to wear in his cravat. The one that now sat in Andrew’s dressing room upstairs.
He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I promise, I am quite adept at keeping secrets, too.”
She laughed. “You do realize that you just contradicted yourself, yes? You believe you can flash your smile at me, and I will reveal my uncharitable thoughts.”
Uncharitable thoughts? What on earth had she meant to say when she stopped herself?
Andrew grinned. “But is it working?”
Chapter 8
Mary’s breath caught. Lord Sanders watched her so intently, his smile so wide and genuine, that she found her heart pattering in her chest like rain against a tin roof. It was bold, loud in her own ears.
The troubling part was that his charm was working. She wanted to open her heart and tell him everything. When Lord Sanders looked at her, spoke to her, he gave her his full attention in a way she had never before experienced. She did not feel ornamental in his presence. She felt seen.
She tried to chuckle lightly, but the sound was off. She had stopped herself from saying something less than considerate about her first impressions of the earl. But if he was going to press her this much, he deserved to hear it. “It was nothing, my lord. I was going to make the observation that I would not have pegged you as a man who enjoyed reading.”
He unfolded his arms, dropping his chin. “I’m wounded. You believe me to be dull?”
“Quite the opposite,” she said.
Lord Sanders quirked an eyebrow. “I will take the compliment and concede you the win—”
“How gracious of you.”
“—on the condition that you allow me to choose the next book you read.”
“So long as you select a book I have not yet read, I will happily agree.”
His smile widened, showing her a set of slightly uneven, white teeth. “I know just the one.”
Andrew stepped around her, and she spun on her heel to watch him. His light brown eyebrows pulled together in concentration, small creases forming between them, as his eyes searched the book spines lining the wall. The firm set to his mouth gave his countenance a far more determined look than she was used to seeing on him, and she swallowed her mirth. He was taking this seriously.
“What is the book?”
“Around here somewhere,” he muttered, his finger trailing the titles as he looked. He tapped one before pulling it from the shelf and turning it over in his hand to read the cover. Then he held it out to Mary. “I bought this set for Anne last year, but she isn’t much of a reader. I am convinced she would love it were she to give it a try. It is the first of three volumes, and they are all on this shelf. If you enjoy it, you can return here for the next installment.”
Mary read the title. Pride & Prejudice. That sounded far from promising. “And you believe I might enjoy it?”
Lord Sanders was silent. She glanced up to find the earl’s gaze fixed on her, a furrow to his brow.
“Pardon me.” He shook his head slightly. “I am unsure if you would enjoy it. But I am interested to find out.”
Mary pulled the book against her, wrapping her hands over it. “Then I shall report back.”
Lord Sanders’s lips hitched in a smile. “I will anxiously await your thoughts.”
The warmth from the fire reached Mary’s back, spreading through her body and making the room grow smaller. Lord Sanders stood across from her, his hands casually clasped before him. He appeared at ease, comfortable, while her chest warmed from the kindness he’d shown her.
But she had seen his posture when she’d barged into the room earlier, completely unaware of his presence until it was too late. She’d seen the bend of his eyebrows, the frown on his lips, his eyes closed to the world as though he was doing his utmost to keep it away.
Would that she could ask him now of his troubles, that she could lend a listening ear.
“Are you prepared to sing the carols?” he asked, taking her by surprise. The way he’d been watching her had been so intent, she almost wondered if he’d been reading her thoughts, but his lips said otherwise.
“I know the songs, so I suppose I am as ready as can be expected.”
“You do realize Anne will be listening closely to determine your level of skill as a singer.”
Mary chuckled. She hadn’t thought of that, but he was likely correct. “She will be disappointed. It is not a skill I possess.”
Lord Sanders tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her. “Are you being modest?”
“No. I am not.” She laughed. “Trust me. I can blend into the congregation at church passably enough, but I cannot sing well.”
“I suppose I shall find out soon.”
Mary couldn’t fight the grin spreading over her lips. “And now I am tempted to whisper so that neither of you will be able to hear me and claim the win.”
“But you have more integrity than that,” he said, as though this was a truth universally acknowledged.
It gave Mary pause. She had known of the Bright family her entire life, but she had only been on personal terms with them for the last few weeks—and Lord Sanders, mere days. She liked to think she had integrity too, but knew it to be false. If she had integrity, she never would have agreed to her father’s idea to fulfill their side of the marriage bargain with Mr. Lockhart by obtaining an invitation to the Brights’ summer house party.
Lord Sanders’s clear, guileless blue eyes focused on Mary, causing her throat to tighten. She clutched the book to her chest, stepping back. If he knew her intentions, he would not think she had integrity.
“I must change for dinner,” she said, stepping back further. “Thank you for the recommendation.”
Lord Sanders dipped his head in a bow. “I hope it brings you pleasure.”
“A book about pride and prejudice? I am curious to see how it might.”
A knowing smile flitted over his lips, and Mary forced herself to look away. She turned, leaving the library, her heart in her throat. When Father had proposed the plan, Mary hadn’t realized how foul it was going to feel to carry it out.
She hurried up to her room and set the book on the dressing table, turning to allow her maid to begin unfastening her gown.
“Thank you, Price,” Mary said, slipping from the gown and waiting for her maid to set it down and lift her dinner dress. She had two gowns from which she could choose to dine in and had rotated between them both for the duration of her stay. She only hoped her limited selection had not been noticeable to her hostesses.
Sliding her hand through the long, green silk sleeve, her finger caught on a hole. The harsh sound of ripping fabric rent the air, threads breaking like a volley of nuts cracking as her finger tore down the seam.
“No!”
“It’s all right, ma’am,” Price said, bustling forward to take the dress. “I can mend it right quick.”
“But you need to dress Mother, as well.”
Price paused, holding the green gown in her hands, a kind smile creasing the sides of her eyes, her wrinkles becoming more pronounced. “I can do both.”
All is Mary and Bright: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 2) Page 7
