All is Mary and Bright: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 2)

by Kasey Stockton

  Mary drew in a breath and reached for her gown. She and Mother shared Price as a lady’s maid. Back home it wasn’t much of a trial, as they dined early and had plenty of time to change. Mary had grown accustomed to preparing for dinner early so Mother could have Price as long as she needed. But even she could now see that there wasn’t enough time for Price to dress mother, fix Mary’s thoughtless tear, and complete her toilette.

  “I will sew the tear. You see to Mama and then come back to me. If we do not have enough time to fix my hair, then this will have to do for tonight.” She reached up and smoothed a tendril away from her forehead.

  “But Miss Mary, it’s Christmas.”

  Mary looked at the matronly maid sharply. “And we are to spend it with family. It is nothing of consequence if I am a little plain.” She set her mouth in a firm line, hoping the maid would see her posture and understand her firm stance in this matter. “Now, go see to Mama.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Price left the room, not pausing to glance back, and Mary retrieved her small sewing box from her trunk. Slipping her dressing gown over her underclothes, Mary nestled into the chair near the fire, the window dark now and the fire her only source of light.

  She turned her wounded sleeve inside-out and found the tear. Preparing a needle, she got to work. She’d hoped that the extra time she would have had after dressing for dinner would have allowed her to begin the novel Lord Sanders had recommended. But alas, she would now have to wait until after dinner.

  Her fingers worked as though they had a mind of their own, her thoughts trailing to the moment in the library when she’d come upon the earl. He’d been troubled, but when she spoke to him his demeanor had shifted completely. She did not have a high enough opinion of herself to imagine that speaking to her was the cause for such a shift. The man was clearly battling something within himself, and Mary would do well to put it from her mind completely.

  It was none of her concern.

  Perhaps if she repeated that to herself often enough, she would grow to believe it.

  Chapter 9

  The drawing room smelled of drying evergreen boughs and burning wood from the fire roaring in the hearth, crackling and spitting embers against the floral-painted firescreen. The mothers sat on a plush settee facing the long sofa which Lady Anne, Lady Caroline, Lord Sanders, and Mary crouched behind.

  Nestled between the earl and his youngest sister, Mary pulled the stocking puppet further up her arm and smiled at Lady Caroline.

  “I’ll go first,” Lady Anne whispered from the end. Everyone nodded and Lady Anne’s slender arm raised above the sofa, her voice taking on a high, tinny quality she likely affected to bring humor to the show. “Ladies of the drawing room, we proudly present to you a performance by the Carolers of Sanders House.”

  Lord Sanders nudged Mary’s elbow, and she glanced at him, his eyes sparkling with mischief. She prepared her puppet and lifted it at the same time Lord Sanders and Lady Caroline raised theirs to join Lady Anne’s.

  And then they began to sing.

  Mary kept her voice soft, staying within the small range that her alto could manage well enough. They caroled, the songs of Christmas filling the room with warmth and joy. Lord Sanders’s stocking strayed close to Mary’s, his arm brushing against hers and resting there.

  She shot him a glance and found him grinning, his smile wide despite his singing. His voice was pleasant, warm. Mary moved her arm away, but Lord Sanders followed. There was not a good deal of room behind the sofa as it was, and his antics were only making her space shrink.

  “I did warn you about Andrew,” Lady Caroline whispered when the song came to a close.

  She had. But hadn’t the earl claimed that he’d outgrown such antics? It made Mary smile.

  They began the next song, and Lord Sanders moved further down the line of puppets, slipping his arm behind Mary’s to pop up behind Lady Caroline’s puppet. His forearm leaned against Mary’s, but he hardly seemed to notice, his gaze over the top of Mary’s head, watching his little sister giggle as she tried to escape the earl’s theatrics. The smell of his shaving soap, clean and musky, washed over her in waves, making it difficult to remember words to the hymn, While Shepherds Watch Their Flocks.

  By the time they finished the second song, Lord Sanders had crouched behind Mary where he could reach Lady Anne’s puppet. The Bright girls were both giggling, fighting to sing through their mirth and leaving Mary to carry the bulk of the tune, to her utter displeasure.

  When the carols came to a close, they all rose, bowing with their stockings and grinning at their mothers, who both smiled back with immense pleasure and amusement on their radiant faces.

  “Lovely, darlings. Absolutely lovely!” Lady Sanders said, clapping her hands together.

  “That was marvelous,” Mama agreed.

  Lady Anne turned to Mary. “I suppose I ought to have believed you, Mary. Your singing voice is no nightingale.”

  Mary laughed, the sound ripping from her chest. “Am I a screeching pig, then?”

  “Of course not,” Lord Sanders admonished. “And don’t listen to my careless sister. I rather liked your voice.”

  Scrunching her nose, Mary turned to the earl. “Your manners are impeccable, sir. I won’t do you the dishonor of calling you a liar to your face.”

  “You will merely think it instead?”

  She closed her mouth, her smirk matching his, and pulled the puppet from her hand.

  “Oh, Andrew!” Lady Caroline said, tugging on his sleeve, though his gaze remained on Mary. “We forgot to put together the servants’ baskets for St. Stephen’s Day.”

  “We may do so in the morning,” he said, tearing his gaze away from Mary. She slipped away, moving around the sofa and taking the seat beside Lady Anne.

  “Or we can do so now.” Lady Anne removed her puppet and laid it over the arm of the sofa. “Is everything ready?”

  “I believe so.” He stepped around the sofa, pausing at the edge of the circle of furniture. Rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks went rosy. “I am afraid the boxes won’t be up to par this year, but I did my best. Mother is better at planning for these. I am certain the servants far prefer when she does so.”

  “I am certain the servants will love whatever you purchased for them, dear,” Lady Sanders said.

  “I suppose we will soon find out. Anne?”

  She rose from the sofa and together they left the room, presumably to fetch the items he’d purchased for the servants’ boxes. Mama leaned toward Lady Sanders, clutching her friend’s arm as she spoke to her quietly.

  “Do you miss your papa?” Lady Caroline asked, pulling Mary’s gaze away from their mothers as she claimed her sister’s empty seat.

  Mary paused, unsure of how to answer the question. No, she did not miss her father at all. The time away from him and his high expectations had been a blessed holiday, and she found herself growing more eager for her wedding the longer she stayed away from her father. If nothing else, marriage to Mr. Lockhart was a blessing in that it would remove Mary from her father’s household entirely. He was not a bad man, but he had expectations that she was tired of trying to reach.

  “He is likely enjoying the respite,” she said instead, careful to only speak the truth. “My father values quiet above all else, and with my mother and me here, I am certain he is getting enough quiet to heartily please him.”

  Lady Caroline’s young face shifted in surprise. “Oh, but surely he misses you.”

  Lady Anne and the earl returned, saving Mary from needing to respond. She faced the door, watching them carry in crates—one full of small boxes and two precariously stacked in Lord Sanders’s arms holding a multitude of items.

  “You could have asked Finch to carry these,” Lady Anne said.

  “I am not asking our butler to carry his own gift,” the earl replied.

  “Mama, would you like to help?” Lady Anne called, setting her crate on the table nearest the window.
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br />   Lady Sanders shook her head. “No, dear. You go ahead.”

  Lady Anne nodded before turning her attention to the small boxes, lifting them from the crate and lining them up on the table to be filled with gifts for the servants. Mary moved to assist her and together they lined up the boxes until the tabletop was full, using two of the chairs to hold the last four.

  Lord Sanders reached into one crate beside his feet and pulled out an orange. “Miss Hatcher, would you like to be in charge of placing the fruit in the boxes?”

  Her breath caught. Could the man grow any more thoughtful? She nodded, reaching for the orange in his hands. He relinquished it to her, and she brought it up to her nose, sniffing the earthy citrus smell of the peel and allowing the feel of Christmas to wash over her body.

  She was so satisfied, so happy in the Brights’ home, she never wanted to leave it.

  Andrew watched Mary’s eyes drift closed as she inhaled the scent of the orange. Her delicate fingers wrapped around the large fruit, his heart squeezing as though it was the orange Mary held. He turned away from her, trying to get his pulse under control as he sifted through the second crate and pulled out a sack of coins, tossing it to Caroline.

  “Will you put two coins in each box?”

  She nodded, and he turned back to retrieve the scarves.

  “Andrew!” Anne squealed, beating him to it. She pulled a long, woolen scarf from the crate. “How did you manage to obtain these in so little time?”

  “I found a woman on Bond Street who had almost enough already made,” he said, shrugging. In truth, it had taken a good chunk of his day to locate the ready-made scarves, but he had been so cold while searching for the evergreen boughs for Anne that the thought occurred to him that his servants ought to be gifted something to aid them in this frightfully cold winter. “She was more than happy to make the last three that I needed and sent them over this morning.”

  “How exceptionally kind of you, my lord,” Mary said, her eyes glowing in appreciation. “I am certain your servants will be prodigiously grateful.”

  “And yours,” he said softly, earning a surprised look from Mary. He cleared his throat. “I inquired as to how many servants you brought to London and made certain your maid would be included.” He gestured to the boxes. “You may take one this evening if you wish so you may present it to her in the morning.”

  Mary’s mouth dropped open, her eyes widening. Her gaze flicked from the boxes lining the table to Andrew, and he had to force himself to remain where he was, to not look away from her penetrating gaze.

  “That was thoughtful,” Anne said, handing the first scarf to Mary. She stepped around her brother to pull out another.

  Mary held up the one in her hands, peering at the workmanship. They were admittedly on the plain side, but they were thick and would be quite warm.

  “Truly? She had all these at the ready?” Anne asked.

  Her logical question pulled Andrew from the warm euphoria he had been in while under Mary’s steady, grateful gaze, and he looked at his sister. “I imagine this shockingly cold winter gave her reason to believe she would sell a good amount of scarves. She also had extra gloves in her store and many hats. This is an extreme frost we are enduring, of course.”

  Anne nodded as though this logic made sense to her and returned to filling the boxes with scarves as Caroline dropped coins in them and Mary tucked oranges safely inside. Andrew busied himself with closing the boxes once they contained each of the three gifts and stacking them within the now empty crates.

  The Bright siblings and Mary worked alongside one another, swiftly completing their tasks. There were two oranges left over, and they decided to peel both of them and share the segments, taking them to the sofas to offer pieces to their mothers. By the time the oranges were eaten, Andrew was quite drunk on joy and feminine laughter. Mary and her mother fit in well among the Bright family, and they shared a Christmas evening that was far better than any he’d had the last few years.

  Last year’s Christmas dinner had meant to be a bachelors’ escape. Andrew and his friend, the Duke of Alverton, had escaped to his mother’s empty estate in Wiltshire. But Alverton’s family had arrived and ruined all plans for a quiet dinner. He hadn’t been angry at his friend, but the stark contrast between last year’s celebrations and this evening was vivid.

  Andrew would choose this year’s Christmas if given the choice again.

  “I am exhausted,” Mary said, rising from her seat on the sofa. “If you will all excuse me, I think I shall call it an early night.” She yawned as if her body meant to prove her fatigue, and the rest of the party bid her goodnight. Andrew watched her leave with regret, wishing he could have spent more time speaking with her that evening. He loved having his sisters about, but he found he would greatly appreciate the opportunity to converse with just Mary.

  Perhaps if he hung around the library long enough, he’d get his chance.

  Chapter 10

  Two full days had passed since Christmas, and the occupants of Sanders House had fallen into a comfortable routine, sharing mealtimes and partaking in parlor games, with the afternoons unequivocally dedicated to quiet activities. Andrew’s mother had gone upstairs for a nap, and her guest, Mrs. Hatcher, had done the same. Mary had taken a chair close to the fire, her feet tucked under her as she sat engrossed in the book in her hands, and Anne and Caroline were installed at the table beside the window, drawing.

  Finch stepped into the library carrying a silver tray containing an ivory card and the London Times and presented them to Andrew. Andrew took the newspaper and tucked the card into his jacket pocket. He was not about to admit his friend into the room whilst Anne sat nearby—there was no predicting what his sister might do when faced with such a tantalizing treat. Not that Harold was a superb catch. But that likely mattered little to Anne. He was simply a man, which was more than enough qualification in her mind.

  Andrew flicked his head, and Finch nodded in understanding. He would see Harold out kindly.

  Andrew settled on the sofa opposite Mary, his back to his sisters as he pretended to read the newspaper. The articles with their bold titles ceased to grab his attention. The mention of a shipping company having lost two of its cargo ships was a shame, but Andrew could not read two sentences beyond the headline without his gaze straying from the paper to where Mary was reading across from him.

  Judging by the progress she had made in her novel, she was nearing the halfway mark of the second volume, which meant she was just about halfway through Pride & Prejudice as a whole, and Andrew longed to inquire what she thought of it thus far. Her eyelashes fanned out over her cheeks, stark against her pale skin. The gentle slope of her nose was small and delicate, and he wondered if her children would have such sweet, petite noses as well.

  Or would they take after Mr. Lockhart instead?

  Mary’s gaze flicked up, catching his and holding it, and Andrew froze. He was caught, transfixed as though he was a rabbit, and she, the hunter.

  Her lips turned up at the ends. “I will not be able to finish this book with such a rapt audience, sir. I know you are eager to hear what I think but staring at me is no way to learn my thoughts.”

  Andrew chuckled, fighting the inclination to glance over his shoulder and discern whether or not his sisters were listening. What would they make of such a pronouncement? It was innocent, to say the least, but his sisters surely wouldn’t need much to formulate conclusions of their own making. They chattered softly behind him, though, and he allowed that to put him at ease.

  “I am curious by nature,” he explained, though it was a paltry excuse. He hadn’t been watching her out of curiosity. He’d been fixated on her because he had no other choice—he was drawn to Mary.

  She closed the book, keeping her finger within the pages. “Perhaps I ought to read upstairs. Your curiosity is distracting.”

  “Will you remain if I promise to focus on my newspaper?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him.
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  Andrew rubbed his chin. “What if I face the opposite direction?”

  “That would certainly improve the situation.”

  He stood, crossing the ornate navy and cream rug and lowering himself in the wingback chair just an arm’s length from Mary. Now he was close enough to smell her soft, floral aroma. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best idea.

  He settled into the seat, turning toward her, and her gentle smile settled over him like a warm blanket. “Now if I get distracted, my sisters will receive the brunt of my stare.”

  “Very well, my lord. I promise I will update you the moment I finish the book.”

  “But what do you think of it now?”

  She glanced at the leather cover in her hands, running her fingers over the gold embossed spine. “Mr. Bennet is quite amusing. And I admit I am interested to learn what becomes of Jane Bennet.”

  “Jane? Not Eliza?”

  “Well, both.”

  Straightening the newspaper in his hands, Andrew turned his focus to the article he’d been attempting to read for the last quarter-hour. He would much prefer something akin to Pride and Prejudice. There was nothing wrong with enjoying a decent novel now and again. Of course, he tended to indulge more than most gentlemen of his acquaintance. What would Mary think if she knew how often he read?

  “What is it you are reading?” Mary asked, pulling his attention once again from the article about the sunken shipping line.

  He set the paper on his knee. “Nothing remotely interesting. A few sunken boats loaded with cargo, but nothing—”

  “Which boats?” she asked, straightening in her chair and lowering her feet to the floor. Her bow-shaped lips flattened, creases forming on her brow. Her concern was mighty, but the cause of it unclear. She did not have a stake in cargo ships, certainly. Her father was not a man of trade—he was a gentleman. A landowner.