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

by Kasey Stockton

  “In just a moment,” Anne muttered. She glanced up, her blue eyes reminding Andrew so much of their father’s. “Mary should be down any moment.”

  Relief flooded his body. He would have been happy to spend the morning with just his sisters, but he was glad to have Mary along. The room always seemed brighter when she was in it.

  As if his thoughts called her forth, she stepped down the stairs, a pelisse wrapped around her shoulders, as she tied her bonnet ribbons under her chin. A faint blush spread over her cheeks, and she dipped her chin, her dark lashes lowering.

  Was she agitated because they had run into one another in the library the night before? An image flashed before his eyes of Mary wearing her green silk dressing gown, her long, brown braid resting over her shoulder while her slender fingers curled around the candleholder. She’d looked so simple and beautiful then, and she looked lovely now.

  This Lockhart fellow was a lucky man.

  “Shall we?” Andrew said, opening the door and holding it for the women. They filed outside and down the stone steps to the carriage waiting for them on the street. After handing the women inside the carriage, Andrew followed them in, taking the rear-facing seat opposite Mary. “I wanted to take you all out in a barouche, but I’m afraid it is too cold for it today.”

  “Heavens, Andrew. We’d have frozen,” Anne said, her eyes wide.

  “Precisely why I did not continue with that plan.” He shot Mary a glance, and her lips curved into a smile. “I had the thought that maybe the sun would be worth the cold. But alas, we can’t drink our chocolate if our limbs won’t move.”

  Caroline grinned up at Andrew. He held her gaze with difficulty until a moment passed, and he glanced out the window. He could not be the father figure she needed in her life. But he could be the brother she needed—or so he hoped.

  They arrived at Gunter’s, found an empty table inside the shop, and ordered four hot cups of chocolate and one package of peppermint-scented icing-sugar drops. Tucked into the corner at a small table, they sat sipping their delicious drinks and enjoying the sunlit scenery—a refreshing alternative to the walls and bubbled glass windows of Sanders House.

  “I would have gladly escorted you all around Berkeley Square if it was not so dreadfully cold outside,” Andrew said. “Perhaps we can take a short walk before we return home.”

  A jingle sounded through the small shop as the door opened, bringing a gust of bitter, cold air along with the couple that entered.

  “Or perhaps not,” Anne said, her small nose wrinkling.

  “What’s a little chill for a nice walk outside?” Andrew argued. “We will warm up quickly enough with fires and blankets when we return home.”

  “Perhaps if it is only a short walk,” Mary added, “it won’t be very terrible?”

  “Miss Hatcher?” a man said, pausing just before their table and staring down at Mary, stunned as though he’d found his maid wearing trousers. His sleek, dark eyebrows had risen on his forehead, and his hand clutched an ebony walking stick—not that he appeared to be relying on it. He looked healthy, not much older than Andrew himself, and was dressed in such elaboration that the stick could be nothing more than an affectation.

  “Oh, goodness,” Mary said, her voice small and laced with surprise. Her round, green eyes had grown to the size of peppermints, her shocked eyebrows matching the gentleman’s.

  Andrew cleared his throat. “Is anything the matter?”

  “The matter? No. Heavens,” she said, attempting to rise before appearing to realize that she was very much pushed into a corner. Reclaiming her seat, she said, “Lord Sanders, Lady Anne, Lady Caroline, allow me to present to you, Mr. Lockhart.”

  Anne let out a muffled squeal and Caroline a small gasp, but Andrew found he could elicit no response. The dandy’s face had fallen into something between a bored expression and a proud smirk, and he bowed.

  “Mr. Lockhart, these are the friends my mother and I are staying with in Town.”

  His eyes lit at once, settling on Andrew with an eagerness about them. He stepped closer. “How good of you to care for Miss Hatcher and her mother. I am inordinately grateful, my lord.”

  “It is nothing,” Andrew said with a flick of his wrist. He had been brought up an earl, and though his father was never one to exhibit haughty behavior, he had known how to command a room when he wished, and Andrew had studied that art immensely as a young boy. He merely hoped he was doing it well enough now that he did not appear an inexperienced goose.

  “Mary has been such a dear friend,” Anne said, her excitement nearly palpable.

  What would this man think of being addressed by a veritable child?

  Mr. Lockhart smiled briefly, and Andrew had to grant the man a little gratitude for not putting her off completely.

  These dandyish men-about-town could never be trusted to consider others more than they did their own toilette. Perhaps Andrew had misjudged Mr. Lockhart. Well, there was only one way to truly tell—he needed to spend more time with the man.

  “Are you planning to stay in Town long?” Andrew asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Lockhart said, drawing an ornate snuffbox from his pocket and flicking it open with one finger. He took a pinch and shut the box with a snap before returning it to his pocket. “At least until this blasted weather lets up. We nearly didn’t make it into town. Traveling clear to Berkshire would be impossible at this point.”

  Mary didn’t flinch at Mr. Lockhart’s foul language. Her tone betrayed more anxiousness than anything else, and Andrew wanted to discover the cause of her concern. “I was unaware that you were planning to come to London,” Mary said. “If I’d known, Mother could have—”

  “Do not trouble yourself, Miss Hatcher. I’m putting up at the Clarendon.”

  “Would you and your party care to dine with us tomorrow?” Andrew offered.

  “No party,” Mr. Lockhart said. “I’ve come alone.”

  “Forgive me. When you said we nearly didn’t make it into Town, I made an assumption.”

  Mr. Lockhart stared at Andrew for a moment, confusion resting on his eyebrows before his face slid into a pleasant smile. “I came in on the stage, of course. And I was not the only passenger.”

  Andrew nodded, but his gut clenched. Something was most certainly off about Mr. Lockhart’s explanation, though Andrew could not put a finger on precisely what it could be. “Tomorrow then?”

  “Tomorrow,” Mr. Lockhart agreed, then turned to Mary. “And I quite look forward to speaking to you.” His gaze rested on her a moment longer than was typically acceptable, before he bowed to the table, turned, and left the tea shop.

  “That was odd,” Mary said, her fingers playing with the cord of her reticule in her lap. Her soft brown eyebrows were drawn together, her lips slightly pursed.

  Andrew itched to reach for her, to place a reassuring hand on her arm, but he held back. “I daresay he was the last man you expected to see today.”

  She chuckled. “Yes, of course. But what was even odder was that he did not purchase anything. He came in, spoke to us, and left.”

  “Perhaps the sight of you caused him to forget why he ever stepped foot in here in the first place,” Anne said with a dreamy sigh.

  “Or more likely, he saw you from outside and came in to greet you,” Caroline offered. Of course the youngest of their party would have the most reasonable explanation.

  Mary watched the woman who stood alone at the counter before she swept her gaze toward Caroline and smiled. “You are likely correct. I’m sure that was it.”

  But Andrew was not. As the women returned their attention to their drinks, he considered the entire situation from every possible angle. Something did not quite fit, and Andrew was determined to figure out what it was.

  Chapter 13

  Mary clasped the ruby earrings on her earlobes, twisting the backs until they tightened just enough to stay put. Her maid, Price, continued to pin curls high on her head, forming what she hoped would be an el
egant coiffure. Mr. Lockhart was coming to dine, and Mary needed everything to be perfect.

  Father was depending on her.

  Price pulled the old, pale green ribbon from the table and strung it through Mary’s hair, tucking the ends into the folds of her curls. She stepped back, clasping her hands before her and nodding.

  Mary tilted her head to the side, faintly touching the base of her gathered curls. “Thank you, Price. It is quite lovely.”

  She had not expected the first time she saw Mr. Lockhart again after such a distance to be in a public tea room with a table of chocolate cups and her hosts between them. His skin was darker than she remembered—a likely result of the long journey he’d just sustained—and his eyes were brighter, his hair longer. He was just as handsome and courteous as she recalled.

  But appearances aside, seeing Mr. Lockhart in the flesh had given her anxiety of the acutest kind.

  Not only had the man been real, flesh and blood standing before her, but he was going to marry her. The last time she’d seen Mr. Lockhart, marriage was still an abstract reality, something far away that she would have plenty of time to come to terms with. Now, her upcoming marriage stared her in the face.

  “If that’s all, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Price, that is all. You may go see to my mother.”

  Price dipped her white-capped head and scurried from the room. It was unfair to require so much of the maid; she not only had to see to all the mending, washing, and caring for both Mary and Mama, but also needed to dress them both and manage their hair. The first thing Mary planned to do when the vows were complete was hire a new lady’s maid and leave Price to her mother and half the work she was presently enduring.

  One last look in the mirror, and Mary smoothed her ivory gown, tugging at the sage green overlay. She picked up her long, ivory gloves and left the room, pulling them into place as she descended the stairs.

  She had one hour before she would need to place herself in the drawing room to await Mr. Lockhart, and she planned to spend that time in a book.

  The house was quiet and calm, as the rest of the women were sequestered in their rooms preparing for dinner. Mary let herself into the library, crossing the room to where she had left her book the evening before on the small table beside the wingback chair, and pulled up short when her eyes lit upon the earl seated on the sofa opposite.

  He stood, offering her a bow. “Good evening, madam.”

  “My lord.” She dipped her head, pausing before the chair. “I only came to retrieve my book. I shan’t bother you.”

  “You are no bother.” He looked pointedly at her, his hands lazily clasped behind his back. His coat was black, striking against his bronze waistcoat and a crisp, white cravat. He appeared at ease but resolute, his posture unbending, steadfast. He gestured to the seat she had meant to occupy.

  “I am nearly finished with the book,” she said, hoping he would take that to understand that she would not remain in his library for very long.

  “Good, good.” He waited for Mary to be seated before he followed suit. “And what do you make of it thus far?”

  “Can we not wait until I’ve read the final thirty pages before we discuss it?”

  “I am eager to hear your opinions.”

  She wanted to ask why he cared for her opinion at all, but it felt an impertinent question. The man was, more likely than not, only doing his best to be a kind host, to engage her in conversation for the sake of politeness. There was no other explanation; he simply had a kind heart, which she knew from watching him with his family, from witnessing the way he served them.

  “I am hopeful the story will come to a happy end, but I haven’t quite reached that point.”

  “And Miss Eliza Bennet? What do you make of her?”

  He watched her so closely, Mary wanted to shrink away. What was he hoping to learn from such a pointed stare? “I believe she fell in love with a man who she once rejected, and now fears all hope is lost.”

  “Fell in love with a man, or with his house?”

  “His house, of course,” Mary said, unable to hold back her smile.

  But Lord Sanders was not smiling. He held her gaze in his like a steel trap.

  “I said that in jest,” she explained, her voice soft. “Of course Elizabeth Bennet has fallen in love with the man himself. I believe her reference to loving Pemberley to be a sarcastic one.”

  “I would like to believe the same.”

  “Then do believe it. It is fiction, is it not? Unrealistic and lovely, of course, but not a factual story. You may believe whatever you wish.”

  Lord Sanders’s face grew wary, concerned. “Why is it relevant that the book is fiction? Do you not believe it could be possible for a woman to fall in love with such a prideful, rich man in reality? To love him despite his riches?”

  “I do. And I do believe a man could fall in love with a prideful young woman, as well. But when one considers the various relationships in this story, as far as I have read, at least, is not Mr. Collins’s marriage to Miss Charlotte Lucas the more realistic? He is certainly not the rich, handsome bachelor, and though he may be silly, he is a decent man with a good situation.”

  “You believe it is better to marry for convenience’s sake than to marry for love?”

  “Love is good for stories,” she said, lifting the book in her lap, “but it is unrealistic when pitted against the realities of life. I’m certain there are those with the luxury to make such a match, but it is surely as uncommon as finding a man like Mr. Darcy in the wilds of the countryside.”

  Lord Sanders looked struck. He opened his mouth, but then closed it again as if deciding against speaking. After clearing his throat, he seemed to collect himself. “Do you mean to say that you are not marrying for love?”

  Mary drew in a sharp intake of breath. Had her position not already been made perfectly clear? He could not honestly expect her to answer. “That is an impudent question, my lord.”

  “Have I not asked you to call me Andrew?”

  She shook her head. “I never should have taken such a liberty. It is far from appropriate, and I believe you know that. I cannot do such a thing when you are neither my brother nor my betrothed. Please don’t ask it of me again.”

  He nodded, his eyes growing hard. “I understand. Forgive me. I have been lulled these last few days into feeling as though we’ve been acquainted longer than we actually have.”

  Mary could say nothing in response to this. She understood him, for she felt very much the same. Perhaps it was a product of spending so many hours together in the day, so many days in a row, but she felt like she knew Lord Sanders better than she knew most people of her acquaintance. She certainly felt she knew him better than she knew Mr. Lockhart.

  But that was irrelevant. Shaking the thought away, she pasted a smile on her face. “Love is not a lasting, tangible necessity. It is nothing when compared to the contentment that comfort can bring.”

  “By comfort, do you mean a fortune?”

  Mary’s cheeks warmed. She stood, clutching the book with tightened fingers. She was marrying Mr. Lockhart for his money, and it shamed her. But she would not submit herself to a conversation with the earl if his motive was to reproach her. “If you will excuse me—”

  “No, please, wait.” He followed her across the room, and she paused at the door. Rubbing the back of his neck, he wore a pained expression. “That was rude and unforgivable. I was thinking of the book, and I should never have likened it to your situation.”

  She narrowed her eyes, her heart thumping. “What do you know of my situation?”

  “Nothing, which is precisely why I was asking.” He clenched his jaw, the muscle moving back and forth as he glanced away and then set his gaze back on her. “But I had no right.”

  She pursed her lips, her chest rising and falling rapidly in time with her pounding pulse. “I may not have the luxury of choice, which I do not expect someone in your situation to understand. But what I do expect fr
om you is the decency to allow that I know my own mind, and whatever decision I have made, it was consciously and carefully done.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Miss Hatcher. I am ashamed of myself, and I hope you will forgive—as well as forget—how I’ve erred.”

  She nodded, but her heart continued to beat rapidly; she needed to get away from the earl, have a moment to collect herself before she faced Mr. Lockhart, her mother, and the rest of the Bright family. Stepping from the room, she slipped around the corner and into the antechamber—where the family gathered before mealtimes when there were no guests present—and leaned against the wall.

  The hard, unfortunate truth to Lord Sanders’s words bit at her heels like an unrelenting, yappy dog. She had chosen the comfort of a wealthy match because of the money it would provide and the peace she hoped would accompany it. But that was not the full truth, and the earl did not know the extent of her motivation. While the comfort of a fortune was beguiling, Mary had not agreed to marry Mr. Lockhart for his money alone.

  She had done it for her mother’s comfort. That was marrying for love, too.

  Chapter 14

  Mary perched on the edge of the sofa cushion in the drawing room following dinner, arranging her face into a picture of polite interest as she watched her betrothed converse with her hosts. Mr. Lockhart had a pleasant smile and an even disposition. He’d sat through dinner at Sanders House politely answering Lady Anne’s multitude of questions with equanimity and poise and had endeared himself to Mama with compliments and smiles.

  He was every bit as charming as she remembered, and the charisma he portrayed was not lost on any member of their party—not even the earl. Still, the longer the evening wore on, the less often Mary was able to meet Lord Sanders’s gaze. Mr. Lockhart dripped money, from his fob-filled watch chain that jingled when he walked, to his ridiculously jeweled cravat pin.

  Lord Sanders’s earlier statement, when he had assumed she chose to marry someone she did not love, sat on her shoulders like an unwelcome feline. She could do nothing to defend her position without revealing the depth of her father’s degradation—something that was far from within her power to divulge.