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

by Kasey Stockton

  “My dear Miss Hatcher has had to put up with horrible scrawl these past few years.”

  Mr. Lockhart’s words pulled Mary from her reverie, and she pasted a smile on her face, preparing to refute the claim when Lord Sanders spoke. “What does the handwriting matter when the letter is so eagerly anticipated?”

  Mary swallowed her initial rebuttal, meeting the earl’s gaze. Never mind that she only received two letters from Mr. Lockhart while he was away—and one of them a short missive detailing his return and naming their wedding date. “Of course. Who cares for the handwriting at all? It is the content of the letter that bears meaning, not its packaging.”

  “Is everything prepared for the wedding?” Lady Sanders asked, arranging her hands on her lap, seated on her usual settee. The remainder of the party was sitting on the settee and sofa around her, all present except for Lady Caroline, who had opted to eat upstairs and remain with her governess for the evening. Mary had invited her to join them, but Caroline had insisted she would be more comfortable upstairs. She was still young enough to believe most dining room conversations with anyone but her immediate family were naught but a bore.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Lockhart said. “Once we can make the trip home, the rest will be quite easily managed.”

  “And you have your trousseau now!” Lady Anne said, grinning. Her excitement was nearly palpable and not at all befitting the demure lady Society demanded her to be. But it was refreshing—Mary only hoped her betrothed would say nothing to diminish Lady Anne’s spirit.

  “Do you?” Mr. Lockhart asked, turning his attention on Mary.

  She nodded, suddenly far more anxious than she probably ought to be. But why did he look so surprised? He wanted her to prepare a trousseau, did he not? “It was for that purpose that we traveled to London.”

  He watched her as if she had said the most interesting thing, his gaze tripping over her face, up to her hair, and then back down, traveling over the contours of her gown. Had he just considered the state of her dress? Her mouth grew dry, and she felt the need to cover herself, to hide her worn hem and pull from her hair the aged and ratty ribbon.

  If only Father were here, he could step in and say something to distract Mr. Lockhart from Mary’s dishevelment. She had tried so hard to make herself presentable, but it was an impossible feat when faced with four-year-old dresses and ribbons. Her earrings, while nice, were not what she’d been used to wearing when she was in the height of her social activity, and Mr. Lockhart’s frank perusal probably hadn’t missed a single thing.

  Lord Sanders leaned back in his seat, casually resting an arm over the back of the sofa where his sister sat. “Did you say you were from Berkshire, Mr. Lockhart?”

  “No, actually, I did not.” Mr. Lockhart shot Mary a smile before eagerly settling his attention on the earl. Mary had not missed the way her betrothed had kept an eye on Lord Sanders all evening, as if he wanted to speak to the man but was waiting to be spoken to first. She had sensed his eagerness when she had introduced them at Gunter’s as well; she could only assume he was already anxious to begin his social climb.

  The very point that it was part of her wedding contract that she must give Mr. Lockhart a proper introduction to the ton, to procure an invitation to the Brights’ summer house party, still felt odd to Mary. Though she tried to understand Mr. Lockhart’s motives—many men of title and worth would be there and it would be an excellent opportunity for a man who did not grow up among the ton to make an entry into their world—there was a certain lack of sincerity in Mr. Lockhart’s manner. It felt less about the people he interacted with and more about what he believed they could offer him.

  But the Brights were not simpletons. They would see right through him.

  Mary couldn’t help but feel as though it would be easier to accomplish her task without Mr. Lockhart present. She imagined him eagerly awaiting news of a house party invitation, and it only increased the pressure she felt. He clearly wanted to be accepted by these people of high rank and esteem, but that was something he must earn on his own merit. A single party invitation was no promise. As it was, his own excessive eagerness would likely only hinder, not help his efforts.

  “Mr. Lockhart became our neighbor only three years ago,” Mama said, smiling kindly at the man. As far as she was aware, Mary’s engagement was equally sought after and anticipated by both parties. And Mary did not wish for Mama to learn otherwise.

  Mr. Lockhart sat on a chair between the sofas, settling his happy smile on Mary. “Taking the estate that bordered the Hatchers was one of the most fortuitous choices I have yet made. It led me to find this lovely woman.”

  Mary’s cheeks flamed.

  “Undoubtedly blessed, of course,” Lord Sanders said, his words plain and clipped. “What took you to Berkshire? I was told you are in shipping.”

  “Out of Portsmouth, yes,” he said, sitting taller in his chair. “But my mother was tired of the bustling town and longed to settle in the country, so I set my man to finding a worthy estate. I did not have any care for where we lived. I don’t spend a good deal of time there anyway, so it was left to my mother to choose a house.”

  “And your father?”

  “He has been gone from this world for quite some time.”

  Lord Sanders nodded, understanding. He turned to his sister, who had not ceased smiling since the moment Mr. Lockhart stepped foot in Sanders House. “Do you have the cards in here, Anne? We ought to ask Mr. Lockhart if he would like to play a round of whist.”

  “No, but I can easily ask Finch to fetch them.”

  “Does that interest you?” Lord Sanders asked, lifting his gaze to their guest.

  Mr. Lockhart nodded. “I don’t often indulge in cards, but I can make an exception this evening.”

  “Are you morally opposed?” Lady Anne asked.

  “Not in the least. I am simply too busy most of the time.”

  Mary took that bit of information and stored it away for later, along with his admission that he was often too busy to be in Berkshire. She’d hoped this would be the case and was gratified by his confirmation. She appeared to be destined for a life at his estate with his mother while he traveled about England to maintain his business. She was not opposed to the idea, but the more she considered it, the more it occurred to her that she was entirely unaware of Mr. Lockhart’s expectations for their marriage.

  “Shall we play whist?” Lady Anne asked, rising from her seat on the sofa. The men stood and Mary followed them.

  “Mother,” Lord Sanders asked, “would you like to play?”

  “No thank you, dear.” She glanced at Mama on the sofa beside her. “I think we are quite comfortable here.”

  Mama smiled warmly, nodding at her friend, and Mary turned away to join the others at the card table.

  Whenever they entertained at home, it was often Mary who sat stalwart by her mama’s side all evening, ensuring she was comfortable, making sure she was not left alone, exposed to the possibility of conversation with anyone she didn’t know well. Mama’s shyness and discomfort knew no bounds. It had been something of a relieving break that Lady Sanders had seemed to step into that role since they had all come to London together. And not just so Mary might enjoy a break from playing the dutiful daughter—she loved her mother dearly and attending her was not a trial—but it was comforting that Lady Sanders appeared to enjoy the role and that her mother had relaxed so in her friend’s presence.

  Finch procured a stack of cards, and Lord Sanders set about shuffling and sorting them. He’d sat across from his sister, allowing Mary to partner with Mr. Lockhart.

  “Do you plan to stay in London until Twelfth Night?” Lady Anne asked. She was all but bouncing in her seat, her gaze darting between Mary and Mr. Lockhart.

  “I did not intend to, no.” Mr. Lockhart’s gaze slid to Mary. “But my plans can easily change.”

  “Oh, you most certainly should remain! There is a ball—”

  “Lady Anne,” Mary said quickly
, her cheeks infusing with warmth. “It is not our place to make invitations to another person’s ball.”

  Lady Anne glanced at her brother, her expression stricken, her mouth hanging open. “Oh, dear.”

  “Do not trouble yourself—” Mr. Lockhart began, but he was soon cut off.

  Lord Sanders glanced up. “I am certain Lady Rutledge would not have any trouble with our bringing a guest. If it is agreeable to Mr. Lockhart, there is no reason you cannot extend the invitation, Anne.”

  Relief poured over her face. She swallowed, nodding.

  Mr. Lockhart’s deep voice remained steady. “That would be exceptionally kind of you, but I do not wish to intrude where I am not invited.”

  “But you were invited,” Lord Sanders said. If it wasn’t for the smile on his lips, Mary would have thought she heard an edge to his tone. Irritation, perhaps? “My sister just extended the invitation, and we would be happy to include you in our party. Lady Rutledge is an old friend of my mother’s, and I am certain it will not be the least trouble. I will write to her myself on the matter.”

  “In that case, I would be absolutely delighted to join you.”

  Mary did her best to be grateful for the exchange that led to his addition to the Twelfth Night ball, but her stomach wound in knots anyway; she could not understand why the thought of him attending made her queasy. “That is wonderful, Mr. Lockhart.”

  Sitting across the table from her, his gaze settled on her face, unwavering. “In the meantime, Miss Hatcher, I was hoping we might manage to spend some time together. It is an unforeseen blessing, being quite stuck in London, is it not?”

  She picked up her cards, putting them in the proper order to give her trembling fingers something to busy themselves with. “I believe it is, Mr. Lockhart.”

  He delivered a satisfied smile before arranging his own cards. All through the game of whist, and the subsequent two rounds, Mr. Lockhart casually inquired about the Bright family. He returned Lady Anne’s inquisition from dinner with an even more thorough investigation. He was curious about Lord Sanders’s schooling, the clubs he attended in Town, and whether there was much going on this time of year in the way of sport. Then he moved on to question Lady Anne about Lady Rutledge’s ball and what he might expect there—specifically who he might see.

  By the time the third game drew to a close, Mary was stunned silent. She’d hardly said two words throughout the duration of the games while Mr. Lockhart expertly maneuvered Lady Anne and Lord Sanders around his intellectual finger, learning what he could about the ton and their place in it.

  If it was not clear to either of her hosts that Mr. Lockhart was an upstart who fully intended to climb the social hierarchy as far as he could, then they surely were simpletons. And Mary knew the Bright children were anything but simple. Lady Anne might have the fresh naivety befitting her age and position, but her brother was seasoned and intelligent.

  More than once, Mary had felt the temptation to request a private word with Mr. Lockhart merely to ask him to cease his questioning. He may believe himself to be gathering information, but this sort of careless ignorance would not endear him to either of the Brights.

  And above all, this was certainly not how one found themselves invited to a summer house party, from where he could make all the introductions he wished. Mary might not have been on familiar terms with Lord or Lady Sanders before now, but she had moved about the elite circles her entire life, and that had taught her how to behave. It appeared that Mr. Lockhart needed a lesson in what was expected from London’s elite.

  The hour drew late, and Mr. Lockhart pulled on his golden watch chain, flipping it open and then shutting it with a snap. “I must be off.”

  Lord Sanders rose, and Mary and Lady Anne followed suit. Mr. Lockhart crossed the room to thank his hostess and bid farewell to the mothers, then paused before the door, watching Mary.

  Though his lips remained closed, his eyes spoke to her, intense excitement nearly palpating from them. As she hardly knew the man, it was hard to decipher what he was trying to tell her, but his gaze remained on her; she could only assume he was requesting that she come to his side. Crossing the room, Mary kept her hands clasped before her, only giving one to Mr. Lockhart when he reached for it.

  “I would have hoped to be able to request your company for a ride in the park, but alas, it is too cold for any such jaunts.”

  “It is no matter, Mr. Lockhart. We shall have plenty of time for that when the snow melts.”

  “Then perhaps you will honor me with your company at dinner tomorrow. The Clarendon has a wonderful French chef, and I can attest to its exquisite fare.” He glanced up, looking at the mothers. “In fact, I would be honored to have all of you to dine tomorrow night.”

  Every ear in the room had clearly turned to listen, and they needed no further clarification. Mary could feel the weight of Lady Anne watching them with poorly concealed anticipation, her brother blandly staring from behind her.

  Lady Sanders gave a matronly smile. “That would be marvelous, Mr. Lockhart, if you are certain it would be no trouble.”

  He flashed a wide grin. “It will be no trouble at all. I shall plan to accept your party at eight.”

  Squeezing Mary’s fingers, he brought her knuckles up to his lips and placed a kiss over them before dropping her hand and fleeing the room. Finch waited in the hall to show him out.

  Mary stood, rooted to the hardwood floorboard, unable to move, and watched the space in the doorway where Mr. Lockhart had disappeared from.

  Movement behind her gathered her attention and she turned, finding Lord Sanders standing directly behind her. He held out a book and she accepted it, surprised to find the third volume of Pride & Prejudice.

  “You left it in here before dinner,” he said, his blue gaze fixed on her, his brow serious. “I assumed you would want to continue reading now.”

  A smile curled her lips, and she pulled the book close to her chest, suddenly unconcerned with the multitude of worries that had assaulted her for the duration of Mr. Lockhart’s visit. She breathed out, able to relax again. Lord Sanders and his family neither cared nor noticed her worn gown and old ribbon. They were simply pleased she was there.

  Following the earl back to the sofas near the fire, Mary took a seat beside Lady Anne and opened the book to the place she had last read, tilting it toward the light. Things would settle down once they were married, of course. But then why had she felt such a cool wash of relief when Mr. Lockhart had left their party?

  Chapter 15

  Mary turned another page in her novel, leaning further toward the edge of the couch to catch the light from the waning fire. Both of the mothers had long since retired for the evening, and she was prepared to join the women soon in their quest for slumber, but she only had a few pages left in the book. Sleep could wait just a little longer.

  The sharp scent of the evergreen boughs on the mantel was dulling along with the drying needles, but it wafted under her nose, bringing warmth and comfort to her heart. A soft, high snore came from the other end of the sofa and Mary pulled her gaze from the page, a smile on her lips as she looked to Lady Anne, leaning against the end of the sofa with a blanket over her legs, oblivious in her sleep to her mouth hanging agape.

  Mary glanced at Lord Sanders seated on the sofa opposite them, his eyes settled lovingly on his sister. When he spoke, his voice was low, quiet. “She nearly didn’t know how to properly act around Mr. Lockhart this evening, did she?”

  “You are referring to her over-eagerness? I think it was sweet.”

  “She was very eager.” A smile flickered over his lips. “Though who could blame her? She wanted to know your betrothed better. I believe we all did.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  He tilted his head to the side, his eyes crinkling in bemusement. “You’ve quite endeared yourself to us, Miss Hatcher. Have you not seen that?”

  Mary dropped her gaze, her neck heating. Lady Anne and Lady Caroline were sw
eet, and more than once she’d caught herself likening them to the sisters she wished she’d been blessed with. “I do adore your sisters.”

  “It is mutual.”

  Mary returned her attention to her book, flipping the final page and enjoying each happily situated word. When she finished the book, she closed it reverently and set it on her lap. Glancing up, she raised her eyebrows. “Go ahead, Lord Sanders. Enjoy your triumph.”

  “You enjoyed the story?”

  “Very much.”

  He watched her, his smile warm. “And what do you make of the ending?”

  She set the book on the small space of empty cushion between Lady Anne and herself and pulled her feet onto the sofa, tucking them underneath her. A yawn stole her poise, and she blushed. “It is far too late to discuss it in depth, but I quite liked it.”

  He mocked affront. “There is never a bad time to discuss books. And it is best to do so when the story is fresh, is it not?”

  She conceded his point, unable to draw her attention from his glittering eyes, which reflected the dim firelight from the grate between them. “What do you make of Mr. Darcy?”

  “He is proud, but then again, so is Miss Elizabeth.”

  “And his other faults?” she asked.

  Lord Sanders smiled, his teeth gleaming. “He had many, did he not? But so did Miss Eliza. And yet, they both learned from their faults. Only consider where he began, how he fancied himself in love with her, begged her to marry him, and was shocked by her refusal.”

  “It was conceited of him to believe she could love him at that point, of course.”

  Lord Sanders paused, his voice low—likely so he did not wake his sister. “Yes, he had done much to earn her wrath. But after she went to his estate and witnessed the grandeur of Pemberley, which she could one day become mistress of, what did she do to show Mr. Darcy that she loved him for more than his house?”