Christmas flame, indeed! Catherine Emerson had become a temptress. The idea shamed him as soon as he thought it. These were not thoughts worthy of one whom he’d viewed as a sister most of his life.
Still, it was a difficult claim to dispute and one that went beyond her looks. She’d acquired a certain grace. She exuded energy and good will as she moved through the room on Channing’s arm, chatting briefly with each neighbour and relative by turn. Some she knew, some she did not, but her warmth didn’t distinguish. It was genuine and thorough for each person she met.
Finn remembered that about her. She’d been devoted to wounded and stray animals, always bringing home a bird to be mended. Once she’d brought home a stray dog from the village and begged him to set the pup’s leg. It had been silly, but he’d done it after she’d followed him around all afternoon and nagged him with a tenacity that would have done any little sister proud.
The pair of them were making their way towards him now, a stunning combination of flame and gold. Channing bent to her ear and whispered something that made her laugh, her face turning up to his. Finn’s gut clenched. The look on her face was unmistakable. She wanted Channing. ‘Wanted’ might be too intense a word, but he’d been accused of being too intense a man in the past. Intense things were common to him.
‘There you are, dear brother. What are you doing over here by the window? Surely there aren’t any flowers to see at this time of year, not outdoors at least. Inside, there is one, however.’ Channing smiled at Catherine. ‘Our Cat has blossomed. Have you greeted her yet?’
Finn stifled a grimace. Channing knew very well he hadn’t. ‘Welcome home, Catherine.’ He kissed her cheek, breathing in the scent of her: fresh peaches and a hint of vanilla, to subdue the potential heaviness of the scent. ‘Ah, Apocynaceae, plumeria in winter, what a wondrous perfume.’ Finn murmured. ‘You always liked Mother’s plumeria.’ The beautiful blooms never left the hothouse, but Catherine had liked their vivid colours and tropical smells.
‘You remembered!’ Catherine beamed and he felt uncommonly proud of himself for his simple answer. ‘People always guess peaches, but no one guesses what flower is used. I’ve heard plumeria also smells like coconut.’ She nudged Channing. ‘You thought it smelled like roses.’
Finn laughed. ‘He thinks everything smells like roses.’
Channing took the ribbing in his stride. ‘As you can see, he’s the same old Finn, still has his nose in the flowers.’
A stir across the room at the door caught their attention, as another guest entered, a lovely blonde dressed in royal blue with a white fox fur thrown around her shoulders. Channing tossed him a quick meaningful glance and excused himself. ‘I’ll leave you two to catch up while I greet our latest arrival.’
If Catherine thought Channing’s departure abrupt, she was still gracious about relinquishing him, but not before Finn noted the fleeting disappointment in her eyes. ‘Who is she?’ Catherine asked brightly, moving to stand by him at the window. It was a good vantage point, really, from which to take in the room or the outdoors depending on one’s mood.
‘That is Lady Alina Marliss. She is Channing’s special friend for the holidays.’ Finn didn’t say more. He owed Channing his privacy. If Channing wanted to share his latest venture in London, he would. It wasn’t Finn’s job to do it for him.
‘Is there an understanding between them?’ The cool look on Catherine’s face confirmed his information had been construed in a certain way, certain assumptions made. He knew what she was thinking. Well, if that wasn’t quite accurate, that was Channing’s problem too. There were merits to being forthcoming about one’s activities. Channing would learn that soon enough.
‘I’m not aware of the details.’ Finn replied obliquely. He turned his attention out the window, away from the room, hoping she’d do the same. ‘Tell me about Paris. Did you find it to your liking?’
‘It was wonderful.’ She smiled out into the gardens, keeping her response neutral and vague. ‘But it wasn’t here. It wasn’t home.’
He understood that feeling all too well. There was something magical, something comforting about being home even while there was a stifling, restless side to all that comfort, too. Lately, he’d been feeling the latter.
‘And you? I heard you spent some time in the Caribbean with an expedition?’
Finn looked down at her, caught in the warmth of her smile as she looked up at him, aware that she was spending an awful lot of her time studying the little cut on his cheek. He echoed her words even if he didn’t mean them in exactly the same way. ‘It was wonderful, but it wasn’t home.’
He found himself telling her about the highlights of his trip: the new flower he’d found, the amazing colours of the rainforest, the plethora of bugs that had occupied his campsites. He’d not meant to get carried away; he knew what most people thought of his scholarly pursuit. It was time to change for supper before he realised how much he’d told her, the drawing room starting to empty as ladies drifted off to exchange carriage ensembles for evening gowns. The whole time, her eyes had been fixed on his in rapt attention, not the usual polite attention he was used to, and he’d simply kept talking, saying anything that came to mind to keep that gaze on him.
His mother moved towards them, a young man and woman in tow, clearly a brother and a sister from the genetic similarities stamped on their features. ‘Finley, this is Lady Eliza Dewhurst and her brother, Lord Richard. They’ve only just arrived. They were delayed a little by snow on the roads. I am hoping you will be so kind as to take Eliza in to dinner later.’
Finn would have groaned if he could. His mother had made no secret of her high hopes for Lady Eliza, the daughter of a marquess. Certainly she was pretty enough in a blonde, pink-cheeked way common to many pretty English girls. But beyond that, he could tell already she simply wasn’t his sort.
Lord Richard bowed to Catherine. ‘Miss Emerson? If you would do me the honour this evening?’
Catherine gave him a small curtsy, the sort due to a marquess’s younger son. ‘It would be my pleasure.’ She said the words as if it really would be. And maybe it would, Finn thought. At least the young man wouldn’t spend the evening talking about bugs and plants. Finn focused his attention on Lady Eliza, but he was only partially successful in his efforts. His critical mind wasn’t ready to leave the topic of his reaction to Catherine Emerson’s return. His response was most unexpected and surprising. It was three days until Christmas. It made him wonder what else the festivity had in store.
Chapter Two
It was always the same. Whatever the festivity had in store for him, change didn’t seem to be a part of it, Finn concluded after dinner. Counting this year, he had twelve years of adult memories as evidentiary proof to support the claim. He surveyed the post-dinner scene from his place at the drawing-room mantel beside his father; all the usual company were assembled in all their usual spaces on sofas and chairs around the room. Mrs Moffat, the vicar’s wife, had sat on the cream sofa for at least a decade that he knew of, and probably longer. Old Mrs Anderson always sat next to Mrs. Moffat and old Mrs Anderson had always been old. Finn couldn’t recall her ever having been young.
There would be cards and the young ladies would take turns at the pianoforte, playing quiet carols as background music to the evening. Then there would be his mother’s special spiced cider and gingerbread to go to bed on. There was comfort in the knowledge that it would always be this way, but there was dissatisfaction too. Nothing changed and it made him restless.
Oh, certainly there were some variations on the theme. This year it was Lady Eliza his mother was foisting on him. Every year, a different girl, but it was still the same ‘foisting ritual’, as he’d come to think of it. It would be that way until he settled for one of them.
‘What did you think of Lady Eliza?’ his father asked quietly, correctly guessing the direct
ion of his thoughts, if not their timbre. ‘I think she was quite taken with you at dinner.’
‘Or my consequence,’ Finn replied drily.
His father shrugged. ‘She’s the daughter of a marquess, Finn. I doubt she thought twice about it. Consequence is her due. If anything...’ he chuckled ‘...we’re a come down for her, being only lowly earls.’ But it was a jest only. Everyone knew what a fine catch the Deverills were; the title was old and the coffers were deep.
His father sobered a bit, his voice low. ‘I know you’re restless, Finn. You’re at that age. Every man in this room over thirty-five has been through it. You’re twenty-eight now; you’ve reached a point in life where you have to work out if you’re restless for something, or someone.’ His father’s eyes strayed to where his mother stood chatting with guests. ‘For me it was someone.’
Finn knew his father spoke the truth. After thirty years of marriage, four children and the chaos of a full home, his father had not once looked at another woman. Growing up, love and fidelity had never been in doubt in their household. Finn did not think he could find that devotion with Lady Eliza.
Finn took out his pocket watch and checked the time. He showed the watch face to his father. ‘The games should begin in five, four, three, two and one.’ They chuckled together because, as if on cue, Finn’s mother began organising people around the card tables into equally matched groups. ‘Just like clockwork.’ Finn snapped his watch shut and put it back in his waistcoat pocket.
His father gave a little laugh. ‘I must go and do my duty. Your mother is saving a chair for me. Mrs Anderson and I will try to take it easy on the novices.’
Finn looked about the room, making sure everyone was engaged in cards or conversation if they preferred not to play. All but one seemed happily occupied. For the first time that evening, Catherine sat alone in a quiet corner. The little group that had originally been drawn about her had moved off bit by bit. She’d been dazzling at dinner. The young marquess’s son had been quite taken with her and yet, whilst Lord Richard might be of an age, he appeared far too young for her against the Parisian polish of her time abroad.
For the evening, Catherine had changed into a gown of deep turquoise, more green than blue, that showed off her hair and eyes to their best, the deep vee of her neckline showing off more than that. Next to her, Lord Richard’s glossy blond locks had looked positively adolescent.
‘No cards?’ Finn approached the sofa.
Catherine shook her head. ‘I wanted to sit back and watch everyone.’ She sighed, her eyes dreamy and far away, nostalgic perhaps. ‘So much has changed, I wasn’t ready for that.’
Finn squeezed into the space next to her on the two-seat sofa. Whoever had designed these cosy numbers mustn’t have been a very large man. ‘We’re at odds then. I was just thinking how nothing had changed. Every year it’s the same people, a little greyer in some cases, a little older in all cases. All of us here in the same place, eating the same foods, playing the same games.’
Catherine gave a light laugh, a hand coming down gently on his arm, the most natural of gestures. ‘Oh, Finn, I think that’s what is called a tradition.’ She lowered her voice slightly. ‘And I missed it, every last minute of it while I was gone. Don’t misunderstand, Paris is a fabulous city full of culture and art and intelligent people. My great-aunt showed me everything, we met everyone. I lacked for nothing, not in friends or any creature comforts. But no matter how elegant or refined Christmas was in Paris, it wasn’t Christmas here. I came back for those Christmases only to find that they are gone.’
Catherine looked down at her hands encased in pristine white gloves that travelled to her elbows. She fiddled with the sparkly bangle about her wrist. Finn could tell by the fidgety motions the disclosure had meant something to her.
‘They’re not gone.’ How strange that he had been wishing they were gone or different somehow, while she’d been wishing for the opposite. ‘We’re all still here.’
‘But Mrs Moffat’s daughter is married and has a baby. Meredith is engaged. Alyson has a beau. Mrs Anderson...’
‘Is still old,’ they both said in unison, laughing together.
‘See, everything is still the same.’
‘Well, perhaps.’ Catherine conceded with a smile, mischief roaming in her eyes as they glided over the cut on his face, or maybe not. Maybe he was too sensitive about it. ‘Except that cut on your cheek. That’s definitely new. How did you get it?’
Ah, he wasn’t going to escape. ‘Would you believe me if I said my valet cut me while shaving?’ Finn tried. The whole episode had been painful.
‘No.’ Her eyes were full of laughter and he knew she knew the truth.
‘I’m going to get Meredith for this.’ Finn blew out a breath, but he wasn’t really angry. He shook his head and gave a little groan. ‘She told you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Catherine sobered. ‘It must have hurt.’ He knew, too, that she meant it in all ways, not just the physical.
‘It did, but we didn’t suit.’
‘Does that mean you don’t have anyone special?’
‘No, hence Lady Eliza.’ Finn gave a wry smile. ‘My mother will not stop until I’ve picked one.’
‘I’m surprised.’ Catherine cocked her head to one side. ‘I would have thought you’d be the first. I rather suspected I’d come home and find you married with a baby or two.’
‘Why is that?’ Finn asked softly, staring back. How had he never noticed the flecks of blue in those green eyes before? It was those flecks that gave her eyes the impression of being sea-green, instead of mossy.
Those eyes had lured him in momentarily. He wished he hadn’t asked. With anyone else such a question would be far too intimate to ask and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. Please don’t let it be because of the title, he thought, or because all he was capable of was doing his duty as opposed to mustering any depth of affection. Too many people had thought that in his past.
‘It’s who you are, Finn. Your family is important to you. It stands to reason you’d want to have a family of your own,’ Catherine answered.
‘Some day,’ he answered. She was right, of course; family was important. He loved his sisters and his brother even though he often disagreed with Channing’s approach to life. ‘Speaking of family, how is yours? I trust they’ll be along in a day or two.’ It might be better to steer this conversation back to safer ground.
‘Tomorrow. My father’s nearly done with his latest book. It’s a treatise on local crop-rotation methods. He interviewed every farmer in the area for it. But you probably know that,’ Catherine added hastily.
Finn nodded. ‘I do know. I was interviewed for it, too.’ He liked the quiet, scholarly Robert Emerson. The two of them could talk for hours about things that would put the average person to sleep within moments. But that didn’t mean Robert Emerson was dull. He had a way about him of pulling people in, putting them at ease just by being himself. Perhaps Catherine had got that particular talent from him.
‘And Lady Eliza, does she share your devotion to family?’ Catherine persisted, clearly unready to let the prior subject drop.
Finn shook his head. ‘I don’t think Lady Eliza shares much of anything with me.’
‘Ouch!’ Catherine made a mock grimace. ‘Was she as bad as all that? I thought she seemed passable.’
‘Oh, she was,’ Finn put in quickly. ‘She just wasn’t for me.’ There’d been a lot of women who just weren’t for him. ‘I suppose you could say I’ve wanted something that’s not yet been available.’
‘Or someone?’ Catherine replied astutely, her words not all that different from his father’s, but she was no longer looking at him, but out over the guests. Finn could guess who her eyes sought, but finding it wouldn’t make her happy. Suddenly he didn’t want Catherine to find Channing, didn’t want her
to see him fawning over Lady Alina Marliss and her delectable charms.
Finn rose, blocking her view of the room. ‘Come with me, I have an idea.’ Everyone here were old acquaintances. No one would think twice if he stepped out of the party with a long-time family friend.
They slipped out of the drawing room, her hand in his as they made their way along a darker corridor. ‘Where are we going?’ Her skirts were gathered in her free hand to keep up.
He tossed a smile over his shoulder. ‘Take a smell, you know where.’ Finn held the door open to the darkened kitchen. Cook would be having a short break before she came back to prepare the tea cart at eleven.
‘Ah, the cider’s on the stove already.’ Catherine breathed deeply and so did he, taking in the cloves and cinnamon.
Finn rummaged through the cupboards until he found two mugs. He poured a ladle full of cider in to each mug. ‘You can’t tell me this has changed since you left.’
Catherine sipped, hands wrapped around the mug. ‘Not at all. Mmmm. This is good.’ She grinned at him over the rim. ‘Do you suppose there’s any gingerbread?’
Finn whipped a white cloth off a plate in the centre of the long work table. ‘Right here.’
Catherine took a bite of the hard biscuit and its icing. ‘Perfect. No torte, or mousse, could be as good as Deverill cider and gingerbread.’
Finn took a bite too. ‘Do you remember the year all five of us sneaked down to the kitchen and ate gingerbread until we were sick?’
Catherine groaned. ‘I do. I thought I’d never want to eat gingerbread again, but apparently I was wrong because we were back at it the next year.’
A Magical Regency Christmas Page 12
