A Regency Yuletide

by Sharon Sobel

  However, both Leah and Isaac began to giggle because they recognized his underlying sarcasm. They knew, as well, how their great-aunt had never approved of Neville and had made efforts to keep him from marrying their mother.

  Lady Symmington looked puzzled, but recovered enough to say, “I shall have you shown to your rooms so you might relax after your journey.”

  Thanking their hostess, Priscilla herded her children ahead of her and out into the corridor where the footman waited. Neville chuckled under his breath, and she shot him a stern glare. It had no more effect than any of the others she had ever fired in his direction.

  Quietly she said, “You should not take advantage of easy targets.”

  “It is almost too easy, isn’t it?” He took her hand and put it on his sleeve again. “That is what happens when I spend time with you away from the ton. I forget that everyone has not been blessed with your quick wits.”

  “You are quick yourself, Neville. You were wise enough to say everyone rather than every woman.”

  His eyes widened in feigned shock. “Do you mean to tell me that you have never met a want-witted man among the ton?”

  “Present company included?”

  “Ouch,” he said with a grin. “Pluck your dagger from my heart, Pris.”

  A commotion exploded into the foyer. A hurricane of bags and servants. At its eye, but definitely not as calm as the center of a tempest, stood Lady Eastbridge.

  Priscilla bit back her gasp of astonishment. She had not expected to see the countess amidst Lady Symmington’s guests.

  The countess, a woman who must be in her seventh decade, tapped her foot with impatience. Her silver hair was perfectly accented by the ribbons on her simple bonnet. Beneath her long red spencer, an elegant gray silk dress was edged by muddy lace. More lace adorned the neckline, a thick white lace with a Tudor rose pattern woven through it. A long-ago Eastbridge had been a cousin to the Tudor monarchs, and the family had never allowed anyone to forget that connection.

  A man edged out of the throng, followed by an attractive young woman. The man was Lord Eastbridge. Priscilla recognized the earl by his large, hooked nose and his full belly that strained the gold buttons on his red waistcoat. She was unsure who the young woman was, but her simple clothes suggested she was some sort of upper servant.

  Lord Eastbridge tried to calm his wife, but she paid him no mind.

  “Where is our hostess?” demanded the countess, scowling at the footmen who seemed overwhelmed by her arrival.

  Priscilla stepped forward when no one else appeared capable of movement. “Lady Eastbridge! How pleasant it is to see you!”

  The portly woman came over to give Priscilla a kiss on the cheek. “And you, my dear! You have no idea how much I hoped you would be in attendance. You look well. Marriage must be agreeing with you.” Looking past her, she smiled warmly at Neville. “And it is quite easy to see why.” She held out her hand to him.

  Neville bowed over it. “My lady, it is—if I may be blunt—”

  “I doubt you could be any other way,” the countess said with a smile.

  “Then I must say that I am surprised to see you here.”

  “I am sure you are. I can say, without hesitation, that nobody expected to see me here.”

  Priscilla hid her smile at the countess’s answer. It was amusing to watch someone else match wits with Neville.

  “Now,” Lady Eastbridge went on, “do allow me a moment to speak with your lovely bride.”

  He nodded, then urged the children to follow the footman up the stairs. She did notice him giving the young woman a curious glance, then another.

  “What a charming family,” the countess said. Not giving Priscilla a chance to respond, she went on, “You must come and have tea with me tomorrow so we may enjoy a comfortable—and private—coze.” She flicked her fingers, and a pretty young brunette rushed to her side. “This is Miss Annalee Baldwin, my companion. She arranges such matters. Annalee, do make arrangements for Lady Priscilla and me to take tea alone tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Her voice was so low that Priscilla wondered how Lady Eastbridge could hear her. Then Priscilla realized the countess was not worried about such small details. She expected her companion to comply with every order.

  Lady Eastbridge stepped aside as both her servants and the Symmingtons’ began toting the stacks of bags and crates up the stairs to where the earl and the countess and their servants would stay. Her gaze followed her husband.

  “I am sure you are surprised to see me here, too,” the countess said.

  “I am,” Priscilla said. “Almost as surprised as I was to receive Lady Symmington’s invitation for a Twelfth Night.”

  “As I said, nobody will expect to see me here.”

  “Including the Symmingtons?”

  Lady Eastbridge smiled. “I knew you would see through polite words to the truth, my dear. When Horatio was insistent that I step aside and allow the Symmingtons to host the Twelfth Night masquerade, I did only when he promised that we would attend the one here in spite of our invitation going astray. Or so I was informed when I sent a message here. Lady Symmington’s apology arrived back within hours.”

  “I hope you will enjoy this gathering.”

  “I do, too. I doubt Horatio will.” Her lips grew straight and thin as she squeezed out each word about her husband. “The man has no idea of the importance of tradition or how much the tradition means to me.” She sighed. “He has been a bit distracted, and it seemed like a good idea to accede to his wishes. In spite of how much I have enjoyed being the hostess for the Twelfth Night masquerade.”

  Priscilla felt sorry for the countess, but to express such a sentiment aloud would embarrass Lady Eastbridge and possibly insult their hostess. “Your galas were always a great deal of fun. I first attended the January before my first Season.”

  “Your only Season as an eligible miss before you lost your heart to your first husband.” Lady Eastbridge brightened. “Ah, we shall see how the change in tradition goes, shan’t we? I do hope Lady Symmington has planned some amusing Twelfth Night games and charades for her guests. What would Twelfth Night be without some merriment and silliness?

  Chapter Four

  CORDELIA EMBERLEY Smith Gray Dexter rose from the chair as if she were the queen and her niece and her family were lowly petitioners coming to beg a boon. Her gown was of the latest style. As always. Her hair was perfectly styled. As always. Her smile was warm . . . until she glanced at Neville. Then it became icy. As always.

  Turning her back on Neville, a rare feat because he stood next to Pris, Aunt Cordelia said, “My dear Priscilla, I am pleased that you came to see how I fared. I know you and the children must be exhausted after the long journey.”

  “Mermaid Cottage is not far from here,” Pris replied.

  Neville knew that Pris continued to hope that the tension between her aunt and her husband would vanish completely. If Priscilla’s aunt relented, Neville would, but Aunt Cordelia would never change.

  “Ah, yes. I forgot that you had decided to spend Christmas by the sea.” Aunt Cordelia shivered. “I have no idea why you would choose to stay in that drafty cottage when you have a perfectly comfortable house in Town.”

  “You know that we like to attend Christmas Eve services at Lazarus’s church.”

  Neville bit back angry words as he heard the grief in Pris’s voice. Dash it! Her aunt had no reason to pick at the barely healed scar on Pris’s heart. Even though almost two years had passed since Lazarus’s death, the pain was fresh. Just as it was for him. That was something her aunt should understand since Aunt Cordelia had buried three husbands of her own. He had to wonder if any of her marriages had been a love match like Pris’s and Lazarus’s. Neville did not expect the old tough to understand that his love for Pris was deep, but
why couldn’t she understand Pris’s loss?

  Pris’s fingers settled gently on his sleeve, a silent acknowledgment that she comprehended what he was fighting not to say.

  “Well,” Aunt Cordelia said, as if unaware of the pain her thoughtless words caused, “at least you are here now, and we can spend Twelfth Night together.” She held out her arms. “Come and give your great-aunt a kiss, my dears.”

  The children inched forward, and Neville noticed Leah giving Isaac a shove toward Aunt Cordelia. Each of them endured a hug and a kiss. He knew the children loved their great-aunt, but she annoyed them even more than she did him.

  If possible.

  “Yes, Duncan is attending the masquerade,” Aunt Cordelia said in response to a question he had not heard Pris ask. “He has a few holiday calls to make, and then he will come directly here. He wants to try some English wassail.”

  Neville made a mental note not to let his friend empty more than one bottle of whisky into the bowl before it began its rounds.

  Walking to the hearth where a fire snapped and crackled, he remained silent as he watched the tableau of his family. It still astonished him that a man who had led a less than reputable life was now married to an earl’s beautiful daughter and was the father to her three remarkable children. He hoped Lazarus was pleased, because Pris’s husband had been his friend for many years, believing there was something worthwhile in a man who had had to struggle to make his way in the world. When the family’s tarnished title descended to Neville, Lazarus had both congratulated him and joked with him about being a legitimate part of the Polite World.

  “You were quiet in there,” Pris said as they walked toward the lovely suite of rooms where they would stay for the next few days. The children had gone ahead, excused by their aunt while Neville had been lost in thought.

  “If a man is silent, his words cannot be used against him.”

  She regarded him with a half-smile. “Wise words.”

  “They should be. They were Lazarus’s.” He put his arm around her waist and smiled when she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I came to learn that listening to his advice was the best thing I could do.”

  “I thought they sounded familiar.” She chuckled softly, her breath brushing his neck above his collar. “I believe I first heard him say them after an early encounter with Aunt Cordelia.”

  “You are jesting!”

  “No, quite the opposite. My aunt did not have a high opinion of him either, as you may recall.”

  “Until you wed me.”

  “Ah, yes.” She raised her head so he could see her twinkling blue eyes. He adored every part of her, but especially her eyes which revealed every emotion. Now they glowed with good humor and more. It was that—more a promise of pleasure—that drew him even closer. “I do hope you will not covet her good opinion enough to do something beef-headed.”

  The laugh roared out of him and swept along the empty passage. “Mayhap you might wish to mention to your aunt that if I were to leave you a widow, it would be only another opportunity for you to marry unwisely.”

  “That is Aunt Cordelia’s opinion. Not mine.” She hesitated, then asked, “Why were you staring at Miss Baldwin?”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Baldwin, Lady Eastbridge’s companion. Pretty. Dark-haired.”

  He smiled. “Jealous, Pris?”

  “If you hope so, you will be disappointed. I saw how you were looking at her. It was that expression you wear when you are puzzled about something.”

  “I am puzzled because Miss Baldwin looks familiar.”

  “Have you called at the Eastbridge’s estate?”

  “Never, and not at their house in Town either. That is what puzzles me.”

  She smiled. “I am sure the answer is simple. Ask her.”

  “I would rather ask you.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “Where are the children bound and how long will they be gone?”

  “Long enough,” Pris said with the husky warmth that set his blood afire.

  “Then there is no time to waste.” He swept her up into his arms and carried her to their rooms, his lips feasting on the sweet flavors of hers.

  PRISCILLA HEARD THE raised voices on the far side of the bedroom door. As she brushed her hair into a simple twist, she stood from the dressing table.

  “Neville, will you hook me up?” she asked.

  He looked up from where he leaned against the pillows on the mussed tester bed. He put the book he was reading down on his bare chest. “You know I hate doing that, Pris.”

  It would be easy to melt back into his arms, but she asked, “Don’t you hear that?”

  He cocked his head. “The children are arguing about something. Leah and Isaac probably are trying to decide which prank to unleash first.”

  “No. I don’t think that is the younger ones. I recognize Daphne’s voice, but not the other. I should check to see what is wrong.”

  “Sometimes I wish you were not such a good mother, Pris.” He quickly did up the back of her gown. “Shall I come with you?”

  “I think not. If I hear correctly, the louder voice belongs to a female as well.” She ran a fingertip along his skin. “This is a sight I don’t want to share with any other member of the gentler sex.”

  He smiled. “Call if you need my help.”

  “I will.” She gave him the bawdy wink she had learned from him. “You can be sure of that.”

  Neville’s chuckle followed her out of the bedroom.

  Priscilla closed the door quietly behind her, but she doubted either Daphne or the young brunette would have taken note of her arrival if she had been announced with trumpets. The two girls stood almost nose to nose. If they had been cats, their fur would have been standing straight up.

  Walking over to them, she asked, “Daphne, would you like to introduce me to your friend?”

  Daphne bristled even more at the word friend, but she took a deep breath, looked away from the dark-haired girl and said, “Mama, this is Alice Symmington. Miss Symmington, my mother, Lady Priscilla Hathaway.”

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” Miss Symmington said with a polite curtsy. She scowled again at Daphne, then said, “If you will excuse me . . .”

  Priscilla waited until the outer door was closed before she asked, “What was that to-do about? You were screeching like fishwives, and I suspect they heard you in the most distant wing of the house.”

  “I was not screeching, Mama.” Tears bubbled into Daphne’s eyes. “She was.”

  “I heard . . .” Priscilla realized that she had recognized Daphne’s voice through the thick door because she was familiar with it. The other voice—Miss Symmington’s voice—had been more strident. She sat on a chair in front of the room’s single tall window. “Tell me what—happened.”

  “Miss Symmington told me that I should leave before Burke arrived because, if I stayed, my heart would be broken when he paid her more attention.”

  “Miss Symmington sounds quite sure of what Lord Witherspoon’s actions will be if he comes here.”

  Daphne smiled, and her face softened as she sat facing her mother. “He is here. I saw him briefly in the upper gallery. He had just arrived, and he wasted no time letting me know how glad he was to see me.”

  “You saw him alone?”

  “Leah and Isaac were with me, Mama. They only left to visit the kitchen and hope for a treat after Burke and I finished talking.” Color flashed up Daphne’s face. “You used to trust me to do the right thing. Why don’t you trust me now?”

  “I do trust you.”

  “Then you don’t trust Burke.”

  Priscilla smiled at her daughter. “I don’t distrust Lord Witherspoon either. It is simply that the cost of flouting Society’s rules is very high.”

/>   “I would never do something that would label me a harlot. A few kisses . . .” She put her fingers to her lips. “I am sorry, Mama. I should not have said that.”

  “No, I would rather you kept being honest with me.” She took her daughter’s hand in hers. “Daphne, even a few kisses, if witnessed by the wrong person, can damage a young woman’s reputation.”

  “I know.”

  “And I know that you will keep that in mind, because you need to worry about not only your reputation, but your sister’s. If you are labeled forward and bold, that will reflect upon Leah when it is her turn to have her first Season, as you will this spring.”

  Daphne’s eyes grew wide. “Really, Mama? A real Season?”

  “Yes, and you know what will be expected of you.”

  Getting up, Daphne twirled about the room, her arms outstretched as if she danced with a young man. “I cannot wait! I cannot wait!”

  Priscilla smiled, but inwardly she knew that she still must tell Aunt Cordelia of the decision she and Neville had made with the greatest care. She would speak with her aunt—in private—at the first chance she had. Mayhap with her aunt in such good spirits with the anticipation of Duncan’s arrival, the time was right. She must speak with Aunt Cordelia before her aunt saw that statue.

  The bedroom door opened and Neville came out, dressed in prime twig. He smiled. “I see you told her, Pris.”

  Daphne flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, thank you, Uncle Neville, for persuading Mama to let me have a real Season.”

  “Actually it was quite the opposite,” he said. “Now that I have a daughter of my own, I must say I look at every man with disapproval. She reminded me that girls must become young misses at some point.”

  Running back to Priscilla’s chair, Daphne hugged her as enthusiastically as she had Neville. “Mama, thank you! I am so happy! I am—”

  A sharp rap was set upon the outer door. With a glance toward Priscilla, Neville went to open it.

  The door crashed inward before he reached it. A maid rushed in. “You must help me!” she cried. “You must!”