Ex-Spinster by Christmas: House of Haverstock, Book 4

by Cheryl Bolen

  “I daresay Brockton could be a mere mister like me and still win the lady’s hand,” Cuthbert said. “Women do seem to flock to him.”

  “When will you offer for her?” Dundee asked.

  Brockton smirked. “Christmas, I think. What better present could a woman seek?”

  A more obnoxious man Christopher had never met.

  “You’re incorrigible,” Dundee said with a shake of his head.

  Cuthbert sighed. “You’re a most fortunate man. I suppose with a lovely wife like that, you’ll dismiss Mrs. Johnson.”

  Brockton’s brows lowered. “Being wed will change nothing—except my pocketbook.”

  “You don’t fancy yourself in love with the lady?” Dundee asked.

  Brockton laughed. “I love all women. Never let it be said the Earl of Brockton is in any woman’s pocket.” He glanced across the table and spoke to Finch. “Say, Finchley, will you and that wife of yours be spending Christmas at Glenmont?”

  Finch nodded. “We leave tomorrow.”

  “As do I. I shall see you there.”

  Christopher felt as if the contents of his stomach were going to erupt like a spewing volcano. Dear God, the duke’s daughter is my Lady Caroline.

  Chapter 2

  He could no longer sit at the same table with that pompous, conceited, insensitive profligate. Half way through the meal, he’d stood and turned to Finch, who looked almost as stricken as Christopher felt. “I’d completely forgotten that I promised to eat with my mother tonight.” He nodded at Lord Dundee and Cuthbert, then strode from the chamber.

  His coach offered only a slight respite from the biting cold, but his physical condition was the last thing on his mind. A blinding fury bolted through him. How dare that devil try to wed Lady Caroline Ponsby! The man wasn’t even worthy of kissing her hand.

  And how could a man be such a fool as to seek the bed of his low-born mistress when he had the great honor of marrying that most perfect being? If the damned earl had the good fortune to wed Lady Caroline and if he had the poor sense to be unfaithful to her, Christopher just might have to challenge him to a duel.

  It was all Christopher could do to not drive a fist into Lord Brockton’s smug face back at White’s. Brockton knew Christopher had a prior claim on Lady Caroline. What gentleman would shove himself into another gentleman’s territory?

  Christopher sighed. Would Brockton have pressed his suit with Lady Caroline if Christopher had been a fellow peer? Was Christopher still not considered a gentleman? Even though his greatest friend was an earl and the woman he had long loved was a duke’s daughter, Christopher still didn’t feel he belonged to their privileged world.

  He laughed a bitter laugh. He could buy everything Lord Brockton and Lord Finchley possessed, and it would barely dent the Perry family fortune, yet Christopher still could not shake the stigma of his Jewish ancestors, dead now for three generations.

  Was that why Lady Caroline had been backing away from him? Why she was encouraging Brockton? Or was she moving on because Christopher had failed to ask for her hand?

  For more than a year and a half he’d spent time with no other woman. He’d not wanted to be with anyone other than Lady Caroline. He hadn’t even desired his mistress. How could he when his hunger for Lady Caroline and only Lady Caroline strummed through him every hour of every day? He’d thought of nothing but making her his own, but he respected and loved her too dearly to lie with her without marriage and respected and loved her too dearly to offer marriage.

  The great grandson of a Jewish jeweler was hardly worthy of the daughter of duke.

  While he had not lain with her, often he had stolen kisses and gloried in the feel of his adored Lady Caroline in his arms. Even tonight, here in the frigid carriage, the memory of holding her close aroused him.

  His breath was ragged when he remembered how compliant she had always been. He smiled when remembering their first scorching kiss and how surprised he had been over her capacity for passion.

  Dear God, would she kiss Brockton as she had kissed him?

  How could she transfer her affections so easily? For even though Christopher was unworthy of her, he believed Lady Caroline had loved him. Finch had intimated that she expected a proposal of marriage.

  But Christopher was too much of a coward. Even after a year and a half, he was still beastly uncomfortable in the presence of her brother, the Duke of Aldridge. The fellow was so serious and lofty. He was sure to look down his aristocratic nose at the Perry family origins.

  The Ponsby family dated back to the time of the Conqueror.

  He had always pictured Lady Caroline marrying into a family equal to her own in prestige. But never had he thought she’d throw herself away on a scoundrel like Brockton. Could she not see past the man’s title and his handsome countenance?

  There was not another peer of the realm who could have been a worse choice. She was a very clever girl. Surely Lady Caroline would come to her senses and recognize Brockton’s absence of merit.

  And if she didn’t?

  Nothing could be more painful to Christopher. He wanted the best for her. He wanted her to be happy. He loved her.

  And despite his own unworthiness, he wanted her for himself. Forever.

  But that could never be.

  His coach rounded the corner to Piccadilly, and through the fogged-up window Christopher could see the yellow glow of a pair of giant lanterns at either side of the entry to his impressive house. The coachman opened the gates, got back on the box, and drove across the courtyard to the home’s front door that was flanked by a pair of smaller lanterns.

  Inside, Christopher divested himself of his great coat, hat, and muffler. “Where’s my mother?”

  “She’s in the drawing room listening to your sister at the pianoforte,” Whitman said.

  Christopher marched up the brightly lit stairway and at the door to the yellow drawing room, he stopped. Augusta was playing the pianoforte, and his enraptured mother was watching her daughter. Mama had every right to be proud of her. Augusta played with exceptional ability. Her talent was something that could not have been purchased with her father’s great wealth.

  As he watched his mother, Christopher’s face softened. She had been a reputed beauty, and at fifty, she was still lovely. So different from him and Augusta, both of whom favored their dark father. Mama’s skin was exceedingly pale with rosy cheeks, and her once blonde hair was only partially gray. Her figure bore little sign of spreading as did others of the same age.

  Though she missed their father enormously, she never indulged in self pity and never for a moment put her own interests over that of her children and grandchildren.

  Augusta looked up at him and smiled, never missing a note.

  Following her daughter’s gaze, Mama turned to face him. “Ah, Christopher! I never thought to see you home at so early an hour.” Her brows lowered as she scrutinized him as a painter studies his subject. “Something’s wrong. Whatever is the matter, dearest?”

  His mother knew him too well. He shook his head and forced a smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I was thinking I’d need a good night’s sleep if we’re to journey to Somersham tomorrow.”

  Her tenseness uncoiled. “Come sit by me.”

  He came to the plump pink silken sofa and kissed his mother’s cheek before he sat down. Augusta continued playing, and he found the lovely tune soothing. So was the nearby fire. It was one of those cold nights which made one want to climb upon one’s bed, draw shut its velvet curtains, and bury oneself under mounds of blankets.

  “I thought Lord Finchley might try to persuade you to spend Christmas with him. Will he and his lovely wife be traveling to the Duke of Aldridge’s country home?”

  “Yes, and he did invite me.” Christopher patted his mother’s hand. “And he invited you as well.”

  “Pshaw! I could never be comfortable around such lofty people. I don’t know how you manage. I’d be so humbled in their presence I’d be speechless and cowering.
”

  He chuckled and clasped her hand. “You shouldn’t be. You’re a far more worthy person than any noblewoman I’ve ever met. And . . . ,” he said with a mischievous gleam in his eye, “none of them dresses with your eye for elegance.” Which was true.

  His family’s fortune might purchase the finest dressmakers and fabrics and jewels, but it could not buy the innate sense of style his mother possessed.

  He had inherited it and still did not know if it was a curse or a blessing. It grew tedious being judiciously studied by every young buck who came to town.

  “You forget Lady Caroline,” she said. “I’ve met her but once, but I believe you must find her exceedingly worthy.”

  His gut plunged. He swallowed hard. “She is.”

  * * *

  As Caro stood just off the entry hall of Aldridge House to don her red velvet cloak in preparation for her long drive to Glenmont, she witnessed Lady Haverstock leave the duchess’s study and race down the stairs, almost bumping into Caro.

  Stunned to see tears streaking Anna Haverstock’s beautiful face, she said, “My lady, what’s wrong?”

  The marchioness merely shook her head and sped to the door. “I’m being a goose.”

  Caro flew up the stairs and faced the duchess. “What’s happened to Lady Haverstock?”

  Elizabeth’s face was grave. “She’s convinced her husband must have a mistress.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! Everyone knows your brother’s besotted over her.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell her, but . . . well, she confided something to me that is not fit for a maiden’s ears.”

  “I will never believe Lord Haverstock has a ladybird. She has validation of that?”

  Elizabeth shook her blond head. “A ladybird is not what I was referring to. It’s something else, something about her and her husband.”

  Caro’s brows squeezed together. “Are you saying Lord Haverstock no longer seeks to lie with his wife?”

  Her eyes narrow, her hands planted at her hips, the duchess glared at her sister-in-law. “You most certainly are not supposed to know about such.”

  “Pray, give me credit. I’m many years out of the schoolroom. I know about a man’s desires for a woman. I once overheard Lady Haverstock tell you that a man satisfied by his wife would never have reason to seek . . . release elsewhere.”

  Dear merciful heavens, Elizabeth was blushing! Was Caro the only woman in the family who did not get embarrassed by such talk? “I’m not inquiring about your intimacies, dearest.”

  “Poor Anna. I am so vexed with my brother,” Elizabeth said. “He hasn’t come to her bed in weeks. She’s convinced he doesn’t love her anymore.” She shrugged. “I know he would never stop loving her. It must be something else.”

  “He’s been very successful in the House in Lords. It can’t be that.”

  “Nor can it be his position at the Foreign Office. Philip would know it if anything was amiss there. I’m so worried about her.”

  “I’m sure everything will be fine when we all arrive for a relaxing Christmas at Glenmont.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Are you sure you don’t want to ride with Philip and me?”

  “I’ve already promised Margaret I’d ride with them. In fact, their coach is to collect me soon.”

  “Philip and I are ready, too.”

  * * *

  “I’m most gratified that you’ve chosen to ride in our carriage instead of with Elizabeth and Aldridge,” Margaret said to Caro, who sat across from her. The rugs spread across their laps and wrapped around their icy feet helped warm them on this frigid afternoon as the Finchley coach rattled along these country roads.

  When Caro spotted the bridge at Horsham, she knew they would be at Glenmont within the hour.

  “I live with Elizabeth and Aldridge,” Caro said, “and therefore welcome the opportunity to spend every minute I can with my almost-twin sister. I thought Grandmere was coming with us?”

  “She prefers her own coach. The dowager Lady Haverstock’s riding with her since they’re such old friends.”

  Caro eyed Margaret’s softly snoring husband, his long legs stretched out across the carriage. He’d slept for the past four hours, ever since they’d left London. She stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. “I wish we still shared a bedchamber.”

  Margaret gave her a pitying glance. “Everyone has to grow up, and as much as I miss you, my life is fuller and happier than it’s ever been. I wish the same for you in a marital state. With Mr. Perry.”

  “You’ve got to get it out of your head that I’m marrying Christopher Perry.” Caro’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve moved on and am greatly looking forward to furthering my acquaintance this Christmas with the most handsome lord in the realm.”

  Margaret’s brows lowered, and she spoke in jest. “You speak of my husband?”

  To Margaret, there was no finer looking man in the kingdom than her Lord Finchley. “Forgive me. I meant to say the second most handsome lord in the kingdom.”

  “ I cannot believe Aldridge has indulged you by asking Lord Brockton to Glenmont. I know he does not approve of the man.”

  “Just because Lord Brockton lost his fortune and needs to marry an heiress does not mean the man is without merit. He’s never been anything but a perfect gentleman in my presence.”

  “I never said he was a fool—merely a libertine.” Margaret’s lids lowered as she looked down at the sleeping babe in her arms.

  “I declare,” Caro said, eyeing her nephew, “little Frederick is exactly like his Papa. The movement of the carriage must lull both of them to sleep.”

  “Indeed. In fact, one night when the nurse was concerned because our little angel wouldn’t go to sleep, I rang for the carriage, and Nurse and I rode around Mayfair but for five minutes and Freddie went sound to sleep.”

  The infant boy did not seem to have inherited any Ponsby characteristics, but that did not detract from Caro’s adoration of her nephew. She never tired of looking at him. Or holding him. She felt the same over each of her nephews and her niece. “Even though he’s such a babe still, he will be in heaven at Glenmont with all those babies.”

  “Sadly, Morgie and Lydia’s son is no longer a babe. It distresses me that they grow up so fast. At least the Morgans will have a new babe.” Margaret eyed her sister. “Did you know they’re coming to Glenmont?”

  “Yes. Lord Haverstock said he could never celebrate Christmas without Lydia. She’s always been his favorite sister.”

  “When is the new babe expected?” Margaret asked.

  “Not until February.”

  Caro peered from the carriage window. Minutes ago it had been a gray afternoon. Now night was lowering its dark screen over the hilly landscape that would always claim her heart.

  She knew all the landmarks around the ancestral home that had been in the Ponsby family for centuries. The far-off spire of the village church signaled that they were just minutes away from Glenmont.

  The coachman soon turned onto the long road that cut through Glenmont’s vast parkland. A sprinkling of snow covered its winter-bleached grass. They climbed higher until the fourteen chimneys of Glenmont came into view, then its three stories of gray stone. Caro always swelled with pride when she beheld her ancestral home. Glenmont lacked the symmetry of the Palladian mansions that were so much in vogue. The old pile was a hodgepodge of jutting wings and different elevations and windows from every architectural era since the Tudor period. And there wasn’t a thing about it she would change.

  Lord Finchley began to stir. In the span between breaths, his snoring stopped. His eyelids lifted, and when his gaze met Caro’s he snapped into a seated position. “I perceive I’ve been sleeping.”

  “I declare,” his wife said, “you could sleep amidst the shouting at a cock fight.”

  He scowled. “My wife is not supposed to know how men act at such an event.” He eyed his sleeping son. “Here, allow me to take him. Your arm
s must be aching.”

  “My arms never ache from holding Freddie.” They exchanged their sleeping son without disturbing his slumber. “And besides, whenever Caro’s near, she manages to get rather a good cuddle with him.”

  Lord Finchley smiled down at his son, then his brows lowered. “Please tell me I did not snore in front of Lady Caroline.”

  “Of course you snored, my dearest,” Margaret said.

  He eyed Caro from beneath hooded brows. “Terribly sorry. A maiden shouldn’t have to be exposed to such.”

  “But dearest,” Margaret said, “Caro professes not to be a maiden much longer. She desires to wed by Christmas.”

  His expression thundered. “Don’t like to think of you hitching yourself to that disagreeable Brockton.”

  “He’s never been disagreeable to me,” Caro said. “Quite the opposite.”

  The coach lurched to a stop, and a footman raced to open the door and assist them from the vehicle.

  A light snow was falling.

  Inside the Elizabethan entry hall paneled with age-darkened wood, the ancient Aldridge butler greeted the sisters he’d known since the day of their birth.

  Caro handed off her muffler and cloak. “Tell me, Barrow, who has arrived.”

  “His and her grace are here, and Lord and Lady Haverstock arrived about an hour ago. The dowagers Haverstock and Finchley came rather earlier. And there’s a Lord Broughton.”

  He hadn’t adulterated Lord Brockton’s name too badly. “Then the Rothcomb-Smedleys haven’t arrived yet?” Margaret said almost in a shout because poor Barrow had a propensity to mangle Clair’s married name—to Clair’s consternation. He used to call her distinguished husband Mr. Rotten-Smelly.

  He shook his white-topped head. “Not yet, my lady.”

  “What about Mr. and Mrs. Morgan?” Margaret asked, also speaking much more loudly than normal.

  “Oh, yes, they came with the Haverstocks. Your servants, too, have all arrived and taken your things to your chambers, and your brother plans on dinner at five.”