His Christmas Pleasure

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Appearances? I want more than appearances.”

  She deserved more, Andres decided. Well, she deserved anything but this buffoon. Her Freddie was enjoying his position of power. He wasn’t treating her love like the precious gift it was. Only

  someone who’d had his love spurned could identify with how she felt.

  Andres was not going to let her sacrifice her pride. Freddie could go out into the ballroom and, with a casual word here and there, let it be known she’d begged him—and the man would. Andres knew his type. Insensitive, selfish, arrogant … Andres had been those things and more until love had humbled him. Freddie was flattered by her admission. Bolstered by it.

  “I don’t think anyone will have me,” she said, sounding defeated. “I’m old now. Too old.”

  “Abby, we’ll find someone,” Freddie answered, his voice warm, confiding, seductive. Andres pictured him putting his arms around her, preparing to kiss her. “Being a lover is so much better than being a wife. You can’t envy Corinne, because you will always have my heart—”

  Andres had heard enough.

  He left the dueling pistol on the floor as he came to his feet, popping up from behind the settee. “I’ve waited long enough, Miss Montross. Let us forget this nonsense and go dance.”

  Chapter Two

  Abby had been so wrapped up in her disappointment, her yearning, her wanting that she’d forgotten the gentleman on the floor.

  And now was not the time she wanted to remember him.

  At last she and Freddie were talking. This gentleman’s presence destroyed a moment of possible understanding, stealing Freddie’s attention away from her and their love.

  “Who are you—?” Freddie started and then stopped, his eyes widening in recognition. “Barón de Vasconia?”

  Freddie knew this gentleman? And Abby realized she recognized the name, too.

  The barón de Vasconia was infamous. They gossiped about him in all the papers, often referring to him as the “barón V” or “Apollo” because, like the sun god, he was inordinately handsome. The wags said that the one difference was that instead of riding a chariot across the sky, the barón cut a swath through London society, leaving a trail of broken hearts and angry husbands in his wake.

  Handsome. For the first time, Abby’s would-be suicide’s physical attributes made an impact on her. She’d been so concerned seeing him with the pistol in his hand that she’d not taken in how tall he was, how broad-shouldered, how strikingly handsome he was. And she knew from tackling him how hard and lean he was.

  Of course, she loved Freddie. Worshipped him. He was the most attractive man in the world … but honesty made her admit that when compared to the barón, Freddie came out a poor second. The Spaniard’s presence was so strong, so bold, that a woman would have to be blind, and dumb, and completely without arms and any sense of touch or scent to be unaware of him.

  His olive skin and thick, dark hair were what Abby supposed would be called Castilian features. But his aristocratic bearing, straight, well-shaped nose, and lean jaw would have made him a model of masculine beauty in any culture. Top those features off with straight dark brows over the most incredible silver eyes imaginable and he was breathtaking. A silver-eyed Spaniard. Who would have thought it?

  Freddie turned his back on Abby. He walked up to the barón, an eager fawning in his voice as he said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Barón. Our paths have crossed, but we have yet to be introduced. Miss Montross, would you go through the formalities?”

  “The formalities?” Abby repeated blankly. Was Freddie serious? Didn’t he realize the man had overheard everything they’d said?

  The barón had overheard her beg.

  Without waiting for her assistance, Freddie launched into introductions himself. “Lord Frederick Sherwin,” he said with a bow. “My father is the earl of Bossley. You may have heard of him? I’m his heir. We’re quite wealthy. Well connected.” He paused, as if expecting the barón to recognize him.

  “How fortunate for you,” the barón murmured. He shot a look at Abby and raised his eyebrow, letting her know he was unimpressed with her man.

  If Freddie had caught a hint of the barón’s opinion, it didn’t disturb him. “Abby,” Freddie continued, taking on a lecturing tone that always annoyed her, “Brummell claims that the barón is the most handsome figure in fashion. A true original. Do you see why? Don’t you agree?”

  “I hadn’t thought on it,” Abby answered. Freddie never complimented her appearance. In fact, she’d rarely heard him sound so enthusiastic about anyone … other than himself.

  It was clear that Freddie wasn’t actually interested in her response, because he jumped right back into his thoughts. “What I have wanted to know—and so appreciate this opportunity to speak to you in private, Barón—is how you manage to tie your neck cloth in that manner that they are calling the Vasconia? Quite intricate it is. You can see I have tied mine in my own version, but it lacks something. My friends have all assured me that I am close to it but not exact.” Freddie said this while attempting to peer as close as he dared to the barón’s neck cloth without actually touching it. “What is the secret? Is the creation one of your valet’s? Or did you conjure it up? I mean, that is, if you don’t mind telling me,” he hastened to add. “I understand how you wouldn’t want everyone walking around looking like you. However, I would appreciate even a hint.”

  The barón appeared to mull over the request and then said, quite seriously, “You need thick starch.”

  “Yes, yes, understandable,” Freddie agreed. “You need that hard feel.”

  “And the secret is that just as you tie the knot, you give it a little twist right, left, right.”

  “Right, left, right,” Freddie repeated. “But which knot do you use? The Ajax? Or is that the Corinthian?” He inched his nose closer to the barón’s neck.

  “The Ajax,” the barón said, moving away from Freddie’s scrutiny toward Abby.

  “And the twist?” Freddie said. “Is it a sharp turn or do you layer the folds? Soften it up a bit?”

  “I layer.” The barón started to direct Abby from the room, tucking her gloved hand in the crook of his arm.

  “That can’t be right,” Freddie countered. “I have tried that. Perhaps my valet can discuss the matter with your valet? My man may not be putting enough starch in the cloths. Of course, I have him using so much right now they take days to

  dry.”

  “Yes, yes, have the valets talk,” the barón said, opening the door.

  “Where are you going?” Freddie asked.

  “To dance with Miss Montross,” the barón said.

  Abby blinked in surprise. She’d been going along with him, quite astounded by Freddie’s avid interest in the barón’s grooming as well as his knowledge of laundry. She knew he was a dandy, but such an intense interest was, well, frivolous.

  “But Miss Montross doesn’t usually dance,” Freddie said ingenuously.

  “I dance.” Abby shook her head. “Where did you conceive the idea I didn’t?”

  Freddie caught himself. “I didn’t mean it that way, Miss Montross. I know you dance. I’ve danced with you.”

  “But not this evening,” the barón pointed out.

  “Well, no,” Freddie said, sounding confused. “I haven’t.”

  “Why not?” the barón pressed.

  “Because,” Freddie said. A spot of color appeared on each of his cheeks. He was flustered … and she knew he had not wanted to dance with her because he hadn’t wanted to be seen with her. His reluctance was more than not wanting to upset Corinne. He’d not wanted to dance with her because not only was she not fashionable but she’d also been jilted. Through no fault of her own, she’d been branded socially inferior.

  “I meant you don’t enjoy dancing,” Freddie said as an attempt at apology—one she would not take.

  “Who says I don’t?” Abby demanded. At the very least, she had thought of them as friends, and friends, es
pecially from childhood, stood by each other. Certainly she would have stood by him if their roles had been reversed.

  “You don’t make an issue of not dancing,” Freddie said in his defense.

  “Do you believe I like being ignored?” Abby felt her temper rising. “I know I’m not popular … but that doesn’t mean I choose to be a wallflower.”

  “You never complain,” Freddie countered, and Abby didn’t know what to say.

  Once again he disappointed her, and she had no excuse for him. It was hard sometimes to remember how much she loved him.

  The barón gently tugged on her arm, reminding her of his presence. “Miss Montross is going to dance now,” he informed Freddie. “She is a particular friend of mine, and I wish to escort her onto the dance floor.”

  “A particular friend?” Freddie repeated. “Abby? What is this?”

  Before she could answer, the barón swept her out into the hallway. He shut the door firmly behind them and started walking her down the patterned carpet toward the ballroom.

  Abby held back. “A particular friend? Do you know what that means? What Freddie will imply?”

  “Do I care?” he answered.

  “I care,” Abby said, coming to a complete stop. “You have a reputation. Everyone will think—” She broke off, suddenly not wanting to put her doubts into words.

  “Think what?” he challenged mildly, as if she amused him.

  She supposed she did. It was the height of hubris to assume the dashing barón de Vasconia, the Baron V, also known as “Apollo,” saw her as a love interest.

  “Things,” she finished and then repeated the sentence as if she’d meant to say it. “They’ll think things.” Dear Lord, she could feel the heat rise up her neck.

  “One can hope that they do,” he replied.

  “I’m not that sort of young woman,” she whispered.

  “Miss Montross.” His accent, emphasizing the second syllable, gave her name a definite flair. “After your conversation in there with that buffoon, has it not dawned on you that perhaps you want people to be thinking ‘things’ about you? It makes them a bit uncertain, even a little afraid.”

  “There is a difference between being well-considered and having my name linked to that of a—” Another dangerous word. She’d almost said libertine. Her father would not be pleased to see her on his arm.

  “You have difficulty finishing sentences, do you not?” the barón pressed, the light of a thousand devils dancing in his remarkable eyes. “Or is it that you are unaccustomed to speaking your mind?” He shook his head in answer to his own question. “No, I sense you have many opinions. You swallow them whole, forcing them back down.” He motioned to her belly with his free hand. “Letting them roil inside you.” He said all of this with his graceful inflection. They said that since he’d come to London, many a fop, taken by his charisma, had started lisping in a poor imitation of his accent—and here he was, so very careful, and intelligent, with his English.

  The door to the library opened. Freddie stepped out into the hallway.

  For a long moment, he stood there, his gaze going from one to the other, a puzzled expression on his face. Abby’s hand still rested on the barón’s arm, and she realized they must appear very close to Freddie.

  “I thought you were going to dance?” Was it Abby’s imagination, or did Freddie sound almost jealous?

  “We are … I think,” the barón answered. “Miss Montross?” He began walking toward the ballroom, and Abby had no choice but to follow unless she wished to be rude.

  Still, what if Freddie had at last realized what he was tossing aside? What if he was having second notions about offering for Corinne?

  She looked over her shoulder to him—

  “I need the name of your valet,” Freddie called out to the barón. “How else will my man be in touch with yours?”

  Disappointment tasted like bile in her mouth. She knew Freddie cared for her. She knew it … but could she be wrong?

  “They won’t be in touch,” the barón said. He had come to a halt, his impatience clear. “I don’t have one.”

  “Have one what?” Freddie asked.

  “A valet. Come, Miss Montross.”

  This time, Abby went with him.

  They walked in silence a moment before she confessed, “That was humbling.” She blinked back tears. No crying. She mustn’t cry here.

  “What was?” the barón said, nodding at a passing acquaintance in the hall. The music had started for the next set. A crowd milled around the doorway ahead of them, people talking, coming and going. He slowed his step, as if he was not in a hurry.

  Abby knew he understood she spoke of Freddie. She didn’t want to say more. She might shatter.

  She changed the subject, once again pretending to carry on, clinging to her pride. “Funny that you don’t have a valet and still can be the envy of every dandy in the city.”

  Several women around the doorway sent covert glances in the barón’s direction. And then their gazes dropped on her hand resting on his arm. Lips formed into questions. Fans began fluttering up to hide what was murmured from one person to another.

  Abby suspected they wondered why he was with her. Wait until Freddie announced his betrothal. Then they could really laugh at what a silly goose she was.

  Her throat tightened. She forced herself to hold on. She’d not cry, not cry, not cry—

  “I don’t think so,” the barón said.

  She had lost track of their conversation. “Think about what?”

  He looked down at her, sympathy in his eyes. He’d noticed how fragile she was.

  “I don’t think it is funny I don’t have a valet,” he said.

  Abby grasped for context, and then remembered. She forced a smile. “Men of your station usually do. Especially those with a remarkable knot in their neck cloth.”

  “Don’t forget, Brummell has pronounced me a fine figure of a man,” he reminded her. “Why do I need a valet?”

  His dry irony helped steady her. “That was such an inane thing for Freddie to say.” She paused. “He always was a bit vain.”

  “Most of us men are,” he said. “And there is no reason to apologize for having loved. He’s the one who is a fool.”

  Shame welled inside her. “I cared so deeply.” And her heart hurt. She wanted to escape, to find a quiet place to break down. Abby started to pull away, but he moved to take her by the hand, his fingers lacing with hers.

  “You can’t run yet,” he told her, his voice low, intimate. “You promised a dance—”

  “No, you commandeered a dance.”

  Amusement lit his eyes. “I did, so you have no choice.” And he led her past the prying, curious eyes and into the ballroom, a room ablaze with candles and the glittering jewels of the ton.

  The dance set was winding down on the dance floor. The dancers bowed to each other as the musicians drew out the final note. In minutes, others would take their place for the next set—and she had to admit she longed to be one of their number. She wanted to say that she’d danced at least once this evening. That she’d been a part of it all.

  And now she would be.

  Some of the tightness building inside her eased ever so slightly. Freddie was going to marry another … and she’d have to go on. Just as she’d had to face marrying Mr. Lynsted. What was it her father had said when he’d informed her of the marriage? “Life has its disappointments.”

  “Disappointments about what?” the barón asked, and Abby realized she’d spoken aloud. “I don’t think I’m that difficult to dance with.”

  “I’m sorry, it was something my father said to me when he’d arranged my marriage with the man who is now known in our house as ‘that scoundrel Lynsted.’ ”

  “And this is the man who jilted you?”

  “You heard everything, didn’t you?” There was no heat in her accusation.

  He shrugged. “There is nothing wrong with my ears. And I agree you should not settle for disappoin
tments.”

  “Do you?”

  “I have,” he admitted. “But I don’t think you are one who likes being told what to do.”

  Abby laughed. “You are right. I’m too much like my father for my own good. In fact, everyone in our family has strong opinions. Run now while you have the chance.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. She liked the way his teeth flashed white and even in his smile. He was the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  And, perhaps, the kindest.

  “So why don’t you have a valet?” she asked, truly curious as he started to lead her to the dance floor.

  Such was his notoriety that the crowd seemed to part to let them pass.

  “I could tell you,” he said, “that it is because I was staying with the duke of Holburn and using his servants, and now that I have my own apartments I have not had time to hire one.”

  “Or you could tell me the truth,” she prompted.

  He laughed, the sound again startling in its richness. Heads turned in their direction, as if those around them were caught by the sound of it.

  “Yes, I would tell you the truth, palomita,” he said, leaning so close that he spoke in her ear. “I’m broke. Done up. Poor. I tie my own neck cloth, and I don’t know what Lord Frederick Sherwin is thinking. I have no special method.”

  Abby’s feet rooted to the floor. “Truly?”

  He nodded solemnly, and she realized he’d just given her a gift—or a weapon. The gossip she could spread … but she wouldn’t.

  And in that moment, she felt a connection to him. A very human one.

  She understood him. He was like herself, an outsider. She was viewed suspiciously by their current company because of her father’s self-made fortune and working roots. They had to include her because, after all, she was family.

  The barón was seen as foreign. He was exotic and feted, but separate and apart.

  Oh, yes, she understood exactly how he felt.

  “But you cut a ‘fine figure of a man,’ “ she reminded him.

  “Says Brummell,” he agreed and they both laughed, in complete accord with each other….