Same Time, Next Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  I stared in disbelief. "That's dreadfully improper."

  "It’s not as if we would be alone. Silvestro and his wife reside on the grounds, and there are other servants as well. You have brought a maid, have you not?"

  "Yes, of course, but—"

  "It would be no different than if this was a small hotel. You wouldn't expect me to leave a hotel, would you?"

  "Yes," I snapped. "No, I suppose not, but this is not a hotel—it's a private residence. Why, what would people say? This is the height of impropriety, and I have a reputation that I would prefer to keep unsullied."

  "What people?" He did have a point. "The servants at the villa speak little to no English. They're not going to be dashing off a letter to England detailing your scandalous Christmas holiday. And, I assure you, I have no intention of telling anyone that I shared a roof on the coast of Italy with a stubborn stranger. You have my word on that. I too have a reputation to maintain."

  I waved off his comment. "It's different for men."

  He blew a long-suffering breath. "My family is exceptionally stuffy, and my position with the government demands discretion."

  I studied him for a moment. He did seem sincere, although I certainly wasn't ready to trust him completely.

  "There's no need for anyone to ever know that we resided here together," he added.

  I'd already realized he was just as determined to stand his ground as I was. A tiny voice in the back of my head, the very same voice that had urged me to come to Italy on my own, noted that, as no one would ever know, why not share the villa? Weren't new and unusual experiences the very definition of adventure? Besides, there was no other choice.

  I heaved a resigned sigh. "Very well."

  "Excellent." He grinned. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Fletcher Jamison, currently a resident of Calcutta in the employ of Her Majesty's Foreign Service. Silvestro said the letter he received indicated a Lady Waterston would be arriving with her niece. I gather you are not Lady Waterston."

  "No, I am Lady . . ." Regardless of Mr. Jamison's promise to keep the details of our stay private, it struck me that not giving my correct name was not a bad idea. "Smithson. I am Lady Smithson." Veronica wouldn’t mind my using her name under these circumstances. Indeed, she would quite appreciate it. Not that she would ever know. Good Lord, Veronica would hold it over my head for the rest of my days if she learned of this. She firmly believed that those least willing to bend would eventually snap. She thought I was the least willing to bend of anyone she knew and would have seen my being willing to share a villa—no matter how large—with a man I had just met to be the beginning of a snap. I would have hated for her to have that satisfaction. I extended my hand. "Portia Smithson."

  He took my hand and bowed over it. Good. I would have thought poorly of him had he attempted to kiss it, especially under these circumstances. I brushed aside what might have been a stab of disappointment.

  "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Smithson." Mr. Jamison released my hand, nodded, then crossed the room to the entry where Silvestro had magically appeared, or possibly had been there all along. They exchanged several phrases in Italian so rapidly that I suspected, even if I had been mildly conversant in the language, I wouldn’t have grasped any of it. Silvestro then vanished down the corridor, and Mr. Jamison turned to me.

  "There are several suites of rooms overlooking the ocean. My bags were already placed in the suite on the southernmost end of the floor, as it has the best light. I have instructed Silvestro to place yours in the suite at the opposite end. I assume you wish to have as much separation between us as possible."

  "That does seem appropriate," I murmured. Not that I feared he would accost me in the middle of the night, or that I might succumb to the temptation of a dashing man within reach. On the contrary, I had never given in to temptation of that kind nor did I intend to. Not that I'd had the opportunity. But it did seem wise to put as much distance as possible between the handsome Mr. Jamison and myself.

  "Silvestro says dinner will be served at eight in the dining room or here on the loggia if you prefer."

  "I prefer to have it in my rooms, and I would be grateful if you would inform him of that." At once I realized how abrupt I sounded. "My apologies, Mr. Jamison. I do not mean to be impolite, but I have been either on a train or a ship for the better part of a week, and I would like nothing better than a good meal and a bed that is on solid land. Beyond that . . ." I wasn't quite sure how to phrase this. "When my aunt decided not to accompany me, I realized I would be completely alone. I have never been completely alone before. I have a large family and a fair number of friends. I had begun to think of the Villa Mari Incantati as a sort of sanctuary of tranquility and seclusion and solitude. I was—I am—looking forward to that."

  "I see." He nodded slowly.

  "I do hope I haven't offended you," I added quickly. "But it might be best if we were to keep our distance. You're, well, you're not in my plans."

  "Plans change, Lady Smithson. It's one of the few things we can count on in life. However . . ." He smiled coolly. "I too have plans that do not include companionship, no matter how lovely. I will make every effort to avoid intruding on your quest for solitude as I pursue a passion of my own." His gaze slid past me. "And as Silvestro has returned to see you to your rooms, I shall bid you good day." He nodded, smiled and took his leave, exactly as I wanted.

  I followed Silvestro down the corridor and up the stairs to my rooms, glancing casually toward the end of the long hallway where Mr. Jamison's rooms were located. It did seem a very long way away, which would serve both our purposes well.

  I couldn’t help but recall that he had referred to me as lovely. I harbored no false modesty about my appearance. My hair was a deep rich brown, my eyes nearly as dark. My complexion was relatively unblemished, except in the summer when, no matter how hard I tried, I ended up with a smattering of annoying freckles across my nose. My features were even, although my nose was a bit more pert than I would have liked. I was of average height, and at twenty-seven years of age, my figure was still fetching. While no one would call me a great beauty, I was considered attractive. Nonetheless, there was something about a dashing stranger calling me lovely in the most offhand way that was really rather thrilling.

  I smiled and glanced again in the direction of his rooms. And wondered exactly what passion Mr. Fletcher Jamison intended to pursue.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I have found that after an exceptional night's sleep, I occasionally awaken not only refreshed but with revelations and clarity I neither sought nor anticipated. This was one of those mornings. Typically, this was the result of having eaten something disagreeable the night before or refusing to acknowledge that I had made some sort of dreadful mistake. Last night's dinner was excellent.

  I lay in my bed and stared up at the plaster ceiling embellished with paintings of doves and flowers and small, chubby angels. Regardless of Mr. Jamison's legitimate claim to the villa, I should have stood firm and insisted he find other accommodations. As I’d failed to do so, I should, well, take full advantage of his company. A bit of companionship would be most welcome. Especially with someone who spoke English.

  I had eaten in my rooms last night at a table set up in front of the French doors that opened onto the balcony that ran along the front of the villa. Margaret declined when I invited her to join me, saying that would be most improper, and even though I had dragged her far away from family and friends at the very best time of year to be with family and friends, she had no intention of allowing her training to lapse. She would much prefer to eat with servants even if she didn’t understand a word of Italian, and Lord knew what they might be saying. Which was all well and good, but it was obvious from her tone that she was still annoyed with me for my abrupt decision to abandon England in favor of spending Christmas in Italy.

  That my moment of impulse was neither wise nor well thought out was my first revelation. I rarely did anything tha
t was not well thought out. I saw now that it had been the height of foolishness to want to be anywhere at Christmas but with the overly large, often annoying, frequently loud Hadley-Attwaters. Since the moment my aunt and uncle took me in after the death of my parents, to this very day, they had never once made me feel as if I were not a true member of the family. As far as my male cousins were concerned, I was another sister to torment. My female cousins welcomed me, as I evened the balance of power between the boys and girls of the family. Christmas was always filled with festivities and fun and frolic, carols around the fire fed by a giant Yule log, silly plays and pantomimes performed by the younger family members, greenery festooning every nook and cranny of the family's grand house in the country and as enormous a tree as Aunt Helena could find and the boys could manage to squeeze in the door. Even though my Uncle William and oldest cousin Richard were no longer with us, and we had all gone our individual ways, Christmas was still special.

  But, while I'd never once said it to any of them, as joyous as Christmas was, there was always the tiniest empty spot in my heart. Aunt Helena might well have suspected, but she never said a word. I would have been most embarrassed and felt like the worst sort of ungrateful creature if she had. David had filled that empty place through the few years of our marriage, although not completely. Perhaps if we had had children of our own . . .

  It wasn't merely Aunt Helena's well-meaning yet unrelenting quest to find David's replacement that prompted my flight this year from England and, really, from Christmas itself. But her efforts only served to remind me of what Julia had found with her new husband and what Veronica was in the process of finding with my cousin Sebastian that I had not yet found. I didn't begrudge their happiness, far from it. I was overjoyed for them, and I would never allow them to suspect that I was even the tiniest bit envious. Which was not so much a revelation as an acceptance of my own character failings.

  I had not realized, when I had insisted on continuing to Italy after Aunt Helena had decided to return to England, that being independent and alone might also bring on the sort of loneliness and even melancholy I had never experienced. Oh certainly, I was frequently alone in my own house, but it was always with the knowledge that I needn't be alone if I didn't wish to be. There were always family or friends I could call on should I need companionship. What had sounded so perfect when it first entered my mind was now, in reality, disheartening. I had never been one for solitude, which was certainly not a revelation, so why I’d thought I wanted it now made no sense whatsoever. I was in a country whose language I didn’t grasp, with a servant who was not happy with me, about to share Christmas with a man I'd just met and had firmly told to keep his distance. I did regret that. He seemed a nice enough sort. It struck me that I should be grateful to Mr. Jamison for refusing to leave. Last night, I experienced a taste of true loneliness. It was not to my liking.

  Christmas was the day after tomorrow, and even if I left Italy today, I would never make it home in time. Besides, returning would truly have made me look like an idiot who didn’t know her own mind. While that might be accurate, at least in this case, I preferred to maintain the illusion that I was in command of my senses.

  Resolve washed through me. I threw off the covers and slipped out of bed. I'd never particularly thought of myself as weak, although I wouldn't say I had more than average courage. But I had weathered widowhood for three years. I managed my own affairs, my household and my finances. If indeed I had embarked on an adventure, my first and perhaps my only adventure, I should make the most of it. It would be foolish not to. After all, I was on my own in a foreign country, residing in a beautiful villa with a volcano in the distance and a handsome stranger down the hall. I did seem to have all the necessary ingredients for adventure.

  I pulled on my robe and stepped to the balcony doors. I had left them open last night so that I could fall asleep gazing at the stars overhead and hearing the waves crash against the cliffs. Clouds lingered about the top of the volcano. I would have to check my guidebook to see what that indicated. The morning was bright, if a bit cooler than yesterday. I pulled my robe tighter around me. If I hadn't been so eager to leave England, I would have taken the time to thoroughly research my Christmas destination, and I would have learned that while the weather on the Bay of Naples could be quite lovely at this time of year, rain was to be expected. If I had been aware of that, I might have stayed home. Or insisted on traveling farther south.

  Still, today the air was clear and refreshing. The slightest breeze ruffled my unbound hair, and the faint scent of the sea teased my nose. The day beckoned with promise. The most remarkable sense of freedom and liberty stirred within me. At once I realized this trip—this place—was not a mistake. This was indeed a sanctuary, no matter how lonely I might be. I inhaled a deep breath and stepped out into the morning.

  "Good day, Lady Smithson." Mr. Jamison stood at the balustrade at the far end of the balcony, gazing out at the bay.

  I resisted the immediate urge to jump back into my room and hide behind the curtains. Not that between my nightwear and my robe I didn’t have on very nearly as many layers as I had when more properly dressed, but I hadn't yet put on my corset. I daresay any number of improprieties could be blamed on a lady failing to don a corset, although I was confident I was made of sterner stuff.

  Nonetheless, it was time to embrace my adventure, or at least attempt to survive it. And the first step was to pursue a cordial, platonic sort of friendship with Mr. Fletcher Jamison.

  I leaned slightly over the balustrade to better see him and cast him a pleasant smile. "Good morning, Mr. Jamison. I trust you slept well?"

  "Quite well, thank you." He nodded in a dismissive manner. It was not an auspicious beginning.

  I brushed my hair away from my face, vowing not to worry about my appearance. "It appears we are in for a lovely day."

  "Thus far, I would agree with you." An absent note sounded in his voice, as if, having exchanged an appropriate number of words, he saw no need to continue conversing with me. A response I no doubt deserved given my declaration about solitude. Regardless, I had changed my mind, or come to my senses, and I was not going to let his reticence dissuade me.

  "Enjoy the day, Lady Smithson." With that, he turned and moved out of sight. Not difficult, given the balcony was as over-furnished as the rest of the villa. Pots filled with greenery, urns planted with small trees and an assortment of wrought-iron furnishings cluttered the balcony and obscured my view of him.

  "Although it is far cooler than I had expected," I called after him. I did hate to resort to comments about the weather, but nothing else of substance came to mind. I made my way along the balcony toward him. "But far more pleasant than London at this time of year. Don't you agree?" I stepped around a cluster of pots and pulled up short. "Oh!" Apparently, I had discovered Mr. Jamison's passion.

  He cast a quick glance at me from his chair behind an easel, then returned his attention to the canvas in front of him. He had taken off his coat, and his tie hung loose around his neck. One couldn't help but remember how those broad shoulders had looked yesterday, glistening in the late afternoon sun. Not that I had noticed.

  "Good Lord!" I moved closer. "You're an artist!"

  "No, Lady Smithson," he said coolly, "I am a civil servant."

  "In Calcutta perhaps, but here you definitely appear to be an artist." I craned my neck to see what he was painting, but the easel was at an angle that effectively blocked my view, and I suspected Mr. Jamison would not welcome my interest.

  His brow arched upward. "You don't approve?"

  "I didn’t say I didn’t approve," I said quickly. But it was my understanding that artists in general tended to ignore the rules of proper behavior. They were, quite frankly, hedonists. Or so I’d heard.

  "The tone of your voice did."

  "Nonsense." Although I supposed I did disapprove of artists in principle. All that free-spirited impropriety. "Why, you must be an artist if your feelings are thi
s delicate."

  He slanted me a quick glance, then returned his attention to his canvas. "My feelings are not the least bit delicate."

  I shrugged. "They certainly appear delicate. I suppose you write poetry too."

  "No."

  I sat down in a nearby chair. "It does seem a pity. To waste all that emotion, I mean."

  His jaw tightened. "Lady Smithson—"

  "I do think you should call me Portia. It's not entirely proper, but as you pointed out yesterday, no one will ever know. I can't imagine an artist is a great stickler for propriety anyway. Besides, we will be spending Christmas together, which does seem to call for a bit of informality." I favored him with my brightest smile.

  He stared at me as if I had suddenly grown two heads. And perhaps I had. I was far more direct with him than I could recall ever being with any man, except perhaps my late husband. I blamed it on Italy. Or the fact that I was using Veronica's name, and she never hesitated to speak her mind regardless of the consequences. And the lack of a corset.

  "And the tone of my voice did not imply disapproval, only surprise." I paused. Oh, there might have been a touch of disapproval, but I thought it best not to admit it. "I never would have suspected you were of an artistic nature."

  "Why not?" He daubed a bit of blue on his canvas.

  "You just didn’t strike me as an artistic type, that's all." I tried and failed to keep a defensive note from my voice. I had done nothing wrong. Why did this man make me feel as though I had?

  "And you didn’t strike me as the type of woman who would appear in public in her night clothes," he said mildly.

  "I wouldn't call this public. Nor had I intended to appear anywhere. I simply stepped out on the balcony to savor the morning air, and you greeted me. It would have been rude for me to ignore you."