Same Time, Next Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  "Still, it is impolite and most annoying." Aunt Helena sighed. "My memory is not what it used to be. Yet another distressing result of the passing years."

  "Better than the alternative," Adrian murmured.

  My aunt cast her son a disparaging look.

  "Lady Redwell." Mr. Sayers addressed me, and my heart sank. "I would be most grateful if you would do me the honor of joining me in a dance."

  "What an excellent idea." A smug twinkle sparked in Aunt Helena's eyes. No doubt she already had me wed to the man. "You have scarcely danced all evening."

  Adrian coughed.

  The idea of fleeing into the night flashed through my mind, but my aunt would probably race after me with a special marriage license in one hand and a bouquet of bridal flowers in the other.

  I summoned as genuine a smile as I could manage. It was only one dance, after all. "I would be delighted."

  Mr. Sayers nodded to the others and escorted me onto the dance floor. He was an excellent dancer and fortunately not one of those talkative gentlemen who felt compelled to expound on one topic or another while leading me through the steps of a dance. I was grateful to him for that, although, in spite of his gallant nature, it did strike me he was no more interested in me than I was in him. Yet another way in which he gained my gratitude. The dance ended, and he accompanied me off the floor. Before the moment became too awkward, I used the same excuse my aunt had employed earlier and claimed to see someone I simply had to speak with. Relief flashed on his face so quickly I might have been mistaken, but I doubted it.

  I had no desire to stay in the ballroom. My appearance here tonight was a mistake. I preferred to be by myself right now, although I suspected that would pass. It had simply not passed yet.

  I made my escape through the first door I encountered. I was fairly certain I remembered where the conservatory was, and I headed in that direction. Hopefully, it would be blissfully empty, and I could hide for the next hour.

  The Dunwell conservatory was as large and pretentious as one would expect from Beryl Dunwell, but I had always had a fondness for conservatories. The moment I crossed the threshold and closed the glass-paned door, letting the scent of earth and exotic blossoms surround me, I was no longer in cold, damp London but somewhere warm and bucolic. Italy perhaps.

  I sighed and moved deeper into the conservatory. Lush greenery surrounded me, along with memories of the villa. How long would it be before an unexpected sight, a chance scent, a sound or a flavor would no longer snap me back to thoughts of Fletcher? How long would it be before I wanted it to? Probably far sooner than I wished. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, while I did try to ignore all thoughts of him, he was never gone for long. It was to be expected, of course. I'd left Italy not quite a month ago. It was too soon to expect that I would not think about him at all. And entirely too soon to consider returning to the villa for Christmas. A great deal could happen between February and December. To me and to him. Chances were he would have forgotten all about me by Christmas. And even as I tried to tell myself I would have forgotten all about him as well, somewhere deep inside, I didn’t quite believe it. Somewhere in the vicinity of my heart, I feared.

  I wandered aimlessly for a moment or two, pausing here and there to examine an orchid or blossoms of jasmine or heliotrope. My London house did not have a conservatory, and I vowed to look into having one built.

  The vague hint of something harsh and heavy and completely foreign to a conservatory tickled my nose. It was the smell of something burning, something vile, the smoke coming from deeper in the conservatory, toward the far outside wall. There was no mistaking that smell. I made my way around a large, circular planter overflowing with palms and ferns, stepped around a small potted tree and spotted my quarry. My assumption was correct.

  A tall gentleman, deep in thought, stood smoking a cigar in the open doorway that led into the Dunwell gardens.

  "See here," I said sharply, "you are not supposed to smoke in a conservatory! No matter whose it is!"

  I must have startled him. He sucked in a sharp breath and began to choke, then to cough.

  "Oh dear." I stepped closer. "Are you all right?"

  He glared at me and continued to cough.

  "Do you need help?" I stared at him. Of course he needed help. I quickly circled him, then pounded on his back. I could have sworn plumes of blue smoke spewed out of the man's nose, although I was probably mistaken.

  At last, he caught his breath.

  "All right now?" I asked brightly.

  "Yes." He gasped. "You may stop pounding."

  I snatched my hand away. "Don't you know better than to smoke your cigars in a place like this?"

  "I wasn't. There was a door. I was in the open doorway. More outside than in, really."

  I crossed my arms over my chest. "You were letting the cold air in."

  "I was keeping the smoke out." He waved his arms to disperse the lingering smoke.

  "I detest cigars," I said staunchly.

  "At the moment"—he cast a rueful look at the cigar still in his hand—"so do I." He flipped it out the open door, and I refrained from saying anything.

  I nodded at the door. "You really should close that. It's dreadfully cold outside."

  "I had every intention of closing it." He pulled the door shut. "And I am well aware of the cold."

  "Then you should also be aware that most of the plants—"

  "Is this your conservatory?" His brow furrowed.

  "It really doesn’t matter." I sniffed. "You should not have been smoking cigars in here."

  "No, of course it’s not yours," he said, as if I hadn't spoken. "This is Lord Dunwell's house, and I have met Lady Dunwell. You are definitely not her."

  "Thank goodness," I said under my breath, then cast him a pointed look. "Now that you are finished, I assume you will return to the ball?"

  "Yes, I suppose." Although he made no attempt to leave.

  "Well?" I fluttered my fingers toward the house. "Go on, then."

  He studied me curiously, and I had the most insane desire to tug at my bodice and smooth my skirt to make sure my dress was still in place. I judged him to be a few years older than I and dashing enough with sandy-colored hair and sky-blue eyes. He had, as well, a confident air about him, but then someone secretly smoking a cigar in a conservatory would probably have to. "Why don't you leave, and I'll stay?"

  "I need a moment of . . . solitude." Yes, that was good. "I was feeling somewhat faint. The crowd, you understand." I flipped open my fan and fanned my face. "It's a female sort of thing." That should scare him off. Men always seemed terrified of that kind of detail.

  He stepped closer, concern in his blue eyes. "May I be of assistance?"

  "No!" I shook my head. "But thank you. Now please go, before someone finds us in here together. Alone. Voices do carry, you know, and someone is likely to stumble in here at any minute. I am not interested in scandal, and this is precisely how gossip starts."

  "I'm aware of that too." He continued to stare at me as if I were an insect pinned to a display board. "My God." He grinned. "You're hiding from someone, aren't you?"

  "Don't be absurd," I said quickly, but apparently not quickly enough.

  He chuckled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "I was escaping as well."

  "Oh?" I tried to feign interest, but all I really wanted was for him to leave.

  "There is a persistent older woman who is stalking me like a game hunter on safari."

  On second thought, this was intriguing. "Go on."

  "She is determined to introduce me to her niece."

  "I see." And wasn't that interesting? "Are you considered a catch, then, Mr. . . .?"

  "Lindsey. Lord Lindsey, actually." He smiled. "Thomas."

  "Now then, my lord." This was really quite delightful. "You did not answer my question. Are you considered a catch?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose." He shrugged. "It's not the sort of thing you're aware of every moment, if you are a
decent sort."

  "And are you a decent sort?"

  "I must say, I came in here to escape and enjoy a quiet, pleasant cigar, not be interrogated. But yes." He nodded firmly. "I do consider myself a decent sort."

  "How wonderfully humble of you."

  He grinned. "I can be humble as well."

  "No doubt." I paused. "So which of us is going to be a gentleman and bravely go forth, leaving the other blissfully alone?"

  "I am usually thought of as a gentleman."

  "Excellent." I waved toward the door. "Good evening."

  "But I don't know your name."

  "No, you don't."

  He cast me a look of regret. "You could be letting quite a catch escape, you know."

  "I am willing to take that risk."

  "Say, I have an idea." He leaned toward me and lowered his voice. "If we remain quiet, no one will hear us, and we can share this sanctuary. It is a very large place. Why, if I were to go around that plant and behind that palm, you wouldn't even know I was here."

  "Oh, I would know."

  "Are you really going to make me go?" A pleading note sounded in his voice.

  "Yes." I smiled. "I think it’s for the best."

  "Very well." He heaved an overly dramatic sigh. "But you do understand you could be throwing away the catch of the year?"

  "I suspect if you were the catch of the year, I would have heard of you by now," I said in as gentle a tone as possible.

  "That's what happens when one is as humble as I am." He shook his head in a mournful manner. "This is your opportunity to snap me up before some other lady sees what a wonderful catch I am."

  "I beg your pardon." I bit back a laugh. "Why on earth would you think I would be the least bit interested?"

  "You're obviously not married."

  "Obviously?"

  "Married women generally do not take refuge in the middle of a ball, unless, of course, they are engaged in some sort of illicit activity, and you do not strike me as that sort."

  I stared at him. I had no idea what to think, although I did note a twinge of relief. "Was that a compliment, or have I been insulted?"

  "I did not mean it as an insult. I find a certain awareness of appropriate behavior to be quite admirable in a lady."

  "Oh." I did not know how to respond.

  "Furthermore, I would imagine you are a widow. You are entirely too lovely to have reached the age of majority without someone having married you."

  "I do appreciate the sentiment, but—" Some rational, solid, proper voice inside me—my mother's perhaps—told me not to say another word. I almost obeyed it. "Thank you."

  "Three years, I would imagine," he said slowly.

  Caution washed through me. "Yes?"

  He stared at me for a long, considering moment. "You're the niece, aren't you?"

  "If I was, I'm not sure I would admit it now."

  "I suspected your aunt had exaggerated." He smiled. "She didn’t."

  Again, he caught me off guard. I had no idea what to say. I do not like being flustered. I was not one of those women who looked helpless and charming when flustered. I tended to look annoyed and blotchy. It was not attractive.

  "Again, thank you."

  He nodded and turned to leave, then turned back. "You do realize, if I were to escort you back to the ballroom and we were then to share a dance or perhaps several, your aunt would be ecstatic."

  "You have no idea." I shook my head. "But I would not put you in that position. Besides, the countless other females looking for a good catch would be crushed at the possibility that you are off the market."

  "They shall have to bravely carry on."

  "I warn you, my aunt will have us married by the end of the month."

  "It’s a risk I am willing to take." He grinned. "You see, I have an iron-clad escape already in the works."

  "You would have to," I said wryly.

  "I am leaving the country tomorrow, and unfortunately, I expect to be gone for several months."

  "Fleeing the country, while it does seem extreme, might well be your only salvation."

  "Unfortunately, I have little choice." He paused. "May I call on you when I return?"

  "I don't know." I fluttered my fan. "Any number of things could happen in several months. Why, I could no longer be amenable to having you call on me."

  His brow rose. "Are you amenable to it now?"

  I laughed and surrendered. "I suppose I am not disposed against it."

  "Good." He took my hand and raised it to his lips in a manner every bit as smooth as Mr. Sayers's, but with Lord Lindsey, it seemed natural and effortless. And quite, quite charming. "Then I shall hope nothing happens to change your mind."

  I withdrew my hand. "You are very nearly as determined as my aunt, aren't you?"

  "Oh, I can be very determined." He grinned again. It was an exceptionally nice smile, and I returned it. "Especially when I find something that might well be worth pursuing."

  I laughed. "Well, then, my lord, I would be delighted to dance with you."

  "I knew you would." He offered his arm. I hesitated, then drew a deep breath and rested my hand on his arm. There was no flash of heat. No moment of awareness. My toes did not curl, my insides did not flutter. Not that it mattered, but it was interesting to note.

  By the end of the evening, I was very much aware that there might possibly be a new gentleman in my life. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

  But I wasn’t opposed to finding out.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In March, I began to study Italian, only because of my newfound realization of the benefits of knowing how to communicate in another country. I certainly had no intention of returning to Italy in the foreseeable future, but it was possible I would return one day, and it would be nice to know the language. Besides, a well-bred lady should be conversant in a variety of languages. I also began planning a conservatory for my London house. And I found myself attending more and more gallery exhibitions of promising new artists.

  By June, I had mastered sufficient Italian to call for a carriage and comment on the weather, but little else. I was not known for my patience, but I refused to give up. I would conquer Italian. Or it would conquer me, but one of us would not survive. I also finalized the design for my conservatory and started plans for a folly in the garden at my country house. My cousin Miranda was assisting me, although it did seem that I was assisting her, as she was far better at this sort of thing. Her late husband had been an architect. Between my new projects and my usual charities and social obligations, I was extraordinarily busy.

  Still, I was well aware that I was not the same woman I had been before my sojourn in Italy. I certainly didn’t feel the same, although no one else seemed to note any change in me. Or so I thought.

  Julia and Veronica and I did not see each other as often as we once did. It was to be expected, of course. They were occupied with their families—Julia had had a daughter in the spring—and I was otherwise engaged. Our weekly rendezvous at the ladies’ tea room at Fenwick and Sons, Booksellers had fallen to no more than once a month, and some months not even that. But with summer upon us and each of us planning to retire to the country for the warmer months, Veronica insisted we meet. I hadn't realized how much I had missed this company of women.

  "Portia," Julia began after we had exchanged greetings and the latest gossip, "Veronica and I have been talking."

  "Have you?" I smiled at my friends, but there was something in her tone that did not bode well. "And what, of any number of topics, have you been talking about?"

  "You," Veronica said bluntly.

  "Really? I had no idea I was that interesting." I refilled my cup. "In fact, I thought I was rather dull."

  Veronica and Julia traded glances, obviously deciding which one was to go first. Apparently, Julia won. Or lost.

  "We have noticed, in recent months . . ." Julia said, decidedly uneasy. I'd never seen either of my friends uneasy before. "Well, you seem . . . I
don't know, not your usual self."

  "Not your usual self at all," Veronica added.

  "An improvement, no doubt." I smiled and added sugar to my tea. "So how precisely do I not seem my usual self?"

  "We have noticed that you are very often preoccupied." Julia's tone was cautious. "And rather quiet—withdrawn, we would say. You're not nearly as, oh, buoyant as you used to be, and you are entirely too thoughtful."

  "You"—Veronica pinned me with a firm look—"are never thoughtful."

  "Never?" I gasped in feigned shock. "Surely on occasion?"

  "No," Veronica said staunchly. "Never."

  "It's one of the things we love about you," Julia said quickly. "We've noticed as well a certain restlessness."

  "I thought I was withdrawn and preoccupied."

  "You are. It's most confusing." Veronica studied me closely. "Which is very nearly the only thing about you that hasn't changed."

  "Utter nonsense." I scoffed. "I can't imagine how you've drawn these conclusions. You two have scarcely seen me this year."

  "And that is entirely our fault," Julia said.

  "No, it's not." Veronica's brows drew together. "Portia is the one who keeps canceling our gatherings."

  "I have been busy."

  "Too busy for your friends?"

  "No." I shook my head. "Of course not."

  "And you've been secretive." Veronica narrowed her eyes. "For as long as we have known you, you have never been able to keep a secret."

  "And I am not keeping a secret now," I said lightly and sipped my tea.

  "You're different than you were before you went to Italy." Concern showed in Julia's eyes. "We are worried about you."

  Veronica leaned forward. "We are your dearest friends in the world. If there is something amiss in your life, we want to know." She reached out and covered my hand with hers. "We want to help."

  My gaze shifted from Veronica to Julia. They both gazed at me with looks of apprehension and worry.

  "What on earth are you two up to?" At once the answer struck me. "You think I'm ill, don't you?" I sucked in a sharp breath. "You think I'm dying!"