Same Time, Next Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  I wasn't sure what to say, so I wisely, for once, said nothing.

  "I had no right to issue ultimatums. You never led me to believe there was more between us than there was," he said in a measured tone. "I made assumptions based on nothing more than what I wanted."

  "I am sorry, Thomas."

  "I know you are, but you have nothing to be sorry for." He paused. "Here's the, well, problem I suppose is the only word for it. I miss you, Portia. I miss our friendship."

  "Thomas, I—"

  "I'll ask for nothing more than occasional companionship. And if someday your feelings change, I would welcome that, but I would be happy with nothing more than your friendship for the rest of my days."

  "Oh, Thomas." I stared at him. "I would wish you a better fate than that."

  He laughed. "It doesn’t sound as bad to me as it obviously does to you."

  "Oh, it doesn’t sound bad. But it does sound horribly unfair." I thought for a moment. "However, I will accept your friendship, and as any good friend should, I will make it a point to introduce you to every marriageable woman I know."

  He groaned. "How very fair of you."

  I laughed. "I have missed you too. But I'm still not sure this is a wise idea."

  "The only one risking his heart is me." He grinned wryly. "I'm willing to take that risk."

  I considered the idea. It had a great deal of appeal. "You're quite wonderful, you know."

  "I am glad you realize it. Not that it has done me much good."

  "I daresay you'll get your reward in heaven."

  "Something to look forward to, then." He offered his arm. "Shall we dance?"

  "I would be delighted." I took his arm, and he led me onto the floor. And indeed it was delightful to dance with him and be with him again.

  We began spending a great deal of time together. I enjoyed his companionship and, I believe, he enjoyed mine. He kept to his word and did not push me for more than I was willing to give. I did feel occasional twinges of guilt, as he so obviously felt affection for me that was beyond friendship, but I assuaged them by introducing him to one eligible lady after another. Thomas, however, was every bit as particular as I when it came to prospective spouses. Although my offerings were far better suited to him than any Aunt Helena had produced for me. I believed Aunt Helena still held out hope for a match with Thomas, as her efforts to find me a new husband eased.

  June and July were filled with a plethora of festive events commemorating the queen's fifty years on the throne. Not a day went by that I did not attend a soiree, a garden party, a ball or a dinner with endless toasts to Her Majesty's continued good health. I daresay London had never seen quite so many heads of state, kings and maharajahs, queens and grand dukes, princes and princesses from throughout Europe and the Far East. Thomas and I joined my family to attend the queen's garden party at Buckingham Palace. It was an intimate affair with Her Majesty and thousands of her subjects. Nonetheless, it was not to be missed.

  But for the Hadley-Attwaters, the most important event of the summer took place at Fairborough Hall in the country, where my cousin Miranda wed Winfield, Viscount Stillwell. The ceremony was held out of doors, the happy couple saying their vows in a Grecian temple, a folly, built some two hundred years ago as a gift of true love. It was quite simply perfect, and even the most cynical among us sniffed back a tear when Miranda and Winfield vowed to love each other for the rest of their days. And when Thomas took my hand in his, I did not pull away. We both knew that was attributable to nothing more than the romance of the day, and I was grateful for his company. Still, it did strike me at moments like this to wonder if I was saving Thomas as some sort of insurance against the day that I decided I could accept content. It was a terrible thing to do, and yet I was afraid to completely push him away. At those times, I reminded Thomas of the unfairness of our relationship as well as renewed my efforts to find him a perfect match.

  Autumn came and, in spite of my best intentions, with the falling of the leaves, my thoughts inevitably turned to the months ahead and Christmas. I added the study of Spanish—my Spanish was little better than my French—to French and Italian. If nothing else, I should one day be able to travel the world with the understanding of what was being said to me. Besides, the study of languages—in addition to my charitable work and social activities—kept me far too busy to dwell on matters like Christmas and Italian villas, threatening volcanoes and dark-eyed artists. Some nights, I was almost too tired to sleep. Which was not at all a problem, as my dreams about villas, volcanoes and artists seemed to have increased in intensity.

  In mid-October, Thomas accompanied me to the opening of Mr. Terry's new theater in the Strand, reputed to be the safest from fire ever built. He was oddly pensive during much of the evening, as if his mind was occupied by something other than the moderately amusing play on stage.

  Afterward, we retired to my house for brandy in the parlor. It had become a custom of sorts, to discuss whatever event we had just come from, who we had spoken to or observed and whatever interesting bits of news or gossip that had come to our attention. In some ways, Thomas and I were as predictable as a couple who had been married for twenty years. We shared common interests, we were comfortable together and, yes, we were content.

  I took a sip of brandy and adopted a casual manner. "What did you think of Mrs. Portman?"

  Thomas leaned against my fireplace mantel and considered me thoughtfully. "The pretty blond widow you introduced me to before the play began tonight?"

  "You thought she was pretty?" I asked with a satisfied smirk.

  "She is pretty." He took a sip of his brandy. "She also taps."

  "What do you mean—she taps?"

  "I mean, she taps her foot. Like this." He tapped his right foot. "Or something like that, although she does seem to have excellent rhythm."

  "That's ridiculous. I've known Jane Portman for years, and I've never seen her tap her foot, rhythmically or otherwise." Although that might explain why she was close to my age and had never wed.

  "Admittedly, she didn’t tap at first. It wasn't until you wandered off to chat with someone—"

  "Thus cleverly leaving the two of you alone."

  "—that the tapping began in earnest."

  I stared in disbelief. "Really?"

  "Oh." He shuddered. "Yes."

  "Goodness, Thomas, I can't leave you to your own resources for a minute. It's painfully obvious"—I pinned him with a firm look—"you make her tap. How could you?"

  "I'm not doing it deliberately. In fact, I have no idea what I'm doing, but you’re probably right. Every time I asked her a question, or merely commented on something she said, the tapping increased. I began wondering if she was impatient or was tapping to a particular tune." He lowered his voice in a confidential manner. "I would never admit this to anyone else, but I began to find her tapping quite fascinating."

  "You didn't!"

  "Wicked of me, I know, but I did, indeed. I even found myself trying to figure out the tune." He shook his head in a mournful manner. "I thought she might add gestures, begin humming and tap her way right out the door."

  "Thomas!" I tried very hard not to laugh. "What an awful thing to say! You are a terrible, terrible man!"

  "It's a burden I bear." He shrugged. "But I don't tap."

  I laughed in spite of my best efforts, although it sounded more like a snort than a laugh.

  "Do you plan to go to Italy for Christmas?" he said abruptly.

  I stared at him. "What on earth brought that to mind?"

  "You."

  I drew my brows together. "You will have to be more specific than that."

  "Your"—he searched for the right words—"demeanor of late, your mood, if you will, you're not your usual self. You're restless and preoccupied."

  "Nonsense." I waved off his comments. "I'm simply busy. My life is extraordinarily full."

  "There are only so many languages you can learn, Portia."

  "There is nothing so fulf
illing as broadening one's mind," I said in a superior manner.

  He studied me for a long moment as if I were an insect pinned to a board under glass. I resisted the urge to squirm. "Your manner was exactly the same at this time last year."

  "Don't be absurd," I said with more conviction than I felt, given that he was probably right.

  "Are you going to Italy this year?" he asked again.

  "I haven't decided." Although, hadn't I decided not to go? To put Fletcher in the past? To move forward with my life? Then why couldn’t I say so?

  "I see," he said thoughtfully. "You should know, as your friend, I think it's a mistake."

  "I appreciate your concern, but you really know nothing about it."

  "True enough." He nodded. "All I know is that you spend Christmas somewhere in Italy. And, as you did not deny it last year when we spoke of it, I assume there is a man involved."

  "I find this discussion extremely awkward." My voice hardened. "And I'm not sure what you want me to say."

  "I want the truth, Portia. More than that, I want you to trust me. If we are truly friends, I deserve your trust."

  "I do trust you. You're the most trustworthy man I know."

  "Lucky me," he muttered. "Portia." He crossed to my side, set our glasses down and took my hands. "I don't want to see you embroiled in some sordid scandal, and you have avoided it thus far. But more than that, I don't want to see you hurt."

  I tried to pull my hands free, but his grip tightened. "Thomas, I-"

  "I say this only as your friend, and I would say the same to any friend." He met my gaze directly. "You are taking a huge risk. Nothing in this world remains secret forever. You would be ruined if any of this became known. Ostracized from society. Your life in London—in England—would be over."

  "I am well aware of that."

  "Are you in love with him?" he asked without warning.

  "I . . ." I shook my head and shrugged helplessly. It was not something I wished to admit aloud, especially not to Thomas.

  "Is he in love with you?"

  "I don't know that either."

  "Portia, I am ill-suited to give advice on matters of the heart, but I do think you and I have come to know each other fairly well. I strongly urge you to put all this behind you. For your own sake, do not go back to Italy this Christmas."

  "I'm touched by your concern, I really am." I drew a deep breath and made a decision. "But I do plan to return to Italy for Christmas."

  Last year, I simply needed to know if Fletcher was there, if he cared enough to return. This year, I needed to know what being there meant. To him and to me.

  He heaved a resigned sigh. "Very well."

  "Is this the point where you threaten not to be here when I come back?" I attempted a teasing tone.

  "No." He smiled in resignation. "That did not work, if you recall. I'll be here for you." He released my hands. "Always."

  "Thomas—"

  "Do not take that sympathetic tone with me, Portia. I am quite all right. I am simply doing what I think is in the best interests of a friend. That my feelings go beyond friendship has nothing to do with it." He picked up his glass and tossed back the rest of his brandy. "However, the hour is late, and I should be on my way." He nodded and started for the door.

  "I do appreciate your concern on my behalf," I said weakly, wishing I had thought of something not quite so inane to say.

  "I know." He pulled the door open, then looked at me. "You do what you have to do, Portia, and I shall do what I have to do." He nodded. "Good evening." He took his leave, shutting the door behind him.

  For a long moment, I stared after him. What on earth did he mean by that? What did he have to do? The question bore further examination but was eclipsed by a more important realization.

  I was going to Italy for Christmas.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I am going to Italy for Christmas!

  For the first time in a long time, I awoke in the morning refreshed and with a renewed sense of purpose.

  Now that I'd made the decision, it was as if a weight had lifted off me. I was indeed going to Italy. If Fletcher was not there, then whatever we had was at an end. And that would be that. But if he was, it was time—past time, really—to decide, or perhaps admit, exactly what we meant to each other. And where we were going to go from here. This would, after all, be our third Christmas. I had no intention of spending another Christmas in a mindless blur of heated flesh and denial. Although the heated flesh part was quite wonderful, and I certainly did not object to that. But this year, it would not be enough.

  I could no longer live my life from Christmas to Christmas. I needed more than that. And perhaps, at last, I was willing to make the sacrifices necessary. It was quite simple when one thought about it. I was not happy without him. And I deserved to be happy, even if there was a high price to pay. If I had to give up my position, my expected place in the world, to be with him, well, so be it. It was not as if we would be poor. I had more than enough money. Most men wanted a wife with a tidy fortune, although I did rather hope he wasn't one of them.

  Perhaps I shouldn't wait for Christmas? Perhaps, I should go to Paris? If I was prepared to toss a lifetime of living by the rules of society aside, what was I waiting for? Apparently, I did have the courage required to throw away everything in the name of love. And why not? I was a woman of adventure, after all. It just took me some time to realize it.

  Aunt Helena called on me late in the day to allegedly join me for tea, but I was certain she had come to, again, encourage a match with Thomas. She did so at least once a month. One did wonder if a mere month was the limit of her ability to mind her own business.

  Tea had been served, and Aunt Helena waited for the kitchen girl to leave the parlor before saying anything beyond pleasantries.

  "I ran into Lord Lindsey today," my aunt began. "Lord Lindsey? Thomas? You remember him?"

  Good Lord, she hadn't spoken to me like that since I was nine years old. A weight settled in the pit of my stomach. I blamed it on the biscuit I had just eaten. Not one of my cook's better efforts.

  "Don't be silly, Aunt Helena," I said smoothly, filling her teacup and mine. "Thomas and I went to the theater together just last night."

  "Yes, I believe he mentioned that." She paused, and I braced myself for whatever was next. "He also mentioned you were planning to return to Italy for Christmas."

  "Oh?" This was not what I had expected.

  "He suggested I might wish to speak to you about it."

  "Did he?" I handed her a cup. No, this was far worse. "And where, precisely, did you run into Lord Lindsey?"

  "My parlor."

  "I see." This was obviously what Thomas had meant by doing what he needed to do. He'd wasted no time in telling tales to my aunt. In the spirit of friendship, no doubt. I was not happy about it, but I did understand. I might well have done the same in his place.

  "He seemed quite concerned, although he did not give me any specific reason for that concern." Her eyes narrowed. "Do you know why he would be worried about an innocent trip abroad?"

  "No idea," I lied.

  "I thought not." She sipped her tea, never taking her steely–eyed gaze off me. "You—of all my children—are the one I always thought least likely to court scandal."

  I wasn't sure exactly what she knew—or what she thought she knew—but I was not about to blurt something out and give her more information than she already had. "Am I?"

  "You were." She paused. "As Lord Lindsey revealed no solid information, I paid a call on Lady Mountdale."

  "How is Julia?" My smile never slipped.

  "Evasive." Aunt Helena's fingers absently tapped the sides of her cup. It was a very bad sign. "And she does not lie well. Oddly enough, she barely waited for me to take my leave before she too left. I suspect she was off to see my daughter-in-law. They have always been as thick as thieves."

  "Julia is always dashing off to Veronica's." Exactly how much did she know?


  She squared her shoulders. "It’s a man, isn’t it?"

  "Did Julia tell you that?" I asked cautiously.

  "Lady Mountdale would not answer my questions, which told me all I needed to know."

  Then she really didn’t know anything. At least not for certain. "Really, Aunt Helena, you know how scattered Julia can be. And, frankly, I think Thomas's imagination has simply run amok."

  "This is not Thomas's imagination speaking now. This is your aunt. The woman who raised you." She leaned forward slightly. "I know you. I know everything about you. I simply put the pieces together."

  "Well done," I murmured.

  She heaved a disappointed sigh. "Oh, Portia, how could you?"

  I sighed and surrendered. "I really don't know."

  "And for two Christmases?"

  "The first was . . . unexpected."

  "You were discreet, I'll give you that. I suppose if someone is going to have a . . ." She closed her eyes for a moment, as if asking for divine help.

  "Holiday?" I suggested brightly.

  "Yes, that will do. If someone is involved in a holiday, at least having said holiday in a foreign country, at Christmastime, is probably the most inconspicuous way to do it."

  "Thank you," I said, then immediately regretted it. Not my wisest response.

  "That was not a compliment, simply gratitude." She blew a resigned breath. "So, you're off to meet this man again this year?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Is there any possibility that a marriage will come of this?" A spark of hope shone in her eyes.

  "I don't know."

  Her brow furrowed. "Don't you think you should find out?"

  "I intend to." I summoned my firmest tone. "In fact, I have this well in hand. Why, I am only going to Italy at all to . . . to settle things." The more I talked, the better it sounded. As if I really did know what I was doing. "To find out what he wants and what I want . . . and, well, you understand."

  "Not in the least. Good Lord." Aunt Helena groaned. "Your mother would have loved this," she added under her breath.

  "My mother?"