Same Time, Next Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  "How fortunate for you. My aunt was certainly impressed."

  "Are you?" His eyes narrowed.

  I shrugged. "I have always appreciated good tailoring."

  "I'm glad I now come up to your standards."

  "Indeed, you're more than suitable now," I said without thinking.

  "Suitable to marry, you mean." A hard note edged his words. "Now that I have a title and a fortune, you'd marry me."

  "Because that's all I look for in a husband? Wealth and position?"

  He shrugged.

  "I might have married you before," I said in a lofty manner. "Thrown aside everything for love. You've heard that story. It's as old as time."

  "What stopped you?"

  "You." I leaned closer and gazed into his eyes. "You never asked."

  "Because I knew the answer."

  "You, Fletcher Jamison, Lord Castleton, are truly the most arrogant man I have ever met. You don't know anything about me." I fairly spit the words. "Anything at all."

  "I know Lady Smithson would never have agreed to marry a lowly civil servant or a struggling artist."

  "You're so sure of yourself, are you?" Now was not the time to tell him I had planned to abandon everything for him. For love. Stupid, stupid woman that I was. "As I said, you never asked."

  "No, but . . ." For the first time, the tiniest glimmer of uncertainty shone in his eyes.

  "You never asked me anything." I hadn’t realized how much this had bothered me, but it did seem once I started, I couldn't stop. "You never asked me to stay in Italy with you. You never asked me to join you in Paris. You never even asked me to come back for Christmas."

  He glared. "We had a pact."

  "A pact I initiated, not you." I shook my head. "Aside from the possibility of a child, we never talked about marriage. We never talked about the future."

  "Perhaps we should have."

  "Perhaps, but we didn't." I cast him a scathing look. "You had the courage to give up everything to follow your dreams to Paris. You made all those grand speeches about refusing to live your life trying to live up to society's expectations of what was respectable and proper. But when it came to me, you never even considered disregarding expectations and propriety and respectability. You never had the courage to ask me to join you."

  "Would you have?"

  The question hung in the air between us. I couldn't answer him, because I didn't know what I would have said if he had asked me to stay with him last Christmas or the Christmas before. Indeed, it was only today that I had at last realized I was willing to give up everything for him. I had planned to go to him, tell him of my feelings and demand to know if he felt the same. Now, fear, or possibly pride, held me back.

  I lifted my chin and gazed into his eyes. "Does it matter now?"

  "I suppose . . . no." He stared at me, and again, I could read nothing in his eyes. Not regret, not hope, not love. My heart sank. "Probably not." He finished his brandy and set his glass down. "I should be going." He nodded, strode to the door, pulled it open, then paused and turned back to me. "One more thing." He started toward me.

  "Yes?" I took a step forward, my heart thudding in my chest.

  He reached me and stared into my eyes.

  "Yes?" I tried and failed to hide the note of ragged hopefulness in my voice.

  "I nearly forgot." He reached into his pocket and pulled out my gloves. "I believe these are yours."

  I forced a smile and took the gloves. "Thank you for returning them."

  "It was good to see you again." He stared a moment longer, then nodded. "Good day, Portia," he said, but it sounded more like farewell. He turned and took his leave.

  For a moment, or a lifetime, I stood frozen, gazing after him. I feared when I moved, when I so much as took a single step, I would collapse into a quivering mass of despair. How could I let him go? How could he leave?

  I'd found the courage to follow my heart back to Italy, back to him. He'd had the courage to give up his position and follow his muse to Italy. But he'd never had the courage to ask me to be with him. Perhaps it made a fair amount of sense.

  After all, of all the things he'd never done, he'd never said he loved me either.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  My Dear Lady Redwell,

  You have my utmost apologies and deepest regrets for our ill-advised words yesterday. Please allow me the opportunity to make amends.

  I have been invited to a ball in honor of the Queen's jubilee at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Roxborough. I would be honored if you would accompany me. I believe we still have a great deal to discuss.

  I am currently residing at the Langham Hotel and may be reached there. I shall send a carriage at eight o'clock if this is amenable to you.

  Yours,

  Fletcher

  I stared at the note that had arrived early this morning, long before I came downstairs. But Fletcher never did sleep when he was involved in something, and apparently, today that something was me. And I never slept well when he was on my mind. Admittedly, I was surprised by his invitation. I had doubted that I would see him again after yesterday. Our words had created a rift that would never heal. I wasn’t sure what the point was of accepting his offer. It seemed to me there was nothing left to say, and it would probably be wiser simply to move on from here.

  Besides, I ached with an empty, hollow sort of pain. I'd never felt—never imagined—pain like this. I'd never suspected a broken heart would feel as if my heart had been physically wounded. As if it had been stabbed or shredded. I wanted nothing more than to crawl back into my bed, curl up in a ball and pull the covers over my head until I could breathe again. And I wanted to weep.

  But Hadley-Attwaters were made of sterner stuff. Even though I wasn't a Hadley-Attwater by blood, I was by upbringing. I would not cower, I would not hide, and I certainly would not allow anyone to know how I ached. Besides, wasn't I an adventuress? Apparently, pain was the price one paid for adventure gone horribly, horribly wrong.

  I would like to think I had no interest in hearing whatever it was Fletcher thought we still had to say, but I thought lying to oneself was always a mistake. I was glad that he felt badly about our talk yesterday—I certainly did. There was, as well, a vile part of me that hoped he was as miserable as I was, but—as he had never given me any clear indication of how he felt—I had no idea if that was possible. Still, quite aside from the turmoil of my emotions, I had more than a few questions I would like answered.

  Dear Lord Castleton,

  I regret I must refuse your offer of accompaniment as I have already agreed to attend the ball in the company of a dear friend.

  However, I would not be averse to sharing a dance or a refreshment.

  Cordially,

  Portia Redwell

  I had indeed agreed to accompany Thomas to the Roxborough ball at Effington House, and it would have been rude to abandon him in favor of Fletcher. Even though I was not happy with Thomas's discussion with my aunt, I was not above allowing Fletcher to think what he might about my dear friend.

  I sent my response off to Fletcher and penned a note to Aunt Helena to inform her that, upon further consideration, my plans for Christmas had changed, and I would not be calling on her today. Not that I expected her to accept that, but I did hope she would at least give me a day or two to pull myself together. I would prefer that no one knew of my heartache.

  "I feel I owe you an apology," Thomas said almost immediately upon his arrival at my house.

  "For running to my aunt and telling her of my plans?" I cast him a pleasant smile.

  "Well . . ." He grimaced. "Yes. Your business is your business, and it was not my place to intrude."

  "No, it wasn't." I kept my smile firmly on my face. "But as you did so out of concern for my welfare, I would be hard-pressed not to forgive you."

  "Do you forgive me, then?" Hope lit his face.

  "Oh, not today. But I'm sure I will. Eventually." I nodded toward the door. "Shall we go? It's impolite
to arrive too late."

  "We wouldn’t want that," he murmured and escorted me to his waiting carriage.

  The ball was all that a successful ball should be: too warm, too loud and entirely too crowded. A place where everyone knew nearly everyone and it was all quite pleasant. If expected. Aunt Helena greeted us as if nothing untoward had happened between us, and I was grateful for that. Thomas and I fell into our usual comfortable manner with each other, although it struck me as somewhat forced. He was a bit tentative, as if he were walking on eggshells. He could be quite perceptive. I was certainly preoccupied, which I assumed he credited to my legitimate annoyance with him and not the fact that I was apprehensive about an encounter with my Christmas affair.

  An hour or so after we arrived, we were in the midst of a waltz when he indicated a point across the room. "Do you see that gentleman over there?"

  I followed his gaze, and my heart stopped. Fletcher stood on the other side of the ballroom, engaged in conversation with a couple I didn’t know. I nodded.

  "That's the new Earl of Castleton."

  "Oh?" I said coolly. "I was not aware there was a new Earl of Castleton."

  "I think his name is James—no—Jamison. The previous Lord Castleton died in a boating accident several months ago."

  "I might have heard something about that." It did sound vaguely familiar, but as I did not know Castleton or his family, I'd paid no real attention at the time.

  Thomas continued, not noticing I was hanging on his every word. "From what I've heard, Jamison was never expected to inherit the title."

  "He wasn't?" And wasn't that interesting?

  "Not at all. The previous lord was quite young, and his death was unexpected. Jamison was a fairly distant cousin. I understand he'd been living abroad. Now he has the title, rather extensive property and"—he chuckled—"considerable wealth."

  "He does look well-tailored," I murmured.

  Thomas laughed and led me through the intricate steps of a turn. My gaze strayed back to Fletcher and caught with his. I nearly stumbled and I never stumble.

  "Are you all right?" Thomas frowned down at me.

  "Just a bit fatigued, I think." I shrugged. "Perhaps some refreshment is in order."

  "Excellent idea." Thomas steered me off the floor. "Besides, I noted some gentlemen I need to speak with near the refreshment table. If you don't mind, this might take a few minutes."

  "Goodness, Thomas." I raised a brow. "This is not the first time I have been alone at a ball, and I daresay I won’t be alone for long. I'm acquainted with half the people here and no doubt related to the other half."

  "Very well." He grinned. "I'll try to be quick as possible, but—"

  I waved him off with my fan. "Go."

  "I thought he'd never leave," Fletcher said behind me.

  I closed my eyes against a wave of longing, drew a calming breath and turned. "Why, Lord Castleton, what a delightful surprise."

  "I thought it might be." He offered his arm. "Would you do me the honor of this dance?"

  I hesitated. I wanted nothing more than to be in his arms, but I feared it might be my undoing.

  He leaned closer. "Come now, Portia, we have never danced together before."

  "No, I don't suppose we have," I said and surrendered.

  He led me onto the floor, and I stepped into his arms. The music began, and we danced together in perfect step with each other. As if we had indeed danced together before. As if we had danced together always.

  For a few minutes, neither of us said a word. There was so much to say, and yet I didn’t know where to begin.

  "How was your exhibit?" I asked at last.

  He looked startled. "That was not the first question I expected."

  My jaw tightened. "What did you expect?"

  "I don't know, but . . ." He drew a deep breath. "The exhibit went well, better than I’d hoped. In fact, my work has been very well received. I've exhibited and sold nicely. I've already made something of a name for myself."

  "Won’t that be awkward for the Earl of Castleton?" Society, being what it was, might well buy art, but an artist in its midst would never be tolerated.

  "Fortunately, I was clever enough not to use my real name."

  "My, that was clever. Not using your real name, that is. I can see where that might make things significantly easier." The words came out faster and harder than I had intended, as if of their own accord. I struggled to keep my voice low. "Avoid scandal and all that. After all, you never know what might happen if you were to use your real name. Why, you were just being cautious. Prudent. One might even say wise. And I say bravo, Fletcher, for being so clever."

  "Stop it, Portia," he said through clenched teeth. "And try not to look as if you're about to rip my head off. We'll attract attention, and I don't think either of us wants that."

  I summoned my most brilliant smile. "No, we do not. Of course, it would be hypocritical of us to pretend to be having a lovely time when we're not. Nearly as hypocritical as being outraged over someone lying about their name when you did the very same thing yourself."

  He cast me a blinding smile. "It was not at all the same thing. I painted under a false name to protect my family from scandal."

  "It's exactly the same thing." I struggled to keep my smile in place.

  "You lied to me about your name. How do I know you didn’t lie to me about everything else?" He led me through the steps of a turn a bit faster than I was used to, but apparently, outrage had its benefits. I was flawless.

  "What everything else, Fletcher?"

  A muscle in his jaw tightened. "I don’t know, but—"

  "You asked me to trust you, and I did. Unfortunately, I never asked you to trust me. I simply expected it."

  "This is a mistake. We shouldn’t be talking here." His eyes flashed with anger, but his smile remained.

  As did mine. "Not our first!"

  He drew to a stop near the edge of the dance floor. "Come with me."

  "I don't think that's wise."

  "We've never been especially wise, and we need to talk." He took my elbow and steered me out of the ballroom.

  "We have talked." I sniffed.

  "Not enough."

  "I'm not sure we have anything left to say," I said under my breath. Nonetheless, I did not pull away. "Have you ever been here before? Do you know where you're going?"

  "Somewhere private."

  "The library, then." I nodded at a doorway a few feet farther down.

  "Excellent." He cracked open the doors and peered inside. "This will do." He waved me to enter in front of him. We were lucky. During a ball, the Effington House library was frequently occupied by those seeking a respite from the festivities or those wishing privacy. On more than one occasion, I myself had sought refuge here from my aunt's attempts at matchmaking. Fletcher closed the doors behind us.

  I folded my arms over my chest. "What did you wish to say?"

  "There are things I need to explain." He thought for a moment. "I didn’t tell you everything about myself and my family, but you didn’t tell me everything either."

  "I told you a great deal."

  "What do you want to know, Portia? I assume you have questions."

  I stared at him for a moment. "I understand you were never expected to inherit the title."

  "No, I wasn't." He shook his head. "My cousin's death came as quite a shock, although I barely knew him." He paused. "So you see I never lied about that."

  I would give him that. "No, I suppose you didn't."

  "When my cousin died and I came to London to see to his affairs, I was hoping that, now, you and I might see one another. Publicly."

  "When your cousin died?" Hadn't Thomas said the previous Lord Castleton had died some time ago? "When was that?"

  He thought for a moment. "Summer. June."

  "And that's when you came to London?" I said slowly.

  The import of what he'd just admitted showed on his face. "I did intend to call on you."
<
br />   He had waited months to see me? Months? "It's mid-October. June was four months ago. Or did you just plan on waiting until Christmas?"

  "Bloody hell, Portia, it's not easy to completely change one's life." He blew an exasperated breath. "Without warning, I had obligations, here and in the country and in Paris as well. New responsibilities and expectations. I wasn't prepared for any of it. I needed to get my life in order, and I needed to make some decisions. I fully intended to call on you. The right opportunity never arose."

  "Did you think about me at all?"

  "That's not fair, Portia."

  "Isn’t it?"

  "I was afraid," he said sharply. "I didn’t know what to do about you. So I put off seeking you out, and every day that went by, it was harder to explain why I didn’t. It occurred to me that it might be easier to tell you everything if indeed I waited until Christmas."

  "Easier?" I stared. "For whom?"

  "I didn’t want you to want me only because I am now Lord Castleton."

  I sucked in a sharp breath. "Do you think so little of me?"

  "Quite honestly . . ." His voice hardened. "I don’t know what to think."

  "I thought we knew each other better than that." I clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking.

  "Do we?"

  "Perhaps not." I drew a deep breath. It didn’t help. "You could have used my gloves as an excuse anytime. Why did you decide to call on me yesterday?"

  He hesitated, and I knew this was not going to be good. "I had a matter that I wished to discuss with you."

  "Go on."

  "My great-aunt had every intention of leaving the villa to me when she died, but she has decided she no longer wants the responsibility for it. So she is deeding it to me now."

  "When you said you spent Christmases with your grandmother and her sister in a house overlooking the sea, it was the villa, wasn't it?"

  He nodded. "I have always tried to go back for Christmas."

  My heart caught.

  "However . . ." He paused, and I braced myself. "A gentleman who has let the villa every spring for years is now interested in purchasing it. I am inclined to accept his offer and turn over the villa in the new year."