What Happens At Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  Gray spoke low into his cousin’s ear. “Do you have a plan?”

  Win’s smile flickered. “Not so much as an inkling.”

  Gray bit back a grin. The room wasn’t the only thing that hadn’t changed.

  “My lord.” Prescott, who had been the family’s butler for as long as Gray could remember, appeared at the door. “You wished me to remind you when it was nearly one.”

  “Yes, thank you, Prescott.” Uncle Roland cast a last look at his son and nephew. “Not approving, mind you, but it was not your worst idea.”

  Win chuckled. “Thank you, Father.”

  Uncle Roland started toward the door. “I do hope your plan regarding that other matter is as successful.”

  “As do I, Father.”

  Uncle Roland’s doubtful response drifted into the library behind him. Gray thought it best that the words were undecipherable, even if the tone was unmistakable.

  Gray chuckled. “I see the campaign to see you wed continues.”

  “As it shall until the moment I chain myself to some poor, unsuspecting creature for the rest of my days.” Win strode across the room to the brandy decanter on Uncle Roland’s desk and poured a glass. “It’s your fault, you know.”

  Gray laughed. “How is it my fault?”

  “If you were here, Mother and Father would divide their efforts between the two of us instead of concentrating on me alone. While Father wants an heir, all Mother really wants is another female in the family.” Win aimed his glass at his cousin. “You can provide that, as well as I.”

  “I suppose I can.”

  “Therefore you owe me an apology.”

  “Do I?” Gray raised a brow. “It seems to me, I am the one owed an apology.”

  “Because I wrote you that Father was dying?”

  Gray stared. “Don’t you think that calls for an apology?”

  “I don’t know,” Win said thoughtfully, and propped his hip on a corner of the desk. “As I said before—we are all dying. The fact that Father isn’t dying anytime soon is really insignificant.”

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘insignificant.’ ”

  “Regardless, it did what it was intended to do.” Win sipped his brandy and considered his cousin. “I should have thought of it years ago.”

  “You could have simply requested my return,” Gray said and then winced.

  “And haven’t I?” Win’s eyes narrowed. “Let me think, when you had been gone for three years, I requested your return.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “The next year, when my first engagement was broken and my heart was shattered, I asked you to come home and help me drown my sorrows.”

  “I wasn’t able—”

  “And two years later, I asked you to come to my wedding and you couldn’t be bothered.”

  “But that was yet another wedding that didn’t take place.”

  “It didn’t take place at the last possible moment. I was very nearly left standing at the altar.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “I was devastated, you know. I could have used the support or, at the very least, the comforting shoulder of the man I consider my brother—the man who is my dearest friend. But, no, you couldn’t be bothered.”

  “Circumstances were such—”

  “And two years after that, when you had at last amassed the fortune you had worked so hard for, when you were no longer penniless with no prospects—”

  “Win.” A warning sounded in Gray’s voice.

  His cousin continued mercilessly. “When she was widowed and the opportunity came to throw it in her face—”

  “Win!”

  “You didn’t come home then either.” Win heaved a resigned sigh. “If that couldn’t lure you home, I had no idea what would.” He sipped his brandy. “I’m quite displeased with myself that I didn’t think of this years ago. Father dying.” He chuckled. “He’s entirely too obstinate to die and leave everything in my hands, capable though they may be.”

  “I had every intention of returning to England sometime soon.”

  “I know.”

  Gray’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s been a tone in your letters these last two years and a vague hint in the year before that. You might not even be aware of it. But I know you as well—no, better than you know yourself.”

  “I still have no idea what you are trying to say.”

  “You know exactly what I am trying to say, but as this talk is eleven years in coming . . . eleven years, Gray.” Win shook his head, accusation shaded his eyes.

  Gray stared. “I . . . apologize?”

  “As well you should.” Win got to his feet and circled his cousin. “You left, letting Mother and Father believe you needed to make your fortune on your own because of some sort of obligation to your parents or yourself, that never was entirely clear, although it did sound good.”

  “That’s exactly why I left,” Gray said staunchly.

  “Is it? You knew full well Father’s plan was to put you in charge of the family’s business interests, whereas I would handle the estates and properties. I suspect he thought together, as a family, we could, I don’t know, rule the world or something a step below that.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “It wasn’t a misplaced sense of obligation on his part, and it certainly wasn’t charity, and you know that as well.”

  “I suppose, but—”

  “But, instead, you turned your back on your family and allowed a woman who had discarded you for someone with a fortune and title to influence how you lived your life.”

  Gray bristled. “It wasn’t—”

  “Wasn’t it?” Win’s eyes narrowed. “If I recall correctly, Camille Channing, now Lady Lydingham, the woman you loved, threw you over to marry a much older man with wealth and position. A man who had what you did not. Am I accurate thus far?”

  “In a manner of speaking—”

  “At very nearly the same time, you, who had always seemed a most sensible sort, got it into your head to flee the country and go off and seek your fortune, armed with little more than a modest loan from Father. Again, am I correct?”

  Gray nodded. “Go on.”

  “And then, when she was widowed and you had made a great deal of money, indeed, at that point, you could have been considered almost unseemly wealthy—”

  “I don’t know that—”

  “Nonetheless . . .” Win continued to circle Gray, like a beast of prey moving in for the kill. It was most annoying. “You still refused to come home. Because . . .”

  Gray clenched his teeth. “Because?”

  “Because it wasn’t enough.” Triumph sounded in Win’s voice. “You needed to prove to her not only were you as good as the man she chose, you were better. No title, perhaps, but more money. And as she and her sisters have always been rather mercenary in that regard, returning once your fortune was greater would be a lovely triumph over the woman who broke your heart.”

  Gray could scarcely deny it. “I admit, that might have been a factor of motivation—”

  “Aha! I knew it.” Win raised his glass. “Now you can throw your success in her face.”

  “Once perhaps, but now . . .” Gray shook his head. “It’s simply not worth the effort.”

  “ ‘Not worth the effort’? Good Lord.” Win stared. “When did you become so noble?”

  “I’m not noble.” He sipped his brandy thoughtfully. “It—she—is of no consequence anymore. The past is the past, over and done with. It cannot be changed and I see no need to dwell on it. I put Camille—Lady Lydingham—behind me longer ago than I can remember. As I said, proving something to her now is simply not worth my time.”

  “Oh, bravo, Gray. Excellent speech.” Win raised his glass in a salute. “Most impressive. I don’t believe a word of it, of course, but still, it is impressive.”

  “It scarcely matters whether you believe it or not.” Gray shrugged. “I have no interest in anything regarding Lady Lydingh
am—aside, perhaps, from the friendship we once shared.”

  “I see.” Win sipped his brandy and considered his cousin thoughtfully. “You do realize she remains a widow and has not remarried, as I might have mentioned in my letters?”

  “Indeed, you have.” Gray sipped his drink. “With remarkable frequency.”

  “And you don’t care?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Then were I to add, she is residing at her mother’s house for Christmas this year, no more than a thirty-minute ride from here, it would make no difference to you?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “And if you were to come across her unexpectedly on the road, your heart would not beat faster like a trapped bird fluttering in your chest?”

  “A trapped bird?” Gray laughed. “Good God, man, what has come over you?”

  “I was trying to be poetical,” Win said in a lofty manner. “I have the heart of a poet, you know.”

  “You do not.”

  “Perhaps not.” Win shrugged. “It’s of no consequence at the moment, as it is not my heart we are discussing but yours.”

  “Win.” Gray leaned forward and met his cousin’s gaze directly. “Admittedly, I once offered my heart to Camille Channing. And, yes, that did indeed contribute to my desire to make my way in the world, which I have done in a most successful manner. In that respect, she was the means to an end. Perhaps once, she was indeed the end, but no longer. I have no lingering feelings for her whatsoever, save those that one old friend has for another.”

  “Then you would make no effort to avoid her?”

  “I don’t see why I would.”

  “And were you to meet her again—”

  “ ‘Unexpectedly on the road’?” Gray grinned.

  “Or wherever,” Win continued, “you would treat her as—”

  “As one does any neighbor one has known for much of one’s life, as the friends we once were,” Gray said firmly. “With polite cordiality.”

  “You would feel no need to sweep her into your arms, shower her with kisses and pledge your undying love?”

  Gray laughed. “Good Lord, no.”

  “If you are sure—”

  “I am.”

  “Excellent.” Win nodded. “Mother left for London three days ago with instructions that when Lady Lydingham or the rest of her family arrived, Cook should prepare a basket of her best scones and cakes and biscuits to be sent to Millworth Manor as a gesture of neighborly goodwill. They are still the best in the county. Mother was a bit confused as to whether or not Lady Lydingham’s mother and sisters would be in residence for Christmas as well, as she had heard Lady Briston and her youngest daughter were in Paris.”

  Gray cast his cousin a suspicious look. “And?”

  “And, according to my information, Lady Lydingham arrived yesterday. Cook has prepared the basket and it needs to be delivered.”

  “And?”

  “And, while I can certainly send a footman, Mother would have my head if it wasn’t delivered by a family member.”

  “I suspect she intended that family member to be you.”

  “Only because she didn’t know you would be here. But I have a great deal to do.” Win aimed the younger man a hard look. “While you have been off making your fortune, I have been learning everything Father intended the two of us to share—business, finance and management of all the family’s properties and investments. Which means I am an extremely busy man. It is an immense burden, you know—”

  “I can only imagine,” Gray murmured.

  “And leaves me little time for social niceties.”

  “Probably why you keep losing fiancées.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Why, I had to practically steal the time for a ride today before you arrived. And I need you to deliver this gesture of neighborly Christmas cheer to Lady Lydingham.”

  Gray stared. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d prefer not to, that’s all.”

  “Why?” Win studied him closely. “You said you weren’t avoiding her.”

  “I’m not.”

  “And the two of you were friends long before you fell in love with her.”

  “True enough.”

  “You said you have no lingering feelings. You have put her behind you. And should you meet, you would treat her with nothing more than polite cordiality, as one old friend encountering another.”

  “I did say that, but—”

  “But?” Win’s brow rose. “Unless, of course, you didn’t mean it. Unless, you still harbor feelings of affection. Unless you fear seeing her again will bring back—”

  “Bloody hell, Win,” Gray snapped. “I’ll take the blasted basket.”

  “It is, after all, the very least you can do after abandoning me for all those years to—”

  “I said I’d do it!”

  “Yes, I know, but I was having so much fun.” Win cast him a triumphant grin and started for the door. “I’ll tell Cook to ready the basket and you can be on your way in, oh, a quarter of an hour, I would say.” He reached the door, paused and turned back to his cousin. “Regardless of what you say, I know this will be a bit awkward for you. You haven’t seen her for eleven years, and until you do, you can’t truly say with any certainty that your feelings for her are completely dead.”

  “Rubbish,” Gray said. “There isn’t a doubt in my mind, even if there is in yours.”

  Win considered him for a moment, then nodded. “Excellent. And when you return, you can help me with my plan to at last be wed by next Christmas.”

  “I suspect you need all the help you can get, as you have no one in mind at the moment.” A wry note sounded in Gray’s voice.

  “It just makes it more of a challenge, old boy. And I have always loved a challenge.” Win grinned in the wickedly confident manner he had had since boyhood and took his leave.

  Gray’s smile faded with the closing of the library door. Damnation, why did Win have to force this visit on him today? Tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after, or maybe even on Christmas Day. . . . Yes, that would be perfect. A chance encounter at Christmas services surrounded by any number of people, that would be the civilized way to see again, after so long, the woman who had, however unintentionally, broken his heart.

  Gray swirled the brandy in his glass and paced the room. He hadn’t lied to Win, not really. He had long ago put Camille in the past. Just as he had long ago come to the realization that what happened between them was as much his fault as it had been hers, more perhaps.

  He had known Camille for years, but he hadn’t realized he loved her until she was about to wed Lord Lydingham. No, that wasn’t true. He had realized it long before, when one day he abruptly saw the girl who lived on the neighboring estate had become a woman. The woman who owned his heart. He simply hadn’t done anything about it. He had been young and uncertain; and when he looked back, something of an idiot as well. It wasn’t until the day before she was to marry that he had at last declared his feelings.

  He had been a fool to expect she would abandon all she’d been taught her entire life, but he had hoped. He knew she understood her responsibility in life was to marry well, as one never knew what might befall one’s family. They had discussed it, now and again through the years, and it had seemed an eminently practical way of looking at a woman’s lot in life. Poverty, she had once told him quite earnestly, was always just around the corner. Not that, to his knowledge, Lady Briston had ever been close to impoverished. Still, one never knew what went on in another household. Lord Briston had been gone for many years, and Lady Briston had never remarried. Lord Briston’s twin brother still preferred to use his military rank of colonel, instead of the title he had inherited from his brother, in homage to the deceased, no doubt. So, perhaps, neither Colonel Channing nor Lady Briston had ever completely come to terms with Lord Briston’s demise. Camille’s sister Beryl had already married well, and now it was Camille’s turn.

  She had been shoc
ked by his declaration of love and had told him, in as kind a manner as one could hope, that it simply wasn’t possible. And, indeed, she had thanked him for trying to stop her from marrying without the true love she had always longed for. But there had been something in her eyes that had belied her words.

  That’s when he had kissed her. For the first time, and for the last. And she had kissed him back. And for one incredible moment, he knew, deep in his heart, that anything was possible. That regardless of what she said, she did indeed love him.

  Then she had pushed him away and suggested it would be best if he left at once. He’d made the stupid charge that she would marry him if he had money; and she had said, as he didn’t, it scarcely mattered. He knew the moment he said the words that he was wrong; he knew her better than that. He had started to argue with her but realized it would do no good. She was determined to go through with her wedding. With the life she had planned. Perhaps if he hadn’t waited so long to tell her of his feelings. Perhaps if he had been stronger or they had not been so young. She had been nineteen, he was just twenty. Perhaps . . .

  So he had left her. She had become Lady Lydingham and he had gone off to make something of himself. Now he had returned home and she was free. Still, it scarcely mattered. Too much time had passed for them both. He was a different man than he had been all those years ago. And she was, no doubt, an entirely different woman. A widow of independent means with her own plans for her own life. Whatever might have been between them once was lost with the passage of years.

  But once they had been friends, and it was as a friend that he would make his aunt’s delivery. They would exchange pleasantries. She would inquire as to his uncle’s health. He would ask about her sisters. He would linger for the correct amount of time required for a call of this nature; then he would bid her felicitations of the season and take his leave. And that would, at long last, be that.

  He ignored the voice in the back of his mind that whispered, What if it wasn’t?

  Three

  “Now then, Mr. Fortesque.” Camille studied the actor standing before her in the parlor. “Are your players ready?”