The Wedding Game

by Jane Feather

  “Just the one, Edward, thank you,” Chastity called back as an elderly man in a heavy coat came towards them. “And Dr. Farrell has one too.” She indicated the two valises that Douglas had handed down from the compartment.

  “We'll need at least two carriages for everyone, Edward,” Constance said. “And a separate one for Contessa Della Luca's luggage,” she added, looking with some awe at the mountain of bags and trunks piled on the porter's trolley. “Perhaps you should come back for that.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Jenkins said to bring the farm cart,” he said cheerfully. “Joe's driving that and our Fred's driving the gig, so there's plenty of room for all. Bring it along here, Sam,” he said to the heavily breathing porter, and led the way off the platform towards the front of the station where a farm cart, a capacious barouche, and a smaller gig stood waiting.

  “Douglas, why don't you go with Laura and the contessa in the barouche?” Chastity suggested quickly. “We three will squeeze together in the gig.”

  For a man intending to court Laura Della Luca it was certainly the most appropriate and useful disposition, but Douglas heard himself say, “There's really only room for two and a half in the gig, and I take up enough room for one and half, so if I sit in the barouche, there'll only be room for three. Why don't your sisters accompany Laura and her mother and you and I can travel in the gig. Much more comfortable all around, I would think, wouldn't you?” And before anyone could protest he had deftly handed the Della Lucas into the barouche and was politely extending his hand to Constance.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Chastity, then with an imperceptible shrug allowed herself to be handed up. Prudence could see no way to alter the arrangement without sounding as if she had no desire to travel with their guests, so she acceded without comment either.

  “There are lap rugs, I see,” Douglas observed. “I should use them, it's a cold night.”

  “We have every intention of doing so,” Constance said, frowning slightly. This was a gentleman too ready to take charge, but why would he rearrange matters so carefully decided by his hosts for his own benefit?

  “Good,” he said cheerfully, as if quite unaware of her tart tone. “You don't want to ruin Christmas by catching cold.”

  He turned away from the barouche and back to the gig where Chastity was already installed, wondering just how Douglas had managed to take the initiative so swiftly. And not just how, but why. He had been given the perfect opportunity to pursue his courtship of Laura. Unless it was as she had feared and he was beginning to turn his attention elsewhere.

  Dear God, it was getting so complicated. There was nothing she wanted more than to share this close space with him on a frosty night. And nothing that was less conducive to a successful outcome to the Go-Between's strategy. With an almost defensive movement she took the lap rug off the seat and wrapped it tightly around her legs as if it might insulate her from his physical presence.

  Douglas sat beside her. “Could I share the rug?”

  It was big enough to be shared, indeed designed to be shared. Chastity released the inside edge and he took it with a murmur of thanks, tucking it over his own lap. Now their knees touched, and at the slight brush of his leg against hers, Chastity again felt that jolt of desire. She sat rigidly upright on the narrow bench.

  “How far is it to the house?” Douglas asked, seeming not to notice her stiffness. Except that he had, and he knew its cause. The current between them was almost palpable, a riptide that couldn't be fought. One could only swim with it. What it would do to his plans he didn't know, and for the moment he didn't seem to care.

  “About a mile,” she replied distantly.

  “A beautiful night,” he said, tipping his head to look up at the clear, star-filled sky. The air was needle-sharp and so dry, it almost crackled. “See Orion over there, and Cassiopeia.”

  It seemed a safe-enough topic. Chastity followed his gaze. “Where's his belt? I can never find it.”

  “Let me show you.” He put an arm around her shoulders in a gesture so natural that it took her a couple of seconds to realize she should have resisted it, but it was too late. He pointed with his free hand. “Look towards the east. See the Milky Way? There's Cassiopeia just to the left; it's inverted into an M not a W at this time of year. Now look farther up and over towards one o'clock. See two bright stars almost in a straight line, and halfway between them a cluster of three bright stars? Those three are Orion's belt.”

  Chastity tried to forget the arm encircling her as she tipped her head as far back as she could, gazing upwards as she tried to follow his finger. She tried to forget that her head was actually resting on her companion's shoulder. She tried to tell herself that she could be sitting here with Roddie in exactly the same position and it would signal nothing more than the ease of warm friendship. “Oh, yes, I see it now,” she said. “I've always found the stars fascinating but I know so little about them.”

  “If the nights stay as clear as this, I'll teach you,” he offered. “Astronomy has been one of my passions since I was a small boy.” His fingers played a little tune on her upper arm as he drew her closer against him.

  Chastity raised her head abruptly. She could no longer pretend this was perfectly natural and merely friendly. She moved sideways on the bench in a definite gesture of withdrawal and his arm dropped. She felt his gaze on her averted face and resolutely kept her eyes on a point somewhere over the horse's head, and it was with relief that she saw the lights of the house piercing the darkness.

  “Good, we're here,” she declared, throwing off the lap rug. “I hope Mrs. Hudson has some of her mulled wine waiting for us.” She jumped down from the gig almost before Fred had reined in the horse, leaving Douglas to climb down after her.

  Lord Duncan stood in the open front door, light streaming forth from behind him. “Welcome, welcome,” he said as the contessa alighted from the barouche. “Welcome, dear lady.” He took her hands in both of his, beaming as he drew her into the hall. “Come, Miss Della Luca, come in all of you, out of the cold,” he said, but it was clear to his daughters that he had eyes only for the contessa.

  “Looks like at least one prong of our plan is on the way to fruition,” Prudence murmured to Constance as they followed them into the house.

  “Mmm,” Constance agreed. “Not sure about the other prong, though.”

  “No. What was all that rearranging about?”

  “We'll have to ask Chas.” And then the subject had to be dropped as Douglas and Chastity entered the hall behind them. A massive Scotch pine, tiny candles illuminating its branches, dominated the huge raftered chamber. Jenkins came forward with a tray of steaming mugs.

  “Oh, mulled wine, Jenkins, wonderful,” Chastity said. “It's a Christmas tradition,” she explained to their guests as the butler passed around the fragrant mugs.

  “Indeed it is,” Lord Duncan agreed heartily. “Now come to the fire . . . come, dear lady, you must be chilled to the bone after the drive.” He ushered the contessa close to the great fire blazing in the inglenook at the end of the hall and beamed around at the assembled company, his rubicund countenance redolent of good cheer and anticipation.

  “Have the aunts arrived yet?” Chastity inquired, burying her nose in the clove-and-cinnamon-scented steam of her mulled wine.

  “Yes, Lady Bagshot and Lady Aston are resting after their journey, Miss Chas,” Jenkins informed her.

  “Did you put them in the usual rooms?”

  “Of course, Miss Chas.” Jenkins looked slightly offended at the question. Lord Duncan's two sisters, Edith and Agatha, always had the same bedrooms on their frequent visits to Romsey Manor.

  Chastity smiled. “I know, of course you did. It's only that my head's been full of arrangements for days.”

  “Mrs. Hudson and I have everything well in hand, Miss Chas,” the butler said, but he was mollified. “I've given Miss Sarah and Miss Winston the old nursery quarters, Miss Prue. I thought Miss Winston would appreciate having her own
sitting room.”

  “Yes, I'm sure she would,” Prudence said warmly. “They'll be half-frozen when they get here.”

  “All the fires have been lit,” Jenkins said.

  “My dear girl, you might give me some credit for arranging matters satisfactorily,” Lord Duncan said in mild protest. “I know how to make our guests comfortable.”

  “Yes, Father, of course you do,” Constance said with a teasing smile. “But you know how managing and bossy Chas is.”

  Chastity, overwhelmingly relieved to be once more in the safety of numbers, laughingly protested. Of the three of them she was the least bossy and managing. Douglas was standing just a little outside the half circle around the fire and a covert glance gave her the impression that he was observing and assessing them all in a manner that was almost professional. She wondered if, as a member of a big family himself, he was comparing the Duncans en famille with the Farrells.

  “What a delightful hall, Lord Duncan,” Laura said, moving closer to her host. “So charmingly quaint with all those stuffed heads.” She gave a little shudder. “The glass eyes are most unnerving.” She gave another of her annoying little trills of laughter that always accompanied one of her obliquely critical remarks. “Ancestors must have been so uncivilized, don't you think?”

  “Can't think what's wrong with hunting,” Lord Duncan said. “Perfectly fine sport. And the stag's a noble animal. Graces any hall, in my opinion.”

  “Ah.” Again the little laugh. “Of course, the English are such fervent aficionados of blood sports.” She gave another little shudder.

  “So, you won't be joining the Boxing Day hunt, Laura?” Prudence inquired, taking off her spectacles for a moment and fixing her myopic gaze on the other woman.

  Laura shook her head with obvious horror. “Oh, goodness me, no. I couldn't possibly participate in anything so uncivilized.”

  “I always thought the Italians and the French were as passionate about hunting as the English,” Chastity said, reflecting that the woman seemed to have only one word in her critical vocabulary. Constant repetition of uncivilized wore a little thin. “Look at all those medieval and eighteenth-century tapestries. Someone's always chasing something in them. And one would hardly call those civilizations uncivilized.”

  Laura for once looked a little put out. “The French,” she said with a vaguely dismissive wave of her hand. “And La Chasse, of course.” She managed to give the impression that by conceding Chastity's point she had disproved it.

  “Of course,” Chastity murmured. “La Chasse.” She turned to Douglas. “I'm sure you hunt, Douglas.”

  He shook his head. “No, I'm afraid not. I've never seen the point.”

  “Oh,” Chastity said with a bright smile. “In that case, on Boxing Day you and Laura will be able to ride together through the countryside. We have some lovely rides through the New Forest and across the heath. I'm sure you'll both enjoy it.”

  Before either Douglas or Laura could respond, Lord Duncan rumbled, “Good God, man, never seen the point of hunting. And you a Scot. Some of the best grouse moors in the world in Scotland. Not to mention salmon rivers and trout streams.”

  “I wouldn't argue with you, sir. And I don't count fishing as hunting,” Douglas said with a smile. “Fly-fishing is a true sport. Shooting birds out of the sky . . .” He shook his head. “I don't think so.”

  “Well, I suppose if you're a fisherman, that's better than nothing,” his lordship said, but he regarded his guest with a degree of doubt, as if wondering if he should be housing such a heretic under his roof.

  Chastity set down her mug and said diplomatically, “Let me show you all to your rooms. Contessa, Laura, Douglas. I'm sure you'll be glad to get settled in.” She swept a hospitable smile around the assembly and walked to the stairs, her guests trooping behind her.

  Chapter 12

  Contessa, this is the room my father wanted you to have,” Chastity said with a warm smile. “I expect your maid will be waiting for you.” She opened the door onto a large well-appointed guest room, predominantly decorated in green, where indeed the contessa's maid was busy unpacking her mistress's bags. “I hope you'll be comfortable.”

  “It's delightful, my dear Chastity,” the contessa responded, beginning to unbutton her coat. “A lovely room. Thank you.”

  Chastity smiled again and backed out. “Laura, let me show you to your room. And Douglas, yours is right next door.” She led the way back down the corridor. The rooms she had allocated Douglas and Laura were as far from the contessa's as was possible on the same floor. The contessa would be in blissful ignorance in the event of any sleepwalking between the doctor's room and Laura's. However, such an event seemed increasingly unlikely to Chastity. Laura might be happily assuming the role of interior decorator on Harley Street, but for her to indulge in a clandestine liaison was impossible to picture even with the most willing imagination. Chastity firmly put aside the reflection that the doctor himself was beginning to show less enthusiasm for his pursuit of the signorina. Just as she resolutely ignored the little twinge of satisfaction that this reflection brought her.

  Fortunately, Laura pronounced herself contented with the pretty pink and pastel bedroom where her maid was also already busy and Chastity left her giving a series of orders to the maid, who was rushing around like a headless chicken.

  “You're in here, Douglas,” she said, opening the door to the next-door bedchamber. “It has a view over the churchyard, I hope you're not superstitious.”

  “Not in the least,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I see you're not wholly against dragons.” He gestured to the oriental wallpaper.

  “It depends where they are,” she said. She heard the click of the latch and it sounded rather definite in the sudden hush. She began to talk rapidly. “The bathroom is just down the corridor, the second door on the right. I'm afraid there are very few rooms with their own bathrooms.”

  “I wouldn't expect otherwise,” he said, leaning against the door, watching her with some amusement and something else that made her skin prickle. She wandered around the room, pointing out its amenities, for all the world like an anxious hotelkeeper, she thought crossly.

  “There's usually plenty of hot water,” she said. “But it takes awhile to run. Would you like me to send someone up to help you unpack?”

  He laughed. “Chastity, my dear girl, you know better than that. Of course I wouldn't. I am perfectly capable of unpacking what I packed myself this morning.”

  “Yes, I'm sure you are,” she said, looking warily at the door. She would have to go through him to get to it and she didn't think she possessed the spirit qualities of walking through solid matter. “I'll see you downstairs, then, when you've unpacked and freshened up. It's traditional to invite the village carolers in on Christmas Eve for mince pies and mulled wine. They usually come at around seven-thirty, before dinner.”

  “I'll be sure not to miss it,” he said. The something else in his eye was suddenly more pronounced.

  “Then I'll leave you to it,” she said, making for the door.

  He moved slightly aside for her and then with a movement that Chastity somehow knew was inevitable he laid a restraining hand on her arm. Prickles rose suddenly on her skin, making her cold, as if the temperature in the room had dropped for some reason.

  “Chastity,” he said softly. That was all. His eyes said the rest as he took her face between both his hands. He kissed her mouth, very gently, almost experimentally, moving his lips to each corner, and then kissed her eyelids. His lips were warm on her lids and then trailed in little bird kisses over her cheeks, touched the tip of her nose, brushed across her chin, his tongue for a second darting into the deep dimple there, and then coming to rest again on her mouth.

  Chastity didn't breathe. She wanted to tell him that this was wrong. He had the wrong end of the stick. Laura Della Luca was his quarry, not Chastity Duncan, who had not a sou of capital to her name, and only the most modest income. Not to me
ntion the monstrous deception she had practiced upon him, the secret identity that had made her privy to a mercenary ambition that, however justified it might be in terms of the greater good, would still be immensely embarrassing for him to have known to a social acquaintance. But the words wouldn't form themselves.

  With a sudden sigh she drew breath, inhaling the scent of his skin, a rugged, slightly earthy scent. Her tongue touched his mouth, tasting the spicy sweetness of the mulled wine, feeling the warm pliancy of his lips. She had noticed before that he had a strong mouth and it felt strong, muscular as well as pliable, to her exploring tongue.

  Then his own tongue joined the little play and her mouth opened to the nudging pressure. She tasted the mulled wine and a lingering flavor of peppermint and his hands on her face tightened their clasp so that she could feel the roughness of his afternoon skin against her own.

  Chastity was no naive ingenue, and neither was she a fool. Maybe, at a huge stretch, their earlier kiss could be called a seal of friendship, but by no stretch of the imagination could this one be anything but a passionate promise of future lovemaking.

  She drew her head back and stepped away. She touched her mouth where she could still feel the imprint of his lips. “That was not friendship,” she said.

  He shook his head. “No . . . no, it wasn't.” He gave a little rueful shrug. “I've kissed many friends, but never like that.” He put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “What shall we do about it, Chastity?”

  “Nothing at all,” she said with a sharpness that sprang from her own dismay. “There's nothing to be done. It was just an aberration. I've disliked you from the first moment I met you.” Which was only partially true but she wasn't going to let that stand in her way. She forged on in the tone of one delivering the coup de grâce, “And we've been quarreling since you came to that At Home.”

  He looked a little taken aback at this vehemence, then shook his head again and laughed. “Oh, I wouldn't call it quarreling,” he said pensively. “You have had a rather confrontational attitude towards me, I admit, and I don't really know why. I think it's just your nature. You're quite a bantam, really.”