Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding

by Helen Dickson

  His face hardened and he shook his head. ‘No. When you were growing up, were you ever lonely?’ he asked, quickly diverting the conversation away from her question.

  She shook her head. ‘No. We were always with a team of archaeologists and such like. There were times when I was the only English girl for hundreds of miles, with only monkeys and stone statues for company. But I was never lonely.’

  ‘Why did your father take you with him? Why not leave you with Mrs Standish?’

  ‘To be raised like a proper young lady, you mean?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Jane tried to speak as lightly as she could, not wanting the circumstances of her life to shadow the conversation. ‘My mother was very young when she married my father. They had been married for ten years before I came along and wherever they went showed an open delight in one another that was as diverting to those who found themselves in their company as it was unusual. My father loved my mother and was loved by her and neither of them saw any reason to hide it, not even when I was born. Everyone was used to their utter devotion. My mother was beautiful, graceful, sweet natured and inclined to laughter. Father was devastated when she died—as I was.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Eight years old. We were in India at the time. My father couldn’t bear to part with me and I refused to leave him. It was suggested he send me to England to live with Aunt Caroline—she was the only family I had left, but to lose both my mother and me was unbearable to him. He grieved for my mother, but he never abandoned his work or me. His work was important to him so he did the best he could. I was educated wherever we happened to be.’

  ‘You must have experienced many cultural changes on your travels.’

  ‘I learned more about countries and people than any schoolroom could have taught me. I was educated by the opinions and manners of the societies in which I lived and to a great degree was taught independence.’

  ‘Is it not the opinion that a woman should not feel herself independent?’

  ‘What? And be governed by the fears and restrictions that blight so many women’s lives? I do not share that opinion. I have a mind and will of my own and make my own decisions. I learned a great deal from the many cultures in which I lived, through sheer observation of real life. I was allowed more freedom than if I had been raised in England and many times I had to fend for myself—although Father was always on hand to give me guidance. ‘

  ‘You’ve seen a great deal of the world, I imagine.’

  ‘I like to roam.’

  ‘Doesn’t it become boring after a while?’

  ‘Not in the least. I loved the life.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it still sounds a lonely life.’

  ‘To someone who has never experienced it, I suppose it does.’

  ‘And marriage, Miss Mortimer? Surely you will want to marry one day.’

  ‘In truth, I’ve been so busy that marriage has never entered my head. For the time being I am content to carry on as I am, doing what my father did, and to support myself. But when—if—I do marry, then I shall have a marriage like that of my parents—loving and true.’

  ‘Love is not the only side to a relationship.’

  ‘I know. But it is the most important one. I realise that for some money and gain in some way is the only consideration, but there is more to marriage than that. Two people should marry because they love each other, because they are important to each other, because there is a longing to be close to each other.’

  ‘You are a romantic, Miss Mortimer.’

  ‘I suppose I am. When I marry I will settle for nothing less.’ When he gave her a sceptical glance she raised her brows in question. ‘Do you find something wrong with that?’

  Shaking his head slowly, he smiled thinly. ‘In my opinion love is a common passion, in which chance and sensation take the place of choice and reason and draw the mind out of its accustomed state.’

  ‘Well—as you said, that is your opinion, but I will not under any circumstances reduce myself to living in wifely obedience in a loveless marriage.’

  Christopher gazed at her for a long moment, digesting what she had said and moved more than she could possibly know by her words. ‘How extraordinary,’ he said after a moment, feigning mockery. ‘And all the time I’ve been harbouring the delusion that all girls yearn to snare wealthy husbands.’

  ‘I am not like other girls.’

  ‘I’m beginning to realise that,’ he said quietly. He was deeply moved by her opinions on marriage. She spoke passionately about things he could not begin to imagine and he was beginning to realise that many more conversations like this with Jane Mortimer could be in danger of derailing his plans to marry Lydia. ‘Did you enjoy London for the short time you were there? Were you not tempted to seek the social whirl? Visiting friends of your aunt would keep you busy. I imagine you would be fully occupied from morning till night on the frivolous pastimes with which you ladies fill your days.’

  ‘I should hate that above all things,’ Jane said frankly. ‘As a matter of fact, I prefer to fill my time with more worthwhile pursuits. I do what I do and I enjoy it.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’ he persisted. ‘You have never known anything other than assisting your father in his work in the wilds of some foreign part of the world. London can be very alluring to an unattached young woman.’

  ‘To some I am sure it is. But not for me. I have very simple tastes. I thank you for your consideration for me and I would not have you believe me ungrateful, but I am like the flowers that you will find growing in the wild. Transplant them, or even bring them into the house, and they die.’

  She fell silent, her eyes sparkling. Breathing deeply, she gazed at the lake in the distance. Her senses drank in the intoxication of it all. She suddenly felt like a gilded bird freed from its cage for a few, precious moments. And all the while she was conscious of the man beside her. His closeness lent to her nostrils a scent of his cologne, not overpowering like so many strong perfumes meant to cover the stench of unwashed bodies, but fleeting and inoffensive, a clean, masculine smell. Vividly conscious of her proximity to him, she sharply turned away before he could realise just how much he had affected her.

  Octavia chose that moment to walk back to her and take her hand. ‘You said we could go to the lake to see the swans. Will you come, Christopher?’

  He shook his head. ‘I must return to the party. I have neglected our guests long enough. Go with Jane. I know how much you like to watch the swans.’

  ‘Shall we go now?’ Octavia looked up at Jane.

  ‘Of course, Lady Octavia.’ She turned to Lord Lansbury. ‘Excuse us.’

  He nodded in silence and watched them walk away.’

  ‘I’ll race you?’ Octavia suddenly cried, beginning to run on ahead, her bonnet becoming dislodged and bouncing against her back.

  Jane laughed, giving Octavia a head start before she skipped after her, releasing all her suppressed energy.

  * * *

  Christopher watched her go, her bright skirts dancing about her feet as she went, allowing him a tantalising glimpse of slim calves and ankles. Suddenly and completely out of the blue he felt a surge of admiration for the young woman who had just given him an insight into her life. Her purity and the sweet wild essence of her shone like a rare jewel. She was innocence and youth, gentleness and laughter, a wood nymph surrounded by nature, and without warning he felt hot desire pulsating to life within him—unexpected and certainly unwelcome. Ever since she had come to Chalfont he had tried not to think of her presence in the house, tried to resist the way his thoughts turned to her as he tried to focus on his relationship with Lydia, knowing how dangerous those feelings were to him.

  Uttering a sound of angry exasperation, he turned away. What was he doing gazing at the girl like a moon
struck idiot? Why had the pleasant mood left him by memories stirred by Jane Mortimer? On this instinctive thought his anger turned cooler, having recognised part of the cause. It was not her fault that her violet eyes were like those of someone whose memory was laced with bitter pain. Nor, doubtless, was it her fault that she was possessed of a troubling unusual kind of beauty that stirred his troubled soul.

  * * *

  When Jane and Octavia had left the party it had been five o’clock and the guests had begun to disperse—some to private bedrooms, others to drawing rooms and morning rooms. Still others preferred to sit or lie on the lawns, idling away the time between then and the evening’s banquet, which would begin at seven. Afterwards the guests would leave for their respective homes and those who lived too far to travel were to stay the night.

  It was now almost nine o’clock, with a crescent-shaped moon hanging high in the darkening sky, when Octavia finally went to sleep.

  Jane went through to her own adjoining room and drew back the gold brocade curtains of the heavily carved four-poster bed. Undressing and slipping her nightdress over her head before removing the pins from her hair and brushing out the tangles, she seated herself close to one of the windows and looked out at the night sky, letting her mind drift back in time. There was a chill in the air that penetrated her thin cotton shift, so she tied her dressing gown around her before opening the window wide to breathe in the fresh night air. Not yet ready to go to bed, she opened a book and read for an hour.

  * * *

  She was about to put the book aside when a soft tap on the door startled her. She jumped up, not expecting anyone at this time. Crossing through the sitting room adjoining her own and Octavia’s room, she opened the door. She stood very still, staring with open amazement at the tall powerful figure of Lord Lansbury. Having removed his jacket, he wore a claret waistcoat over his white linen shirt.

  He cocked a brow. ‘I know it’s late, and you can send me away if you wish, but can I come in?’

  At the sound of his voice she experienced a rush of feeling, a bittersweet joy. Her cheeks flushed for she was aware that she was in no proper state to receive visitors. And now, confronted by him, she was only too conscious of her own inadequacy—of her old faded, blue-gingham dressing gown that no elegant lady would ever wear, of her tangled hair and bare feet. She took a deep breath, trying to stifle her rising embarrassment. Lord Lansbury always caught her at her most vulnerable. She could refuse to admit him, but the truth was that she didn’t want to turn him away and she could see no harm in letting him in.

  ‘Yes—of course.’ Opening the door wide, she stood aside for him to pass.

  ‘Thank you. I won’t stay long,’

  * * *

  Christopher was thinking that she looked almost demure in her night attire, high at the neck and gathered under her breasts. But he suspected there was nothing demure about Jane Mortimer. She swept back her abundant hair—the colour, he could only imagine, of a flaming Indian sunset—framing her high, clear forehead with its striking widow’s peak. He found himself wondering how it would feel to run his fingers through it. He was drawn to her eyes, with their long black lashes, which were the most definite thing about her face.

  At that moment there was a defencelessness about her and the small smile on her lips brought a softening to his heart. It was softness that he felt, a sudden likeness without a feeling of desire for her and he felt a strange urge to protect her. Her face mirrored her confusion on being caught unawares. She looked vulnerable and much younger and she had the innocent appeal of a bewildered child. In fact, she seemed to him at that moment as childlike and pure as his sister. Her long lashes quivered and her eyes no longer reminded him of Lily’s for there was in them no appeal—clear and untroubled they looked up at him.

  * * *

  ‘You have come to see Lady Octavia,’ Jane said, ‘but she is fast asleep. She was quite worn out after all the excitement.’

  ‘Octavia is not the only one I came to see, Miss Mortimer,’ he murmured, his gaze lingering on her face.

  ‘Oh—r-really!’ she stammered, his words taking her completely off guard. ‘Well—I—I’m honoured.’ His manner set her on edge. ‘But as you see I am not in any proper state to receive you.’

  ‘You could be wearing sackcloth and ashes for all I care. I imagine your gingham dressing gown is most...relaxing for this time of the evening.’

  His voice, low and resonant, beckoned to things inside her that she hadn’t even known existed. Tongues of heat curled in her belly. ‘Yes—although I would think not every woman would forgive you for entering her room when she is in her night attire.’

  The moment the words were out she would have given anything to recall them. Night attire like undergarments were considered an unmentionable subject and she had spoken of them to a man—and to a strange man, at that, who had the incredible effrontery to enter her room when he could see she was in a state of undress. Many ladies would swoon away in horror. Lord Lansbury, however, seemed unmoved. The enormity of her observation appeared to have escaped him and he replied in all seriousness.

  ‘You are quite right and I beg your pardon if my intrusion into your private time has embarrassed you.’ His attitude was entirely genuine. ‘I must confess that to a large extent I ignore the corroding prudery that muffles and enshrouds almost every aspect of our domestic life in layers of taboo.’ He smiled, for the sight of Miss Mortimer’s scarlet cheeks brought home to him for the first time the fact that his coming to her room might be considered shockingly unorthodox. A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. ‘However, it’s good to see you at ease—and you do look rather fetching in your dressing gown, Miss Mortimer.’

  The embarrassed colour faded from her cheeks. She was unaware that the dark red hair, tumbling unfashionably and wildly about her shoulders, was a hundred different shades and dazzling lights, as her eyes flared to life. He gazed down into her face, a smile beginning to curve his lips. His expression was unreadable, smiling, watchful, a knowing look in his eyes.

  What kind of man are you, Christopher Chalfont? Jane wondered and realised she had no idea at all. She suspected he never talked about himself and that he gave of himself sparingly. Despite his self-assurance, she sensed a deep sadness in him, something frozen and withdrawn. What had happened to him to put it there? she wondered.

  A light blazed briefly in his eyes and was then extinguished. She gave him a speculative look, deeply conscious that his easy, almost mocking exterior hid the inner man. There was a withheld power to command in him that was as impressive as it was irritating.

  ‘When you returned from the lake, did you enjoy what was left of the party?’

  Jane smiled, feeling a treacherous warmth seep through her. ‘Thank you, yes—although Lady Octavia was tired, so we didn’t stay long. How kind of you to think of me—but you shouldn’t be neglecting your guests.’

  ‘My mother is entertaining them in the drawing room. I think they can manage without me for half an hour.’

  The door to Octavia’s room was ajar and he walked towards it, going inside where he stood by her bed and gazed down at her sleeping face. A book lay open on the bedside table, showing a colourful procession of giraffes, zebras, elephants and other animals making their way on to the shelter of the Ark. Picking it up, he flicked the pages, each one as colourful and interesting as the one before.

  He cocked an eyebrow at Jane. ‘This book looks interesting.’

  ‘It is—at least Lady Octavia thinks so. She loves stories about animals and is rather fond of this one.’

  ‘I don’t recognise it.’

  ‘My—father gave it to me when I was little. It’s a bit dog-eared from all the handling and travelling about, but I hoped Lady Octavia would find it as pleasurable as I did. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, placing t
he book back on the table. ‘It was thoughtful of you.’

  Jane knew his eyes were on her as he approached, but after a quick glance at him she dropped her eyes to the floor, angry with herself and with him because, inevitably, whenever he spoke, it seemed to her that his words, however ordinary and commonplace, threw her into confusion.

  Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, he looked at her. ‘And how are you getting on with your work?’

  ‘Very well—although I still have rather a lot to deal with,’ she answered, leading the way into the small sitting room so as not to disturb the sleeping child.

  ‘You must work very hard.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all. I enjoy it, especially when we made extraordinary historical finds. I sent a manuscript and photographs of the assignment my father was working on before he died to his publisher and an illustrator. I am sure they will be satisfied.’

  His sudden sweeping smile was disarming and confounded her. ‘I would expect nothing less. You strike me as a most competent person, Miss Mortimer.’

  She laughed, opening her wide mouth and showing her teeth, white and perfectly aligned. The way she laughed suggested a potential for reckless abandon that drew Christopher’s interest.

  ‘Competent? Are young ladies not usually described as accomplished?’

  ‘I would have applied the word had I thought it applied to you. Although I am sure you have many accomplishments to your credit.’

  ‘I don’t have many. My dancing leaves a lot to be desired—I have two left feet, I’m afraid. I can’t sing and I don’t play the piano—and I certainly can’t sew a fine seam. But I do have other traits to recommend me.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Excavating sights of historical interest. As well as digging for ancient relics, I hunt. I play croquet—although I suppose that particular game is regarded as civilised—but in fact I do all manner of things which are considered unladylike. I’m afraid I would be frowned upon most severely by society—of which I must confess my ignorance.’

  ‘Where young ladies are concerned, it is defined as those who are eligible for presentation at court.’