Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding

by Helen Dickson

  ‘Of course.’ He glanced at his mother. ‘Excuse us.’

  He escorted Lydia through the French windows on to the terrace. With her hand on his arm they strolled in the moonlight, Lydia doing most of the talking. Christopher heard her, but he did not listen to what she had to say. His attention wandered as the vision of unruly hair tumbling unfashionably about the shoulders of Jane Mortimer, a hundred different shades of red and brown, drifted through his mind. Thinking back to their conversation, he thought it strange that he should have a private and personal conversation with a woman who was an employee. But he sensed in Jane Mortimer someone who was dependable, someone he could trust, who would listen, someone who inspired confidences.

  He had no liking for the feelings that were churning inside him—Miss Mortimer had the ability to reach into his soul and open doors he thought were closed for ever. She ignited a desire in him that was beyond anything he could have imagined.

  He chided himself for being weak, but earlier, at the party, he could not keep his eyes from following her. He was angry and resentful at her for stealing his peace of mind and placing doubts in his head about asking Lydia to be his wife. He found himself comparing the two women. The more he indulged in this pastime, the more restless he became. With Lydia walking by his side, he felt a fraud. He had thought her beautiful, but now she seemed cold, brittle and lifeless.

  She failed to inflame him.

  On this thought, realising it was time for truth and honesty, he told Lydia he would not marry her.

  * * *

  When the ladies had retired for the night, one of the gentlemen turned to Christopher.

  ‘What do you say to a game of billiards?’

  Christopher shook his head. ‘Not tonight. I want to check on one of the horses before I turn in.’ He left them before they could protest.

  The temperature had dropped slightly and he shivered as he stepped outside. But he was grateful for the chill, as he needed to clear his head.

  Reaching the stables, he paused to gaze at Chalfont’s splendid acres awash with moonlight, loving every inch of his inheritance which he had struggled to hold on to with a deep and abiding passion.

  In the early days he had sold land to raise the capital for his investments and to pay off debts. His main assets had nothing to do with the estate. Investing in several coal mines and with interests in various industrial concerns and the booming development of the railways which were spreading like veins to every part of the land, at last he was beginning to see rewards. However, he was by no means out of the woods yet and marriage to Lydia would be an excellent way of making sure that Chalfont was safe and that his mother and Octavia remained in a secure and loving environment.

  But he had no wish to relinquish having the upper hand. If he married Lydia, it would mean trading his aristocratic lineage for the sake of Chalfont and his family’s future security—a commonly accepted practice, but to do so would make him feel less of a man.

  Propping his shoulder against the stable wall, he lit a cheroot and let his thoughts wander back over the years as the smoke drifted overhead, back to the tortured years of his life as an adolescent boy and the interminable battles with his father.

  Not long after his father had married Christopher’s mother, the eldest daughter of a baronet, finances had become an issue. Her own father, Christopher’s grandfather, hadn’t come from a fashionable set—sobriety, simplicity and respect for those less fortunate than himself had been the hallmarks of his style. Too late his grandparents discovered the man their daughter had married was not the paragon of domesticity they had believed him to be.

  Christopher’s father, the fourth Earl of Lansbury, had pursued his own interests—horse racing, gambling at various clubs in London, casinos when he was abroad, music halls and extramarital affairs. With his wife tucked away in the country, he spent his life going from bed to bed, uncaring how his indiscriminate infidelities shamed her.

  She knew he was committing adultery, but she would not divorce him. She did, however, deny him her bed, until one night, after a bout of heavy drinking and losing heavily at cards, he had forced himself on her, the result being that she fell pregnant with Octavia. She was well into her pregnancy when he again forced himself on her in a vicious and merciless manner. Because of that one, terrible night, she suspected something had happened to the child. Her fears were proved right when Octavia was born and did not progress as quickly as other infants.

  And then there was Lily—beautiful, good-natured, fun-loving Lily, with violet eyes, tumbling brown hair and a body that would rival that of Venus. His father was in Paris when Christopher had discovered passion. Lily, who was one of the parlour maids at Chalfont, was twenty years old and he was eighteen. It was easy for him to fall in love with the beautiful maid.

  He saw her first when she was in the rose garden picking blooms for the house with her hair unbound. As he watched her, she epitomised for him all the Helens and Guineveres of whom he had read. He soon became infatuated with her and Lily initiated him into the forthright pleasures of sex. Their affair lasted a year, until his father returned to Chalfont after a tour of the Continent.

  On finding his son in bed with one of the parlour maids, his father had been highly amused, remarking jovially that at least his son was a truly virile Chalfont—a chip off the old block. When his father had taken stock of Lily and felt the stirrings of arousal warming his blood, the earl could scarce believe his good fortune that Chalfont housed such a beauty. It mattered not one iota that his son was making sport with her. The girl was a member of the Lansbury household and he had the authority to take her.

  With anger and bitterness eating away at him, that was when Christopher had truly begun to hate his father.

  As for the beautiful, violet-eyed Lily—what would he not have done for her at eighteen? He’d have drunk poison to prove his love for her if she had asked him to, but so awed was she by the attentions of the earl that she lost no time in abandoning the son for the master. Christopher had lost her. How could he ever forgive her, when she had willingly betrayed him in favour of the very man who had destroyed him—and his mother? They had both been broken apart by the cold-blooded cruelty of his father.

  Hate and anger had risen in him then, the slow, deep, moving tremors of an anger so terrible he had wanted to smash something, anything, to release the explosion of hatred, of venomous, perilous, terrifying rage. He had wanted to howl dementedly at the hurt that had been done him, to maim, to kill the man who had done this to him, the man who had taken the woman whom he loved and lived to die for.

  * * *

  The following morning Maisie, the young maid who willingly turned her hand to anything and often took care of Octavia, entered the room carrying a loaded breakfast tray. She set it down on a small table and began arranging cups and plates with a good deal of self-conscious clatter. The aroma of ham, warm bread and pastry filled the room.

  Jane was standing by the window, brushing Octavia’s hair with idle strokes as she stared into the distance beyond the glass, her thoughts on the conversation she had had with Lord Lansbury the night before.

  ‘Here is your breakfast,’ Maisie said cheerfully. ‘I’m sorry it’s a bit late this morning, but cook’s had extra work with the guests wanting to dine early in order to catch the London train.’

  Octavia looked at Maisie, her little face expressionless. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said quietly, her attention taken by her beloved dog just getting up out of her basket. Falling to her knees, she put her arms about the dog, planting a kiss on its head as it stretched and yawned.

  ‘You must eat your breakfast, Lady Octavia,’ Maisie said in a no-nonsense manner. ‘Food is strength, as well you know, and I’ll thank you to come to the table.’

  Jane turned from the window and smiled. ‘I’ll get her to eat something, Maisie. She was tired after the
party and was in no hurry to get out of bed this morning.’ Sitting down at the table, she poured herself some tea while Maisie tidied the room. She smiled as she watched Octavia run after her pet into the bedroom. ‘Have you worked at Chalfont very long, Maisie?’ she asked, helping herself to ham.

  ‘Ever since I was old enough to be employed. My mum worked here all her life, before she became poorly and had to give up.’ She stopped what she was doing and glanced at Jane. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, no reason really. What was Lord Lansbury’s father like?’ Before Maisie could give an answer, Jane said, ‘I’m simply curious. I find it strange that no one ever mentions him. I get the impression that he might have been—difficult.’

  Maisie perched on the arm of a chair and nodded, glancing into Octavia’s bedroom to make sure she wasn’t listening. ‘I don’t remember him—not really. Whenever I came to the house he was never at home—abroad somewhere or in London. My mum never said much—she always liked Lady Lansbury, you see, and didn’t want to be disloyal. But he wasn’t a nice man and when he was here he made Lady Lansbury’s life a misery—and his lordship’s, whose life was brought low by the behaviour of his father.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Jane was genuinely moved by what Maisie told her.

  ‘I’m not saying anything that isn’t generally known, you understand. The old earl was an inveterate gambler—besides which...well, there were other things, but his gambling made him notorious. Mum said he was a member of some very unsavoury clubs in town and that Lady Lansbury was forced to put up with his many affairs, which he flaunted shamelessly. Oh, yes, he liked to drink and gamble and spend time with accommodating women of the town—guided by the devil, my mum said. When he died he was in London. Lord Lansbury was with him. Some say he died in dubious circumstances, but nothing is known for certain. It was all very hush-hush at the time.’

  Shaking her head, Maisie got up when Octavia came from the bedroom and sat at the table, her dog in her lap. ‘I’d better go. There are beds to strip and rooms to clean.’

  ‘And they won’t get done while you are talking to me. Thank you, Maisie. When we have finished breakfast I’ll take the pots to the kitchen myself.’

  When Maisie had left and Octavia was eating her breakfast and feeding Poppy at the same time, Jane reflected on what Maisie had told her. She felt a lump of constricting sorrow in her chest, deeply moved by what she had learnt, which went a long way to helping her understand why Lord Lansbury was reluctant to speak of his father.

  * * *

  Hearing the stable clock strike ten, Jane went down to the great hall to collect some post that had just been delivered. She was expecting correspondence from both her father’s publisher and his lawyer.

  Seeing that several guests were on the point of leaving, she hung back. Carriages were drawn up outside the house to take them to the railway station. Mr Spelling and his daughter were walking down the steps to one of the carriages, where a footman was holding the door open for them. As they climbed into the back, poker-faced, Miss Spelling looked to where Lord Lansbury was standing with his mother. Having said their goodbyes, they were waiting for the carriage to drive off.

  Jane picked up her post and opened a letter she suspected was from Mr Shadwell, the solicitor. It was, and he was writing to inform her that he had at last finalised the details concerning her father’s inheritance and he would appreciate it if she would call to see him at her earliest convenience. Folding the letter and replacing it in the envelope, she realised it would mean going to London. She was about to go back up the stairs when Lady Lansbury spotted her.

  ‘How are you this morning, Jane? Not too tired, I hope, after yesterday.’

  ‘No, not at all. It was a lovely party. I expect you will welcome the quiet now your guests have gone.’

  ‘It’s always nice to see everyone, but I confess I am ready for a little peace and quiet. Christopher is to leave for London tomorrow afternoon.’ A worried frown creased her brow. ‘He is to arrange for the sale of our London house. It may have to go, I’m afraid. We don’t spend a great deal of time there so it will be no great loss, but it’s a lovely house. Octavia finds the din of traffic along the cobbled streets and the press of people on the pavements nightmarish. She’s more accustomed to the quiet isolation of the countryside.’

  ‘When I arrived in London I found it exactly like that, so I cannot blame her.’

  ‘It’s the end of July so at least London will be quiet. The aristocracy move out of town at this time of year, on their way to their yachts at Cowes or shooting boxes in Scotland,’ Lady Lansbury explained. She glanced at the letters in Jane’s hands. ‘You have some correspondence, I see.’

  ‘Yes. One of the letters is from my father’s solicitor. I’m afraid it means that I shall have to go to London.’

  ‘Then you must go. In fact, I see no reason why you cannot travel with Christopher tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh—but I couldn’t possibly—I mean... I couldn’t impose myself on him.’

  ‘Nonsense. I don’t like to think of you travelling alone. His valet and one of the maids are to travel with him, so there will be no impropriety. And don’t worry about Octavia. With Maisie’s help I will make sure she is occupied until you return. But don’t stay away too long. The house won’t be the same without you.’

  Directing her attention to her son who had seen the last carriage on its way and was now walking back to the house, she sighed. ‘I must confess that at times I am concerned about Christopher. He works so hard to restore Chalfont to what it was in his grandfather’s day. Things are not as bad as they were and he is convinced that his financial embarrassment will be resolved shortly.’

  ‘Perhaps marriage to Miss Spelling will help.’

  ‘Oh, but there is to be no marriage. There will be no proposal.’

  Jane’s heart lurched with surprised delight. ‘But—I thought...’

  Lady Lansbury arched her brows. ‘What? That he would propose to her? So did I, and he did consider the matter—agonised over it, in fact. But my son is a fiercely proud man, Jane, and he has begun to realise that he cannot allow a woman to take on his debts. I believe Mr Spelling was a little put out when Christopher didn’t declare himself but, well, there we are.’

  Jane looked past her as Lord Lansbury strode towards them. She had not been mistaken in his character. He was a man of honour and pride, and she admired that.

  ‘Having received some correspondence from her father’s solicitor, Jane has an important matter to discuss, Christopher.’

  With his eyes as intense as hunting falcon’s locked on hers, he was relieved that he had just relegated Lydia Spelling to the past. His decision to do so had more than a little to do with Miss Mortimer and their conversation of the night before. ‘Really? Tell me. I’m listening.’

  Jane could feel him watching her with that intense stare, but her heart still pounded with the news that he was not going to marry Miss Spelling after all. Surely this was the miracle she had been praying for, even though it would not change anything for her.

  ‘No—I mean, really it should not concern you.’

  ‘But of course it does, Jane,’ Lady Lansbury prompted. ‘Jane has to go to London to see her father’s solicitor. I told her that since you are to go yourself tomorrow, she might accompany you. I’m sure you will agree, Christopher. I would feel so much better if she didn’t have to travel alone. Now, excuse me. I’ll go and see Octavia while you make your arrangements.’

  ‘Of course you must accompany me,’ Christopher said. ‘What do you say, Miss Mortimer?’

  Impaled on his gaze, Jane stared at him. Perilously close to losing her composure, but unable to shake his, she sighed, lowering her gaze as she considered the matter. She had already decided there was more to Christopher Chalfont than she had realised. Beneath the hard veneer there was
an aloof strength and a powerful charisma that had nothing to do with his good looks or that mocking smile of his that was locked away behind an unbreachable wall. That was his appeal—the challenge. He made her—and probably every woman of his acquaintance—want to penetrate that wall, to find the person behind it.

  ‘I—I had not thought of going immediately,’ she lied. He had no reason to oblige her, she knew, and she did not wish to seem pushy or rude, imposing herself on him. The thought of being with him for the journey on the train to London should have had her leaping with joy, but instead it filled her with trepidation. But Lady Lansbury had told her Lord Lansbury’s valet and a maid would also be going, so she wouldn’t be entirely alone with him.

  A slow, teasing smile appeared on his lips and his strongly marked brows were slightly raised, his eyes glowing with humour. ‘Why do you hesitate?’

  Hot faced and perplexed, a certain innocence in her large, liquid eyes, Jane was suddenly shy of him. There was something in his eyes today that made her feel it was impossible to look at him. There was also something in his voice that brought so many new and conflicting themes in her heart and mind that she did not know how to speak to him.

  ‘I do not wish to impose,’ she replied.

  ‘You won’t be. I would welcome your company.’

  Meeting his gaze, Jane couldn’t resist smiling. ‘Very well. Thank you.’

  He arched a sleek black brow, amused. ‘Good. Then that’s settled. We’ll leave here after lunch to catch the two o’clock train.’

  Jane felt a sudden quiver run through her as she slipped away from him, a sudden quickening within as if something came to life. She went up the stairs in awed bewilderment, feeling his eyes burning holes into her back as she went. It was a while before she could breathe properly.

  * * *

  In deep reflection, Christopher watched her walk away. Angrily he attacked his sentimental thoughts until they cowered in meek submission, but they refused to lie down. His fascination with Jane Mortimer was more disquieting than his decision not to propose to Lydia—in fact, it was damned annoying. If he wanted an affair or diversion of any kind, he had a string of some of the most beautiful women in the country to choose from—so why should he feel drawn to a twenty-one-year-old woman who had infiltrated her way into his thoughts and his home? He liked her. He liked her company. He liked talking to her.