“But a most eligible bachelor now.”
“Yes, most eligible, indeed.”
Lenore was persistent. “And did he accept?”
Agatha grinned. “He did.”
Lenore set down her teacup, consumed by a fit of giggles. “Oh, Agatha,” she murmured, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. “This is going to be the best Christmas party ever.” Her eyes sparkled with warmth and delight. “And just when is he supposed to arrive?”
At that moment, there was movement beyond the great windows that overlooked the front garden, a flash of color and the thunder of a well-matched team, and Lady Weston put down her own teacup.
“Why, Lenore, I believe he just did.”
* * *
Tristan personally oversaw the stabling of his team, watching in quiet approval as the Weston grooms unhitched the two matched blacks, rubbed them down, and set them up with bran mash and hay in adjoining stalls. He shivered and rubbed his hands together, trying to generate some warmth. Outside, the weather had turned cold, gray, and raw. While there was warmth awaiting him in the big house itself, he would have been quite happy to linger here in the stable for another hour ... or two ... or more, despite the cold. The long trip down from Norfolk over muddy, rutted roads had taxed his energy and his spirits, reminding him of all the work he could have been doing had he stayed home, reminding him of his loneliness ... and reminding him of the distance that was now between himself and the girl back in Norfolk, her identity still a mystery he intended to solve.
And now he would be expected to make conversation, participate in what was likely a full schedule of dull and boring activities, and flirt with or even offer for one of the young ladies that Stephen said would be in attendance.
Stephen, who had a broodmare he wanted Tristan’s opinion on.
And it couldn’t have waited until spring?
“Mama needs to make some numbers on her house party,” Stephen had written, when a reply to his first note hadn’t been immediately forthcoming. “You’re up there rattling around in that old pile of yours, Tristan. Come on down to Leeds in Kent, make some merry, meet some ladies, and see this mare of mine. You know you want to....”
What he knew was that he had a ton of things left undone back home, and being here at this ridiculous house party was the last thing he ought to be doing.
I don’t have time for this. I really don’t.
But he was here now, and he could not spend the next few days hiding out here in the stable, no matter how appealing he found the idea compared to the activities and expectations that surely awaited him inside Rivercrest Hall over the next few days.
Satisfied that the horses were being well cared for and suddenly overcome by a deep and resigned weariness, Tristan turned, and wanting nothing more than rest and a hot bath before the party kicked off with tonight’s planned dinner and entertainment, headed for the house.
He had several hours before he’d be expected to be witty, charming, engaging and presentable.
He intended to make good use of them.
Chapter 7
“You will wear the rose silk for the dinner this evening, Letitia,” said her mother in a tone that brooked no argument. “It goes better with your complexion than the lavender.”
“But I like the lavender.”
“Be that as it may, the lavender does not like you.”
Letitia’s mouth grew mulish.
“If you are to make a worthy match, you should set your coloring off to its best advantage, not sabotage yourself with a color that makes you look sallow.”
“Mama, you don’t understand current fashions. You ... are of a different time and place.”
“Are you saying, my dear, that I am—” she smiled, lips quivering with suppressed laughter—“old?”
“Of course not! But fashion has changed since you were my age, and lavender is a popular color amongst my set. I wish to wear it.”
Her mother stood there for a long moment, not saying a word. Then she gave a dramatic sigh and tilted her jaw as she studied her daughter. “Very well, then. Wear the lavender. If you like it so much then it’s sure to give you confidence, and if you’re to net Mr. Homer Trout, then confidence is the name of the game. Yes. Yes, do wear the lavender after all ... what was I thinking?”
She swept out of the small attached dressing room to Letitia’s bedroom, leaving her daughter frowning.
Mama is behaving very strangely. Something is going on here and I wish I could put my finger on it.
She had discussed the matter at length with her friends Prudence, Winnie, and Jane, who was so starry-eyed in love with the all-too-quiet but intriguing Lord Athmore that her mind was of little use in helping to figure a way out of the Homer Trout Situation. But Winnie and Pru also sensed that something was up, and the three of them had pledged to be on their guards during the upcoming meal that was to be the great opener to this Christmastide house party.
Rose versus lavender.
One that flattered her complexion or one that was guaranteed to repel?
In the end, she decided against them both, and went with a soft apple-green tied under the bosom with a simple band of French lace.
“A perfect choice, m’lady,” said her maid, Beryl. “It sets off the gold in your hair.”
“I’m not sure I wouldn’t have been better off setting off the brown,” she said ruefully, because the last thing she wanted to do was make Homer Trout sit up and take notice of her.
The green was a good compromise. A quiet but unmistakable defiance of her mother’s wishes, and yet not downright suicidal like the lavender.
She smiled, dabbed a bit of lavender water on her wrists and behind her ears, and went to find her mother.
She’d gotten lavender in after all.
* * *
A beautiful room of paneled walls and damask hangings, ancient portraits in gilt frames, glimpses as he stood in the small crush waiting to be announced into the dining room, of a long table that glittered with silver, china and crystal. Boughs of evergreen on a mantel, laughter, and people in beautiful clothes already taking their seats. The day had been gray, the night chilly and damp but here inside, the candles burning in a great chandelier overhead, in sconces on the walls, and on the table, the warm glow lent an ambience to the setting that was festive and welcoming. As he peered over the glittering gold epaulets of a Royal Navy captain who was coldly assessing the dark-haired man whom his friend Stephen was engaging in conversation nearby, Tristan resisted the urge to pull out his watch.
I don’t have time for this, he thought for the twentieth time this hour.
It was going to be a long night.
Around him came the sound of voices, feminine laughter, the low buzz of conversation, more laughter. People were in jovial spirits with the exception of the naval captain, who was coldly raking Stephen’s friend with a visual broadside meant to sink. Maybe this evening would promise more entertainment than what might have been scheduled by the hostess, Tristan thought wryly.
“The Marquess and Marchioness of Carlisle.”
The butler’s voice droned on, and the milling crush in which Tristan was caught took a few steps closer to the great double doors to the dining room. He found himself engaged in idle small talk with Stephen’s friend, the tall, dark-haired fellow the naval captain had now pointedly turned his back on—“believes all that drivel that I’m a pirate, he does ... Christopher Chance, glad to make your acquaintance”— and noted the twittering giggles of two young ladies trying to observe him, unnoticed, over their fans. The smell of something delicious was coming from the dining room. He found his attention drifting, even as his stomach sent up a plaintive growl that was drowned beneath the din around him. He was in no hurry to be announced; his bored pose and tamped-down urge to pull out his watch was not pretense, but a helpless reflection of how he felt. There was a slow, nagging pain building at the base of his skull, and he began to crave fresh air.
Two hours, maybe thre
e. That’s all the time I’ll need to invest in this tedious thing before we get to repair to some library for brandy and cigars. Two meager hours. I can do this.
For the hundredth time since he’d set out from Norfolk, he wondered why he was here. Surely, it wasn’t just to see Stephen’s new horse, or to make Lady Weston happy by adding to the number of eligible bachelors. It was no secret that he was an eligible bachelor, but Tristan was hard-pressed to name any marriages—aside from the one his sister and her veterinarian-husband, Colin, enjoyed—that yielded happiness, mutual contentment, and an abiding, enduring, ever-growing love.
You put so much into the estate, your inheritance, the Norfolk Thoroughbreds. Don’t you owe it to them to take a wife? To fulfill the requirement you owe that inheritance?
Maybe, in some way even he could not acknowledge, he’d come here hoping to find a wife ... even though he did not want a marriage based on necessity, practicality and the continuation of a family line, as so many ton marriages were. He did not want to pick out a wife the same way he would select new bloodstock for his farm; checking the teeth, assessing the physical beauty, determining intelligence and in the case of a prospective mate, her suitability for running his household. Most of the twittering bird-brains to whom he’d been introduced since he’d inherited the title had him bored within ten minutes, in almost physical pain after twenty, and he could not imagine spending his life shackled to such a person.
No, when he married, it would be to a woman who shared his passions, his interests, and whose strengths and weaknesses complemented his own.
He wanted a marriage like Ari had with her beloved Colin.
Damn, damn, damn about that little lad who’d turned out to be an elusive female. He’d give his eyeteeth—hell, he’d even give Amir—to find out who she was. She was unique, spirited, intriguing, and she’d made him laugh. She loved horses. In his very bones, he knew that they would have had a lot of fun together, that life with one such as her would never get old, or dull, or unhappy....
“The Earl and Countess of Portland, Viscount Munthorpe, and Lady Winifred Grisham.”
The press moved closer to the door. Discreetly, he pulled out his watch and was just glancing at its face when again he heard feminine laughter coming from one of a group of young ladies about to enter the dining room. He looked up to peruse its source just as its owner, seemingly partnered with Captain Cold Eyes and chaperoned by an attractive woman of middle years, turned to look over her shoulder at the people milling behind her....
Tristan dropped the watch.
Their gazes collided across fifteen feet of space, past a half-dozen hungry guests waiting to be announced, and held.
Breeches and a cap hiding glorious honey-brown hair ... pert, lively sea-blue eyes, a full and impish mouth, and memories of a kiss that had not left him since she’d fled the stable in distant Norfolk.
No.
It couldn’t be.
But by the shocked, wide-eyed look in her eyes and the stunned “O” to her mouth, he knew that it was.
“Viscountess Penmore, Captain Simon Ponsonby, and the Honourable Miss Letitia Ponsonby.”
Letitia.
Ledyard
Lettie.
And then she, still staring wide-eyed at him, was pulled through and out of their shared and momentary trance and into the dining room, leaving him feeling as though he’d just been kicked in the chest, his heart fighting to regain its beat, his lungs to reclaim their air.
His pulse grew loud. Louder. So loud that he no longer heard the small crowd around him, the laughter from within and without, the chime of a clock somewhere off to his right. He retrieved his watch. His head buzzed with delighted shock and he suddenly forgot that he was bored, that he was lonely, that he had no time to be here and that this was the last place in the world that he wanted to be.
In that moment, it became the only place in the world that he wanted to be.
He became downright impatient to get into that room, to be near her, to make his claim on her from the naval captain ... what had they said his name was? Did it matter?
Lady Letitia Ponsonby.
That was the only name that mattered.
“The Earl of Weybourne.”
The butler’s announcement shook him from his racing thoughts, kicked up his heartbeat even more, made a flutter of anticipation dry the back of his throat. He wiped suddenly damp palms on his coattails, made an unnecessary adjustment to his stock and walked boldly into the room.
No.
Yes.
He was being directed to the empty seat beside her, the seating arrangement male, female, male, female....
Oh, yes.
He took his seat, leaned back as a footman splashed sparkling wine into his glass, and looked at the young woman beside him.
“The Honourable Miss Letitia Ponsonby, eh?” he murmured, with a slow, warm smile meant to disarm. By the sudden flush that started at the base of her throat and spread upward to the roots of her hair, he knew he’d been successful in doing just that. “It is good, very good, to meet you again ... Lettie. Though this is the last place I expected to find an errant lad whom I’ve spent the better part of the last week trying to find.”
She was battling to control her blush, now grabbing at her fan and beating it madly to direct air toward her face. “You were looking in the wrong place, my lord.”
“Why did you run off?” he demanded, for her ears alone. “Why did you not tell me who you were?”
“Because if you knew who I was and word got out, my reputation would have been in shreds.”
“Gentlemen never tell.”
“I think I ... need some fresh air,” she said, flustered.
“And do you know what I think?”
She swallowed hard and her fan beat a little faster.
“I think this dreary, boring house party just got a whole lot more interesting by the very fact that you’re here and part of it.”
On her opposite side the naval captain, his thick, glossy hair stylishly cut and hopelessly tousled, turned to look at Tristan with a penetrating gaze that could cut through fog. “I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance,” he said tersely. “Though it is obvious that you have made my sister’s.”
His sister. Relief washed over him. Sister.
Thank God.
“Ah, you heard that, did you?” Tristan murmured, caught.
“Keen hearing is a family trait.”
Tristan reached around behind the lady’s back and extended his hand. “Tristan St. Aubyn,” he said.
The naval captain’s grip was hard and firm, and a taciturn smile broke the tanned hardness of his face. “Simon Ponsonby.” His gaze cut to the back of his sister’s head and then to Tristan’s once more. “I am sure we have a lot to ... discuss.”
The implication was clear. Based on what he’d just heard, Ponsonby thought he’d played fast and loose with his sister’s honor and was expecting him to either meet him at dawn with swords or pistols—or make an offer for her.
The lady herself turned to look at her brother, her eyes wide as she also caught the implication. “Simon!” she whispered fiercely. “It’s not what you think!”
“Is it not?”
Tristan took a sip from his wine glass. “Do not distress yourself, Miss Ponsonby. I will be quite glad to discuss certain matters with your brother. Perhaps after dinner, Captain?”
The officer gave him a level stare. “You may depend on it.”
Tristan inclined his head in assent. Permission to court the girl. They’d discuss that, and nothing more. At least, not yet. But would that be enough for Ponsonby? He didn’t need to make an enemy of the man, though in that moment the bright eyes of Lady Penmore, so like her daughter’s, met his from across the table and he saw the laughter brimming in their depths.
“You must excuse my son,” she said, as one of several liveried footmen now serving the table placed the first course before her. “He forgets that battles reall
y should be confined to the sea.”
The naval captain might have rolled his eyes, but even he was not beyond the reach of maternal authority, and he raised his glass in a wry little toast to his mother before turning his silent, assessing gaze on Christopher Chance, the rumored pirate, who was seated a ways down the table.
He might have let the matter go, but his mother did not. Lady Penmore’s approach was altogether different from her son’s, though her objective was obviously the same.
“So it seems that the two of you have met,” she continued, eyeing Tristan with a mixture of assessment, delight, and cunning observation that she quickly masked with an overly open smile. “And where might that have been? I do not recall you being around for any of the recent Seasons.”
“Indeed, my lady, I have not been.”
“Why not?”
Tristan’s gaze met hers across the table. Boldness and direct questioning seemed to be a hallmark of this family, and it was actually quite refreshing.
He could give her the same respect.
“I have not been in the market for a wife.”
“And are you now?”
“Mama!” hissed her daughter, going red with embarrassment once more.
“I confess that it was not my intent to look for one when I accepted this invitation,” Tristan said carefully, wishing he could discreetly reach out and grasp Miss Letitia’s hand beneath the tablecloth in reassurance and simply for the pleasure of touching her, “but a fellow’s intentions are always subject to change.”
She smiled, the gesture hinting at the cunning he’d glimpsed a moment ago, so briefly shown and so quickly disguised. He hoped to God she wouldn’t ask again how he and her daughter had met, because he’d pointedly not answered the question. If she did persist, he’d be obligated to tell the truth to one as discerning as he perceived Lady Penmore to be, and this was a situation that could quickly spiral out of his control if he were not careful.
Especially with her son the naval captain just waiting for him to make a misstep.
Scandal At Christmas_A Christmas Novella Page 5
