A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  ‘I should go back to the house,’ she said hastily. Forgetting her shoe, forgetting her hurt foot, she jumped up and dashed from the temple. She limped as fast as she could along the pathway and up the steps to the terrace, only to be brought up short by the sight of her brother-in-law.

  Drew leaned against the stone balustrade, a cheroot between his fingers. For a moment she feared he had seen her with Dominick in the temple, but he said nothing and went on staring out into the night. His handsome young face looked solemn, as if he, too, carried the weight of all the Bassington troubles on his shoulders.

  She thought of going to him, of sharing their problems as they had ever since William had died, but she was too tired and confused. She couldn’t tell anyone about Dominick, not even Drew, who had become like her own brother. So she just slipped into the house, avoiding the laughter in the drawing room as she hurried up to her own chamber.

  Surely everything would seem much clearer in the morning, and she would feel like herself again. Like sensible, practical, cool-headed Lady Derrington. Silly, romantic, impulsive Mary Smythe was gone.

  Dominick leaned against the marble pillar, watching Mary run away from him across the gardens. With her dark hair and deep purple gown she seemed a part of the night, but her pale face glowed.

  Mary Smythe—no, Lady Derrington. She was here, at Welbourne Manor, surely the last place he would expect to find her. If he had known she was here, would he have refused the invitation—or would he have come much sooner?

  He slammed his hand against the cold stone, but nothing could erase the image in his mind of her dark eyes, as startled and delicate as a doe’s, when he’d touched her foot. Mary, Mary. How hard he had worked to forget her! He’d thought he had forgotten her, the sweet memory of their youthful kisses buried in so many other beds, so many card games and fights. What were the innocent smiles of Mary Smythe to all that?

  But now he saw he had never really forgotten at all. The reality of her presence, of the beautiful woman she had become, only sharpened those old memories. When he’d touched her, smelled the lavender perfume she still wore, such a fierce longing had swept over him. He’d wanted to lean down, to kiss her foot, caress the warm curve of her leg and make her cry out with need.

  He curled his hand into a tight fist. Her parents had once thought him not good enough for her, and they had been quite right. He had been a reckless, romantic young man, full of futile dreams. How much worse would he be for her now, with scandals by the score attached to his name?

  The one honourable thing he had ever done in his life was letting Mary Smythe go. He wouldn’t ruin that good deed now by pursuing Lady Derrington. No matter how much he still wanted her.

  Chapter One

  London, December, Two Years Later

  ‘But I love him! And he loves me. Why can we not be happy? It is so unfair!’

  Mary closed her eyes and sighed deeply as she listened to her sister’s sobs. Poor Ginny. She very much feared romantic matters would end no better for her sister than they had for her own seventeen-year-old self, when she had been so infatuated with Dominick she hadn’t been able to see straight. She also feared she was now turning into their mother.

  We must all grow up and be sensible sooner or later, she thought as Ginny cried on. Being sensible wasn’t such an entirely bad thing. It saved a woman much grief and vexation if she could just see life as it was, and not as a romantic novel.

  So why, then, if she was such a sensible widow now, did she feel so achingly sad?

  Ginny gave another frustrated shriek, and Mary opened her eyes to see her sister flop down on a brocade chaise, her pretty face streaked with tears. Poor Ginny. She was the youngest of Mary’s three younger sisters, the last one unmarried. Cynthia had married a clergyman with a fine living, Elizabeth a country baronet much like their own father.

  But none had wed so well as Mary, to the Earl of Derrington. Now that she was widowed and alone, after the terrible death of her son a year ago, it had seemed a good idea to offer to launch Ginny. Maybe having her sister to live with her in London would distract her from her grief and the sadness that never seemed to end.

  Maybe it would even distract her from those memories of meeting Dominick again that summer at Welbourne Manor, of hearing his voice say her name and feeling his touch on her almost bare foot. The feeling of not being so lonely, just for a moment. She just had to forget Dominick again, that was all, and the bustle and noise of launching Ginny into Society had seemed a good way to do that. It had seemed to work at first. Town did offer many diversions for a young lady. Even though the Season was over, there was shopping to be done, plays to be seen, even a few parties to attend. Ginny was very lively company, and Mary had been enjoying getting to know her sister again. Being with family made the ache of loss seem a bit less. All had seemed to be going well enough. They had even looked forward to the bustle of the Christmas holidays.

  Until Ginny had fallen in love with young Captain Heelis. Dominick’s own cousin. Nothing had been peaceful since.

  ‘It is so unfair,’ Ginny wailed again. ‘I thought the purpose of my coming to London was to find a husband. So why am I not allowed to marry the man I love?’

  Mary folded her hands on top of her desk, taking in a deep breath. ‘Because Captain Heelis, though an admirable young man in many ways, does not yet have the income to take care of a wife and family,’ she said, for what felt like the twentieth time.

  ‘Income!’ Ginny rolled over, burying her face in the cushions so only her rumpled auburn curls, redder and prettier than Mary’s own brown ones, were visible. ‘Who cares about such trifles when there is love?’

  Mary pressed her lips together to keep from laughing aloud. ‘You will certainly think better of that, dear Ginny, when you find love cannot put a roof over your head or food on your table—or buy the pretty gowns you like so much. You will especially think better of it when you have children.’

  Children—they changed everything. She well remembered that feeling when she’d held her baby in her arms, and the terrible ache when he was gone. Children changed a woman’s life completely.

  But Ginny, who had never had to worry about such matters, thanks to Mary’s advantageous marriage, seemed most unconvinced. ‘Captain Heelis has excellent prospects.’

  ‘Prospects don’t put shoes on children’s feet,’ said Mary, feeling more like her mother every moment. In fact, she was quite sure Jane Smythe had said something very similar when Mary had wanted to marry Dominick, who had not yet inherited the Amesby viscountcy and estate. ‘Society will now be open to all your sisters,’ her mother had said, when Mary had cried and wanted to refuse Derrington. ‘None of us will have to worry again. Would you be selfish enough to turn all that away?’

  In the end, Mary had been selfless so her sisters would not have to be. Now she didn’t want to marry again, ever. She just wanted to take care of her family the best she could. But that didn’t mean Ginny should marry a handsome, penniless officer, even one with connections like Viscount Amesby! Mary’s jointure could not support them all.

  ‘Oh, Mary!’ Ginny cried, kicking her feet. ‘You have become so stodgy and stuffy. You’ve probably never been in love, so you can’t know how I feel.’

  Could she not? Mary remembered that terrible, aching longing she had felt as she had looked down at Dominick in the Welbourne moonlight. And further back, all those years ago, the tearing feeling that she would die if she couldn’t be with the man she loved. The agony of young love thwarted.

  That pain faded, though. It became nothing more than a dull ache, pushed far down in the secret recesses of her heart.

  ‘I do know how you feel,’ she said quietly. ‘Being in love can be glorious. But sometimes it cannot give you a safe, suitable life.’

  ‘I don’t care about safe!’

  ‘Not now, perhaps. But when you are older, when you have children, you will. You are so young, Ginny dear, and so is Captain Heelis. You have time to conside
r your choices.’

  ‘I will never feel any differently about Captain Heelis,’ Ginny protested. ‘Time will change nothing.’

  ‘Then you will not mind waiting.’

  Ginny gave another frustrated scream. She leaped up from the chaise and ran out of the drawing room, slamming the door behind her. The loud bang reverberated through the quiet house.

  Mary stared out of the window at the leaden grey evening sky, suddenly so tired. This was not at all how she had pictured her Christmas season! It was her first Christmas in her own pretty townhouse, away from Derrington Hall at last. Her husband and his dour mother had never cared for Christmas, as her own family had, so she hadn’t celebrated properly in years. And since little Will had died she hadn’t wanted to celebrate anything at all. The world had seemed all black and empty.

  For too long there had been no colour or laughter in her life, no merry Christmases, and she found she wanted them again. She daydreamed about greenery and mulled wine, music and feeling just the tiniest bit alive again. But now those wistful dreams were dissolving in quarrels, memories, and cold grey skies.

  Mary pushed back from the desk and her unanswered letters, hurrying to the window as she drew her warm Indian shawl closer around her. The street below was nearly deserted, empty but for one carriage rattling past and one maidservant hurrying on her way, laden with packages. Everyone who had not left Town for a country Christmas was wisely huddled indoors, away from the cold wind.

  Mary shivered, remembering that Welbourne summer party. The sunny blue skies, the picnics, the laughter. Seeing Dominick again. There, for a few days, things had seemed almost hopeful. She had quite forgotten what fun was like, and it was wondrous.

  But now she was certainly back to reality, back to being sensible and dutiful.

  As she reached for the satin drapery to pull it closed she caught a glimpse of something bright out in the gloom, a flash of red against the endless grey winter. She peered closer, and saw it was Captain Heelis’s red coat. He stood out in the wind, staring up at the house with sad longing written on his handsome face.

  Mary’s heart ached for him, and for her sister. First love could be so terrible. It could rip at the heart and leave a person feeling like nothing but a hollow shell. A human with only a half-life.

  She pulled the draperies tight over the pitiful sight, as if she could conceal all her old feelings along with it. Ginny and Captain Heelis would have to learn, just as she had. They all had to learn the terrible taste of loss.

  Mary left the drawing room, hurrying up the stairs as the servants came in to light candles against the gathering night. It was good they had already planned a quiet evening at home, as Ginny was obviously in no condition to be among company. Choked sobs echoed from behind her closed door.

  She was too tired to talk to her sister again. Ginny never listened anyway, and Mary had begun to feel like a trained parrot, reciting the same words over and over again. She turned on the landing, going up to the nursery on the second floor. She knew she would find no solace there, yet she was drawn to that room. She would just sit there for a few moments, and remember.

  The nursery was cold and dark, the air full of the staleness of disuse. Of loneliness and sadness. But the old crib was still there, covered with canvas dustcloths like ghosts. The toys were piled up in the corner, the little clothes carefully folded and packed away in a trunk, even though no small hands would reach for them again.

  Mary slowly sat down in the abandoned chair, staring out at the silent, shadowed nursery. Her chest ached with a physical pain that never seemed to really go away. It was duller than the sharp, deathly ache it once had been, but still there. Always there. And sometimes she was afraid it would go away, and take the last vestige of her son with it.

  It was over a year since little Will had died, swept away so fast by that fever. So many children in London had been lost to that illness. Surely it should not still hurt so? Her own mother constantly urged her to move forward, to marry again and have more children. Yet how could she? She hadn’t been able to protect even one.

  Mary stared at the covered crib and remembered Will’s tousled dark curls, his plump pink cheeks. The sweet, sleepy way he would call out ‘Mama!’ and hold his arms to her for a hug. When it was bedtime he had always been exhausted from running as fast as he could all day, trying to embrace all life had to offer. He and Ginny had been so alike in that way—always grabbing for their desires with both hands, heedless of any consequences.

  She’d tried to hold them back, to keep them safe. But she had failed. How could she do all this alone, when she was so very tired?

  Mary pressed her hands to her eyes, which ached with unshed tears. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. She didn’t know if she talked to Will, Ginny or herself.

  Chapter Two

  How wonderful ancient statues were, Mary thought as she strolled through the British Museum, passing between rows of marble gods and goddesses. They were so beautiful—and so blessedly silent. Not one of them sighed and wept; none of them stormed away from the breakfast table in a fit of high emotion. Perhaps in the old tales the gods had thrown thunderbolts and quarrelled and ruined the lives of mortals, but here in the museum they just stood on their pedestals, gazing down with empty eyes on the passers-by.

  Not that there were very many of them today. The cold weather had kept sensible people away, but not Mary. She’d had to escape her house, which was now a vale of tears, for an hour or two. The museum had seemed just the place to do that.

  Mary tucked her hands deeper into her fur muff, gazing up at Artemis as she pointed her stone bow into the distance. Surely the virgin goddess of the moon had it right—men and love were nothing but trouble.

  ‘Lady Derrington!’ she heard someone call, and turned to see Sir Edward and Lady Quickley hurrying towards her. Their daughter Angelica trailed behind them, looking bored by all the ancient culture around her. She and Ginny had become bosom bows in the last few weeks, and Mary knew for a fact the two of them much preferred fashion papers to art.

  ‘Sir Edward, Lady Quickley,’ Mary said. ‘I am glad to see I’m not the only one who dares to venture forth on such a dreary day.’

  ‘And they say it’s going to get much worse before Christmas!’ Sir Edward said cheerfully, as if he relished a good winter storm.

  ‘We’re leaving for the country tomorrow,’ his wife added. ‘Which is why we wanted one more look at the marbles before we left.’

  ‘Very wise of you,’ Mary said. ‘My sister and I plan to spend our holiday here in Town.’

  ‘Is Ginny with you today?’ Angelica asked. ‘I do so want to tell her about my new bonnet before I am dragged away to the country!’

  ‘She didn’t come with me to the museum, but I’m sure she would enjoy a visit from you this afternoon, Miss Quickley,’ said Mary. Perhaps a nice coze with her friend was just what Ginny needed to distract her.

  After chatting about Christmas plans for a few more minutes, the Quickleys departed and Mary went on to the next gallery, alone again in the echoing silence.

  But not entirely alone, she saw with a shock. Dominick was there, examining a case of antiquities. The dim grey light from the high windows gleamed on his bright hair.

  Mary took a step backwards, as if to flee, but he glanced up and saw her there. For an instant an unguarded smile of surprised welcome touched his lips. But it quickly faded into wariness, and he gave her a polite bow.

  She looked back longingly over her shoulder, but even as she thought to flee she knew she could not. It would be craven and silly to run away from him again, as she had at Welbourne.

  She straightened her shoulders and walked towards him as if it was the most normal thing in the world for them to be face to face. ‘Lord Amesby. Such a surprise to see you here.’

  ‘Because you think I do not care for art or history?’ he said with a laugh. ‘Only horses?’

  Horses—and cards, and women. ‘I don’t know what you car
e for,’ she said, and was surprised at how true that was. It had been so long since she had seen Dominick—years before the Welbourne summer party. She’d heard gossip about him often, yet knew so little of the real man now. And she found she longed to know far more. She wanted it so much it made her heart ache all over again.

  ‘I don’t see how anyone could fail to care about something so very beautiful,’ he said, gesturing to a small marble statue in the case.

  Mary glanced down to see a Grecian lady, her hair carved into perfect curls, her draperies falling around her slim body in fluid lines. She held a basket of flowers balanced delicately on her shoulder, and a small, secret smile curved her lips.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Persephone.’

  Persephone—snatched away from her sunlit life by the god of the Underworld. The first elopement. ‘Do you have some—affinity with her story?’ Mary said carefully, thinking of Lady Newcombe.

  ‘I fear I am no scholar of ancient myths,’ Dominick answered. ‘I like her because she looks like you.’

  ‘Me?’ Mary examined the statue closer. It made her want to laugh and blush like a schoolgirl to think he considered her so pretty. To think that he considered her at all.

  ‘And what of you?’ he said. He leaned closer as they both looked at Persephone, not touching but near enough that she could feel his warmth. ‘Do you visit a favourite statue today?’

  ‘There are many pieces I love here. But I confess I mostly came for the quiet.’

  ‘The quiet?’

  ‘Yes.’ She peeked at him from the corner of her eye to find he watched her very closely. No wonder all the ladies sighed for him—he still had that wondrous gift of making a woman feel herself the only person in the world. The only person he cared about. ‘You see, my youngest sister has come to stay with me.’