A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  She looped the handles of the basket over her arm and followed the young couple to the house. As she neared the gravelled drive she heard the pounding of hooves and turned to see Dominick galloping towards her.

  Her breath caught as she watched him. He was so beautiful, so powerful. He had always been a good horseman; now he seemed one with the horse, moving so elegantly. His head was uncovered, his hair gleaming like old gold in the greyish light, tousled over his brow. He laughed as the horse wheeled around—a sound full of pure, joyful freedom.

  It made Mary laugh, too. She hurried near him as he reined in the restive horse.

  ‘So that is where you disappeared to this morning—off for a ride,’ Mary said. ‘I should have known.’

  Dominick patted the horse’s glossy neck, and the beast pawed happily at the ground. ‘Aunt Beatrice said he hadn’t been properly exercised in a while, poor thing. I took him for a gallop into the village.’

  And Dominick was certainly good at properly exercising—as Mary well knew. To cover her sudden blush, she reached up to stroke the horse’s velvety nose. ‘Are you sure you weren’t just trying to get out of collecting holly for your aunt’s decorations?’

  He laughed, swinging down from the saddle to stand close to her. She smelled the warmth of him in the cold air, the heady scent of soap and leather and clean, masculine sweat. ‘I had very important errands, I would have you know. And it seems you have done a good job of holly-collecting all on your own.’

  ‘I did have some assistance from Ginny and your cousin, I admit.’

  He took the heavy basket from her arm, giving over the horse’s reins to a groom. ‘And how are the young runaways?’

  ‘Thinking better of their actions, I’m glad to say. Ginny still cares for Captain Heelis, but she does see that their situation must improve before they are ready to marry.’

  ‘Well, I am sure their situation will soon be not as hopeless as everyone fears.’

  Mary gave him a puzzled glance. ‘You are up to something, Dominick?’

  ‘Of course I’m not. I’m innocent as a newborn lamb, and quite hurt you would think me up to some scheme.’

  ‘Ha! You, Lord Amesby, are the least innocent person I know.’

  Dominick suddenly caught her by the arm with his free hand, tugging her with him around the corner of the house. He dropped the basket and took her into his arms, his lips coming down on hers in a hot, desperate kiss.

  That shimmering haze of desire swept over her, her heart pounding louder than the horse’s hoofbeats. She went up on her toes, burying her hands in his tousled hair as she met him passion for raw passion.

  ‘You didn’t seem to mind my deficiency of innocence last night,’ he muttered, his mouth tracing her jaw, the soft, sensitive spot just below her ear. He licked at the pulse pounding there.

  ‘Oh, do be quiet and kiss me again,’ she answered, curling her hands into his coat to pull him to her. She knew the answer to her earlier doubts now—she did dare to start again. To believe again. With him.

  Dominick laughed roughly. ‘Whatever her ladyship commands.’

  Dominick lay beside Mary as she slept, listening to her soft breath, the silence of the house. Soon that silence would be broken, the household would stir for Christmas, and he would have to leave her. But he had these precious moments to hold on to.

  When she had greeted him so warmly on his return from his errand, kissing him so joyfully, his heart had soared. He’d felt things he’d been sure were gone for ever—hope, joy. Love. A true Christmas spirit. Even the thought that maybe he could have a family, that he could be a good husband, even a father.

  Just maybe …

  Mary sighed in her sleep and cuddled closer to him. She trusted him again; could he trust himself?

  He pressed a kiss to her soft tousled hair and smiled. Maybe, just maybe, he could.

  Chapter Eleven

  Some mischief was definitely afoot down there.

  Mary leaned over the banister to peer at the foyer below. The drawing room door kept opening and closing, and servants were scurrying back and forth with mysterious covered baskets and boxes. From beyond that door came occasional bursts of laughter or the sounds of hammering. But every time she tried to go downstairs and investigate someone appeared and urged her to go and write letters in her room, or maybe have a walk.

  ‘It is such a glorious afternoon out there, my dear,’ Lady Amesby had said. ‘Perhaps you could gather more greenery?’ Then she had dashed back into the drawing room, closing the door before Mary could catch even a glimpse of what was in there.

  She sighed in frustration. It was as if she were a child again, shut out of grown-up doings. She was accustomed to being the grown-up herself now, running her own household.

  Plus, being left with nothing useful to do just gave her more time to remember last night, and kissing Dominick behind the house. Every touch, every exploring caress—the way he kissed her down there, as she had never imagined could be done before—she remembered everything.

  Mary fanned herself with her hand, suddenly quite warm despite the cold day. Maybe she would go for that walk after all.

  Once she was bundled in her cloak and boots she set off down the drive towards the woods where they had gathered the holly. A few fat white snowflakes swirled around her, sparkling and magical against the pearl-grey sky.

  They melted away as they touched the ground, and Mary found herself wishing they would not. That they would pile up into towering drifts, mountains of white, that locked them into Rose Cottage so they could not leave for days and days.

  She glanced back at the house, its stark redbrick lines softened by the falling snow. The drawing room draperies were drawn tight, to prevent any glimpse of whatever mischief was going on there, but silvery smoke curled welcomingly from the chimneys. Someone had hung a wreath of holly, ivy and red ribbon on the door.

  It did not look like an enchanted house, Mary thought, yet it surely was. She had found things she’d thought long-lost within its walls—laughter, healing, even love. And even herself, the Mary she had feared lost behind the sturdy gates of respectable Lady Derrington. She didn’t know what would happen once they went back to London, if she would even see Dominick again there. But she would take away what she had gained here in these few wonderful days and she would never lose them again, not in her heart. She felt alive again, at long last, and that was a precious gift.

  That was no small thing. Yet the thought of never seeing Dominick again, never kissing him or laughing with him, made her feel so terribly hollow.

  She turned her face up to the falling snow, letting the soft flakes melt on her cheeks. They were cold and gentle, unlike tears. She had had quite enough of tears. Today was Christmas Day! A new beginning.

  She tugged the folds of her cloak closer around her shoulders, looking back at the house again. The drawing room also had windows along the side wall, she remembered. Perhaps she could try peeking in there.

  Feeling like the naughty child she had so deplored being treated as earlier, Mary ran round to the side of the house. The walls were lined with flowerbeds, sleeping now for the winter under frost-hardened earth. She stepped through them lightly, on tiptoe, catching hold of the stone window ledge to pull herself up. It was still too high.

  From beyond the glass and velvet she heard a loud burst of laughter, and it made her even more determined to see what was happening. She wedged the toe of her boot on a brick outcropping and hauled herself up to the very bottom of the window.

  The draperies were parted a mere inch or two, and Mary glimpsed a flash of red and green, her sister dashing past with a basket in her hands. But she did not see anything else. Holding on tight to the ledge, she tried to turn her head.

  Her fingers started to slip on the cold stone, and to her horror she felt herself falling backwards towards the ground, several frightening feet away.

  ‘Oh, blast!’ she cried, scrambling for a foothold.

  The wall s
eemed determined to get away from her. Yet she never hit the hard, frozen ground. A pair of strong arms closed around her waist, snatching her in mid-air.

  ‘Whatever are you doing?’ Dominick said, his voice deep against her ear. He didn’t put her down, just held her tightly against him, as easily as if she were as light as one of those snowflakes. He rested his chin atop her head, as if he was in no hurry to let her go.

  Mary tried to gather her dignity—which was no easy task when one had been caught spying—and was then dangled off the ground. ‘I merely wanted to see if you needed any assistance in the drawing room.’

  ‘And you could not knock on the door and enquire?’

  ‘Your aunt sent me out for a walk.’

  Dominick laughed, his breath stirring her hair. ‘Then that should give you your answer. I have everything quite well in hand there.’

  Mary laughed, too, kicking her feet. She didn’t really want him to put her down, though. Not just yet. ‘Just as you did last night?’

  He twirled her around in his arms, still holding her high above the ground as she clung to his shoulders. ‘My performance was rather good last night, if I do say so myself.’

  ‘And you are modest, too, I see?’ Mary teased.

  ‘Truthfulness is more important than modesty,’ he said, gently kissing her lips. ‘And the truth is this—last night was the best night of my life.’

  Mary kissed him back slowly, lingeringly, so she could memorise the exact way he felt and tasted, the softness of his breath on her skin. The cold wind swirled all around them, but she was wrapped in heat and light. ‘Mine, too. I have missed you so much, Dominick.’

  ‘As I have missed you.’ He slowly lowered her to her feet, and she leaned her forehead against his shirtfront. She heard the steady, strong beat of his heart. ‘Nothing was ever right without you, Mary.’

  Nor for her without him. All those years she had been walking around with only half of herself and she had not even known it. When they parted this time, once Christmas was over and they returned home to London, she would feel it most acutely. Would the wound ever heal then?

  Well, she would just have to make the very most of what they had—of this Christmas. ‘Dominick, dearest?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, Mary?’

  ‘What are you doing in the drawing room?’

  He laughed, letting her go. Without his arms around her she felt the cold again and shivered. ‘You are chilled. Come, let’s go back in the house.’

  ‘And into the drawing room?’

  ‘Not until tonight!’

  ‘Here, hold onto me, Mary!’ Ginny said. ‘I’ll help you.’

  Mary could see nothing at all through the scarf tied over her eyes, and it made her feel dizzy. She heard her sister fluttering excitedly around her, like a butterfly that had drunk too much chocolate and had an excess of energy. The air smelled of fresh evergreen, wax candles and cinnamon. Exactly as Christmas should smell.

  Mary held out her hand, letting Ginny lead her carefully down the stairs. ‘Not so quickly, Ginny, or I am sure to fall.’

  ‘I won’t let you. Here—now step down.’

  Mary used her free hand to hold up the hem of her gown, so she would not tread on it and send herself pitching headfirst to the ground. She wished it was not the grey silk again; it seemed a most un-Christmassy garment. At least Ginny had helped her sew a new red ribbon trim to the bodice and sleeves, and Lady Amesby had given her a beautiful old black lace shawl. She had also twisted up her hair with red ribbons and sprigs of greenery, and felt quite festive.

  Her stomach fluttered with excitement as she felt the stone of the foyer floor under her slippers. ‘Ginny, this is quite ridiculous! Why must I be blindfolded?’

  ‘So you won’t spoil the surprise, of course,’ Ginny answered. ‘Wait here for a moment. I have to fetch something.’

  ‘Ginny!’ Mary cried. But she heard the drawing room door open and close, and she was alone. Not being able to see even a ray of light was quite disconcerting. She could not tell which way was which, and she held tight to the carved newel post to keep from falling. ‘This is the strangest Christmas ever.’

  ‘But I hope it will be a good one,’ Dominick said. She heard the rustle of woollen fabric, a footstep, and smelled his soap. ‘You look beautiful, Mary.’

  She turned her head in the direction of his voice, sensing when he came close. ‘I’m sure you do, too—though I should dearly love to see for myself.’

  He chuckled, raising her gloved hands to his lips for a lingering kiss. ‘All in good time.’

  ‘You and my sister are full of mischief today,’ Mary said. ‘And your aunt, too. I’m surprised she encourages you like this.’

  ‘She loves Christmas, just as you do, and is glad of the activity.’

  ‘I hope so. Yet I think she will be most glad to have her house to herself again.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

  The door opened again, and Captain Heelis called out, ‘Ready!’

  Dominick’s hand tightened on hers. ‘Ready, then, Mary?’

  ‘Ready for what?’ she murmured. But she went with him, letting him lead her into the drawing room. That smell of evergreen and cinnamon was stronger there, along with a sugary smell and the sharpness of woodsmoke. For a moment she heard only the crackle of a fire, and then music.

  ‘“We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, and a happy New Year!”‘ Ginny sang, along with a tenor that had to be Captain Heelis’s and Lady Amesby’s quavering alto. ‘“Good tidings we bring to you and your kin! We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.”‘

  The scarf slid away from Mary’s eyes, revealing a marvellous scene—a scene straight out of all her dreams of Christmas. Swags of greenery tied with enormous bright red bows decked every picture frame, table, and curlicue of plasterwork. A kissing bough of mistletoe and ivy, bedecked with white and gold streamers, hung above the open doors to the dining room. Through there Mary could see the mahogany table held a plum pudding, a roast goose festooned with apples, and a crystal bowl full of claret punch.

  A huge log—a Yule log—sparked in the grate, keeping every bit of cold winter darkness at bay. Next to the fireplace a table draped in green damask held a towering pile of brightly wrapped gifts.

  Dominick held onto her hand as the others kept on singing, so loudly and out-of-key she was sure they must have been sampling the punch beforehand! ‘“We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year!”‘

  ‘What do you think, Mary?’ Dominick whispered in her ear. He sounded strangely anxious, as if he was not sure she would be pleased.

  Yet how could she not be pleased? How could she not be completely overwhelmed by joy? Here were the people she loved, who loved her in return. Here was life. ‘It is perfect,’ she said. Her voice was thick with tears, and she dashed them away. ‘It’s everything Christmas should be.’

  She bit her lip, remembering all those quiet, grey Christmases at Derrington, where she would sit by her lonely fire and dream up just such a scene. Greenery, Yule logs, punch, music—people she loved near her. And now here it was, a dream come to colourful, vivid life.

  And it was Dominick who had given it to her. Who had made that dream and so very many others come true. It was Dominick who had made her feel alive and hopeful again.

  ‘Then why are you crying?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I have never been so happy.’ She went up on her toes to kiss his cheek, cupping his face in her hand. His blue eyes were shining so brightly—did he cry, too? Or was it merely the sheen of the Yule log reflected there? ‘Thank you, Dominick. It is the loveliest Christmas I have ever seen.’

  ‘Every Christmas should be this way for you, Mary,’ he said. He turned his face to kiss her palm, his lips soft through the kid of her glove. ‘Everything should always be just as you dream.’

  Ginny finished her song, leaping up from the pianoforte bench to run to
the presents table, just as when she was an eager child. ‘What do you think, Mary? Isn’t it a most wonderful surprise?’

  ‘Most wonderful,’ Mary said.

  ‘And we managed to keep it all a surprise,’ said Ginny. ‘Even the gifts! Come and see what we have. I wrapped most of them myself.’

  Dominick tucked Mary’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her over to where Ginny excitedly sorted parcels wrapped in scraps of velvet and satin and tied with ribbons. ‘This one is from me,’ Ginny said, holding up a long, flat box. ‘I didn’t have much time, I fear, but I do hope you like it.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ Mary answered as she untied the gold bows. Inside the box were lavender sachets embroidered with a flourishing M in Ginny’s neat pretty stitches, along with lace-edged handkerchiefs. ‘They are beautiful, Ginny. No one is such a good needlewoman as you.’

  ‘I know how you like lavender, and Lady Amesby let me take some from her stillroom.’ Ginny suddenly seized Mary in a fierce hug. ‘I am so sorry to give you so much trouble, Mary dearest! I hope we never, ever quarrel again.’

  Mary feared that was a hope that would go unfulfilled, as Ginny was surely as spirited as ever despite her misadventures, but they would always have their love to carry them to the other side of arguments. ‘I can’t be angry with you, Ginny. Because of you we have this wonderful Christmas.’

  Ginny gave her a smile as brilliant as the Yule log. ‘Then open this one, too! And this one.’

  Later, once the gifts were opened and the feast consumed, reels danced in the drawing room and the Yule log burned down to embers, Mary sat by the window, listening to Ginny play more carols at the pianoforte. Beyond the glass snow came down in fat white flakes, piling up on the garden in soft drifts just as she had wished they would. Perhaps they would not be able to return to London tomorrow after all. Perhaps they would even be able to stay at Rose Cottage to see in the New Year.