A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  But in horror as well. For, despite all his vague words, and his actions towards her, and Anne’s obvious penchant for another, Barbara could see what was about to happen—just as everyone else could.

  ‘My pleasure to announce … done me … honour … hand in marriage.’

  The words seemed to fade in and out of her hearing. It was clear that the others had no problem, for they smiled and clapped politely. Champagne was pressed into her hand by a ready servant. Barbara accepted it with a numb nod. All around her glasses were raised and toasts made to the happy couple—for that was what they appeared to be.

  Just before her knees gave way she took a half-step back to the little chair against the wall, so that it would seem she sat rather than collapsed. As the music began again she shrank back, pulling it behind a pot of ivy, and sipped wine that seemed like vinegar on her tongue.

  Chapter Twelve

  Too late, too late, too late.

  It should have been a triumph. Joseph had acquitted himself as well as could be expected amongst the gentry who had accepted his invitation. He’d secured financing for his business plans, he had found himself a wife to secure his position in the area, and his truce with Lampett had lasted long enough to avoid embarrassment.

  That he was well on the way to making the man’s daughter into his mistress was a point that did not bear close observation. Nothing must come of that—no more than the extremely pleasant dalliance they had experienced in the hall. Surely she knew it was no more than that.

  But he had seen the stricken look in her eyes even through the brandy-soaked haze he’d created to steel his nerves for the announcement. Even if she had done similar things before, she had allowed him to do what he had done because she loved him—or thought she did. He had taunted her with his knowledge of her feelings, cheapening them to hurt her. Then he had publicly pledged himself to someone else minutes after leaving her.

  So he was marrying the wrong woman for the right reasons. What of it? The move was very like unto himself. He always seemed to be turning a good idea into a bad one. Though they suited perfectly, Bob and Anne would be parted so that he might advance in society and in business. After her brief visit to the manor he would pack Barbara Lampett back off to the village. She would stay as a virtuous spinster, so long as he kept his hands off her.

  He remembered the vague promises he had made to the ghostly coachman of how things would change now that he knew of the problems. But for the life of him, he could not think what he might have done to make any difference. If the visions he had seen the previous evening were true, they would all be the sadder for what had occurred tonight, and he was to blame for that misery.

  Too late. Too late.

  His valet laid out his things and prepared him for bed. All the while Joseph listened to the ticking of the clock, which seemed to chant the words to him as each second passed. It was a wonder that man had invented such a clear measure of the passage of time—one that could be felt almost to the bone on silent nights like this.

  It was not as if he needed a further reminder of his mortality. Lord knew, his father had seen to that in recent nights. And tonight’s visitor would be the worst of all. For why would this charade have been needed if the future was a happy one? And it was almost three o’clock.

  Too late.

  The edges of the room seemed to darken and chill. Though it was well stocked with coal, the fire burned low in the grate. It was the spirit coming for him, he was sure. And he did not wish to see what it foretold.

  He had made a mistake. Nothing unusual. He’d made many over the course of twenty-five years. But the mistakes of late were irrevocable. He was marrying a woman he did not love. Toying with one he did. Upending an already fragile community with the arrogant assurance that his plans would set everything right, given time.

  But now it seemed that only his own death could call a halt to what had begun. He was unsure whether he was likely to be taken by the night’s spirit, or simply driven to make his own end by the grim future that lay ahead.

  Too. Late.

  His valet withdrew in silence, leaving him alone.

  Joseph sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the end, disgusted with his cowardice. Perhaps his father’s real plan had been that he meekly accept judgement on this last night. But there had to be something he could do. There must be some fact he was missing that might explain the village and the women in it, for they were a mystery to him. When Lady Clairemont had announced that they would be staying tonight, rather than fighting the weather, he had asked if it was her intention that Miss Lampett stay as well. He had been greeted with a look of such cold hostility that he could not believe it had risen from a simple indiscretion.

  If tonight was to be his end, he would never know the truth. Nor would he know the woman who was sleeping just down the hall from him, in the smallest of the guest bedrooms. He could wait in his own room for the angel of death or the very devil himself to take him. Or he could go to her, demand the truth and love her—just once.

  There would never be a better time for it, he was sure. If he was already damned, one more sin was not likely to make things any worse. He dared not miss the chance and leave her thinking he felt nothing.

  He stood and threw off the nightshirt, grabbing a dressing gown and wrapping it about his naked body. Then he threw open the door and walked down the hall to seal his fate.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It had been a miserable evening, and one that Barbara would repeat in memory for the rest of her life. Each time she saw the happy couple who were lord and lady of Clairemont Manor her stomach would twist as she wondered how much Joseph remembered, and how much Anne knew of it. And if that brief interlude in the alcove had meant anything at all.

  Then there was Robert Breton, who had been too cowardly to seize the opportunity when he’d had his chance. She hoped he would fade into obscurity rather than continue to haunt the area. If he stayed, she rather feared that they would become friends and spend long days brooding jealously over the lives they might have had. Perhaps they might marry, and have the same kind of dreary and passionless union that Joseph and Anne shared.

  Why could she not just go back to her loneliness of a day ago? It had been so much simpler.

  There was a knock at the door.

  She sat up in bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. This was not the scratch of a servant, nor the polite tap of Anne, come to share a quiet conversation before bed. This was the firm rapping of the master of the house. He was standing in front of her door, probably one more knock away from calling out to her, which might wake a neighbour or alert a servant. The resultant scene would be almost as bad for him as for her.

  She pushed aside the covers, hurried across the room and threw open the door before the night could become any worse. ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered, not wanting to draw further attention.

  ‘I have come for answers,’ Joseph said, in a voice that was loud and unembarrassed.

  ‘As if you are the one who needs them. Talk to me tomorrow over breakfast, if you must.’ Preferably in the presence of chaperones, to ensure that she did not do anything more foolish than she already had.

  ‘I don’t have tomorrow.’ As usual, he could think of no further than himself.

  ‘Be quiet,’ she whispered. ‘Someone will hear.’

  ‘If you do not wish to draw attention, you had best let me in,’ he said, with a strange tight smile.

  She grabbed him by the lapel and pulled him into the room, closing the door quickly, silently, regretting that she had touched him at all, for her hand seemed to burn with the contact. And now he was in front of her, blocking her way into her own room, and she was planted, shoulders to the door panel, in a way that half reminded her of those scandalous moments in the alcove. Except now she was wearing nothing but her chemise—not that there was much of her body he had not seen.

  ‘What do you want?’

  She tried not to squirm at the me
mory, and the traitorous desire to step forwards, to relax and to go to him. But perhaps that was not what he wanted. He did not reach for her. He was frowning, as though deep in thought.

  ‘Tell me what has happened here.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Here. In this community. Before I arrived. I need to know about the people right now, before I can go another step.’

  She laughed, for it was so far outside what she had expected to hear that she could hardly credit it. ‘You wish to know now—after moving here, building here and spending untold sums of money to achieve your ends—what the people might think of it?’

  ‘I know what they think of it,’ he said dismissively. ‘They hate it—as they would hate any change. That is not what I mean and you know it. Tell me about Mary. Tell me about the mill fire. And your father’s accident. Help me make sense of it all.’

  ‘Help you to make sense of it?’ She pushed past him to return to her bed. ‘There is nothing to make sense of. No blame to assess. Accidents happen. People are hurt. They die. Time passes. The survivors are changed, but they live on. For what else is there to do?’ She turned back to face him. ‘If that is all you have come here to say, then you are wrong. It can wait until morning, and a setting not so completely inappropriate. Goodnight, Mr Stratford.’ She climbed into bed, turning away from him and pulling up the covers. He could make his retreat in anger or embarrassment. She did not care. But she should not be forced to watch it.

  But he did not leave. She felt the weight of him, sitting on the edge of her bed, not touching, just out of reach of her. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You are selfish and horrible to come and remind me of these things, tonight of all nights.’ Even knowing the stupidity of it, after their time in the alcove she had cherished some small fantasy that he would come to her, attempting to continue what they had begun. Perhaps he would speak of love, and even though she would recognise the words for lies, it would be better than nothing.

  ‘Barbara.’ He laid his hand on her shoulder, and through the covers the weight of it was warm, heavy and soothing—as was the sound of her name on his lips. ‘Tell me the truth. You have held things back from me. I would have no more secrets with you.’

  ‘Like the fact that your engagement to Anne was in place even as you fondled me?’ she shot back, the humiliation still fresh. ‘Go to her, if you want a bed partner. Let me have some peace.’

  ‘That is not what I mean. Not at all. Or at least that is not all.’ He fumbled with his words, as though he could make no sense to her or himself. ‘I need to know everything. I need to know about you.’ He said it with such curious emphasis that for a moment she believed that he really cared. ‘Why are the Clairemonts so cold to you? Tell me.’

  He stretched out behind her on the mattress, the covers separating them, and the hand that had shaken her shoulder was wrapped about her waist, drawing her close as he buried his face in her hair. He would not leave until she spoke. She was sure of it. If she must give him the truth, it would be easier while lying in his arms, pretending that his strength was her own.

  ‘Because I killed their daughter, six years ago at Christmas time. It is my fault that Mary is dead. They hate me for it, and I do not blame them.’

  He did not move away from her, not even to breathe. If anything, his arms held her tighter, and his lips pressed to the back of her throat, close to her ear. ‘You said she was ill.’

  She sighed. ‘And so she was—because of me. My friend Mary Clairemont died of influenza. There is no story. Many of us were sick that season. But none so bad as her,’ Barbara admitted. ‘We were the best of friends and spent all our time together. When I sickened she brought me broth and calf’s-foot jelly. She read to me to pass the time. Her mother came as well. They took the illness back to their own home. Mary died of it.’

  ‘You blamed yourself?’

  ‘Not at first. But Mr Clairemont came and argued with Father. I heard them. He said that I should have been the one to die. It was horrible. After that, we were no longer welcome at the manor.’

  ‘That was unfair,’ Joseph said from behind her. ‘But from what I have seen of Mr Clairemont it is not so very surprising.’

  ‘Mrs Clairemont was distraught, and still weak from her own illness. It was a cold winter, and she did not recover until nearly spring. Christmas, which had been such a merry time at the manor, was silent.’

  ‘I understand there were parties here?’

  ‘Like this one. But bigger.’ She could not help but smile at the memory. ‘Not for years, now. Their sadness cut the heart out of them. They could not celebrate without thinking of Mary.’

  ‘Time to move on, then,’ Joseph said. His voice was gruff, as though it were possible to reject the softer emotions.

  ‘One cannot just push away grief when everything about the Christmas holiday is a reminder,’ she informed him, rolling to face him and leaning on her elbow. ‘You must show more compassion for Mrs Clairemont. The family was forced to strip the greenery from the house and use the feasting foods for a funeral. It was a great shock to them.’

  ‘But wrong to blame you for it,’ he said, touching her hair with his hand.

  ‘And Mr Clairemont lost his grip on his business. The war took its toll as well. Mr Mackay leased the land from him, but was not able to sell his goods. He bought the new looms to save money at the expense of the workers.’

  ‘If Clairemont had been smart, he would have noticed before things got bad,’ Joseph said, reasoning like a machine even while looking at her like a lover and lying near naked at her side. ‘He lost a building because of it. A valuable tenant as well. That allowed me to capitalise … ‘

  ‘Always business,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Father tried to help him at the last. Despite their differences, he ran to help save the mill with the rest of Mr Clairemont’s friends. But he was the one who was struck down by a falling beam. He was unconscious for three days. We were sure he would die. And now … ‘

  ‘His thoughts are addled,’ Joseph finished. ‘He blames the mill for it. He blames me as well.’

  ‘But really it is my fault,’ Barbara said. ‘From the very first. If I had been the one to die, and not Mary … ‘

  Before she could finish the sentence his arms had tightened upon her, drawing her into a breath-taking hug. ‘Then things would have been different. But they would have been no better for the majority of people here.’ His lips touched her cheek, kissing away a tear that she did not remember shedding. ‘I have travelled the country, north and south, and seen what the war has done to trade, and what the new looms have done to tradesmen. It would have been uneasy here no matter what had happened. If your father had not been the one to speak against me then someone else would.’

  She wanted to believe that almost as much as she wished that things could have been simpler—young and clean and pleasant, just as they had been a few years ago. ‘There are a great many ifs,’ she said. ‘I think of them often. Sometimes it is only necessary to change the life of one person to set the world upon a different course.’

  He stiffened. ‘So I have been told. But I do not think that you are that person who must change.’

  She laughed softly. ‘And so I am put in my place, sir. It is good to know that you think me of so little importance in God’s great scheme.’

  ‘On the contrary. You are surprisingly important to … ‘ He paused. ‘To many people. But you are also blameless of anything that has happened here. Do not change. You are just right as you are. I would not alter an atom of you. But I owe you an apology. I assumed that the trouble was something quite different. A dispute over a suitor, perhaps.’

  ‘There has never been anyone,’ she admitted, then took a breath to gather courage. ‘Other than you.’

  He lay very still beside her. ‘I never would have done what I did had I understood.’

  ‘Did you think I was the village whore, then?’ she asked, struggling to escape his arms. ‘It is a wonder
you allowed me to associate with your guests.’

  ‘No.’ He said the word in a groan, and his arms were no longer gentle but holding her like iron as she fought against him. The lips that had been pressed softly to her cheek were taking her mouth, until she stilled and allowed his kiss, which was as rough and improper as he was. He filled her mouth with his tongue, making the rest of her body feel empty in comparison. The thin blanket that separated them was like a million miles of desert. And suddenly she was fighting not to get away but to be closer to him, praying that in total surrender he might finally admit what he felt for her.

  ‘No,’ he whispered, staying her hand and keeping the barrier between them. ‘My guests are not worthy of you. Neither am I. I am a villain, a rogue, a debaucher. But I cannot seem to let you go. I only wanted to make things better, I swear. But with each turn I dig deeper. After tonight I will never get free.’

  ‘If it is me you seek to be free from, then I hope you never succeed,’ she whispered.

  Perhaps it would have been better had he been right. If she had already fallen she would know how to proceed now, to find the thing that would make him happy, would make him stay. She pressed her lips to his earlobe and then his cheek, licking the dark stubble and following it to his jaw. He looked even more tired than he had before. She remembered that he complained he could not sleep. It must be true, for it was well past three and he was still awake and worrying about her.

  Whatever he felt for her, he needed a comfort that only she could give him. She nestled her head against his throat and kissed the places that had been covered with his cravat. Then she found his fingers with hers and untangled them from the sheet he held, pushing the covers down so that they could be together.

  He sighed and stopped resisting. Then he kicked away the last of the blankets and yanked at the tie of his robe, to be free of that as well. Suddenly she was sharing a bed with a naked man.