At the Christmas Wedding

by Caroline Linden

  Something had to be done.

  And so the house was decorated with boughs of holly and garlands of greenery, the guest rooms were readied, the menus planned and everything was prepared to host a splendid Christmas house party. The fires were roaring, and a soft snow started falling, leaving a light dusting along the fields and drive.

  Then Serena’s mother had taken ill and her sister-in-law Cleo's secretary, Viola, was left in charge. But it was up to Serena to assume most of the hosting duties and to demonstrate to their guests—their unwed, eligible gentlemen guests—what an excellent wife and hostess she would be.

  Guests who, at this moment, were arriving.

  Serena sat in the drawing room serenely, waiting.

  She heard the crunch of wheels on pea gravel, followed by the sound of the butler opening the door, footmen crossing the foyer to wait in attendance, a hearty hello from a male voice she did not quite recognize.

  Eventually, the first guest was shown into the drawing room where she waited, seated elegantly by the fire where it was warm and where the light of the fire cast a flattering warm glow on her complexion.

  Serena rose to greet him; her smile faltered when she saw the youngish man with sandy-colored hair, grayish eyes, and wide shoulders, which were lightly dusted in white snowflakes.

  The words good afternoon died on her lips.

  “Oh. It’s you,” she muttered in a rare lapse of manners. She refused to give much thought to the who and why and how this particular person could step into a room and make her forget years of ingrained etiquette. Recovering, she forced a smile and said most graciously, “Good day, Mr. Jones. Welcome to Kingstag. I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

  “Lady Serena. A pleasure. As always.” His voice was low and he spoke as if savoring the words. Serena. Pleasure. Always. His eyes had the audacity to sparkle as he spoke.

  “Is it really, Mr. Jones?”

  She was not convinced.

  He gave her a wolfish smile.

  “Whyever would you think it was not?”

  “Oh, just visiting a dull country mouse out at her remote country home doesn’t seem like the sort of thing to captivate a dashing man about town such as yourself.” Then she added, pointedly, “Although I suppose I am slightly more intriguing now.”

  “I see you are up to date on the London gossip rags. ”

  “Yes, they arrive out here. Surely not at the speed with which you are accustomed, but nevertheless we do manage to keep informed. When we’re not dodging bullets, that is.”

  “As it happens, your gracious mother invited me, along with Frye, when she learned that I hadn’t a place to go for Christmas.”

  This was news to Serena.

  Most unpleasant and decidedly unwelcome news.

  “She invited the two of you...”

  Serena knit her brow and pursed her lips. Her mother had casually mentioned that she was inviting Frye—she did have hopes that they might rekindle their courtship and that her daughter would become a duchess after all.

  But to invite Mr. Greyson Jones after what he said about her?

  Well, she never.

  “Yes. As I said, it was very gracious of her, considering...” He paused anxiously. She did not let him finish.

  “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”

  Serena stormed past him and quit the room.

  Upstairs

  Serena did not bother with knocking as she burst into the bedchamber of the dowager duchess. She found her mother abed, looking wan and pale as she sat up and took very small sips of tea.

  “Mother, how are you feeling?”

  “Well enough. What is the matter, dear?”

  “I know you intended to invite Frye against my wishes, but to extend an invitation to Mr. Greyson Jones as well? I am shocked. Simply shocked.”

  “Oh, have they arrived? I do hope everyone arrives shortly. If this snowfall keeps up at this pace, the drive might become impassable. I should hate for our little party to have uneven numbers.”

  Uneven numbers of ladies and gentlemen was every hostess’s nightmare. One was tempted to keep spare cousins lying around in the event a seat needed to be filled.

  “Just Mr. Jones has arrived. The Mr. Jones who, if you’ll recall, was heard to publicly say that Frye dodged a bullet by avoiding marriage to me and that being jilted was the only thing that made me interesting.”

  “The gossip rags are always misquoting people, Serena. You mustn’t take them as gospel.”

  “I just don’t understand why Frye and Mr. Jones were invited. Especially given how upsetting I find both of them.”

  No one had ever disliked her or spoken ill of her before this and Serena found the whole business very unsettling. She was not used to feeling unsettled, either, which disturbed her equilibrium further.

  “I had already mentioned spending Christmas together before...” her mother said, voice trailing off, not wanting to say the words before he jilted you. “It seemed rude not to issue the invitation and I confess, dear, that I had hoped that some time together might provide an opportunity for you two to renew your courtship.”

  “And as for Mr. Jones?”

  “When I learned he had nowhere else to go, I simply had to extend an invitation. Besides, uneven numbers, Serena. Uneven numbers.”

  Her mother coughed.

  “What am I to do with him? I have left him in the drawing room, even though I would really like to stuff him back in his carriage and send him off to London.”

  “You left him in the drawing room?” Her mother gasped, and this set off another round of coughing. “Serena, I raised you better than that. Put him in the blue room in the guest wing and endeavor to be the gracious hostess I taught you to be.”

  “Fine.” She gritted her teeth. She thought he seemed hearty enough to survive a carriage ride back to London in a snowstorm. But she was a (mostly) perfect young lady, so she would banish him to a guest room instead. “But I still cannot fathom why you issued an invitation to him.”

  “Well, someone has to cast all the other eligible suitors in a better light.” Then her mother fell back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

  “Now that is a reason that makes sense.”

  Downstairs

  Mr. Jones was right where she’d left him: standing near the fire for warmth and appearing to admire some porcelain figurines on the mantel.

  Perhaps he was thinking about how she’d been rude to leave him abruptly, without refreshment. It was something no perfect woman would ever do.

  Or perhaps he was reconsidering how rude his own words had been and he was mentally penning a retraction to be printed in all the London papers. Which she would read about a week or two after publication.

  “Mr. Jones. Please accept my apologies for my brief absence. I had to confer with my mother with regard to which guest bedroom she had intended for you.”

  “It is no trouble, Lady Serena. I understand perfectly.” He smiled devilishly at her. “You had to go have a heated conversation with your mother and to demand an explanation of my presence in your drawing room for a Christmas house party after I reportedly insulted you in the papers when I said you were too perfect, implying that perfection is a defect of your character.”

  Serena scowled. “That is the right of it.”

  “How is your mother, by the way? Or shall I say where is your mother?”

  “She is abed. She has taken ill.”

  “I wish her a speedy a recovery.”

  “I as well.”

  “Though this does afford you the opportunity to act as a supremely gracious hostess, all the better with which to impress the bevy of eligible suitors your mother has undoubtedly invited.”

  “Precisely. You know the ways of marriage-minded mamas quite well.”

  “It’s how I have managed to stay unwed.”

  “That’s the only reason?” Serena replied coolly.

  Mr. Jones gave no indication that her insult had landed. Instead, his
lips tipped into a smile.

  “You’re not doing very well at this whole gracious hostessing business.”

  “It is ungentlemanly of you to point that out.”

  “And it is unladylike of you to point out my lapse in manners. You see, I can tell my presence infuriates you, which it logically should, given that I am taking too much fun in needling you and given what I was reported to have said about the untimely demise of your betrothal.”

  The untimely demise of her betrothal.

  If it weren’t for that, she wouldn’t be stuck in her drawing room, with a fake smile plastered on her face, endeavoring to be a perfectly gracious hostess to a man whom she wished to bash over the head with a porcelain figurine. Then again, Mr. Jones was Frye’s best friend, so this moment might have been inevitable after all.

  “But you look rather fetching when you are angry,” Greyson continued, once again giving her that wolfish smile that was probably all the rage among the ladies in London. She was completely and utterly immune to it.

  “And you look like you would enjoy some time to rest after your journey.” Serena moved quickly toward the drawing room doors and called for the butler, Withers, who was but a few steps away.

  “Our butler will show to your room. Withers, take our guest to the blue room in the guest wing, please. Do come down at seven for dinner. Hopefully some others will join us.”

  By hopefully she meant dear lord above please ensure other guests arrived. Serena glanced out the window—the snow was still falling and showed no sign of abating. The last thing she needed was to be stuck alone with the awful Mr. Jones.

  Chapter 2: In which our hero becomes ensnared in a plot and a scheme.

  Given Lady Serena’s reception of him, Grey would not have been surprised if he were shown to a dank room in the basement or sent to bunk with the servants or perhaps even out in the barn with the horses. But no, she was all that was right and good in a lady and he was given a fine guest room with every comfort one might wish for.

  Gracious hostess indeed.

  In truth, Lady Serena had every right to be cross with him. Or even downright furious. The newspapers far and wide had reported him as saying the following regrettable sentences upon news breaking that Frye had jilted her:

  “If you ask me, Frye dodged a bullet by avoiding a match to Serena. I know, she’s a perfect lady, but she’s too perfect. This will make her more intriguing, now, don’t you think?”

  He had said that. Exactly. Word for regrettable word.

  He could explain.

  Grey had always found Lady Serena to be beautiful. Anyone would. The soft pink pout of her lips, the smooth, creamy complexion of her skin, the dark waves of her hair, her large, expressive brown eyes all enchanted him. Every time he saw her, his gaze traveled to the swells of her breasts in the virginal white dresses she so often wore. He imagined her hair unbound, her lips reddened from his kiss, those eyes looking at him with lust.

  But one was not supposed to lust after the likes of Lady Serena. No, one was supposed to admire her for blossoming into the perfect example of an Englishwoman. She was unfailingly polite, well-mannered, kind, beautiful, educated in the way ladies were educated.

  Born to be a duchess was something everyone said about Lady Serena at one point or another.

  Lady Serena was not for the likes of him. Though Greyson had gone to Eton—which is where he’d met and befriended the Duke of Frye—he wasn’t wealthy or titled or in any way considered a possible suitor for a woman of her station.

  And so Grey nurtured a tortured desire for her, from afar, for years. Loving her and hating that he loved her. Loving her and hating the fact that she was so perfect that no other woman could measure up. Hating that his friend was going to wed her out of some notion of duty to an arrangement made by their fathers years earlier.

  But then this business with Frye happened.

  The betrothal. The jilting.

  Grey looked at Serena more curiously now. What on earth would possess the duke to ditch the perfect future duchess? Frye hadn’t given much of a reason. By all accounts she didn’t seem that devastated over it, either.

  Once he started wondering, he was consumed.

  He was intrigued.

  He dared to wonder if maybe this secret something he’d silently nurtured for her all these years had a chance.

  Given the direction of his life, this Christmas party was his only chance to see if there could be something like love between him and Lady Serena.

  But of course Serena wouldn’t want to hear any of that, ever. She certainly wouldn’t want to hear it from him, especially at a Christmas house party she was hosting. He had only secured an invitation because the duchess had ideas about Serena and Frye rekindling their betrothal and when she’d learned from Frye that he hadn’t had plans, she extended an invitation to him as well. .

  As an unwanted guest left to his own devices, Grey considered his options at present: he could enjoy a leisurely afternoon reading in his room—he did need to continue reading An Englishman in India, Or; One young Lord’s journey to the Indian subcontinent and a thorough examination of the culture, customs, geography, languages, and its people.

  Or he could embark on a walk through the grounds before the snow began falling in earnest. He might stroll through the house to see if other guests had arrived or if there were other family members more amenable to his presence.

  Or he might find Serena and convince her not to hate him...

  Was he in the mood for an impossible task, or not?

  Grey quit his chamber and strolled through the house. On the ground floor he followed the sound of a commotion until he found the source: a large room in an advanced state of disarray. A stage was half built at one end. Footmen were at work and two women, one young, one old, stood in the thick of it all.

  “Pardon me for interrupting,” Grey said, backing away from the sense of impending doom and disaster that permeated the room.

  “Are you here for the house party?” the young woman wanted to know.

  “I am an invited guest, yes.” He felt the need to point that out, given that he wasn’t exactly a wanted guest. “Mr. Greyson Jones, at your service.”

  The old woman eyed him in a manner that could only be described as lascivious and he wanted to laugh. He had never been eyed thusly by a woman who seemed like she had cruised on the ark with Noah.

  The young woman stared at him directly and said, “I’m Lady Bridget Cavendish, no relation to the American Cavendishes of London, and this is my Great-Aunt Sophronia.”

  “Great as in stupendous, magnificent, and extraordinary,” Sophronia explained. “Not pertaining to some convoluted family tree nonsense. Probably.”

  “I would never assume otherwise,” Grey murmured.

  “Are you looking for Lady Serena?” Lady Bridget inquired.

  “Not precisely,” Grey said, hesitating. His instincts told him that she was the sort of person who pried information out of people and used it mercilessly and endlessly. If so, she’d be a remarkable asset to the Foreign Office.

  “Pray tell, how are you imprecisely looking for Serena?” The Great and Stupendous Aunt Sophronia wanted to know.

  “I am wandering around your great house, seeking company and perhaps other guests.”

  “We’re busy here. We’re putting on a play. Come to think of it...” Bridget looked from him to Sophronia and back again. There was a glimmer in her eye that he didn’t care for.

  “Yes, I see where you’re going, girl, and I quite agree,” Sophronia said. The sense of doom increased. “We do yet have some male roles in need of actors.”

  “He’d be smashing as the Lord Pirate Captain. Those shoulders. That rakish gleam in his eye. The tousled hair. What a dream.”

  Sophronia nodded her head in agreement. “I couldn't have imagined better casting.”

  Grey had a feeling he was about to play the role of Lord Pirate Captain, whether he wished to or not.

  �
��I, um, that is to say...Where is Lady Serena?”

  “I imagine she is greeting our other guests. All the eligible bachelors and whatnot,” Bridget said dismissively. “I heard from a maid that two other eligible gentleman arrived. Lords, both of them.”

  “You needn’t bother her now,” Sophronia said. “Not when she’s in the midst of such important work with her two eligible lords.”

  “What makes you think that I am not an eligible bachelor?”

  “Ah, so you are! Ha! You fell right into my trap!”

  Great-Aunt Sophronia beamed. Grey forced a smile. He was an unwed male person in possession of all of his teeth and an income, who had not yet crossed over to the far side of forty. Of course he was an eligible bachelor.

  By making a point of it, he had essentially intimated that he was looking for a wife. Which wasn’t exactly true. Though it wasn’t exactly false. Now wasn’t exactly a good time, considering what was ahead in his horizon.

  What he was looking for was Serena.

  But Lord Help Him if these two lady terriers got wind of that. Best to change the subject then.

  “Tell me, what was the role in the play that you had in mind for me? If I am going to be cast, I should like to know more about my role.”

  Lady Bridget cackled with glee and Great-aunt Sophronia did too, providing a glimpse of what Lady Bridget would be like six or seven decades down the line.

  She answered by handing him a dusty black cloak, a tricorn hat, an eye patch, and a script.

  Rehearsals commenced immediately.

  Chapter 3: In which our heroine finds the perfect man (who is not our hero)

  The next day

  The drawing room, before dinner

  After the unpleasant arrival of Mr. Greyson Jones, the rest of the house party guests—with the notable exception of Frye—descended, somehow managing to complete their travels to Kingstag in spite of the weather.

  Serena greeted them as they shook off snowy capes and caps in the foyer and then escorted them all to warm up by the roaring fire in the drawing room.