The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  “I could come as your companion.”

  “A companion?” Lady Beatrice turned her lorgnette on Damaris. “A companion?” She spoke the word with loathing. Clearly it was not an option.

  “But if you would attend social gatherings as a companion, what’s the difference from making your own come-out?” Jane asked.

  “Nobody would ask a companion to marry him.”

  Jane’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want to get married. I have . . .” Damaris swallowed. “I have an abhorrence of marriage.”

  There was a short, shocked silence.

  It was a ludicrous statement in most people’s eyes, she knew. Not want to get married? How else could a girl without property or means expect to live?

  She would work. She wasn’t afraid of hard work; she’d worked all her life.

  Being sponsored into society, being given the chance to marry a man of wealth and position would be most girls’ dream of a lifetime. A year ago it might have been Damaris’s. Not anymore.

  “And what,” Lady Beatrice said after a moment, “does getting married have to do with making your come-out?”

  All three girls blinked at her in surprise. “But isn’t that the whole purpose of a come-out?” Jane said. “To find us husbands? That’s why they call it the marriage mart.”

  “It’s some people’s purpose,” Lady Beatrice conceded graciously. “Most people’s, perhaps. We are not most people.”

  Jane looked worried. “But I want to find a husband.”

  “I know, Jane dear, and I’m looking forward to seeing all the young fellows making cakes of themselves over you. Don’t fret, you’ll have your pick of them.” The old lady turned to Damaris. “As for you, my dear gel, nobody said you had to find a husband.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Oh, the young men will make cakes of themselves over you too, I’m sure, and quite a number of the old ones as well, as we’ve seen at my literary society. You’ll have plenty of eligible offers, take my word for it—and a few ineligible ones. But there’s no need to accept any of them.”

  “But . . .” Damaris frowned. “If I don’t find a husband, isn’t it a terrible waste of money?”

  Lady Beatrice’s elegantly plucked and dyed eyebrows rose. “Waste of money? Pish-tush, what nonsense is this? There is only one reason for you to make your come-out, Damaris—to have fun.”

  “Fun?” Damaris echoed, bewildered. Squandering a fortune on her so that she could have fun?

  “You’ve had precious little fun in your life, haven’t you, my dear?”

  Damaris swallowed. “How did you know?”

  The old lady snorted. “Daughter of a missionary? Raised in the Wilds of Foreign? One could make a wild guess.” She chuckled at Damaris’s expression. “Cheer up, my dear, nobody will compel you to marry. It would, however, please me greatly if you made your come-out with Jane, attending balls and routs and parties, dancing till dawn, wearing Daisy’s beautiful dresses—and making her the most fashionable mantua maker of the season—”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” Daisy said fervently.

  “—having flocks of men falling over themselves to please you—bringing you champagne and ratafia and delicious morsels from the supper table, sending you bouquets and posies in the morning, writing poems to your eyes—such delightful nonsense.” The old lady sighed reminiscently, leaned forward and patted Damaris’s hand. “You don’t need to take any of it seriously and no one will press you to do anything you don’t want to do. Leave the husband hunting to young Jane here. You and I, my dear, we’ll just have fun.”

  There was such kindness and understanding in the shrewd old eyes that Damaris felt a lump forming in her throat. Lady Beatrice hadn’t even asked her why marriage was so abhorrent to her. She swallowed. “You don’t mind that I don’t want . . . that I . . .”

  Lady Beatrice squeezed her hand and said softly, “My dear gel, you told me when we first met that you never wanted to get married. Did you think I had forgotten?”

  Lady Beatrice had been ill and bedridden at the time. Why would she have remembered what a strange girl had told her? Why would she have cared?

  “Why would you do this for me?”

  The old lady smiled. “You gels have brought me such happiness at a time of life when I thought it was all over. It would give me enormous pleasure to give you a season of carefree, uncomplicated fun—without any obligation to anyone.” She squeezed Damaris’s hand again. “So will you do it for me, Damaris? Kick up your heels, just for a season, and live a frivolous, entirely pleasure-filled existence? Not for yourself, but to please an old lady?” She attempted such an unconvincing mock-pathetic expression that Damaris gave a shaky laugh and hugged her.

  “Since you put it like that, dear Lady Beatrice, I can hardly refuse. But it’s very generous of you.” Too generous.

  The old lady flapped a dismissive hand. “Pish-tush, what nonsense! Now, come along, gels, Mr. Monkton-Coombes will have finished his muffins, and while all men should be kept waiting a little—it keeps them nicely on edge, I find—it does not do to keep them dangling too long. And when one finally joins them, they must be made to feel that the waiting was worthwhile. So make yourselves beautiful, gels, and when you see Mr. Monkton-Coombes, smile.”

  • • •

  Freddy stared gloomily at the plate before him. Lady Bea was convinced that muffins were the Monkton-Coombes food of choice. That was Max’s fault, blast him. He’d told his aunt that Freddy was obsessed with muffins, and of course the old girl thought he meant these blasted bun things. She had him served with them each time he called. And expected him to eat them. With enthusiasm.

  He picked up a muffin, hefted it lightly and eyed the fire with a narrowed gaze. It was a good blaze, strong enough to reduce a muffin to ash in a short time.

  But would there be an incriminating smell?

  He raised the muffin, aimed and was about to toss it in the fire when feminine footsteps sounded in the hall. He dropped the muffin, turned toward the open doorway and saw four smartly dressed females advancing toward him, smiling.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Why the devil were they grinning at him like that? What did they know? What did they want?

  He had a powerful urge to flee. But he’d made that promise to Max. He rose, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “Ladies,” he said warily.

  “Freddy, my dear boy, so sorry to keep you waiting.” Lady Beatrice eyed him with approval. “Always so elegant.” She glanced at the plate of muffins and frowned. “Were the muffins not satisfactory? Featherby, you must have a word with Cook—”

  “No, no, they were delicious, as was the coffee,” Freddy assured her. “But I wasn’t hungry. Late breakfast, you know—large breakfast. Positively enormous,” he added when she seemed inclined to argue.

  She sniffed. “You need feeding up. Oh, well, come along. I trust the weather is holding?”

  “Yes indeed, a fine day. The breeze is a little on the brisk side, but quite refreshing.” He ushered the ladies to the front door. The landau and driver were waiting in the street.

  Chapter Two

  “It is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”

  —JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  The landau only fitted four people comfortably. Freddy offered to ride beside the carriage so it wouldn’t be such a squash but the old lady wouldn’t hear of it. “I prefer you close by, dear boy.” At first he’d thought she meant for protection or some such thing but then she’d winked at him. “I want to flaunt you, such a fine, handsome lad you’ve turned out to be.”

  The old girl was always trying to put him to the blush. Freddy hid a gr
in.

  With the aid of a muscular footman, he helped the old lady into the landau. She was frail but indomitable. Freddy turned to assist the young ladies, first Miss Jane, who bounced lightly up the steps, then Miss Daisy, then he held out his hand to assist Miss Damaris.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind,” she said, snatching her hand back before he’d even touched it.

  “Damaris?” Lady Beatrice said sharply.

  “It’s nothing, just a slight headache. If I just lie down for a while I’m sure the headache will pass.”

  Freddy was sure it would; in fact, he was pretty sure the headache didn’t exist. She didn’t look the slightest bit pale or heavy eyed; she looked blooming, as usual, possibly even a little flushed. But judging by the looks and surreptitious nudges being exchanged, there were feminine undercurrents swirling around, and Freddy’s policy was to affect an unawareness of such things. Safer that way.

  “Nonsense. Fresh air and sunshine is the best cure for what ails you,” Lady Beatrice decreed. “In you get, my dear. That headache will be gone before you know it.”

  Damaris didn’t argue but obediently climbed into the carriage. Freddy got in after her, signaled to the driver and they were off. As expected, it was a bit of a squash. Freddy’s thigh pressed against Damaris’s.

  It shouldn’t matter—if he’d sat next to Jane or Daisy he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but somehow, because it was Damaris, he couldn’t get his mind off it.

  She shifted a little closer to Daisy. Freddy moved, pressing himself against the side of the carriage to give her more space, but with three on the seat, there was simply not enough room. He could feel the warmth of her body down the length of his thigh. As she could no doubt feel his. Not that she gave any indication of it.

  She gazed serenely out of the carriage, as lively as a damsel encased in glass.

  She was always like that, somehow distant, untouchable. It disturbed him in ways he preferred not to think about. Pretty, quietly spoken and perfectly pleasant, she was—she ought to be—no different from any of the multitude of girls on the marriage mart these days. And yet . . .

  He found her unsettling. Those big brown eyes of hers seemed to see . . . too much. He’d always had a soft spot for a pair of brown eyes, but whenever he tried to flirt with her—purely for a little bit of harmless fun—ouch! She’d freeze him out.

  And yet he kept coming back for more.

  “Nasty things, headaches,” he commented and winced inwardly at the inanity. In some circles he was held to be a witty and entertaining conversationalist. But whenever he tried to make pleasant, meaningless chat with Miss Damaris Chance, it always came out lame.

  She nodded, gave him a half smile but didn’t reply. The headache, no doubt.

  If anyone had a headache, Freddy ruminated as the carriage passed out of Grosvenor Square, it should be he. Last night he’d finally crawled into bed—his own bed—around dawn. His current mistress was planning to marry again, to a much older, richer man, so their affair was drawing to a close. Or rather, a climax. She was determined to go out with a bang. Or three. Freddy was exhausted.

  He had his own code about women. It wouldn’t win him any prizes for morality but it was a code, nevertheless. He never dallied with innocents of any class; he avoided muffins—eligible girls bent on wedlock—like the plague; and he never chased after married women. If they chased after him, if they were neglected by their husbands and were unhappy, that was another matter. Even so, he only accepted the advances of those who had already provided their husbands with an heir, at least. He was no cuckoo in the nest—didn’t want the complications.

  He preferred widows. When he was just sixteen he’d lost his virginity to a buxom farmer’s widow ten years older than himself. She’d taken an eager, clumsy boy and shown him how to please a woman, as well as himself, teaching him the value of self-control and patience. It was a lesson he’d put to good use ever since.

  Remarkable how many men—judging by the women he’d lain with—didn’t bother. Fools. He yawned.

  Lady Beatrice poked him with her elegant ebony stick. “Been out on the tiles again, young tomcat?”

  Freddy gave her a cool, dignified look.

  Lady Beatrice grinned. “Thought so. You have that look about you.”

  “Look?” he asked, then cursed himself for taking her bait. He cast around for a change of subject. “Look,” he repeated in a quite different tone, and pointed to an organ-grinder. “Monkey dressed in a red jacket. Quaint little fellow.” An excellent distraction. Miss Jane, he knew, was fond of animals.

  Lady Beatrice chuckled. “None so prudish in company as a rake. By all means let us watch the monkey.” She leaned back against the padded leather squabs, not taking her eyes off Freddy.

  He had to laugh.

  He hadn’t relished the thought of playing substitute for Max while his friend was away, but he wasn’t finding it too difficult. Getting up before noon was the hardest. His hours and the hours kept by respectable ladies didn’t exactly overlap. Still, Max should be back in a few weeks. Freddy could survive sleep deprivation until then. He hoped.

  The carriage slowed as they turned into Hyde Park. Lady Beatrice instantly spotted a couple of friends and ordered the driver to stop. Freddy and the girls got down, and Freddy helped two old ladies up into the landau.

  While Lady Beatrice and her cronies took a turn around the park in the carriage, Freddy and the girls would promenade in the park. Pretty tame entertainment in Freddy’s view, but the ladies seemed to enjoy it.

  He was quite enjoying it too. It was rather pleasant strolling along with three pretty girls, none of whom had the slightest design on him. He was well aware of the symptoms of Matrimonial Intent, and the Chance girls displayed none of them. Jane treated him much as she treated her brother-in-law: as a source of treats, society savoir faire and gossip and a convenient escort. Daisy had no interest in matrimony of any kind and in the park all she seemed to talk about were the outfits worn by fashionable ladies—and how they could do better.

  As for Damaris, well, Freddy had no idea what she thought about anything, really. She said all that was polite and pleasant, but what she was thinking? That was anyone’s guess.

  Unfortunately the mild weather and weak winter sunshine had prompted more people than usual to take the air. The fact was borne in on Freddy when he saw a tall, dark-haired female dressed in a severe riding habit and a smaller one drowning in a sea of pink and white ruffles hurrying toward him.

  Fluffy and the Whip. Damn! He’d thought they were safely in Durham. He stopped dead, causing Jane and Damaris to look at him in surprise.

  “What is it?” Jane asked.

  “The Armthwaite muff—er, sisters. Quick, this way,” he said, attempting an immediate about-face. It was more difficult than he’d anticipated with a young lady on each arm. Their curiosity about the approaching pair slowed his retreat and he was caught.

  Almeria, the taller of the two, arrived first; Almeria never walked when she could stride. “Mr. Monkton-Coombes, so here you are,” she said in an accusing tone that never failed to remind him of Nanny McBride in one of her Moods. “I thought you never promenaded in the park.” She eyed his companions with a critical eye and tapped her toe, waiting for him to introduce them.

  Her sister tripped prettily—and breathlessly—in her wake. “Mutht you walk tho fast, Almeria?” She reproached her sister with a pout Freddy felt sure was the result of hours of practice in front of her looking glass.

  She turned with a winsome smile to Freddy, apparently unable to see his companions at all. “Mithter Monkton-Coombth, how very delightful to thee you here on thith beautiful thunny day.” The lisp was something she’d acquired only recently, imagining, no doubt, that it deepened the impression of featherbrained femininity. The idea, he supposed, was to disguise the fact that she was just as iron wi
lled as her more blatantly masterful sister.

  He said brusquely, “Miss Almeria Armthwaite, Miss Annabelle Armthwaite, may I present the Misses Chance? Miss Damaris Chance, Miss Jane Chance and Miss Daisy Chance.”

  While the Armthwaites grilled the Chance sisters on their family connections and—hardly more subtly—their intentions toward him, Freddy looked around for an excuse to leave.

  As sole heir to his father’s title and fortune, not to mention having his own private fortune, he’d been a target for matchmaking mamas and daughters since he’d first appeared in society. From the beginning he’d made it clear he had no interest in marriage, and once he realized respectable mamas and daughters avoided rakes like the plague, he’d done his best to encourage his reputation as a rake to grow.

  But in the last year or so his mother had apparently informed the mothers, aunts and grandmothers of every eligible female in the kingdom that he was contemplating marriage—she might as well have put a notice in the Gazette, curse her!—and as a result, wherever he went, muffins popped out of the woodwork.

  He wasn’t contemplating marriage, dammit! Not with anything other than horror.

  Lady Beatrice’s carriage sailed toward them at a decorous pace. Salvation! He held up a hand to signal her to stop, but she waved airily back and continued on her way. Blast! It would be another lap at least before he could escape.

  “Mr. Monkton-Coombes, oh, Mr. Monkton-Cooooooombes,” another voice trilled from behind him. Damn! Another blasted muffin.

  “Miss Blee.” He greeted her with a curt bow. He was never coming to this park again.

  “I’m soooo excited about the house party,” she said with an arch look.

  “Really?” he said in a bored manner. “Which house party is that?” Whichever one it was, he planned not to attend it.

  “As if you don’t know.” She hit him coyly on the arm with the kind of arch, genteel violence some ladies thought was enticing. It wasn’t.

  He forced himself to reply with the barest scrape of polite disinterest, “I get lots of invitations.”