“We both like horses, Letitia said stubbornly. “And he has kept my secret safe. I trust him.”
“What secret?”
“I sneaked out to his estate while we were visiting Lady Ariadne in Norfolk, on the way here. I only wanted to see his horses … and try to figure a way out of this dreadful house party in which I’m to be married off to the abominable Mr. Homer Trout.”
“What?”
“Homer Trout. Don’t be obtuse, Simon. The skinny, insipid man with the mole on his nose and the bristle growing out of it.”
Her brother shook his head in confusion and impatience. “What nonsense are you talking about?”
“Did you not know? I overheard Mama talking to Lady Adriane. She was telling her that Mr. Trout would be at this house party and that her intention was to see me married to him as I’ve been on the marriage market for three Seasons now, and Mama was despairing of me ever finding a match. She’d had enough.” Tristan extended his hand to her and she took it, grateful for the reassuring squeeze of his fingers around her own. “I do not want to marry Homer Trout, Simon. I never did. I ran off that afternoon in the hopes I could clear my head enough that I could think of a way out of Mama’s plans for me. And maybe even this party.”
“Homer Trout is not at this party. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He is supposed to arrive today. Tristan and I were going to create a … a little scandal so that Homer would think me too wild and unsuitable and no longer be interested in me.”
“For one thing,” Simon said, raising a hand and ticking off his points on his fingers, “Homer Trout is not at this party,” he repeated firmly. “And he is not going to be. He was never invited and he is already married.”
“What?”
“Mama only told you that so you’d do exactly what you’ve gone and done. Get yourself into trouble such that you’d have to get married to someone far more suitable … someone of your own choosing.”
Letitia’s mouth opened in a silent “O” and beside her, Tristan’s lips began to twitch.
“Secondly,” Simon continued, “you have indeed created a scandal. Mama and her busy-body friends all saw you in the stable with Lord Weybourne, and knew you’d gone out riding with him alone. Mama came and got me and told me to retrieve you.” As Letitia went white, he added, a bit more gently, “Everyone knows, Letitia.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone.”
“Oh,” she said in a little voice, and pressed her fingers to her mouth.
“Thirdly,” he said darkly, “I have learned from Stephen that this little house party was never solely about a bunch of friends and acquaintances celebrating the Yuletide and making merry. It was about marrying off four daughters who have evaded husbands on the marriage mart for the past two or three Seasons. Lord Trent Ballantine has offered for Lady Winifred Grisham. Chalk one up to the four mamas. Now, Lord Weybourne here has offered for you, Letitia. Chalk two up to the four mamas. That leaves just Lady Prudence and Lady Jane, and I would bet every gun on my frigate and the powder to fire them that the four mamas will have their betrothals done and dusted before Boxing Day arrives and we all start making plans to leave.”
Letitia walked a little distance away and leaned against the bay mare’s side. Her head was swimming. Mama, plotting her marriage? The other ladies doing the same with their daughters, her friends?
“This is all rather amusing,” Tristan said at last. “Why is it when you put several females together, the world gets turned on its ear?”
“Because that’s the way females are,” Simon said, as though that fact was obvious. “Not happy unless they’re meddling, manipulating, and marrying people off. My God, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they have plans for me, too. Glad I’m going back to sea. I’d rather take my chances with the French.” He looked squarely at Tristan and then at Letitia. “So now that you both know you’ve been neatly manipulated by Mama and perhaps, Weybourne, even your sister, do you still want to go through with this marriage, or do we have a date at dawn with either pistols or swords?”
“Manipulated or not, it does not change my offer, or my interest in your sister,” Tristan said firmly.
“And you, Letitia?”
“Well, I admit that it rather stings that Mama felt pressed to take matters into her own hands, but it does not change my interest in Lord Weybourne’s suit.”
Simon’s taciturn features relaxed in a reluctant smile. “Well, then,” he said at last, “at least you both have plenty in common. Are you as horse-mad as my sister is, Weybourne?”
“Do ships float?”
“Only until they go aground or get shot to pieces and sunk.”
Tristan, smiling, drew Letitia close. “This ship that will be our marriage will not, to use your analogy, go aground or get shot to pieces. I pledge to you, Captain Ponsonby, that I will love and treasure your sister for all the days of my life.”
“Letitia?”
“For once, I am grateful to Mama for interfering. If she hadn’t waved the spectacle of Homer Trout behind a temptingly closed door, I might never have gone to Tristan’s estate in the hopes of delaying this trip.” She smiled up at Tristan. “If I’ve spent every waking moment, and most of my dreaming ones, thinking of you, does that mean that I’m in love?”
He laughed and pulled her close, uncaring that her brother was standing nearby. “It means that you and I share a similar affliction, because I have found myself unable to think of anyone or anything but you since you sneaked into my stable and won over Amir’s heart … and in that moment, I daresay, mine as well.”
Around them, the snow whispered down, frosting their hair, melting on their cheeks.
Peace. Joy. Stillness. And the greatest gift of the Christmas season.
Love.
“Turn your back, Captain Ponsonby,” said Tristan, pulling his fiancée into his arms and gazing down at her with his heart in his eyes. “We are about to seal our promise with a kiss.”
Above them, the bough of a pine drooped under the growing weight of the snow.
It wasn’t quite mistletoe, but as Tristan lowered his head and let his lips claim Letitia’s, both of them knew that it would do quite nicely.
That it was, in fact, Perfect.
The End
To Win a Quiet Heart
By
Renee Bernard
Chapter One
Arthur Nicodemus Phineas Chesterfield, a mouthful of a name that still made him cringe and guaranteed his foul mood whenever his sister trotted it out, was the Fourth Earl of Athmore, and while his title was as solid as the ground beneath his feet, his unmarried state was quickly becoming the stuff of nightmarish sinking sands.
A folded letter in his inner waistcoat pocket rustled against his ribcage, and Nick’s mind wandered to the tantalizing possibilities and unknown terrors the invitation represented.
“Nick! Dear brother, have you heard a single word I’ve said to you?” Constance sniffed in open disgust at his distracted state. “You will hardly get a suitable bride hiding out in the country. It is ridiculous to even consider trying to foist a low-bred cow over on our relations so I certainly hope you aren’t hiding some dull county maid from—”
“Constance,” he cut her off, a dangerously dark mood flashing in his eyes. “I have never shirked my duty or shied from my responsibilities. Stop needling me.”
Constance pressed her lips tightly together but failed to achieve a look of contriteness. “I only mean to encourage you to make the most of the next year’s Season and get to London.”
“I go to London when business and politics require.”
“You are a hermit. You go to London so rarely and I hardly think eligible young ladies are prone to lurking about the bank exchanges or your solicitor’s offices.”
He set down his glass. “I go when needed.”
“You are in need of a wife!”
“I’m in need—” Nick pounded on the table abrup
tly, the china and glassware on the table rattling as his fist met the hard surface. “—of two minutes altogether without being harangued by a woman who is in dire need of a household of her own!”
Constance gasped at the stinging words, the pale paste of her complexion instantly striped with pink affront at the reminder that she’d long ago officially achieved spinsterhood. She was eighteen years his senior and had perched like a raven over him most of his life. She was not the kind of woman to wilt at the first blow. “Mind yourself, baby brother, before you march off in a snit. I have a house of my own in Town and have long managed my own affairs. I meant to compliment you on your eternal lack of vanity and make a great effort to remind you that your title gives you your choice of bride and your ridiculous wealth only adds to the appeal of your suit.”
“Your compliments are like poisonous darts I would rather avoid.”
She took a measured sip from her coffee and rewarded him with a wicked smile. “See that? Look at how quick your wits and your tongue can be!”
Nick sighed. He was never at a loss for words in the sanctuary of his own home or with the small inner circle of folk at his estate.
Or with Constance, which feels like the cruelest irony of all.
He did hate London.
But most of all, he hated himself for the weakness in his own character that the entire social season revealed. To be mortifyingly shy, to be tongue-tied and quiet—these were things deemed endearing in a woman but in a man—it had led to grim misunderstandings, few casual acquaintances and fewer true friends. His was a paralyzing condition that made the simplest social interactions feel like a deadly gauntlet. It made no sense. He was intelligent and well read but no amount of study or comprehension had dented the challenge. Nick had even once thought by physical discipline and harsh regimens to reinforce his self-control so that he could simply power his way through the problem. After all, a man was measured by his character and resolve, wasn’t he?
But that year’s social failure had been the worst to bear as he’d learned that knowledge and will were as effective in the battle as tissue paper when it came to moments of reckoning in front of his peers. He was a man who had not reached the mark and been found lacking. Whispers behind his back and open speculation about him had begun, and Nick had retreated from London for the last time.
He’d resigned himself to acceptance that he was better suited to the solitude of his country estate, the calm and familiar company of his tenants and servants, and his horses—and reinforced his reputation as an outcast.
So much for my reputation.
I am the Earl of Athmore.
A dullard.
A simpleton.
A country squire better suited to a hamlet than the halls of the Peerage that fate had so generously placed him in.
“Don’t praise me like a trained monkey, sister.”
“When you are driven to it, you are as saucy as any dandy, Nick.”
“I’d rather not be driven into a rage to prove that I am not an idiot, thank you very much.”
“Your affliction is nonsense and I find I tire of coddling you.”
Nick nearly dropped his fork. Coddling was the last thing his sister had ever done. If ever a tender sentiment had nested in her soul, he was sure she’d drowned it with a smile on her face years ago.
“Then cease doing so.”
Constance rolled her eyes. “Why I bother giving you good counsel, it is hard to say. It must be my good Christian nature alone that salvages the effort and spares you from facing the world alone.”
Enough. God help me. Enough.
“Naturally, if you were to marry,” she continued relentlessly, “I would leave you alone, keep to my friends in Town and be relieved of the—”
“Done.”
“W-what?” It was nearly comical the way her eyes widened in shock, and for the first time in years, Nick marveled at how easily power can shift. “What did you say?”
“I’ve been selfish to put it off for as long as I have. As you say, I am such a burden of a brother and you would prefer to be free to play in Town with better company. I will keep you no longer from your fondest wishes.”
Constance’s smile was a weak thing, quivering with uncertainty. “As simple as that? Are you going to conjure a bride from mid-air?”
Nick set aside his breakfast and squared his shoulders. “Not exactly. But I’ve been invited by Lady Weston for the Christmas holidays.” He pulled the folded vellum from his waistcoat but didn’t offer it to her. “She has described it as a rather informal gathering and I can’t imagine she would overcrowd her home on such an occasion. I’m not so much the hermit that I’m not aware that there are bound to be a few eligible young ladies in attendance, Constance.”
“And you expect to saunter in and win one of those young lady’s hearts with a kiss under the mistletoe? I doubt you are up for the challenge.”
“It is a challenge I have already accepted,” he lied smoothly. “I will be engaged to be married before the New Year and you will need to make other living arrangements.”
Her expression was priceless. She had her ‘victory’ but was struggling to accept the costs. “I’m—you’re bluffing.”
“As I said before, I have never shirked my duty or avoided my responsibilities.”
“Am I to believe that you are really going through with this?”
“You said I needed a wife. I’ve agreed to get one.”
“Y-you cannot…toss me out.”
“I’m not tossing you out, Constance. You said yourself you wanted to go. So I’m giving you notice since I expect the new mistress of Hawking Manor to desire to hold the reins by herself. You won’t be happy here with another woman at the helm, and I have finally realized that there is only one clear path ahead.”
“Yes, one path. On that, we agree.” She lifted her glass and resumed her breakfast. “I shall wish you luck then though you hardly need it. Even you, the most boring creature to draw breath, will find a willing victim to suffer your presence, shallow enough in her tastes to take comfort in your good looks if not your good humor, but I think I’ll wait until after the wedding before I pack. To save myself the trouble.”
Nick stood quickly without apology; the temptation to dump his breakfast plate over his sister’s head was so strong that he deliberately shoved his hands into his pockets along with the Countess of Weston’s correspondence to keep from grabbing the china’s edges. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Oh, dear.” She pressed her lips together and then sighed. “I do hope you aren’t coming down with anything before your grand holiday affair. A small party will demand charming participation in holiday games and conversation and you…you will have nowhere to hide, Nicodemus, when you turn to stone.”
Nick ignored the icy ball that rolled down his spine at her words.
Nowhere to hide.
Nick turned on his heel and left the room.
Arthur Nicodemus Phineas Chesterfield was fed up.
He retreated to his study where his beloved books and maps, the journals and sketches of explorers and adventurers adding to his perception of the world beyond his estate’s boundaries.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the cold glass windows and tried to make a critical study. Not stone. Not a gargoyle. Not malformed or odd. I am distinctly ordinary.
He was actually on the tall side of things, broad-shouldered and athletic in his build, with coloring that echoed a portrait in the upstairs hall of his dead mother. The curls of his hair evoked a dark bronze hue in the firelight and set off his paler brown eyes and chiseled features. In another life, Nick suspected he’d have been a merrier soul if he could have achieved true vanity.
But vanity was a vice that escaped his present understanding.
He could no more prance about and admire his own form than ask the man in the moon to go hunting. A gentleman was to be polished, confident, and at all times, in command of his wits. It was a code he knew well, and
despite the infinite punishments and beatings he’d endured from his father to overcome his failings, Nick had never won the battle with his nerves.
I am not meant for the company of others.
He pulled out the Christmas invitation, trying to convince himself that he’d not just vowed to leap from a cliff’s edge. “A few friends,” he read aloud and then sighed. The vague appeal of it was tenuous at best but it wasn’t London in the crush of a Season, where he seemed to do little more than hold up the draperies and walls.
There’s some hope then, yes?
Hopeless or not, it made no difference. He’d made his choice. Constance would have to move over. God help him, a part of him just wanted the business over and done with—either with another crushing social defeat or his duty done and a bride found.
Either way, I can take comfort in coming home to this house when it is all over.
“God, I think it’s this or I put an ad in the Times and admit to the world that I’m a lost cause.”
Alone in the room, there was naturally no reply beyond the crackle and pop of the fire in the study’s grate. Nick sat down at his desk to pen a note to the Countess of Weston and advise her that he would be arriving alone.
It was a horrible tangle. But now what?
How in God’s name did a man get a wife when the thought of entering a room full of strangers made him feel as if he might be sick? And even if a woman landed in his lap, how in Heaven’s sight did a man condemn that creature to a lifetime in his wretched company?
Chapter Two
Jane paused outside her mother’s bedroom door. She’d been summoned by a handwritten note to come to speak to her mother before she changed for the afternoon. It was not an unusual request but with a house party looming, Jane Pemberly was not unaware of what the subject of their conversation might be.
She’ll have selected a match for me from one of the bachelors on the guest list and the time for subtle nudging has no doubt already passed.
Oh, God.
A Very Matchmaker Christmas Page 17
