The squire had unobtrusively unwrapped his own gift, thinking to make a courteous thank you and a genteel early departure, seeing the dustup at Montravan Hall. The riding crop was a handsome one, but the earl’s note gave Merton pause: Greetings of the season, from a son who knows his duty. Montravan was assuring his mother that he would fulfill his responsibilities to his name, that he was bringing home a fitting bride for her approval. However, Merton shook his head over the earl’s meaning. Could the lad be thinking he’d been dallying too long with the dowager? Blast, could Montravan be aware of those intimate encounters in the conservatory? That dutiful son bit could mean Montravan might call a fellow out for not coming up to scratch. The earl was certainly hot-to-hand enough, and more than skilled enough to have Merton’s knees knocking together. The squire decided to see about a new hunter—in Ireland. Tonight. He crept out the side door while Bevin was raging about riding the devil’s own horse through a blizzard just to get to this madhouse.
Petra scowled at him, so he subsided, content to fill a glass with the brandy the butler had brought for Merton. She tried again to soothe the girl in her arms: “Allissa, dear, do try to calm yourself. I am sure there is an explanation. You are only upsetting your mother and making yourself ill.”
“And likely giving Merton a disgust of us,”Montravan added, aggravated that his mother’s likeliest suitor had shabbed off. “So cut line. You’re only blue-deviled that you didn’t get the diamonds you wanted. Why, a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl with spots could only look nohow in diamonds and—”
“Spots?” Allissa screamed. Lady Montravan echoed with a hysterical “Spots?” and fainted again.
“Damnation!” swore Lord Montravan, and “Welcome home, my lord,” said Petra.
*
Later, after the physician had gone and both invalids were well dosed with laudanum and in the competent hands of their maids, Petra sought out Lord Montravan in the drawing room. Bevin had had a bath and a snack in his room and was immaculately dressed in dove gray pantaloons and black coat, his hair still damp from its recent washing. Petra still wore her second-best gown, somewhat rumpled from her exertions, and her hair was coming undone, but she intended merely to stay a moment. She couldn’t think it was altogether proper for her to be alone with such a handsome, virile man, even if he was her employer. Her reputation might suffer; her already tortured feelings certainly would.
“The physician thinks that the dowager is merely overset,” she reported. “A good night’s rest should restore her to normal.”
Bevin muttered something about that being bad enough, which Petra ignored. She went on: “He feels that Allissa’s case should be a mild one if she is kept quiet, which will not be easy, once she realizes she’ll miss her first real ball.”
Bevin nodded. “There will be others. I’m sure if I promise her an early visit to London, she’ll be more resigned. And there must be some gaudy, trumpery bit of something in the village I can buy to win her back to humor, since she was not so fond of her present.”
“The presents!” Petra recalled. “You never had yours.” She quickly moved to the piecrust table and brought three packages back to where Bevin stood staring into the fire.
“I can wait, my dear. I daresay I have all the patience in this family.”
But he looked as if he needed some cheering right now, Petra thought, noting how the flickering flames showed the lines of weariness on his face. “But the countess will not rise till just before church, and then the vicar and local families will arrive for nuncheon.”
“Very well,” he said, indicating she should take a seat, so he might sit and open the gifts. Her handkerchiefs were duly appreciated, one placed carefully in his pocket. And the robe and slippers were exclaimed over to such an extent that Petra was soon blushing. Bevin got up and poured out a glass of Madeira for each of them, then raised his in a toast. “You are the best thing that ever happened to this family, Petra. I do not know what we have done to deserve you, but I thank heaven you’ve taken us in hand.”
Embarrassed, Petra sipped her drink. “I have done nothing, my lord.”
“Nothing?” He held up the robe with its intricate work. “You call this nothing? Or the way you were such a pillar of strength through that bumblebroth tonight? You’ve even forgiven me for ruining Christmas by making sure I have my gifts.”
Petra did not pretend to misunderstand. “However did you come to make such a mull of things, my lord? That is not like you in the least.”
“Not like Vincent, you mean.” He sank back into the chair opposite hers with a heartfelt sigh. “I swear I know what hell is like. I feel as if I’ve been visiting there for the last three days.”
He proceeded to tell her about the gossip in the clubs and about confronting his secretary. Then he described the horror of the mixed-up notes, with his “lady friend” receiving Petra’s note of appreciation and Lady Belinda receiving Marina’s congé.
“I realize this is all horribly improper, my discussing such things with you, but I knew you, at least, wouldn’t fly into a pelter.”
Instead Petra was giggling uncontrollably, especially when she realized Miss Harleigh would not be coming, that there would be no engagement. Her heart was so lightened, she practically danced across the room to return with the last parcel from the table, the one addressed to Miss Petra Sinclaire.
“I didn’t get to open my gift, my lord,” she said merrily, mischievously.
“Oh, Lord! Let me take the card out at least!” he begged. “And you might as well be calling me Bevin as you were used to, after witnessing my fall from grace.”
“Not at all, my lord. You have not tarnished your image in my eyes, merely restored yourself to the ranks of us poor humans. The last time I saw you take a misstep was when you were conjugating Latin verbs with my father.” She peeled away the tissue around the hair combs and exclaimed over their loveliness. “Oh, they are just the thing to go with my new dress, my lord.” Then she unwrapped the book and raised shining eyes to his. “Except how can I finish sewing my gown when I’ll be wanting to read this?”
“I’ll read it out loud while you stitch,” he offered unexpectedly, surprising himself as well as Petra.
“That’s quite the kindest thing of all,” she said with a catch in her voice, imagining nights such as this, by the fire. No, she dare not dream.
“Then be kind in return,” Bevin was saying into her reverie, “and give me back the card.”
She grinned, showing sudden dimples he’d never noticed, and shook her head, freeing even more soft brown curls to rest against her glowing cheeks.
“Minx,” he muttered appreciatively, racking his brain to think what message was left unaccounted for. It must be the one for Bibi, meant to go with the earbobs. What was the blasted message? He groaned.
Petra read the card, then lowered her head, her shoulders shaking. Rising, Bevin rushed to kneel by her side. “Please don’t cry, my dear! You know I didn’t mean it for you, whatever it says!” She kept on making whimpery sounds. “It cannot be that bad, Petra.”
“Bad? It’s wonderful!” When she raised her head, he could see tears glistening on her lashes. “I can figure out about the hair combs, but I am not sure about this,” and she held up the book before going off into whoops of laughter. “‘Th-thinking of you in m-my arms,’” she tried to read through her giggles, “‘w-wearing just these.’”
Soon the usually somber earl was laughing so hard, his sides hurt, and he had to wipe his own eyes with one of the fine new handkerchiefs. Then he tenderly wiped Petra’s cheeks with the same cloth.
“I’ve been a fool,” he said, staying next to her, taking her hand in his.
“You certainly have,” she agreed, “putting all your faith in that bounder.”
“No, I mean about so many other things. My friend Johnny tried to tell me, and I never really understood. I was looking for a suitable bride, when I should have been looking for a woman who suited me.”
“Lady
Belinda?”
Bevin waved that away. “I hardly knew her, beyond her social standing. I know now that I should have sought a woman who can laugh with me, understand my failings, and share my concerns.”
“Yes, I think that’s important for a happy marriage.”
“I never realized I already had all those things in my grasp. That is, I did realize, but I never understood I could have it all. I’m not doing this well, am I?”
“I’m not quite sure what it is you are doing, my lord.”
“Bevin.” He got up to pace, while she nearly shredded the handkerchief she’d labored over so long. “I had time on the long ride here to think, and all I thought of was how much I wanted to see you, be with you. Do you think you might ever consider…? That is, after you’ve had a proper Season, and a chance to look over the crop of bachelors, and a proper courtship—”
“Never.”
He kept his back to her. “That’s it, then. I’m sorry, Petra, if I have embarrassed you. I never meant—”
“No, I mean I will never wait that long.”
In two long strides he was next to her again, with his arms on her shoulders. “Do you mean that, sweetheart, do you really mean you might come to love me?”
“Silly, I’ve loved you forever.”
The kiss that followed left them both shaken. Petra never knew a kiss could do such amazing things to one’s insides—and outsides and upside-down sides—and Bevin never knew how desire could be so incredibly intensified by affection. It was the earl who found the willpower to set Petra away from him, at least a handbreadth. When he found his voice, he gasped, “I can see there is going to be nothing proper about this courtship after all.”
“My lo—Bevin, I need to know, will you do that with other women? I mean, I know about your chéries amours, but I don’t think I could bear it, after…”
Bevin stroked the back of his hand along her cheek. “After that kiss I don’t think I’ll even want to look at another woman. I cannot hide my past from you, but I do mean to be a faithful husband. Do you know, when I thought about Belinda and Vincent, I realized I didn’t truly care, except for my pride, of course, and the idea of having to worry about the paternity of my children. That’s when I realized I wouldn’t be happy with that kind of society marriage, where both spouses go their own way. I want a wife who will love me enough to mind if I stray.”
“I’ll mind! Why, I’ll…I’ll darken your daylights if you look at another woman.”
“And if you so much as smile at another man, I’ll call him out!”
So they sealed that accord with another kiss, which ended at the rug in front of the hearth, perilously close to the fire.
“Blast, I depended on you to be level-headed,” Bevin complained, lifting her in his arms back to the sofa. Petra only grinned, so he kissed the tip of her nose. “This is no way for a gentleman to behave, and us not even formally engaged. Luckily I can remedy that.” He reached into his pocket for a small box. “It’s the family betrothal ring, from the vault. I was hoping, you see. I can have one made that will be more to your taste, but will you wear this for me, for now?”
“Not for now, forever.”
As Bevin slipped it onto her finger, he murmured, “Merry Christmas, my love,” but instead of the kiss he expected in return, Petra jumped up and ran from the room.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
Bevin took the moment to straighten his clothing and vow to keep his passions under control—and pray for an early wedding. Petra was an innocent, a lady—and back within the circle of his arms before he could think of how many cold baths he’d have to take.
“I wanted to give you a special Christmas gift,” she whispered, “to mark the occasion.”
“But you’ve given me so much, two handkerchiefs and your love. What more could a man need or want?”
Petra smiled at his teasing and held out her hand. “Here, it’s my father’s watch. I want you to have it.”
He took the gold watch on its chain and raised her hand to his lips. “I know how much this must mean to you, and I shall cherish it always as the second-finest Christmas gift I’ve ever received.”
“After the embroidered robe?”
“After your love, my precious peagoose. But wait, I have another gift for you, too.”
“But the ring and the book and the combs… It’s so much.”
“The ring is an heirloom, the book is in every bookseller’s, and you must know Vincent selected the combs. I want to give you something all your own.” Bevin was searching through his pockets, damning his valet for being so meticulous. At last his fingers touched the object he was seeking, and he drew out a small black circle, a horseshoe nail twisted into a ring, rust showing in spots, uneven welding in others. He proudly placed this ring on her finger, right above the diamond-and-emerald Montravan betrothal ring. “This one I made myself. Greetings of the season, sweetheart.”
And every season.
The Proof Is in the Pudding
1
“Faugh,” declared Sir Otis Ogden from his place at the head of the long table. “’Tis a waste of good spirits, I say.”
Since Sir Otis considered any spirits not flowing directly down his shriveled gullet a waste, his wife Johna did not bother raising her voice to be heard across the mahogany expanse. Lady Ogden’s younger sister, Phillipa, though, seated somewhere in the middle of the table behind an arrangement of pine boughs, holly leaves, and red apples, clapped her hands when the butler and two footmen carried in the flaming pudding on its silver platter. Drenched in brandy, the traditional holiday dessert flared blue and gold and scarlet in the dimmed dining parlor.
“It’s beautiful,” Phillipa whispered. “It’s…it’s Christmas.”
“It’s poppycock,” Sir Otis spit, spewing wine down his shirtfront. The claret stains added a festive touch to the remnants of turbot in oyster sauce, roast goose, and asparagus already decorating the aged knight’s neckcloth. If his young wife had thought to sweeten Sir Otis’s disposition by serving a fine meal, festooning his dreary house with ribbon and holly, entertaining him with carols in Phillipa’s pretty voice and her own pianoforte accompaniment, she was wrong. Again. All the sugar in the gingerbread men, in the marzipan angels, in the candied fruits—all the sugar that got baked, boiled, and blended for a hundred holiday feasts—was not going to improve the curmudgeon’s nature. As for peace, goodwill, and Christmas feeling, Sir Otis was feeling bilious.
“Next thing you’ll be doing is setting the blasted house on fire,” he muttered. “Just my luck to marry a damned arsonist. Fires in every hearth, a fortune in candles gone up in smoke, now you’re setting torches to my food. Hell and tarnation, if you had any fire in your blood mayhaps I’d have me an heir.”
The servants pretended deafness, a not infrequent malady in this household, while Johna supervised the cutting of the pudding. Her face might be as red as the maroon velvet gown she wore and her lips might be pinched into a thin line, but Johna would not let the old glump ruin Phillipa’s Christmas. He’d already ruined Johna’s hopes for a happy life with a man who could love her. That was enough.
Obviously, this was not a marriage made in heaven. It was, in fact, a business transaction conducted in a smoke-filled gambling hall, over a table of unpaid and unpayable gaming debts.
Slavery being illegal, Johna’s father, Baron Hutchison, sold his elder daughter into matrimony. Johna was eighteen at the time, a raven-haired beauty with her dead mother’s blue eyes and levelheadedness. She might have made a splash in the Marriage Market if Hutchison could have dowered her, dressed her, and dropped her into the ton under some dragon’s watchful eye. But the dissolute baron could barely feed his daughters, much less get them entree into the belle monde. Gambling, drinking, and poor management of his properties, all had combined to keep Hutchison one short step away from debtor’s prison.
Sir Otis Ogden was his only hope—and the holder of most of his notes. If Lord Hutchis
on was barely skirting the fringes of society, Sir Otis was beyond the pale. He’d been able to purchase a knighthood but not respectability. A cardsharper, a moneylender, a fleecer of green lambs fresh from the country, his reputation did not bear scrutiny. His lusting after a young girl did.
So Lord Hutchison got his debts paid and a handsome settlement besides. If his conscience needed more soothing than the sound of rustling bank notes, he convinced himself that Johna would be a widow sooner rather than later, considering Ogden was ten years older than himself, to say nothing of the rough company the man kept. Odds were she’d still be young enough to attract another husband, and wealthy enough to provide for her dear papa in his dotage. He promptly gambled away his windfall, got tossed out of some foul dive into the snow, caught an inflammation of the lungs, and died—before seeing another shilling of his senescent son-in-law’s blunt. Which only went to prove that Hutchison never had been lucky at playing the odds.
Sir Otis got his bride, but not quite what he expected of the marriage either. No female of such tarnished pedigree could advance his social standing, no matter how beautiful she was. And no female could put the wind back in his sail, no matter how young she was. After a few sweat-covered attempts at conjugal consummation, Sir Otis gave it up, along with hopes for an heir. No society belle, no son, just a damned expensive piece of goods, that’s what his money had bought him. So he fired his housekeeper and two maids.
Of them all, Johna was perhaps the least disappointed in her marriage, especially once the grunting and groping were over. She hadn’t expected much, after all, just a better life for her sister and herself. She could have refused the match, could have hired herself out as a governess or companion, but she wouldn’t leave fifteen-year-old Phillipa alone in Berkshire. Hutchison Manor’s roof was falling in, the staff had left for positions that actually paid a salary, and who knew what misguided notion Papa would get into his muddled head next?
Sir Otis agreed to take in the spotty schoolgirl sister, though, so the marriage contract was finalized. Now, three years later, the sisters weren’t hungry and they weren’t in the poorhouse. They were, however, bonded servants. The bonds might be those of holy matrimony, but the results were the same. Johna kept house in London for Sir Otis and did half the cooking, mending, and cleaning. Phillipa worked alongside the maids, dusting and washing. She wasn’t spotty anymore, and she wasn’t a schoolgirl. She was eighteen, the very age at which Johna had been wed. Prejudiced or not, Johna thought her sister was lovely with her brown ringlets and softly rounded form, in contrast to her own straight black hair and tall, willowy frame which Sir Otis, for one, found boyish. Too, Phillipa was an unspoiled, uncomplaining treasure of a girl. She’d make some man a fine wife since, perforce, she knew all about managing a gentleman’s household. The problem was, there were no gentlemen.
Greetings of the Season and Other Stories Page 7
