“Do not surrender your dreams, Miss St. John. That can lead to madness for a certainty.”
“And are you familiar with a bit of madness, sir?” she asked lightly.
A faint smile curved his mouth, easing his taut expression, and she thought again that he was far too handsome for anyone’s welfare. No wonder he had a reputation for devastating the female population in London. His strong, masculine features held a hint of sardonic humor about his eyes and mouth, and his thick dark hair was cut in the mode of the day, slightly longer on the top, short at the neck and ears, with side whiskers neatly trimmed and the suggestion of a beard darkening his jawline.
An odd emotion formed a lump in her throat. His name was apt: Hawkely. He could well be a splendid hawk, proud and strong and arrogant in self-confidence.
“I am well acquainted with more than a bit of madness,” he replied to her teasing question, his deep voice touching a chord within her, as if he had lightly strummed her nerves without even touching her, igniting a vibrating response like a harp. His smile nearly undid her as he continued, “It is one of my most grievous faults, I suppose, that I find humor in the oddest moments.”
Struggling for a response, she finally managed to ask, “And is this an odd moment, sir?”
“One of the oddest, since I thought I had found a rat behind the drapes and instead found my betrothed.”
“An unwelcome surprise, I assume.”
Now he laughed. “Hardly, Miss St. John. You do yourself a disservice to even say such a thing. I’d much rather find a woman than a rat behind the drapes.”
“I’m relieved to hear you have such high standards,” she retorted.
“Indeed, I do. With that in mind, they’ll be saying I compromised you if we stay alone here much longer, you know. Should someone chance to come in and find us, your reputation will be at risk.”
“As we are betrothed, that seems unnecessarily cautious, but I agree. Very well, I shall be glad to depart first.”
“That might be best.”
She set her empty sherry glass on the table next to his half-empty brandy glass, and nearly squeaked when he grasped her forearm. She felt the heat of his hand even through the blue velvet sleeve of her spencer. It was a bit unnerving. He was much too close, his voice lowering to a confidential tone.
“There is someone here I wish to avoid—no, not you. Another guest with whom I have recently had an unfortunate misunderstanding. I wish to remain here until I am quite certain to be able to leave the library without encountering him.”
“I see,” she said, although she was curious whom he wished to avoid. Since it seemed he had no intention of confiding in her, she said merely, “Shall I see if the hall is empty so you may make your escape?”
“I admire your quick wit, Miss St. John. That would be very accommodating of you.”
Must he stand so close? It was . . . intimidating, in a purely masculine kind of way. She had rarely been in close company with a man who wasn’t her father or uncle, and found it to be more unsettling than she wanted to admit, even to herself. Perhaps it was because this man would soon be her husband that she found the situation uncomfortable.
She eased away from him, and walked to the library doors. Opening one, she peered out and saw only a footman with a loaded tray approaching the music room. “Is your quarrel with a footman?” she asked without turning around, and nearly jumped out of her shoes when he said right behind her, “Not this time.”
Half-turning, she glanced up at him, recognizing amusement in his eyes as he gazed down at her. “Then you are safe for the moment, my lord. Perhaps you should leave first, as the path is clear and I am on fairly decent terms with my hosts and the other guests.”
“An excellent suggestion. If possible, I intend to leave Seabury at first opportunity in the morning so I may not see you again before I go. When do you return to London?”
“After Twelfth Night, if the roads are clear.”
“Then I am certain you will have a happy Christmas here with Lady Howard.” He took her hand briefly, gave her a half-bow, and slipped out the library door.
It felt suddenly as if all the air had left the room with his departure. It was silent, with only the ticking of the mantel clock and crackling of the fire assuring her that her hearing was still intact. Not even strains of music could be heard from the music room.
Leaning against the door, she felt drained of energy, as if she had been caught up in a whirlwind. Mercy, what would life be like once they were married?
HAWKELY FOUND his valet and reached his room without encountering Wakefield or any other objectionable person, and stood quietly while Georges removed his coat. Miss St. John had turned out to be a rather surprising young woman. He’d not thought her capable of lively conversation, although he’d expected directness from her. Penguins? He couldn’t help a laugh, and his valet looked at him quizzically.
“Don’t be alarmed, Georges. I was just thinking of a whimsical conversation. Do not bother to unpack everything as I hope to leave in the morning.”
Glancing at the uncovered window where leaded glass panes were thickly frosted but still showed snow falling, the valet murmured, “Indeed, my lord.”
“It may seem unlikely, but I am confident my coach-and-four can manage the London Road, if not the turnpike. Drummond is the best coachman in all of England.”
“You are not without equestrian expertise yourself, my lord,” Georges observed as he hung the jacket on a hook and brushed it, using a small, stiff boar-bristle brush.
“Perhaps not, but Drummond has more fortitude. Perched on that box in the bitter cold seems like torture to me but he thrives on it. Or so he says.”
“He is a robust sort of chap, but most of the Scots are, I’m told.” Georges’s accompanying sniff robbed the comment of any hint of praise.
Nick refrained from acknowledging the implied criticism. He left rivalry between the servants to be sorted out among them. If he allowed himself to get involved in their every perceived slight, he’d end up sacking the entire lot of them.
Georges, a slender man of medium height and austere countenance, was invaluable as a valet. He kept garments immaculate, boots shined to a high polish regardless of weather, and had a dozen tricks to remove stains from cloth. He was also the most ardent snob Nick had ever met, and he had met many in his lifetime. He found it rather amusing, until it became tedious.
“Drummond is assisting a groom in repairing a wheel on another guest’s coach. Tell him I wish to leave directly after breakfast tomorrow. He should be done with Lady Caroline’s coach wheel well before then.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Georges removed his boots for him, tugging them free and placing them on a small tray to be cleaned, then held out his dressing gown. A fire warmed the room, and Nick stood by the mantel while the valet inspected his evening clothes, watching without paying attention, lost in thought as he wondered what had brought Wakefield to Seabury. He’d thought him closeted with Raffles, the former Lieutenant Governor of Java, as the latter had the ambitious idea to publish a book about the country with Wakefield’s assistance. Finding Will in Sussex was an unpleasant shock.
Their last confrontation had been hostile almost to the point of violence, and he did not care to repeat the experience. He knew Will well enough to know he did not act rashly. In most cases, he admired him for his patience in waiting until he understood a situation before acting. But this was different—Will had been his friend. And though he hadn’t actually stated his belief that Nick had appropriated the missing artifacts from British possession, he had not mounted a vigorous defense of him, either. Granted, it had been a chaotic month, with deadly volcanic ash clogging the seas and sails and the island in an uproar, but the theft of Prambanan temple sculptures would never occur to him. Will knew that.
“Is there anything you need before I go, my lord?”
Georges brought him back from contemplation. “That is all for now.”
“I will return before you need to dress for supper, my lord.”
As Georges closed the door behind him, Nick opened a small trunk and took out the captain’s log he had managed to copy in the chaos after Tambora erupted. He flipped open the page to April 5, 1815 and scanned it for what was likely the hundredth time in the past year. Since there had been unrest near Yogyakarta on Java after finding an ancient temple a few years before, and a few uprisings once the British took over from the French, he’d gotten in the habit of carefully documenting events.
The horrific days after Tambora’s eruption had been duly noted in his log, details of few survivors and their efforts to ease the suffering still etched sharply in his mind as well. At the time, it had comforted him that Willem Wakefield had been with him, sharing the horror.
And now they were adversaries.
It all seemed such a waste.
He snapped the captain’s log closed and stowed it back in the leather pouch. Fate seemed to be laughing at him, having brought him to Seabury after he’d hoped to avoid both his bride-to-be and Wakefield, yet found them both in the same house. Perhaps he should face them, but it wasn’t the right time or place. Laurentia would be mortified if there was a scene and she thought herself part of the cause. Why on earth had she invited Miss St. John to celebrate the Christmas season without consulting him? He fully intended to ask her as soon as he could catch her alone and unencumbered with uninvited guests, as well as a new heir.
Miss Charlotte St. John was not quite as he’d expected, even after their first meeting. Puce was not a good color on anyone, particularly Miss St. John; the dark-blue spencer and white muslin dress she wore today, with blue ribbons wound in her soft brown hair, were much more flattering. But one’s appearance certainly did not guarantee a good character or sharp wit. It was a pleasant surprise to find Miss St. John seemed to possess both. And, if he was honest about it, it was rather disconcerting to find a female of suitable age who did not throw herself at him. Perhaps that was because the matter was already arranged, but if Miss St. John had any idea of making herself more agreeable to him, she had not shown it. He was uncertain that her dismay at the thought of wedding him was genuine. It could be just a pose. Twice, she had offered to withdraw. What if he had accepted the offer? Would she then panic, her strategy undone? Or would she be glad of it?
It was not that he thought so highly of himself that he was certain any woman would be delighted to marry him, but years as the eligible son of a duke, and decorated—until recently—captain in the Royal Navy had seen dozens of females pushed at him. He had always known that when he married, it would be to an acceptable bride, but had often thought that as the second son, he might be spared an arranged marriage. After all, it was Anthony who would inherit title and estates, and more power to him. He was far better suited to be a duke than Nick knew himself to be. He preferred a much different life. It had long been his dream to travel the world and he’d done his share in the Royal Navy, yet there were places he still wanted to see, mountains to climb, and rivers to ford, and—he laughed aloud at this—penguin rookeries to visit.
Penguins! For a woman he had thought pragmatic past the point of tedium, she had a whimsy he rather appreciated. Perhaps their marriage would be bearable, if he did not spend too much time in her company. Wit was not always accompanied by humor, and on its own could often turn shrill, he’d observed, but Charlotte St. John may just turn out to be a decent hostess for necessary events, and good mother for his heirs. Despite her brief rebellion when he had first met her, she seemed docile enough that life would be predictably quiet.
While he hated it when Avonhurst was right, the duke may have chosen a bride for him that would suit. It was done now, so he may as well make the best of it.
Chapter 4
“MY DEAR CHARY, you really must stop frowning like that. You will have wrinkles that rival Christmas raisins, if you do not.”
Aunt Catherine fussed about the room, picking up first one gown, then another before shaking her head at Baxter, the lady’s maid who seemed quite harried at all the unusual activities since they’d arrived. Chary sympathized with Baxter. She was much more accustomed to quiet and activities no more frenzied than going for a ride through the park to watch the birds.
“Yes, Aunt,” said Chary dutifully, and pressed the wrinkle between her brows with the point of a finger to smooth it out. Her mother’s sister was the perfect chaperone at one of these occasions, as she had been gently reared with all the society manners necessary, if not always practiced. Now she chattered on, warning Chary about all the upcoming duties she must know how to perform perfectly.
“As the wife of a duke’s son, you will be required to entertain a great many of the peerage, you know. Perhaps even the king, one day. It will be expected that you know what to wear and what to do, and should the King actually attend a fête or soirée at your home—I assume it will be near Hawkely Manor?—you will ultimately be responsible for the appearance you present. So, you must remember all the requirements you have learned from Madame Poirier as to whom to invite, the proper manner of address, and so on.”
Appalled at even the thought, Chary listened to her aunt go on to describe all the grand dinners and occasions she may be called upon to host. Why on earth had she ever given in to Papa? She didn’t care a fig for balls, fêtes, soirées, or even meeting the king. It sounds much too complicated and exhausting. And infinitely boring.
“I beg your pardon?” Aunt Catherine said, turning to stare at her, and Chary blinked.
“Oh, did I say that last bit aloud?”
Aunt Catherine looked baffled, and so very much like Mama that for a moment, it was almost as if her mother were standing there. They had been only a year apart in age, but Mama was worlds apart from her sister, to hear Papa tell it. They loved each other, but where Mama had been gay and lively—and headstrong—Aunt Catherine had always been more dutiful and proper. It was Mama’s mischievous nature that had first lured Papa, and they had fallen madly in love. Chary thought it rather sad that she would never know such an overwhelming emotion, for it sounded very exciting, if a bit dangerous. Fortunately for her parents, Papa had already made quite a name for himself in the banking world, following in his father’s footsteps, so their marriage had been a prosperous and happy one.
“Dear Chary,” said Aunt Catherine, dismissing Baxter with a nod of her head, and coming to sit on the settee next to her. Blond ringlets streaked with gray bobbled slightly as she shook her head. “Chary—oh, you are so like your mother at times. I quite miss her, you know.”
“Like Mama? I am nothing like her. She was beautiful and vivacious, while I am quiet and would rather sit by the fire reading than go to a ball.”
Aunt Catherine smiled. “You get that last trait from me, my dear. It was always Cecelia who danced every dance, and had a dozen men crowded around her, all vying for her attention, while I sat in a chair at the side, quite contented.”
“Yet you are married happily, are you not?”
“Yes, thankfully so. It was not a whirlwind romance like Charles and Cecelia’s, but it was arranged by my father, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. I suppose I thought you fell in love and married like Mama.”
“I’m not certain our father could have survived another uproar like that one,” Aunt Catherine said dryly, “although it did turn out well in the end. He had chosen another man for your mother to marry. Then she ran off to Gretna Greene with her banker and that was that.”
“No! Papa never told me that part of the story.”
“I don’t wonder. Still, if Cecelia did not appease my father, I did by marrying Lord Shepworth. It was a bit awkward at first, I admit, but soon I began to care for him a g
reat deal. Now I cannot imagine being married to anyone else.”
“Well, you have always said that you lack imagination,” Chary murmured, and Aunt Catherine laughed.
“So I have, but you have no such lack. So, imagine yourself as hostess of a great hall in a lovely house in London, or at your vast country estate. You will have a handsome husband and several beautiful children, and be admired for all your charitable works and wonderful balls.”
“My imagination isn’t that agile,” Chary said glumly. “I’d rather imagine myself on a ship to Jamaica, looking forward to seeing the exotic birds, than catering to dowager countesses and duchesses.”
“Well then, just think of the dowagers as exotic birds and observe from a safe distance,” Aunt Catherine suggested with a wry smile.
“Guineas, perhaps,” Chary said, and laughed.
Aunt Catherine chuckled. “Such giddy, noisy birds! Well, not all dowagers are giddy and noisy, but there are quite a few who could be mistaken for guineas. Truthfully now, Chary, will you be so very unhappy to marry Lord Nicholas?”
For a moment she didn’t respond, and thought of earlier in the day when he had come into the library and found her hiding behind the draperies. She had been so startled to see him that she had panicked and ducked behind the heavy velvet drapes. It had been foolish, she knew, but she just didn’t want to face him. Of course, then she felt very awkward when he found her, but the conversation had not gone at all like she’d anticipated their next meeting to be. He had been sardonic, as she expected, but it was not directed at her or cruel. And he’d seemed genuinely surprised at her suggestion that she cry off the betrothal.
Mistletoe Magic Page 6
