“What happened was love, Verity. I knew with my body while we loved, with my mind after it was over, that you had become the air I breathed, the life I lived, the soul I cherished. I thought you felt the same. It did not occur to me that perhaps you did not until I discovered that you had left me. Did you feel as much pain on that day, I wonder, as I did? I have never felt an agony more intense.”
“I was a blacksmith’s daughter,” she said, “an opera dancer and a whore. What you would have offered then would have been far less than marriage. I have not changed, my lord. I am the daughter of a clergyman, but I am still a whore. I will not be your mistress or your wife.”
He possessed himself of both her hands. They were like ice. “You will scrape together the money,” he said fiercely. “The fifty pounds. Every penny of it. I want it returned. And then I will hear you take back that ugly name you call yourself. Tell me something. And tell me the truth, Verity. Why did you allow me to bed you that night? Were you a working girl earning her pay? Or were you a woman making love, giving and receiving love without a thought to money? Which was it? Look at me.”
She raised her eyes to his.
“Tell me.” He was whispering, he realized. The whole of his future, the whole of his happiness depended upon her reply. He was far from sure of what it would be.
“How could I not love you?” she said. “They were magical days. And I was taken off guard. I went there with a cynical, arrogant rake. And I discovered there a warm, gentle, fun-loving, caring man. I have no experience with such situations, my lord. How could I not love you with my body and my heart and everything that is me? It did not once occur to me as that was happening that I was becoming a whore.”
“You were not,” he told her. “You were becoming mine as I was becoming yours. What we did was wrong. It should not have been done outside wedlock. But worse sins than that can be forgiven, I believe. Let me say one more thing before I plead with you again. I visited my father at Conway Hall after Christmas. He is the Earl of Grantham. Did you know that? I am his heir.
“He has been very eager for some time for me to marry and produce an heir since I have no brothers. I love my father, Verity. And I know my duty to him and to my position. But I told him that I could never marry anyone but you. That was when I still thought you the daughter of a blacksmith and an opera dancer. I never thought of you as a whore. What we did in bed together was love, not business.”
“And how did your father reply?” she asked.
He smiled at her. “My father loves me, Verity. My happiness is important to him. In our family love has always been of more importance than duty. He would have given his blessing—a little reluctantly, it is true—to my marriage even to a blacksmith’s daughter.”
She dropped her glance again to stare down at their joined hands. He squeezed hers tightly and his heart hammered painfully against his chest.
“My love,” he said. “Verity. Miss Ewing. Will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”
She kept her head down. “It was Christmas,” she said. “Everything looks different at Christmas. More rosy, more possible, more unreal. This is a mistake. You should not have come. I do not know how you discovered who I am.”
“I believe,” he said, “the mistake is ours, Verity. We act as if Christmas is for one day of the year only, as if peace and hope and happiness can exist only then. It was not meant to be that way. Was all that business at Bethlehem intended to bring joy to the world for just one day of the year? What little trust we have in our religion. How little we demand of it and give to it. Why can it not be Christmas now, today, for you and me?”
“Because it is not,” she said.
He released her hands then and reached into an inner pocket of his coat. “Yes, it is,” he said. “It will be. How about this?” He held in his palm the linen handkerchief she had given him as a gift. He unfolded it carefully until she could see the gold star on its chain nestled within.
“Oh,” she said softly.
“Do you remember what you said about it when I gave it to you?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “I hurt you.”
“Yes,” he said. “You did. You told me the Star of Bethlehem belonged in the heavens to bring hope, to guide its followers to wisdom and the meaning of their lives. Perhaps some power did not quite agree with you. Here it is, lying here between us. I believe we did follow it at Christmas, Verity, perhaps with as little understanding as the wise men themselves of where exactly it was leading us and to what. It led us to each other. To hope. To love. To a future that could hold companionship and love and happiness if we are willing to follow it to the end. Come with me. All the way. That one more irrevocable step. Please?”
Her eyes, when they looked up into his, were swimming with tears. “It can be Christmas today?” she said. “And every day?”
“But not in any magical sense,” he said. “We can make every day Christmas. But only if we work hard at it. Only if we remember the miracle every day of our lives.”
“Oh, my lord,” she said.
“Julian.”
“Julian.” She gazed at him and he could feel his anxiety ease as she slowly smiled.
“Marry me,” he whispered.
She lifted her hands then and framed his face with them. “I should have trusted my heart more than my head,” she said. “My heart told me it was a shared love. My head told me how foolish I was. Julian.” Her arms twined about his neck. “Oh, Julian, my love. Oh yes, if you are quite sure. But I know you are. And I am, too. I have loved you with so much pain, so much longing, so little trust. I love you.”
He stopped her babbling with his mouth. He wrapped his arms about her and held her tightly to him. He held everything that was most dear in his life and vowed that he would never ever let her go, that he would never even for a single moment forget the strange, undeserved chance that had led him out into the desert to follow a star along an unknown route to an unknown destination. He would never cease marveling that he had been led, bored and cynical and arrogant, to peace and redemption and love.
In one palm, clasped tightly at her back as they kissed eagerly, joyfully, passionately, he held the linen handkerchief, which had been a treasured memento of her father, and the gold star, which he would hang about her neck in a few minutes’ time.
The gifts of Christmas.
The gifts of love.
THE SEASON FOR SUITORS
Nicola Cornick
CHAPTER ONE
THE LETTER arrived with his breakfast.
It was written in an unmistakably feminine hand and it smelled faintly of jasmine perfume.
Sebastian, Duke of Fleet, was not pleased to see it. Letters from ladies, especially those that arrived early in the morning, usually presaged bad news. Either some misguided woman was threatening to sue him for breach of promise, or his great-aunt was coming to stay, and he welcomed neither.
“Perch, what is this?” the duke asked, tapping the parchment with his finger.
His butler continued to unload the breakfast from the silver tray, placing the coffeepot at an exact degree from the cup, and the milk jug at the perfect angle from both. Perch was a butler of precision.
“It is a letter from a lady, your grace.”
The duke’s brows drew together in an intimidating frown. He had spent much of the previous night at White’s; both the drink and the play had been heavy, and this morning his mind was not very clear. At least he had had the sense to reject the amorous advances of one of London’s latest courtesans. He had had no wish to wake up with her painted face beside him.
He had an unwelcome suspicion that he was getting too old for drinking and debauchery, a superannuated rake. Once he started to wear a wig and use face paint to cover the ravages of age, he would have to ask Perch to shoot him.
He pushed aside the dispiriting thought. Without the wine and the gambling and the women there was little left for him, except a rambling old mausoleum of a house that, on
this December day, was particularly difficult to heat. Indeed, his hot water bottle had burst in the night, adding another unpleasant dimension to his night’s slumber.
“I perceive it is from a lady,” he said coldly. “I simply wondered which lady was attempting to communicate with me?”
Perch’s expression suggested that his master might consider breaking open the seal in order to find out, but after a moment he answered him.
“The letter was delivered by a man in the Davencourt livery, your grace.”
The duke reached thoughtfully for the coffeepot and poured for himself, then he slid his knife under the seal, scattering little bits of wax across the table, where they mixed with the crumbs from the toast. Perch winced at the mess. Seb ignored him. What benefit was there in being a duke if one could not scatter crumbs as one pleased? After all, he attended to his ducal responsibilities in exemplary fashion. He had improved the family seat at Fleet Castle, he was generous to his tenants, he had even been known to attend the House of Lords if there was a particularly important debate taking place. His days were perfectly ordered—and damnably boring. Life was hard when one had done everything there was to do.
He unfolded the letter and looked at the signature.
Yours sincerely, Miss Clara Davencourt.
He was aware of rather more pleasure than seemed quite appropriate. He had not seen Clara Davencourt for almost eighteen months and had not known she was currently in London. He sipped his coffee, rested the letter on the table and swiftly scanned the contents.
Your Grace…
That was rather more formal than some of the things Miss Davencourt had called him during their last encounter. Arrogant, conceited and rude were the words that sprang immediately to his memory.
I find myself in something of a dilemma…
Seb’s blue eyes narrowed. The combination of Miss Davencourt and a dilemma was sufficient to strike dread into the strongest constitution.
I find that I need some paternal advice…
A smile curled the corner of Seb’s firm mouth. Paternal advice indeed! If Miss Clara Davencourt had deliberately set out to depress his pretensions as the most notorious rake in town she could not have done a better job. He was only twelve years her senior and had not begun his life of dissipation at so young an age that he was qualified to be her father.
My brother is preoccupied with affairs of state and all the more suitable of his friends are unavailable at present, which only leaves you…
Seb winced. The minx. She knew how to deliver a neat insult.
I therefore have no alternative than to beg your help. If you would call at Davencourt House at the earliest opportunity I should be most grateful.
Seb sat back in his chair. Calling on young ladies in order to play the role of paternal confidant was so foreign to him as to be ludicrous. He could not imagine what had possessed Clara even to ask. Of course, he would not comply. It was out of the question. If she needed advice she should be sending for a female friend, not the greatest rake in London.
He glanced out the window. The winter morning looked crisp and bright. There was a dusting of frost on the rooftops. There were so many possibilities for a clear Yuletide morning. He could go riding. He could go to Tattersalls and spend more money on horses. He could go to White’s and read the paper, chat with his cronies, drink some more fine brandy. He yawned.
He could go to Collett Square and call upon Miss Clara Davencourt.
It would be something to do. He could teach her that summoning rakes to one’s drawing room was in every way a poor idea.
He folded the letter and slid it into his pocket. Draining his coffee cup, he stood up and stretched. He was aware of a most unfamiliar feeling, a lifting of the spirits, a sense of anticipation. He took the stairs two at a time, calling for his valet as he went.
MISS CLARA DAVENCOURT was sitting in the library of the house in Collett Square, listening with a quarter of an ear while her companion, Mrs. Boyce, read to her from the Female Spectator. She checked the little marble clock on the mantelpiece. The Duke of Fleet would surely have received her letter by now. She wondered when he might call. Then she was struck by the thought that perhaps he might not call at all. Given that they had parted on the worst possible terms eighteen months before, she supposed it was quite possible he would not wish to see her again. She fidgeted with the material of her skirt, smoothing away imaginary creases. Seb Fleet was a rogue, but on this occasion that was what she needed. A gentleman simply would not do.
Clara wrinkled her nose slightly as she recalled their last meeting. She had called Fleet a callous, coldhearted scoundrel when he had rejected her admittedly unconventional but honest offer of marriage. It had taken all her courage to propose in the first place, and to be turned down had been a dreadful blow. In her pride and unhappiness she had told him that she never wished to see him again so she could understand if he chose not to respond to her plea now.
“The Duke of Fleet, ma’am.” Segsbury, the Davencourt butler, was bowing in the doorway. Clara jumped. Despite the fact that she had been half expecting him, she felt shock skitter along her nerves. Mrs. Boyce jumped, too. She dropped the newspaper and her hand fluttered to her throat. Clara noted the pink color that swept up her companion’s neck to stain her cheeks, and the brightness that lit Mrs. Boyce’s eyes. She bit her lip, hiding a smile. She had seen Sebastian Fleet have this effect on many ladies, no matter their age.
The duke was bowing to Mrs. Boyce and smiling at her in a way that made the woman’s hands flutter like nervous moths. Clara watched with a certain cynicism. Charm was as effortless to Fleet as breathing.
Nevertheless, as he turned toward her she could not quite repress the flicker of awareness that he kindled inside her. She had assured herself that the previous eighteen months had taught her indifference where the Duke of Fleet was concerned. Now she knew that she lied.
It was impossible to be indifferent to Sebastian Fleet. He was a big man, both tall and broad, and his command of any room and any situation appeared natural. Despite his size he moved with a nonchalant grace that compelled the gaze. Clara reminded herself not to stare. She dropped her eyes to the embroidery that rested in her lap. She hated embroidering and would leave the material sitting around for months with absolutely no work done on it at all, but at a time like this it was a useful subterfuge.
Fleet was standing before her now. She could see the high polish of his boots. She resisted the urge to look up sharply. Instead she raised her chin slowly, composedly, every inch a lady of quality.
His eyes were very blue and lit with a devilry that told her more clearly than words that he was remembering their last meeting. Her heart thumped once with a mixture of nostalgia and relief. Now, she was sure, they could behave as mere acquaintances.
She saw the look in his eyes and amended the thought. She was far too aware of his physical presence to be comfortable with him. She felt her color rise and silently cursed him. He had taken her hand although she had not offered it. Neither of them were wearing gloves, and his fingers were warm and strong against hers, sending a shiver along her nerves.
“It is a great pleasure to see you again, Miss Davencourt.” He held her hand for a moment longer than was quite respectable. A rakish smile curved his firm mouth. “I was afraid we might never meet again.”
Clara cast her gaze down. “I regret there was no other course open to me, your grace.”
The Duke’s smile grew. He turned to Mrs. Boyce. “I wondered whether I might have a little time alone with Miss Davencourt, ma’am? We are old friends.”
For a moment Clara thought her companion was so swept away by Fleet’s charm that she was actually going to agree. Then the happy light died from Mrs. Boyce’s eyes. Clara had impressed upon her many times that she was not to leave her alone with any gentleman, least of all a certified scoundrel. This, the one time Clara did wish to be left alone, was the first occasion on which Mrs. Bryce had remembered what her duty entai
led.
“I am sorry, your grace, but that would not be in the least proper of me.”
Mrs. Boyce sat up straighter, looking fully prepared to take up residence on the gold sofa until the duke had departed.
It took more than a mere refusal to stop Seb Fleet. “I had actually intended to take Miss Davencourt driving, ma’am,” he said. “It is such a beautiful day.”
Mrs. Boyce’s face cleared. “Driving! Oh, I see. Well, in that case there can be no objection. Nothing untoward could possibly take place in a curricle.”
Fleet smiled broadly. Clara knew with an instant’s insight that he was thinking of all the disreputable things that could happen in a curricle. No doubt he had indulged in them all at one time or another. But he spoke quite gravely.
“I assure you that Miss Davencourt will be completely safe with me, ma’am. I view her in a strictly paternal fashion.”
Clara cast him a demure, sideways glance, which he met with his bland blue gaze. She had hoped that her reference to his paternal advice in the letter would vex him, since he had spent so much time at their last meeting telling her that he was too old for her.
“Then I shall fetch my cloak,” she said, dropping a slight curtsy. “Thank you, your grace.”
The flash of amusement in Fleet’s eyes told her that he was not fooled by this show of meekness. She felt his gaze follow her out and almost shivered under the cool blue intensity of it.
She kept him waiting only a few minutes and he was openly appreciative when she rejoined him in the hall.
“It is a rare woman who does not take an hour over her preparations, Miss Davencourt.”
“I was concerned not to keep your horses waiting in the cold, your grace,” Clara said, with an expressive lift of the brows.
“Rather than not wishing to inconvenience me? I take the snub, but your concern for my team is still admirable.”
The Heart of Christmas Page 10
