by Bree Wolf
After all, Wesley was…he was…
“As his mother and sister are in residence,” Wesley continued, “he believes that you are safest here.”
“I see,” Christine mumbled as she gazed up into his eyes; eyes that looked into hers in a way that made her feel safer than she ever had while at the same time had her catch her breath as her body itched to feel his arms come around her and his lips cover hers.
“Thankfully,” Wesley continued, the ghost of a smirk on his face as he held her gaze, “considering that the need for a chaperone is met, he granted my request to stay in one of the guest rooms.”
Christine drew in a deep breath as relief flooded her, and for a moment, she closed her eyes. Then a deep smile spread over her face, and looking up at him, she delighted in the mischievous twinkle that suddenly lit up his eyes. What had happened? He had seemed so disappointed in her only a moment ago, had he not?
“I hope you do not mind my presence here,” Wesley teased, the sparkle in his eyes telling her that he knew she did not.
Christine smiled. “I never minded your presence, only your proposal.”
Chapter Eight − Lady Eleanor's Demand
Their first day at Stanhope Grove passed in quiet comfort or rather discomfort as far as Lady Stanhope was concerned.
After Eleanor had dragged Christine upstairs in order to show her some kind of accessory−as far as Wesley could remember−Wesley had found himself on his way to his friend’s study when the door had suddenly opened and Lady Stanhope had rushed out, her face a twisted snarl.
Upon seeing him, she had stopped in her tracks.
With a polite smile on his face, Wesley had bowed to her, deciding it would be far easier on all of them not to antagonise the lady of the house.
However, all his attempts had been in vain as the lady in question had glared at him through narrowed eyes, her nose twitching with disgust, before she had strode past him, barely glancing at him with her head held high as though he were a lowly servant.
Wesley guessed that Lady Stanhope doubted Christine’s story as much as her son. However, while the son had made assumptions−correct assumptions, Wesley had to admit−in favour of Christine, his mother had done the opposite.
Wesley could only hope she would refrain from spreading any rumours for fear of staining her own family’s reputation should it become known that their hospitality had at one point extended to such a woman.
For the millionth time, Wesley cursed Christine for her ludicrous idea! Or ideas as it were for she appeared to stumble from one to the next as easily as other people changed the topic of their conversation.
“Do not worry,” his friend spoke out behind him as Wesley was still staring after Lady Stanhope, wondering if there even was a way to fix all that had happened in the past few hours. “She will not say a word even if only for Eleanor’s sake as well as my own.”
Turning to his friend, Wesley sighed, “I hope you’re right.”
“Will you not tell me what’s going on?” Lord Stanhope asked, stepping aside to allow Wesley to pass. Then he closed the door behind them and took the seat behind his desk across from his friend. “I give you my word, I will not speak of this to anyone.”
Again, Wesley sighed. If there was anyone in the world whose word was beyond the shadow of a doubt, it was Stanhope’s. “To tell you the truth,” he began, rubbing his temples, “it’s fairly complicated. Every once in a while, I feel as though even I do not understand what’s going on.”
Stanhope snorted. “I’ve never seen you relinquish control to anyone.” Then the amusement left his face, and for a long moment, he regarded his friend with open curiosity. “You care about her, do you not?”
Cringing slightly, Wesley met his friend’s eyes. “I’m afraid so.”
Stanhope laughed. “Do you consider it unfortunate to be in love?”
Wesley took a deep breath. Was he in love? He shook his head. He would dwell on that question later. “Not generally so. However, Christine is…” Again, he shook his head, at a loss for words.
“Then her name truly is Christine?” his friend asked, his hawk-like eyes watching Wesley’s every move.
Wesley nodded.
“And her family name?”
Wesley swallowed. “Dansby.”
Stanhope’s mouth dropped open before a spark of understanding came to his grey eyes. “Catherine’s sister.” He shook his head. “I knew she looked familiar. I cannot believe I did not see it right away.” Leaning back in his chair, he regarded Wesley, his brows slowly drawing down in confusion. “However, I must admit that knowing her true identity, I feel as though I am even farther from understanding what’s going on.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Wesley snorted. “It all began with another one of Christine’s ludicrous ideas,” he started as his friend rested his head against the back of his chair, listening intently.
***
“It is exquisite!” Christine exclaimed, delightedly turning the mask in her hands. The golden ornaments sparkled in the sun shining in through the window, giving it a magical glow. “And it matches your dress perfectly.”
“Does it not?” Eleanor asked, gazing almost lovingly at her lavender ball gown reserved for the Christmas Ball. “I’ve never owned anything so beautiful.”
Setting down the mask, Christine stepped closer, her eyes gliding over Eleanor’s glowing face. Eyes distant, the young woman barely seemed to see the dress. Her gaze appeared directed inward as she pictured something…or rather someone beloved, and a deep smile came to her face.
Brushing a hand down Eleanor’s arm, Christine said, “Who is he?”
As though startled awake, the young woman flinched, her eyes restless as she brushed past Christine and strode toward the window. “Who do you speak of?” she asked, her voice, however, hitched slightly, and a crimson red came to her cheeks.
“The young man who seems to be occupying your thoughts,” Christine said, coming to stand next to Eleanor. “Will he be at the Christmas Ball?”
Eleanor swallowed, then slowly turned her gaze to Christine, the corners of her mouth straining upward as she fought the smile that threatened to light up her face. “I must not speak of him,” she whispered, then clamped a hand over her mouth as though she had already said too much.
Christine laughed. “I dare say you do appear quite taken with this young man…whoever he is. Will you not give me his name?” she asked, and a teasing tone came to her voice as she went on. “Or are you afraid that speaking his name will conjure him here?”
Eleanor’s face turned white as a sheet, and she shook her head vehemently.
“What’s the matter?” Christine asked, all amusement gone from her voice. A blind man could see that Eleanor had lost her heart to the young man she didn’t dare speak of. But why didn’t she dare? What on earth could be the matter? “Is he not a suitable match?” Christine asked when Eleanor remained silent.
A large tear formed in the young woman’s left eye, then spilled over and slowly ran down her cheek as she tried to blink it away. “Mother does not approve of him,” she cried, trying her best to suppress the heart-wrenching sobs that escaped her throat.
“Oh, dear,” Christine mumbled, pulling the young woman into her arms.
Doing her best to calm her, Christine pictured Lady Stanhope’s glaring eyes and determinedly set chin as she had regarded their unexpected visitor−namely her−with disapproval. Indeed, with a mother like that, there was very little hope for a happily-ever-after for Eleanor. If Lady Stanhope was dead set against the man who had captured her daughter’s heart, no one on this earth could change her mind.
Christine’s heart wept for the young woman. “Your mother is not here,” she whispered. “Tell me about him.” If nothing else, she could let Eleanor speak her mind and listen to the troubles of her heart. Unfortunately, all Christine had to offer was her sympathy.
Sniffling, Eleanor sank onto the settee. “His name is Henry Waltham,” she wh
ispered, her eyes darting to the door as though her mother would barge in any second.
“Henry Waltham?” Christine asked, taking the seat next to Eleanor. “He’s not one of Lord Caulfield’s sons, is he?”
Dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes, Eleanor nodded. “The youngest,” she sobbed, “which is one of the reasons Mother disapproves.”
Trying to remember what she knew of Lord Caulfield’s sons, Christine frowned as nothing good came to mind. In fact, her path had occasionally crossed those of Stephen and Andrew Waltham, and as far as she could remember they were wastrels, drinking and gambling and spending their father’s money wherever they could.
Considering that Lord Caulfield and his baroness had always been well-thought of members of society, their sons had always seemed a harsher than deserved punishment for some unknown faux pas. In recent years, society at large had speculated about the potential skeletons in the baron’s cupboard.
Shaking her head, Eleanor looked almost pleadingly at Christine, who wished with all her heart that there was something she could do to help. “Mother was quite put out when I did not procure a husband during my first season,” Eleanor admitted, a touch of embarrassment in her eyes. “I tried to find someone I could see myself marrying, believe me, but no one even compared to Henry.” Her hands began to tremble, and new tears formed in her eyes. “And now, she insists that I choose a suitable husband next season. She’s made it perfectly clear that anything less is not an option.”
Christine sighed, grateful for her own parents’ generosity in considering their daughters’ heart’s desire. “Have you spoken to your brother?” she asked, remembering the kindness in those grey eyes.
Eleanor shook her head. “Mother would be furious if she knew I was trying to go against her wishes. I barely managed to voice my objections to her. She is…she is…”
Christine nodded. “I know.”
“The Christmas Ball is all I have left,” Eleanor whispered, eyes once more shifting to the door. “If I am to choose a husband next season, then my only wish is to enjoy one night with the man I love.” An innocent sparkle came to her eyes. “I want to dance and laugh and…” Biting her lower lip, she stopped, a rosy glow coming to her cheeks.
“And?” Christine pressed.
Eleanor swallowed, then straightened her shoulders and met Christine’s eyes with an unwavering gaze. “And I want a kiss under the mistletoe,” she stated. “In fact, I demand one. So that I will always remember what it feels like to be kissed by a man I love.”
Chapter Nine − To Love or Not to Love
The following week, Christine found herself unusually reflective. Whenever she did not sit with Eleanor, doing her best to lift the young woman’s spirits, or exchange a careful word with Wesley under the watchful eyes of their host, Christine wandered from room to room, gazing out the windows, lost in thought.
Eleanor’s confession had stirred something deep within her, and Christine began to wonder if she was making a mistake. The doomed love that lived in the young woman’s heart and frequently spilled down her cheeks made Christine cherish the freedom she herself had. The freedom to choose. And yet, long ago, she had made the choice to remain unmarried, free of the burdens marriage would inevitably bring.
But was it truly inevitable?
“Are you betrothed?” Eleanor asked her one snowy afternoon as they sat alone in the drawing room. While the younger woman tended to her embroidery, Christine once again found herself standing by the window, staring out at the white blanket draped over the earth.
“Betrothed?” The question jolted her awake, and she turned to look at Eleanor. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I admit I’m curious,” Eleanor said, eyes darting back and forth between Christine as well as the cushion and needle in her hands. “You’re so delightful. Men must be fighting for your hand in marriage, and yet, you’re still unmarried after all the seasons you must have−” Eyes going wide, Eleanor dropped the cushion and needle and clamped a hand over her mouth.
Watching her with amusement, Christine chuckled.
“I’m sorry,” Eleanor whispered, an embarrassed glow coming to her cheeks. “I did not mean to say that you’re…”
“Old?” Christine asked, then she shook her head and laughed. “Do not worry, dear Eleanor. I’m well aware that I’m not a young girl anymore.”
After taking a couple of deep breaths, Eleanor seemed to relax. “I was just curious,” she whispered once again, her eyes returning to her embroidery.
“No,” Christine answered, taking a seat next to her. “I’m not betrothed, and I don’t ever intend to be.”
Again, Eleanor’s eyes bulged. “Why ever not?”
Christine shrugged. “That is difficult to explain. I…”
“But I thought you were betrothed to Wesley Everett,” Eleanor interrupted, her cushion all but forgotten. “Whenever you enter a room, he immediately notices. He always takes a deep breath as though he feels the need to steady his nerves in your presence and his eyes follow you everywhere.” A deep smile came to her lips. “He looks at you the same way…,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “the same way Henry looks at me.”
Christine swallowed as she couldn’t help but notice that her heart jumped with joy. Did he truly care for her? Did he love her? Had Wesley not always been the kind of man who knew how to enjoy life and would only take a wife because it was expected of him, not because he wanted to?
However, what was even more confusing was that her heart seemed to be enjoying Eleanor’s observation, sending a myriad of butterflies into her belly. Christine couldn’t help but wonder whether her reaction to him was merely due to his physical attraction or whether it spoke of a much deeper bond. Her mind, though, didn’t dare consider that option.
“I admit I do care for him,” Christine said, knowing that denying the obvious would only increase Eleanor’s curiosity. “However, I do not believe in marriage.”
As expected, the young woman’s eyes opened wide. “You don’t…? What do you mean? The only reason a woman does not get married is because she cannot procure a husband. Why would you choose not to marry?”
Christine sighed, doubting the wisdom of sharing her innermost thoughts on the constitution of marriage with a young woman in love like Eleanor. “Because love doesn’t always last,” she finally said, hoping her words would not offend her companion. “I’ve found myself…let’s say, taken with a man before. However, eventually my feelings have always disappeared. What if I had married one of these men? Then I would be trapped in a loveless marriage and might even find myself longing for another man.” Shaking her head, Christine looked at Eleanor’s eager face. “I’m not the kind of woman to betray a promise once given. I’d rather not promise anything I am not certain I can keep.”
Eleanor nodded. “I admit your words have merit,” she said, suddenly sounding older than her years, “and I understand the worry that lives in your heart. However, maybe you’ve never truly been in love.” An apologetic smile on her face, she met Christine’s eyes. “I do not mean to offend you, but maybe you’ve never been tempted to marry because you’ve never been in love.”
Christine took a deep breath.
“Love is,” sighing, Eleanor gazed into the distance, a deep smile on her young face, “it is all-consuming and powerful. Although, yes, I admit sometimes it does not last a lifetime, it is well-worth the risk. Even if it fades eventually, in exchange for its loss, you’ve had years of unbelievable bliss.”
A soft smile came to Christine’s face as she watched her young friend.
“However, as intense as an infatuation might be,” Eleanor continued, “it rarely survives the daily struggles it often faces and quickly burns out. It is no match for love.”
A smile on her face, Christine shook her head and gently placed her hand on Eleanor’s. “You’re wise for someone so young,” she said, admiration ringing in her voice.
A soft blush came to Eleanor’s cheeks. “I’ve th
ought about this a lot,” she admitted. “I know that if I do not marry Henry but another, my life will be a life of regret. However, I find myself unable to go against everything I was raised to be.” She dropped her gaze, her fingers twirling the needle’s thread. “Henry has never asked,” she admitted quietly. “In moments of doubt, I feel uncertain if it is because he knows we have no future or if it is because he does not love me as much as I love him.”
Christine sighed. Since she had never seen them together, she could not offer any reassurance on the matter. However, would it even be wise to do so? After all, Eleanor knew as well as she did herself that there was little to no chance for a happily-ever-after for the two of them. Ought she feed the young woman’s hopes when they would likely be crushed before the end of the next season?
Once again, Christine realised how fortunate she was not to be pressured into accepting a man she did not care for merely because he was suitable in the eyes of her parents. She had the choice to choose a man she loved, and yet, she spurned her fortune at every turn.
For once, Christine did not wonder whether Wesley loved her or whether she loved him, but instead she thought about whether or not−if that were the case−she ought to marry for love? Or was Eleanor’s emphatic speech messing with her rationally achieved principles? And who ought to decide? Her heart or her mind?
***
While Christine spent most of her time in Eleanor’s company, Wesley found himself wandering the halls of Stanhope Grove alone. Although his friend often sought him out, asking questions that Wesley didn’t dare answer, Wesley’s monosyllabic answers would quickly drive him from his side.
“I’ve never known you to be this glum,” Lord Stanhope observed, his sharp eyes watching him. “I fail to understand why you do not simply ask for her hand in marriage. You’re quite obviously taken with her.”
Not meeting his friend’s eyes, Wesley cleared his throat. “It is not that simple.”
“In the past week, you’ve said so a thousand times,” Lord Stanhope observed, “and yet, I fail to see the complication you’re referring to.”
