A Kiss for Christmas

by Caroline Linden

  She blushed in spite of herself as the dance sent them apart. It was cheeky, but she wasn’t immune to a compliment from a handsome man. “If the weather were fair, I would suggest an expedition to the Roman ruins nearby.”

  “It is a bit cold for that,” he agreed, looking a little downcast.

  Clara bit her lip in chagrin that Wells was so small and provincial. “’Tis the Christmas season,” she offered. “There will be parties, I’m sure.”

  “Yes.” Now he was embarrassed. Too late Clara realized that, as a stranger to town, he wasn’t likely to be invited to the usual parties, unless Mr. Mortimer brought him along. Oh, how could she have been so stupid?

  “My mother is planning a small evening party, two weeks from this Friday,” she heard herself say. “We would be delighted to have you join us.”

  His face changed, subtly but undeniably. Anyone watching wouldn’t have known, but Clara could tell by his eyes he was elated. “Thank you, Miss Hampton,” he said, his voice warm and low. “I would like that about all things.”

  She was still wracking her brain for how to tell her mother what she’d done when Mr. Weston escorted her back to her friends. Mama had planned the Christmas party as the perfect opportunity for Mr. Mortimer to remember Clara’s charms—if necessary by having them thrust into his face. There were innumerable games young people could play at Christmastide that would give her ample opportunity to speak with Mr. Mortimer and re-acquaint him with how charming, pleasant, and marriageable Clara was.

  And now Clara herself, despite having her hopes pinned on just that, had gone and invited another man.

  A handsome other man.

  A rich other man.

  She found her mother and confessed at once. To her astonishment, Mama was pleased. “Well done,” was her response.

  “What?” Clara blinked and lowered her voice. “Truly, Mama? I thought Mr. Mortimer—”

  “Yes, yes.” Mama patted her hand. “I asked your father, and he tells me Mr. Weston is an eligible man in his own right. Not a baronet’s heir, of course, but Papa heard he made a handsome sum investing in coal canals. Mr. Delahunt was decidedly impressed by him, and spoke very highly of his intelligence and sense. And though he is only an attorney, Sir Eliot Mortimer did summon him all the way from Kent, which is noteworthy indeed.”

  “So you’re pleased to have Mr. Weston?” Clara asked, nonplussed.

  “Yes, of course, dear! We’ll keep your sights on Mr. Mortimer, naturally, but there is Helen to think of, or even Merry.”

  For some reason it did not sit entirely well with Clara that Mama was so eager to throw Mr. Weston to her younger sister or to her cousin. Particularly not when Merry had already spoken so approvingly of his looks and danced with him after Clara had.

  She glanced back at Mr. Weston. He was just beginning a set with Patience Shaw, who was smiling up at him with a great deal of interest. Patience was a year older than Clara, and Mama said her parents were growing anxious for her to marry—anxious enough that they deigned to allow Mr. Bates’s youngest son William call on her. Mr. Weston would be a decided improvement on young Mr. Bates, for Patience.

  Well. Clara turned her back to him. Handsome he might be, and rich as well, but he was not John Mortimer, who had been the object of her interest for two years now. She was not going to allow herself to be distracted by dancing blue eyes and a teasing smile or even by fine dancing.

  But it did not help that across the room, Mr. Mortimer sulked and drank and refused to dance a single set with anyone, especially Clara.

  4

  John Mortimer was not pleased when Thomas mentioned the Hamptons’ party.

  “You’re going?” he demanded. “Why would you?”

  Thomas quirked a brow. “I was invited by Miss Hampton.”

  Mortimer scowled. They both knew Thomas would have gone if Mortimer did, at his father’s orders. But the fact that Thomas had a right to attend independently clearly rankled.

  “A dull country party,” Mortimer finally said. “Snapdragon and whist and blindman’s bluff. Children’s games.”

  “Jolly good fun on a winter’s evening,” rejoined Thomas.

  Mortimer rolled his eyes. “Would that we could go to Bath.”

  Thomas said nothing. Bath was where Mortimer had got himself in trouble, and had been explicitly commanded to avoid.

  “I wasn’t even planning to attend,” complained Mortimer.

  “I am perfectly capable of attending alone, if you wish to remain at the Lodge.”

  Mortimer almost growled at him in disgust. His father had decreed that he could not go out unless Thomas went with him, not to the tavern, not to the assembly rooms, and not to Bath under any circumstances. He was only permitted to make calls on family friends by himself—one of the last things Mortimer wished to do—or attend church—the very last thing he wished to do—without Thomas.

  It put John Mortimer in a dreadful mood, and he took it out on Thomas. Since Sir Eliot had warned him it might go this way, and offered extremely handsome compensation in anticipation of it, Thomas absorbed Mortimer’s bad temper with a shrug and good humor.

  “It won’t be very amusing,” Mortimer finally said. “You’ll regret it.”

  “And yet I intend to go anyway, having been duly apprised of that.”

  “You’re supposed to go where I go.”

  Thomas raised his brows. “And where do you intend to go, a fortnight from Friday?”

  Mortimer grumbled and complained, but in the end admitted he probably would have gone to the Hamptons’ party. “So I suppose you’ll have to go, too,” he finished, as if the conversation hadn’t begun by Thomas remarking that he meant to go anyway.

  “I suppose I shall,” he agreed, and kept his smile on the inside.

  * * *

  Clara was not surprised to encounter Mr. Weston several times in the next fortnight.

  That was due to Wells, of course. In a small town with no attractions of note, it was inevitable that they would cross paths at church or at the shops. And it should have been offset by the fact that every time she met Mr. Weston, he was in company with Mr. Mortimer, and Mr. Weston’s friendly greetings meant that Mr. Mortimer also spoke to her repeatedly.

  And yet it was not.

  The first time it was easy to excuse. She and her sister met both gentlemen outside the bookseller’s. It was only polite to talk with them for several minutes.

  The second time they were lingering outside the bakery, savoring the aroma, when the gentlemen happened by, apparently with the same idea. They stood and talked for quite a while about which bread was the most delicious.

  The third time it was rainy, and when Clara dropped her umbrella, Mr. Weston appeared almost out of nowhere with another. Mr. Mortimer took it from him and guided her to the tea shop where her cousin and aunt were waiting, and then the gentlemen joined them for tea.

  But after three such meetings, she could not lie to herself any longer. It might not be a surprise to encounter him, but Clara was surprised at how quickly she came to look forward to meeting Mr. Weston.

  Mr. Mortimer spoke to her, too, but not the way he had in the spring. He told her about his new hunter, how much more pleasant Bath was than Wells, and how the spate of cold weather made it dashed dreary and cast him into the doldrums. Clara listened politely, but never once did he ask about her opinion, her thoughts, her family.

  Sometimes she suspected the only reason he spoke to her at all was to Mr. Weston from doing it. It was as clear as day to Clara, who had two younger brothers, that Mr. Mortimer was determined not to give way to Mr. Weston.

  Mr. Weston, on the other hand, asked after her cousin and her friend Lydia, if they were not with Clara. He made her laugh with his wry comments in response to Mr. Mortimer’s—there was no other word for it—sulkiness. His smile was genuine, and his compliments felt honest as well. She found herself smiling whenever they parted, even if they’d only exchanged a few words.

 
“I cede all interest in Mr. Mortimer to you,” remarked Merry after they had met him and Mr. Mortimer in High Street one day.

  “Merry,” sighed Clara. “Please don’t.”

  “What? You think I ought to set my cap for Johnathan Mortimer, too?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want him,” her cousin went on. “So morose! I wonder what has happened. He used to be charming—at least, more charming than this.”

  Clara had been having the same unkind thought. Mr. Mortimer had used to seem pleased to see her, with a smile and a warm greeting. He used to ask after her family, and make easy conversation that wasn’t strictly about him. Now she had the awkward feeling that his sole purpose in speaking to her was to prevent Mr. Weston from capturing her interest.

  Clara didn’t know what to think of Mr. Weston. He was friendly and amusing but he was only in town for a short time. She liked meeting him very much, but he’d given no indication he meant anything other than a brief friendship.

  “Perhaps Mama knows,” she said to her cousin. “I suppose your mother has heard nothing?”

  Merry made a face. Aunt Willa was passionate about botany and horticulture and cared nothing at all for the newest fashions in bonnets or how best to flirt during the quadrille, topics Merry could and would discuss endlessly. “She was mildly interested to hear a gentleman of some manners and good fortune will be at your mother’s Christmas party. Another chance, dear, she said.”

  Clara bit her lip. It was wrong of her to be so focused on her own travails when Merry was just as unwed and suitor-less as she was. “He seems very pleased to attend,” she offered. “It is a good chance to make his acquaintance.”

  Merry gave her a look, half exasperated, half mischievous. “It’s your acquaintance he wants to make, Clara.”

  She blushed. “The party is at my home, that’s all…”

  Merry snorted. “You’re being ridiculous! And what’s more…” She stopped walking, forcing Clara to a stop, too. “You’re being willfully blind. Mr. Weston is intrigued by you, and Mr. Mortimer is not.”

  Clara stared at her, sure in her heart that Merry was right. “Why?” she asked in despair. “He was so solicitous earlier this year!”

  “That was months ago,” Merry pointed out—rather callously, to Clara’s ears.

  “But it is so much more sensible for me to marry Mr. Mortimer,” she argued, though without passion.

  “So you can stay in Wells forever, dancing with the same twenty gentlemen at the same assembly rooms and gossiping with the same ladies you’ve known all your life?” Merry heaved a dramatic sigh. “I would throw myself at the first gentleman with five hundred a year who swore to carry me away from Somerset entirely.”

  Clara frowned in affront. “I would never throw myself at a man.”

  “Clara.” Merry pressed her hand. “You don’t have to. And while I will admit Mr. Mortimer is the most eligible man in Wells… that only means Wells is tragically bereft of eligible men.”

  Clara walked home, troubled. She could not deny that Mr. Weston was more engaging and charming than Mr. Mortimer was now—perhaps than he’d ever been. He was at least as handsome, too, although he had an air of slightly naughty humor about him, which was unlike Mr. Mortimer.

  Unfortunately she found that indecently appealing.

  But Johnathan Mortimer was familiar; her family knew his family. He was handsome and would have a very pretty estate. She had fixed her hopes on him because… because…

  She couldn’t remember. Had it been her mother’s idea, perhaps? It had seemed so logical and yet now Clara couldn’t precisely recall why she’d ever wanted him.

  Well. She would try to view both gentlemen fairly at the party in two days, and see what her feelings were after that. What more could she do?

  5

  The evening of the Hamptons’ party was cold and clear, with the scent of snow in the air.

  Thomas whistled softly as he dressed, looking forward to the evening with more eagerness than any man ought to admit. He’d met Miss Hampton nearly a dozen times in the last fortnight, and each encounter only served to make him more captivated. She was even lovelier close up, with sparkling dark blue eyes and a pretty pink in her cheeks. She laughed easily and smiled even more. If she crooked her finger at him this evening, Thomas thought he’d knock people over in his haste to get to her side.

  By the time he had moved on to contemplating, with extreme pleasure, dancing with her again, his manservant, Mack, ducked into the room, closing the door behind him. “From Mr. Harker,” he reported, holding out a sealed note.

  Well, damn. The one thing that could ruin this evening. Thomas abandoned his neckcloth and tore open the note.

  He read it, sighed, and threw the paper on the bureau.

  “Trouble, sir?” asked Mack, holding up his coat without being asked.

  Thomas slid in his arms and jerked the coat into place. Mack, who was far more secretary than valet, gave the sleeves a cursory flick with the brush. “Mary Anne Carlow.”

  “Ah.” Mick grimaced. “What does Mr. Harker suggest?”

  Thomas didn’t reply for a moment, his thoughts racing. Mary Anne Carlow was the reason he was here in Wells, the reason John Mortimer was in his father’s black books. She was tall and beautiful and quite possibly a scheming minx, with her crystal blue eyes fixed on Mortimer’s handsome expectations. It was to her brother and his friends that Mortimer had gambled away an outrageous sum of money, and Thomas thought that was no coincidence.

  In Mortimer’s telling, it was all a matter between friends, nothing to get upset about. He had met James Pettison and his mates at the Royal Academy, and they hit it off immediately, attending the theater, riding in Hype Park, and savoring the delights of Vauxhall.

  Thomas heard that Mortimer had also gone to brothels and gaming hells and notorious private clubs. After thoroughly exposing Mortimer to the wicked side of London, Pettison declared himself bored in London and proposed they go to Bath, where his sister lived.

  Mrs. Mary Anne Carlow was, to put it simply, the sort of woman men made fools of themselves over. Seductive and worldly, with a throaty laugh and a forthright manner, Mortimer had been bowled over. He admitted he’d shared her bed, but protested that they were in love and engaged to marry.

  That, most likely, was the part that had enraged Sir Eliot the most. Losing six thousand pounds to Pettison and his ominous mates was bad enough, but wanting to marry an adventuress put the baronet’s nose well out of joint.

  Thomas thought the whole thing was a trap laid for a brash young idiot. Mortimer refused to consider any such possibility. He was sure Pettison had played fairly, and he was certain that Mrs. Carlow was desperately in love with him.

  “Harker suspects Mrs. Carlow has been in contact with Mortimer. Have you seen any sign of it? Suspicious letters, messengers sneaking in and out?” he asked Mack.

  His man frowned. “No, but I’ll ask the other servants.”

  “Do that.” Thomas finished tying his neckcloth. All the Mortimers would be with him tonight at the Hamptons’ Christmas party, where neither Pettison nor Mrs. Carlow could sneak in without being seen. He wasn’t going to let Mortimer’s foolishness spoil this evening for him.

  He hoped.

  * * *

  Clara walked through the house, straightening greenery and shuffling the sheet music. Guests were to arrive soon, and she was having trouble sitting still.

  Mama had smiled knowingly at her restlessness and murmured something about Mr. Mortimer. Clara had not corrected her, that she was not thinking of Mr. Mortimer, but of the London attorney who shadowed Mr. Mortimer’s footsteps and thoroughly outshone the man she’d once expected to marry.

  Two years ago, it had been entirely reasonable to dream of John Mortimer. She certainly hadn’t been the only girl in Wells who did. And for a few months last spring, he had acted as if he returned her interest. No, he’d never declared himself, but his behav
ior had made the whole town think he would. If not for the recent turn of events, Clara would be highly annoyed at Mr. Mortimer for that.

  But now… it seemed she had changed her mind about him, just as he’d changed his mind about her.

  When the guests began arriving, she greeted everyone with a warm smile. Merry came first, with her parents and two brothers, then Lydia and her husband, followed quickly by the Shaws, the Delahunts, the Cartwrights, the Smythes, the Hodges, and her Aunt and Uncle Radcliffe. The older people were directed to the dining room, where her mother had laid out the best wines and cordials, while the young people were sent to the drawing room. Everyone would dine together, but Papa had declared he had no stomach for an evening of games and dancing, and Mama had obliged him by setting up a card room away from the drawing room.

  The Mortimer party arrived nearly last, with Mr. Weston bringing up the rear. Mama whispered to Helen while Papa was greeting Sir Eliot and Lady Mortimer, and Clara watched her sister curtsy to Mr. Weston and welcome him to Hampton Close. He answered her pleasantly, but when he looked up and caught Clara’s eye, his face lit up and he smiled.

  Her heart did a funny little double thump in her chest. She smiled back, but inside felt a leaping sort of excitement that boded well for the evening.

  Everyone was in good spirits. They ate a buffet supper with plum cakes and mince pies, and sang carols. There was a little bit of dancing, but Aunt Radcliffe, on the harpsichord, claimed tired fingers after an hour, and Amelia Hodge, the next best musician, didn’t wish to play. The older adults soon withdrew to the card room and the small parlor Mama had set aside for those who disdained cards, and Arthur closed the drawing room door for the games.

  They played move-all, where there was always one less chair than people needing a place to sit, to cries of outrage and amusement. Even Mr. Mortimer was in better spirits than he had been lately. Clara didn’t care, and took it only as yet another sign the man was fickle. They played charades, in which Sylvia Smythe had to portray the burning of Rome and nearly caught her dress on fire. They played Buffy in the Shade, where Clara’s brother George guessed that Patience Shaw must be their cousin William, and received a ferocious glare in return. George was still apologizing when Lydia clapped her hands and called for quiet.