The Last Chance Christmas Ball

by Mary Jo Putney

More of John Douglas’s conviction about feelings and the heart, as if the two were one. Henry frowned, skeptical.

  Keep the heart in good physical health through sensible means. Nurture its full health through love and compassion. You have known love. Claim it again.

  Henry frowned, feeling as if Douglas whispered like a ghost in his ear. He looked at his glass—Mrs. Johnstone’s brose was strong stuff. Love and compassion! Science sat better with him than sentiment. Douglas’s note was directed to someone personally. That was all.

  Yawning, he leaned back, soothed by the hot crackle of the hearth fire. His deerhound yawned, too, stretched out near the hearthstone. The vast old house creaked, filled with memories and ghosts and silence. His housekeeper had prepared a few meals for him, and the forester and his wife would look in on the house later. No matter the snow or the holiday—all was well.

  Times past, his family would sometimes open the great house for the Yuletide season, candles blazing in the windows and chaises coming up the drive bringing guests for soirees and teas and luncheons. His mother in particular had enjoyed Yule. But now his parents were gone; there was only Henry and Fiona, who had a family and homes in Edinburgh and Mid-Lothian.

  Cranshaw Castle was his property in its entirety, and he loved the vast estate with its farms and possibilities. He was not ready to fill the house with his own family yet. Someday.

  For now, he had lectures to prepare and articles to write for an Edinburgh journal. His only concern was receiving his students’ assignments. The snow could delay a courier, but as long as the papers arrived, Henry would not quibble over timing. Just let them think he would.

  He would not see Hay’s paper, though. He sighed.

  Raising a mock toast to the snoring dog, he sipped the brose. “Good Yule, my friend,” he murmured, then took up the book, yawned, and settled back.

  “Lady Hay,” Kendrick said, handing her down, “There’s no one about here.”

  “Mrs. Seton-Graham will have arrived by now,” Clary replied as she stepped down to the snowy gravel. “I must not delay you further, Kendrick. You are anxious to see your mother.”

  “I am,” he said, unstrapping Clary’s small clothing trunk to set it on the ground. “My lady, I’m a bit concerned about the snow. If this gets worse, will ye be welcome to stay here?”

  “It is only flurries. But yes, I suppose I could stay if need be. Leave the trunk there with the packages. One of Cranshaw’s servants will move them for me. Do go see your family,” she urged. “Blithe Yule to you!”

  Lifting the hem of her pale gray woolen gown, using her cane in her left hand, she climbed the entrance steps, turning under the portico roof to wave as Kendrick drove away.

  She rapped smartly on the door. Silence. She waited, knocked again. The large double door, not quite latched, opened slightly. Hearing quick footsteps, she was startled when a large dog poked its great head and shoulders through the doorway. The deerhound, its thick gray coat catching snow, gazed at her with dark, gentle eyes.

  “Good day!” She patted its head. Fiona had said to expect few servants at the house, Clary remembered. She glanced back as the carriage rolled down the snowy approach, and then pushed the door open, stepping into the foyer with the dog. “Pardon me! Is someone here?”

  The vast interior was dim and quiet. Had she arrived first? She glanced around the spacious foyer with its painted floor and soaring walls. A curving staircase swept into darkness.

  Clary smiled at the deerhound. “Are you the butler? Please tell Mrs. Seton-Graham that Lady Hay has arrived.”

  The dog walked down the main hallway, turning back expectantly. Light emanated through a doorway there. Clary followed.

  Seeing the man seated, asleep, there—hair black as his coat, shoulders broad, crossed long legs in black boots—she gasped and wanted desperately to flee.

  Instead, she mustered courage and stepped forward.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Sir.”

  Firelight glowed and snow fell, and Henry dozed in the chair. The remnant of a dream stirred yearning, loneliness. He frowned.

  “Sir.” A whisper.

  Henry opened his eyes. A vision stood in the dim light of the doorway, an angel or a ghost clothed in mist and frost. A tall guardian hound stood by her side. The exquisite spirit watched him gently. Henry went still, wrapped in her spell.

  “Lord Cranshaw. Pardon me. It is Yule Eve, and I am expected.” Slowly the figure came toward him. She limped, the dog buttressing her carefully.

  His dog. And—Clary? Henry sat up, cleared his throat. “Pardon me,” he said gruffly.

  “My fault,” Clarinda Douglas protested. “I did not mean to startle you.”

  He got hastily to his feet. “I was just . . . reading.”

  “I do apologize. You looked quite as if you saw a ghost.”

  He tipped his head. “In a way I have,” he murmured. “Miss Douglas. Greetings. I believe it is Lady Hay now?”

  “Yes. Though I am widowed.” She moved, a tap of the cane, a slow step.

  “I had heard. My condolences.” He took her hand, cool and slim in its soft little glove.

  “Thank you.” She watched him. With those gray-blue eyes and flaxen hair, that pale coat and bonnet, she looked a fragile ice princess. No wonder he had thought her a ghost.

  How strange to stand so close to her in the intimate warmth of his study, with neither of them knowing what to say. He released her hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I expected to meet your sister here.” She smiled—tremulously, he saw. He knew the spectrum of her smiles, anxious, sweet, mischievous . . . seductive. “Mrs. Seton-Graham and I are going to Lady Holbourne’s ball down in England.”

  “You are my sister’s traveling companion?” He blinked, surprised. “She never said.”

  “We are good friends,” she explained. Henry nodded, aware, although Fiona rarely mentioned Clary. “I was also invited to the Christmas ball at Holbourne Abbey, and Mrs. Seton-Graham kindly offered to share her coach. She said you . . .”

  “Would not be here?” he supplied.

  Her fingers flexed on the cane’s ivory handle. A gift from her father on her sixteenth birthday, he remembered. “When your sister arrives we will leave, and be no bother to you.”

  “You have not heard? Have a seat, Lady Hay. Here, Maximilian, out of there.” He moved the dog away from a low, scroll-end settee beside the fire.

  She sat tentatively, primly, gloved hands clasped. “Heard what, Lord Cranshaw?”

  So formal, despite all. He scowled slightly. “Fiona is unable to attend the ball, as it happens. She sent a note today by messenger, and sent word to Holbourne Abbey and to you as well. Her children are ill.”

  She gasped. “The little girls, are they very ill?”

  “Only chickenpox. They will soon be hale again. I take it you did not receive word?”

  “No.” She pulled at her gloved fingers. “I must have left home before it arrived. Oh, dear,” she added, glancing at him.

  “Indeed,” he murmured.

  “But my coachman just left,” she said faintly. She straightened her shoulders. “Perhaps your coachman could bring me to him? Kendrick has gone to see family who live nearby. And Fiona lives west of here, I think. I could go there, perhaps. I would not trouble you, but . . . I have no other transportation.” She looked distressed.

  “My own coachman has left for the holiday, but I can take you to meet your man,” Henry offered. Hastening Clary away seemed a very good idea. Memories were crowding him already. “Fiona’s home is fourteen miles west, quite far in bad conditions. And if you have not had the chickenpox, I would not advise visiting. I can easily run you to meet your coachman.”

  “I could not impose.”

  “You must, if you wish to leave here,” he said, “and go to your ball.”

  “Since your sister said you were attending, too, I thought you might be gone already.”

  “I agreed to
escort Fiona, but with her message and the worsening weather, I sent my own regrets by courier this morning.” He stopped. “Do you—require an escort to the ball?” He craved his solitude, but time was he would have done anything for Clary Douglas. That was still true, he realized in dismay.

  “My driver can take me to my cousins’ home near Holbourne.” She bit at her lower lip. “I am not sure what to do. The weather is turning rather poorly.” She glanced at the windows.

  “All is well. I will drive you to meet your coachman.” What the devil was in that brose to make him so biddable? But it was Clary, he knew. She’d always had a damnable effect on him. He felt so willing around her. The feeling came rushing back now, here, with her.

  “Thank you, Lord Cranshaw.”

  “Where is your coachman’s family home?”

  “I do not know. The name is Kendrick.”

  “Tenants of mine. They live a few miles from here. I can easily run you there. First, take some refreshment. You must be cold and weary after your journey.”

  “Should we not go now, before the roads are slick?”

  Henry glanced out to see trees already whitening. He frowned. “Perhaps your driver should return you to Edinburgh instead, Lady Hay.”

  “He is a sensible driver, and we are expected in England.” Clary shivered. “Oh. A hot drink first would be nice, though, if the cook or the housekeeper has something ready.” She glanced toward the door. Max now lay flopped over the threshold, a guardian decidedly off duty.

  “My servants,” Henry said, “are gone.”

  She blinked. “All of them?” She sat ramrod straight on the settee.

  “Most. The forester—my groundskeeper—and his wife have a house on the property. He is also the parish minister, but the living is small enough that he keeps the Cranshaw grounds, too. Their son is one of the grooms. I’ll have him harness the chaise. With luck, he is in the stables looking after the horses. The other servants have left for the holiday. I expected to be away the week, until plans changed. We are alone here,” he finished, “but for Max.”

  “Then we must leave soon. It is so—improper.”

  “A bit awkward,” he agreed. “But we will keep it our secret, and be off soon enough. As to refreshment, my housekeeper left a good brose, and there is claret. We could manage tea.”

  “I do not want to be any trouble.” She did not look at him.

  Trouble? She had always been the sweetest form of trouble. But those days and those feelings were gone, he told himself.

  “Tea, then,” he said, sensing she needed it. “I’ll go down to the kitchen.”

  “Let me prepare it,” she offered, standing.

  “I am quite self-sufficient. It comes of having been in a regiment.”

  “Yes—I heard that you had gone to Ireland, then Belgium, and made a good showing.”

  “Quite,” he said curtly. He stepped over Max, who leaped up to pace between his master and his new friend. Then the deerhound trotted over to sit beside Clary.

  Henry paused. She was having the same damnable effect on the dog.

  Remembering the packages left outside in the elements, Clary hurried through the foyer, cane in her left hand assisting her weak right foot, and opened the front door. The dog followed and stepped out with her. Breathing in sharp, cold air, Clary watched snowflakes spiraling downward, covering the ground. The storm had not lessened. She descended the steps carefully, her narrow leather boots and gown hem powdering with snow.

  Alone with Henry was what she dreaded most. Meeting him at his home without the anonymity of the lecture hall felt intimate. Dangerous. Seeing him moments ago, so tall and broad-shouldered, curly hair black as his jacket, jaw firm against the creamy tucked cravat, buckskin trousers snug in high black boots—and seeing his summer-blue eyes—had made her breath quicken raggedly. But for the new scar jagged over his temple and a deeper seriousness, he was the Henry she knew, and had tried to forget.

  The young Henry Seton had brought her joy and then heartbreak, leaving her life so suddenly. Now he still drew her like a lodestone, more compelling, intense, so handsome. Yet he seemed bitter, taut—was it the war? The thought broke her heart all over again.

  She inhaled cold, exhaled mist. The atmosphere in the house was heavy with unspoken past and present. Soon she would ride with him to the Kendricks’ home, just a half hour in a chaise. Yet she felt sad to leave him rather than relieved.

  Dusting the snow off the packages, she gathered them in one arm and headed back to the door, while Max, in tail-wagging eagerness, stayed close by her side. Already the world seemed blanketed in white—ground covered, trees like bridal lace, snow dancing in airy veils.

  Beautiful indeed, but driving would be risky now, though she trusted Cranshaw’s judgment. Otherwise, she could be stranded here alone with him. She gasped at the thought.

  In the distance, a wide path led to the stables. There she saw a tall figure in greatcoat and hat going into the building: Cranshaw looking for the groom.

  Distracted, Clary took a step, and her boot heel found slick ice. Her weak foot slid out from under her—the dog broke her fall, but her shoulder, then her head, hit the ground.

  Stunned, she lay still while snow flurried on her cheeks and the dog nudged at her.

  Henry set down a silver tray loaded with china and tea things—steaming teapot, milk and sugar, cups, a small plate of cakes. He had found a kettle of water simmering in the hearth and rummaged about setting tea to steep. Then he had grabbed coat and hat from the hallway to head out to the stables, finding the groomsman gone and the horses bedded with oats and water nearby. He could harness the chaise himself or go to the groundskeeper’s house, over a mile down the road. But the tea would be ready, so he had hurried to the kitchen.

  Finding Clary gone, he peered into the corridor. Hearing the dog bark, he realized the girl must have gone outside. He opened the door to see Max testing the steps anxiously—and then noticed Clary sprawled in the snow. He rushed down the steps to kneel beside her.

  Blood trickled over her brow and her eyes were closed. Henry touched her arm, heart slamming. “Clary!”

  Her eyes fluttered open. “I’m fine,” she said, trying to sit.

  He pressed her down. “Not yet. Be still.” He slipped his hand under her head, relieved to find no blood there. “Try to sit now. Slowly.” He braced her.

  Touching her head, she winced. “I fell. My cane—my packages, where are they?”

  “Over there. Let’s get you inside.” He stood, assisting her to stand, and swept her into his arms. Though she protested, he carried her up the steps into the warmth of the house and then to his study’s firelit coziness. The dog followed.

  He put her on the settee. “Take off your bonnet, please. I am all thumbs with frippery.”

  “You never were,” she said, voice muffled as she freed the ribbons to remove her hat.

  Henry almost smiled at her candid remark. So her memory was intact despite the blow. Good. He waited while she removed hat and gloves. “Now the coat,” he said, helping her ease out of it. “We will have your shoes and stockings, too, if they are wet. This weather is better suited to pattens than thin little shoes. Why ladies refuse to wear sturdy boots—”

  “These are very good boots. I did not expect to be walking through snow, and I cannot manage in pattens. Perhaps you’ve forgotten.”

  “I remember,” he murmured.

  “Truly, I’m not hurt.” She smoothed her skirts, and Henry saw her hands trembling.

  “You’re chilled through. There’s hot tea, but first let me look at your head.” He perched at the edge of the settee, his hip pushing against her skirts and thigh beneath. Warmth stirred there. He touched her head, her hair curling fine and fair about his fingers. Silent, he felt for the wound. The dog snuffled at them and settled by the fireside to watch.

  “Ah,” Henry said when Clary gasped in pain. “A considerable bump, and a cut.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket to
dab and clean the wound, then plucked a clump of snow from her pelisse to hold its cold to her forehead. “Snow is just the thing.”

  “How fortunate that we have an abundance of it.” She smiled ruefully.

  “I’ll fetch more, but I want to know you’re not hurt. I need to test your limbs, if I may.”

  She nodded, pressing the handkerchief to her head. Henry ran his hands down her skirt, over knees, ankles, waggling her left foot in its slender laced black boot. Heat plunged through his body—he ignored its allure. He’d thought he might never touch Clary again, and here she was, but in his doctoring hands. He frowned, concentrating. “Pain here? Or here?”

  “Just stiffness after a foolish fall. Not the right foot, please,” she added.

  Henry did not touch the smaller foot he knew was twisted inward. “No injury there? Good.” Next he touched her shoulder, and she sucked in a breath. “That hurts?”

  “A bit. It’s nothing.”

  He eased his hands along her arms, rotated her wrists, and moved her hands. She felt like heaven—warm, soft, supple, wondrous. Something within him felt dangerously close to melting. Focus, he told himself. Calmly, he took her face between his hands, resisting a sudden memory of kissing her, and tilted her head this way and that. “Pain?”

  “Truly, it’s nothing, Lord Cranshaw. I do hope we will be leaving soon.”

  “Look at me, please.” He lifted her chin with a finger. Her eyes were clear, their misty gray depths, dark-lashed, simply beautiful. He eased his fingers back to her curls, his touch lingering. He sat back. “With such a knock to the head, you should rest.”

  “My cousins expect me tonight, and we still must find my driver.”

  “Rest first,” he said firmly. “Have tea, and I will fetch snow to ease the bruise. Then we can discuss traveling.”

  “I cannot stay here,” she insisted.

  “Better to wait a bit than to swoon publicly at the Holbourne ball.”

  She grimaced. “That would be dreadful.”