The Last Chance Christmas Ball

by Mary Jo Putney

  A man was sitting in a leather armchair, his long legs propped up on the brass fender surrounding the flames dancing up from the logs in the marble hearth. His head was bent over the book in his lap, the planes of his profile sharply defined by red-gold flames, even though tangled strands of silky black hair had fallen across his cheek.

  Lily tried to breathe, but the hammering of her heart against her ribs seemed to thump all the air from her lungs.

  His face was more austere. Time had chiseled away the softness of youth. There was a new firmness to his features—the cant of his eyes, the slant of his cheekbone, the shape of his nose....

  Oh, but the shape of his mouth still possessed a fullness that belied the serious expression tugging at its corners.

  Seeming to sense the scrutiny, he slowly looked up from the open pages.

  The slight movement broke the spell that held her in thrall. Lifting her skirts, she hurried to catch up with her escort, the agitated swoosh-swoosh of wool and lace skirling around her legs.

  “Your quarters are here, madam.” Munton opened the paneled portal and stepped aside for her to enter. Her maid had already lit the oil lamps and stirred the banked fire to a cheery blaze. “You have only to ring if you require anything.”

  “Thank you,” replied Lily, her breath still feeling a little ragged.

  He bowed, and the door closed with a discreet click.

  “I’ve laid out your night rail and wrapper, Mrs. T.” Her maid, Colleen, an Irish girl from County Kerry who had been with her for the last five years, came around the large four-poster bed chafing her arms. “Cor, I had forgotten how cold winter can be here. I never thought I’d say it, but I almost miss the sweltering heat of Bombay.”

  “It will take a little time to readjust.”

  “Aye, lots of things to get used to again,” agreed Colleen. An even-tempered girl who had proved unflappable through any adventure, she had become a friend as well as a companion. “The weather, the peace and quiet, the food—though I won’t miss that hot-as-hellfire curry.”

  Lily smiled and they continued chatting as her maid helped her to undress and ready herself for retiring. The supper tray arrived, the hot tea and still-warm meat pie helping to calm her jumpy stomach. She then dismissed Colleen for the night, wishing to be alone with her thoughts.

  Not that they proved to be very good company.

  Edward. She had thought that time—how many hours were in a decade?—had rubbed off all the sharp edges of longing. Her godmother’s invitation to the ball had offered a chance to see him one last time before retiring to the snug little cottage she had leased on the coast—and she had told herself it was merely a mixture of curiosity and nostalgia that had compelled her to accept. A dispassionate glimpse back at her youth before heading to the future of living out her widowhood in comfortable peace and quiet.

  Liar! In her heart, she should have known her feelings, however carefully locked away in the darkest depth of her being, had not withered away for lack of air or light. One glimpse—one fleeting glance at his face—and love had burst into bloom, its tender vines shooting out to curl around her consciousness....

  “Yes, it was a mistake to come here,” she whispered.

  A mistake magnified by the unexpected news that a betrothal was about to be announced. She had heard that Edward was unwed, and that fact had helped her make her decision. But now, it seemed, she would have to witness his engagement to another.

  The only consolation was that she could do so in anonymity. Her appearance was unrecognizable—fine lines had chased away the first bloom of youth, the tropical sun had tanned her flesh and burned her hair a tawnier shade of gold. And her new name would be equally unfamiliar to him. A stranger. As well Mrs. Tremaine should be.

  She mustn’t stir up the embers of the past. What once was between them was long gone. But despite the admonition, her thoughts couldn’t help straying back in time.

  It had been her first Season, and in a letter to her godmother, she had confided how nervous she was about making her entrée into the glittering social whirl of the ton. Lady Holly—or, more properly, the Dowager Countess of Holbourne—had asked her grandson, Edward, who was spending some time in London, to shepherd her through the first few balls. As Fate would have it, they had actually met on their own at Hatchards bookstore, where he had teased her over her taste in reading material. That had sparked a serious discussion on books, and they quickly discovered they shared a common interest in history and poetry. Dancing had followed, along with drives in the park. The mutual attraction soon deepened into love.

  Lily closed her eyes, feeling the sting of salt as tears pearled on her lashes.

  Edward had asked her to marry him. But her father, whose coffers were dangerously low, had pressed her to accept the suit of a wealthy under-governor of the East India Company, no matter that he was years older than she.

  Edward had appealed to his parents to give their consent—and enough funds—to allow him to match the other man’s proposal. Thinking him too young to know his mind, they had refused....

  Hugging her knees to her chest, Lily tried to quiet her thoughts. It was pointless to torment herself with what might have been. Edward had likely long since forgotten the youthful infatuation. Like many handsome, titled gentlemen, he had avoided marriage, no doubt happy that fate’s twist had given him the freedom to sow his wild oats.

  If that were changing now, it was because the heir was eventually expected to settle down. Time and change—it was the natural order of things.

  But after tossing and turning for yet another interminable interlude in the bed, Lily gave up trying to sleep and threw back the eiderdown coverlet. Deciding that a book might help quiet her mind and allow her to drift off into the land of Morpheus, she tugged on her wrapper, then padded to the armoire and wound one of her woven Indian shawls around her shoulders. An extra layer, however thin, would help ward off the unaccustomed chilliness of the night—and perhaps, she thought wryly, the fiery colors might add an extra spark of warmth.

  She lit the candle by the door, and made her way out into the deserted corridor. All was silent, save for a flutter of cold air and a creak from the old floor as she started for the library.

  One, two, three . . . Lily carefully counted the closed doors, hoping that in her agitation she had not become confused. Pausing halfway down the drafty length, she clicked open a latch and slipped inside. The chair, thank heavens, was empty and the fire banked down to glowing coals. The faint hiss and crackle stirred memories of past Christmases. She stood still for a moment, recalling jolly laughter echoing through halls hung with holly and mistletoe. It all seemed a world away.

  Shaking off a clench of sadness, she moved to the tall bookshelves and, holding her candle high, began to make her way slowly along the rows of leather-bound spines, leaning close to read the gilt-stamped titles.

  “You are looking in the wrong place.” The low voice was like a finger of fire teasing down the length of her spine. “Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels are on the next shelf.”

  Lily grasped the decorative wood molding to steady her stance. All of a sudden her skin was prickling with heat. Steady, steady. She drew in a great gulp of the night air, taking a moment to compose herself. Then, turning slowly, she managed a calm half smile. “Actually, I was hoping you might have Pride and Prejudice, the newest novel by the author of Sense and Sensibility. Having just arrived back in England, I’ve not yet had a chance to visit a bookstore and purchase it.”

  Edward, Viscount Brentford and heir to the earldom of Holbourne, moved out of shadows. “No visit to Hatchards?”

  “No,” she replied softly.

  It was Lily. Any lingering doubt was put to flight by her voice. The sound struck a chord deep within that had been silent for . . . too many years.

  “I had very little time in Town before heading north,” she added.

  “Well, you are in luck. We do have a copy.” Two strides brought him closer to her—close
enough to inhale the scent perfuming her skin—a beguiling mix of neroli and jasmine, spiced with some exotic undertone to which he couldn’t put a name. Reaching up, he plucked a slim volume down from the top shelf.

  “Word is the author is a lady by the name of Jane Austen,” he murmured as he held it out to her.

  “Whatever her name, the story is said to be sharply observant, insightfully wise, and slyly clever,” she responded. “Which of course doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

  A chuckle rose in his throat. “I see that we shall still argue over whether women can write as well as men. But in this case, I shall have to concede that the book is exceedingly good.”

  “I—look forward to reading it.” Lily tucked the little volume inside the folds of her shawl. She looked away, the shadows masking her face.

  He wished he could read her thoughts.

  As for his own . . .

  To cover his confusion, Edward turned slightly and fumbled for flint and steel to light the branch of candles on the side table. The flames leapt to life, and yet, to his dismay, the light did not quite reach her profile.

  “That is a very striking shawl,” he observed in order to break the awkward silence that had settled between them. “All the different shades of red are quite extraordinary.” Ye gods, had he really uttered such an addlepated comment? “They bring out the subtle coppery highlights in your hair,” he added lamely

  Her heard jerked around. “I fear the harsh sun has made the copper none too subtle anymore. More than one acquaintance has commented that I often take on a Mars-like glow when I am roused to action.”

  Edward would have chosen a different god—or goddess—to mention. Venus. At that moment, she looked even more beautiful than he remembered. “I never thought of you as bellicose. Certainly wise, so your acquaintance would have been more accurate to call you Minerva rather than Mars.”

  “I suppose different people see different things.” Lily hesitated. “I—I never thought that you would recognize me. My hair, my face—I daresay my whole appearance has changed greatly in ten years.”

  “I knew you in an instant,” he replied. “It is the way you carry yourself, the way you move.”

  Her eyes widened ever so slightly, but before he could discern what emotion might be swirling within their hazel depths, her lashes lowered, shuttering her gaze.

  “I would have thought that I had acquired a very peculiar sway over the years. Riding an elephant is not at all like riding a horse.”

  “No,” he said quietly. “You are as graceful as before.”

  Biting her lip, she looked away again. It was a familiar quirk of hers and made him feel marginally less foolish. He knew she only did it when she was nervous.

  “What does puzzle me is why I didn’t see your name on the guest list,” he went on. “Grandmamma asked me to go over the invitations with her weeks ago, and I am quite sure I would not have missed it.”

  “It was there,” she assured him. “Mr. Carrington passed away in India six years ago. I am now Mrs. Tremaine.”

  The statement hit him like a punch to the gut, but Edward managed to shake off the pain and keep his expression impassive. Having lost her once, what did it matter if he had lost her a second time?

  “Ah,” he answered politely. “Mr. Tremaine did not choose to accompany you north?”

  “I am a widow,” she said. “Yet again.”

  He wished a hole—a very deep one—would open up beneath his feet and swallow him into the bowels of the Earth. “My condolences,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.

  “Thank you.” Her voice held no hint of what she was thinking. “I . . . I should return to my room.”

  Loath though he was to let her go, he could think of nothing to say to keep her. “Yes, you must be tired from your travels.”

  “Not really.” Her shawl fluttered, the deep scarlet and earthy cinnabar colors rippling like a flame against the iron-gray shadows. “But now I have a good book to read.”

  Edward felt his mouth twitch up at the corners.

  Lily shifted and slowly turned for the door. As she did, her gaze fell upon a small round game table set in an alcove between the bookshelves. Centered on the inlaid pearwood was an antique chess set carved out of ebony and ivory. “You still play?”

  “Yes, I have been practicing. But likely I am still not able to beat you.” Drawing in a deep breath, he thought for a moment. Chess was all about strategy. For all her quiet, calm demeanor, Lily had never been one to back down from a challenge.

  “Care to try?” he asked casually.

  Yes or no? Lily knew which was the wise answer. But regardless of Edward’s comment on Minerva, she wasn’t feeling very wise.

  “I would,” she answered.

  He moved around to the chairs. “Shall we take the usual sides—you play the fair-haired queen and I’ll play the black knights.”

  “It does give me the advantage. I always warned you of that.”

  “You did,” he acknowledged. “But I was too gentlemanly to want to take turns.”

  “Or too stubborn,” said Lily dryly.

  The shadows beneath his eyes seemed to lighten as the tautness around his mouth gave way to a smile.

  Her rib cage suddenly felt as if it was filled with a flock of butterflies, fluttering their gossamer wings. Yearning to break free.

  “That, too,” conceded Edward, his face looking impossibly boyish in the soft flicker of the candlelight. “Besides, the coloring suited us—you so light.” He tucked an errant strand of ebony-colored hair behind his ear. “And I so dark.”

  And yet, nothing is black and white, thought Lily as she took the chair commanding the ivory forces. They both possessed an infinite range of hues in between. Setting the book aside, she snugged her shawl a little tighter and looked at the board, considering her first move.

  “Already intent on countering my best efforts?” he murmured.

  “You never expected me to temper my abilities when we played in the past,” she replied. “I’m assuming that hasn’t changed.”

  “No.” A wry twitch tugged at his lips. “And I doubt it would matter if I did.”

  She looked back to the checkered board, trying to make herself concentrate on the game. “Correct.” Taking hold of a pawn, she pushed it forward.

  He matched her opening, and for several minutes they played in silence.

  “So, what brings you back to England?” he asked abruptly as he started to study the position of his bishop. “That is, if I may ask.”

  “You may,” she answered calmly. “I simply decided that after so many years in a faraway land, it was time to come home.”

  “You . . .” He left off to shift his chess piece another few squares.

  “Yes?” prompted Lily when he didn’t continue.

  “You . . . you did not wish to remarry again?”

  The question made her feel a little like an old dish, slightly chipped around the edges. “There are many exotic customs in India,” she replied. “But none where a woman is the one who makes a proposal.”

  A slight tinge of color seemed to creep across his cheekbones. “Forgive me. I did not mean to be offensive.”

  “You weren’t.” Lily smiled and then slid her knight over.

  “Drat,” he muttered under his breath, seeing that no matter which way he moved, his bishop was lost.

  “As for proposals,” she went on, after removing his piece from the board. “Your mother hinted that you will have some news to announce at the Christmas ball.”

  Like her, he chose to answer obliquely. “Mother should know better than to take every rumor she hears to heart.”

  Deciding to steer away from such a dangerous subject, Lily quickly fell back on the usual polite platitudes. “Your mother is looking very well. I trust she is in good health?”

  “As sturdy as an ox,” replied Edward with a chuffed laugh.

  “She said much the same about Lady Holly—whom I am very much looking
forward to seeing. It has been a long time.” She paused, taking a moment to survey the board and how the game was unfolding. “Your mother did not recognize me, which is just as well. I don’t wish to stir awkward memories, especially at such a festive occasion.”

  Edward steepled his fingers and took several long moments to make his next move. “I hope,” he said slowly, “they aren’t entirely awkward, for I should like to hear more about your life in India. It must have been very . . . adventurous.”

  “I suppose it was,” allowed Lily. “And you? I imagine you’ve had your share of adventures, too.”

  He made a wry face. “I am not sure Ireland and Scotland qualify as exotic destinations.”

  “A great many people would disagree with you,” she quipped, and their shared laughter seemed to loosen the undercurrent of tension in the air. They had always been very comfortable with each other, so perhaps for this brief interlude they could recapture that spirit of friendship.

  Friends. The word caused her chest to constrict with a painful pinch. But it would have to do.

  “True,” said Edward. “Hunting among the Highlanders is quite an experience.” He went on to recount an amusing anecdote concerning stags and sheep.

  Lily responded by recounting her first elephant ride.

  “You’ve always had a wonderful seat in the saddle, so I doubt it was quite so embarrassing as you say. If you wish to ride at any time, simply inform the grooms. We have recently acquired a very handsome gelding with a sweet gait. I think you would enjoy putting Ajax through his paces.”

  “I shall leave off wearing brass bells and silken flags, so as not to spook him.”

  He laughed again—and then gave a low grumble as he glanced at the board. “Drat, you’ve distracted me on purpose!”