The Last Chance Christmas Ball

by Mary Jo Putney

  His mother, who was standing by the dowager’s chair, began to fan herself.

  The other guests had slowly stopped dancing, and the buzz of voices was beginning to rise above the notes of the violins.

  “Everyone is staring,” murmured Lily. “Perhaps we ought to stop now and announce the news to dispel the idea that you are marrying Roxie.”

  “My love, after seeing us dance together, I don’t think anyone here is the least confused as to whom I am marrying,” drawled Edward. “But Grandmamma would be disappointed without a Grand Gesture.”

  A signal to the musicians brought the melody to an end.

  “I think I need a glass of champagne,” said Lily faintly, after a glance around at all the expectant faces.

  He plucked two glasses from the tray of a nearby footman and placed one in her hand. “I have a special announcement to make, but before I do, I would first like to propose a toast.”

  The whispering ceased.

  “To Lady Holly, to family,” continued Edward as he turned in a slow circle to salute everyone in the room. “To friends, to the spirit of Christmas, and to—”

  His gaze reached the entrance, where the double doors were open wide, and suddenly his heart leapt into his throat, making it impossible to speak.

  Kim. And Roxie clasping tight to his arm, a delightfully rumpled pillar of support.

  Shock gave way to a surge of pure joy. “Kim!” he cried, finding his voice as his brother gave him a quick thumbs-up, their brotherly signal that all was well.

  The others in the room all turned to follow his gaze. His mother cried out and darted forward—and then suddenly Kim and Roxie were engulfed in a sea of well-wishers.

  Edward drew Lily closer and softly clinked his glass against hers. The frothy fizz bubbled over, and they both laughed.

  “And to Love,” he finished, before pressing a champagne-sweet kiss to her lips.

  A SEASON FOR MARRIAGE

  Nicola Cornick

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, December 1815

  Lady Caroline Camden, pretty, witty and rich, with a beautiful home in London and another in the country, a happy disposition, and a handsome husband, had lived nearly twenty years in the world and most people would have said she had very little to distress or vex her.

  Little did they know.

  This afternoon was an excellent case in point. Caroline had gone shopping, as she was wont to do just about every day except for the sabbath, but matters were not going to plan.

  “I am very sorry, madam,” the modiste said, and Caroline could tell that the woman was on the contrary not sorry at all, “but I can extend you no further credit. Mr. Camden has announced that he will no longer honor your debts.”

  Caroline felt her face burn with humiliation. The shop was full, of course, full of the matrons and widows of the ton and their debutante daughters all madly purchasing new clothes for the Christmas season. Out of the corner of her eye—because she most certainly could not look them in the eye—Caroline could see their covert smiles and spiteful glances. She knew that in one hour—less than an hour if Lady Royston was present—Town would be buzzing with the news of her disgrace. The scandal sheets would be speculating that she had bankrupted her husband.

  She turned on her heel and made for the door, eyes straight ahead, head held high. She had not really wanted the puce silk gown anyway. It was very aging, much more Lady Royston’s sort of thing than hers.

  She did not trouble to visit Madame Duval farther down Bond Street, nor Madame Devy, nor the perfumier nor the milliner. She knew her reception would be the same at all the shops. Her husband, Piers, was nothing if not thorough. No shop in London would offer her credit now.

  “Perhaps there has been a mistake, my lady,” Pershore, her maid, said timidly as, empty-handed, they ascended the carriage steps.

  “I don’t think so,” Caroline said. “Mr. Camden does not make mistakes.” But he had, she thought. He had made an enormous mistake when he had married her.

  She could vividly remember the night it had happened. She had been nineteen and had already had two Seasons without attracting a suitor who met her exacting requirements. She had not lacked offers; there had been fourteen in all. None of them, however, could match Piers Camden, friend of her elder brother Edward, with whom she had been in love since she was old enough to understand what love meant.

  That summer night she had been sitting on the steps of the family home, Holbourne Abbey, trying not to cry because she had overheard her father telling her mother in exasperated tones that if she did not accept one of her suitors soon, he would betroth her to Lord Drysdale with or without her agreement. There was a ball going on, a beautiful, exciting, summery occasion and she had never felt less beautiful, excited or summery in her life.

  Piers had found her outside and asked if he could help her.

  “No,” she had said tragically. “No one can help me.”

  Piers had smiled then, that attractively rakish smile that always made her heart turn over, and had sat down on the step beside her. “Tell me,” he had said.

  To her surprise she had told him everything: how Lord Drysdale was old—at least forty—and already a widower, and how he had hungry eyes and a wet mouth. How she knew she had to marry well, but that she would rather enter a convent than marry Lord Drysdale.

  “Have you found a suitable convent?” Piers had asked.

  “No,” Caroline had said. “There are no suitable convents in Northumberland.”

  His eyes had gleamed with amusement. “That is probably for the best. I don’t think you have the temperament for the religious life.”

  “But I had also thought I might take a governess post,” Caroline said eagerly.

  “Another startlingly bad idea,” Piers had said. He had shifted a little beside her, running one hand through his thick, dark hair. “I am sure this is all a misunderstanding, Lady Caroline. Your parents, I am persuaded, would do nothing so Gothic as to marry you off if you were unwilling.”

  “I heard them talking about it!” Caro burst out. “There is no mistake.” She had started to cry and Piers had proffered his handkerchief and then somehow—she was not at all sure how it had happened—her parents had rushed out onto the terrace accompanied by Lord Drysdale, who was furious, and various other guests, who were everything from shocked to curious, and everyone wanted to know what she was doing out there in the dark with Piers. She supposed it had looked rather scandalous because they were sitting close to one another and Piers had an arm about her and was wiping the tears from her eyes, but even so there had been no need for him to propose to save her reputation.

  Her parents, naturally, had been delighted. Piers was young, only six or seven years older than Caro was herself, handsome, rich, and the heir to a barony. He was her brother’s friend. It was a perfect match.

  Except that it was not.

  It was a match born out of honor. Caro had felt hideously guilty. Piers had shown her kindness and she had repaid him by trapping him into marriage. When she had told him she did not wish him to feel obliged to wed her, he had told her that she should feel no guilt; theirs would be a good match. It all sounded dreadfully passionless and cold. When Caro had gone to her mother and tried to back out of the arrangement, Lady Holbourne had told her in the kindest but plainest terms that if she did so she would be ruined. So here she was six months later in a marriage of supposed convenience where the biggest inconvenience was that she was hopelessly in love with a husband who barely noticed her.

  With a tiny sigh, Caro sat back in her seat and watched the streets of London roll past the window. Dusk was starting to fall, even though it was barely three o’clock. There was a scattering of frost on the bare branches of the trees in the squares. Everything looked cold and a little bit lonely, and she gave an involuntary shiver.

  Caro knew it made matters much, much worse that she was in love with Piers. She knew he did not love her. He had wanted no more than an aristoc
ratic alliance and a hostess for his political dinners. True, he had consummated the marriage, but the experience had not been a success. Stricken with guilt, she had lain as still as a board when he had made love to her. It had been mortifying. Afterwards, Piers had brushed the hair away from her face and kissed her gently and said: “You need time. We will wait.”

  She had not wanted time. She had wanted forgiveness for compromising him into marriage. She had wanted him to love her as she loved him. Her heart cried out to him for that love, but all he offered was kindness, and somehow that seemed to make matters worse.

  Piers had not come to her bed again. She had tried to broach the subject with him once or twice, but he brushed the matter off. There was always a reason, always an excuse. He was very busy. He spent all of his time working. Caro felt as though she had become one of his causes. Piers’s life was dedicated to helping others. Barely a day seemed to pass without his establishing a new school for the poor or a hospital for the indigent sick. Admittedly, he did not usually wed his charity cases, but it felt as though her marriage was based on the same principle of duty and sacrifice that motivated him in his other work.

  The carriage jerked to a halt outside their town house in Cavendish Square. Everything looked uncommonly pretty with a powdering of snow on the street and the lanterns giving a warm twinkle to the chilly air. Not that Caro was in the mood for Christmas cheer. Now that Piers had withdrawn his funds, she could not even dress well to perform the one part of her role she thought she had perfected, that of elegant political hostess. She had only been so profligate in her spending to please him. She had so wanted him to be proud of her. Younger than all the other matrons, she had tried at least to appear poised, buying confidence from the modistes.

  She was so angry that she marched straight into Piers’s study without waiting for Portland, the butler, to announce her.

  Piers was seated at his desk in the window. The last of the late afternoon light gleamed on his thick black hair, burnishing it with shades of rich chestnut. There were lines about his eyes and mouth that Caro had not noticed before. She wondered suddenly if he was as unhappy as she and her stomach felt hollow at the thought.

  Not that that was any excuse for his ungentlemanly behavior. She drew herself up to her full height, which was an impressive five feet nothing.

  “Why are you refusing to honor my debts?” she demanded.

  Piers looked up and his dark, dark eyes met hers. Caroline’s heart gave an errant thump. It was so lowering to be desperately in love with one’s own husband when he preferred to spend time with his government papers to spending time with her.

  He raised his brows very slightly.

  “Good afternoon to you, too, my love,” he said. “I hope you are well.”

  They seldom saw one another so he would not know if she was in good health or if she had contracted typhus. The realization lodged another cold shard in Caroline’s heart. She made a quick gesture dismissing his enquiry. “Well? My debts?” Her voice was sharper than she intended because of the sting of the words. My love. Never had an endearment rung so empty.

  “I will of course honor your debts,” Piers said.

  Caroline released her breath in a huge sigh of relief. Pershore had been right; it was no more than a misunderstanding.

  “However, I will advance you no more money,” Piers continued. “You will have to wait until your next quarterly allowance and try to make it last better this time.”

  His gaze was unnervingly direct. Caroline felt as guilty as she had at the age of fourteen when summoned before Mrs. Blanket, headmistress of Mrs. Blanket’s exclusive seminary for young ladies, for sliding down the main staircase on a wooden tray. She had done that to garner attention. She had cut a swathe through Piers’s inheritance for the same reason, but only because she wanted him to notice her, to be proud of her, to approve. She had tried her best with this inconvenient marriage, had tried to assuage her guilt by doing all she could to please him.

  Yet still he rejected her efforts.

  Even now it was clear he was bored. His fingers were beating an impatient tattoo on the pile of documents on the desk. She could tell he longed to be rid of her. She felt her heart shrivel a little more.

  “I cannot afford you, Caroline,” Piers said. “You are too expensive for me.”

  “You make me sound like your coach and four,” Caroline said.

  Piers smiled. “There are similarities. You are very elegant—”

  “And highly bred,” Caroline said. “With clean lines and marvelous upholstery.” She could not quite keep the bitterness from her voice. She had thought Piers would want a wife with high polish. He was ambitious, already a junior minister in Lord Liverpool’s government. She was doing her best to support him.

  “I really do need a new gown for Lady Aston’s ball next week,” she said. “You said yourself that it is an influential event—”

  “I am sure you will find something suitable in your wardrobe,” Piers said. “You will look delightful.”

  His words reminded Caroline precisely why men should never be consulted over matters of dress.

  “I cannot wear something I have worn at a previous engagement,” she said. “Everyone will notice.” By which, of course, she meant every female guest, and they were the only ones who mattered.

  Piers raised an indifferent shoulder. His hand had strayed to the paper on the top of the pile before him. Reading upside down, Caroline could see that it was headed “proposed laws for the restriction of shooting game.” Evidently, he preferred the plight of pheasants and partridges to hers.

  “Very well,” she said, drawing her tattered dignity about her. “I shall do my best, of course.”

  She went out. Piers did not appear to notice. That, she thought, was precisely the problem.

  Upstairs in her bedchamber she kicked off her shoes, then remembered that they were made of very delicate French silk and if Piers really was not going to fund her in future she could not afford to damage them. There would be no more where those came from. No more shoes, no more gowns, bonnets, scarves, or gloves. She would have to make do.

  She crossed to her closet and wrenched open the door. A cacophony of gowns shouted for attention from within, gowns in every shade of the rainbow and in every style that was fashionable. She could arrange for some of them to be altered so that she could wear them again, but the ladies of fashion who attended the same social events that she did would still recognize them. It was humiliating.

  Abruptly, she sat down on the edge of her bed. She knew this was not really about clothes, or money, or even Piers’s career. It was about love. Piers had married her out of a sense of obligation. That made her unhappy. So she had tried to please him by being what she thought he wanted: a trophy of a wife, a dazzling hostess. Yet it made no difference to how Piers felt about her. It was a lost cause.

  She stood up, suddenly restless. Something had to be done. Her grandmother, the redoubtable Dowager Countess of Holbourne, would doubtless tell her that no cause was hopeless and she should devise a plan. And already she had an idea, but to put it into practice she needed some help. She knew just the person; her godmother, Lady Eleanor Noel, one of her grandmother’s oldest friends, was currently in London and would surely be prepared to advise her.

  Caro crossed to her writing box and taking out pen and ink, sat down to write.

  As soon as the door had closed behind his wife, Piers Camden threw down his pen, spattering ink across the pile of papers he had been trying to concentrate on for the past several hours. In the beginning, he had found his work a useful distraction from the problems of his marriage. These days, however, he found little solace in the endless wearying business of government. All his ambitions, all his plans, seemed hollow if his marriage to Caroline was unhappy and unfulfilled.

  Marriage, in fact, had not been remotely as he had imagined it would be. His decision to wed Caro had been a rational one based on mutual profit. For a couple of years he
had been thinking vaguely that it would benefit him to have a wife. He needed a hostess to help promote his political career and Caroline, pretty, well-bred, and elegant, seemed an excellent choice. He had been foolish to compromise her—he and Caro’s brother Edward had been sharing some excellent brandy that evening and perhaps it had affected his judgment—but since he was not averse to marrying, it did not really matter. And he liked Caro, of course. He liked her a very great deal. It seemed an ideal match.

  That feeling did not outlast the wedding ceremony. He had seen Caro coming up the aisle on her father’s arm looking both radiant and a little bit shy. Her fingers had trembled as she put her hand into his. And then she had smiled at him.

  He had seen that smile before.

  It was the smile he had seen on his mother’s face as she had gazed up into his father’s eyes, a smile of such love, such trust, that he felt himself turn to ice, for he knew the damage such love could do.

  Caroline loved him. He had not realized.

  He did not want her love.

  The difficulty was that it was too late. There and then he had felt an odd sort of shift in the region of his heart, a fierce protectiveness and a desire to make her happy. The sensation had been unexpected, disturbing, and unwelcome. Aristocratic marriages should be business arrangements as far as he was concerned. His parents had made a spectacular love match and it had consumed them. One of the reasons Piers had spent so much time at Holbourne growing up was because his parents were utterly engrossed in each other to the exclusion of all else. He and his sister had been an irrelevance, important only as proof of their parents’ love.

  Piers shuffled his government papers impatiently. His latent feelings for Caro were a weakness. He could not allow himself to love her or he would be as vulnerable as his father had been, a man profligate in love and with his money, a fool and a laughingstock. Reginald Camden had had no self-control. He had been the type of aesthete who had worshipped at the feet of his wife and wept at the beauty of a flower. Piers shuddered at the thought.