Mr Winterbourne's Christmas

by Joanna Chambers

  “To Lysander,” the other guests chorused, and drank again.

  Chapter 11 - Adam

  Adam wasn’t sure how he got through the rest of dinner. Servants circled with silver platters and decanters, doling out food and wine he didn’t want. His table companions spoke, and he smiled and nodded, giving every indication of listening, though he couldn’t have said afterwards what it was they were talking about.

  All he could think about was Lysander. His expression when his father had said, “I could not be prouder of him.” As though he had been waiting a lifetime to hear those words—and perhaps he had.

  He remembered too Lysander’s face when they’d first ridden into the village—the happiness as he took in the familiar surroundings, then the dismay when he realised that the promised works had not been carried out.

  Lysander really did love this place. He would want to set those wrongs to right—and now he could do so.

  Adam knew Lysander missed his family too, and his friends. He’d spent the past year and a half holed up in a quiet corner of Buckinghamshire, seeing no one but Adam and his occasional visitors. Observing him here, at Winterbourne Abbey, Adam had been reminded of how sociable Lysander was. How well-liked.

  He didn’t even need Adam as a lover. It turned out he had other prospects. Lord Perry Cavendish, for example. Someone Lysander hadn’t even known preferred men till today. What if he’d known before now? Would Adam have been able to so easily sweep him off to Edgeley Park then? Probably not. Which begged a question: why would he want to return to Edgeley Park when he could stay here and have everything he’d ever wanted?

  “I’m afraid we’re depriving you gentlemen of your port and manly conversation tonight,” Lady Winterbourne announced, interrupting Adam’s thoughts. He looked up. This was the part of the evening when she usually led the ladies to the drawing room for tea, but now she stood at the head of the table beside the earl. “We thought we’d have a little dancing this evening instead,” she continued. “Miss Greenhill has the headache and has had to retire I’m afraid, but Mrs. Griffiths has agreed to play for us, and the servants have moved the furniture back already. We won’t have acres of room, but enough for a set or two.”

  Adam groaned inwardly at the thought of dancing but pasted a smile on his face and rose from his seat, obediently following the other guests out of the dining room.

  As soon as they reached the drawing room, Mrs. Griffiths sat down at the pianoforte and began to play a ditty while Lady Winterbourne set about organising a set for a country dance.

  “Lysander, you can partner Althea,” Lady Winterbourne decreed. “And Simon can dance with Mrs. Gould.” She looked around for Sir Edmund, smiling broadly when she found him. “Sir Edmund will dance with Gwen, of course. And who else do we have? Dear Arabella, pray sit down, you obviously can’t dance, my dear—you can barely stand! Mrs. Thewlis, would you care to join the set?”

  Mrs. Thewlis sank onto a sofa, sending a wintry smile in Lady Winterbourne’s direction. “Thank you, no.” She beckoned Gallo to her with an imperious gesture. “Dancing is so tiring.”

  Lady Winterbourne somehow managed to give the impression of rolling her eyes at that without actually doing so or being in any way offensive, which Adam thought was a neat trick.

  “Very well,” she said cheerfully, turning to Adam. “Then, Mr. Freeman, it seems you will have the honour of dancing with me.” She winked at him roguishly and held out her hands, and in that moment all he could think was how much she reminded him of Lysander, with her warm, sunny nature. It made Adam feel oddly affectionate towards her.

  “I’m a terrible dancer,” he confessed as he walked towards her, though he took her proffered hands.

  “It’s all right,” she said, twinkling up at him. “I’m marvellous.”

  It wasn’t too bad in the end. Lysander had taught him a little dancing this past year—for the sake of neighbourly relations, he said, since occasionally Adam needed to attend small assemblies. Lysander had insisted that as a bare minimum Adam should be able to adequately perform the simplest country dances. It had been worth it for the lessons, which always reminded Adam of the day he’d met Lysander, when he and Lysander had danced—and kissed—for the first time under the stars on a deserted balcony.

  Their more recent lessons might have been less romantic, but they had also been more successful. Adam found himself performing the steps without even having to think about what he was doing, and when the set finally ended, Lady Winterbourne cheerfully released him. With Mrs. Griffiths playing the pianoforte, Mrs. Thewlis refusing to dance, and both Lady Arabella and Miss Greenhill having retired to bed with their respective maladies, there were, unusually, more gentlemen than ladies available to dance. The music had barely stopped when Mr. Griffiths was stepping forward to claim Lady Winterbourne for the next set.

  Adam took the opportunity to slip away. He craved a few minutes of quiet to consider the implications of the earl’s announcement—and to experience in private the pain he sensed awaited him. He wanted the darkness. The cold night air on his skin. To be away from people and voices and music.

  He wanted to be alone.

  A door at the rear of the drawing room gave onto a narrow stone terrace that overlooked the gardens below. Someone had opened the door a fraction to let in some air—it stood very slightly ajar and needed only the gentlest push to let Adam slip out onto to the terrace.

  It was an enchanting winter’s night with an inky sky and bone-bright stars. The snow that had fallen earlier had hardened in the freezing cold. It lay on the ground, a bright, sparkling canopy, and silvered the box hedges and topiary domes in the gardens below.

  Adam took in a deep breath, the cold air clearing his head and freezing his lungs.

  He could hear the strains of the pianoforte through the gap in the door along with laughter and murmured conversations. Pleasant, friendly sounds that made him feel very alone.

  Despite the fact that he’d been welcomed with surprising warmth at Winterbourne Abbey, Adam did not feel like a true guest. He hadn’t really expected to, of course, but he had thought, perhaps shamefully, that he and Lysander would be in the same boat—on the outside, looking in. He’d imagined Lysander being upset by that, and Adam having to comfort him.

  But Lysander had in fact been welcomed with open arms, and indeed, implored to return to the family fold.

  How could Adam mind that? How could he wish it was not so, when it must be a balm to Lysander’s soul?

  Sighing, Adam leaned back against the Abbey wall and stared out at the gardens, feeling more alone than he could remember feeling in a long, long time.

  After a while, the door creaked open and someone slipped out onto the terrace.

  “Are you all alone out here, Mr. Freeman?”

  Lysander.

  Adam could never be displeased to see Lysander, but in that moment, he did feel a pang of sadness alongside the usual joy.

  Lysander was smiling, bright-eyed and happy. He sent Adam a mischievous glance as he closed the door behind him with exaggerated care.

  “Don’t worry, no one saw me leave,” he said as he approached Adam, eyes gleaming with humour.

  “No?”

  “No, they’re all too busy dancing.”

  “Even Sir Edmund?” Adam asked, distantly amazed by how normal he sounded. “He looked disgusted at being made to dance in that first set.”

  “He ran off nearly as quickly as you,” Lysander said as he moved in close to Adam. “I say, do you remember the last time we escaped onto a terrace to avoid dancing?” He chuckled softly and wrapped his arms round Adam’s waist, swaying against him.

  Adam smiled against Lysander’s hair, inhaling the familiar scent of neroli oil. “Oh yes,” he said, and Lysander laughed softly.

  After a moment or two, Adam said, “Sir Edmund didn’t seem very pleased by your father’s toast.”

  Lysander sighed heavily. “He wasn’t the only one.”

  Setting
his forefinger under Lysander’s chin, Adam tipped up his lover’s face to meet his troubled gaze. “Oh, come on,” he said, with a teasing smile. “Are you telling me you don’t feel at all vindicated? Your father practically ate his words. That must have been a little bit satisfying at least?”

  One side of Lysander’s mouth quirked up at that. “I suppose so,” he admitted. “But it’s so typical of him to make a dramatic announcement to the gallery instead of just talking to me privately. Everything’s such a performance with him.” He sighed. “Now he’s made everything awkward—but of course, he never thinks about the effect of his words on others.”

  Was Lysander referring to the effect of the earl’s words on Adam? Probably—it would be like Lysander to think of Adam’s feelings at a time like this, when most men would be too busy basking in the glory of being proved right and begged to stay.

  “So, when are you going to speak to him?” Adam asked.

  Lysander sighed. “I had hoped to get it over with tonight, but it’s getting late now. Besides”—he grinned then, eyes gleaming in the moonlight—“I was hoping to persuade you to follow me upstairs. We could meet in the nursery...?” He trailed off, sending Adam a suggestive look, making Adam smile too, despite the hollow feeling in his chest.

  “Is there any danger we might be interrupted again?” Adam asked. “It’s one thing explaining it during the day when we have our clothes on. It’s quite another in the dead of night.”

  Lysander sighed. “I know. But I miss you. I need to—to just hold you, more than anything else. Even if we do nothing else.”

  Adam gazed down at his love’s dear face and all he could think was, Don’t leave me then. That’s the best way to keep me around, if you really do want me.

  He couldn’t say the words though. Couldn’t seem to take get any sound past his lips at all. Just stared at Lysander, feeling horribly, achingly sad.

  Lysander’s gaze softened, a tiny frown of concern drawing his brows together. “What is it? Why do you look like that?”

  Adam didn’t know what to say. Lysander was so tender-hearted. Would it be unfair to make him feel sad for Adam and make his decision so much harder? Adam wanted to make Lysander feel good, not sorry or guilty. More than anything, he wanted to let Lysander know how much Adam appreciated him.

  “I was just thinking,” Adam said softly, lifting his hand to brush that endlessly unruly lock of hair back from Lysander’s forehead. “How very much I love you, Mr. Winterbourne.”

  Lysander blinked at him, seeming astonished. “Adam, I—”

  But whatever he intended to say was cut off when the door opened, and someone else stumbled out onto the terrace with a muffled curse.

  Adam and Lysander sprang apart, both wheeling to turn and face the newcomer.

  It was Cavendish.

  “Zander—” Cavendish hissed under his breath, his expression agonised. “You have to help me find Bella—she’s vanished!”

  Chapter 12 - Lysander

  “What do you mean?” Lysander said, staring his friend. Half of his mind was still stuck on the astonishing and wonderful revelation that Adam loved him. It was a thought made Lysander’s heart race and joy bubble up inside him, all his doubts about what Adam truly thought of him swept away by that sweet, certain declaration.

  He bit back the absurd smile that wanted to take over his face, his rational mind sternly pointing out that Perry was panicked and foolish grins did not become the situation.

  “She said she was going to bed when the dancing started,” Perry said, his voice hoarse with fear. “When I saw how miserable she was, I decided to check on her. See if she was all right. But the damned chit ain’t there! Bed’s neat as a new pin.” He groaned. “M’mother’ll kill me if anything happens to her.”

  “Perhaps she’s gone for a stroll,” Adam said.

  “She can barely walk!” Perry cried, then glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, alarmed.

  “Calm down,” Lysander said, setting his hand on Perry’s arm. “We’ll find her.”

  Perry just groaned. “If she gets involved in some scandal, it’ll be the end of her reputation. No chap’ll have her and I’ll get the blame of her being an old maid. And mother’ll auction me off to some Friday-faced chit with a good dowry instead—which ain’t damned well fair when I don’t even like the ladies and Bella wants to get married!”

  “Have you checked the library?” Adam asked calmly, interrupting Perry’s increasingly hysterical rant. “Perhaps she went to get a book to distract her from her sore ankle?”

  Perry looked hopeful. “She does read.”

  “Right, well, it’s worth a try then,” Lysander said.

  “You’ll come with me?” Perry begged, his eyes imploring.

  Damn. Lysander wanted to finish his conversation with Adam, but what could he say?

  “All right. But let’s walk through the gardens to the front door so we don’t get stopped by Mother and made to dance.” He glanced at Adam hopefully. “Are you coming?”

  Adam looked briefly uncertain, his gaze darting to Perry then back to Lysander. “Do you want me to?”

  “Of course I do,” Lysander said firmly, his heart beating a little faster when Adam’s mouth quirked with a pleased little smile.

  “All right,” he said. “Lead on.”

  Lysander headed down the narrow steps that led from the terrace to the main gardens. There was a good inch of snow on the ground and by the time they’d skirted round the Abbey and were turning the corner to the main entrance, Lysander’s thin satin evening slippers were soaked through.

  “Ugh, my feet are wet,” Perry complained as they climbed the steps, mirroring Lysander’s own thoughts.

  Lysander rapped loudly on the big oak doors and after a minute, a confused-looking footman answered, poking his head out, then opening the door widely when he saw who it was.

  “Ah...good evening, sir.”

  “Did you think I was a mysterious new arrival, Beckett?” Lysander asked with a smile as he passed through the open door, Adam and Perry in his wake. “Nothing so exciting I’m afraid, we were just strolling in the gardens and thought we’d come back in this way. Could you fetch us a candle to see our way upstairs?”

  “Of course, sir,” the servant said ducking away. He returned moments later with a small tallow candle in a brass holder which he handed to Lysander.

  “Thank you,” Lysander said and headed up the west staircase, holding the candle high to cast as much light as he could for his companions. The occasional wall sconce was lit too, but even so, it was gloomy at this time of night in the Abbey.

  The library was situated in the west wing. Lysander led the other two men onto the main corridor and past several doors, including the door to the earl’s private study where he was supposed to meet with his steward to discuss estate business. In truth, it was not a room that saw much use.

  When they finally reached the door to the library, it didn’t even occur to Lysander to knock—he just opened it and walked in.

  “Oh!” someone immediately gasped.

  Lysander stopped in his tracks, swivelling in the direction of the voice that had uttered that exclamation.

  It was his sister Gwen. She’d been sitting in the window seat and was now hastily rising. She appeared somewhat dishevelled, her hair out of its pins and tumbling about her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Gwen, did we interrupt you?” Lysander said. “Were you reading?”

  It was only as the question left his lips that he realised how silly it was. The library was quite dark—his candle was the only illumination other than the banked glow of the fire in the grate.

  “Oh, no—that is, we were—we were just talking.”

  Behind her, another shape moved, and Lysander realised there was someone else in the window seat, someone whose body had been obscured by a half-closed drape. Damn, had they interrupted something they ought not to have? To his relief, though, when the figure moved out from behind th
e curtain and rose to stand beside Gwen, it turned out not to be a gentleman, but Anne Greenhill.

  Anne’s hair was down too, almost to her waist. She had surprisingly thick, abundant hair and looked very different with it loose like this—much prettier, at least until she smiled tightly, and he realised she must be self-conscious, being seen like this by three gentlemen. He was about to start uttering apologies when Perry broke the silence.

  “We’re looking for Bella,” he blurted, his voice giving away his anxiety. “She’s not in her bedchamber. Do you know where she is?”

  “We’ve not seen her since she retired for the night,” Gwen said, frowning. “Might she have gone for a stroll in the garden? Oh, but, her ankle...” She glanced at Anne. “What do you think?”

  Anne appeared thoughtful. “Have you tried the nursery?”

  “The nursery?” Adam said. “It’s a long way up there and her ankle was hurting quite badly.”

  Anne didn’t say anything to that, but the sceptical expression on her face made Lysander remember that moment earlier, when he thought he’d caught Bella favouring the wrong foot.

  “It’s at least worth a try,” Lysander said. He glanced at Gwen, “Do you suppose you could come with us? It might be helpful to have a lady present.”

  Gwen glanced at Anne, then nodded. “We’ll both come.”

  As they left the library, Lysander glanced at Perry. His usually cheerful countenance was pinched with worry.

  “Are you all right?” Lysander murmured.

  “I’ll be fine as soon as we find the chit,” Perry said tightly. “I just hope she hasn’t got herself into some sort of scrape.”

  “Well, if she has, I’m sure we can get her out of it—between the five of us.” He tried to smile reassuringly and mounted the final narrow staircase that led to the topmost floor of the Abbey.